CHAPER VIII.
She had so far forgotten herself in yielding to the spell of the place,and in the revelation of her naked soul and inner nature, that it waswith something of the instinct of outraged modesty that she seemed toshrink before this apparition of the outer world and outer worldliness.In an instant the nearer past returned; she remembered where she was,how she had come there, from whom she had come, and to whom she wasreturning. She could see that she had not only aimlessly wandered fromthe world but from the road; and for that instant she hated this man whohad reminded her of it, even while she knew she must ask his assistance.It relieved her slightly to observe that he seemed as disturbed andimpatient as herself, and as he took a pencil from between his lips andreturned it to his pocket he scarcely looked at her.
But with her return to the world of convenances came its repression,and with a gentlewoman's ease and modulated voice she leaned over hermustang's neck and said: "I have strayed from my party and am afraid Ihave lost my way. We were going to the hotel at San Mateo. Would you bekind enough to direct me there, or show me how I can regain the road bywhich I came?"
Her voice and manner were quite enough to arrest him where he stood witha pleased surprise in his fresh and ingenuous face. She looked at himmore closely. He was, in spite of his long silken mustache, so absurdlyyoung; he might, in spite of that youth, be so absurdly man-like! Whatwas he doing there? Was he a farmer's son, an artist, a surveyor, or acity clerk out for a holiday? Was there perhaps a youthful female of hisspecies somewhere for whom he was waiting and upon whose tryst she wasnow breaking? Was he--terrible thought!--the outlying picket of somefamily picnic? His dress, neat, simple, free from ostentatious ornament,betrayed nothing. She waited for his voice.
"Oh, you have left San Mateo miles away to the right," he said withquick youthful sympathy, "at least five miles! Where did you leave yourparty?"
His voice was winning, and even refined, she thought. She answered itquite spontaneously: "At a fork of two roads. I see now I took the wrongturning."
"Yes, you took the road to Crystal Spring. It's just down there in thevalley, not more than a mile. You'd have been there now if you hadn'tturned off at the woods."
"I couldn't help it, it was so beautiful."
"Isn't it?"
"Perfect."
"And such shadows, and such intensity of color."
"Wonderful!--and all along the ridge, looking down that defile!"
"Yes, and that point where it seems as if you had only to stretch outyour hand to pick a manzanita berry from the other side of the canyon,half a mile across!"
"Yes, and that first glimpse of the valley through the Gothic gateway ofrocks!"
"And the color of those rocks,--cinnamon and bronze with the light greenof the Yerba buena vine splashing over them."
"Yes, but for color DID you notice that hillside of yellow poppiespouring down into the valley like a golden Niagara?"
"Certainly,--and the perfect clearness of everything."
"And yet such complete silence and repose!"
"Oh, yes!"
"Ah, yes!"
They were both gravely nodding and shaking their heads with sparklingeyes and brightened color, looking not at each other but at the farlandscape vignetted through a lozenge-shaped wind opening in the trees.Suddenly Mrs. Ashwood straightened herself in the saddle, looked grave,lifted the reins and apparently the ten years with them that had droppedfrom her. But she said in her easiest well-bred tones, and a half sigh,"Then I must take the road back again to where it forks?"
"Oh, no! you can go by Crystal Spring. It's no further, and I'll showyou the way. But you'd better stop and rest yourself and your horse fora little while at the Springs Hotel. It's a very nice place. Many peopleride there from San Francisco to luncheon and return. I wonder that yourparty didn't prefer it; and if they are looking for you,--as they surelymust be," he said, as if with a sudden conception of her importance,"they'll come there when they find you're not at San Mateo."
This seemed reasonable, although the process of being "fetched" andtaking the five miles ride, which she had enjoyed so much alone,in company was not attractive. "Couldn't I go on at once?" she saidimpulsively.
"You would meet them sooner," he said thoughtfully.
This was quite enough for Mrs. Ashwood. "I think I'll rest this poorhorse, who is really tired," she, said with charming hypocrisy, "andstop at the hotel."
She saw his face brighten. Perhaps he was the son of the hotelproprietor, or a youthful partner himself. "I suppose you live here?"she suggested gently. "You seem to know the place so well."
"No," he returned quickly; "I only run down here from San Francisco whenI can get a day off."
A day off! He was in some regular employment. But he continued: "And Iused to go to boarding-school near here, and know all these woods well."
He must be a native! How odd! She had not conceived that there mightbe any other population here than the immigrants; perhaps that was whatmade him so interesting and different from the others. "Then your fatherand mother live here?" she said.
His frank face, incapable of disguise, changed suddenly. "No," he saidsimply, but without any trace of awkwardness. Then after a slightpause he laid his hand--she noticed it was white and well kept--on hermustang's neck, and said, "If--if you care to trust yourself to me, Icould lead you and your horse down a trail into the valley that is atleast a third of the distance shorter. It would save you going back tothe regular road, and there are one or two lovely views that I couldshow you. I should be so pleased, if it would not trouble you. There's asteep place or two--but I think there's no danger."
"I shall not be afraid."
She smiled so graciously, and, as she fully believed, maternally, thathe looked at her the second time. To his first hurried impression ofher as an elegant and delicately nurtured woman--one of the class ofdistinguished tourists that fashion was beginning to send thither--hehad now to add that she had a quantity of fine silken-spun light hairgathered in a heavy braid beneath her gray hat; that her mouth wasvery delicately lipped and beautifully sensitive; that her soft skin,although just then touched with excitement, was a pale faded velvet, andseemed to be worn with ennui rather than experience; that her eyeswere hidden behind a strip of gray veil whence only a faint glow wasdiscernible. To this must still be added a poetic fancy all his ownthat, as she sat there, with the skirt of her gray habit falling fromher long bodiced waist over the mustang's fawn-colored flanks, and withher slim gauntleted hands lightly swaying the reins, she looked likeQueen Guinevere in the forest. Not that he particularly fancied QueenGuinevere, or that he at all imagined himself Launcelot, but it wasquite in keeping with the suggestion-haunted brain of John MiltonHarcourt, whom the astute reader has of course long since recognized.
Preceding her through the soft carpeted vault with a woodman'sinstinct,--for there was apparently no trail to be seen,--the soft innertwilight began to give way to the outer stronger day, and presently shewas startled to see the clear blue of the sky before her on apparentlythe same level as the brown pine-tessellated floor she was treading. Notonly did this show her that she was crossing a ridge of the upland, buta few moments later she had passed beyond the woods to a golden hillsidethat sloped towards a leafy, sheltered, and exquisitely-proportionedvalley. A tiny but picturesque tower, and a few straggling roofs andgables, the flashing of a crystal stream through the leaves, and anarrow white ribbon of road winding behind it indicated the hostelrythey were seeking. So peaceful and unfrequented it looked, nestlingbetween the hills, that it seemed as if they had discovered it.
With his hand at times upon the bridle, at others merely caressing hermustang's neck, he led the way; there were a few breathless places wherethe crown of his straw hat appeared between her horse's reins, and againwhen she seemed almost slipping over on his shoulder, but they werepassed with such frank fearlessness and invincible youthful confidenceon the part of her escort that she felt no timidity. There were momentswhen a b
it of the charmed landscape unfolding before them overpoweredthem both, and they halted to gaze,--sometimes without a word, or only asignificant gesture of sympathy and attention. At one of those artisticmanifestations Mrs. Ashwood laid her slim gloved fingers lightly butunwittingly on John Milton's arm, and withdrew them, however, with aquick girlish apology and a foolish color which annoyed her more thanthe appearance of familiarity. But they were now getting well down intothe valley; the court of the little hotel was already opening beforethem; their unconventional relations in the idyllic world above hadchanged; the new one required some delicacy of handling, and she had anidea that even the simplicity of the young stranger might be confusing.
"I must ask you to continue to act as my escort," she said, laughingly."I am Mrs. Ashwood of Philadelphia, visiting San Francisco with mysister and brother, who are, I am afraid, even now hopelessly waitingluncheon for me at San Mateo. But as there seems to be no prospect of myjoining them in time, I hope you will be able to give me the pleasureof your company, with whatever they may give us here in the way ofrefreshment."
"I shall be very happy," returned John Milton with unmistakable candor;"but perhaps some of your friends will be arriving in quest of you, ifthey are not already here."
"Then they will join us or wait," said Mrs. Ashwood incisively, withher first exhibition of the imperiousness of a rich and pretty woman.Perhaps she was a little annoyed that her elaborate introduction ofherself had produced no reciprocal disclosure by her companion. "Willyou please send the landlord to me?" she added.
John Milton disappeared in the hotel as she cantered to the porch. Inanother moment she was giving the landlord her orders with the easyconfidence of one who knew herself only as an always welcome and highlyprivileged guest, which was not without its effect. "And," she addedcarelessly, "when everything is ready you will please tell--Mr."--
"Harcourt," suggested the landlord promptly.
Mrs. Ashwood's perfectly trained face gave not the slightest sign of thesurprise that had overtaken her. "Of course,--Mr. Harcourt."
"You know he's the son of the millionaire," continued the landlord, notat all unwilling to display the importance of the habitues of CrystalSpring, "though they've quarreled and don't get on together."
"I know," said the lady languidly, "and, if any one comes here for ME,ask them to wait in the parlor until I come."
Then, submitting herself and her dusty habit to the awkward ministrationof the Irish chambermaid, she was quite thrilled with a delightfulcuriosity. She vaguely remembered that she had heard something of theHarcourt family discord,--but that was the divorced daughter surely!And this young man was Harcourt's son, and they had quarreled! A quarrelwith a frank, open, ingenuous fellow like that--a mere boy--could onlybe the father's fault. Luckily she had never mentioned the name ofHarcourt! She would not now; he need not know that it was his father whohad originated the party; why should she make him uncomfortable for thefew moments they were together?
There was nothing of this in her face as she descended and joined him.He thought that face handsome, well-bred, and refined. But thisbreeding and refinement seemed to him--in his ignorance of the world,possibly--as only a graceful concealment of a self of which he knewnothing; and he was not surprised to find that her pretty gray eyes, nowno longer hidden by her veil, really told him no more than her lips.He was a little afraid of her, and now that she had lost her naiveenthusiasm he was conscious of a vague remorsefulness for hisinterrupted work in the forest. What was he doing here? He who hadavoided the cruel, selfish world of wealth and pleasure,--a world thatthis woman represented,--the world that had stood apart from him in theone dream of his life--and had let Loo die! His quickly responsive facedarkened.
"I am afraid I really interrupted you up there," she said gently,looking in his face with an expression of unfeigned concern; "you wereat work of some kind, I know, and I have very selfishly thought only ofmyself. But the whole scene was so new to me, and I so rarely meet anyone who sees things as I do, that I know you will forgive me." She benther eyes upon him with a certain soft timidity. "You are an artist?"
"I am afraid not," he said, coloring and smiling faintly; "I don't thinkI could draw a straight line."
"Don't try to; they're not pretty, and the mere ability to draw themstraight or curved doesn't make an artist. But you are a LOVER ofnature, I know, and from what I have heard you say I believe you can dowhat lovers cannot do,--make others feel as they do,--and that is what Icall being an artist. You write? You are a poet?"
"Oh dear, no," he said with a smile, half of relief and half of naivesuperiority, "I'm a prose writer--on a daily newspaper."
To his surprise she was not disconcerted; rather a look of animation litup her face as she said brightly, "Oh, then, you can of course satisfymy curiosity about something. You know the road from San Francisco tothe Cliff House. Except for the view of the sea-lions when one getsthere it's stupid; my brother says it's like all the San Franciscoexcursions,--a dusty drive with a julep at the end of it. Well, one daywe were coming back from a drive there, and when we were beginning towind along the brow of that dreadful staring Lone Mountain Cemetery, Isaid I would get out and walk, and avoid the obtrusive glitter of thosetombstones rising before me all the way. I pushed open a little gate andpassed in. Once among these funereal shrubs and cold statuesque lilieseverything was changed; I saw the staring tombstones no longer, for,like them, I seemed to be always facing the sea. The road had vanished;everything had vanished but the endless waste of ocean below me, andthe last slope of rock and sand. It seemed to be the fittest place fora cemetery,--this end of the crumbling earth,--this beginning of theeternal sea. There! don't think that idea my own, or that I thought ofit then. No,--I read it all afterwards, and that's why I'm telling youthis."
She could not help smiling at his now attentive face, and went on: "Somedays afterwards I got hold of a newspaper four or six months old, andthere was a description of all that I thought I had seen and felt,--onlyfar more beautiful and touching, as you shall see, for I cut it outof the paper and have kept it. It seemed to me that it must be somepersonal experience,--as if the writer had followed some dear friendthere,--although it was with the unostentation and indefiniteness oftrue and delicate feeling. It impressed me so much that I went backthere twice or thrice, and always seemed to move to the rhythm of thatbeautiful funeral march--and I am afraid, being a woman, that I wanderedaround among the graves as though I could find out who it was that hadbeen sung so sweetly, and if it were man or woman. I've got it here,"she said, taking a dainty ivory porte-monnaie from her pocket andpicking out with two slim finger-tips a folded slip of newspaper; "andI thought that maybe you might recognize the style of the writer, andperhaps know something of his history. For I believe he has one. There!that is only a part of the article, of course, but it is the part thatinterested me. Just read from there," she pointed, leaning partly overhis shoulder so that her soft breath stirred his hair, "to the end; itisn't long."
In the film that seemed to come across his eyes, suddenly the printappeared blurred and indistinct. But he knew that she had put into hishand something he had written after the death of his wife; somethingspontaneous and impulsive, when her loss still filled his days andnights and almost unconsciously swayed his pen. He remembered that hiseyes had been as dim when he wrote it--and now--handed to him by thissmiling, well-to-do woman, he was as shocked at first as if he hadsuddenly found her reading his private letters. This was followed by asudden sense of shame that he had ever thus publicly bared his feelings,and then by the illogical but irresistible conviction that it was falseand stupid. The few phrases she had pointed out appeared as cheap andhollow rhetoric amid the surroundings of their social tete-a-tete overthe luncheon-table. There was small danger that this heady wine ofwoman's praise would make him betray himself; there was no sign ofgratified authorship in his voice as he quietly laid down the paper andsaid dryly: "I am afraid I can't help you. You know it may be purelyfanciful."
&
nbsp; "I don't think so," said Mrs. Ashwood thoughtfully. "At the same time itdoesn't strike me as a very abiding grief for that very reason. It's TOOsympathetic. It strikes me that it might be the first grief of some onetoo young to be inured to sorrow or experienced enough to accept it asthe common lot. But like all youthful impressions it is very sincere andtrue while it lasts. I don't know whether one gets anything more realwhen one gets older."
With an insincerity he could not account for, he now felt inclined todefend his previous sentiment, although all the while conscious of acertain charm in his companion's graceful skepticism. He had in histruthfulness and independence hitherto always been quite free from thatfeeble admiration of cynicism which attacks the intellectually weak andimmature, and his present predilection may have been due more to hercharming personality. She was not at all like his sisters; she hadnone of Clementina's cold abstraction, and none of Euphemia's sharpand demonstrative effusiveness. And in his secret consciousness of herflattering foreknowledge of him, with her assurance that before they hadever met he had unwittingly influenced her, he began to feel more at hisease. His fair companion also, in the equally secret knowledge she hadacquired of his history, felt as secure as if she had been formallyintroduced. Nobody could find fault with her for showing civility tothe ostensible son of her host; it was not necessary that she shouldbe aware of their family differences. There was a charm too in theirenforced isolation, in what was the exceptional solitude of the littlehotel that day, and the seclusion of their table by the window of thedining-room, which gave a charming domesticity to their repast. Fromtime to time they glanced down the lonely canyon, losing itself in theafternoon shadow. Nevertheless Mrs. Ashwood's preoccupation with Naturedid not preclude a human curiosity to hear something more of JohnMilton's quarrel with his father. There was certainly nothing of theprodigal son about him; there was no precocious evil knowledge in hisfrank eyes; no record of excesses in his healthy, fresh complexion;no unwholesome or disturbed tastes in what she had seen of his ruralpreferences and understanding of natural beauty. To have attempted anydirect questioning that would have revealed his name and identity wouldhave obliged her to speak of herself as his father's guest. She beganindirectly; he had said he had been a reporter, and he was still achronicler of this strange life. He had of course heard of many casesof family feuds and estrangements? Her brother had told her of somedreadful vendettas he had known in the Southwest, and how whole familieshad been divided. Since she had been here she had heard of odd cases ofbrothers meeting accidentally after long and unaccounted separations;of husbands suddenly confronted with wives they had deserted; of fathersencountering discarded sons!
John Milton's face betrayed no uneasy consciousness. If anything it wasbeginning to glow with a boyish admiration of the grace and intelligenceof the fair speaker, that was perhaps heightened by an assumption ofhalf coquettish discomfiture.
"You are laughing at me!" she said finally. "But inhuman and selfish asthese stories may seem, and sometimes are, I believe that these curiousestrangements and separations often come from some fatal weakness oftemperament that might be strengthened, or some trivial misunderstandingthat could be explained. It is separation that makes them seemirrevocable only because they are inexplicable, and a vague memoryalways seems more terrible than a definite one. Facts may be forgivenand forgotten, but mysteries haunt one always. I believe there are weak,sensitive people who dread to put their wrongs into shape; those are thekind who sulk, and when you add separation to sulking, reconciliationbecomes impossible. I knew a very singular case of that kind once. Ifyou like, I'll tell it to you. May be you will be able, some day, toweave it into one of your writings. And it's quite true."
It is hardly necessary to say that John Milton had not been touched byany personal significance in his companion's speech, whatever she mayhave intended; and it is equally true that whether she had presentlyforgotten her purpose, or had become suddenly interested in her ownconversation, her face grew more animated, her manner more confidential,and something of the youthful enthusiasm she had shown in the mountainseemed to come back to her.
"I might say it happened anywhere and call the people M. or N., but itreally did occur in my own family, and although I was much youngerat the time it impressed me very strongly. My cousin, who had beenmy playmate, was an orphan, and had been intrusted to the care of myfather, who was his guardian. He was always a clever boy, but singularlysensitive and quick to take offense. Perhaps it was because the littleproperty his father had left made him partly dependent on my father, andthat I was rich, but he seemed to feel the disparity in our positions.I was too young to understand it; I think it existed only in hisimagination, for I believe we were treated alike. But I remember that hewas full of vague threats of running away and going to sea, and thatit was part of his weak temperament to terrify me with his extravagantconfidences. I was always frightened when, after one of those scenes,he would pack his valise or perhaps only tie up a few things in ahandkerchief, as in the advertisement pictures of the runaway slaves,and declare that we would never lay eyes upon him again. At first Inever saw the ridiculousness of all this,--for I ought to have told youthat he was a rather delicate and timid boy, and quite unfitted for arough life or any exposure,--but others did, and one day I laughed athim and told him he was afraid. I shall never forget the expression ofhis face and never forgive myself for it. He went away,--but he returnedthe next day! He threatened once to commit suicide, left his clothes onthe bank of the river, and came home in another suit of clothes he hadtaken with him. When I was sent abroad to school I lost sight of him;when I returned he was at college, apparently unchanged. When hecame home for vacation, far from having been subdued by contact withstrangers, it seemed that his unhappy sensitiveness had been onlyintensified by the ridicule of his fellows. He had even acquired amost ridiculous theory about the degrading effects of civilization, andwanted to go back to a state of barbarism. He said the wilderness wasthe only true home of man. My father, instead of bearing with whatI believe was his infirmity, dryly offered him the means to try hisexperiment. He started for some place in Texas, saying we would neverhear from him again. A month after he wrote for more money. My fatherreplied rather impatiently, I suppose,--I never knew exactly what hewrote. That was some years ago. He had told the truth at last, for wenever heard from him again."
It is to be feared that John Milton was following the animated lips andeyes of the fair speaker rather than her story. Perhaps that was thereason why he said, "May he not have been a disappointed man?"
"I don't understand," she said simply.
"Perhaps," said John Milton with a boyish blush, "you may haveunconsciously raised hopes in his heart--and"--
"I should hardly attempt to interest a chronicler of adventure like youin such a very commonplace, every-day style of romance," she said,with a little impatience, "even if my vanity compelled me to make suchconfidences to a stranger. No,--it was nothing quite as vulgar as that.And," she added quickly, with a playfully amused smile as she saw theyoung fellow's evident distress, "I should have probably heard from himagain. Those stories always end in that way."
"And you think?"--said John Milton.
"I think," said Mrs. Ashwood slowly, "that he actually did commitsuicide--or effaced himself in some way, just as firmly as I believe hemight have been saved by judicious treatment. Otherwise we should haveheard from him. You'll say that's only a woman's reasoning--but I thinkour perceptions are often instinctive, and I knew his character."
Still following the play of her delicate features into a romance of hisown weaving, the imaginative young reporter who had seen so much fromthe heights of Russian Hill said earnestly, "Then I have your permissionto use this material at any future time?"
"Yes," said the lady smilingly.
"And you will not mind if I should take some liberties with the text?"
"I must of course leave something to your artistic taste. But you willlet me see it?"
There were voices outs
ide now, breaking the silence of the veranda.They had been so preoccupied as not to notice the arrival of a horseman.Steps came along the passage; the landlord returned. Mrs. Ashwood turnedquickly towards him.
"Mr. Grant, of your party, ma'am, to fetch you."
She saw an unmistakable change in her young friend's mobile face. "Iwill be ready in a moment," she said to the landlord. Then, turningto John Milton, the arch-hypocrite said sweetly: "My brother must haveknown instinctively that I was in good hands, as he didn't come. But Iam sorry, for I should have so liked to introduce him to you--althoughby the way," with a bright smile, "I don't think you have yet told meyour name. I know I couldn't have FORGOTTEN it."
"Harcourt," said John Milton, with a half-embarrassed laugh.
"But you must come and see me, Mr.--Mr. Harcourt," she said, producinga card from a case already in her fingers, "at my hotel, and let mybrother thank you there for your kindness and gallantry to a stranger. Ishall be here a few weeks longer before we go south to look for a placewhere my brother can winter. DO come and see me, although I cannotintroduce you to anything as real and beautiful as what YOU have shownme to-day. Good-by, Mr. Harcourt; I won't trouble you to come down andbore yourself with my escort's questions and congratulations."
She bent her head and allowed her soft eyes to rest upon his with agraciousness that was beyond her speech, pulled her veil over her eyesagain, with a pretty suggestion that she had no further use for them,and taking her riding-skirt lightly in her hand seemed to glide from theroom.
On her way to San Mateo, where it appeared the disorganized party hadprolonged their visit to accept an invitation to dine with a localmagnate, she was pleasantly conversational with the slightly abstractedGrant. She was so sorry to have given them all this trouble and anxiety!Of course she ought to have waited at the fork of the road, but she hadnever doubted but she could rejoin them presently on the main road. Shewas glad that Miss Euphemia's runaway horse had been stopped withoutaccident; it would have been dreadful if anything had happened to HER;Mr. Harcourt seemed so wrapped up in his girls. It was a pity they neverhad a son--Ah? Indeed! Then there was a son? So--and father and son hadquarreled? That was so sad. And for some trifling cause, no doubt?
"I believe he married the housemaid," said Grant grimly. "Becareful!--Allow me."
"It's no use!" said Mrs. Ashwood, flushing with pink impatience, as sherecovered her seat, which a sudden bolt of her mustang had imperiled, "Ireally can't make out the tricks of this beast! Thank you," she added,with a sweet smile, "but I think I can manage him now. I can't seewhy he stopped. I'll be more careful. You were saying the son wasmarried--surely not that boy!"
"Boy!" echoed Grant. "Then you know?"--
"I mean of course he must be a boy--they all grew up here--and it wasonly five or six years ago that their parents emigrated," she retorted alittle impatiently. "And what about this creature?"
"Your horse?"
"You know I mean the woman he married. Of course she was older thanhe--and caught him?"
"I think there was a year or two difference," said Grant quietly.
"Yes, but your gallantry keeps you from telling the truth; which is thatthe women, in cases of this kind, are much older and more experienced."
"Are they? Well, perhaps she is, NOW. She is dead."
Mrs. Ashwood walked her horse. "Poor thing," she said. Then a suddenidea took possession of her and brought a film to her eyes. "How longago?" she asked in a low voice.
"About six or seven months, I think. I believe there was a baby who diedtoo."
She continued to walk her horse slowly, stroking its curved neck. "Ithink it's perfectly shameful!" she said suddenly.
"Not so bad as that, Mrs. Ashwood, surely. The girl may have lovedhim--and he"--
"You know perfectly what I mean, Mr. Grant. I speak of the conduct ofthe mother and father and those two sisters!"
Grant slightly elevated his eyebrows. "But you forget, Mrs. Ashwood. Itwas young Harcourt and his wife's own act. They preferred to take theirown path and keep it."
"I think," said Mrs. Ashwood authoritatively, "that the idea of leavingthose two unfortunate children to suffer and struggle on alone--outthere--on the sand hills of San Francisco--was simply disgraceful!"
Later that evening she was unreasonably annoyed to find that herbrother, Mr. John Shipley, had taken advantage of the absence of Grantto pay marked attention to Clementina, and had even prevailed upon thatimperious goddess to accompany him after dinner on a moonlight strollupon the veranda and terraces of Los Pajaros. Nevertheless she seemed torecover her spirits enough to talk volubly of the beautiful sceneryshe had discovered in her late perilous abandonment in the wilds of theCoast Range; to aver her intention to visit it again; to speak of it ina severely practical way as offering a far better site for the cottagesof the young married couples just beginning life than the outskirts oftowns or the bleak sand hills of San Francisco; and thence by gracefuldegrees into a dissertation upon popular fallacies in regard to hastymarriages, and the mistaken idea of some parents in not accepting theinevitable and making the best of it. She still found time to enterinto an appreciative and exhaustive criticism upon the literature andjournalistic enterprise of the Pacific Coast with the proprietor of the"Pioneer," and to cause that gentleman to declare that whatever peoplemight say about rich and fashionable Eastern women, that Mrs. Ashwood'shead was about as level as it was pretty.
The next morning found her more thoughtful and subdued, and when herbrother came upon her sitting on the veranda, while the party werepreparing to return, she was reading a newspaper slip that she had takenfrom her porte-monnaie, with a face that was partly shadowed.
"What have you struck there, Conny?" said her brother gayly. "It lookstoo serious for a recipe."
"Something I should like you to read some time, Jack," she said, liftingher lashes with a slight timidity, "if you would take the trouble. Ireally wonder how it would impress you."
"Pass it over," said Jack Shipley good-humoredly, with his cigar betweenhis lips. "I'll take it now."
She handed him the slip and turned partly away; he took it, glanced atit sideways, turned it over, and suddenly his look grew concentrated,and he took the cigar from his lips.
"Well," she said playfully, turning to him again. "What do you think ofit?"
"Think of it?" he said with a rising color. "I think it's infamous! Whodid it?"
She stared at him, then glanced quickly at the slip. "What are youreading?" she said.
"This, of course," he said impatiently. "What you gave me." But he waspointing to THE OTHER SIDE of the newspaper slip.
She took it from him impatiently and read for the first time theprinting on the reverse side of the article she had treasured so long.It was the concluding paragraph of an apparently larger editorial. "Onething is certain, that a man in Daniel Harcourt's position cannot affordto pass over in silence accusations like the above, that affect not onlyhis private character, but the integrity of his title to the land thatwas the foundation of his fortune. When trickery, sharp practice, andeven criminality in the past are more than hinted at, they cannot bemet by mere pompous silence or allusions to private position, socialprestige, or distinguished friends in the present."
Mrs. Ashwood turned the slip over with scornful impatience, a prettyuplifting of her eyebrows and a slight curl of her lip. "I suppose noneof those people's beginnings can bear looking into--and they certainlyshould be the last ones to find fault with anybody. But, good gracious,Jack! what has this to do with you?"
"With me?" said Shipley angrily. "Why, I proposed to Clementina lastnight!"