The Tracy diamonds

by Mary Jane Holmes

Alas for the mistakes which change the current of one’s whole life. Chancing upon a Chicago paper in which were comments upon the recent divorce of “the beautiful Mrs. Hilton, so well known in fashionable circles,” there was mention made of her recent bereavement in the death of her little girl. Mark could not remember when he had cried before, but he did so now. Everything was swept from him,—his wife, his home, and his infant daughter.

“God has turned against me, if there is a God,” he said, “and I care nothing what becomes of me how.”

For days he was in a most despondent mood, scarcely eating or sleeping, and paying but little attention to anything passing around him. Jeff, who had come with him from Chicago, roused him at last by suggesting that they go to the mines of Montana. Although so young, Jeff was beginning to have a great influence over Mark, who felt so discouraged and hopeless that it was pleasant to lean upon some one even if it were a boy. They went to Montana and into the mines, but on the day of the accident both were away at some distance from the scene of the disaster, prospecting for themselves. When the news reached them and Mark heard that he was supposed to be dead and that Jeff was missing, it was the latter who said, “Let’s stay dead and missing, and take another name, and go on further west or south, and begin new with the world. I think it will be fun.”

The boy’s advice was followed, and John Rayborne and Tom Hardy went to California, where Anita Raffael came in Mark’s way. She was an orphan,—alone in the world,—with no home but the convent in which her father had placed her at school before he died. With Mark it was at first only pastime to talk to the little half Spanish, half Mexican, when he chanced to meet her. Then something in her lovely face and soft, dark eyes began to appeal to him, and he accidentally discovered how much he was to her, and how forlorn she was in her convent home, where she was like an imprisoned bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage in its efforts to escape. No one was unkind to her; no one could be, she was so gentle and sweet. She was unhappy because she wanted freedom, and when Mark asked her to be his wife, she took him gladly, and was so loving, and happy and gay, that he never repented the act. She was not like Helen, nor was he like the Mark Hilton who had won the famous beauty. He was John Rayborne, and Anita was his wife, and their home was in the Yosemite, where she persuaded him to go, for she loved the wild, mountain scenery and made their cottage a bower of beauty, with her skillful hands and perfect taste. When she heard of a stage robbery she would get furious and stamp her little feet and denounce the robbers in her broken English, while Mark laughed at her excitement and asked, “What would you do if I were to take to the road some day?”

“Kill you first, and then die myself,” she answered, with no more thought that such a thing could be than Mark himself had then.

For a time he drove the stage in the summer between Milton and the valley, and was once or twice stopped on the road when Jeff was with him on the box. Thus, both “knew the ropes,” as Jeff said, criticising the manner of the attack and pointing out a better way, while Mark laughed at him, and without meaning what he said, suggested that he try it.

Giving up stage-coaching, he became a guide, and then——. There was a deep, dark gulf after the then, and he always shuddered when he recalled the day when he joined Jeff in what he called a mere lark. Jeff had tried it alone, and, unknown to Mr. Hilton, to see if he could do it. He had profited by what he had seen on the road and laid his plans carefully as to what he would do in certain circumstances. As a boy he had picked pockets for fun, and he stopped the coach on the same principle, finding that the gymnastic performances of his youth were a help to him in the rapidity with which he could do his work and disappear. The stage which was the object of his first attempt was chosen because there was only one passenger in it, a clergyman, who had prayed aloud while he was being searched.

“The old cove’s watch was silver, and he had only twenty-five dollars in his purse, and I gave them back to him. I never meant to take a blessed thing, and my revolver wasn’t loaded,” he said to Mark to whom he related his adventure.

The boy, who had horrified Uncle Zacheus by saying he’d like to be a robber and had astonished Alice by offering to pick her pocket, had developed into a man with a will so strong and a manner so enticing that Mark was like clay in his hands. It was, however, some time before he was persuaded to try what he could do at a hold-up. He found he could do a great deal. The excitement and danger were exhilarating, especially when Jeff was with him and by his wonderful activity bewildered the passengers until they could have sworn there were half a dozen men instead of one demanding their money. It was exhilarating, too, to help search for the brigands and hear all that was said of them and make suggestions as to the best means of capturing them. The downward grade once entered upon, it was comparatively easy to continue it until he was steeped in crime so deep that to go back seemed impossible. Sometimes when Anita’s arms were around his neck he would put her from him quickly with a feeling that he was not worthy to touch one so pure and innocent and who trusted him so implicitly. It would kill her if she knew the truth, but she never should know it, he thought, and for her sake and his daughter’s he was deciding to quit his mode of life when her sudden death paralyzed for a time every faculty of his mind and left him without the ballast he needed.

Returning home late one night after an absence of two or three days he had been talking with Jeff of a recent robbery and the necessity there was to keep quiet for some time to come, the country was so thoroughly aroused and so large a price was offered for the capture of the men. A slight sound, more like the cry of a wounded animal than of a human being, attracted his attention, and hurrying into the next room he found Anita senseless upon the floor. She had been sitting up after Inez was in bed hoping he might come home and had fallen asleep so that she did not hear him when he came in; neither did he see her, or suspect that she was in the next room. His voice must have awakened her, but what she heard he never knew. That it was enough to kill her he was sure. Everything which he could do for her he did, but although she recovered her consciousness she never spoke again except with her eyes which followed him constantly and were full of the horror she could not express. After she died he remained at home the entire summer, but when the next season came round Tom persuaded him to take up the old life, which would give him excitement if not peace of mind. Many were the ruses resorted to to throw people off the track should they ever chance upon it. The attack of Mark upon a stage and Tom’s defence was one of them, planned by Tom, who was ringleader in everything. No one suspected them and their popularity hurt Mark nearly as much as suspicion would have done. But nothing touched him like Inez’s faith in him. She was his idol, on whom he lavished all the love he had ever given to Helen and Anita. Of her engagement he secretly disapproved. That Tom would leave nothing undone to make her happy he knew, but that his beautiful young daughter should marry a man for whose capture thousands of dollars were offered was terrible. But he was powerless. To betray Tom was to condemn himself, and either would kill Inez as her mother was killed.