CHAPTER XXXVII.--_Reunited at Last._
The life of Gabriel hung by a very frail thread for several days, andClarence did not have the heart to leave him. He did not telegraph toMercedes their arrival, for he would then have been obliged to give areason for delaying. He wrote her saying that Gabriel had accidentallyfallen from a ladder, and not knowing how seriously he might have beenhurt, George and himself had decided to remain with Lizzie, who was verymuch frightened and distressed.
Mercedes answered, thanking him in the warmest terms of gratitude forremaining with her darling brother, adding that much as she wished tosee the long-lost Clarence, she preferred to endure the pains of waitingrather than to have him leave Gabriel now.
The proudest man in America was Clarence. He knew that in the gratitudeof her heart she would allow him to press her to his, and he longed tohave that bliss. But faithfully he kept his watch at the hospital, andGabriel lived yet. No doctor dared say whether he would die or survivehis terrible fall, or his health remain impaired. No one dare venture aprophecy for so dark a future.
In the meantime Clarence got his house ready for occupation, and as soonas Gabriel could be removed without danger, they took up their residencethere. In the silent recesses of her heart Lizzie thanked God that hersurroundings were again those of a lady. She shuddered to remember thepoverty she endured for so long a time, and she would have felt reallyhappy could she have been sure that her beloved Gabriel would live.
"George," said she to her brother, as they walked towards the library,when Clarence had relieved their watch, and was sitting by Gabriel'sbedside, "I have an idea in my head which I think we might put intopractice, if you will help me."
"What is it, dear sister?" asked George, tenderly, observing how thinand haggard she looked.
"It is this, that if you and I write to Mercedes that she ought to marryright away, so that Clarence can bring her to be with me, to help metake care of Gabriel, that she will do so."
"By, Jove! It is a splendid idea, little sister, and I'll write toMercita and to Dona Josefa at once."
"It is little enough, George, for you and I to do, when Clarence hasbeen so devoted to my darling," said she, her eyes filling with tears ofheart-felt gratitude.
"Of course it is, but it comes so natural to Clarence to act always likethe noble fellow he is, that it would surprise me if he had actedotherwise than nobly."
"But we ought to consult him about our project."
"Certainly. I'll go and stay with Gabriel and send him to you that youmay disclose your plan."
"No, let me go to Gabriel, while you tell him the plan," said she,hurrying off to the invalid, whom she found sleeping.
She whispered to Clarence that George wished to speak to him, and tookhis place by the bedside.
Clarence could find no words to express to George his joy and gratitude.He flushed and paled by turns, and finally, stroking his mustache withtrembling fingers, and trying to bite it, in his agitation, sat down insilence, while George went into the details of the matter.
"But will she consent?" Clarence exclaimed at last.
"I think she will, for you know how all of them love Gabriel, Mercedesmore than all,--and the thought that he is suffering, and Lizzie'sdistress, and your kindness to him,--all that will furnish a mostexcellent excuse to do what her heart has been begging for," saidGeorge. "I am going to write now about it."
"Oh, I shall be so grateful!" Clarence exclaimed.
"Send Lizzie to me, we both must write," George said.
Clarence went back to the sick room, and said to Lizzie that Georgewanted her.
Kissing her hand most fervently, he exclaimed in a tremulous whisper:"You are my angel!"
George and Lizzie's letters were very pleading. Clarence wrote also,imploring Mercedes to forgive the stupidity that took him away, andbeseeched her to yield to his prayer, and be his wife, after so manyyears of suffering.
Mercedes kissed the letter, and cried over it, of course, as women must,but referred the subject to her mother. Dona Josefa must also cry a gooddeal before she said anything, for the memory of her husband made suchsubjects most painful to her.
But Victoriano stormed from his bed. He would have no delay. He sent forEverett, so that he would in person carry a dispatch to town, saying toClarence, by telegraph, to come in the very first steamer. Victorianowould have no contradiction.
"If Mercedes don't marry Clarence, as George advises, I want to be takenby the legs--my mean, cripple legs, my ridiculous kangaroo legs--anddragged out of this bed, and out of this house. I don't want to liveunder the same roof with people that will refuse so just and reasonablea request."
"But who has refused it, Tano? Wait, won't you?" said Rosario, seeingthat Tano had hidden his head under the covers.
Victoriano's head came out again, and said: "Nobody says yes."
But the _yes_ was said.
Everett took a dispatch from Dona Josefa to George, saying that wheneverClarence came, Mercedes would go with him, as George suggested.
There would be five days only before another steamer would arrive, butby telegraphing to Clarence on that day, he would have time to take thesteamer next morning, or go on the cars to Los Angeles, and take thesteamer at Wilmington. And this was what Clarence telegraphed he woulddo, suggesting that if Mercita would be ready, they could take the sameboat, and by again taking the cars at Los Angeles, be with Gabriel intwo days.
Was it a dream? To see Clarence within five days, and be his wife, whenshe thought she might never see him on this earth again! Thus ranMercedes' reflections, when she had gone to her room to open a wardrobewhich had been locked for three years. That wardrobe held the_trousseau_ sent by Mrs. Lawrence Mechlin in '74, and the jewelry whichClarence had given her in New York.
Mercedes thought of those days, and the image of her father arose beforeher vividly. She sat by the window to think of him with lovingtenderness and ever living regret.
"But, _mon Dieu_, mademoiselle," said Madame Halier, coming in, "whydon't you come? Miss Carlota is waiting to begin getting your thingsready."
"I beg pardon; I had forgotten," said Mercedes, rousing herself from herreverie. Carlota, Rosario and Alice now came in, and soon the contentsof the wardrobe were distributed all over the room. Madame Halier was topack in trunks all Mercedes' things, leaving out only her bridal attireand traveling dress. The madame did her work with pleasure, as she wasgoing with Mercedes, and had been wishing to visit the city of SanFrancisco for a long time.
Everything was ready. A dispatch came from George saying that Clarencehad started; that Gabriel was a little better, and anxious to seeMercedes. This made Dona Josefa feel that it was her imperative duty tosend Mercedes to her brother at once.
Mrs. Darrell went to see the priest about going to the rancho to performthe marriage ceremony there. The good man would have preferred that itwere solemnized in the church, but, considering that Victoriano couldnot leave his bed and Dona Josefa was still in very deep mourning, heconsented.
There would be no invited guests except the Holmans and Darrells. Therewould be no bridesmaids either, though there were plenty of young girlsthat could act as such.
Everett went to town the night before the arrival of the steamer tobring Clarence as soon as he landed, and they came from town so quicklyand noiselessly that no one knew when they arrived at the rancho.
The ladies were all in Mercedes' room discussing the wedding outfit andother matters, when it occurred to her to go out and from the verandalook towards the road, as she might perhaps see the carriage in thedistance. What was her surprise when, on passing by the parlor door, shesaw Everett coming through the gate, and there, right there, whereClarence had stood on that terrible night when he left her, there hestood again, looking at her with those same speaking, glowing, lovingeyes. He seemed to her like an apparition, and she uttered anexclamation of surprise, turning very pale and tottering as if about tofall. In an instant he was by her side pressing her to his heart
andcovering her face with kisses.
Surely this was no ghost. His warm kisses and beating heart spoke of thelover full of life and hope, trembling with the realization of years oflonging to hold her thus close, very close in his loving, chasteembrace.
"Mercedes, my own, my sweet wife," he said, and his voice had so muchthe same tone and vibration as in that last memorable night, that therush of sad memories and painful emotions made her for a moment feelconfused, bewildered, almost losing consciousness. As her yielding formrelaxed in his arms he carried her to the sofa and sat there holdingher, scarcely realizing it was not all a dream.
Everett had gone to Victoriano's room, and now that impatient invalidwas screaming for Clarence to come. His loud calling brought Dona Josefato him, and then all the family learned that Clarence had arrived.
"Come here, you truant," said Victoriano to Clarence, "come here, youugly man." And as Clarence stooped to embrace him, he clasped him to hisheart, making him lie down by his side. "There," said he, "I have givenyou a good hugging; now go and kiss the girls."
Which Clarence did gladly, but his mother and Dona Josefa he kissedfirst. He then went to the parlor, where he was kindly greeted by noless than fourteen girls, counting thus: three Alamares, three Holmans,four Darrells, and four other Alamares, cousins of Mercedes.
Clarence was a brave fellow, so he never flinched and kissed them all,very deliberately. "Not to give offence," he said.
There was one duty which Clarence shrank from performing, but which hesubmitted to quietly, and that was meeting his father.
Darrell came to the Alamar house for the first time in his life, and ashe said he would like to be alone when he met Clarence, Rosarioconducted him to _the office_, a room used by her father when he sawpeople on business and where he wrote his letters, but where others ofthe family scarcely ever entered.
Clarence was shocked to see how aged his father was. When he left, theauburn hair of the old man showed no white lines at all. Now he was sogray that his hair was almost white. The sight of that white hair sweptfrom Clarence's heart all trace of resentment, and his love for hisfather seemed to rush back to him with pain, but with great force.
"Oh, father!" exclaimed Clarence, seeing the open arms before him.
"My boy, my best beloved," said the old man, with a sob and a checkingof breath, holding his son close to his breast.
"Father, why are you so gray?" Clarence asked.
"Because I did you a great wrong. Because I murdered the Don, and he wasthe best man I ever saw." When Darrell said this he completely lost hisself-control and wept like a child. Clarence wept with him, for he feltdeeply Don Mariano's death, but thought he must speak kindly to hisfather.
"You did not murder him; don't think that," he said.
"Yes, I did. My wickedness helped the wickedness of others to kill him.And our wickedness combined brought infinite misery upon this innocentfamily. But a merciful God brought you back, and I know you will devoteyour life to repair as much as it is possible the wrong your father did.I know you will be a good husband, but for _my sake_, also, I beg you tobe a devoted son to the widowed lady whom I have injured so frightfully.A wrong legislation authorized _us squatters_, sent us, to the land ofthese innocent, helpless people to rob them. A wrong legislation killedthe Texas Pacific, and such legislation is the main cause of the Don'sdeath. But I, too, helped the wrong-doers."
"Don't blame yourself so much," Clarence remonstrated gently, trying tosoothe his father. "George and Lizzie told me that all the familybelieve that the disappointment at the failure of the Texas Pacific waswhat killed Don Mariano. It preyed upon his mind; it saddened, worriedand sickened him until it utterly undermined his health and broke downhis nervous system. It did the same with Mr. Mechlin. So, you see, thosewho defeated the Texas Pacific are to blame for the death of these twomost excellent men, but not yourself."
"Yes, I am. No man can injure his fellow-man, and then shift the blameon some one else's shoulders, because others had a share in the wrongdone. Each man must stand and bear his proportion of blame. I could andshould have prevented the settlers from destroying the Don's cattle. IfI had done so, he would not have been obliged to take them all at once.He could have sent them in small bands, but he was afraid of themurderous rifles of _my friends_. So the poor, dumb animals perished inthe snow. But this was not the worst; the saddest was yet to come.Victoriano lost his health, and the Don lost his life. The good, thebest of men, was right when, in his dying moments, he said: '_The sinsof our legislators brought me to this_.' That was a truth uttered by ajust and noble soul as it passed away. Still, I must feel I amindividually to blame for the sorrow brought upon this family. I knowthat if the railroad had been built the Don could have recuperated hisfortune, but yet my share of wrong-doing stands there all the same; Imust bear it myself. If I had not driven you away, you could haveprevented their misfortunes. I was a monster. So now I beg and entreat,for my own sake, and as a slight reparation for my cruelty, that you bekind to that lady, as kind as if you were her own child."
"I will, father; I vow I will."
"That is enough. I know you'll keep your word. Now, my boy, heaven blessyou, and your father's blessing will go with you always. Now, go, andwhen the ceremony is to be performed, send Willie to call me."
As everything was ready, the marriage ceremony took place as soon as thepriest arrived. Victoriano was brought to the parlor in an arm-chair,and managed to stand up, held by Everett and Webster. Dona Josefa weptall the time and so did her daughters, but everybody understood thatmemories of the sad past, but no fears for the future, caused thosetears to flow.
The parting with her mother and sisters was most painful to Mercedes.Clarence feared she would make herself ill with weeping. He put his armsaround her waist and said:
"Don't be disheartened. I have been thinking that Dona Josefa and allthe family had better come to San Francisco to live. If she does, Ithink we can persuade George to bring his family also to reside there."
Dona Josefa shook her head doubtingly, but Mercedes asked:
"Do you think George might come?"
"I do, and he can then carry out there our plan of establishing a bank.San Diego is dead now, and will remain so for many years, but SanFrancisco is a good business field. So we can all locate ourselvesthere, and Gabriel and Tano go into business easily."
"Business without capital? See where my poor Gabriel is now," DonaJosefa answered, sadly.
"That is true, but if you will sell your rancho, they will have plentyof capital. Even at two dollars per acre, your rancho, being forty-seventhousand acres--if sold at that low figure--would bring you ninety-fourthousand dollars."
"But who, who will buy mortgaged land, full of squatters, and without apatent, in this dead place?"
"I will. I will pay you more than ninety-four thousand dollars--morethan double that amount--besides paying you for the lost cattle, whichwill be no more than what is right."
"Oh, no, I couldn't agree to that, but as for selling the land, if mychildren are willing, I shall be, for this place is too full of sadmemories, and will be sadder yet if I cannot have my children with me.When Gabriel and Victoriano get well, talk to them about buying therancho, though I don't think you ought to pay any such high price. Youare too generous to us."
"Indeed, I am not. Don't forget I am a money-making Yankee. I thinkfour--or even three--dollars per acre is a high price for land in thiscounty _now_, but I can wait years, and then I shall double the pricepaid now. So, you see, I am not a bit generous. I am trying to makemoney out of you."
"Talk to the boys. See what George and Gabriel say," Dona Josefa said,smiling sadly at Clarence's wily argument and earnest manner.
The last adieux were said, but the parting was less painful to Mercedes,with the new hope held out by Clarence of a probability of beingreunited soon in San Francisco.
When Clarence and Mercedes arrived at their home they found that Georgeand Lizzie had propped up Gabriel with pillows,
and he was sitting up toreceive his sister. From that day he began to improve slowly butperceptibly.
The letters from home spoke of Victoriano's marked improvement, butstill his malady was not cured; so Clarence proposed that Dona Josefa,the two girls and Tano should come up immediately. She could then makeup her mind whether she would like to make San Francisco her home, andthe change of climate would perhaps do Victoriano good. The idea washighly approved by all, and that same evening Mercedes wrote to hermother, begging her to come and see whether she liked San Francisco fora home; that she and Clarence were going to Europe on a visit in thefall, and she wanted to leave her mamma and sisters and brothers alltogether; that George and Gabriel liked the plan of selling the ranchoto Clarence very much, and wanted to talk to her and Tano about it. ThusDona Josefa was enticed and persuaded to leave the home of her joys andsorrows, where she had lived for thirty years. Carlota and Rosario werewilling to go, and Tano was most anxious to find a way of making aliving, for he was every day more in love with Alice, but could notthink of marrying her until he knew how he was going to support afamily.
Dona Josefa, Carlota and Rosario, therefore, escorted by Victoriano,found themselves, on a bright morning, in the Southern Pacific Railroadcars, on their way from Los Angeles to San Francisco. There were onlyabout a dozen persons besides themselves on the entire train.
"I wonder why they put on so many cars. One would carry all thepassengers," said Rosario.
"Half a car would be more than enough," Carlota added.
"They must lose money running empty cars," Tano observed. "I am glad ofit. They were so anxious to leave San Diego out in the cold, I hope theywill lose money with this road."
"Don't wish that, it is unkind, unchristian, ungenerous," said DonaJosefa, with a sigh.
"And why not? Didn't they kill our road, the Texas Pacific, to buildthis road? What consideration had they for us? I am glad that many yearswill pass before they will run crowded cars over this desert. They areold men, they won't live to see this, their pet road, with well-filledcars, running over it, and I bet on that," said Tano, exultingly.
"Perhaps they will," said Carlota.
"I know they'll not," Tano retorted, emphatically.
In the afternoon, Clarence and Mercedes met them in Oakland, andtogether they crossed the bay.
And now on that same night as Dona Josefa looked from her bedroom windowupon the lighted city, she noticed that a large mansion near by, wasvery brightly illuminated, and Mercedes told her that one of therailroad kings, who had killed the Texas Pacific, lived there, and wasgiving a "_silver wedding_" party to the _elite_ of San Francisco. DonaJosefa sighed, and sat at the window to think.
Truly, San Francisco had been in a flutter for ten days past, and the"best society" had stretched its neck until it ached to see who gotinvitations for "_The Great Nob Hill Silver Wedding Ball_" of one of SanFrancisco's millionaires. Mrs. Grundy ascertained who were to be thebest-dressed ladies, what their pedigree was, and how their money hadbeen made, and then Mrs. Grundy went to the ball, too.
When all the elegance of San Francisco had arrived, nobly sprinkled witha Baron or two, and ornamented with a Lord and Lady and a Marquise orCount, the great millionaire proceeded to astonish his guests in themanner he had conceived to be most novel and startling.
The band struck up a wedding march, and Mr. Millionaire, with his wifeleaning on his arm, proceeded to the last of an elegant _suite_ ofrooms, where, under a canopy of fragrant flowers, a mock marriageceremony was to be performed. After conducting the blushing bride to themock altar, and the ceremony being over, the millionaire thought hewould treat his guests to what he imagined to be a real hymeneanoration. He prefaced his homily with what he believed to be witticismsand quotations of his own. He then thought it was time to wax eloquentand didactic, above prejudices, truly large-minded.
"But let me read to you a short, telling lesson now," he said, swellingwith just pride; "I speak most particularly to the young men, to thosewho have yet their fortunes to make. Be not discouraged if you meet withhardships and trials. Go ahead and persevere. Look at all theseluxurious appurtenances surrounding us! I might well say, look at thiswealth! Look at this splendor! Well, ladies and gentlemen, sixteen yearsago we were in Sacramento, so poor, that we had to put tin pans over ourbed to catch the water that leaked through our roof, and keep ourbed-clothes dry. I had not money enough to get a better roof over ourheads," and the millionaire looked around for applause, but none came,because the guests possessed the good taste, or, perhaps, bad, whichtheir host lacked, and were pained and mortified; they did not see thegood of waking up memories of unsavory poverty. The foreign nobility wasnot so proud, perhaps, as they had been at the hour of receiving aninvitation to all this so very newly created splendor. But the rich man,still inflated with pride, hurriedly wound up his peroration as best hecould, feeling vague misgivings that he had marred the _eclat_ of hismagnificent illumination shining over his costly furniture, by trying torise above himself to make a high-minded, witty speech. "Be plucky, andpersevering, and go ahead, as I did," said he to close his oration,bowing to his foreign guests.
The company scattered in couples or in groups over the luxuriouslyfurnished and richly decorated rooms, and Mrs. Grundy hurried abouteverywhere to catch the comments made by the grateful guests upon "thebrilliant speech of their amiable host." At the very first group sheheard a young man say:
"Yes, I would be _plucky and persevering_ if I had an associate inWashington with plenty of money to bribe people so that no otherrailroad could be built to start competition in California."
"I could be plucky, too, if the Government had given me millions ofmoney and more millions of acres to build two railroads, and whichmillions I never intended to pay back," said another.
"And for which millions you never paid taxes," added another.
"Taxes? Bah! Let the poor people pay taxes. Why should railroad magnatespay taxes when they have money to fight the law? Absurd!" said a fourth."Let us go and take ices; the brilliancy of our host's oration makes methirsty."
And while all this went on in the brilliantly lighted mansion, DonaJosefa sat at her window in the dark, thinking of what "_might havebeen_" if those railroad men had not blighted San Diego's prosperity.Her husband would have been alive, and Mr. Mechlin, also, and her sonswould not have been driven to poverty and distress, and perhaps losttheir health forever.
"God of Justice, is this right, that so many should be sacrificedbecause a few men want more millions? Our family is one of the many whohave suffered so much. Oh! so much! And all to what end? For what? Ah!the same answer again, because a few heartless men want more millions,"said she, with her face bathed in tears.
Dona Josefa evidently did not believe that because "_misery there mustalways be in the world, no matter who causes it_," that she was calledupon to stoically submit to unmerited infliction. In a mild anddignified way, her mind rebelled. She regarded the acts of the men whocaused her husband's ruin and death with genuine abhorrence. To her,rectitude and equity had a clear meaning impossible to pervert. Nosubtle sophistry could blur in her mind the clear line dividing rightfrom wrong. She knew that among men the word business means inhumanityto one another; it means justification of rapacity; it means the freedomof man to crowd and crush his fellow-man; it means the sanction of theShylockian principle of exacting the pound of flesh. She knew all this,but the illustration, the ocular demonstration, had never been beforeher until now in that gay house, in that brightly illuminated mansion,and she sadly contrasted her sorrow with their gayety, and continued hersoliloquy: "No doubt those people think they have a right to rejoice andfeast with the money extorted in crushing so many people--the killing ofmy darling. Doubtless they say that they earned the money in *BUSINESS*,and that allegation is all-sufficient; that one word justifies in thepursuit of riches everything mean, dishonest, rapacious, unfair,treacherous, unjust, and fraudulent. After a man makes his money no onecares how he made it, and so those people
dance while I mourn for mybeloved."
For hours Dona Josefa sat at that window, weeping sadly, while theothers danced gayly.
Afterwards, when she had been for some time in San Francisco, she hadyet stronger demonstrations, and her sense of justice and her ideas ofmoral adjustment of men's actions with principle, received additionalshocks, quite as painful as seeing the millionaire's palace illuminated,while the humble houses he had desolated must remain dark.
Dona Josefa frankly spoke to the ladies who had called on her, of thecause of her husband's death. She did so in answer to their inquiries.She, on two or three occasions, mentioned how painful it had been to sitby the window looking at that house of rejoicing, while thinking that ifthose rich men had had more sense of justice and less greed of money,that her husband could have been spared to her.
"Don't say that, my dear lady, for you will give great offense," said anold friend, who having heard that Clarence was worth twelve milliondollars, had called on her, suddenly remembering that she used to knowthe Alamares years ago.
"Why should I give offense? It is the truth," Dona Josefa replied.
"That may be, but you cannot speak against such rich people; SanFrancisco society will turn against you," was the rejoinder.
"Then it is a crime _to speak_ of the wrongs we have suffered, but it isnot a crime _to commit_ those wrongs."
"I don't know. I am not a moralist. But this I do know, that if youaccuse those rich men of having done wrong, the society people will giveyou the cold shoulder."
"Oh, very well, let it be so. Let the guilty rejoice and go unpunished,and the innocent suffer ruin and desolation. I slander no one, but shallspeak the truth."