by Bret Harte
and surprise passed over Don Jose'sface, but as quickly vanished as he advanced towards her and gracefullyraised the tips of her fingers to his lips. "Have I then, at last, theprivilege of beholding that most distressed and deeply injured ofwomen! Or is it but a dream!"
It certainly was not, as far as concerned the substantial person of thewoman before him, who, however, seemed somewhat uneasy under his wordsas well as the demure scrutiny of Miss Jenkinson. "I thought you mighthave forgotten," she said with slight acerbity, "that you desired aninterview with the authoress of"--
"Pardon," interrupted Don Jose, standing before her in an attitude ofthe deepest sympathizing dejection, "I had not forgotten. It is nowthree weeks since I have read in the journal 'Golden Gate' the eloquentand touching poem of your sufferings, and your aspirations, and yourmiscomprehensions by those you love. I remember as yesterday that youhave said, that cruel fate have linked you to a soullessstate--that--but I speak not well your own beautiful language--you arein tears at evenfall 'because that you are not understood of others,and that your soul recoiled from iron bonds, until, as in a dream, yousought succor and release in some true Knight of equal plight.'"
"I am told," said the large-featured woman with some satisfaction,"that the poem to which you allude has been generally admired."
"Admired! Senora," said Don Jose, with still darker sympathy, "it isnot the word; it is FELT. I have felt it. When I read those words ofdistress, I am touched of compassion! I have said, This woman, sodisconsolate, so oppressed, must be relieved, protected! I have wroteto you, at the 'Golden Gate,' to see me here."
"And I have come, as you perceive," said the poetess, rising with aslight smile of constraint; "and emboldened by your appreciation, Ihave brought a few trifles thrown off"--
"Pardon, unhappy Senora," interrupted Don Jose, lifting his handdeprecatingly without relaxing his melancholy precision, "but to acavalier further evidence is not required--and I have not yet makefinish. I have not content myself to WRITE to you. I have sent mytrusty friend Roberto to inquire at the 'Golden Gate' of yourcondition. I have found there, most unhappy and persecutedfriend--that with truly angelic forbearance you have not told ALL--thatyou are MARRIED, and that of a necessity it is your husband that iscold and soulless and unsympathizing--and all that you describe."
"Sir!" said the poetess, rising in angry consternation.
"I have written to him," continued Don Jose, with unheeding gravity;"have appealed to him as a friend, I have conjured him as a caballero,I have threatened him even as a champion of the Right, I have said tohim, in effect--that this must not be as it is. I have informed himthat I have made an appointment with you even at this house, and Ichallenged him to meet you here--in this room--even at this instant,and, with God's help, we should make good our charges against him. Itis yet early; I have allowed time for the lateness of the stage and thefact that he will come by another conveyance. Therefore, O DonaDewdrop, tremble not like thy namesake as it were on the leaf ofapprehension and expectancy. I, Don Jose, am here to protect thee. Iwill take these charges"--gently withdrawing the manuscripts from herastonished grasp--"though even, as I related to thee before, I wantthem not, yet we will together confront him with them and make themgood against him."
"Are you mad?" demanded the lady in almost stentorious accents, "or isthis an unmanly hoax?" Suddenly she stopped in undeniableconsternation. "Good heavens," she muttered, "if Abner should believethis. He is SUCH a fool! He has lately been queer and jealous. Ohdear!" she said, turning to Polly Jenkinson with the first indicationof feminine weakness, "Is he telling the truth? is he crazy? what shallI do?"
Polly Jenkinson, who had witnessed the interview with the intensestenjoyment, now rose equal to the occasion.
"You have made a mistake," she said, uplifting her demure blue eyes toDon Jose's dark and melancholy gaze. "This lady is a POETESS! Thesufferings she depicts, the sorrows she feels, are in the IMAGINATION,in her fancy only."
"Ah!" said Don Jose gloomily; "then it is all false."
"No," said Polly quickly, "only they are not her OWN, you know. Theyare somebody elses. She only describes them for another, don't yousee?"
"And who, then, is this unhappy one?" asked the Don quickly.
"Well--a--friend," stammered Polly, hesitatingly.
"A friend!" repeated Don Jose. "Ah, I see, of possibility a dear one,even," he continued, gazing with tender melancholy into the untroubledcerulean depths of Polly's eyes, "even, but no, child, it could not be!THOU art too young."
"Ah," said Polly, with an extraordinary gulp and a fierce nudge of thepoetess, "but it WAS me."
"You, Senorita," repeated Don Jose, falling back in an attitude ofmingled admiration and pity. "You, the child of Jenkinson!"
"Yes, yes," joined in the poetess hurriedly; "but that isn't going tostop the consequences of your wretched blunder. My husband will befurious, and will be here at any moment. Good gracious! what is that?"
The violent slamming of a distant door at that instant, the sounds ofquick scuffling on the staircase, and the uplifting of an irate voicehad reached her ears and thrown her back in the arms of PollyJenkinson. Even the young girl herself turned an anxious gaze towardsthe door. Don Jose alone was unmoved.
"Possess yourselves in peace, Senoritas," he said calmly. "We havehere only the characteristic convalescence of my friend and brother,the excellent Roberto. He will ever recover himself from drink withviolence, even as he precipitates himself into it with fury. He hasbeen prematurely awakened. I will discover the cause."
With an elaborate bow to the frightened women, he left the room.Scarcely had the door closed when the poetess turned quickly to Polly."The man's a stark staring lunatic, but, thank Heaven, Abner will seeit at once. And now let's get away while we can. To think," she said,snatching up her scattered manuscripts, "that THAT was all the beastwanted."
"I'm sure he's very gentle and kind," said Polly, recovering herdimples with a demure pout; "but stop, he's coming back."
It was indeed Don Jose re-entering the room with the composure of arelieved and self-satisfied mind. "It is even as I said, Senora," hebegan, taking the poetess's hand,--"and MORE. You are SAVED!"
As the women only stared at each other, he gravely folded his arms andcontinued: "I will explain. For the instant I have not remember that,in imitation of your own delicacy, I have given to your husband in myletter, not the name of myself, but, as a mere Don Fulano, the name ofmy brother Roberto--'Bucking Bob.' Your husband have this momentarrive! Penetrating the bedroom of the excellent Roberto, he hasindiscreetly seize him in his bed, without explanation, withoutintroduction, without fear! The excellent Roberto, ever ready for suchdistractions, have respond! In a word, to use the language of the goodJenkinson--our host, our father--who was present, he have 'wiped thefloor with your husband,' and have even carried him down the staircaseto the street. Believe me, he will not return. You are free!"
"Fool! Idiot! Crazy beast!" said the poetess, dashing past him andout of the door. "You shall pay for this!"
Don Jose did not change his imperturbable and melancholy calm. "Andnow, little one," he said, dropping on one knee before thehalf-frightened Polly, "child of Jenkinson, now that thy perhaps tooexcitable sponsor has, in a poet's caprice, abandoned thee for somenewer fantasy, confide in me thy distress, to me, thy Knight, and tellthe story of thy sorrows."
"But," said Polly, rising to her feet and struggling between a laughand a cry. "I haven't any sorrows. Oh dear! don't you see, it's onlyher FANCY to make me seem so. There's nothing the matter with me."
"Nothing the matter," repeated Don Jose slowly. "You have no distress?You want no succor, no relief, no protector? This, then, is butanother delusion!" he said, rising sadly.
"Yes, no--that is--oh, my gracious goodness!" said Polly, hopelesslydivided between a sense of the ridiculous and some strange attractionin the dark, gentle eyes that were fixed upon her half reproachfully."You don't understand."
"I'm sure I'm very sorry that I ain't got any love sorrows," she saiddemurely. "And I suppose it's very dreadful in me not to have beenraving and broken-hearted over somebody or