her death?"
Collinson's unaffected delight in Chivers's kindliness had made his
eyes shine in the moonlight with a doglike wistfulness. "I reckon I
did say that, Mr. Chivers," he said apologetically, "though it ain't
goin' to interfere with you usin' the shanty jest now."
"I wasn't alluding to that, Collinson," returned Chivers, with a large
rhetorical wave of the hand, and an equal enjoyment in his companion's
evident admiration of him, "but it struck me that your remark,
nevertheless, implied some doubt of your wife's death, and I don't know
but that your doubts are right."
"Wot's that?" said Collinson, with a dull glow in his face.
Chivers blew the smoke of his cigar lazily in the still air. "Listen,"
he said. "Since your miraculous conversion a few moments ago, I have
made some friendly inquiries about you, and I find that you lost all
trace of your wife in Texas in '52, where a number of her fellow
emigrants died of yellow fever. Is that so?"
"Yes," said Collinson quickly.
"Well, it so happens that a friend of mine," continued Chivers slowly,
"was in a train which followed that one, and picked up and brought on
some of the survivors."
"That was the train wot brought the news," said Collinson, relapsing
into his old patience. "That's how I knowed she hadn't come."
"Did you ever hear the names of any of its passengers?" said Chivers,
with a keen glance at his companion.
"Nary one! I only got to know it was a small train of only two wagons,
and it sorter melted into Californy through a southern pass, and kinder
petered out, and no one ever heard of it agin, and that was all."
"That was NOT all, Collinson," said Chivers lazily. "I saw the train
arrive at South Pass. I was awaiting a friend and his wife. There was
a lady with them, one of the survivors. I didn't hear her name, but I
think my friend's wife called her 'Sadie.' I remember her as a rather
pretty woman--tall, fair, with a straight nose and a full chin, and
small slim feet. I saw her only a moment, for she was on her way to
Los Angeles, and was, I believe, going to join her husband somewhere in
the Sierras."
The rascal had been enjoying with intense satisfaction the return of
the dull glow in Collinson's face, that even seemed to animate the
whole length of his angular frame as it turned eagerly towards him. So
he went on, experiencing a devilish zest in this description of his
mistress to her husband, apart from the pleasure of noting the slow
awakening of this apathetic giant, with a sensation akin to having
warmed him into life. Yet his triumph was of short duration. The fire
dropped suddenly out of Collinson's eyes, the glow from his face, and
the dull look of unwearied patience returned.
"That's all very kind and purty of yer, Mr. Chivers," he said gravely;
"you've got all my wife's pints thar to a dot, and it seems to fit her
jest like a shoe I picked up t'other day. But it wasn't my Sadie, for
ef she's living or had lived, she'd bin just yere!"
The same fear and recognition of some unknown reserve in this trustful
man came over Chivers as before. In his angry resentment of it he
would have liked to blurt out the infidelity of the wife before her
husband, but he knew Collinson would not believe him, and he had
another purpose now. His full lips twisted into a suave smile.
"While I would not give you false hopes, Mr. Collinson," he said, with
a bland smile, "my interest in you compels me to say that you may be
over confident and wrong. There are a thousand things that may have
prevented your wife from coming to you,--illness, possibly the result
of her exposure, poverty, misapprehension of your place of meeting,
and, above all, perhaps some false report of your own death. Has it
ever occurred to you that it is as possible for her to have been
deceived in that way as for you?"
"Wot yer say?" said Collinson, with a vague suspicion.
"What I mean. You think yourself justified in believing your wife
dead, because she did not seek you here; may she not feel herself
equally justified in believing the same of you, because you had not
sought her elsewhere?"
"But it was writ that she was comin' yere, and--I boarded every train
that come in that fall," said Collinson, with a new irritation, unlike
his usual calm.
"Except one, my dear Collinson,--except one," returned Chivers, holding
up a fat forefinger smilingly. "And that may be the clue. Now, listen!
There is still a chance of following it, if you will. The name of my
friends were Mr. and Mrs. Barker. I regret," he added, with a
perfunctory cough, "that poor Barker is dead. He was not such an
exemplary husband as you are, my dear Collinson, and I fear was not all
that Mrs. Barker could have wished; enough that he succumbed from
various excesses, and did not leave me Mrs. Barker's present address.
But she has a young friend, a ward, living at the convent of Santa
Luisa, whose name is Miss Rivers, who can put you in communication with
her. Now, one thing more: I can understand your feelings, and that you
would wish at once to satisfy your mind. It is not, perhaps, to my
interest nor the interest of my party to advise you, but," he
continued, glancing around him, "you have an admirably secluded
position here, on the edge of the trail, and if you are missing from
your post to-morrow morning, I shall respect your feelings, trust to
your honor to keep this secret, and--consider it useless to pursue you!"
There was neither shame nor pity in his heart, as the deceived man
turned towards him with tremulous eagerness, and grasped his hand in
silent gratitude. But the old rage and fear returned, as Collinson
said gravely:--
"You kinder put a new life inter me, Mr. Chivers, and I wish I had yer
gift o' speech to tell ye so. But I've passed my word to the Capting
thar and to the rest o' you folks that I'd stand guard out yere, and I
don't go back o' my word. I mout, and I moutn't find my Sadie; but she
wouldn't think the less o' me, arter these years o' waitin', ef I
stayed here another night, to guard the house I keep in trust for her,
and the strangers I've took in on her account."
"As you like, then," said Chivers, contracting his lips, "but keep your
own counsel to-night. There may be those who would like to deter you
from your search. And now I will leave you alone in this delightful
moonlight. I quite envy you your unrestricted communion with Nature.
Adios, amigo, adios!"
He leaped lightly on a large rock that overhung the edge of the grade,
and waved his hand.
"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Chivers," said Collinson, with a concerned
face; "them rocks are mighty ticklish, and that one in partiklar. A
tech sometimes sends 'em scooting."
Mr. Chivers leaped quickly to the ground, turned, waved his hand again,
and disappeared down the grade.
But Collinson was no longer alone. Hitherto his characteristic
reveries had been of the past,--reminiscences in which there was only
recollection, no imagination, and very little hope. Under the spell of
Chivers's words his fancy seemed to expand; he began to think of his
wife as she might be now,--perhaps ill, despairing, wandering
hopelessly, even ragged and footsore, or--believing HIM dead--relapsing
into the resigned patience that had been his own; but always a new
Sadie, whom he had never seen or known before. A faint dread, the
lightest of misgivings (perhaps coming from his very ignorance), for
the first time touched his steadfast heart, and sent a chill through
it. He shouldered his weapon, and walked briskly towards the edge of
the thick-set woods. There were the fragrant essences of the laurel
and spruce--baked in the long-day sunshine that had encompassed their
recesses--still coming warm to his face; there were the strange
shiftings of temperature throughout the openings, that alternately
warmed and chilled him as he walked. It seemed so odd that he should
now have to seek her instead of her coming to him; it would never be
the same meeting to him, away from the house that he had built for her!
He strolled back, and looked down upon it, nestling on the ledge. The
white moonlight that lay upon it dulled the glitter of lights in its
windows, but the sounds of laughter and singing came to even his
unfastidious ears with a sense of vague discord. He walked back again,
and began to pace before the thick-set wood. Suddenly he stopped and
listened.
To any other ears but those accustomed to mountain solitude it would
have seemed nothing. But, familiar as he was with all the infinite
disturbances of the woodland, and even the simulation of intrusion
caused by a falling branch or lapsing pine-cone, he was arrested now by
a recurring sound, unlike any other. It was an occasional muffled
beat--interrupted at uncertain intervals, but always returning in
regular rhythm, whenever it was audible. He knew it was made by a
cantering horse; that the intervals were due to the patches of dead
leaves in its course, and that the varying movement was the effect of
its progress through obstacles and underbrush. It was therefore coming
through some "blind" cutoff in the thick-set wood. The shifting of the
sound also showed that the rider was unfamiliar with the locality, and
sometimes wandered from the direct course; but the unfailing and
accelerating persistency of the sound, in spite of these difficulties,
indicated haste and determination.
He swung his gun from his shoulder, and examined its caps. As the
sound came nearer, he drew up beside a young spruce at the entrance of
the thicket. There was no necessity to alarm the house, or call the
other sentry. It was a single horse and rider, and he was equal to
that. He waited quietly, and with his usual fateful patience. Even
then his thoughts still reverted to his wife; and it was with a
singular feeling that he, at last, saw the thick underbrush give way
before a woman, mounted on a sweating but still spirited horse, who
swept out into the open. Nevertheless, he stopped in front of her, and
called:--
"Hold up thar!"
The horse recoiled, nearly unseating her. Collinson caught the reins.
She lifted her whip mechanically, yet remained holding it in the air,
trembling, until she slipped, half struggling, half helplessly, from
the saddle to the ground. Here she would have again fallen, but
Collinson caught her sharply by the waist. At his touch she started
and uttered a frightened "No!" At her voice Collinson started.
"Sadie!" he gasped.
"Seth!" she half whispered.
They stood looking at each other. But Collinson was already himself
again. The man of simple directness and no imagination saw only his
wife before him--a little breathless, a little flurried, a little
disheveled from rapid riding, as he had sometimes seen her before, but
otherwise unchanged. Nor had HE changed; he took her up where he had
left her years ago. His grave face only broadened into a smile, as he
held both her hands in his.
"Yes, it's me--Lordy! Why, I was comin' only to-morrow to find ye,
Sade!"
She glanced hurriedly around her, "To--to find me," she said
incredulously.
"Sartain! That ez, I was goin' to ask about ye,--goin' to ask about ye
at the convent."
"At the convent?" she echoed with a frightened amazement.
"Yes, why, Lordy Sade--don't you see? You thought I was dead, and I
thought you was dead,--that's what's the matter. But I never reckoned
that you'd think me dead until Chivers allowed that it must be so."
Her face whitened in the moonlight "Chivers?" she said blankly.
"In course; but nat'rally you don't know him, honey. He only saw you
onc't. But it was along o' that, Sade, that he told me he reckoned you
wasn't dead, and told me how to find you. He was mighty kind and
consarned about it, and he even allowed I'd better slip off to you this
very night."
"Chivers," she repeated, gazing at her husband with bloodless lips.
"Yes, an awful purty-spoken man. Ye'll have to get to know him Sade.
He's here with some of his folks az hez got inter trouble--I'm
forgettin' to tell ye. You see"--
"Yes, yes, yes!" she interrupted hysterically; "and this is the Mill?"
"Yes, lovey, the Mill--my mill--YOUR mill--the house I built for you,
dear. I'd show it to you now, but you see, Sade, I'm out here standin'
guard."
"Are YOU one of them?" she said, clutching his hand desperately.
"No, dear," he said soothingly,--"no; only, you see, I giv' my word to
'em as I giv' my house to-night, and I'm bound to protect them and see
'em through. Why, Lordy! Sade, you'd have done the same--for Chivers."
"Yes, yes," she said, beating her hands together strangely, "of course.
He was so kind to bring me back to you. And you might have never found
me but for him."
She burst into an hysterical laugh, which the simple-minded man might
have overlooked but for the tears that coursed down her bloodless face.
"What's gone o' ye, Sadie," he said in a sudden fear, grasping her
hands; "that laugh ain't your'n--that voice ain't your'n. You're the
old Sadie, ain't ye?" He stopped. For a moment his face blanched as
he glanced towards the mill, from which the faint sound of bacchanalian
voices came to his quick ear. "Sadie, dear, ye ain't thinkin' anything
