THE MESSAGE
It was the morning after they arrived at San Francisco that Mrs. Corner came to Mary Lee's door. "Daughter," she said, "Mr. Sanders is down-stairs; he says he has something important to say to you. I saw him for a moment only when he asked to speak to you. Go down and see him and I'll be there directly."
Wondering what Mr. Sanders could have to say to her especially, and how he happened to be in San Francisco, Mary Lee went down to find her friend waiting for her. "Well, Miss Mary," he said, "you didn't expect to see me here, did you? I've come with a message for you; I have it here." He produced an envelope which he held in his hand.
"I'm glad to see you whatever brings you," returned Mary Lee.
"Well, it is rather a sad business that brings me. It's queer you should happen to be in this city just now and queerer still that I should." He paused a moment. "You remember Jo Poker, don't you?" he then asked.
"Indeed I do," answered Mary Lee.
"Poor Jo! Well, miss, you'll never see him again."
"Why, Mr. Sanders, what has happened?"
"He's paid his last debt, poor old Jo. He got hurt in a runaway awhile ago and though at first they thought he would get over it, for he was well enough to be about, he suddenly got worse and when he found his last hour was nigh he sent for me. There's a long story. Here's your mother, I reckon she'd better have it, too. I was just saying, Mrs. Corner, that we've buried a friend of your daughter's. I reckon you've heard her speak of Jo Poker."
"The man who was so good to her when she was visiting at your house? Yes, indeed. Both the girls have spoken of him often. Did you say that he was dead, Mr. Sanders?"
"Yes, ma'am. He fell ill a couple of weeks ago after being in an accident, took a bad turn of a sudden and sent for me, said that there wasn't any one nearer. He handed me over his papers and I learned from them that his name was Joseph Middleton. His father was a well off man at one time but I fancy he wasn't always just straight in business affairs. Jo was pretty wild in his young days and got into some scrapes. Fought with his brother-in-law, a sort of duel, I should judge, cut him up pretty badly and had to get out and leave his wife at her father's."
"I knew his right name couldn't be Poker," said Mary Lee listening eagerly to the story. "What did they fight about, Mr. Sanders?"
"Well, it seems that old Middleton bought a piece of property from a Mexican, or Spaniard, Jo calls him, who thought afterward that there hadn't been fair dealing and was bitter against the whole Middleton family. Jo fell in love with the daughter and she with him then, as he wasn't one to give up a thing, he wanted, he ran off with her and married her secretly. The brother caught him coming to the house two or three times after he had been forbidden the place, and they had it hot and heavy. The brother charged Jo with all sorts of things and went for him. Jo didn't stand still and the up-shot was that the brother got the worst of it, so while he was lying between life and death Jo had to skip. The father was fiercer than ever against Jo and the young wife was kept close as a nun. She lived only a short time and left a little girl that she called Pepita."
"Pepita," exclaimed Mary Lee. "That was the name of Miss Dolores' cousin."
"It's quite a name among the Spanish, I believe," Mr. Sanders told her. "It's the same as our Josephine."
"Oh, that's why she gave her baby the name; it is the nearest she could get to calling it after her husband, poor thing."
"I haven't a doubt of it. She probably called him Pepé; that's the Spanish for Jo. Well, old Middleton took to drinking, went through his money and Jo got reckless, too, after he heard that his wife was dead, so he never settled down anywhere. Lived just like you know, Miss Mary, as I was telling you there at home. Never went back to claim his little girl it seems, because he felt he couldn't be any benefit to her, and she had a good home with her mother's people. Now he's gone, and I am sorry, for I liked the man, though folks did say hard things of him. He is about the last link to those old days when I was a youngster and first came out to this country. Most of the old crowd are dead or scattered; I don't know which. I couldn't put my finger on another if I tried."
"You say this Joseph Middleton was talked about," said Mrs. Corner. "Was he then a bad man?"
"Well, ma'am, I shouldn't call him bad exactly. He was his own worst enemy: I never knew him to harm any one but that brother of his wife's and he wouldn't have touched him if he'd been let alone. He was always good to animals and children and was always a gentleman to the women. I've seen worse men that had a better name, so I say he was more sinned against than sinning. This here envelope he asked me to hand you," Mr. Sanders went on turning to Mary Lee. "He said it had his good-bye message to you in it."
"I don't think I will read it now," said Mary Lee trembling a little as she took the note. It seemed so strange that the kindly man who played to the birds and beasts, who was so alive to things of this earth, should no longer be of this world. Mary Lee held the note closely. "It was very kind of him to want to bid me good-bye," she said, "and kind of you to bring me the message. He used to say that if he should ever find his daughter and if he were able to claim her he would like her to be like me, fond of animals and woodsy things. I think that is why he wrote to me."
"The daughter is dead, too, you know," said Mr. Sanders. "He had found that out, he told me."
Mary Lee turned to her mother. "I think I am glad of that," she said. "Now, maybe, they are all three together."
"Well, I must be going," said Mr. Sanders. "I am glad to have seen you again."
"The others will like to see you, Mr. Sanders," said Mrs. Corner. "I know Jack will want to hear about your little girl. Go find your sisters, Mary Lee, and tell them Mr. Sanders is here."
Mary Lee laid the envelope in her mother's lap and went to seek the others who came rushing in to ask about Bessie and to hear all the news of the ranch.
"I am so sorry Jo Poker is dead," said Jack; "now he can never play on the flute for us any more."
"Never mind, Jack," said Jean, "perhaps he's playing on a harp now."
"But I can't hear him," returned Jack nothing comforted.
After answering Jack's hundred questions and being made the bearer of as many messages, Mr. Sanders took his leave saying that he must make a train soon if he wanted to get home that night. "I'm glad I had your address," he said as he was about to go, "or I mightn't have been able to get that message delivered for some time."
Mary Lee gathered the note again into her own keeping. "Come, mother," she said, "let's go somewhere by ourselves. I want you to be with me when I read this. I feel so very solemn about it."
"We'll go to my room," said her mother leading the way.
Mary Lee held the letter a few moments before breaking it open, then she said suddenly: "Suppose you read it to me, mother."
Mrs. Corner settled herself by the window and Mary Lee leaned on the back of her chair.
"Dear Miss Mary," the letter began, "this is my farewell to you. I'm not going to live long, the doctor says, so I'll write this while I can, and I'll get Jim Sanders to give it to you after I'm gone, then I'll not be breaking the word I gave to one over twenty years ago. You asked me about that Miss Garcia, and now that all are dead and gone who would care, in my judgment it isn't fair to keep some things secret. Her Aunt Dolores Garcia was a good friend to me. She was my wife's cousin and helped me in a time of great trouble. I promised her then that while I lived I'd not tell all I knew about the family affairs. Dolores Garcia's sister married a young American. Her father hated all Americans, because he was a proud Spaniard and because he thought one of them had cheated him and his brother out of their property. When his daughter married a young fellow whose people wouldn't acknowledge her——"
"Mother!" cried Mary Lee.
"What is it, daughter?"
"Never mind, go on," said Mary Lee breathlessly. "Go on, quick, please."
"Where was I? Oh yes: whose people wouldn't acknowledge her the old don was cut to the quick and vowed they should never know his daughter's child to teach her to despise her family. He was very proud of his Spanish blood and he made every member of his family swear not to tell the child's name, or to let her father's family know of her. The baby's father died before she was born and its mother soon after. It nearly broke the old man's heart, but he loved that baby as much as he hated her father's people who were not to have the chance to acknowledge her because they refused to accept the mother."
"Oh, oh," whispered Mary Lee, "doesn't it tell the father's name? Oh, mother!"
"So now I am keeping my word," Mrs. Corner went on, "and while I live the secret will not be told, but I think Elvira would want it known and I am sure John Pinckney would want his daughter to have people of her own and not have to be making her living when she needn't to. So there, Miss Mary, I've told you. John Pinckney was from New York, Jack they called him. He and Elvira were married in Mexico but he is buried at Santa Barbara where he died. Good-bye, Miss Mary, and thank you for coming into my life. I hope the good Master will let me see my wife and baby in another world.
"Your old friend,
"Jo Poker,
("Joseph T. Middleton.")
"Mother! Mother!" cried Mary Lee. "Oh, it's wonderful! Only a fairy tale could turn out so beautifully. How shall we tell them?"
"Them?"
"Why yes. Oh, don't you see? The señorita is Mr. St. Nick's granddaughter."
"Why Mary Lee. Of course. I didn't take it in at first. It is wonderful."
"I am so excited I can scarcely breathe. Where are Nan and Aunt Helen? we must tell them first. Nan will be simply wild. Oh, you dear Jo Poker, I hope you're in heaven with your little Pepita." She ran from the room to find Nan and Miss Helen to whom the marvelous news must be told. Then all four gathered in Mrs. Corner's room where the letter was re-read and discussed.
"It has been Mary Lee's theory all along," said Nan. "I pooh-poohed it, but she has said a dozen times that it might be so. One time we thought Jo Poker himself might be Miss Dolores' father, but I am glad enough he was not. Mary Lee has just dinged and dinged at this for weeks and I think she ought to have the honor of telling the señorita."
"I think so, too," agreed Miss Helen, and Mrs. Corner echoed her.
"Oh, how shall I begin?" said Mary Lee.
"Ask her what her cousin's last name was, and then tell her Jo Poker's story; after that it will be easy to work around to her own," suggested Nan.
"Would that be all right?" Mary Lee appealed to her mother.
"I think so. It seems a very good plan, and in the meantime we can be telling Mr. Pinckney."
Therefore Mary Lee went to seek Miss Dolores. She found her in the garden pacing up and down, a thoughtful look upon her face.
"What are you thinking about, dear Miss Dolores?" asked the girl.
"I was thinking of that position in Pasadena and was wondering if I would be less lonely there than in some spot further from home."
"I don't think you will ever be lonely again," said Mary Lee. "May I walk with you, Miss Dolores? I have something to tell you."
"I shall be very glad of your company, my dear. I, too, wish to tell you something, and it is that you can never know how my sad heart has been cheered by your love to me. I many times hide what I feel, and perhaps you do not think I appreciate and return it, but I do."
"I am so very glad," replied Mary Lee, slipping her hand in that of the señorita. "I have been wondering, Miss Dolores, what was the last name of your little cousin, your Cousin Pepita that you were telling me about the other day."
"She was named Pepita Middleton, for she, too, was half American. If she had lived we should be as sisters."
Mary Lee was silent while she formed the next question. "Did you know her father has just died?"
"Her father? He was supposed dead some years ago."
"No, and Miss Dolores, isn't it strange that he should be that Jo Poker of whom you have heard me tell?"
"Impossible, my dear."
"No, it is quite true. I have a letter here, a letter of farewell from him. Mr. Sanders has just left it for me. Miss Dolores, did you know that Jo Poker was a friend of your aunt's when he was young, and that he knew your father?"
The señorita dropped Mary Lee's hand, turned and gazed with startled eyes at her. "You have heard more," she said. "I see it in your face. Tell me, tell me quickly."
Mary Lee threw her arms around her. "I do know more. Oh, Miss Dolores, all these months I have been trying to find out for you who your father was. We did not want to tell you of our trying, Nan and I, for fear we should fail. Mr. Pinckney has been helping us all he could, too, and now, oh, dear Miss Dolores, we have found out, and you will be so glad."
"Tell me! Tell me!"
"His name was John Pinckney."
"Pinckney? Pinckney? The same as our good friend?"
"Yes, yes, and oh, to think your father was his own son. You are dear Mr. St. Nick's granddaughter, and Mrs. Bobs is your aunt."
"No, no! I dream! I am asleep!" cried the señorita, putting her hands on Mary Lee's shoulders and gazing into her eyes.
"You are wide awake. Oh, isn't it too good to be true? But it is true."
"And he, Mr. Pinckney, does he know?"
"I think he must by now. Mother and Aunt Helen are telling him."
"Will he be—will he——?"
"Will he be glad? I should think so. I can just imagine how overjoyed he will be. Come, let us find them. No, there they come now."
The señorita stood still with bowed head waiting. Down the path came Mr. Pinckney on as fast a trot as his weight would allow. "My little girl—Jack's little girl," he said tremblingly as he came up to the señorita. He held out his arms. "Aren't you going to forgive your old grandfather?" he faltered.
The señorita looked up. The tears were rolling down the dear man's face. She made a step forward. "Oh, how I shall love you," she murmured as she put her arms around his neck and began to sob.
"There, there, darling, don't cry," said the old gentleman patting her on the back while her own eyes ran. "My Jack's little girl! Thank God I've found her.
"It's all due to these blessed children," he said when he had led her to a seat. "Where are the darlings? You won't be jealous, Dolores, if I keep on loving them, will you? I can't help it."
"Jealous? Of the best, the most loving little friends a girl ever had? Ah, no, my grandfather, I too shall love them more than ever."
"Call them every one and let us share this joy with them."
"My dears, my dears," cried the señorita, running up the path and calling to the retreating figures who had delicately withdrawn, "we want you."
"Us, too," called Jack from the garden gate.
"You, too."
"My friends," said the señorita as they all came up, "such a wonderful thing has happened as some of you know. I am no longer alone. I have here what you have not, a grandfather."
Jack and Jean hand in hand stood looking with grave curiosity as they saw Mr. Pinckney gather their señorita close to him. "I don't believe it," said Jack; "you're just fooling us."
"Are you her grandfather, Mr. St. Nick?" asked Jean.
"I am, my child, I am, and proud enough of it."
"Then why didn't you tell us before?" asked Jack.
"We have just found it out. Mary Lee was really the discoverer. I have been trying for many years to learn what she has found out to-day."
"Wouldn't you ever have found out if it hadn't been for Mary Lee?" asked Jack eagerly.
"I am afraid not."
Jack stood looking him up and down. "Then aren't you glad I bumped into you that day in the candy shop?" she said.
At this every one burst into a laugh which was a relief to the overstrained feelings, and, after many congratulations and much hugging and kissing, the four Corners left the two Pinckneys to themselves.