Harte, Bret, 1836-1902 [1873], Mliss: an idyl of Red Mountain: a story of California in 1863. (Robert M. DeWitt, New York) [word count] [eaf571T].
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CHAPTER XLI. AN ACT OF GRACE.
We have left our hero for some time in deep
disgrace. The punishment was not entirely
undeserved, but we trust our readers have faith
in that justice which is tempered with mercy.
His offense was great, but it does not require
absolute immolation. We hope, therefore, that
the most austere of our lady readers will pardon
a momentary lapse from the high moral plane
which a hero of romance should occupy in this
most virtucus half of the nineteenth century.
I have said that Mr. Gray was punished. Let
it not be inferred, however, that he incarred no
other punishment than being dropped for a time
out of these pages. The circle he had unintentionally
invaded was one which repels with various
exasperating weapons any approach which
seems unmindful of its immaculate character.
The audacity of the lawyer, in raising his eyes
to the daughter of their pastor, was astonishing.
For three days the diseraceful affair was spoken
of in a whisper. The whisper grew longer. It
was caught up in circles that were not immediately
affected, but which, nevertheless, deemed
it a duty always to speak on the side of morality.
It penetrated the profane world and inspired
a laugh. There only the young lawyer
found apologists and defenders. If the girl was
willing to be entertained, Mr. Gray could not
be censured if he entertained her. The responsibility
of error was divided in this world between
the party who proposed and the party who consented.
The lady in this case had an advantage. Her statement
of the affair met no contradiction. It differed
somewhat from the facts, but Mr. Gray had sufficient
manliness to let it pass unquestioned.
The following Saturday afternoon Mr. Gray was
surprised at receiving a call from Miss Shaw. He had
not met that young lady during the week, and naturally
supposed that he was crossed out of the list of
friends.
Miss Shaw paused on the threshold of the inner
office.
“May I come in?” she asked. “Will I disturb
you?”
“Yes, to both questions. I want to be disturbed.”
She entered and took a seat at the table beside Mr.
Gray.
“Do you ever get real tired of living?” she asked. “So
tired that you don't know what to do with yourself?”
“Sometimes. I was somewhat in that condition of
mind when you appeared.”
“That's odd. I've had the blues for a week. What
shall I do?”
“Seek a change of associates.”
“That's what I'm doing. Have you anything you
must attend to this afternoon?”
“Nothing—unless you will let me attend to you.”
“How kind you are. I was going to ask you to take
me somewhere. You haven't been very good of late.”
“Isn't it a little your fault?”
“It isn't my example. I've been dreadful good.
How tiresome it is! But, perhaps you don't know—
perhaps you have not had much experience.”
“Don't be satirical, Miss Shaw.”
“Don't call me Miss Shaw!—not to day. I want to
be confidential; I want to talk to you as I used to talk
to my father. But first let us decide what to do.”
“Tell me what you would like to do.”
“I think I would like to drive out to the Cliff. We
won't stop—there's too many people there Saturdays.
After the drive—”
“Well, after the drive?”
“You shall come home with me to dinner. Mamma
is away. You are not in favor with her just now. In
the evening we will go to the theatre. We have not
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been to the theatre together since Mliss was with
us.”
“It has been so difficult to find you disengaged.”
“Not difficult, but you have not tried very hard.
Poor, dear Mliss. I didn't know how fond I was of
her.”
“I'm afraid we shall never see her again.
The city and country has been searched, and I get no
clue.”
“Do you know, Mr. Gray, I think Mliss is living?”
“Why do you think so?”
“The spirits say so.”
“But you don't think so because the spirits say
so?”
“I believe it because I cannot help it. The impression
grows stronger every day.”
“I wish I could think so.”
“Have you no faith in spirits?”
“None whatever. The more I read and think, the
less reason I find to believe in them. I believe there
is not a well authenticated case on record where intelligence
of public importance has been first transmitted
to the public through spiritual agencies. There
have been battles in Europe which we heard of by
mail weeks after they were fought. There have been
changes of dynasty, deaths of distinguished men,
and yet these spirit mediums never tell of these things
until we have heard of them through other sources.
Now, if the spirit of Mliss's father can follow Mliss
and tell where she is, why cannot other spirits tell us
when a great battle is fought in Europe—when there
is a government crisis, a fall or rise in cotton, or
some one great fact that would command public attention.
Let them tell us of one great event in advance
of telegraph and mail, and they will then convince
the world.”
“But you know, Mr. Gray, it has also been asked
why Christ did not publicly appear in Jerusalem after
his crucifixion and thus convince the world that he
had risen.”
“True, and no good reason has been given why he
did not.”
“But we do not infer from the fact that he did not,
that he did not rise.”
“Many do, and the inference is fair. If Christ had
really risen and wished to convince the world that he
was in a peculiar sense the Son of God, he had only to
appear, after death, publicly in Jerusalem, and all
Judea would have knelt at his feet. Now, after
eighteen hundred years, some of the best minds in
Christendom doubt if he possessed miraculous
powers.”
“But it was not a part of God's plan that the world
should be convinced in this sudden way.”
“It was a part of God's plan, as revealed in the
Bible, that the world should be convinced. The
Apostles of Christ were bidden to go to all lands and
preach of Christ's risen from the dead. Now, don't
you think they could have preached more successfully
if they could have carried with them indubitable evidence
of the main fact they related?”
“But the Apostles had seen him after he had risen.
“The Apostles were in appearance men like those
they addressed. They had no especial claim on the
reason and judgment of mankind at large. They promulgated
mulgated an astounding statement—that a man had
risen from his grave. Now, when such statements
are made, the most convincing proof is required to
command belief. The Apostles said they had seen
Christ risen. The Apostles were Christ's chosen followers,
and, in that capacity, not competent as witnesses
before unbelievers. If they could have added
to the evidence of their senses the testimony of the
thousands before whom Christ had preached, but before
whom he did not appear after death, they would
have convinced the world of the truth of their statement.
As it is, the world is unconvinced at this day,
and even the part of the world we call Christendom is
more infidel than Christian. Reasoning minds demand
of the so-called spiritualists of the present day evidence
of a like nature to that required of the Apostles.
If these communications really come from spirits,
they can give us indisputable evidence of the fact. In
the absence of such evidence, the solid, substantial
minds that in the end determine the truth or falsity
of a claim, will reject the theory of spirit communications
as not proven.”
“But these spirits certainly tell us things unknown
to us.”
“Things unknown to us individually, but not things
unknown to all individuals. I do not know of a pretended
fact yet communicated that was not already
known to some person or persons composing the community.
There are portions of the world to which the
telegraph does not yet reach—portions which are ten
or twenty days distant from the centres of news. In
these distant lands events are constantly occurring—
the death of a ruler—the arrival of a ship—the birth of
a prince. Let the spirits communicate some two or
three of these events—with the date accurately given—
and thinking men will believe. For instance, let us
suppose the date of the arrival of the “Sea Nymph” at
Valparaiso should be correctly given immediately upon
her arrival, and as there is no telegraphic communication
with Valparaiso, they will establish a strong claim
to belief. Of course there is such a thing as a happy
guess, but three or four such statements preclude the
possibility of chance.”
“Perhaps they will,” said Regina.
“I doubt it. They will tell us things which we cant
not prove or disprove, but it will be something new in
spirit manifestations if they tell us of an importanevent
happening at a distance, giving dates with ordinary
exactness.”
“I see,” said Regina, petulantly, “you are obstinate
as you always are. Papa was right—you were cut out
for a lawyer.
“And you, Regina, are somewhat imaginative,
somewhat impressible, and inclined to believe what
seems fair on the face. But I don't want you to be
carried away with this delusion.”
“I am glad you feel a little interest in me,” said
Regina. “To encourage you, I'll let you think for
me. Only I will believe Mlies still lives.”
“I will hope she does. The poor child has as yet
known little but shame, suffering and sorrow.”
“I don't know about that,” replied Regina, gravely.
“We don't measure happiness by time.”
“True; but in her happiest days a cloud was always
over her. In childhood, a drunken father, a poor,
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neglected little outcast, yet with a heart sensitive to
shame, and a pride so intense that every jeering word
wrung her soul with agony. Later in life, the victim
of scheming villains who are yet unpunished.”
“But she found one friend, one who loved her. I
never more than half liked you until I knew how kind
you had been to Mliss.”
“Mliss was grateful. It is a genial error to exaggerate
the services rendered by a friend.”
“The error of a noble nature, such as Mliss has'
with all her fauls of temper. But our programme of
enter ainment is not yet complete. You have been so
gallant so far that I am tempted to go farther.”
“Take care not to go farther than you are willing I
should follow you.”
“There is no danger of that. You may come to-morrow
and take me to church.”
“To church! Heaven pardon me, but I am not popular
now in church circles.”
“Because they don't know you as I do. Will you
come?”
“Have you thought of Mrs. Shaw? What will she
say?”
“Mrs. Shaw, I dare say, would prefer to have me
go with Mr. Hopp. But I prefer to go with you.”
“Mr. Hopp seems to be quite a favorite with Mrs.
Shaw.”
“Yes; mamma wants me to marry. I cannot blame
her, for, as you very well know, we have no fortune,
and the wants to provide for the future.”
“But I very well know that you need not marry for
a home. Our business is prosperous and increasing
every day.”
“But this cannot last forever. It seems as if we
were living on your bounty.”
“O, Regina Don't speak so. What you have is
yours as fairly as if it was derived from houses and
lands. It will always be yours as long as I live.”
“I know it will, but I am not sure it is quite right.
Mr. Hoop says—”
“What does Mr. Hopp say?”
“I don't know that I ought to tell. But he tells
mamma that we have no legal right to the earnings of
the firm.”
“It is not manly in Mr. Hopp to tell you this. Your
father gave me an equal interest in his business when
I was poor and unknown. In return for this I was to
render an equivalent in labor to the best of my ability.
Mr. Shaw died, but he had not placed me in this
position that I might rob his widow and children.
Don't speak of this again, please.”
“Thank you, I won't. I believe you are quite as
likely to be correct as Mr. Hopp in a question of law,
and a good deal more likely in the finer questions of
the proprieties. But we are talking the afternoon
away. I had no idea I had so much to say to you.”
“I confess I thought your confidences were bestowed
in another quarter.”
“Since papa died I have had no confidante. I used
to tell him everything. When I was only ten years
old and was just beginning to have beaux, I would
tell him who was number one, who number two, who
number three, and so on. And he, as much a child as
I, would make me promise not to marry one of these
young gentlemen without his consent. How absurd!”
The young girl tried to laugh, but the tears gathered
in her eyes, and she turned and walked to the
window.
Mr. Gray sent Tim for a carriage, and soon after
they were whirling gayly over the Cliff House
road.
CHAPTER XLII. AT NORTH BEACH.
It was a rather imprudent step in Miss Shaw
to accompany Mr. Gray to church, while the
storm raised by his Oakland adventure was at
its height. But Miss Shaw had character enough
to do what seemed to her to be right. Regarding
him rather as a victim of a foolish girl's
fondness than as the designing villain he was
represented to be, she gave evidence of her faith
by appearing with him before the very congregation
he had unwittingly offended. It was imprudent,
but it was courageous.
I am not prepared to assert, however, that her
motive was entirely unselfish. She was well
enough acquainted with the social law that governs
he trial of offenses of this nature to know
that his standing in society would not be seriously
impaired by his indiscretion, and that
he needed no champion of her sex to set him
right; but the association of his name with
that of Miss Fox caused a sharp tinge of jealousy.
Not that she was in love with Mr. Gray. Had
she not been schooling herself to receive Mr.
Hopp's addresses in deference to her mother's
wishes, and would a woman of her spirit receive
the addresses of one man while conscious of loving
another? Of course not. She answered
this interrogatory without hesitation. The
question was settled. She did not love Mr.
Gray, but she was not quite so indifferent to him
as to be willing that he should be spoken of as
an especial admirer of Miss Kitty Fox.
Mr. Hopp had not yet gained the position which entitled
him to remonstrate with Miss Shaw, but Mr.
Hopp remonstrated with Miss Shaw's mother. Miss
Shaw's mother remonstrated with Miss Shaw. The
remonstrance brought on a crisis. Mr. Hopp lost all
the vantage ground he had gained by six months' assiduous
attention.
Meantime the time approached when the case of the
People vs. Smith was to come up for final consideration.
The death or absence of Mliss did not affect the
question at issue. The real question was as to the
claim of Mrs. Smith to the rights of a widow's share
in the estate of the late John Smith.
The case was set for the 14th of July. The 10th had
arrived. No James Smith was yet reported. Without
him the pretended widow had the case. Mother Nell
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swore that if she was called into court she would deny
all knowledge of the Smith family or Smith family affairs.
Regina proposed a last visit to Mrs. Rhodes. Believing,
perhaps without what seemed sufficient
grounds for belief, that Mliss was still alive, Regina
felt a deep interest in the result. Mr. Gray had little
hope of ever seeing Mliss again, but he had a professional
interest in the case. So on the evening of the
10th they wended their way to the elegant though
haunted abode of Mr. Rhodes. They were courteously
received, and after a little conversation, the room was
darkened and the spirits invited to put in an appearance.
No time was lost. The play of electral lights commenced
at once, and soon resolved into legible characters,
as described in a previous chapter.
“How—is—my—little—princess?” were the first
words read by the medium.
“O, Papa!” exclaimed Regina. “I know it's papa.
I am so glad he is here.”
“Then speak to me, not of me,” read the medium.
“Speak to me just as you would if you saw me.”
“Well, papa, I am glad you are here. Make Mr.
Gray believe it is you, if you can.”
“That is just what I propose to do. Mr. Gray, have
you heard from James Smith yet?”
“Not a word.”
“His Mother Nell heard from him?”
“She had not, two days ago.”
“Very well. We have got that man in such a state
of subjection that we can predict his movements with
tolerable certainty. To-day is the 10th of July. James
Smith will enter your office and make himself known
to you at precisely four o'clock on the afternoon of
the 12th.”
“I shall be glad to see him.”
“If he comes promptly at the time specified, will
you believe he was sent through spiritual agency?”
“No.”
“On what grounds will you withhold belief?”
“On the grounds that he may be under human control
and sent to my office through human agency. Let
us suppose, for instance, that I had Mr. James Smith
under lock and key, ready to produce at any moment.
I might then with confidence predict that on the afternoon
of the 14th, when the case comes up for
trial, James Smith would walk into court at any hour
I should designate. I could predict this, because I
could make him, accidents aside, fulfill the prediction.
Now, I do not know but some human being has this
James Smith under lock and key, and proposes to
make him call on me at the hour you have designated.”
“But how could a human being announce his coming
in the way it is now announced to you?”
“That question I cannot answer. There are magicians'
tricks which I do not understand. I see them
performed, and know they can be performed by various
persons. I look upon this table and see nothing.
Mrs. Rhodes reads to me certain words conveying
information I did not know any human being to
possess. I do not know, however, that this information
is not possessed by one or more persons. I do
not know how it is communicated to Mrs. Rhodes, although
I will admit that it comes to her as she represents—
that is, that it appears in letters of light, which
she sees, but which others cannot see.”
“Your position is correct,” said Mr. Rhodes. “Evidence
on a question of this nature must be positive to
command belief. I talked in the same way for two
years. Let us see now if these spirits cannot give us
some information which no human being in this State
can possibly possess.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Gray, “I would like something
of that kind. Can you tell us,” he continued, addressing
the table, “if the Sea Nymph has arrived at ValParaiso?”
“The Sea Nymph has arrived at Valparaiso,” was
the answer.”
“Can you give the date of her arrival!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We did not mark the date at the time. As our divisions
of time do not correspond with yours, we cannot
fix a date for an event happening on earth by any
date of our own.”
“If you had been requested to note the date of her
arrival, could you have done so?”
“Yes. We could have ascertained what date it was
with you and remembered it.”
“If the Emperor of France should die to-night,
should you be likely to know of the event before it
could reach us by mail?”
“It would depend upon what circle I am in. In
certain circles I might know of his death at the moment
of taking place, in others I might not hear of it
for months.”
“Could not some spirit in a circle that received immediate
intelligence of such an event transmit the
event to earth in advance of earthly means of communication?”
“Doubtless, if such spirit had ready means of communication
with portions of the earth distant from the
scene of the event. But the means of communication
are very imperfect. We are not organized to gather and
disseminate news. We cannot drop down on any portion
of the earth as the notion may seize us, and tell
our news. There are the difficulties of language, for
instance. The spirit of a Frenchman who did not
speak English, could not communicate through an
English or American medium who did not speak
French. In time these difficulties will be removed,
and we shall compete with your telegraph in giving
news. You must recollect, however, that ordinary
earthly affairs lose much of their interest to us after
we pass away, and that we have no other object in
gathering news than to convince you of the fact of our
existence and power to communicate.”
“Do you ever expect to convince the mass of mankind
of the fact of your existence and of your power
to communicate?”
“We do. What you call death is a problem we have
solved. We know there is no death for the spirit.
This is not a matter of belief, as with you, but a positive
knowledge. Now we know also that we can communicate
with you, because we see our letters appear
on the table and hear them read by the medium. Here
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are items of knowledge. They are truths. Now, a
great truth must in the end triumph. A great fact
must in the end be made manifest. We expect to
make mortals aware of our existence, because we do
exist, and we expect to show mortals that we can communicate
because we do communicate. It is a part of
the unfolding law of nature. A cause begins to operate
when under a general law it can produce an effect.
The cause may have existed through all time, but it
only begins to operate when the material upon which
it acts is in a condition to respond. Thus spirits have
always existed, but only in exceptional instances have
they had the power to communicate until the present
day.”
“Is this power given them as a special gift?”
“No; it becomes theirs by the fulfillment of required
conditions.
“One of the conditions is the enlightenment of
man. A hundred years ago a medium would have
been burned at the stake. But the medium is getting
tired, and my friend Smith wants to speak Good-night,
Good-night, Regie.”
“Good-night, papa.”
The lights went out. For two or three minutes the
table was a blank to the medium as well as to others.
Then although it remained a blank to three of the
party, the medium reported a spirit as present.
“Please give your name,” said the medium.
“I am John Smith.”
“Have you anything especial to communicate?”
“I want to speak to Mr. Gray.”
“I am listening, Mr. Smith,” replied that gentleman.
The medium then said:
“I am sorry, Mr. Gray, that you do not believe in
us.”
“I am open to conviction.”
“You think you are, but you are not. Without any
accurate knowledge of the laws which control our action,
you establish tests in accordance with your own
rules of evidence. Such proofs as you require can
only be given under very advantageous circumstances.”
“Still, being on this sphere, I must insist upon
proofs in accordance with our rules of evidence before
I can believe. If spirits cannot furnish such
proofs, they cannot hope to convince men accustomed
to examine evidence by the aid of pure reason.”
“I leave these questions for Mr. Shaw to discuss.
I would peak to you of Mliss.”
“Do you know where she is at present?”
“I know she is in Valparaiso, but I cannot communicate
with her. She is surrounded by influences adverse
to us.”
“Can you not approach her as easily at Valparaiso
as in San Francisco?”
“Yes, if the immediate influences around her were
as favorable.”
“What do you mean by immediate influences?”
“I mean personal associations. There are human
beings of positive and powerful magnetism whom we
cannot approach. If such an organization is in harmony
with us, it becomes a powerful ally; if adverse,
it resists any spirit force which I can command.”
“Is Mliss associated with such a person?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a man or woman?”
“A man.”
“Is it O'Niel?”
“No. This person has taken her from O'Niel.”
“For what purpose?”
“I cannot tell. I cannot approach him, nor read
his mind.”
“What character of man is he?”
“A very dangerous character.”
“Does he hold Mliss against her will?”
“No. He has won her confidence.”
“How do you know he has won her confidence if
you cannot approach her?”
“I was able to approach her during the first days of
their association. Her mind was tranquil in his presence
and she looked upon him as a friend.”
“What is the man's name?”
“He is known as Colonel Wade.”
“Colonel Wade! Is he the man who man who was
sentenced to be hanged in Dayton some months ago?”
“I don't know. I knew nothing of him until I saw
him on board the Sea Nymph.”
“This is a rather singular coincidence,” said Mr.
Gray, speaking to the company rather than to the
spirit: “A man named Wade, a desperate character,
was tried by a Vigilance Committee in Dayton, sometime
in April, and sentenced to be hanged. He
managed to escape, by the aid, it is supposed, of confederates,
and has not since been heard of.”
“It is possible,” said Mr. Rhodes, “that he may
have reached the city and taken passage under an assumed
name on board the Sea Nympth.”
“It is possible but not at all probable. Mr. Smith,”
he continued, addressing the table, “what would you
have me do?”
“Send a trusty agent to Valparaiso by the next
steamer I would ask you to go yourself, but you
will be needed in the city when the case comes off.”
“Well,” said Mr. Gray, “your advice shall be followed?”
CHAPTER XLIII. A HALF-EXPECTED VISITOR.
Two days later, at a quarter to four, Regina
entered Mr. Gray's office. She was a little nervous,
for the predictions of the spirits had excited
her imagination, if their reasoning had not
convinced her understanding.
“If Mr. James Smith should come,” she said,
“what would you think?'
“Let us wait until he comes; we can think
afterwards.”
“How cool you are! For my part, if this
man comes after all that has been predicted, I
shall faint.”
Mr. Gray stood by the window. He had already
observed a man, of middle age and homely
aspect, standing upon the opposite sidewalk.
The man was coarsely but decently dressed, his
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face was bronzed with exposure—at least that
portion of it that could be seen between a slouch
hat pulled down over his forehead and a grizzly
beard that covered his jaw.
“I have an idea,” he said to his companion,
“that you will have occasion to faint. There
stands our man.”
Regina approached the window.
“Don't frighten him away. He is said to be
a brave pioneer; but he may not have the kind
of courage to face a pretty woman. Let us give our
friends, the `ghosts,' a fair chance.”
Miss Shaw concealed herself behind a curtain and
bent one eye on the solitary figure opposite. The man
drew a piece of paper from his pocket, examined it,
and then continued his scrutiny of the building which
had at first been the object of his regard.
At last, as if satisfied, he slowly crossed the streetand
was lost to the view of the silent watchers.
A moment afterward a slow and heavy footstep was
heard ascending the stairs. Regina, pale and trembling,
escaped into the outer office, and sank into a
chair in the most retired corner.
Her abrupt entrance surprised Tim in the midst of
a difficult feat of balancing, and caused a mortifying
failure.
The homely stranger stood hesitatingly at the
entrance, and Tim went forward to receive his commands.
“Is this Mr. Gray's office?” asked the man.
Tim replied briskly in the affirmative. The man
entered, and was ushered into the private office.
Tim, being at liberty, gallantly invited Miss Shaw
to join in his amusements—an offer which that young
lady silently declined.
Mr. Gray, meantime, had received his half-expected
visitor.
“In what can I serve you?” he asked, politely, when
his visitor was seated.
“I was told to come here, and to ask for Mr. Gray'
and to talk to no one else,” replied the man.
“I am Mr. Gray, and we are alone.”
“If you're the man I want to see, you'll know my
business when I tell you that Mother Nell sent me
here.”
“I know Mother Nell. Are you Mr. James
Smith?”
“James Smith is my name.”
“Do you live in the city?”
“Here off and on. Been in Idaho better'n two
years.”
“When did you leave Idaho?”
“Four or five weeks ago.”
“Did you know, when you decided to come to the
city, that a suit was pending in which you might be
interested?”
“Didn't know it when I started; Mother Nell told
me something about it.”
“What caused you to come just at this time?”
“Nothing in partic'lar. Got tired prospectin', and
thought I'd come down and stay a spell.”
“You are come just in time. A suit to determine
who are the heirs of your deceased brother's estate will
be tried the day after to-morrow.”
“Didn't know when. Mother Nell told me something
about the suit.”
“When I said your deceased brother's estate, I took
it for granted that John Smith, of Smith's Pocket,
was your brother. Can you prove that he was your
brother?”
“Don't know. We wasn't together much. Don't
remember many people that knew we were brothers.”
“Can you not recall one person now living that
knew by common report that you and John Smith
were brothers?”
“There's Mother Nell.”
“Mother Nell is not a reliable witness. She has a
dread of appearing in court.”
“I know. She got into trouble a few years ago, and
is afraid it will come up against her.”
“Think of some other person.”
“Let me see. There's a saloon-keeper named Drake
somewhere in the city—if he isn't dead. He knew
John and me fifteen years ago.”
“Were you married in Stockton in 1852?”
“Yes.”
“Is the man who performed the ceremony living?”
“No; he died more'n fifteen years ago.”
“Is the woman that you married still living?”
“Was two years ago. Haven't seen her lately.
'Spect she is the woman that Mother Nell said was
trying to palm herself off as John's widder.”
“Would you know the woman if you should see
her?”
“Know her! I'd know her 'mong ten thousand.
Mighty fine-looking woman, but a reg'lar devil.”
“Well, Mr. Smith, this woman pretending to be
your brother's widow and the mother of your
brother's daughter, has caused your brother's
daughter to be carried off. We do not know if Mliss
is living or not. If she still lives, she is, of course,
your brother's heir. If she is dead you are his heir,
as next of kin, if you can establish the relationship.”
A long conversation followed, which we need not repeat.
Mr. Gray satisfied himself that his visitor was
in fact the brother of John Smith, as had been represented
both by Mother Nell and by the communication
he had received through Mrs. Rhodes. The
causes which led to his opportune return were still a
mystery. Mr. Smith was not conscious of being influenced
to visit the city. He had come, he said, of
his own accord. It was his habit to come to town
once in two or three years, and remain until he got
tired of city life, or had exhausted his resources. He
did not seem much clated at the prospect of becoming
his brother's heir, nor much interested in his niece.
He professed his willingness, however, to go into
court and testify to facts.
Mr. Gray had made provision to keep this important
witness subject to his order, without seeming to
place him in custody. An experienced member of the
detective force took him in charge when he left Mr.
Gray's office, in the friendly guise of a boon companion,
not only to secure his appearance when wanted,
but to guard against any possible approach of the
enemy.
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CHAPTER XLIV. THE TRIAL.
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The case came up at the day appointed. The
court-room was thronged. Mrs. Smith, serene
and handsome, sat by the side of her counsel
and, within supporting distance, were several
fashionable friends. Near her, devouring her
beautiful face with his greedy eyes, was young
Joseph Fox, whose infatuation was the talk of
his circle.
The possible dramatic effect of the trial was
impaired by the order in which the rules of the
court required evidence to be presented. Had
Mrs. Smith been called upon the stand, and testified
as she had at the preliminary examination—
that she was the widow of the late John
Smith, of Smith's Pocket—the subsequent appearance
of James Smith would have crushed
her to the earth. But Mr. Gray had first to present
his side of the case. His one important
witness was James Smith.
Mrs. John Smith was conversing with Mr.
Hopp when Mr. James Smith was called. She
looked up with an air of composure, and beheld
issue from the witness-room the man whose visit
to Mr. Gray has been described. It was observed
that she slightly changed color, but her presence
of mind did not desert her. She followed
him with her eye, as he mounted the witness-stand,
with no other expression than surprise
and curiosity on her face.
“Who is this witness?” asked Mr. Hopp, in a
whisper.
“I don't know him—never saw him before.”
Mr. James Smith was sworn. He gave his name,
age, occupation; was the brother of John Smith, of
Smith's Pocket; was uncle of Melissa Smith; knew
when his brother was married; met him occasionally
after his marriage, and after the birth of his daughter;
knew when his brother's wife deserted him; had often
met his brother's wife since her desertion of his
brother, and would know her anywhere he should
see her.
“Do you see the woman your brother married in
court?” asked Mr. Gray.
“I do not.”
“Look well at the ladies present. Is there one that
in any marked manner resembles her?”
The witness looked at the three or four ladies who
sat near Mrs. Smith and at Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith
bore his regard calmly.
“None of these ladies look like my brother's wife
more'n one woman always looks like another.”
“Are you personally acquainted with the defendant?”
“I am—or was.”
“Do you recognize the defendant in one of the
ladies present?”
The witness pointed to Mrs. Smith.
“When did you form the acquaintance of the plaintiff?”
“About fifteen years ago.”
“Were you intimately acquainted?”
“Pretty intimately—for a time.”
“Did you ever sustain any other relation to her
than that of ordinary acquaintance or friend?”
“Yes?”
“What other relation?”
“She was, for several months, my wife.”
Mrs. Smith smiled. Mr. Hopp, who had been growing
apprehensive, took new courage from her smile.
The witness was given to the other side for cross-examination.
Mr. Hopp was quite unprepared for
such testimony, but Mrs. Smith prompted him.
“You say,' said Mr. Hopp, “that you would know
Mrs. John Smith, if you should see her? How long
since you have seen her?”
The witness hesitated.
The question was repeated.
“I saw her between two and three years ago.”
“Where was she at that time?”
“In San Francisco.”
“Do you know if she still resides in San Francisco?”
“I believe she does.”
“Do you not know that she does?”
“No; I don't know she does.”
“When did you last hear of her or know of her living
in this city?”
“I know of her living in this city two years or more
ago”
“Are you sure that you have not seen her within
two years?”
“Perhaps I have.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Well,” said the witness, “if you must know, I saw
her four days ago.”
“You saw her four days ago! Why did you not say
so at first?”
“Because I only saw her for a few minutes.”
“Still you saw her and conversed with her?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Gray understood by the drift of these questions
that Mr. James Smith knew there was a reason why
Mrs. John Smith should not be produced in court, and
that Mrs. James Smith hoped to break the force of
Mr. James Smith's testimony by involving him in
petty contradictions. Mr. Hopp, having gained a
temporary advantage, proceeded with his cross-examination.
“Where does Mrs. John Smith reside?”
“I don't know.”
“Where was she when you saw her, four days
ago?”
“In a saloon on —alley.”
“Where is —alley —between what streets?”
“Between Pacific and Broadway.”
“What is the name of the saloon?”
“I believe they call it `The Sailors' Home.”'
An officer was immediately dispatched to The Sailor's
Home in search of Mrs. John Smith.
In fifteen minutes the officer returned. The Sailors'
Home was closed, and no woman bearing that name
was known in that vicinity.
Mr. Gray contended that the presence of Mrs. John
Smith was not essential, Mr. James Smith's testimony,
unless successfully impeached, was conclusive.
He had other witnesses, by which he would establish
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the fact of the witness's identity. There witnesses
were called. Two citizens of reputs testified that they
had known James Smith for fifteen years, and that, so
far as they knew, he had always borne that name.
One of them (Drake), a saloon-keeper, testified that he
had known both John Smith and James Smith, and
that he knew them by common report to be brothers.
Much corroborative testimony was introduced, with
which we need not weary the reader. The case for the
plaintiff seemed impregnable.
In the face of this evidence Mrs. Smith testified that
she had married John Smith, that she was the mother
of Melissa Smith, that she had never been divorced
from John Smith, and that she had never seen the
man who called himself James Smith until she saw
him in court.
The nerve and audacity of the woman were grand.
She imposed upon her lawyer, upon the court, and
upon the spectators. If the case had been submitted,
it is probable that, in the doubt which to believe, the
jury would have given a verdict for the defense.
Mr. Gray rose for the summing up with the feeling
that the sympathies of the audience were against him,
Mliss was not present, and Mrs. Smith was Mrs.
Smith was in favor in high circles. It was not probable
that a woman in her position would swear to a lie.
He began his argument. He depicted the neglected
childhood of Mliss, and reminded the jury that the
woman who claimed to be her mother was living in
luxury at the time, in intimate relations with a man
not the father of Mliss. She had discovered the relationship
only when Mliss was discovered to be an heiress.
She had since conspired to ruin the child that
she might possess herself of the child's share in the
estate. All this was in proof. He only wished the
jury to bear the facts in mind.
He then reviewed the testimony of James Smith.
His identity was established beyond possible doubt.
The defense had not succeeded in their effort to impeach
his testimony. His credibility was unshaken.
The jury had no choice but to accept his evidence. He
testified that he had married the woman claiming to
be his brother's widow about the time his brother had
married. It was a question of facts. By all the rules
of evidence Mr. James Smith was entitled to belief,
The defendant occupied the unfortunate position of a
woman who, according to her own story, for twelve
years forgot husband and child—to return to the latter
when, by an unexpected chance, it became possessed
of a fortune.
The speech was compact, solid and eloquent. As an
argument it was conclusive—as an appeal it was
powerful. It produced a deep impression on the
spectators, and the jury followed him with rapt attention
to the end.
Mr. Hopp rose with the disadvantage of having to
review evidence he had not anticipated. Mrs. Smith
had solemnly and steadfastly assured him that there
was no such person as James Smith, yet he found such
a man on the witness-stand. He had to strike out a
new line of defense, attack what he had not known to
exist, meet new issues which he had not time to consider—
his confidence in his client's truthfulness, even
with himself, was shaken.
It was remarked by lawyers that Mr. Gray had never
made so strong an argument or Mr. Hopp so weak a
one.
The case was given to the jury, and, after an hour's
deliberation, they returned with a verdict for the
plaintiff. Mliss was legally free from the woman who
had claimed to be her mother, and, if living, undisputed
heir to her father's estate.
CHAPTER XLV. A WOMAN OF RESOURCES.
Mrs. Smith was furious at the result of the
trial. She complained loudly that she was the
victim of a conspiracy. The man named James
Smith was an adventurer, taking advantage of
some personal resemblance to pass himself off
as James Smith. If her case had been well
managed the fraud would have been exposed.
“Madame,” replied Mr. Hopp, “you have assured
me, time and again, that no such man as
James Smith existed.”
“How could I know?” replied the irate
widow. “I only lived with John Smith a little
more than a year. How could I know how
many brothers he had?”
“You admit, then, that your husband may
have had a brother?”
“Of course he may. Don't men always deceive
us?”
“Then, if your husband may have had a
brother, why may not this man be his brother?”
“Perhaps he is; but he lies when he says I
married him.”
“That, certainly, is a point on which you
ought to be well-informed. A woman in these
days may have a number of husbands, but she
can generally count them on her fingers. We have
lost this case because you were not frank with me.”
“Of course it is my fault! A man never commits
a stupidity but he throws the blame upon the nearest
woman.”
“The stupidity in this case was in placing reliance
upon your statements. Had I known that there was a
James Smith to spring upon me, I would have been
ready to receive him.”
“But Mr. Gray found out that there was such a
person.”
“Mr. Gray was in search of such a person—I was
not. You thought you could profit by keeping the
weak points of your case from your lawyer.”
“Well,” said Mr. Smith, “what shall we do now?
Can the case be appealed?”
“Yes; but it will cost money. You will have to pay
expenses, give bonds, and secure new counsel.”
“Are you going to throw me off?”
“You have thrown me off. I won't be made a spectacle
of in court for any woman's whim. You have
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too many confidants, yet you refuse to make a confidant
of your legal adviser. Too much intrigue has
ruined your prospects.”
Mrs. Smith was silent. It was necessary to change
her tacties. She realized that she had relied too much
on her own slender mental resources, and too little on
her charms of person and manners. Mr. Hopp was a
man, and might he bound to her interests even though
he knew the whole truth. Hopp was clever, subtle,
patient, and rich. She might use Hopp's brain and
money to recover lost ground.
They were sitting in Mrs. Smith's parlor in the Lick
House. They were alone. Poor Joseph Fox had been
sent home with an injunction not to return until the
next day.
Mrs. Smith reflected that she had sinned for nothing.
The sin did not trouble her, but the lack of results
did. She was financially ruined. She had expended
the five thousand dollars she had managed to
withhold from Mr. Gray, and now the two hundred
dollars a month, which the court had allowed her
pending the suit, was lost. Something must be done,
or she would drift back into the old, hated life.
“Mr. Hopp,” she said, in her sweetest tone, in
which there was a touch of sadness; “I was unjust—
women, when disappointed, always are. Can you forgive
me?” and she held out her hand.
The hand was white and shapely. Mr. Hopp had
often thought that its caress would be sweet. He took
it and held it between his own.
“I have not been frank with you,” she continued.
“I did not dare to tell you the truth. You were only
my legal adviser—you were not my friend.”
“That,” said Mr. Hopp, “was your fault.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Would you not abandon me if I should tell you
something very terrible?”
“I should abandon you only if you tell me that
which is not true.”
“I wish I had trusted you at first.”
“I wish you had.”
Mrs. Smith was silent for a moment, and then, with
her handsome head reclining against the cushion of
her chair, in a position which revealed her features in
their most harmonious aspect, the light falling over
her shoulder, she rejoined:
“I have had a hard life. Born and bred in luxury,
I found myself approaching womanhood without
friends or resources. I came to this State, and I married.
My husband was a man without education or
refinement, and I grew tired unto death of my bondage.
I left him, and in time formed another alliance.
The years passed with varying fortunes. One day I
lived in affluence, and the next was without house or
home. One day the man whose fortunes I shared unfolded
to me a scheme by which our fortunes might be
secured. That scheme was to personate his brother's
wife—a woman still living, but who dared not claim
her own name and heritage. He promised that, in the
event of success, the fortune should be absolutely
mine, to use as I pleased. I accepted the proposition.
I successfully personated Mrs. John Smith, and I became
in law the mother of her daughter. But the
daughter never for a moment believed that I was her
mother. She knew by some instinct that I was an impostor.
While the daughter lived I had no security,
and I conspired against her. It was wicked, but one
of us had to go to the wall. Our antagonism was silent,
but deep and determined. I then thought I
would crush her without seeming to do so. I allowed
her to drift toward ruin, knowing that the lower she
sank the less dangerous she would be. Chance threw
her in the way of an old friend, from whom I had
carefully guarded her. You know the rest. I am
Mrs. James Smith. That man who appeared against
me yesterday is the husband I abandoned twelve years
ago.”
“Madam—”
“Don't call me madam!—it sounds so cold! This
may be the last time we shall meet; but, in my forlorn
condition. I crave sympathy and affection. Come
nearer; let me look into your eyes and see if, you are
still my friend.”
The lawyer drew his chair beside that of his fair
client. She leaned toward him, looked into his eyes
with a soft, pleading gaze, and let her head fall upon
his shoulder.
“I know you will not desert me” she continued.
“This case is all I have; win it for me, and what you
ask of me shall not be refused. Mliss is dead, and the
property of right belongs to my husband. You saw
him yesterday. I ask you if he is the man for a woman
like me?”
Mr. Hopp was well schooled in the intrigue of courts
of law, but not in that of courts of love. Ambition
had been his mistress in youth, and in early middle-age
a budding girl had enthroned herself in his heart.
His love for Regina had preserved him from alliances
in which affection was a controlling element; but,
man-like, he could distinguish between senses and
sentiment. He did not suppose for a moment that
Mrs. Smith cared for him; but she was handsome.
elegant, and young enough to be desirable. The tenderness
she simulated was as close an approach to love
as he desired from any woman but the one be could
not win.
“He is not a man you could love.” Mr. Hopp responded;
“and money would be a poor compensation
for a life passed with an uncongenial companion. But
you say Mliss is dead. Do you know she is dead, or
simply express your belief?”
“I will tell you what I know. Hereafter you shall
not complain of want of confidence on my part. When
Mr. Gray announced in court that he expected to secure
a witness named James Smith, I understood that
he had got his clue from Mliss. I did not them believe
this James Smith to be living, as his death was currently
reported. But the clue was a dangerous one in
the hands of a skillful lawyer, and the necessity of
separating him from Mliss became more urgent than
ever. It was arranged, therefore, between Mr. Waters,
whom you know, and a man named O'Neil, to
carry her off. O'Neil had an acquaintance named
Jake, who was the lover of one of Mrs. Shaw's servants.
A little money induced Jake to open the door
after the family had retired, to Waters and O'Neil.
The child was made insensible with chloroform, and
carried on board the bark Sea Nymph, bound to Valparaiso.
O'Neil was to go with her, under an
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arrangement that he should receive ten thousand dollars if he
married her or furnished proofs of her death. O'Neil
sailed with the vessel, and so. I supposed, did Mliss,
until the discovery of her body led to a different conclusion.”
“You think, then, that it was the body of Mliss that
was found in the bay?”
“I have no doubt of it. The resemblance of hair
and teeth was perfect. The other portions were not
recognizable.”
“But physicians gave the opinion that the body was
that of a mature woman—of a woman, as I understood,
who was not a virgin.”
“A physician's opinion in a case of that kind is not
worth a rush. It was not pretended that the girl was
enceinte, and the condition of the body was such that
no intelligent opinion could be based on any minor
fact. Even if the physicians were correct, we do not
know what may have happened to Mliss.”
“If Mliss is really dead, the only real question is if
the estate shall come to you, as John Smith's widow,
or to this James Smith, as John Smith's brother.”
“That is it in a nutshell. Is it still possible to
win?”
“It is possible to win, provided Mliss is really
dead.”
“Then,” said the woman, with a flush rising on her
cheeks and a soft light beaming in her handsome eyes,
“I feel sure of success. You know now how wicked I
am, and you do not despise me. I shall owe everything
to you, and I shall not prove ungrateful.”
The lawyer replied by pressing her hand to his
heart.
“I am afraid,” added the lady, after a short pause,
“that we shall need to hold frequent consultations.
There are so many things to talk over, you know.”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Hopp, “there will be a good
many things to talk over. Suppose we outline our
plan of proceeding this evening?”
“Whenever you like,” was the soft reply.
CHAPTER XLVI. FROM VALPARAISO.
“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Regina, the evening
after the trial, “I hope you won't make fun of
the spirits any more.”
“The spirits are demonstrating their right to
respectful treatment,” he replied. “I have just
now received a letter from Valparaiso.”
“From Valparaiso!—from Mliss?”
“Not exactly from Mliss, but Mliss is there
It is simply wonderful! The man who think
he knows anything is a fool.”
“That's a very important discovery to make,”
replied Regina, demurely. “But tell me about
the letter. May I read it?”
“The letter, I regret to say, is slightly profane.
It was not intended for a lady to read.”
“But who is it from?”
“It is signed `A Friend.' I suspect it is from
O'Neil.”
“Let me see it; I'll skip the hard words.”
“If you'll promise to skip the bard words,
you may read it. Anticipating this desire, I
have drawn my pencil through the expressions
you would not know the meaning of.”
Mr. Gray produced a letter, which Regina
eagerly read, forgetting, I am afraid, to skip the
words marked to be omitted.
In full the letter was as follows:
Mr. Gray:—If you care a damn for Mliss, come and
take care of her. The devil has got her, and his name
is Wade.
A Friend.
“Wade!” replied Regina—“that is the
name—”.
“The name that we spoke of the other evening.
When man's reason fails, be falls back on
woman's intuition. What shall I do?”
Regina's handsome countenance assumed a grave
expression.
“Can't you send some one?” she said. “This Colonel
Wade is a desperate character.”
“Is not that a sufficient reason why I should go
myself?”
Regina's handsome countenance assumed a still
more grave expression.
“Come,” said Mr. Gray, “your perception has been
clearer than mine all through this business. Tell me
what you think I ought to do. The Panama steamer
sails to-morrow at eleven o'clock. It will connect at
the Isthmus with the British steamer for Valparaiso.
In twenty-five days I can be in that city.”
“And this letter has been twenty-five days coming.
It is dated June 18.”
“Yes; if I go to-morrow two months will have
elapsed after the writing of that letter before I can
reach Valparaiso. There is no time to lose.”
“Let us put our spiritual telegraph into operation,”
said Regna; “it may tell us if they are still in Valparaiso.”
Mr. Gray smiled.
“You are still a skeptic?” she asked.
“I confess I am. I confess, too, that I am bewildered.
I have always followed the dictates of my reason,
and now my reason is opposed to something it
cannot comprehend. I yield, but am not convinced.
Lissy lives—of that this letter gives ample proof. Did
the intelligence that converses with us through Mrs.
Rhodes know that she lived or make a happy gness?”
“It has made two happy guesses.” said Regina.
“It said that James Smith would arrive, and James
Smith did arrive. It said that Mliss was in Valparalso
and Mliss is in Valparaiso.”
“You are right. Let us put our spiritual telegraph
in operation.”
They proceeded without delay to the residence of
Mrs. Rhodes.
After the usual preparation Mr. Shaw announced
himself in the usual manner.
He congratulated Mr. Gray upon the result of the
trial, and cautioned him to be on his guard against
new combinations on the part of Mrs. Smith. He
then said:
“What do you think of your letter from Valparaiso?”
“Do you know that I have received a letter from
Valparaiso?”
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“I was present you and Regie were discussing its
contents.”
“Can you tell me the contents of the letter?”
The medium read from the table the letter, word for
word, as it has been given to the reader.
“This is very remarkable,” said Mr. Gray. “No
one but Miss Shaw and myself are acquainted with
the contents of this letter.”
“It is remarkable from your standpoint of view,
but not from ours. I will offer a further proof of the
fact that I was present when you gave the letter to
Regie, by stating the object of your visit here this
evening.”
“Please do so.”
“You wish to consult Mr. Smith and myself as to
the advisability of proceeding to Valparaiso.”
“You are right,” said Mr. Gray; “what do you advise?”
“It is not necessary for you to go in person. An
agent can be selected who will accomplish all you
could, and you will be needed here.”
“Is Mr. Smith of the same opinion?”
“He is. I will let Mr. Smith speak for himself.”
There was the usual wait of two or three minutes,
and then the medium resumed:
“Since you were here, Mr. Gray, I have succeeded
in approaching my daughter. I can see that her mind
is tranquil. I do not know what villainy Colonel
Wade may have in view, but so far he has not excited
her apprehensions. She has had no cause to distrust
him. She will embrace the first opportunity to return
to San Franciso. Send a discreet and intelligent
man with a letter to assure her that he comes from
yourself, and all will be well.”
“I have already made preparations to send an
agent,” replied Mr. Gray, “but was in doubt about
going myself.”
“We don't think it necessary, you will be needed
here.”
Leaving Mr. Gray and Regina to indulge in an
hour's conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, and
afterwards to indulge in a long, confidential talk on
the way home, I embrace this opportunity to address
a word to the reader. The workings of the spiritual
telegraph are so little understood, that many will regard
the revelations here recorded as wild, fanciful,
and utterly unfounded in fact. This conclusion,
however, would be erroneous. While the writer does
not claim that these revelations took place precisely in
the order described, he assures the reader that the
communications here recorded furnish a parallel to
those of which he has been an eye and ear witness. In
no respect have these communications been more extraordinary
in character or conclusive in development
than communications which have been received
through different mediums by scores of persons now
residing in this city. The case of Mliss, as far as she
has been traced in her forced wanderings by spiritual
agencies, has its precise parallel in real life. We have
only taken the liberty of substituting a girl in the
place of a man, who was believed by his friends to be
dead, but who was reported through this unknown
and mysterious agency, which, for convenience sake,
we termed the spiritual telegraph, to be living in a
foreign land. Subsequent developments proved the
spiritual telegraph to be correct. In other instances,
where I have introduced spiritual agency, or an agency
claiming to be spiritual. I have confined myself
closely to the construction of cases parallel to those
that have come under my personal observation. The
use of this agency in works of fiction, while kept in
strict accordance with actual developments, is as
legitimate as the use of the ordinary telegraph.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Colonel Wade had desired to experience the
sensation of having performed a generous act.
The desire was laudable, but could hardly be expected
to inspire profound confidence in his ordinary
rules of action. Sentiments of that nature
depend much upon the state of the blood.
But Colonel Wade was sincere at the moment.
The bearing of Mliss on the night of the storm
had touched a responsive chord in his heart.
Physically insensible to fear himself, he admired
fearlessness in man or woman. Afterward, when
she confided to him the perilous situation in
which she was placed, he had promised to protect
her. We have seen how he fulfilled that
promise.
He passed out of the hotel with the hand of
his new charge in his own. He reflected that
he was a man of thirty-five—she a girl of about
fourteen. The desire to experience the sensation
of having performed a generous action still
actuated him. It suggested to him that a decent
regard to appearances must be observed.
Mliss was placed in temporary ledgings in a
respectable hotel The landlady was requested
to take Mliss under her especial charge. So far
the colonel acquitted himself of the self-imposed
duties of his position in an exemplary manner.
Had he sat weekly under the administration of our
worthy Dr. Fox, he could not have done better.
Mliss applied herself to the study of Spanish. Her
quick perception and retentive memory enabled her
to accomplish in a week what an ordinary girl would
have accomplished in a month. Colonel Wade, who
paid her a short visit every afternoon, was astonished
at her rapid progress.
As days passed he was astonished also at the improvement
in her appearance. She had not struck
him at first as a pretty child. Hers was a face to remember,
but hardly, at first glance, one to love.
Gradually, however, her features grew in harmony
and beauty. The transformation which often takes
place in girls of her age was visible in her. Her
splendid black eyes became softer in their expressions,
her cheeks rounder, her lips more full and red. Her
clear, dark complexion assumed a transparant brilliancy
that was sometimes dazzling. Her countenance,
usually grave for a child, would occasionally
light up with a rare and tender smile. Her supple
and graceful figure developed into more womanly
proportions.
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As these budding beauties unfolded under Colonel
Wade's experienced eye, he began to regard her with
a certain pride and affection. It was pleasant to be
the protector of a young girl who attracted admiring
glances whenever she appeared in public. Fortune
had favored him during his sojourn in Valparaiso;
and, with the superstition inherent in the true gambler's
nature, he had ascribed her favors to his connection
with Mliss. She seemed to have brought him
good luck at a moment when a little good luck was exceedingly
desirable. In recognition of these services,
he presented Mliss with a wardrobe an American
belle of fourteen might have envied. He not only
bought her dresses of every color and variety of
material, but he made her toilet a study. A ribbon
that harmonized with her complexion less than another
was cast aside. There might be but little difference
in shade, but that little difference was essential
in his eyes.
Mliss experienced for the first time the intoxicating
sensation arising from a consciousness of a power to
please. The contumely heaped upon her neglected
childhood had impressed her with a feeling that this
power was not hers. She had been dimly conscious
that she owed to compassion rather than admiration
the friendship of Mr. Gray. His love for her was not
less prized on that account, but it had not touched her
vanity. He had taken her to his heart because she
was poor, neglected, ignorant, and despised—not because
her personal qualities inspired admiration.
Now the sweet consciousness stole upon her that she
possessed this much-coveted power to please. Under
their influence her character underwent some change.
The hardness and defiance formerly visible in her
bearing were the product of a consciousness that she
was not lovable united with a disposition to disparage
gifts she did not possess. Clytie's superior
beauty and softness of manner had inspired her with
a dislike that she had tried to persuade herself was
contempt. It was simply the envy of a proud and undisciplined
nature.
But, while Mliss became more gentle in expression,
more graceful in beauty, more suave and decorous in
speech, she lost none of the piquancy and originality
that constituted the charm of her childhood days. She
was as frank and fearless and ardent as ever. Her intellect
had ripened early by reflection at an age when
happier children are too joyous to think, and now
gave promise of unusual brilliancy. The blase man
of the world found in her a charming companion.
Let it not be supposed that Mliss had forgotten the
friends from whom she had been so ruthlessly separated.
The sense of gratitude she experienced for
one who had done so much to make her life pleasant
did not impair her affection for her earlier friend.
The colonel had promised to restore her to her friends,
and she waited with confidence the fulfillment of that
promise. Once or twice, when she had reminded him
of his promise, a shadow had come over his face, as if
in reproach of her eagerness to leave him. So she
waited, dimly conscious that any movement of her
own to communicate with her friends would incur his
displeasure.
During three months Colonel Wade enjoyed the sensation
arising from the performance of a generous act.
The novelty of the situation began to wear off. The
task he had imposed upon his lawless disposition was
more burdensome than he had imagined. Fifteen
years before he had loved a coquette, and for fifteen
years he had lived without faith in women. Better
women had since loved him, and, with his heart untouched,
he had yielded to their charms. Now, at the
mature age of thirty-five, a little girl had become necessary
to his happiness. Should he fulfill his promise
and return her to her friends? Her friends would
thank him, doubtless, but take good care to keep her
out of his sight.
One cool afternoon in August Mliss and the daughter
of the landlady were sauntering through the Plaza.
The air was crisp and cool, and the south wind came
with a flavor of snow and ice. The companion of
Mliss was a dark-eyed Chileno not more than fifteen
years of age, but in appearance a young woman. They
walked leisurely along, chatting merrily, criticising, as
girls of all nations will, such of their fellow-idlers as
seemed most susceptible of criticism. The walks were
pretty well filled, and among the throng were many
whom Mliss recognized as Americans. One, especially
attracted her attention, perhaps because she remembered
having encountered him twice or three times in
her walk, and each time had been sensible of a quick
and scrutinizing regard. He was apparently a man of
the middle class, forty-five or fifty years of age, plainly
but respectably dressed, having the appearance of an
ordinary citizen of the model Republic.
“Mira!” exclaimed the vivacious companion of
Mliss. “el Americano.”
And the dark-eyed senorita drew her mantle of
crimson and gold across the lower part of her face, so
that only a low, dusky brow and a pair of handsome
black eyes could be seen.
Mliss looked up. The American was approaching
from a walk that led, at a little distance in advance, into
the one in which they were. Looking at him more
intently, she observed in his hand, which he held
against his breast, the upper edge of what appeared to
be a letter.
Mliss paused instinctively. In foreign lands little
visited by Americans, all Amerioans are acquaintances
and friends.
“Buenos tardes, senoritas,” said the man, with a
bad Spanish accent.
“Good afternoon,” responded Mliss. “I am an
American.”
“I thought you was,” replied the gentleman, “but.
I wasn't sure. Does your friend speak English?”
“A few words only. Are you from San Francisco?'
“Arrived yesterday. Are you from San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been here long?”
“About three months.”
The man hesitated for a moment, regarding Mliss
with quick glances of his keen, gray eyes.
“There is a young American lady somewhere in Valparaiso,”
he said, at length, “whom I wish to find.
She is a friend of a friend of mine—a Mr. Gray”
Mliss was about to utter an exclamation, which a
gesture from her new acquaitance checked.
“I know you now,” he continued. “You are the
young lady I want to find, You are taller than you
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were described. and—pardon me—prettier. Does
your companion comprehend what we say?”
“No. Do you come from Mr. Gray! Have you a
letter for me?”
“One question at a time, please. If I am rightly
informed, the gentleman in whose charge you are
will not thank me for putting in an appearance. I
know him of old, and don't care to renew the acquaintance
unless it becomes positively necessary.”
“Do you mean Colonel—”
“Don't mention names. That little girl's ears are
wide open, and she looks as if she might put two and
two together and count four. I want to see you alone
for fifteen minutes.”
“Well,” said Mliss: “to-morrow I will walk here
alone.”
“That will do. Now walk with me a few steps, and
arrange that pretty mantle so that I can slip something
into your hand without being seen.”
Mliss moved slowly along by her companion—the
strange gentleman on the other side. Soon she felt a
letter slipped into her hand, and the gentleman, bidding
her good afternoon, with a buenos tardes for her
companion, raised his hat and walked off in the opposite
direction.
The young Chileno damsel began to rally Mliss on
her new conquest. To these imaginative and ardent
creatures every man is a possible lover, no matter
what may be his age or personal appearance.
Mliss replied with less than her usual spirit, and
soon returned home. Locked secretly in her own
room, she looked at the letter for the first time. I
was in Mr. Gray's hand-writing. She knew the firm
bold characters well. She opened it and rend:
San Francisco, July 14, 186-.
Dear Lissy:—Trust the hearer of this as you would the
writer. We long for your return. Your suit is won. I
would write more, but I do not know whose hands this letter
may fall into. Regina sends her love. Your waiting friend,
John Gray.
She kissed the signature time and again. It was
Mr. Gray who had sent this man to take her home. It
was Mr. Gray who was waiting for her return. She
experienced a moment of the most profound happiness
she had ever known as she read again and again
the characters a beloved hand had traced.
At last the letter was laid on the sweet, soft pillow,
where favored letters have laid since the art of writing
was invented, and the young girl began to think.
Would Colonel Wade let her go? Would Colonel
Wade give her up at the call of her young guardian?
The answer that her heart gave to these questions
caused the blood to rise to her temples. She had interpreted
with a woman's glance the nature of the
love that brought the handsome colonel every day to
her side. She knew this mature, self-willed, reckless
man loved her with such a love as a man of his nature
could experience.
These reflections were interrupted by a knock on
the door. A servant had come to summon her to the
parlor, where Colonel Wade was waiting.
The Colonel received her gravely, and, kissing her
cheek, as was his custom, placed her in a chair.
“The mail steamer is in,” he said, “and it brings
news from California.”
“What news?” she asked. “Anything that concerns
me?”
“Yes; your suit is won. It's in all the papers; but
they think you are dead.”
“Well,” she said, impressed by his grave manner,
“we know I am not.”
He bent over her, passing his arm around her
waist.
“Let them think so, Lissy. Let us remain here or
go to some other land where no one knows us. Who
has a better right to you than I?”
Mliss sat in trembling silence. With all her courage
she dreaded the power of this man, who had made
himself in one sense her master.
“I love you, Lissy—I love you,” he continued drawing
her gently to his side. “I cannot part with you
Look up, my darling! Tell me that you will be my
wife.”
She looked up to his face, and her frank, free, fearless
eyes encountered his passionate gaze.
“I can't be your wife, Colonel Wade. I am only a
child. You have been a true friend, and I love and
honor you as such.”
He turned from her in silence, and walked across
the room. His face was dark and his stormy eyes
gleamed with half-suppressed fury. At last he came
and stood before her.
“I expected this answer,” he said, in a low sad
tone. “You are young, rich, and beautiful. The
world is open to you, and a brilliant future awaits
you. I am past the age you call young, and my name
is blackened with what you call crimes. Still, child as
you are, I love you. Call me selfish; tell me I am a
villain—a coward! I can bear these taunts better than
can bear to lose you.”
“You need not lose me,” he replied; “you need
not part with me. Take me to San Francisco, and I
will love you as long as I live.”
“Love me as a child loves its father. I don't want
that love—I want you, heart, soul, body—you, my life,
my love, my mistress, my little wife.”
He bent as he spoke, and with his resistless arm,
raised her to his breast. He covered her face and lips
with passionate kisses, and whispered in her ears the
most ardent expressions of love.
In her struggle to free herself the letter that she
had placed in her bosom fell to the floor. He saw her
name, and, with an oath, threw her back in the chair,
stooped and picked up the letter.
“So!” he said, “you have correspondents! Shall I
read this letter?'
“Read it!” she replied, with a flash of the old defiance
in her eyes.
He read the letter, placed it in the envelope, and put
it in his pocket.
“When did you receive this?” he asked.
“To-day.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“A man—I don't know his name.”
“A man you might trust as you would the writer!
A man who hopes to steal you away from me and take
you back to that white-livered lawyer. Do you imagine
that I will let you go?”
“Yes.”
“Well, for once your marvelous instinct served you
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badly. You can marry no man but me. For three
months you have lived under my protection—for three
months I have visited you every day, and every day
you have been seen in public with me. Do you know
what people say?”
“I don't care what people say.”
“You shall care. I meant you no harm. I have
been careful of your reputation, and intend to return
you to your friends as pure as when I first beheld you.
But people say that you are my mistress, and I give
you an opportunity to become my wife.”
The young girl smiled scornfully. Colonel Wade
committed a fatal error when he forfeited his claim to
her gratitude and affection.
“You smile!” he continued. “Do you not know
that you are in my power?”
“You are stronger than I—you can crash me between
your two hands; but you cannot make me live
an hour after I wish to die.”
He looked for a moment into her clear, calm eyes.
“That is true,” he said, bowing his head. “I ought
to have remembered the night of the storm. You
have a rare spirit. You are a glorious girl! No, child,
I dare not harm you.”
He seated himself at a little distance, regarding her
with a kind of awe. His eyes, in which the fire of
passion was now quenched, dwelt upon her face with
mournful tenderness.
The young girl approached, knelt by his side, and
took his hand.
“You are yourself now,” she said, gently. “We
will go to San Francisco.”
“Do you love this Mr. Gray, Lissy?”
“Not as you understand love. He has been to me
father, brother, friend—all a true, brave man could be
to a helpless girl.”
“And you want to go back and marry him?”
“I never thought of marrying him. I do not know
as I wish to be his wife. But I would do anything in
my power to make him happy. If I was in Heaven,
and he wanted me on earth. I would come to him.”
“You love him as a sister. You will love some
other man as a lover. Lissy! Lissy! I cannot give
you up without a hope. You shall go back to San
Francisco, but with me and in my time. If this man
who has come for you crosses my path, I will kill
him! Do you hear?”
“Yes; but if the man goes back without me, Mr.
Gray will come himself. You won't kill him!”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because I wont let you.”
The colonel laughed.
“What a charming little bully you are! I'm almost
afraid of you.”
She looked at him with a wicked flash in her eyes.
“Here,” he said, extending his arm, his hand a
few inches above the floor, “place one foot in my
hand.”
Mliss did so.
“Now the other.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Never mind—the other.”
Carefully balancing herself, the young girl stood
erect, supported on his hand. Then, without seeming
effort, he raised her slowly almost to a level with his
breast, held her there a moment, then lowered her to
floor.
“You are pretty strong,” she said, pleased with this
magnificent exhibition of muscular power.
“Yes; and I'm as ugly as I'm strong.'
Mliss smiled.
“And you won't let me kill Mr. Gray?”
“No.”
“How will you prevent me?”
“I will find a way.”
“D—n me! I believe you would. But don't let us
quarrel. To-morrow morning we leave Valparaiso.”
“Where shall we go?”
“We'll join a pleasure party that is going on an excursion
into the interior.”
“How long shall we be gone?”
“Can't tell. You needn't be alarmed—there are ladies
in the party.”
“May I write to Mr. Gray?”
“Yes. I will tell you what to write. Get your pen,
ink, and paper.”
Mliss got her writing materials, and seated herself
at a table. The colonel stood by her shoulder.
“Write,” he said: “Dear Mr. Gray: I received
your letter, and am pleased to know you are all well.
To-morrow I go on a trip to the interior, and do not
expect to return for ten days. If I return in time, I
will take the next steamer for Panama. I am well,
happy, and contented. Give my love to Regina. Your
little pupil—Lissy.”
“I won't write that,” said Mliss.
“Very well—you need not. I'll write a note and
sign it `Colonel Wade.”'
“I won't leave the city, either.”
“You will! If you don't go willingly, I'll have you
put in a box, with holes bored in the top so that you
may breathe, and send you as baggage.”
Mliss looked into the eyes of her master. They
were implacable.
“You can do that,” she said, bending her head.
“You are strong and I am weak.”
“Listen, Lissy. You are safe with me—you are
safe, because I know if I should make you mine
against your will, you would revenge the wrong by
killing yourself or me. You are the only girl I ever
saw who could daunt me by such a threat; but I know
what stuff you are made of. Yielding this, I yield no
more. You may remain with me as you have—indulged,
respected and beloved—or I will hold you by
force.”
“Very well,” said the young girl; “I will go with
you.”
The next day Mr. Gray's agent was disappointed.
Mliss did not keep her appointment. He instituted
inquiries, and soon obtained the information that
Colonel Wade and lady had started with a government
train on a trip across the continent to Buenos Ayres.
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CHAPTER XLVIII.
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Regina and Mr. Gray counted the days until
they could expect to hear from Valparaiso. With
the ordinary delays, it would take sixty days to
go and return.
They put the spiritual telegraph in operation
every week, but with no definite results.
One day Mr. Rhodes stepped into Mr. Gray's
office.
“We got a little news from Valparaiso last
night,” he said.
“Indeed! By the usual process?”
“Yes—by telegraph.”
“What is it?”
“Colonel Wade has left the city.”
“With Mliss?”
“Of course; he isn't the kind of man to leave
her behind.”
“Do you know on what day they left?”
“No; they don't appear to be very good on
dates on the other side.”
The conversation then turned to other topics.
When Mr. Rhodes went out, a gentleman, who
had overheard the conversation, approached
Mr. Gray with a mystified air.
“Didn't that gentleman speak of getting news
from Valparaiso by telegraph?” he asked.
“I believe so,” responded Mr. Gray.
“Is the man crazy? There is no telegraph to
Valparaiso.”
“O! this is something new! If it works it
will revolutionize the world.”
“What is it?” demanded the gentleman. “Is there
any money in it?”
“Millions of money—if it works. We are experimenting
now.”
“Experimenting? Formed a company? Any
shares for sale?”
“Haven't got so far as that yet. It is a telegraph
without wires.”
“That's just what is wanted. Wires are always
breaking down. If you form a company I wish you
would give me a show.”
“I will. I am afraid, however, you won't approve
of the principle.”
“What is the principle?”
“Why, it's a kind of spiritual telegraph. Spirits
are supposed to send messages concerning their
friends.”
“Spirits be d—d!” exclaimed the other. “What
we want is to know the price of wheat in Valparaiso.
Can they tell us that?”
“I dare say. The ghost of a wheat speculator would
be likely to post you on the price of wheat.”
“I see money in it,” said the gentleman, excitedly.
“Let us station a ghost at Valparaiso, another at Liverpool,
another at Paris, another at Portland, and so
on all over the world. Don't you see, with these secret
means of information, we could coin money?”
“Perhaps—if the ghosts would organize themselves
into a force for the especial purpose of gathering news;
but they seem more intent on giving us information
about absent friends or their own condition in the
other world.”
“What do we care about the next world. What the
great North American people want is to get the earliest
news from different points in this world. If your
spiritual telegraph will give us that, it will be a success—
if it won't, shares won't be worth a d—n.”
“I don't think shares are likely to be worth much,”
replied Mr. Gray, and the two gentlemen parted.
In the following days the spiritual telegraph reocatedly
reiterated the announcement that Colonel
Wade and Mliss had left Valparaiso, but were at a less
as to their proposed destination.
The telegraph asserted, however, that Mr. Forbes
the agent of Mr. Gray, was returning on the steamer'
instead of following Colonel Wade, as Mr. Gray had
directed, in the event the Colonel was not found in
Valparaiso.
The steamer came in on time. An hour after, a little
to Mr. Gray's surprise, Mr. Forbes entered his
office.
“I bring you bad news,” said the latter. “I have
been foiled completely in the object of my mission.”
“So I have been informed,” said Mr. Gray.
“Informed! How, pray? I took the first steamer
home, and traveled as fast as the mail.”
“I was informed by telegraph,” gravely replied Mr.
Gray.
“By telegraph?—to Valparaiso?”
“A little private arrangement of my own. Now,
give me the particulars about my ward.”
Mr. Forbes related his interview with Mliss, or with
a girl he was led to believe was Mliss. Expecting to
meet her the next day, he had taken no means to as
certain that his chance acquaintance was in reality the
girl he was seeking.
H also informed Mr. Gray that the character of
Colonel Wade was not such as to inspire confidence in
the purity of his relations with his young charge.
What made it the more probable that he had made the
young girl his victim, was the circumstance that, notorious
as a man of pleasure, he had resisted, so far as
known, the seductive blandishments of the demi-monde
of Valparaiso.
It was apparent, also, that Mliss had accompanied
her protector willingly, even while knowing that means
of escape were at hand.
Mliss seemed lost, indeed. She was farther away
than ever, and flying from him of her own accord.
There was a little hope in the intelligence that the
fugitives were journeying toward Buenos Ayres. That
port might be reached in thirty days—twelve days to
Havana, and eighteen from Havana to Buenos Ayres.
If Mr. Gray was not a man easily convinced, he certainly
was not a man easily shaken in his faith. He
believed in his little pupil. She might be made the
victim of violence, but he felt that her soul could not
be corrupted.
And if she had been betrayed, did she not need an
avenger? If overwhelmed by fate, did she did not
need some friend to rescue her from despondency?
Somehow, his heart refused to believe that the worst
had happened. Mr. Forbes said she looked tranquil
and happy. If he knew Mliss, tranquillity and happiness
would depart with innocence.
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Mr. Gray determined, therefore, at whatever sacrifice,
to proceed at once to Buenos Ayres, and confront
the villain who had stolen his ward.
Regina's noble nature shone out like pure gold. Her
face paled a little when she heard Mr. Gray's purpose;
but she said, without hesitation, “Go; Mliss needs
you.”
Bob was summoned from Red Mountain. During
Mr. Gray's absence Regina would need a protector.
The return mail brought from Bob a characteristic
letter. It ran as follows:
Dear Sister:—Just got a letter from Mr. Gray, telling me
that I am wanted at home. Been wanting to come home for
two months, but don't see just how to get away. Truth is,
little Clytie is the prettest girl in Smith's Pocket, and I got a
little sweet on her. Couldn't help it. That's the kind of fellow
I am. Now, if you'll write to Clytie, and invite her to
spend a few months with you, it'll be all right. Big brother'll
go along to make sure it's all right. If you don't I'm afraid
there'll be a row, and the boys up here are all crack shots
Your erring brother,
Bob
P. S.—I've written to Mr. Gray to give you half the money
I got for that claim. So he good, now, and help a fellow out
of a scrape. Bob.
Regina, a little frightened, showed the letter to Mr.
Gray. “What shall I do with that wicked brother of
mine?” she asked.
Mr. Gray was a little perplexed. He had a tolerable
distinct recollection of Clytie's alluring glances, and
he had not much faith in Bob's power of resistance.
His acquaintance with hoodlum dialect did not furnish
an exact definition of the phrase “a little sweet,”
Was it simply a flirtation, or was it a serious affair?
The allusion to the chances of “a row” indicated the
latter. The foolish girl might be compromised in the
eyes of the austere moralists of Smith's Pocket, and
yet not be lost past redemption. An invitation from
Miss Shaw would set her right in that quarter, and
could not seriously compromise Miss Shaw.
“I think you had better comply with your brother's
request,” he said; “Clytie is a little lady in appearance
and manner, and if Bob is really attached to her
her presence in the city may have a wholesome restraint
upon him.”
Regina indited a friendly little letter to Clytie, expressing
a desire to form the acquaintance of a young
lady of whom she had heard so much from her brother,
also from Mliss and Mr. Gray, and concluding by inviting
Miss Clytie and one of her brothers to visit her
in the city.
In due time, an elegantly-written letter came from
Clytie, thanking Miss Shaw for her expressions of
friendliness, and also for her invitation, which was
gratefully accepted.
Regina awaited the coming of her guests with some
misgivings. She had not that implicit confidence in
her brother's fine sense of propriety which would have
justified pleasant anticipation from a visit of one of
his lady friends. She thought of the night of Bob's
farewell party and shuddered.
Being informed what day they might be expected,
Mr. Gray and Regina rode to the boat to meet them.
It was night, and Regina sat in the carriage while Mr.
Gray went in search of the travelers. Mr. Gray had
hardly disappeared when Bob came dashing through
the crowd and into the carriage. He was the same
Bob as of old, brown as a nut, but joyous, boisterous
restless. He kissed his sister a score of times, swore
she was the best girl in the world, and that he was going
to be worthy of such a sister in the future.
“But where is Miss Clytie?” asked Regina.
“O, Mr. Gray will take care of her. Thought I'd
give him a chance. Isn't Gray a brick, though? Did
the handsome thing about that claim.”
“Yes,” said Regina, “Mr. Gray has been very
generous.”
“Needn't blush, sis. Don't know how it'll come out
between you and Mliss, but I give my consent.”
“Hush Bob. Don't talk so.”
The rush of passengers had ceased, and among the
stragglers Regina recognized Mr. Gray with a lady on
his arm, the two preceded by a stout youth of thirteen
whom Regina had no difficulty in recognizing as
the just Aristides.
“This young gentlemar,” said Bob, pulling the
youth into the carriage, “is the best friend I had in
Red Mountain.”
Miss Shaw, though not greatly interested in boys of
thirteen on general principles, gave her hand to the
equitable youth and bade him welcome to San Francisco.
Miss Clytie's fair face now appeared at the carriage
door. The two young ladies were formally introduced.
Regina was charmed to see that her guest had
at least the appearance of a lady. The sense of relief
imparted a cordiality to her manner which made Clytie
feel at home at once.
CHAPTER XLIX. THE MEETING.
Mr. Gray had completed his preparations for a
journey to Buenos Ayres, when a distracting
item of intelligence came through the spiritual
telegraph.
Colonel Wade and Mliss had taken passage in
the Sea Nymph for New York.
The lawyer was undecided what course to pursue
His confidence in the reliability of the
spiritual telegraph as a medium of news was not
yet fully established. While it had been correct
in most of its statements, it had failed signally
to give such particulars as seemed within its
power to transmit, admitting that it had the
source it claimed.
It was now October. The Sea Nymph, leaving
Valparaiso in July, might weather Cape Horn
and reach Buenos Ayres in three months. Colonel
Wade and Mliss, leaving Valparaiso two
months later, might cross the continent in time
to take passage as represented.
The average direction of a voyage from San
Francisco to New York was about one hundred
and twenty days; but the Sea Nymph had been
detained at Valparaiso several weeks, and its
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passage round the Cape in the winter season
might be almost indefinitely prolonged.
The spiritual telegraph had advised Mr. Gray
to send an agent to Valparaiso instead of going
himself; yet Mr. Gray felt confident that he
could have rescued Mliss had he been in Valparaiso
in his agent's place. The spiritual telegraph,
therefore, was not a safe adviser, however correct
might be its intelligence.
If he should proceed direct to Buenos Ayres, and
discover on his arrival that Colonel Wade and Mliss
had really sailed for New York, the time he would thus
lose might prove fatal to the purpose of his mission.
If, on the other hand, he should go to New York,
and Colonel Wade and Mliss should not arrive as expected,
he could then proceed to Buenos Ayres without
great loss of time.
The latter course was finally adopted.
The last evening before his departure was spent,
with Regina. Their association in the last three
months had been intimate, but on a friendly basis.
The prospect of a long separation opened their hearts
to a sentiment each had resisted. At parting he drew
her to his side, and bestowed, unchecked, almost the
first caress he had ever offered.
“You will take care of yourself?” she whispered,
as her cheek for a moment rested on his shoulder.
“Life has never seemed so sweet as at this moment,”
he replied. Looking into her beautiful eves,
he drew her closer to his side, bent and touched her
lips, and hurried away.
The voyage was prosperous. In twenty-two days
Mr. Gray was in New York. Upon inquiry be was informed
that the Sea Nymph was daily expected.
He made arrangements to procure the earliest intelligence
of her arrival, and waited with what
patience he could command.
The third day after, the Sea Nymph was signalled.
The solution of the mystery approached. He could
not resist a feeling of awe as he reflected that he was
acting under a direction that might be regarded as
supernatural, and that events seemed to verify the
correctness of the information he had so strangely
received.
He hired a boat and was rowed out into the bay to
meet the approaching vessel.
At last the boatmen pointed cut the Sea Nymph,
and, raising his glass, he discovered, among six or
eight figures on the quarter-deck, one clad in a woman's
garments.
The sea was smooth, and, as the bark was making
but little headway, the boat easily came alongside.
A rope ladder suspended from the vessel's side enabled
Mr. Gray to climb on deck, where he was met
by an officer.
“I expect to find friends among your passengers,”
said Mr. Gray, in explanation of his visit.
“We have but four passengers,” said the officer,
courteously, “and you will find them on the quarter-deck.”
The group was distant not more than twenty yards.
The female figure he had observed was evidently that
of a young girl. She was half-concealed by the form
of a man, by whose side she was standing.
As she turned her head to speak to her companion,
Mr. Gray caught a glimpse of her features.
It was Mliss!
For a moment, cool and self-possessed as he was,
he was overcome, and leaned against the railing for
support.
In that moment the roving eyes of the young girl
had caught sight of a stranger on board. Mr. Gray
heard an exclamation, and saw a dark figure flying
toward him. He turned and held out his arms, and
caught the flying figure to his heart.
“O, Mr. Gray! dear Mr. Gray!” she murmured, between
her kisses; “I knew you would come.”
The young man pressed her close to his heart.
“Yes, darling,” he answered; “I am here”
When Mr. Gray looked up he beheld a few feet distant
a tall, powerful man, who stood regarding the
scene with a menacing smile on his lips. The man advanced
as he met Mr. Gray's eye.
“Who is this gentleman?” he asked, addressing
Mliss.
The tone in which the question was asked recalled
the young girl to her senses. Releasing herself from
her guardian's arm, she answered, gravely:
“Mr. Gray.”
“And this gentleman?” said Mr. Gray, retaining
his hold on the arm of his ward.
“Colonel Wade.”
Mr. Gray inclined his head in salutation.
There was a brief silence.
“Shall I thank Colonel Wade for his care of you,
Mliss?” asked Mr. Gray, at last.
“Yes,” answered Mliss, raising her frank, clear eyes
to her guardian's face.
The young man's terrible fears vanished. He advanced
a step toward Colonel Wade.
“Sir,” he said, “this young lady is my ward. Allow
me to thank you for the protection you have offered
her in a strange land.”
Colonel Wade was a man of the world. He saw—as
he might have expressed it—that Mr. Gray held the
winning hand. His knowledge of men restrained him
from desperate measures when the chances were so
much against him. The calm revolute, yet courteous
bearing of his adversary rather imposed upon him.
“This meeting is unexpected,” he said, in a halfquestioning
tone, as if inclined to doubt Mr. Gray's
being the person he was represented to be.
“But not undesired, I hope,” replied Mr. Gray, politely.
“If I had been consulted,” rejoined the colonel, “I
should have preferred to place your ward in your
charge to being waylaid in this manner.”
“You will admit, however, that it was impossible to
consult you.”
“How did you know we were aboard the Sea
Nymph?”
“I did not know you were aboard the Sea Nymph.”
“But you had some reason to suppose we were?”
“Yes; I was so informed.”
“By whom—by what means?”
“I might answer that the Sea Nymph left Valparaiso
for Buenos Ayres in June—that you and my
ward left Valparaiso by the overland route about two
months later, and the conclusion was rational that you
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would arrive in Buenos Ayres about the same time the
Sea Nymph would arrive in that port. Admitting the
correctness of this supposition so far, it was not a
great stretch of the powers of divination to suppose
you might take passage on the Sea Nymph for New
York.”
“It is impossible to contend against a man who
makes such elaborate calculations as these, and draws
from them correct conclusions.”
Mr. Gray bowed. He now felt secure. He held his
ward by the hand, and in his pocket were proofs of his
legal right to assert his claim to guardianship.
The colonel turned upon Mliss a regard, in which
was expressed the love of his passionate heart. It was
a mute and eloquent appeal, but it failed in effect. He
bowed coldly, turned upon his heel, and walked away
The guardian and ward were alone. There was so
much to say that they said nothing. Holding his
hand between hers, she stood silently watching the
mighty city toward which they were slowly drifting.
CHAPTER L. BOB'S LAST FIGHT.
The careful reader may perhaps remember
that our lastest intelligence of Miss Hattie
Brooks was of an unsatisfactory character. She
was, in fact, represented in that condition of
mind which ardent and volatile natures are subject
to in the absence of the person of the opposite
sex whom they have honored with their regard.
Miss Brooks would doubtless have remained
faithful to Bob Shaw, if Bob Shaw had remained
by her side to assist in the difficult but
noble work of being faithful. But Bob Shaw
was at Red Mountain and Miss Brooks was in
San Francisco. Bob Shaw's occasional letters
were a great comfort, but far less powerful supporters
of good resolutions than Bob Shaw's
presence would have been.
The enemy of mankind is said to be a personage
of great perspicacity in the matter of opportunity.
He attacks most vigorously when
the object of his attack is least prepared for defense.
The enemy appeared to Miss Brooks in the
form of a young man. He appeared in the
form of a young man precisely when the maiden
was vehemently lamenting the absence of another
young man to whom she had given as much of
her heart as her nature would permit her to part
with.
The enemy, therefore choosing this implement of
attack, and selecting his opportunity with so much address,
enjoyed an easy victory. Long before Bob Shaw
returned from Red Mountain, the lively young lady
had given another the right to fight her battles.
In good time—or in bad time, as the case might be
—Bob Shaw returned to San Francisco. His return
created quite a commotion in the free-and-easy club,
and the members looked forward to stirring times.
Bob was not the boy to put with any interference
with his rights, and the conviction was universal that
Bob would make it very lively for his successful rival.
This successful rival was a young man who had seen
life in its roughest phases. He had been a soldier under
Stonewall Jackson, and had his scars to show for
it. His name was Benjamin Root. He stood five feet
eleven inches in his stockings, and six feet one in his
boots. His figure certainly was not symmetrical, but
it presented points that could not fall to strike the eye
of one accustomed to estimate physical strength by
the human form.
To do Miss Brooks justice, we must say that she
was not ambitious of playing the role of Helen. When
she heard that Bob had returned, she proposed to her
new admirer a compromise. She would return to her
allegiance and assume the responsibility of the little
infidelity which threatened such serious results.
Mr. Benjamin Root—or Ben Root, as he was familiarly
called—would not hear to this compromise. He
had his own ideas of honor—ideas which did not permit
him to retreat in the face of an enemy. He commanded
Miss Brooks to remain faithful to her present
relations, and let Bob Shaw and himself settle the
little difficulty in their own way.
The etiquette of these circles compelled Miss Brooks
to acquiesce. She would not be justified by her associates
in “shaking” her admirer until he had failed
to demonstrate his ability to defend himself from the
attack of his rival.
Bob's first interview with his old associates caused
much surprise. He was as frank and hearty as ever,
but he didn't seem the least offended at Miss Brooks's
inconstancy. He first met her in company with a
number of their mutual friends, and, with the impartiality
of a truly noble nature, kissed all the girls, including
Miss Brooks. Then he turned carelessly, and,
recognizing Mr. Raot, nodded pleasantly and held out
his hand. And there, in the presence of at least a
dozen members of the free-and-easy club, the rivals
stood and talked as pleasantly as if there had been no
cause of quarrel between them.
The free-and easy club was terribly scandalized
Their leader had not shown his accustomed spirit. No
one dared to intimate that Bob Shaw was afraid, but
be was certainly less impetuous than formerly. The
air of Red Mountain evidently had not agreed with
him.
Miss Brooks was chagrined. Bob's acceptance of
the situation not only wounded her pride, but it
wounded that other part of herself which from the
forces of custom she called her affections. If she
loved Ben Root at hand better than she loved Bob
Shaw at a distance, her love quickly returned to the
latter when the matter of distances was equalized.
But Bob remained unconscious of the criticisms
which were being freely passed upon his conduct.
He was liberally supplied with money, and he scattered
it with a free hand. Entertainment after entertainment
was gotten up at his expense, but he neither
made love to Hattie Brooks nor quarreled with Hattie
Brooks's admirer.
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Ben Root rather plumed himself on Bob's forbearance.
He intimated to his companions that the secret
of that forbearance lay in his own reputation as a
“fighting man.” He intimated, moreover, an intimation
to drive Bob to the wall—to make him fight or admit
a disinclination to engage a man of Mr. Root's
prowess and reputation.
When Bob was told of this boast he laughed pleasantly.
His companions, however, thought they saw
mischief in his eye. Bob had always had on ugly habit
of laughing when he had a serious affair on his hands,
but his laugh could not be relied on as an evidence of
true amiability of disposition. The boys, therefore
came to the conclusion that on some fine day Bob
would redeem his reputation.
The fine day came. The Free-and-Easy Social Club
gave their quarterly social about a month after Bob's
return to the city. Bob could not well decline to attend,
and the etiquette of the club would not permit
him to attend without escorting a lady. It Bob invited
Miss Brooks matters between him and Mr. Root
would be brought to a speedy issue. If he did not invite
Miss Brooks he would abandon all pretentions to
that lady.
The club were in a high state of excitement. The
ladies discussed the chances with as much interest as
the gentlemen. The opinion was universal that Bob
would invite Miss Brooks, and that the young lady
would accept the invitation.
The eventful evening came. The company assembled
early. The first sensation was the appearance of
Miss Brooks with Mr. Root. The second and greater
sensation was the appearance of Bob Shaw with an exceedingly
pretty young girl, who was known to but
few of the members of the club. She was very young
very pretty, very bright, and as audacious as pretty
as California girls usually are.
It was her first ball. She had awakened one morning
recently and found herself a woman. She was impatient
for all the pleasures to which in her new estate
she seemed to be heir. She appreciated the eclat attending
her debut. The circumstances suited her
disposition. She knew that every eye was upon her,
but she had eyes only for her handsome escort.
Bob was in high spirits. He seemed unconscious
of having forfeited his claim to the respect of his fellow
members by his surrender of his former queen to
a rival.
Miss Brooks would have borne his desertion with
some show of equanimity, if he had substituted in her
place a passably pretty girl; but Miss Etta Clark
though only fifteen, was the belle of the ball-room.
She was also the best dancer in an assembly of ladies
who prided themselves on their proficiency in this accomplishment.
She was something of a flirt, also;
despite her attentions to her escort, she continued to be
surrounded by half the young gentlemen in the room.
Miss Brooks, usually the belie, was almost neglected.
What she suffered hat night no one but a woman can
know. The first impulse of her weak heart was to be
angry, and she passed Bob with a freezing bow. Bob
returned the nod, with a nod, and actually went on
with his nonsense as if nothing had happened.
Late in the evening she found an opportunity to
seize upon the delinquent for a promenade. Abandoning
doning the angry dodge as one not likely to be productive
of pleasing results, she became a suppliant.
“Bob,” she said, “you will break my heart.”
“Break what?”
“My heart! I can't bear this!”
“Come, come, Hattie! don't get spooney in your
old age. You're a nice girl, but a shade too fickle.
You know you always had a leaning that way.”
“Bob, I never cared for a man but you.”
“Well, I can't say as to that. Rootie wouldn't like
to hear you talk that way, I reckon.”
“I don't care for Mr. Root!—you know very well I
don't!”
“That's between you and him. Don't count me
in.”
“Bob.”
“Well.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive. A girl belongs to herself till
she gets a husband.”
“But we used to be such good friends.”
“True—we stuck together a long time. Always did
the right thing by you until you shook me.”
“But I didn't mean to. Bob—you know I didn't.”
“Don't know—looked like it.”
“Well,” she continued, pressing his arm, “if you
say so, I will never speak to Root again.”
“Can't encourage you in this wholesale shaking
business. Better stick to Rootie, now you've got
him.”
Miss Brooks comprehended that she had attacked
clumsily, and was humiliating herself without producing
an impression upon the object of her affections.
Perhaps it was this feeling of mortification—
perhaps the effects of a real disappointment—that
caused her, as she passed the door of the ladies' retiring
room, to leave Bob's side suddenly, cover her
face with her hands, and dart through the doorway.
When her friends gathered round her, a moment
later, she was weeping bitterly—too bitterly, in fact,
to tell what was the matter.
The girls could only attribute her tears to one cause.
That cause was Bob. In the flush of resentment the
loyalty of the sex to each other rose superior to reason.
No one asked what Bob had said or done, but the rumor
went round that the maiden had been insulted.
The rumor reached the ears of Mr. Root. Mr. Root
went in search of the offender. Bob's fault was not
that of shirking a responsibility, and he readily permitted
himself to be found. Those who had thought
that he shrank from an encounter with his rival, were
speedily undeceived. His handsome face wore that
serene smile which was never so expressive as when
about to engage in a personal conflict.
“Well, Rootie,” he said, “some of the boys said
you was looking for me.”
“Mr. Shaw,” replied the other, “you've insulted a
lady who is under my protection.”
“That's a lie!” returned Bob; “but if it will answer
your purpose, just consider it true.”
Bob's readiness to accept the situation delighted his
friends. Mr. Root, pale with anger, began to prepare
for an immediate combat.”
“Keep cool,” said Bob. “We have ladies to take
care of, and the chances are that, after our little
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settlement, one of us won't be in a very good condition to
serve as a lady's escort. Let us wait till daylight.
There's a nice place not far off, which all the boys
know as the vacant corner. I'll be there at daybreak.”
So reasonable a position could but commend itself
to the intelligent minds to whom it was addressed.
Mr. Root was admonished, in the classical language of
the club, to restrain his impatience.
“There's no danger about Bob,” said one; “he'll be
there. If anybody's missing, it will be the other
fellow.”
The club reasoned that a combat, preceded by certain
preliminaries, would be regarded as a greater
event than a combat entered upon the spur of the moment.
So Mr. Root was compelled perforce to repress
the ardor which prompted him to avenge an insult
upon a lady who did him the honor to accept his protection.
The bail continued until late in the morning. The
coming fight was the topic of the evening. Ladies
openly regretted that an absurd public opinion would
not permit them to be witnesses to the affair. Bob
was a favorite, both in a sentimental point of view and
as subject for a wager. He had the cleanest record of
any fellow in the club. He had never been whipped
and the girls bet heaps of candy that he would “get
away” with his stalwart antagonist.
The young ladies were escorted home at last, and
parted from their escorts with the injunction to bring
the earliest news from the field of battle. Bed was a
thing no one thought of under such exciting circumstances.
In the gray of dawn about a hundred young fellows
assembled at the vacant corner. The “corner” comprised
a quarter of a block. There were dwelling
houses in the distance, but the adjacent buildings
were otherwise occupied. Isolated as it was, with a
clean turf, it was a favorite resort for the boys when
any serious affair was on hand.
In selecting early dawn as the time for the meeting.
Bob had severely tested his own and his antagonist's
nerve. A man who will fight at five in the morning
must be influenced by a very pressing consideration.
It is an hour when bed seems particularly inviting.
The blood runs low, and the craven in a man's nature
takes that time to urge its scruples. The gravish hue
that pervades earth and sky protests against the sight
of crimson blood.
But Bob had never approached combat with so desperate
a purpose. He resented the conduct of Root—
not in winning Miss Brooks's affections, but in parading
his seeming success. He was glad to be released
from any entangling alliance with that young
lady, but he did not like the manner in which Mr.
Root had volunteered his assistance.
The ring was formed, seconds chosen, and the word
given. Root had the advantage of weight and height;
Bob of superior science and activity. The contest was
fierce, desperate and prolonged. The time came when
Bob's adroitness gave him an advantage he had never
lost. He held the issue in his own hands, punished
his antagonist at his pleasure, and at last laid him insensible
with a terrible blow which would have felled
an ox.
Somewhat battered and disfigured, Bob returned to
town and rung up a physician, who had been
rung up on similar occasions before. A crowd of
his enthusiastic friends accompanied him, but at
the physician's door he bade them good-by. The
door closed between him and his “hoodlam”
associates, and he left the old life behind forever.
He could now withdraw with honor, according to
the “hoodlum” code.
CHAPTER LI. CONSPIRACY.
The reader may imagine with what impatience
Miss Shaw awaited intelligence from Mr. Gray.
She had more faith than he in the spiritual telegraph
as a means of transmitting intelligence,
and this faith she kept alive by frequent visits
to Mrs. Rhodes. But at times reason and the
influences of early education asserted their power
over her mind. The whole theory of communicating
by spiritual telegraph seemed so
strange, so utterly unaccountable, so utterly at
variance with the principles of physical law as
they had been understood and interpreted by
the master minds of the world, that she could
hardly believe its pretended intelligence would
be verified by facts.
Mr. Gray was scarcely out of sight when Mr.
Hopp appeared at her side. Mr. Hopp was more
persistent and determined than ever. He urged
his suit now with her mother's full sanction.
He was supported by Dr. Fox, who, in the character
of a worldly spiritual adviser, hinted at
the desirability of a settlement in life on such
a basis as Mr Hoop could offer. He also spoke
of the peculiarity of Regina's relation to Mr.
Gray—of the frail nature of her resources and
the impropriety of her accepting from a comparative
stranger pecuniary aid.
“Mr. Gray extends us no aid,” she had replied
warmly. “In his judgment one half of the profits of
the business are as much ours as if papa were alive.
I am sure he does not think he is placing us under the
slightest obligation.”
“Perhaps he does not think so, but others do.”
“Who can understand this better than Mr. Gray
and ourselves?”
“No one, of course. But you look at it from one
standpoint—the world from another.”
“The world! What does the world say?”
“That such acts of disinterested generosity are very
rare in young men of this age.”
“Is that a reason why we should believe in them?”
“My dear Miss Shaw, the first object of a young
lady should be to preserve her entire independence.
She cannot accept even friendly assistance from a
young gentleman without compromising her reputation.”
A flush stole into Regina's cheek.
“Pardon me if I speak plainly,” resumed Dr. Fox.
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“I have ventured to speak with you on this subject at
the request of your mother.”
“Do you advise me to accept Mr. Hopp's offer of
marriage?”
“Most assuredly I do.”
“But I do not love Mr. Hopp. I am not sure that I
do not dislike him.”
“Love, my dear young lady, is a sentiment upon
which young ladies are apt to place too much value.
A girl often thinks she loves a man of whom she
knows nothing, and who is unworthy of her lightest
regard. A woman should select a good man for a husband,
and if her heart is pure and her mind properly
disciplined, she will learn to love him. In this instance
it is your duty as a Christian to consider your
mother's wishes. She does not see Mr. Gray with
your eyes. His relations to that unfortunate girl—
Mliss, the mystery that surrounds her death, the
doubt if Mr. Gray was not the cause of it, all serve to
awaken a mother's apprehensions.”
Regina listened in silence. She knew more than she
could tell.
“Mr. Hopp,” pursued the clergyman, “is in every
respect a desirable match. Still young, as men view
men—he has achieved a fine position. It not a really
rich man, he has a reputation in his profession that is
better than money.”
“Pardon me,” said the young lady; “is the circumstance
of Mr. Hopp's being a successful lawyer any
reason why I should accept him as a husband?”
“Not, perhaps, in itself, but the man is unobjectionable
and has loved you for years.”
“Then you really advise me to accept him.”
“I certainly do. It will make your mother happy.”
“Well,” answered the young lady; “I'll think of it.”
Dr. Fox took his departure.
“Mliss was right,” murmored Regina. “Dr. Fox
is a meddling old fool, but I am not brave enough to
tell him so.”
This was one of many conversations on the same
subject. There were Mr. Hopp himself, Dr. Fox, and
her mother—all urging the same suit.
When Mr. Gray had been absent twenty-five days'
Miss Shaw received a telegram from him announcing
his arrival in New York.
The next day she received another dispatch stating
that the Sea Nymph was daily expected.
Three days later she received a third dispatch, in
which Mr. Gray simply said, “Mliss is with me.”
On the same afternoon, Bob, who had been absent
nearly a week, made his appearance with some suspicious
marks on his face resembling those which Regina
had seen before.
“O, Bob!” she exclaimed, reproachfully, “you've
been fighting again.”
Bob gravely led his sister into her room and threw
himself into an easy chair.
“Did I ever promise you to give up my wild way
and be a man?”
“No; but I wish you would.”
“Well, I promise you now. I've had my last fight.
Going to shake the whole crowd,”
“Miss Brooks and all?”
“Miss Brooks has shaken me. Set the trap and she
fell into it. Had to fight the new fellow just to show
that I wasn't afraid, but I took care to stand on solid
ground. It's all over, and I'm going to be a man.”
“O, Bob, I'm so glad.”
“Heard from Gray yet?”
Regina showed him the first two telegrams.
“What makes Gray think Mliss is aboard the Sea
Nymph?”
“He heard she was through the same source
from which he received information of her being at
Valparaiso.”
“This is all a mystery to me. If she went to Buenos
Ayres, how could Gray know she had taken passage
for New York?”
“If you'll come with me to-night I'll tell you all I
know.”
“Of course I'll go with you. I'll go everywhere
with you if you'll send Hopp about his business.”
“Would you like to have me marry Mr. Hopp?”
“Marry Mr. Hopp? If you do I'll disown you.”
“Mamma wants I should. You know we are poor.”
“Not so very poor. We've got nearly four thousand
dollars between us, and the office makes heaps of
coin.”
“True; but four thousand dollars is very little to
live on, and we don't know how long the office will coin
money for us.”
“It will make money for us as long as it makes
money for Mr. Gray. I'm going in with him.”
Regina laughed.
“You a lawyer!” she said.
“Needn't laugh. There's lot's of outside work to
do; kind of detective business, that will suit me to a
dot. Gray and I have talked it over.”
“Have you?—indeed!”
“Yes; he wants me to come in. Didn't say so, but
I've an idea he thought you'd feel more content if our
family was represented in the firm.”
“That's like Mr. Gray.”
“Tell you what, Regie, Gray's a good fellow. Just
see how he's stuck to Mliss.”
“Yes,” assented Reginia, “he's been a good friend
to Mliss.”
“And now if he finds her and brings her back—”
“Well, if he finds her, of course he will bring her
back.”
“Come, Regie, sit down by me and open your
heart.”
Regina seated herself on a stool by her brother's
knee and waited for him to question her.
“Would you like to have Gray marry Mliss?” he
asked.
“If he wants to.”
“Would you like to have him want to?
“I don't know.”
“That's a fib, Regie; you do know.”
“Well, I shall not tell you.”
“Needn't. I understand all about it now. You and
I can work together like two mules.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don't want Mr. Gray to marry Mliss
more than you do.”
“But I don't care whom Mr. Gray marries.”
“What a fraud you girls are. Why don't you own
up like a man?”
“Because I am not a man.”
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“Well answered, little girl. You can't let any one
know you like Mr. Gray until Mr. Gray tells you he
likes you. That's what you get for being a woman.
Now, I don't hesitate to say that if Mliss comes back
I am going for her.”
“You mean—”
“I mean I am going for her. The fever's been
growing on me ever since I left here last spring. Mliss
is the only girl in the world that just fills the bill.”
“But Mliss thinks too much of Mr. Gray to think of
any one else.”
“Brother and sister—just like you and me. I've
always loved you better than all the other girls put
together, but I wouldn't marry you if you wasn't my
sister. Think I love you too well.”
“I hope you do.”
“Fact is, you've been a good sister to me, and I've
been a bad brother to you. You've never turned
against me when I was cutting up and disgracing the
family. You never let any one think you were ashamed
to own me for your brother.”
“That's true, Bob; I've always felt as if some day I
should be proud of you.”
“So you shall, Regie. But don't let us get away
from the case under consideration, as the lawyers say.
I want to propose an alliance offensive and defensive.”
“How fearfully legal you are. What do you
mean?”
“I mean that you've got a man on your hands that
you don't want, and I am in about the same fix, only
it ins't a man.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Regina. “Clytie!”
“The fact is, Regie, up in Red Mountain Clytie was
the prettiest girl in sight. Of course, I made love to
her. Couldn't help it. She's a dear little girl, and
would make some other man a mighty nice wife.”
Regina laughed.
“You are willing then to recommend her to—”
“To Mr. Hopp. She's just the girl for him.”
“But, Bob—”
“The thing can be managed. You've seen the
play called `Much Ado About Nothing.' You know
how the hoodlums came it over Beatrice and Benedict.”
“Yes; I understand.”
“Now we'll play the same game with some little
variations. I'll pretend to be jealous of Mr. Hopp,
and you must contrive to intimate that Mr. Hopp is
fond of Clytie. Then we'll manage to throw Clytie
and Hopp together as much as we can, and then
caution Mr. Hopp not to take advantage of Miss Morpher's
evident preference for himself. The man never
had a woman in love with him in his life, and he'll
jump at the game. Bet fifty dollars to one that we
make a match of it.”
“I'll take the bet, and try to lose,” cried Regina,
laughing. “What a head you have, Bob!”
“Pretty good. If the brain had not been of good quality,
it would have been pounded into a jelly long ago.
But neither you nor I have a right to be a fool with
such a father as we had.”
“That's true, Bob. Dear papa! if he was only alive
I should be perfectly happy.”
“The old gentleman went a rather rapid pace.
Could keep up his lick, and couldn't stop. The time
came when he was like that stage-driver—on a down
grade, and couldn't reach the brake.”
“But he was the best man that ever lived, for all
that.”
“Had a good heart. After all, that is the main
thing. Give me a fellow with a good heart, and I don't
mind if he cuts up a little rough at times. But about
our comedy. You agree to play the part of Hero?”
“O, yes. It will be glorious fun. And if you should
succeed—”
“You'll lose a beau that isn't worthy of you, and I
a girl that I am not worthy of. So you see the interests
of justice will be served.”
“In a somewhat indirect way.”
“What would you have? We cannot always accomplish
our purposes in a straightforward manner.
But we are doing the parties service. You are not going
to marry Mr. Hopp, and I am not going to Marry
Clytie. Now, as Mr. Hopp wants a wife and Clytie
wants a husband—why not make them think they
want each other?”
“I really begin to think we are doing them a service
instead of ourselves.”
“Of course we are. Isn't it better to give one girl a
husband than to take one from another?”
“I believe Mr. Hopp would suit her better than
you.”
“I am very sure she would suit Mr. Hopp better
than she would suit me. I want a girl with a dash
pepper in her composition.”
“You'll get pepper enough if you ever get Mliss.
But she is the bravest and truest-hearted girl I ever
knew.”
“She's a brick. Thought so when I first saw her,
poor little thing, dancing on the hill all by herself.
But what are you going to do with me this evening?”
“Take you to call on some friends of mine.”
“Making calls isn't much in my line, but I'll go if
you want me to.”
“I do want you to. Perhaps we may get news from
Mliss.”
“Then I'll go anyhow. Good-bye. I'll be back at
dinner.”
“Good-bye. You may tell Mr. Hopp to come, if you
like, and then we'll leave him and Clytie to amuse each
other.”
“Good! That's the first scene. We'll see if we
can't make them dance to our music.”
CHAPTER LII. BOB RECEIVES NEWS.
Miss Clytie Morpher found her visit at the
city very pleasant. Though Regina did not exactly
go into society, she was much sought by
gentlemen. In the evening her parlor was seldom
vacant. Clytie's sweet beauty caused Clytie
to be very popular. She was brilliant in
conversation, but she could make silence very
agreeable. She had a trick of talking with her
eyes, which often stands pretty young girls in
lieu of oral conversation. Nature had given her
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the disposition to be a coquette, but had withheld
the dash and sparkle that usually enter into
the composition of that variety of girl. By no
means heartless, she was saved from great heart
troubles by the facility with which one image
was effaced by another. She would mourn the
loss of a lover only in case the loss was not supplied.
Clytie had sincerely loved Bob while Bob was
her daily companion at Red Mountain. She had
come to the city to visit Bob's sister, in the
sweet hope of becoming Bob's wife; but, once
in town, she found herself surrounded by handsome
gentlemen who were far more attentive
and deferential than Bob. Her sensuous but
not impure nature responded very quickly to
overtures which seemed prompted by love. She
wanted to be loved—not by one only, but by all
who approached her. So each by turn was
greeted with her soft, shy and melting glances,
and each thought himself the particular object of her
regard.
Clytie, therefore, was having a fine time. Bob's occasional
absence did not cause her much anxiety. In
time Bob ceased to occupy a prominent place in her
thoughts. His reticence on the important question of
marriage assisted her recovery from the wounds his
persuasive tongue had inflicted. The admiration
with which she inspired other gentlemen suggested
the idea that she was not entirely dependent on Bob
for a settlement in life.
The comedy which the artful Bob proposed to play,
and which Regina promised to aid, almost played itself.
An intimation from Regina that Mr. Hopp was
not insensible to her charms, disposed the unsophisticated
girl to be more than usually gracious. Mr.
Hopp was not a favorite with the ladies, and this graciousness
on the part of one so pretty and so much admired
was soothing to his feelings.
The evening after the conversation recorded in the
last chapter, Clytie was left to entertain Mr. Hopp,
while Regina and Bob paid Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes a
visit. The visit was an experiment on Regina's part
She carried in her pocket the telegram from Mr. Gray
containing simply these words: “Mlies is with me.”
This intelligence she had with great effort kept to herself.
She desired to know if the table, or the intelligence
that communicated through it, would impart
the same information.
Bob was presented in due form, and graciously received,
A pleasant conversation on ordinary topics
ensued, when Mrs. Rhodes asked Regina if she desired
a sitting. The young lady, of course, assented.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Shaw?” asked Mrs.
Rhodes.
“No,” replied Bob; “of course I don't.”
“Well,” replied the lady. “Regina and I have an
appointment with one this evening; but, if you don't
like their company, you and Mr. Rhodes can smoke a
cigar in another room while our conference lasts.”
“I see,” said Bob; “you want to get rid of us.
Lead the way, Captain.”
“Don't go unless you choose,” replied Mrs. Rhodes.
“We have no secrets.”
“But you don't mean to say that you are going to
interview a ghost?”
“That is precisely what we propose to do.”
“Well, if Regina stays, I guess I will. What do
you say, Captain?”
“With Miss Shaw's permission, I will stay where
she is.”
The room was darkened. Bob did not understand
what it all meant; but he thought he could stand it if
others could, and so said nothing.
“They are here in force,” said Mrs. Rhodes. “They
must have have some news to communicate.”
“Who are here?” asked Bob.
“The spirits.”
“Ah!” said Bob, “I see spirits are your favorite
joke.”
“Listen, Bob,” said Regina, clinging to his arm.
At this moment Mrs. Rhodes read slowly:
“How-is-my-little-princess-to-night?”
“Very well, thank you,” answered Regina.
“Well!” said Bob, “that's odd! The Governer used
to call you `Little Princess.”'
“Who-do-you-mean-by-the-Governor?” Mrs. Rhodes
asked, reading from the table.”
“I mean my respected sire,” answered Bob, replying,
as he supposed, to Mrs. Rhodes.
“Well,” came the answer, “I am your respected
sire.”
Bob laughed. He was evidently not much impressed
by ghostly influences.
“I've no objections to taking you for a sister—if the
captain is willing,” he replied; “but I don't think
you'd make an efficient father.”
“Hush, Bob!” remonstrated Regina. “You don't
know who you are talking to.”
Mrs. Rhodes continued reading from the table.
“Robert, do you remember the little affair you had
with a pretty school-mistress, about six years ago?”
“Let me see,” said Bob. “That is a long time to
remember a little affair of that nature.”
“I will refresh your recollection. You were kept
after school one afternoon.”
“Yes,” said Bob; “a good many afternoons.”
“One afternoon in particular. On this occassion
instead of studying your lessons, as you were doubtless
expected to, you made violent love to the school-teacher.”
“Perhaps,” replied Bob. “I don't remember the
circumstance.”
“The school-teacher did not like to go to her principal
with such a complaint, and she could not let it
pass in silence, so she took an early opportunity to call
on your respected sire.”
“Well,” said Bob; “what then?”
“Your respected sire summoned you to a private
interview. In the course of that interview you became
convinced of the impropriety of your conduct,
and the next day you asked the teacher's pardon.”
“Madam!” said Bob, addressing Mrs. Rhodes, “if
this joke pleases you, I can stand it; but I would like
to know how you know so much about my little affairs?”
“I know nothing about your little affairs,” answered
Mrs. Rhodes. “I only read what is written on the
table.”
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“But, Madam, there is nothing written on the table.”
“Pardon me; I see letters, and the letters form
words. As fast as a word appears I read it, and it
gives place to another.
“This is very strange. Regie, can you see these
letters?”
“No; but I believe Mrs. Rhodes does.”
“But who writes them?”
“Why, the spirits, of course”
“Very well. I see you are amusing yourselves at
my expense. Go on; I can stand a joke. I'd like to
know, though, who told the spirits about that little
school-teacher.”
“Who could tell them?”
“No one but the little school-teacher herself, or our
respected sire.”
Mrs. Rhodes then continued:
“Some of these days, my son, I will convince you
who it is that speaks to you. To-night we have other
business to attend to. Regie, I have news for you.”
“From Mliss?”
“Yes. Have you revealed to any one the purport of
your last telegram from Mr. Gray?”
“Not to a human being.”
“You know, though, that Mr. Gray has found
Mliss?”
“I know he has.”
“Hold a minute,” cried Bob. “I'm a little interested
in this. What is it about Mr. Gray's finding
Mliss?”
“You heard what Mrs. Rhodes read.”
“Yes: but I'll be d—d if I understand it.”
“Well,” explained Mr. Rhodes, “the point of it is
this: We have a spiritual telegraph, which keeps us
posed in affairs that interest us in all quarters of the
glo.te We are interested in your friend Mliss, through
our sister and Mr. Gray. Now, Mr. Gray seems to
have found Mliss, and our spiritual telegraph naturally
informs us of the circumstance.”
“I think I'd like to own an interest in this spiritual
telegraph,” said Bob. “But is it true, sis, that Mr.
Gray has found Mliss?”
“I received a telegram from him to-day, in which
he says he has.”
“And the spiritual telegraph says so, too? Madam,
I'm a convert. This is the best news I've heard in
twenty odd years. So Mliss is alive, after all. By
Jove! I wish you would send me to New York by spiritual
telegraph! Madam, you've no idea what a splendid
girl she is! She is a regular brick. She is a girl
you can bet on and win every time!”
“O,” exclaimed Regina, “I've heard you talk in
the same strain before.”
“If you have it was when I was a raw and inexperienced
youth. Now I speak from mature conviction.
But let us have a little more talk through that machine.
Can't we manage to speak to Mliss, and let her
know we are here?”
“To do so we would need a machine at the other
end.”
“That's true,” said Bob; “at least, I suppose it is,
Madam,” he continued, addressing Mrs. Rhodes,
“wouldn't one of these accommodating spirits take a
trip to New York and see how the little girl is?”
“We know Mliss is well. She will be with you in
less than a month.”
“A month! That's a long time. What a lucky fellow
Gray is! He's always on hand at the right time.”
Bob plied the spirits with a thousand questions,
which need not be repeated. It was quite late when
they set out on their return home.
Meantime the correct Clytie had been left to herself.
Regina and Bob had set out early, leaving their guest
to entertain Mr. Hopp, and others who might chance
to call. For an hour or more her sole companion was
Aristides. Clytie experienced a sisterly affection for
the just youth, but his ordinary conversation was not
of a character to amuse her. He talked of boys and
boys' sports. His companions were wonderfully precocious
lads with queer names, and he felt it his duty
to tell Clytie all about them. There is doubtless a
period when girls are interested in boys. This period
terminates abruptly when they become interested in
men. Clytie, as has been remarked, at an earlier stage
in this history was an early bloomer. For some years
her heroes had worn beards. The boy fever had a
quick run and a complete cure. She dimly recognized
the necessity of having boys, in view of the greater
necessity of having men; but, at present, boyish exploits
had ceased to interest her. Aristides, incapable
of comprehending this condition of the feminine
mind, only arrested his sister's attention so far as to
cause her to wonder, at times, what he was talking
about.
About half-past eight the door-bell rang. Clytie
abruptly left the eloquent Aristides in the midst of a
thrilling narrative of adventure, and ran to the door.
“O, Mr. Hopp!” she said, with an impulsiveness
rare in her, “I am so glad you are come. Regina and
her brother have gone out and left me alone.”
Somehow she gave him two hands instead of one,
and blushed when she discovered she had done so.
The act, certainly, was unpremeditated. So young
and so inexperienced, she could hardly know that she
possessed two of those soft, yiedling, magnetic hands
that the staidest men like to bold.
“It isn't often,” said Mr. Hopp, “that Robert Shaw
does anything I can thoroughly approve of, but to-night
is an exception.”
“But Miss Regina is gone to.”
“Miss Regina knows how to compensate for her absence.”
Miss Clytie was helping Mr. Hopp take off his overcoat,
hanging his hat on the rack, and performing
other little services by which girls make themselves
indispensable without being in the least degree useful.
She blushed a little at his implied compliment, glanced
shyly up to his face, and seemed as innocently pleased
to be with him as if they were already in that fatal
declivity which so often ends in the dead-level of matrimony.
The young lady certainly had no designs on Hopp.
She still considered herself in a fair way to be engaged
some day to Bob; but it had been intimated that Mr.
Hopp was particularly pleased with her, and he was
a man of sufficient note to be a desirable addition to
her circle of admirers. And then she knew that there
was talk of a marriage between him and Regina, and
she had not strength of mind enough to forego a flirtation
with a friend's intended.
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Mr. Hopp was precisely in the condition of mind to
fall a victim to a shy attack. He had seen too much
of the world to fall into the meshes of an ordinary adventuress,
however brilliant she might be; but this
charming little mountain girl could not be dangerous.
It was pleasant, however, to be made so much
of—to feel that his presence conferred pleasure—to
find himself preferred to another. He did not waver
in his purpose to make Regina his wife; but, meantime,
while Regina was making up her mind to accept
her fate, he might as well enjoy the pleasures Heaven
sent in his way.
They adjourned to the parlor. Aristides understood
that his hour was past, and took himself off.
The curtain rose on the first act of the comedy.
Clytie wheeled an easy chair before the fire and
placed her own at a little distance.
“Do you expect other callers?” asked Mr. Hopp.
“Not to-night. You are very late yourself. I began
to think you would not come.”
Miss Clytie was doing pretty for a novice. The remark
was not brilliant in an intellectual point of
view, but it pleased Mr. Hopp much better than any
reply Madame de Stael would probably have given under
the like circumstances.
“I dare say,” he replied, “there would be a thousand
here if they knew you wanted them to come.”
“But I don't want any one to come. The gentlemen
all come to see Miss Shaw, and she is away.”
Mr. Hopp's penetrating eyes turned upon the pretty
face and graceful form at his side.
“Here,” he said to himself, “is a sweet and modest
little girl who has not been spoiled by flattery. She
will never trouble her husband with her ideas. She
will have no mission but to make her husband happy.
She wouldn't know what to do with a vote if one
should be placed in her hand. She is such a helpless
simple creature that she ought to have a husband
older than herself, and wise enough to tell her just
what she ought to do. She won't want to shine in
society, as Regina does, nor attend conventions as
some of my lady friends do. She will make the right
man a nice wife.”
Mr. Hopp did not come to the conclusion at that
moment that he was the right man. He had still
hopes of Regina, and it was his habit never to abandon
a suit until it was lost. He was pleased with Clytie,
and was pleased that Clytie had looked forward to his
coming.
They talked on common-place subjects, and when
they gave out, Miss Clytie challenged her companion
to a game of backgammon. She was not a very skillful
player, but she handled the dice-boxes gracefully, and
had observed that this play afforded an opportunity to
make the most of a pair of handsome hands. These
hands must have confused the lawyer sadly, for Miss
Clytie, badly as she played, won almost every game.
The pretty hand perhaps suggested the propriety of
gloves on occasion, and when Regina and Bob came
home, Clytie had won gloves enough to last her alwinter.
“I see,” said Regina, coming up to Clytie, “I cannot
flatter myself that my absence has been regretted.
“My dear Regina,” replied Mr. Hopp, with
familiarity often assumed by a very old friend of the
family, “if you wish me to regret your absence, you
must not give me cause so often.”
“Hopp's rather got you, Regie,” said Bob, taking
his place at Clytie's shoulder and slyly playing with a
curl that dangled on her white neck. “Double-sixes
by Jove! Just what you wanted to win the game.”
“I believe,” said Mr. Hopp, good-humoredly,
“that Miss Clytie has double-sixes at her command.
All I have won this evening is the honor of supplying
her with gloves for some months to come.”
“It was your proposition, Mr. Hopp; I didn't want
to play for gloves.”
“I know you did not. I had an absurd idea that I
might win something from you, and am punished for
my folly.”
“Clytie will give you another chance,” said Bob.
“There's nothing mean about her.”
Mr. Hopp signified his intention to take the chance
if it was offered him, and soon after took his leave.
“What a desperate little flirt you are!” said Bob
pinching Clytie's flushing cheek. “Nothing will do
but you must go for a man that the San Francisco
girls have given up long ago.”
“I didn't go for him,” replied the correct Clytie, a
little shocked.
“Then you managed to make him go for you. It's
all the same in the end.”
“Bob,” said Regina, gravely; “you must break
yourself of the habit of using such expressions.
Young ladies do not go for gentlemen in refined society.”
“Don't they?” retorted Bob. “I've seen movements
that looked that way, but probably I was mistaken.”
“Of course you were mistaken.” replied Regina,
“Come, Clytie, let us leave this wicked boy all to him-
slf.”
The ladies retired, and the “wicked boy” lighted a
cigar with the air of a man on whose conscience
small sins rested lightly.
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CHAPTER LIII. COMING HOME.
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The household settled down into that himslf
of happy expectation, which, perhaps, is
sweeter than happiness itself.
Miss Shaw looked forward to the return of
Mr. Gray with a degree of pleasure that gave
occasion for several serious remonstrances with
herself. Her mind seemed filled with pleasant
anticipations, for which her thoughts could give
not tangible foundation, but they were no less
pleasant for that.
Bob became suddenly a model brother. His
reformation was as positive in character as his
indulgence had been. He spent his days at the
office and his evening with his sister and
Clytie. He even went so far as to purge his
vocabulary of certain words to which his sister
objected.
Miss Clytie wavered between Mr. Hopp and
Bob. Probably, if Bob had manifested a serious
desire to hold her to her allegiance, she
might have yielded and perhaps have named the
day that should make them happy. But the
girl's in tinct informed her that Bob only loved
her as he had been in the habit of loving every
pretty girl he met, and she wisely made up her
little mind not to spoil her beauty grieving for
one so fickle. She was also a little dazzled at
the idea, for which she was mainly indebted to
Bob, that Mr. Hopp's heart, hand and fortune were at
her disposal.
Two or three days after her visit to Mrs. Rhodes'
Regina received a telegram from Mr. Gray, informing
her that Mliss and himself would return overiand, and
might arrive in twelve days.
Every day atter telegrams came from the travelers
sometimes signed by Mr. Gray and sometimes by
Mliss.
There were two or three hundred miles of stage
travel between the approaching lines of railroad, but
as the weather was pleasant no great delay was expected.
At last a telegram came from the eastern station of
the Central Pacific. The travelers were but three days
from home.
“Regie,” said Bob, don't you think it would be the
civil thing to run up to Truckee and meet them?”
“Truckee! Where is that that?”
“It's a day's ride from Sacramento. I can go to
Sacramento to-morrow afternoon, and be in Truckee
the following day, before the train from the East will
get there.”
“That is an idea,” said Regina; “but I don't see
why I cannot go, too.”
“Of course you can if your mamma will let you.
But as she doesn't know Mliss and Mr. Gray are coming,
she won't understand why you should want to go
to Truckee.”
“Ah,” said Regina, “what a good thing it is to
be a man. You don't need to ask anybody if you may
go.”
“Well, you see I started out right. Never reported
till I got home. Didn't ask if I might go. Went and
told 'em I'd been.”
Regina had concealed her knowledge of Mr. Gray's
return at Mr. Gray's request, but her invention was
equal to the task of finding an excuse for a trip to
Sacramento. She had a number of very dear lady
friends in that city, and as Bob was going up, what
more natural than that she should embrace the opportunity
thus afforded to pay them a visit?
Mrs. Shaw gave a reluctant consent. Miss Clytie
was reminded of her duties as hostess pro tem especially
with reference to Mr. Hopp. That exemplary
young lady was cautioned also not to give the gentleman
too much positive encouragement, unless she intended
to make him happy when he should arrive at
the conclusion that his happiness was in her keeping.
The next day Regina and Bob were off, ostensibly
to Sacremento, but with a pretty well-defined purpose
of continuing their journey to Truckee. When they
were fairly in the cars on their way to the latter town,
it occurred to Regina that her excursion might be
construed into an unmaidenly readiness to meet
somebody; but after due consideration, she decided
that that somebody was Mliss.
The cars continued to roll on as they would if her
decision had been different, and as they began to
climb to the Sierra Navada, the grandeur of the scenery
absorbed the young lady's attention. Too much
has already been written of the soul-inspiring panorama
which carries the traveler from one surprise to
another as he sits in the luxurious car and makes his
famous acscent, especially as no correct idea of the Sierras
has ever yet been conveyed. We pass the exclamations
of wonder and admiration that gave vocal animation
to the occassion, and land our travelers safely
in the town of Truckee.
It was Regina's first glimpse of frontier life, and as
her eye scanned the rough visages that thronged
about the hotel, she congratulated herself on the presence
of her brother.
It was late in the afternoon when they arrived, and
the westward bound train was not due for two hours.
Their fellow-passengers ate a hurried dinner, the
conductor called “all aboard,” the engine gave two or
three experimental shrieks, and the train started
slowly on its long journey.
The brother and sister took a walk to kill time.
Everywhere admiring glances followed Regina, but
there was nothing in these glances to awaken apprehension.
Night set in and they returned to the hotel. An
hour had passed—an hour and a half. The coming
train was telegraphed at the next station, six or eight
miles away.
Marvel of the age! A journey of three thousand
miles was accomplished precisely at the hour and minute
the time-table indicated. Over mountains, across
rivers, through gorges where the sunshine never penetrates,
and at the precise moment the directing intelligence
fixed upon the travelers put in an appearance.
As the moment approached, Bob stood on the
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platform, watch in hand. At precisely three minutes to
7:15 he returned the watch to his pocket and signaled
Regina that the train was in sight.
She came out and stood on the platform. The bull's
eye gleamed in the distance, it grew larger and brighter.
The train came thundering along, and at last
came to a stop.
A score or so of passengers jumped upon the platform.
Darkness hid their forms save when the gleams
of a passing lantern revealed them for a moment.
Bob darted forward, Regina heard an exclamation,
and the next moment a pair of arms were round her
neck, and a familiar voice was calling her name.
“O, Regie, Regie, Regie,” murmured the voice,
giving a kiss for each utterance of her name, “how
good in you to meet us here.”
“It was Bob,” answered Regie, perhaps conscious
that Mr. Gray would hear. “He made me come.”
Mr. Gray had come up, and stood waiting his turn
as a well-bred man always should. Regina turned
shyly a flush on her check that glowed even in the
darkness, and gave him her hand.
“Your brother has earned my eternal gratitude,”
he said; “this is just what I would have asked, but
for fear the journey might be too fatiguing.
“The journey was delightful,” answered Regina,
“and I couldn't wait patiently at home. Seeing is
believing, you know;” and she turned again to embrace
Mliss.
Now they all began to talk it over. The reader can
guess just as well what they said just as well as if
their conversation was chronicied in these veracious
columns. Mr. Gray was the first to remember that
dinner was waiting, and that a night's ride was before
them.
Bob laid hold of Mliss and marched her toward the
dining-room. She looked back over her shoulder to
Regie, her dark but brilliant face the picture of girlish
happiness.
“How beautiful Mliss has grown,” said Regie in a
low voice to Mr. Gray. “I never saw such a change
in so short a time.”
“Yes,” admitted Mr. Gray, “she has grown very
beautiful, and as for her faults I believe we always
rather liked them.”
“I am sure we missed her sadly. Won't some of
our friends be surprised at her coming.”
“Then no one knows she is coming?”
“No one except Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes. But I've so
much to tell you.”
“And all night to tell it in. How thoughtful in Bob
to bring you up here.”
“I am afraid Bob was thinking more of himself than
me. Since he heard you had found Mliss he has counted
the hours until be might expect you.”
“And Clytie?”
“O,” exclaimed Regie, laughing, “Clytie seems
much inclined to permit herself to be admired by Mr.
Hopp.”
“Indeed! I hope Miss Shaw does not like her the
less on that account.”
“Miss Shaw is not of a jealous disposition,” demurely
raplied the young lady.
They entered the dining-room where a score or more
of men and three or four ladies were taking dinner on
railroad time. Each one sacrificed a precious moment
when the party entered, but soon resumed their devotion
to the imperiant business then on hand.
CHAPTER LIV. MRS. SMITH IS MADE TO UNDERSTAND GREEK.
Our party of travelers arrived in San Francisco
two days later. Mliss ran up to her room,
while Regina prepared Mrs. Shaw and Miss
Clytie for her appearance.
Mrs. Shaw's mind was not of a character to receive
surprises kindly. The return of Mliss was
like the return of the dead. Had she been informed
that her eccased husband was in an
adjoining room waiting for an interview, she
would not have been more surprised and confounded
than when informed that Mliss had
come to life, and was at that moment in the
house and in the enjoyment of perfect health.
And when Regina outlined the young girl's
adventures—told how she had been carried off
from their own house—how she had been taken
to Valparaiso, and from Valparaiso to Buenos
Ayres, from Buenos Ayres to New York, and
from New York to San Francisco, and was still
alive, joyous and happy—the good lady, after
the first paralysis of astonishment, discovered
in her strange career the guidance and care of
a kind Providence, who alone could enable the
young girl to escape unscathed from so many
dangers.
Accepting this view of the case, Mrs. Shaw
conceived it her duty to receive the wanderer
kindly. It would not be well if she turned
against one whom Providence had so signally favored.
Perhaps a lurking suspicion lingered in the estimable
lady's mind that Mr. Gray had had more to do
with Mliss's adventures than appeared, as the story was
related by Regina. She could not, however, resist the
force of circumstances, and Mliss was again accepted
as a member of the family.
The meeting between Clvtie and Mliss was characteristic
of their age and sex. They rushed to each
other's arms, drew back, surveyed each other for a
moment, then came together with an embrace more
prolonged than the first.
“Dear Clytie!” exclaimed Mliss; “I am so glad to
see you!”
“And I am glad to see you—I am sure,” replied the
gentle girl, arranging her disordered curls, while she
surveyed Mliss at her leisure. “You've grown ever so
much,” she continued, “and grown pretty, too.”
“There was a chance for that,” rejoined Mliss. “I
remember how I used to envy you because you were so
much prettier than I.”
At this stage of the interesting conversation the
equitable Aristides made Mliss aware of his presence,
and the next instant was half-smothered for his pains.
Mliss was still somewhat emphatie in her demonstrations,
and Aristides had ever been her fast friend.
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Mrs. James Smith had heard the next morning that
Mliss had returned. The information was conveyed
to her in a note written by Mr. Hopp, in which that
gentleman reminded her of the conditions upon which
he had consented to continue to act as her counsel in
the case of “The People vs. Smith.” Mliss having appeared,
he could no longer oppose the recognition of
her just rights.
The note dropped from Mrs. Smith's hand. A
change, sudden and almost terrible, came over her
face. Every drop of blood fled from her cheeks leaving
the thin surface of rouge just touching the skin,
of which a moment before it had seemed a part.
For some moments she sat sitent, rigid, her eyes
fixed, her lips parted, her white teeth set—the slow
rising and falling of her bosom alone indicating that
the mechanism of her form still performed its work.
At last she arose, and, with her arms folded across
her bosom (a position in which a woman always looks
supremely awkward), walked across the room.
She stopped before a mirror, and coldly and critically
surveyed the face therein reflected.
Something like a smile parted her lips. It was a
smile of derision, of contempt, of hatred. as if she
loathed herself for having lost all that made life worth
endurance.
“This,” she murmured. “is the end. I am beaten.
Three years older, three years more of strite, three
years of wretchedness, and I stand where I stood
when that idiot first put the idea into my head of being
somebody else. I might have won if I had strangled
the girl, as I ought.”
Then, with a pitiful attempt to rally her forces, to
rehabilitate that wan and weary face with something
of its old youth and beauty, she arranged her still
luxuriant bair, smocthed out the wrinkles from her
forehead, and again wreathed her lips with a smile.
“There is but one thing that really beats a woman,”
she murmured to herself, “and that is time, I am
not beaten because Mliss has been brought back, but
because—because—I am no longer young.”
Bitter confession for a woman who had lived only
to enjoy her triumphs of youth and beauty. Of all
who had loved her (and their name was legion), not
the love of one would survive the wreck of her beauty.
Not one? She smiled a smile of mingled pity and
scorn. There was still one—a soft, young fool—but
still in the enumeration of population he counted as
a man.
The woman stood for a moment scanning her own
features, as if striving by force of will to bring back
the life and beauty to her face. Her only weapons of
warfare were those she had surveyed, and she tried
to persuade herself they were yet good for service.
While thus standing before her mirror, a knock
sounded on the door.
A servant entered with a card.
She took it and read—“John Gray.”
“Show the gentleman into the public parlor,” she
said: “I will join him there in a few minutes.”
The servant bowed and retired.
“He has come to triumpb over me,” she thought.
“He shall see that I am not yet crushed to the earth.”
The excitement of an encounter was just what she
needed. The life came back to her face, the slumbering
ing fire to her eyes, and her sensuous mouth became
once again moist and warm.
She descended to the parlor. Mr. Gray rose from a
chair by the windowand advanced to meet her.
“Madam,” he said, after the salutations of the day
were exchanged, my business is of a character which
justifies me in asking the favor of a private interview.”
“Indeed; then let me conduct you to my parlor. I
have an hour which I place entirely at your service.”
Mr. Gray bowed and accompanied the lady to the
room she had just quitted.
“Now,” she said, sinking upon a sofa and motiening
him to a seat, “I am ready to hear the particulars
of your journey. It is of that, I presume, of which
you wish to speak.”
“That and the events that made the journey necessary.”
“Tell me first, how did you find Mliss? Is she as
odd and charming as ever?”
“Mliss has changed only for the better. Fortunately
she possesses one of those courageous dispositions
that rise above the apprehension of evils.”
“I have always said she was a singular child. If she
only had a fair share of beauty, she would make a sensation
in society.”
“She does not lack for beauty. But my object in
calling upon you was not to discuss the personal
merits of my ward, but her relation to yourself.”
Mrs. Smith inclined her head.
“Do you still claim to be her mother?”
“I certainly do.”
“And to be the widow of her father?”
“I could hardly be legally her mother and not be
her father's widow.”
“Well, madam, it is in regard to that claim that I
am here. The law will settle the question of right:
but I find it necessary to provide aga'nst the acts of
violence which the law may punish but cannot
prevent.”
“Please to explain your meaning. What acts of
violence do you fear?”
“Some months ago my ward was taken from the
home in which I had placed her, and given to a ruffian,
from whom she escaped by one of those happy chances
which can only happen to one person once in a lifetime.
I wish to provide against a similar outrage.”
“My dear Mr. Gray, what you are saying is Greek
to me.”
“Since you insist upon it. I will translate into English
that which is Greek to you. Some few months
ago, acting in concert with a man known as Waters
and using as an instrument a man known as O'Neil,
you caused my ward to be taken from her home and
sent her abroad, with the alternative of marriage with
O'Neil in case she escaped death. Do you follow me
so far?”
“I hear what you say.”
“Well, madam, my ward escaped both marriage
and death. She escaped the perils that surround
every young girl who is deprived of her natural protectors,
and is once more in the very house you caused
her to be taken from. Now, I desire to provide
against a similar outrage on your part or on the part
of your associates.”
“Well, sir, how do you propose to make provision
against a similar outrage?”
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“I have prepared a document which I shall request
you to sign.”
“A document!”
“In which you resign all pretentions to the guardianship
of Melissa Smith, and bind yourself not in
any way to interfere, except by due process of law,
with those who have her in charge.”
“It would suit you, doubtless, it I should sign such
a document and observe its provisions. I decline,
however. Melissa Smith is my daughter, and I shall
stand between her and those who would take advantage
of her youth and inexperience.”
“Madam, you can sign the document or not, as
you choose. I give you three days in which to consider
the proposition. If, at 11 o'clock on the third
day from this, the document is not signed, you and
your associates will be arrested for conspiracy. I give
you the warning because I am strong enough to give
you the advantage.”
“Really, Mr. Gray, you are talking as if I had committed
a crime. You would positively make me believe
that I had caused my daughter to be carried off,
if I did not know to the countrary. As a charge this
would work admirably. Suspected yourself of sending
the child out of town to recover from the effects
of having resided too long in too close proximity to
yourself, you now intimate to the part of the world
that is interested in her welfare, that I, her mother
am the party who sent her away. It is clever, Mr.
Gray, but it will not work. I am not an amiable woman
in my best moods, and, as I feel just now, I decline
to oblige you.”
“As you please, madam,” replied Mr. Gray, rising
“I will not trespass longer on your time.”
“As for your absurd charge of conspiracy,” she
continued, with a side glance from her half-closed
eyes, “you know there is nothing in it. Fortunately,
judges and juries want evidence before they convict
of such offenses.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Gray; “such evidence as might
be furnished by a certain letter of instruction regarding
a certain letter of credit drawn by a certain Mrs.
John Smith in favor of a certain John O'Neil.”
Mrs. Smith raised her eyes full to the face of her
companion.
“More Greek,” she said, pleasantly. “Sit down
again and translate the sentence. I am so dull to-day.”
“Madam,” replied Mr. Gray, “I have no desire to
push you to the wall. You were started in pursuit of
a fortune at a time when it seemed as if it might as
well come to you as another. Once started you could
not well retreat, and you have incurred great risks in
surviving to gain your ends. You are not only beaten
at every point, but every movement lies exposed to
my view. I have proofs of every charge I make, and,
if you refuse my terms, and thereby brave arrest, I
pledge you my word that ten years of your remaining
youth will be passed at San Quentin. Think well what
you do. If the aid of the law is invoked, you must
abide by the result.”
Mrs. Smith's eyes fell before a gaze in which firmness
was tempered with compassion. She comprehended
at last that she was completely in Mr. Gray's
power.
She sat for some minutes in silence.
“You don't know what you are doing,” she said.
“You are driving a miserable woman back into the
hell which is the last resort of the unfortunate of her
sex. Who would not lie and steal to escape this?”
“Madam, you should have thought a little of the
young girl to whom this hell would be as full of torment
as to you.”
“When we are desperate we think only of ourselves.
Your sagacity is more than a match for my cunning.
Send me to San Quentin, if you will. It is not worse
than certain streets in this Christian city
“I shall not move against you. Leave my ward in
peace, and you may rest in peace yourself.”
“I ought to thank you, I suppose. You might be
harder on me than you are. Leave me now; I want to
think.”
Mr. Gray bowed and withdrew.
“If I were the woman I once was,” she murmured,
“I should have killed that man. I am good for nothing—
only fit to marry Joseph Fox.”
CHAPTER LV. THE PENSIVE ROLE.
Mrs. Smith's last remark was not intended to
be complimentary to herself or to Joseph Fox.
The state of matrimony had no especial charms
for her, nor did she cherish an especial admiration
for the young gentleman she had employed
her arts to ensnare.
But the “old life”—whatever that might mean—
spread its deadly waste before her. She had
gained many admirers in the last few months,
during which time she had mingled in good
society; but, with one exception, these admirers
were not sound upan the important question
of marriage.
Joseph Fox had experienced for her that infatuation
that experienced women of mature
years often inspire the other sex with in those
years when the passions of the man exist uncontrolled
by the judgment. She had presented
herself to him in the character of a persecuted
woman. No Magdalen, seeking to rise from
her shame, but a lovely woman, with a warm,
impulsive heart, which his sex had attacked
with intent to ruin. She had represented herself
as thrown upon the world at a tender age,
compelled to marry one she could not love,
forced by ill-treatment to fly from her husband,
and living ever after in the shadow of the disgrace
incurred by that act.
Probably Joseph Fox was not too virtuous to have
essayed the role of which others of his sex were
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charged; but her address had erected barriers around
herself which he had not the courage to overleap. She
placed him at once on the familiar footing of a dear
and trusted friend, and a single glance was enough to
check his feeble attempts to exercise the prerogatives
of his sex.
It is the nature of a woman to despise a man when
she can hold him in a restraint based upon fear. They
will forgive audacity arising from love, or appreciate
forbearance inspired by principle, but a rake at heart,
who does not be a rake in deed, is the object upon
which they bestow a contempt more profound than
their vocabulary of words can express.
But Mrs. Smith was not in a position to consuit her
own inclinations. She was penniless and in debt. Her
lawyer had thrown up the case upon which she had
based her claim to the forbearance of her creditors.
Her old associates were as destitute as herself. It was
marriage—or that life of shameful vicissitude of
which, in her youth, she had had more than enough.
After Mr. Gray left her she sat herself down, as she
said, to think. With bitter self-reproach her thoughts
went back to those wasted years when, prodigal of her
youth, she had lived for the pleasure of the passing
moment. Disdaining the even and quiet paths in
which women less gifted with beauty than herself were
content to walk, and which led to the peace of a cherished
home, she had crowded every hour with unhallowed
joys; and now, a little past thirty, when a wellspent
life is just blossoming into maturity, she was
old, faded, neglected, and despised.
The hour approached when Joseph Fox had been
accustomed to make his daily visit. The profound
disquiet of her mind did not render her oblivious of
the requirements of the toilet. On the contray, she
dressed with even more careful study than usual, and,
thanks to the aids the genius of man has supplied, she
recovered again, in appearance at least, the lost youth
she so deeply regretted.
Joseph Fox came at the usual hour. Tall, lank, ungainly,
with an aspect of rashness in form and face, he
approached with a confidence in his power to please
which the patience of the trained intriguante could
hardly endure.
Mrs. Smith had resolved on this day to play the pensive
role. Sometimes she would dazzle him with her
wit and vivacity, but to-day she was not equal to the
effort. Having so often excited his admiration, a little
play upon his sympathy might not be less effective.
“Dear friend,” she said, “I never was so glad to
see you. Do you know I began to think you would not
come.”
“You told me not to come till two,” was the commonplace
answer, and the youth pulled out his watch
to show that he was punctual.
“Perhaps I did; but it seems so long since you were
here. I'm afraid I am growing to think too much of
your visits.”
In the shaded light she looked young and exceedingly
beautiful. Her drooping eyelids disclosed the soft
glow of eyes into which an expression of sweet sadness
had come, and they glanced at him as coyly and
shyly as the eyes of a maiden when love first dawns in
her heart.
“You can't think too much of my visits,” he replied.
“I'd stay here all the time, if I could.”
“Would you, indeed?”
“You know I would.”
He had taken her hand; and now, emboldened by
her complaisance, he passed his arm round her waist.
She sat still a moment, and then, with seeming effort,
put his arm away.
“Forgive me, Joseph, I dare not permit caresses
that my heart hungers for. You must be good, and
I'll try to be.”
Joseph was being led along at a rapid pace. He
colored crimson, and his eyes assumed an expression
of ravenous fondness.
“I know,” she continued, “you are a young man of
high principles. However naughty you may have
been in certain circles, you would not deceive a trusting
heart.”
“No,” replied Joseph, delighted at the reputation
for gallantry he had obtained in her mind; “I could
not do that; it isn't in me.”
“I am glad to believe so, Joseph. I know you are
high-minded and honorable. You have been more
than kind to me, and I thank you for it, though I
may be compelled to—to—”
“What?” asked Joseph, as she seemed unequal to
the task of finishing the sentence.
“Ask you not to come here any more. It breaks my
heart; but you know why.”
The handsome face was averted, but the young man
could see the convulsive movement of her bosom.
“I don't know of any reason,” he said, again taking
her hand.
“People will talk,” was the low response.
“Let them talk,” he answered, bravely.
“That will do for you. You are a man, and a little
scandal attached to a young man's name does not
hurt him much. But I—I must preserve my good
name.”
If Joseph had been a little more world-wise he
might have thought that she was rather late in undertaking
the task that she had set herself; but being
still in the transition stage, he could only admit the
abstract justice of her position.
“You will soon forget me,” she murmured. “The
world is before you. Other women will claim—”
Her lip trembled, and her bosom heaved more convulsively
than before.
“I don't care for other women,” he responded; “I
only care for you.”
“I believe you like me. I like you. But you know
we cannot continue this boy and girl liking. If we
could, the world would not let us.”
“What is the world to us?” he asked—unconsciously,
perhaps, quoting from the last novel he had read.
“If you like me—”
“I do like you, Joseph; but I love my good name
even better. You are too young to marry, and if you
were not—”
“I'm not so very young; I'm twenty-one.”
“But twenty-one is very young for a man to marry.
It is true you have a manly look, and have seen
the world.”
“Yes,” said Joseph, “I have seen the world; but,”
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he added, with what he thought a happy inspiration'
“I've never seen a woman I loved until I met you.”
“Do you really love me? It seems so very strange;
so many women must love you. Do you really wish to
make me your wife?”
The young man had entered that room without any
thought of speedy marriage. He was not aware he
had proposed until he found himself more than half
accepted. With those soft, pleading eyes looking into
his, he could not retreat. He utterred the fatal “I do,”
received into his arms her palpitating form, and
heared her low, sweet voice murmur: “There; I am
yours.”
Mrs. Smith did not play the yielding role too long.
Before the youth was ready for a change of tactics,
she was discussing the practical bearings of the contract
and arranging the details of the final ceremony.
Two weeks afterward the ceremony took place.
Mrs. Smith, with her most gracious air, presented herself
to Dr. Fox as his daughter-in-law, much to that
gentleman's astonishment.
CHAPTER LVI. CONCLUSION.
For something more than nine days Mliss was
a heroine. Everybody had beard her romantic
history, and everybody desired to see her. She
became so well-known that Regina hardly dared
to appear with her on the street or at the
theatre, except when protected by the drapery
of a private-box.
The young girl bore her honors with becoming
grace. Always a conspicuous personage, even
when conspicuous in wretchedness, she was not
in the least abashed when masculine heads turned
to catch a glimpse of her face in the street,
or when ladies leveled their opera-glasses at her
in the theatre.
Bob continued to be her escort everywhere,
and he enjoyed the position. There was now no
question as to his allegiance. He had eyes only
for the little dark beauty whose willful and imperious
ways were a constant torment and a constant
delight. The young ladies of the Free-and-Easy
Club recognized their rival and scoffed
at his infatuation. Bob Shaw, they said, was
not the boy he used to be. Formerly he had
ruled the girls—now a girl ruled him.
Mliss, however, was not the girl to fold her
wings until she had tried their power. As she
advanced toward young ladyhood she developed
decided symptoms of that coquettish instinct
which is said to be an especial attribute of her
sex. Her early experience gave her an ease and
assurance in gentlemen's society that were a
constant surprise. A little impertinent at times,
she was so bright and piquant that men only
vied with each other to see which should contribute
most to the pleasant process of making her a
spoiled child.
Mr. Gray alone retained his old ascendancy over her
mind. Kind and indulgent, though firm, he held her
in a restraint the more absolute as it was self-imposed.
A glance would check the wildest excess of animal
spirits, and bring her, tender and repentant, to his
side.
One afternoon, about two months after her return'
Mliss entered Mr. Gray's office. The business of the
day was over, and the young lawyer was comparatively
at leisure. She perched herself upon the table,
and, taking his head between her two hands, looked
into his eyes.
“You wicked man,” she said, after a time, “why
don't you tell me your secrets?”
“Suppose I have no secrets to tell?”
“You thought you had, but you haven't. I see it
all in her eyes.”
“In whose eyes, wonderful child.”
“Reg e's, wonderful man.”
“What do you see in Regie's eyes?”
“I see you there, and I see her in your eyes. You
needn't deny it; I give my consent.”
“Thank you, Lissy. What shall I say to Regie's
brother when he asks me for my little pet?”
“Tell him I'm going to be an old maid.”
“A nice old maid you'll make! You are not yet
fifteen, and you have more beaux than any other gal
I know of.”
“What a story! You know I give them no encouragement.”
Of course not! You always were a model of proriety!
But tell me, Lissy,” he continued, drawing
the young girl to his side, “do you love Regie as
much as ever?”
“Yes, just as much. It is strange, but I have never
been jealous of Regie. If she is your wife,” she continued,
in a low tone, “she will let you love me all
the same. You will, won't you?”
“Always, Lissy. Are you not my darling sister as
much as ever?”
For answer the child wound her arms round his
nack and laid her cheek against his.
At this interesting moment Regina appeared in the
doorway. She paused a second, and then advanced
into the room.
“I thought I would find you here,” she said to
Mliss. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”
“Because,” answered Mliss, “I wanted to see Mr.
Gray alone. I'll go now and have a romp with Tim.”
Mliss disappeared, thoughtfully closing the office-door
behind her. Mr. Gray arose, and putting Regina
into a chair, stood by her side.
“We have her consent,” he said, bending over Regina
and kissing her forehead. “The child has divined
all.”
“Are you sure she doesn't care?”
“I cannot flatter myself that she has ever thought
of me except as a friend and brother.”
“I hope,” said Regina, “that she will love Bob.
He worships her. If she should prove indifferent he
would return to his old ways.”
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“Lissy is very young yet to love any one except as
she loves me.”
“I am so glad she doesn't love you as I do,” responded
Regina, with a flush on her cheek and a
tender light to her eyes.
“So am I,” replied Mr. Gray, bending lower and
folding the young girl in his arms. “So glad.”
Mliss finished her romp with Tim, and came bounding
back to the office. If her loving heart felt a pang
at the thought of losing the first place in her old master's
affections, neither Regina nor the master were
permitted to know it.
Some months passed. One day when Regina and
Mliss were taking their afternoon stroll on Montgomery
street, the former was startled by an exclamation
from her companion. The next moment Mliss had
left her side, and was darting like a fawn across the
street.
They were at the corner of California street, and a
group of gentlemen were standing in front of a
broker's office. From the group a tall gentleman detached
himself, and advanced to meet the young
girl.
“What will become of that child?” murmured Regina
to herself, as she beheld an unconventional
greeting, after which Mliss and the gentleman walked
slowly along on the opposite side of the street.
Mliss, unconscious of the eyes that were upon her
was talking rapidly and earnestly to her companion.
At the corner of the next street they shook hands, and
Mliss came back to Regina, her cheeks aglow with excitement.
“Guess who that gentleman is,” she said, ignoring
in her enthusiasm the look of reproof that was plainly
visible in Regina's face.
“He ought to be a very near relation,” said Regina,
to justify such a cordial greeting.”
“How could I help it!” answered Mliss. “That
gentleman is Colonel Wade.”
“Colonel Wade?”
“Isn't he a splendid-looking man? and he's come
to San Francisco to live.”
“But, Lissy, what will Mr. Gray say to such an
exhibition of affection in public, for a man of his reputation!”
“Mr. Gray will say I did just right. Colonel Wade
may not be a nice man, but he was good to me. I
don't know what might have become of me if Colonel
Wade had not taken care of me.”
Mliss understood Mr. Gray in this instance better
than Regina. Not only did he fail to censure Mliss,
but he called on Colonel Wade and invited that gentleman
to call on his ward.
The invitation was accepted. In time Mr. Gray was
informed that the handsome colonel was no longer an
objectionable member of society. He had given up
cards and taken to stocks. It was a more dangerous
variety of gambling, he said, but more reputable. He
was tired of being an outcast and longed for respectability.
Stocks were respectable. Henceforth he should
gratify his taste for gambling by buying and selling
raining stocks.
Thus clothed in the garb of respectability, the colonel
became a frequent visitor at the Shaw mansion.
He devoted himself to Mliss until satisfied that devotion
tion was useless, then relapsed into the position of ordinary
friend. Bob was greatly relieved at this result,
and generously introduced the colonel to some of his
own lady friends.
Among them was the imaginative young girl who
has briefly appeared in these columns—Miss Kitty
Fox. The colonel's manly beauty attracted Miss
Kitty's wayward fancy. A second meeting followed
the first. The colonel probably reasoned that respectability
could not be more readily attained than
through an alliance with a popular clergyman's
daughter. Miss Kitty was not averse to becoming the
medium of his restoration. One day when their acquaintance
was about two weeks old, they went quietly
to Oakland, were married in due form, and returred
to ask the paternal blessing.
The paternal blessing was withheld for a time, but
finding that the wayward couple got along very well
without it, it was finally granted. So far as is known,
the young wife never had occasion to regret her somewhat
venturesome step.
Early in summer Regina and Mr. Gray were married.
Mliss was first bridesmaid, and Clytie, who had
been summoned home, came down to be present at
the ceremony. Mr. Hopp accepted the situation like
a man, and consoled himself as soon as decorum
would permit. Need we add that the correct Clytie
assisted in the work of consolation. Their marriage
took place shortly after. The ceremony was celebrated
at the Mountain Ranch, and among the guests were
Mr. and Mrs. Gray, Mliss, and Bob.
We might write a chapter descriptive of the visit of
Mliss to her old home. The rough miners who remembered
her as the ragged and wretched daughter
of a drunkard were at first a little shy of the brilliant
young lady who now appeared in their midst. But
when they found that her heart was as warm and her
nature as simple and frank as ever, they took her
figuratively speaking, to their bosoms, and made her
visit one long ovation. With Mr. Gray, Regina and
Bob she visited the old school-house, and lived again
in the scene of her first meeting with her beloved
master.
The next two years of the life of our heroine were
devoted to study. At least, she became the inmate of
a fashionable boarding-school and gave sufficient time
to her lessons to keep up with her class. But society
claimed some of her time and Bob claimed more. This
young man had formally proposed for her hand, and
been placed on the list of candidates. Mr. Gray would
not permit his ward to be in any way compromised by
an engagement until she should arrive at years of discretion.
Mliss herself remained firm in the determination
to live an old maid. She had a good home, she
said, with the people she loved best, and she need not
marry. She evinced considerable fondness for the
girlish pastime of playing with hearts, and thereby
kept poor Bob in a state of torment.
The time came, however, in her eighteenth year,
when she changed her mind. We can give no good
reason for the change. The same home remained to
her, and her fortune enabled her to gratify all her
wants. Yet, with reason or without, she must have
changed her mind, for one day Bob made his second
demand of Mr. Gray, this time backed with the
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sanction of the other party most deeply interested. A grand
wedding followed in due time, and the guests went into
ecstasies over the brilliant beauty of the bride and
the manly bearing of the groom. Bob was probably
the happiest man in the world that day, and to all appearance
the day has had many fellows. He is proud
of his wife, and at times is disposed to doubt if she
really is the little runaway he accosted so rudely on
the Bay View hills.
Mliss was never brought in contact with her mother.
Mother Nell manifested a little interest in her daughter
at times, but never expressed a desire for an interview.
She comprehended probably that she had badly
fulfilled, or left unfulfilled, the duties of wife and
mother, and was content to remain out of sight.
Mliss and Regina became frequent visitors at the
residence of Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, and are firm believers
in the Spiritual telegraph. Mr. Gray shakes his
wise head and admits that it is very strange—quite incomprehensible,
in fact. But he is still waiting for
proof which he can't reason away.
Mrs. Smith lived with her young husband a year
and then accepted an annuity from Dr. Fox to set him
free. The good doctor's daughter was more fortunate.
Colonel Wade found respectable gambling as
diverting as the other variety, and less hazardous to
life and limb. He amassed a fortune, joined Dr. Fox's
church, and now, though he engineers operations that
involve in ruin a hundred, where he formerly ruined
one, he is a very respectable member of society.
Mr. Gray prospered in his profession, and his accomplished
wife became a social leader. Regina often
visits the office where she first met her husband, and
recalls the interview when he gave her Supreme Court
Reports to read, and asked her name when she was
preparing to go. She says she never ought to have
spoken to him again, but is glad on the whole that she
did not do as she ought.
Bob never relapsed into what he calls his old ways.
Regina says that a high-spirited and exacting wife is
just what he needs to keep him straight, and daily
thanks her stars that Mliss married Bob instead of
Mr. Gray.
THE END.
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