A First Family of Tasajara

Since the festival of Tasajara Mr. Grant had been a frequent visitor at Harcourt’s, and was a guest on the eve of his departure from San Francisco. The distinguished position of each made their relations appear quite natural without inciting gossip as to any attraction in Harcourt’s daughters. It was late one afternoon as he was passing the door of Harcourt’s study that his host called him in. He found him sitting at his desk with some papers before him and a folded copy of the “Clarion.” With his back to the fading light of the window his face was partly in shadow.

“By the way, Grant,” he began, with an assumption of carelessness somewhat inconsistent with the fact that he had just called him in, “it may be necessary for me to pull up those fellows who are blackguarding me in the ‘Clarion.’”

“Why, they haven’t been saying anything new?” asked Grant, laughingly, as he glanced towards the paper.

“No—that is—only a rehash of what they said before,” returned Harcourt without opening the paper.

“Well,” said Grant playfully, “you don’t mind their saying that you’re NOT the original pioneer of Tasajara, for it’s true; nor that that fellow ‘Lige Curtis disappeared suddenly, for he did, if I remember rightly. But there’s nothing in that to invalidate your rights to Tasajara, to say nothing of your five years’ undisputed possession.”

“Of course there’s no LEGAL question,” said Harcourt almost sharply. “But as a matter of absurd report, I may want to contradict their insinuations. And YOU remember all the circumstances, don’t you?”

“I should think so! Why, my dear fellow, I’ve told it everywhere!—here, in New York, Newport, and in London; by Jove, it’s one of my best stories! How a company sent me out with a surveyor to look up a railroad and agricultural possibilities in the wilderness; how just as I found them—and a rather big thing they made, too—I was set afloat by a flood and a raft, and drifted ashore on your bank, and practically demonstrated to you what you didn’t know and didn’t dare to hope for—that there could be a waterway straight to Sidon from the embarcadero. I’ve told what a charming evening we had with you and your daughters in the old house, and how I returned your hospitality by giving you a tip about the railroad; and how you slipped out while we were playing cards, to clinch the bargain for the land with that drunken fellow, ‘Lige Curtis”—

“What’s that?” interrupted Harcourt, quickly.

It was well that the shadow hid from Grant the expression of Harcourt’s face, or his reply might have been sharper. As it was, he answered a little stiffly:—

“I beg your pardon”—

Harcourt recovered himself. “You’re all wrong!” he said, “that bargain was made long BEFORE; I never saw ‘Lige Curtis after you came to the house. It was before that, in the afternoon,” he went on hurriedly, “that he was last in my store. I can prove it.” Nevertheless he was so shocked and indignant at being confronted in his own suppressions and falsehoods by an even greater and more astounding misconception of fact, that for a moment he felt helpless. What, he reflected, if it were alleged that ‘Lige had returned again after the loafers had gone, or had never left the store as had been said? Nonsense! There was John Milton, who had been there reading all the time, and who could disprove it. Yes, but John Milton was his discarded son,—his enemy,—perhaps even his very slanderer!

“But,” said Grant quietly, “don’t you remember that your daughter Euphemia said something that evening about the land Lige had OFFERED you, and you snapped up the young lady rather sharply for letting out secrets, and THEN you went out? At least that’s my impression.”

It was, however, more than an impression; with Grant’s scientific memory for characteristic details he had noticed that particular circumstance as part of the social phenomena.

“I don’t know what Phemie SAID,” returned Harcourt, impatiently. “I KNOW there was no offer pending; the land had been sold to me before I ever saw you. Why—you must have thought me up to pretty sharp practice with Curtis—eh?” he added, with a forced laugh.

Grant smiled; he had been accustomed to hear of such sharp practice among his business acquaintance, although he himself by nature and profession was incapable of it, but he had not deemed Harcourt more scrupulous than others. “Perhaps so,” he said lightly, “but for Heaven’s sake don’t ask me to spoil my reputation as a raconteur for the sake of a mere fact or two. I assure you it’s a mighty taking story as I tell it—and it don’t hurt you in a business way. You’re the hero of it—hang it all!”

“Yes,” said Harcourt, without noticing Grant’s half cynical superiority, “but you’ll oblige me if you won’t tell it again IN THAT WAY. There are men here mean enough to make the worst of it. It’s nothing to me, of course, but my family—the girls, you know—are rather sensitive.”

“I had no idea they even knew it,—much less cared for it,” said Grant, with sudden seriousness. “I dare say if those fellows in the ‘Clarion’ knew that they were annoying the ladies they’d drop it. Who’s the editor? Look here—leave it to me; I’ll look into it. Better that you shouldn’t appear in the matter at all.”

“You understand that if it was a really serious matter, Grant,” said Harcourt with a slight attitude, “I shouldn’t allow any one to take my place.”

“My dear fellow, there’ll be nobody ‘called out’ and no ‘shooting at sight,’ whatever is the result of my interference,” returned Grant, lightly. “It’ll be all right.” He was quite aware of the power of his own independent position and the fact that he had been often appealed to before in delicate arbitration.

Harcourt was equally conscious of this, but by a strange inconsistency now felt relieved at the coolness with which Grant had accepted the misconception which had at first seemed so dangerous. If he were ready to condone what he thought was SHARP PRACTICE, he could not be less lenient with the real facts that might come out,—of course always excepting that interpolated consideration in the bill of sale, which, however, no one but the missing Curtis could ever discover. The fact that a man of Grant’s secure position had interested himself in this matter would secure him from the working of that personal vulgar jealousy which his humbler antecedents had provoked. And if, as he fancied, Grant really cared for Clementina—

“As you like,” he said, with half-affected lightness, “and now let us talk of something else. Clementina has been thinking of getting up a riding party to San Mateo for Mrs. Ashwood. We must show them some civility, and that Boston brother of hers, Mr. Shipley, will have to be invited also. I can’t get away, and my wife, of course, will only be able to join them at San Mateo in the carriage. I reckon it would be easier for Clementina if you took my place, and helped her look after the riding party. It will need a man, and I think she’d prefer you—as you know she’s rather particular—unless, of course, you’d be wanted for Mrs. Ashwood or Phemie, or somebody else.”

From his shadowed corner he could see that a pleasant light had sprung into Grant’s eyes, although his reply was in his ordinary easy banter. “I shall be only too glad to act as Miss Clementina’s vaquero, and lasso her runaways, or keep stragglers in the road.”

There seemed to be small necessity, however, for this active co-operation, for when the cheerful cavalcade started from the house a few mornings later, Mr. Lawrence Grant’s onerous duties seemed to be simply confined to those of an ordinary cavalier at the side of Miss Clementina, a few paces in the rear of the party. But this safe distance gave them the opportunity of conversing without being overheard,—an apparently discreet precaution.

“Your father was so exceedingly affable to me the other day that if I hadn’t given you my promise to say nothing, I think I would have fallen on my knees to him then and there, revealed my feelings, asked for your hand and his blessing—or whatever one does at such a time. But how long do you intend to keep me in this suspense?”

Clementina turned her clear eyes half abstractedly upon him, as if imperfectly recalling some forgotten situation. “You forget,” she said, “that part of your promise was that you wouldn’t even speak of it to me again without my permission.”

“But my time is so short now. Give me some definite hope before I go. Let me believe that when we meet in New York”—

“You will find me just the same as now! Yes, I think I can promise THAT. Let that suffice. You said the other day you liked me because I had not changed for five years. You can surely trust that I will not alter in as many months.”

“If I only knew”—

“Ah, if I only knew,—if WE ALL only knew. But we don’t. Come, Mr. Grant, let it rest as it is. Unless you want to go still further back and have it as it WAS, at Sidon. There I think you fancied Euphemia most.”

“Clementina!”

“That is my name, and those people ahead of us know it already.”

“You are called CLEMENTINA,—but you are not merciful!”

“You are very wrong, for you might see that Mr. Shipley has twice checked his horse that he might hear what you are saying, and Phemie is always showing Mrs. Ashwood something in the landscape behind us.”

All this was the more hopeless and exasperating to Grant since in the young girl’s speech and manner there was not the slightest trace of coquetry or playfulness. He could not help saying a little bitterly: “I don’t think that any one would imagine from your manner that you were receiving a declaration.”

“But they might imagine from yours that you had the right to quarrel with me,—which would be worse.”

“We cannot part like this! It is too cruel to me.”

“We cannot part otherwise without the risk of greater cruelty.”

“But say at least, Clementina, that I have no rival. There is no other more favored suitor?”

“That is so like a man—and yet so unlike the proud one I believed you to be. Why should a man like you even consider such a possibility? If I were a man I know I couldn’t.” She turned upon him a glance so clear and untroubled by either conscious vanity or evasion that he was hopelessly convinced of the truth of her statement, and she went on in a slightly lowered tone, “You have no right to ask me such a question,—but perhaps for that reason I am willing to answer you. There is none. Hush! For a good rider you are setting a poor example to the others, by crowding me towards the bank. Go forward and talk to Phemie, and tell her not to worry Mrs. Ashwood’s horse nor race with her; I don’t think he’s quite safe, and Mrs. Ashwood isn’t accustomed to using the Spanish bit. I suppose I must say something to Mr. Shipley, who doesn’t seem to understand that I’M acting as chaperon, and YOU as captain of the party.”

She cantered forward as she spoke, and Grant was obliged to join her sister, who, mounted on a powerful roan, was mischievously exciting a beautiful quaker-colored mustang ridden by Mrs. Ashwood, already irritated by the unfamiliar pressure of the Eastern woman’s hand upon his bit. The thick dust which had forced the party of twenty to close up in two solid files across the road compelled them at the first opening in the roadside fence to take the field in a straggling gallop. Grant, eager to escape from his own discontented self by doing something for others, reined in beside Euphemia and the fair stranger.

“Let me take your place until Mrs. Ashwood’s horse is quieted,” he half whispered to Euphemia.

“Thank you,—and I suppose it does not make any matter to Clem who quiets mine,” she said, with provoking eyes and a toss of her head worthy of the spirited animal she was riding.

“She thinks you quite capable of managing yourself and even others,” he replied with a playful glance at Shipley, who was riding somewhat stiffly on the other side.

“Don’t be too sure,” retorted Phemie with another dangerous look; “I may give you trouble yet.”

They were approaching the first undulation of the russet plain they had emerged upon,—an umbrageous slope that seemed suddenly to diverge in two defiles among the shaded hills. Grant had given a few words of practical advice to Mrs. Ashwood, and shown her how to guide her mustang by the merest caressing touch of the rein upon its sensitive neck. He had not been sympathetically inclined towards the fair stranger, a rich and still youthful widow, although he could not deny her unquestioned good breeding, mental refinement, and a certain languorous thoughtfulness that was almost melancholy, which accented her blonde delicacy. But he had noticed that her manner was politely reserved and slightly constrained towards the Harcourts, and he had already resented it with a lover’s instinctive loyalty. He had at first attributed it to a want of sympathy between Mrs. Ashwood’s more intellectual sentimentalities and the Harcourts’ undeniable lack of any sentiment whatever. But there was evidently some other innate antagonism. He was very polite to Mrs. Ashwood; she responded with a gentlewoman’s courtesy, and, he was forced to admit, even a broader comprehension of his own merits than the Harcourt girls had ever shown, but he could still detect that she was not in accord with the party.

“I am afraid you do not like California, Mrs. Ashwood?” he said pleasantly. “You perhaps find the life here too unrestrained and unconventional?”

She looked at him in quick astonishment. “Are you quite sincere? Why, it strikes me that this is just what it is NOT. And I have so longed for something quite different. From what I have been told about the originality and adventure of everything here, and your independence of old social forms and customs, I am afraid I expected the opposite of what I’ve seen. Why, this very party—except that the ladies are prettier and more expensively gotten up—is like any party that might have ridden out at Saratoga or New York.”

“And as stupid, you would say.”

“As CONVENTIONAL, Mr. Grant; always excepting this lovely creature beneath me, whom I can’t make out and who doesn’t seem to care that I should. There! look! I told you so!”

Her mustang had suddenly bounded forward; but as Grant followed he could see that the cause was the example of Phemie, who had, in some mad freak, dashed out in a frantic gallop. A half-dozen of the younger people hilariously accepted the challenge; the excitement was communicated to the others, until the whole cavalcade was sweeping down the slope. Grant was still at Mrs. Ashwood’s side, restraining her mustang and his own impatient horse when Clementina joined them. “Phemie’s mare has really bolted, I fear,” she said in a quick whisper, “ride on, and never mind us.” Grant looked quickly ahead; Phemie’s roan, excited by the shouts behind her and to all appearance ungovernable, was fast disappearing with her rider. Without a word, trusting to his own good horsemanship and better knowledge of the ground, he darted out of the cavalcade to overtake her.

But the unfortunate result of this was to give further impulse to the now racing horses as they approached a point where the slope terminated in two diverging canyons. Mrs. Ashwood gave a sharp pull upon her bit. To her consternation the mustang stopped short almost instantly,—planting his two fore feet rigidly in the dust and even sliding forward with the impetus. Had her seat been less firm she might have been thrown, but she recovered herself, although in doing so she still bore upon the bit, when to her astonishment the mustang deliberately stiffened himself as if for a shock, and then began to back slowly, quivering with excitement. She did not know that her native-bred animal fondly believed that he was participating in a rodeo, and that to his equine intelligence his fair mistress had just lassoed something! In vain she urged him forward; he still waited for the shock! When the cloud of dust in which she had been enwrapped drifted away, she saw to her amazement that she was alone. The entire party had disappeared into one of the canyons,—but which one she could not tell!

When she succeeded at last in urging her mustang forward again she determined to take the right-hand canyon and trust to being either met or overtaken. A more practical and less adventurous nature would have waited at the point of divergence for the return of some of the party, but Mrs. Ashwood was, in truth, not sorry to be left to herself and the novel scenery for a while, and she had no doubt but she would eventually find her way to the hotel at San Mateo, which could not be far away, in time for luncheon.

The road was still well defined, although it presently began to wind between ascending ranks of pines and larches that marked the terraces of hills, so high that she wondered she had not noticed them from the plains. An unmistakable suggestion of some haunting primeval solitude, a sense of the hushed and mysterious proximity of a nature she had never known before, the strange half-intoxicating breath of unsunned foliage and untrodden grasses and herbs, all combined to exalt her as she cantered forward. Even her horse seemed to have acquired an intelligent liberty, or rather to have established a sympathy with her in his needs and her own longings; instinctively she no longer pulled him with the curb; the reins hung loosely on his self-arched and unfettered neck; secure in this loneliness she found herself even talking to him with barbaric freedom. As she went on, the vague hush of all things animate and inanimate around her seemed to thicken, until she unconsciously halted before a dim and pillared wood, and a vast and heathless opening on whose mute brown lips Nature seemed to have laid the finger of silence. She forgot the party she had left, she forgot the luncheon she was going to; more important still she forgot that she had already left the traveled track far behind her, and, tremulous with anticipation, rode timidly into that arch of shadow.

As her horse’s hoofs fell noiselessly on the elastic moss-carpeted aisle she forgot even more than that. She forgot the artificial stimulus and excitement of the life she had been leading so long; she forgot the small meannesses and smaller worries of her well-to-do experiences; she forgot herself,—rather she regained a self she had long forgotten. For in the sweet seclusion of this half darkened sanctuary the clinging fripperies of her past slipped from her as a tawdry garment. The petted, spoiled, and vapidly precocious girlhood which had merged into a womanhood of aimless triumphs and meaner ambitions; the worldly but miserable triumph of a marriage that had left her delicacy abused and her heart sick and unsatisfied; the wifehood without home, seclusion, or maternity; the widowhood that at last brought relief, but with it the consciousness of hopelessly wasted youth,—all this seemed to drop from her here as lightly as the winged needles or noiseless withered spray from the dim gray vault above her head. In the sovereign balm of that woodland breath her better spirit was restored; somewhere in these wholesome shades seemed to still lurk what should have been her innocent and nymph-like youth, and to come out once more and greet her. Old songs she had forgotten, or whose music had failed in the discords of her frivolous life, sang themselves to her again in that sweet, grave silence; girlish dreams that she had foolishly been ashamed of, or had put away with her childish toys, stole back to her once more and became real in this tender twilight; old fancies, old fragments of verse and childish lore, grew palpable and moved faintly before her. The boyish prince who should have come was there; the babe that should have been hers was there!—she stopped suddenly with flaming eyes and indignant color. For it appeared that a MAN was there too, and had just risen from the fallen tree where he had been sitting.

CHAPER VIII

She had so far forgotten herself in yielding to the spell of the place, and in the revelation of her naked soul and inner nature, that it was with something of the instinct of outraged modesty that she seemed to shrink before this apparition of the outer world and outer worldliness. In an instant the nearer past returned; she remembered where she was, how she had come there, from whom she had come, and to whom she was returning. She could see that she had not only aimlessly wandered from the world but from the road; and for that instant she hated this man who had reminded her of it, even while she knew she must ask his assistance. It relieved her slightly to observe that he seemed as disturbed and impatient as herself, and as he took a pencil from between his lips and returned it to his pocket he scarcely looked at her.

But with her return to the world of convenances came its repression, and with a gentlewoman’s ease and modulated voice she leaned over her mustang’s neck and said: “I have strayed from my party and am afraid I have lost my way. We were going to the hotel at San Mateo. Would you be kind enough to direct me there, or show me how I can regain the road by which I came?”

Her voice and manner were quite enough to arrest him where he stood with a pleased surprise in his fresh and ingenuous face. She looked at him more closely. He was, in spite of his long silken mustache, so absurdly young; he might, in spite of that youth, be so absurdly man-like! What was he doing there? Was he a farmer’s son, an artist, a surveyor, or a city clerk out for a holiday? Was there perhaps a youthful female of his species somewhere for whom he was waiting and upon whose tryst she was now breaking? Was he—terrible thought!—the outlying picket of some family picnic? His dress, neat, simple, free from ostentatious ornament, betrayed nothing. She waited for his voice.

“Oh, you have left San Mateo miles away to the right,” he said with quick youthful sympathy, “at least five miles! Where did you leave your party?”

His voice was winning, and even refined, she thought. She answered it quite spontaneously: “At a fork of two roads. I see now I took the wrong turning.”

“Yes, you took the road to Crystal Spring. It’s just down there in the valley, not more than a mile. You’d have been there now if you hadn’t turned off at the woods.”

“I couldn’t help it, it was so beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Perfect.”

“And such shadows, and such intensity of color.”

“Wonderful!—and all along the ridge, looking down that defile!”

“Yes, and that point where it seems as if you had only to stretch out your hand to pick a manzanita berry from the other side of the canyon, half a mile across!”

“Yes, and that first glimpse of the valley through the Gothic gateway of rocks!”

“And the color of those rocks,—cinnamon and bronze with the light green of the Yerba buena vine splashing over them.”

“Yes, but for color DID you notice that hillside of yellow poppies pouring down into the valley like a golden Niagara?”

“Certainly,—and the perfect clearness of everything.”

“And yet such complete silence and repose!”

“Oh, yes!”

“Ah, yes!”

They were both gravely nodding and shaking their heads with sparkling eyes and brightened color, looking not at each other but at the far landscape vignetted through a lozenge-shaped wind opening in the trees. Suddenly Mrs. Ashwood straightened herself in the saddle, looked grave, lifted the reins and apparently the ten years with them that had dropped from her. But she said in her easiest well-bred tones, and a half sigh, “Then I must take the road back again to where it forks?”

“Oh, no! you can go by Crystal Spring. It’s no further, and I’ll show you the way. But you’d better stop and rest yourself and your horse for a little while at the Springs Hotel. It’s a very nice place. Many people ride there from San Francisco to luncheon and return. I wonder that your party didn’t prefer it; and if they are looking for you,—as they surely must be,” he said, as if with a sudden conception of her importance, “they’ll come there when they find you’re not at San Mateo.”

This seemed reasonable, although the process of being “fetched” and taking the five miles ride, which she had enjoyed so much alone, in company was not attractive. “Couldn’t I go on at once?” she said impulsively.

“You would meet them sooner,” he said thoughtfully.

This was quite enough for Mrs. Ashwood. “I think I’ll rest this poor horse, who is really tired,” she, said with charming hypocrisy, “and stop at the hotel.”

She saw his face brighten. Perhaps he was the son of the hotel proprietor, or a youthful partner himself. “I suppose you live here?” she suggested gently. “You seem to know the place so well.”