CHAPTER XLIII.
AFTER EIGHTEEN MONTHS.
Mr. and Mrs. Paul Ralston, maid and valet, were staying at the Grand Hotel in Paris and making occasional trips to Versailles, St. Germain, Vincennes and Fontainebleau. They had just returned from the latter place, where they had spent a few days. Mrs. Paul was in her room dressing for dinner, while her husband went to Munroe’s for any letters which might have come from home during his absence.
“I think I will wear my new dress to-night,” the lady said to her maid, and by her voice we recognize Elithe, whom we saw last in the crowded court room in Oak City testifying against Paul.
She was his wife now, and had been for two months of perfect happiness. The marriage had followed in the natural sequence of events. Paul had gained strength and vitality rapidly in California, but there was something lacking to a perfect cure. He missed the girl who had stood by him so bravely when his sky was blackest, and who, he knew now, had always been more to him than he supposed. He had loved Clarice devotedly, but that love was dead, and another and better had taken its place. Every incident connected with his acquaintance with Elithe he lived over and over again, seeing her as she was on the boat, forlorn and crumpled and homesick,—seeing her in the little white room when she came back to life and spoke to him,—seeing her in the water where she went but once,—and in the tennis court and on the causeway, and on the wild sea, when the lightning showed him her face and she lay in his arms like a frightened child,—seeing her in the court house in an agony of remorse because she had to swear against him,—but seeing her oftener in the Smuggler’s room, where her presence was like sunshine and her voice the sweetest he had ever heard.
Clarice was only a sad memory now, his love for her blotted out by the black shadows which had come between them. He did not know where she was, nor particularly care. Her movements were nothing to him. He wanted to see Elithe, and when in the spring his parents spoke of returning home he suggested that they go up the coast to Portland and Tacoma and across the country by way of Spokane and Helena, stopping at Samona, where Elithe now was. Miss Hansford, who wrote occasionally to his mother, had said her niece was going home in April and she was going with her. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ralston understood Paul’s wish to stop at Samona, and as they would have gone to the ends of the earth to please him, they readily assented to his suggestion, and a letter was forwarded to Miss Hansford asking what accommodations could be found for them. The whole of the second floor at The Samona, where Jack had once been a guest, was engaged, and Miss Hansford took it upon herself to see that it was in perfect order, insisting upon so much new furniture that the landlord came to an open battle with her, telling her he should be ruined with all he was paying out and the small price he charged for board.
“Charge more then. They are able to pay. You never had real quality before,” Miss Hansford said to him.
“I had Mr. Pennington,” the landlord replied, and with a snort Miss Hansford rejoined: “Mr. Pennington! I hope you don’t class him with the Ralstons. He can’t hold a candle to ’em. I know the Percy blood.”
Here she stopped, remembering that Jack was in his grave, and that his memory was held sacred in Samona and among the miners, whose camp she had visited several times with Elithe and Rob. But she carried her point with regard to refurnishing. The room Jack had occupied was to be turned into a salon, where the family were to have their meals served. Hair mattresses were to be bought for the beds. There was to be drapery at the windows in place of the paper curtains,—rugs for the floor, and four towels a day each for Mr. and Mrs. Ralston, and Paul, Tom and the maid could get along with two each. The landlord looked aghast. One towel a day was as much as he ever furnished, except to Mr. Pennington, who insisted upon two, and he thought the Ralstons must be a dirty lot. Twelve towels for three people, and two apiece for their help, making sixteen in all.
“There ain’t enough in the tavern to hold out. I’ll have to get more,” he said.
“Get ’em, then,” Miss Hansford replied, and he got them.