II.
The Chester Mansfield to whom I have referred was the young minister of my church, and also the son of my dearest friend. Mrs. Mansfield had been my playmate and schoolmate in childhood, my confidante in girlhood, and when we were matrons and neighbors our early affection had settled into the deep, enduring friendship of later life. She had married our minister and was an exemplary wife and mother. Our children were schoolmates also, and her only son Chester was a boy of unusual promise. He distinguished himself in school and college, and, finishing his course just before his father’s death, was unanimously called to fill the vacant pulpit. Here his eloquence and spirituality fully justified the promise of his youth, and he became almost the idol of his congregation. He married a lovely girl, and life seemed to hold for him the highest blessings that man can dream of.
The sorrow, then, of his sudden and peculiarly sad death cannot be described. Not only his family and church, but the whole town, mourned as if for a brother, and the church could not hold the concourse that followed his body to the grave.
The mothers and sisters and the frail young wife were almost crushed by the blow, and even after the lapse of nearly five years it was fresh enough in my heart to make Charlie 186 Reynolds’ face bring back those days of mourning with sad reality. I formed then the hope, foolish, perhaps, that if this young man should be found to be a relative of the dead man and reclaimed, he might in some measure atone to those bereaved ones for their loss. With this idea, I improved every opportunity to cultivate Charlie Reynolds’ acquaintance and win his good opinion, although I was much embarrassed by the laughing eyes that Howard never failed to turn upon me in my efforts at conversation.
They were efforts, indeed; for if I had come from a foreign land, and spoken an unknown language, I could hardly have had more difficulty in finding a topic of common interest or in making myself intelligible, for old-fashioned English seemed to be less understood than any others of the numerous tongues I heard.
I could hear from my window, Mexicans, Chinamen, Indians, Frenchmen, and Spaniards chatting in the plaza, until I could almost guess what they said, but the vernacular of the American miner and rancher is beyond comprehension.
There are about four topics discussed at the Eldorado tables, chief of all, the mines, and to this day I cannot talk coherently about drifts and leads and dumps, and the like.
Then there were the games, the most absorbing of all, who had lost and won, and as I don’t know one card nor one game from another, I am not interested in that subject. There was, it seemed to me, a fresh murder or robbery or Indian fight to discuss every morning at breakfast; and the ranch talk, in which my most intelligent questions always provoked a shout of laughter. When I quoted Talmage one morning, a young man looked at me pityingly, and said, “Oh, he’s dead a year ago! He had one of the finest saloons in Las Vegas; he was a smart man, poor fellow!” My attempts to interest my table companions in a description of the Chautauqua and its purpose, and the mission of the W. C. T. U., and their painful efforts to be politely interested, almost sent my son into convulsions in consequence of laughing into his coffee-cup; and the intense earnestness with which the man they called Bunco Brown asked, “And didn’t they sell no booze there?” and then, “Well, then, how in thunder do they get it if they’re too pious to steal?” might have seemed amusing to one who was not struck by the horror of the fact that the man could not conceive of life for any person without drink.
So, owing to the missionary’s usual difficulty in making himself understood, I had to wait to learn a means of communication with my subject. I even ventured to the door of the billiard room and tried to manifest an interest in the science of the game, but here, 187 also, I was too hopelessly old-fashioned to be able to comprehend the beauty of the angles, and beat an ignominious retreat. I heard Charlie remark as I went up-stairs: “Game, for such a pious old lady, isn’t she?” I took it as a compliment.
But my opportunity finally came through the humble instrumentality of an onion. It was about the size of a dinner-plate, and lay on the newel-post as I came down stairs one morning. Charlie was standing in the front door, with his back to me, peeling an orange. He turned around at my exclamation of surprise and asked, “Why, don’t they grow like that where you live?”
“In New England? Oh dear, no!” I cried; and then he asked me a number of questions, and seemed very much interested in my account of vegetables and fruit and trees and flowers in the East. I was delighted to tell him, although I had a lurking suspicion that such a remarkable ignorance of that country was feigned. And yet his eyes, so wonderfully like Chester Mansfield’s, except in expression, had a certain vacant honesty—for which, I presume, an accustomed story-teller could find a better expression—that I was obliged to believe genuine. As soon as he found that I was curious about the flora and fauna of the locality, he took great pains in bringing me specimens, and on two occasions took me out for a walk to see something that could not be brought. In this closer acquaintance I found so much that was kind and pleasant, and so many peculiar little resemblances to my dead friend—a backward toss of the head when he laughed, a frown when listening, an odd little gesture with the left hand in explaining anything—that he puzzled me more and more. Among the few books that I could find to read in the town was the “Woman in White,” which I read with compunction, not having been addicted to works of fiction, and the curious resemblance between the two women made a deep impression upon me, and seemed to have a strange significance just at this time. Although I had as yet not succeeded in drawing any confidence from Charlie—who, indeed, seldom spoke of himself, and never related any past experience—a very suspicious trait I thought, I felt sure that time would unravel the dark mystery that enveloped him.
Just as I was feeling that I had now Charlie’s friendship, the man Crouch seemed to become jealous of my influence, and became so attentive to him that my acquaintance with him was virtually suspended for a time. One day, a bright, hot day in March, a Mexican wagon train arrived in town, laden with beans, hides, and “Chili Colorade,” and a crowd of rancheros from another direction swarmed into the 188 plaza. The town was full of excitement and whiskey; the tinkle of the dance saloons came up from all quarters; the rancheros, with their red shirts and broad hats, galloped their tough mustangs madly through the streets, firing at random, and lassoing the unlucky curs and pigs that happened to be in the way. While there were street brawls at every corner, I hardly dared to leave my room, and I could not venture to sit by my window. It was a great relief that Howard came in very early. All through the evening I listened to the confused sounds that came up through the resonant air, and could distinguish the soft voice of the pretty Mexican girl in the saloon opposite my window, accompanied by her castanet. It was another of those still, white nights, when the town seemed to hang in mid-air. I felt the premonition of impending disaster so common to nervous women, and made Howard sit in my room as long as I could think of a pretext for keeping him. When I was alone, I lay wakeful through the noisy hours, waiting for daylight. At perhaps three o’clock, or a little later, I fell into a semi-conscious doze, from which I was aroused by the footsteps and low voices of men in the hall. The slowness of the steps, and the hushed tone in which they spoke, gave me a thrill of terror. Something had happened. Yes, they were talking about it, and carrying something—some one—by. “Right this way, lay him on the bed.” “What, doctor?” “Pretty near dead.” “Small chance,” and so on. Then with strained nerves I listened for the doctor, heard him come, heard his quick directions, heard the running to and fro to get what he required, and then arose and dressed myself with trembling hands, unable to bear the tension any longer, and thinking that I might be of assistance. I went to Howard’s door, aroused him, and sent him to learn what was the matter. He went a little reluctantly, but returned wide awake.
“Why, it’s Charlie Reynolds, poor 189 fellow! I guess he’s about killed—some row, I suppose; didn’t wait to find out. The doctor is attending to him now.”
A little later, in the gray, solemn dawn, the doctor came out of the room in which Charlie had been laid, and I went to learn the worst. I knew now that I had grown very fond of the young man, and I could see that Howard liked him, too.