The Tracy diamonds

by Mary Jane Holmes

“When do you go to the Yosemite? Do you know I have a queer feeling about that trip and am half inclined to take it with you. I have just seen a chap who two years ago last summer was waylaid by robbers. He says it’s not an uncommon thing for the stage to be stopped. His experience was a bad one. Two ladies fainted from sheer fright and one of them was robbed while unconscious. A strange feature of this robbery was that the watch taken from the fainting woman and which had her name engraved upon it was sent to her by mail to the hotel where she was stopping. Most of the money taken was also returned to the owners who could least afford to lose it. A queer thing for marauders to do, and shows that they are habitues of the neighborhood and have facilities for learning the names and position of those whom they plunder. I hope you will not meet with an adventure of this kind.”

On the morning when Fanny received this letter she was sitting by the window of one of the parlors in the hotel, reading it a second time, and feeling a little nervous with regard to the stage robberies of which she had heard something in San Francisco. A Firemen’s Parade was passing, with all the paraphernalia of bands and hose carts and boys and a crowd generally, but she paid no attention to it until a clear, musical voice, with a slight accent, said to her, “Pretty, isn’t it, Miss Prescott; and isn’t father grand in his new suit? That’s he,—the tall man who bowed to me when I kissed my hand to him. He is foreman of one of the companies.”

Surprised at being so familiarly addressed by a stranger, Fanny looked up and saw standing by the next window a young girl whom she had seen several times in the halls and corridors and wondered who she was. She was tall and well proportioned. Her features were regular, her eyes dark and lustrous and veiled under very long lashes and surmounted by heavy brows which made them seem darker than they were. Her complexion was a rich olive, telling of a southern sun which must have warmed the blood of one or both of her parents. There was nothing impertinent in her manner. It was simply friendly, and Fanny, who was longing for some young person to speak to, answered pleasantly, “How did you know my name?”

“Oh, everybody knows that,” the girl replied, “and if they didn’t they have only to look on the register. I saw you the day you came and have watched you ever since when I had a chance and I wanted to speak to you so badly. I don’t know why, only I did. It seemed to me I should like you, and I know so few young girls. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken to you, but you don’t mind, do you?”

She was so frank and unsophisticated and her face was so pretty and pleasant that Fanny had no thought of being offended. She had been told by her mother never to talk with strangers and especially to the class to which this girl belonged. But Fanny usually talked to whom she pleased and as she attracted this strange girl so the girl attracted and fascinated her.

“Sit down, please, and tell me your name, inasmuch as you know mine,” she said.

The girl sat down and folded her hands just as Fanny had a trick of folding hers. There was this difference, however,—the girl’s hands were large and brown,—helpful hands, used to toil,—while Fanny’s were soft and white and dimpled like a baby’s. The girl was not at all averse to talking of herself and said, “I am Inez Rayborne. My father is an American. My mother was half Mexican, half Spanish,—with a little Gypsy blood in her. She used to call me Gypsy because I love the mountains and rocks and woods so much. Father married her near Santa Barbara, and her name was Anita. Isn’t that a pretty name?”

Fanny said it was, and Inez went on: “She was a little bit of a body whom father could take up and set on his shoulder. He is big and tall, and I am big, too. I wish I was small like mother and you. Mother is dead, and I have been so lonely since she died.”

Her eyes filled with tears which hung on her lashes as she continued: “Our home is in the Yosemite, not far from Inspiration Point, and perched on the hillside above the stage road, with a lovely view of the valley and the mountains. We call it Prospect Cottage and in winter we shut it up and come to the city. Before mother died we went sometimes to Santa Barbara, sometimes to Los Angeles. Now we come here and I help the housekeeper in part payment for my board. Father helps round the hotel, and Tom, too, when he is here.”

“Who is Tom?” Fanny asked, and Inez replied, “Oh, he is Tom and has lived with us since I can remember, and is like a son to father. In the summer, when the hotels in the valley are full of visitors, they sometimes go on trails as guides with the people. Again they are off on some business, seeing to exchange of property, which keeps them away for days. Then I am so lonesome and afraid, too, if there is a robbery on the road. I have a splendid dog, Nero, to take care of me. He is young, but very large. He is here with us. Maybe you have noticed him lying in the office or the hall.”