A MYSTERY AND A PARTING.
The troupe of which Miss De Montague and Mr. Bellario were prime spirits made a profound impression at Bullion Flat; so profound, in truth, that before their three nights were over a fresh engagement was made for their return a fortnight later. It was agreed that at that time, and on their return from other points, they should appear for an additional three nights, and thus afford their admirers opportunities for which the first essay had been insufficient. This arrangement was highly agreeable to Miss De Montague and Mr. Bellario for reasons largely connected, respectively, with the excellent cuisine and bar of the Bella Union. "Why, my dear," observed the lady, "when I fust come up to do the 'legitimate,' fifteen months ago, love nor money could buy a morsel of supper after the play. We had to do with a pot of ginger, and dig it out with the Macbeth daggers, and wash it down with bad beer."
The arrangement was also satisfactory to Miss Tinsel. It seemed well to her that she should be absent for a time; and yet she could not deny a feeling of joy over the thought of returning. Her lover had been greatly shocked by the dismal tale she had recited; but, to the credit of his manliness, he had refused to accept the facts as conclusive arguments against his suit. "Was it her fault," argued he, "that her father was a scoundrel?" Why should stigma or disability of any sort attach to her for that which she had no hand in, and had been powerless to prevent? On the contrary, should not the world, or any part of it that might come in contact with her, treat a helpless and innocent girl with even greater tenderness and commiseration because of the undeserved and terrible misfortune that had befallen her?
Jane had resolved that she ought not to be moved by such arguments, and yet she could not help liking to hear them. It was in the end agreed between them—by Harding's earnest entreaties—that she should think the matter over, and that her final decision should be withheld until the return of the troupe to perform its second engagement. Jane had talked with Miss De Montague, who, in spite of some foibles, was a kind-hearted and right-minded woman, and Miss De Montague had strongly urged that Jane's sensitiveness was overstrained. If Mr. Harding had been told all the truth without reserve and he still wished to make Jane his wife, and Jane wished to marry him, that was enough. To stand about and moon over it, and wonder or care what people would say, was all fiddle-faddle, and all sensible people would call it so. Besides, California was different from other places. It was the custom there to give everybody a chance, and value them for what they did and what they were now—and not for what other people, or even they themselves, had done before. It is right to admit that the amiable lady's passion for Mr. Bellario—whose similar feeling for Miss Tinsel was more than suspected—had something to do with inspiring all these sage suggestions; but the suggestions were not deprived of good sense by that.
During the fortnight that passed between Jane's departure and her return the cottage that Harding designed for her future home fast approached completion. Meanwhile its owner's claim was doing better, and his coffers were consequently fuller than ever before. He resolved that, come what might, Jane should become his wife; and it was in this frame of mind that Harding walked out by the riverside on the night the troupe returned. As before, he resolved not to hurry in his suit, and therefore determined to omit calling until the following day.
The night was clear, the stars shining brightly, and the stream ran gurgling forward with a pleasant sound. Suddenly, as Harding strolled musing along the bank, some one touched him on the shoulder from behind; and turning, he beheld the "Blood-Red Demon," Mr. Bellario. That gentleman wore a long cloak, tossed across his breast and left shoulder, and a slouched sombrero; and his white, pasty face wore a look of inscrutable mystery.
"Hist!" he enjoined in a stage whisper; "all is discovered!" Then he drew back, with finger on lip, as if to watch the effect of his revelation.
"What's the matter?" said Harding. "What do you mean?"
"Mean! Ha! ha!" and the "Demon" laughed witheringly. "He asks me what I mean! Mark me," proceeded he, with a sudden transition, "I know your secret!"
"Oh, you do, do you? Which one do you mean?" questioned Harding scornfully.
"I have neither time nor heart to trifle," said the "Demon," waving his arm with an air of ineffable majesty. "I shall be brief and to the point."
"You'll very much oblige me."
"Enough. What prompts me to this midnight deed, 'twere bootless now to ask, and idle to reveal. Therefore to my tale. You are in love with Aurora—with Miss Tinsel?"
"By what right——"
"Spare your reproaches. I am in love with her too!"
"You?"
"Is that so strange? Long ere you crossed our path I knew and loved her. But this is neither here nor there."
"I should think not."
"Professionally," continued the "Demon," with great dignity, "she is, of course, my inferior. Socially—well, you know, I think the damning family secret——"
"Whatever that may be, it is no sin of hers. I think you may wisely leave it a secret—so far, that is, as to omit crying it on the housetops."
"Save to yourself and Miss De Montague, no hint of the tragedy has passed my lips. But to the business between us——"
"My good sir," said Harding, with irritation, "I know of none, so far. If you have anything to say to me, I'll listen. If not, I'll pass on."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the "Demon" with bitter mockery. "I come to serve ye, and ye would spurn me from yer path! Poor, poor humanity! Why, why should I laugh when I should rather weep?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Harding simply, "and I don't want to be uncivil. But it certainly isn't asking too much to want to know what you mean."
"No," responded the "Demon," with melodious sadness—"not too much. Though every word be torture, yet I will e'en go through the ordeal. Sir, what I have to say—and it cuts me to the heart to say it—is that this lady—this young girl—this Aurora Tinsel—is worthy of neither of us."
"What!"
"She is unworthy—lost—and capable of the worst deception!"
"That's false!"
"How, sir?"
"That's false. And you or any one else who says it is a liar!"
The "Demon" drew suddenly back, clapped his hand to an imaginary sword hung at his left side—and then thought better of it.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed lightly, but keeping at a wary distance from Harding's reach. "Why should I yield to rage? My prowess is well known—and, after all, this worthy gentleman speaks in ignorance. Sir," he added, changing his tone with elaborate and chivalrous grace, "I speak of what I know, and speak only with the best of motives. But it is due to you that I offer to make good my words. I can absolutely prove that what I have said is true."
"Prove it, how?"
"By enabling you to witness for yourself that which justifies what I say."
"And you can do this?"
"Almost to a certainty, and probably this very night."
Harding hesitated. To take the course proposed seemed like doubt, and doubt was unworthy. To refuse to take that course might subject Jane to calumny, which he might on the other hand nip in the bud. Presently he spoke:
"What do you propose?"
"That you go with me at once, and judge for yourself. We may fail tonight, but if so, our success to-morrow will be all but certainty."
The man's air of conviction was impressive, and Harding, fearful, yet hoping that he might unearth some strange mistake or deception, agreed to the plan proposed. It was settled that the two should meet an hour later at the "Bella Union," and they parted now with that understanding. Bellario, however, took occasion before leaving his companion to make his insinuations so far specific as to tell him that Miss Tinsel had made the acquaintance of a certain handsome, dark-eyed man, who had followed the troupe ever since it had last been at Bullion Flat; that this man evidently admired the girl very much, and that she had encouraged his advances in the most unmistakable manner; that she had gone so far as to receive her admirer at her room in the hotel, and that at so late an hour as to excite the censure of the not over-prudish Miss De Montague; and that, in fine, Miss Tinsel's hitherto spotless name had been so tarnished by the events of the last fortnight as to make it certain none would ever again think her the pure girl she had always hitherto been held to be.
With the blood tingling through every vein, with nerves at extreme tension, and a heart full of bitterness, Chester Harding passed away. Something told him that the tale, black and dismal as it was, was likewise true. When Jane told him the story of her father's crime and its punishment, Harding felt as if there had fallen between him and his prospect of happiness a veil that made it look doubtful and unreal. The girl's firmness in telling him the truth, and the assertion of her opinion as to the proper bearing and consequence of that truth on her relations with Harding, had assuredly deeply impressed and comforted him. It was something to face, after all, and even in California, this wedding the child of a murderer and felon. Yet her own perfect goodness was the justification and would be the reward of such an act. But when Jane's goodness itself was in question it was no wonder that Harding's heart sank within him. He was no coward, but his experience had taught him distrust; and he waited for the stipulated hour to pass in an agony of doubt and pain.
The "Bella Union" had two long wings, perhaps thirty feet apart, running at right angles with its façade toward the rear. In the second story of one wing there were sleeping rooms. Both stories of the opposite wing were occupied by the theatre. The latter was quite dark, and hither Bellario conducted Harding after they had met in the saloon below.
"Be silent," whispered the "Demon," when they met—"be silent and follow."
Up two winding staircases, then through a long passage, and they stood in a gallery over the stage and directly facing the other wing.
"Look!" said the "Demon"; "he's there now!" He still whispered, for the night was hot and windows were everywhere open. Through one of these directly opposite Harding distinctly saw Miss Tinsel. She was talking earnestly with some one not in sight. Harding gazed breathlessly and listened. Presently a second figure came between the window and the light within. It was that of a tall, handsome man with dark eyes. He replied to the girl with earnestness equal to her own, but in tones as carefully suppressed. As the eyes of the observers got used to the situation, they descried a bed on the further side of the room. On this Miss Tinsel, after a time, sat down. The man followed and seated himself by her side. A moment or two more, and he took both her hands and clasped them in his own. They still talked, obviously with deep feeling, and at last Miss Tinsel threw her arms around her companion's neck and kissed him.
"Enough," hoarsely exclaimed Harding. "Enough—and more than enough!"
"You'll wait no longer?" asked the other.
"Not an instant. Can't you conceive, man—you who profess yourself to have cared for her—what a hell this is?"
"I've been through it before," muttered the "Demon," "and the wound isn't quite so fresh."
They descended in silence to the saloon, and there Harding spoke more freely:
"See here—you've saved me from a great peril—and although I think I had rather you had shot me outright, you deserve no less gratitude. If you want help—money—for instance——"
The "Demon" waved his hand in lofty refusal.
"As Claude Melnotte says, sir, I gave you revenge—I did not sell it. There are better men than I in the world, and lots of them. But I try to do as I would be done by—at least in a scrape like this. I wish you good night, and I hope you'll take comfort. After a little it'll seem easier to you. Certainly the ill news should come easier even now than it would afterward. As Othello says, ''Tis better as it is.'"
He bowed and passed away. Ascending to the apartment of Miss De Montague, he made himself so agreeable as to be able to borrow from that lady a dozen shining eagles; and, thus provided, descended promptly to Mr. Copperas's bank, where he whiled away the night—assisted by copious drinks and unlimited cigars—at the enlivening game of faro.
As for Harding, he went to the bar of the saloon and took what was for him a stiff glass of brandy. Then he turned abruptly on his heel, and without sending his name before him, marched straight up to Miss Tinsel's room.
She met him at the door with a glad cry—and then shrank back abashed.
"I see," she murmured, in her low, sweet voice, "you don't care to have me repulse you again. You have thought it over—and you agree that it is better not."
He came just inside the door, but did not sit, although she motioned him to a chair.
"I agree," he repeated mechanically—"I agree—with you that it is better not." Then he looked suspiciously around the room. There was no one there—but a door opened into another room beyond. Jane followed his eyes. "That is Miss De Montague's room," she said; "we are always next to each other."
"And she is there now?"
"Yes—with Mr. Bellario—he is calling on her."
Harding paused a minute, and then went on in a hard, constrained voice, like one who repeats a disagreeable lesson.
"I have thought it right to see you—now, for the last time—and say I think it best—and right—that we should part."
Jane turned very pale, and the old grave look of hopeless pain came over her face. But she answered with infinite softness and humility:
"It is right—you know I thought so from the first. You should not marry a—a convict's daughter."
"It is not because you are a convict's daughter."
"The reason is sufficient."
"I repel it," he cried vehemently—"I will have none of it—I told you so before—I repeat it now. Listen," and he crossed the room swiftly and closed both doors.
"I loved you for yourself—dearly—dearly. What did it matter to me—what fault was it of yours—what other people did, or what or where they were? In this grand, new country, men—some men, at least—have grown high enough and strong enough to shake off such paltry prejudices as those. To me they are as nothing."
"You led me to think so," Jane said gently.
"Why should I care for your being a ballet-dancer—or for the other thing, when you had never disgraced yourself? But now it is different."
"Now it is different!" she echoed in amazement.
"Different in this," pursued he with growing excitement, "that before you were a pure girl—pure as snow—everybody said that—and now you are—are—compromised."
The blood rushed in a torrent up to her hair.
"Who says it?" she demanded, now first showing warmth—"who dares say it?"
"Alas, Jane," he replied, "don't make things worse by deception at parting. Let us be at least as we have always been, honest and unreserved to each other."
"What you have said just now," said the girl' proudly, "is an insult. The time has been when you would not have heard another say such words—either to me or of me; and yet they are as little deserved now as they have ever been."
"They are, are they?" he retorted. "Then pray tell me who was that man you have had here within an hour?"
She turned deadly white, and opened her lips thrice to speak before the words would shape themselves.
"That—man?"
"Do you deny having a man with you?"
She shook her head piteously. "No—there was a man here—and with me."
"Ah, you confess it then," cried he, as if her admission made what he knew more heinous. "Who was this man? Confess all!"
"He—he—wanted help—asked for money. He saw me in the play at Boone's Bar—and thinking me richer than I am, asked me for money."
Harding laughed scornfully. "And do you expect me to believe this?"
"It is true," she hurried on nervously. "He said he was desperate and must have money to get away."
"Had he any claim upon you?" he asked, scanning her with cold, searching eyes.
She hesitated and made answer, "No—none."
"Yet he pushed his demand with eloquence?"
"He did."
"And with success?"
"I gave him all I had."
"Even although he had no claim on you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Jane—Jane!" he cried with a burst of bitter sorrow; "why couldn't you have been truthful to the end? Why—why must you make me look back—always and only to despise you!"
She looked at him stonily, but made no reply.
"Jane, it cuts me to the heart to say it—but I saw you—do you hear?—saw you. He took both your hands in his—you threw your arms about his neck and kissed him. Do you deny this?"
She still looked him straight in the face, but two tears brimmed into her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. "No, it is true," she then answered.
"You own this too," he cried furiously. "Jane, who is this man?"
She remained silent.
"I ask you again, Jane—and for the last time—who is this man?"
"I cannot tell you."
"You refuse?"
"I must."
"Then farewell. We can meet no more." He turned, and stood with his hand on the door, and with the action the girl's overstrained nerves gave way.
"Oh, no, no, no! Oh, Chester, I have loved you so! Don't—for mercy's sake—don't leave me in anger—when I so need comfort—help—and—p—pity!"
She fell on her knees by the bed, and with her face in her hands, sobbed aloud.
As she did so, a burst of strange, mocking laughter resounded from the adjoining room, and Harding started as if he had been stung.
"It must be!" he hissed, all that was hardest and worst in his nature suddenly possessing him. "After this it would only be torture—to both!" He bent suddenly and kissed—not her lips, no longer pure—but her forehead, once, twice, thrice, passionately, and then fled away into the darkness.