by Bret Harte
recovered her equanimity but for a singularincident. As her husband turned momentarily away, the Secretary, with asignificant gesture, slipped a letter into her hand. She felt the bloodrush to her face as, with a smile, he moved away to follow her husband.She came down to the little cabin and impatiently tore open theenvelope, which bore no address. A small folded note contained thefollowing lines:--
"I never intended to burden you with my confidence, but the discretion,tact, and courage you displayed on our first meeting, and what I knowof your loyalty since, have prompted me to trust myself again to yourkindness, even though you are now aware whom you have helped, and therisks you ran. My friends wish to communicate with me and to forward tome, from time to time, certain papers of importance, which, owing to thetyrannical espionage of the Government, would be discovered and stoppedin passing through the express or post-office. These papers will be leftat your house, but here I must trust entirely to your wit and judgmentas to the way in which they should be delivered to my agent at thenearest Mexican port. To facilitate your action, your husband willreceive directions to pursue his course as far south as Todos Santos,where a boat will be ready to take charge of them when he is sighted. Iknow I am asking a great favor, but I have such confidence in you that Ido not even ask you to commit yourself to a reply to this. If it canbe done I know that you will do it; if it cannot, I will understand andappreciate the reason why. I will only ask you that when you are readyto receive the papers you will fly a small red pennant from the littleflagstaff among the rocks. Believe me, your friend and grateful debtor,
"W. M."
Mrs. Bunker cast a hasty glance around her, and pressed the letterto her lips. It was a sudden consummation of her vaguest, half-formedwishes, the realization of her wildest dreams! To be the confidante ofthe gallant but melancholy hero in his lonely exile and persecution wasto satisfy all the unformulated romantic fancies of her girlish reading;to be later, perhaps, the Flora Macdonald of a middle-aged PrinceCharlie did not, however, evoke any ludicrous associations in her mind.Her feminine fancy exalted the escaped duelist and alleged assassin intoa social martyr. His actual small political intrigues and ignoble aimsof office seemed to her little different from those aspirations ofroyalty which she had read about--as perhaps they were. Indeed, it is tobe feared that in foolish little Mrs. Bunker, Wynyard Marion had foundthe old feminine adoration of pretension and privilege which everyrascal has taken advantage of since the flood.
Howbeit, the next morning after she had returned and Zephas had sailedaway, she flew a red bandana handkerchief on the little flagstaff beforethe house. A few hours later, a boat appeared mysteriously from aroundthe Point. Its only occupant--a common sailor--asked her name, andhanded her a sealed package. Mrs. Bunker's invention had already beenat work. She had created an aunt in Mexico, for whom she had, with someostentation, made some small purchases while in San Francisco. When herhusband spoke of going as far south as Todos Santos, she begged him todeliver the parcel to her aunt's messenger, and even addressed it boldlyto her. Inside the outer wrapper she wrote a note to Marion, which, witha new and amazing diffidence, she composed and altered a dozen times, atlast addressing the following in a large, school-girl hand: "Sir, I obeyyour commands to the last. Whatever your oppressors or enemies may do,you can always rely and trust upon She who in deepest sympathy signsherself ever, Mollie Rosalie MacEwan." The substitution of her maidenname in full seemed in her simplicity to be a delicate exclusion ofher husband from the affair, and a certain disguise of herself to alieneyes. The superscription, "To Mrs. Marion MacEwan from Mollie Bunker, tobe called for by hand at Todos Santos," also struck her as a marvel ofingenuity. The package was safely and punctually delivered by Zephas,who brought back a small packet directed to her, which on privateexamination proved to contain a letter addressed to "J. E. Kirby, tobe called for," with the hurried line: "A thousand thanks, W. M." Mrs.Bunker drew a long, quick breath. He might have written more; he mighthave--but the wish remained still unformulated. The next day she ran upa signal; the same boat and solitary rower appeared around the Point,and took the package. A week later, when her husband was ready for sea,she again hoisted her signal. It brought a return package for Mexico,which she inclosed and readdressed, and gave to her husband. Therecurrence of this incident apparently struck a bright idea from thesimple Zephas.
"Look here, Mollie, why don't you come YOURSELF and see your aunt. Ican't go into port without a license, and them port charges cost a heapo' red tape, for they've got a Filibuster scare on down there justnow, but you can go ashore in the boat and I'll get permission from theSecretary to stand off and wait for you there for twenty-four hours."Mrs. Bunker flushed and paled at the thought. She could see him! Theletter would be sufficient excuse, the distrust suggested by her husbandwould give color to her delivering it in person. There was perhaps abrief twinge of conscience in taking this advantage of Zephas' kindness,but the next moment, with that peculiar logic known only to the sex, shemade the unfortunate man's suggestion a condonation of her deceit. SHEhadn't asked to go; HE had offered to take her. He had only himself tothank.
Meantime the political excitement in which she had become a partisanwithout understanding or even conviction, presently culminated with thePresidential campaign and the election of Abraham Lincoln. The intriguesof Southern statesmen were revealed in open expression, and echoed inCalifornia by those citizens of Southern birth and extraction whohad long, held place, power, and opinion there. There were rumorsof secession, of California joining the South, or of her founding anindependent Pacific Empire. A note from "J. E. Kirby" informed Mrs.Bunker that she was to carefully retain any correspondence that might bein her hands until further orders, almost at the same time that Zephasas regretfully told her that his projected Southern trip had beensuspended. Mrs. Bunker was disappointed, and yet, in some singularconditions of her feelings, felt relieved that her meeting with Marionwas postponed. It is to be feared that some dim conviction, unworthya partisan, that in the magnitude of political events her own pettypersonality might be overlooked by her hero tended somewhat to herresignation.
Meanwhile the seasons had changed. The winter rains had set in; thetrade winds had shifted to the southeast, and the cottage, althoughstrengthened, enlarged, and made more comfortable through the goodfortunes of the Bunkers, was no longer sheltered by the cliff, butwas exposed to the full strength of the Pacific gales. There were longnights when she could hear the rain fall monotonously on the shingles,or startle her with a short, sharp reveille en the windows; there werebrief days of flying clouds and drifting sunshine, and intervals ofdull gray shadow, when the heaving white breakers beyond the Gate slowlylifted themselves and sank before her like wraiths of warning. At suchtimes, in her accepted solitude, Mrs. Bunker gave herself up to strangemoods and singular visions; the more audacious and more striking itseemed to her from their very remoteness, and the difficulty she wasbeginning to have in materializing them. The actual personality ofWynyard Marion, as she knew it in her one interview, had become veryshadowy and faint in the months that passed, yet when the days wereheavy she sometimes saw herself standing by his side in some vaguetropical surroundings, and hailed by the multitude as the faithful wifeand consort of the great Leader, President, Emperor--she knew not what!Exactly how this was to be managed, and the manner of Zephas' effacementfrom the scene, never troubled her childish fancy, and, it is but fairto say, her woman's conscience. In the logic before alluded to, itseemed to her that all ethical responsibility for her actions restedwith the husband who had unduly married her. Nor were those visionsalways roseate. In the wild declamation of that exciting epoch whichfilled the newspapers there was talk of short shrift with traitors. Sothere were days when the sudden onset of a squall of hail against herwindow caused her to start as if she had heard the sharp fusillade ofthat file of muskets of which she had sometimes read in history.
One day she had a singular fright. She had heard the sound of oarsfalling with a precision and regularity unknown to her. She w
as startledto see the approach of a large eight-oared barge rowed by men inuniform, with two officers wrapped in cloaks in the stern sheets, andbefore them the glitter of musket barrels. The two officers appeared tobe conversing earnestly, and occasionally pointing to the shore and thebluff above. For an instant she trembled, and then an instinct of revoltand resistance followed. She hurriedly removed the ring, which sheusually wore when alone, from her finger, slipped it with the packetunder the mattress of her bed, and prepared with blazing eyes to facethe intruders. But when the boat was beached, the two officers, withscarcely a glance towards the cottage, proceeded leisurely along theshore. Relieved, yet it must be confessed a little piqued at theirindifference, she snatched up her hat and sallied forth to confrontthem.
"I suppose you don't know that this is private