CHAPTER XXIX
THE INTERPRETATION THEREOF
After all his suffering, his oaths, his refusals, his rejection of eachfriendly offer, Denver had changed his mind in the fraction of a secondwhen he saw Drusilla whirl past. He forgot his mine, the fierce battles,the prophecy--all he wanted was to see her again. Placed on his honorfor the trip he started down the road, walking fast when he failed tocatch a ride, and early the next morning he reported at the prison toapply for an immediate parole. But luck was against him and his heartdied in his breast, for the Board of Prison Directors had met the weekbefore and would not meet again for three weeks. Three weeks of idlewaiting, of pacing up and down and cursing the slow passage of time; andthen, perhaps, delays and disappointments and obstructions fromBible-Back Murray. He sat with bowed head, then rose up suddenly andwrote a brief letter to Murray.
"Get me a pardon," he scrawled, "and I'll give you a quit-claim. Thisgoes, if you do it quick."
He put it in the mail, with a special delivery stamp, and watched theendless hours creep by. She was there in Pinal, running her scales,practicing her exercises, singing arias from the operas at night; and hewas shut in by the gray concrete walls where the guards looked down fromthe towers. He could not trust himself now outside of the yard, hisnerve was gone and he would head for Pinal like a homing bird to itsmate. And then it came, quicker than he had ever thought or hoped for,though he had offered the Silver Treasure in return for it--a fullpardon from the Governor, with his citizenship restored and a letterexpressing confidence in his innocence. Denver clutched it to his breastand started out across the desert with his eyes on distant Pinal.
It lay in the shadow of Apache Leap, that blue wall that loomed to theeast, and he hardly stopped to shake hands with the Warden in his hasteto get out on the road. There he stopped the first automobile that wasgoing up the canyon and demanded a ride as his right, and so earnest washis manner that the driver took him in and even speeded up his machine.But at the fork of the ways, where the new road turned off to Murray,Denver thanked him and got off to walk. The sun was low but he did nothurry--he had begun to doubt his welcome. A hot shame swept over him athis convict's shirt, his worn shoes and battered hat; and he wonderedsuddenly if it was not all a mistake, if he had not thrown his mineaway. She was an opera singer now, returning from a season which musthave given her a taste of success--what use would she have for him?
Up the wash to the west, where the automobile road went, a big camp hadsprung up in his absence; but when he topped the hill and gazed down onPinal nothing had changed, it was just the same. The street was broadand empty, the houses still in ruins, his cave still there across thecreek; and from the chimney of Bunker's house a column of smoke mountedup to show that supper was being cooked. Yes, it was the same old townthat he had entered the year before when Old Bunk had taken him for ahobo; but now he was hobo and ex-convict both, though the pardon hadrestored him to citizenship. His broad shoulders drooped, he turned backand crossed the creek and slunk like a thief to his cave.
The door was chained but he wrenched it open and slipped in out ofsight. Bunker Hill had closed up the cave and covered all his things,and his bed was spread with clean, white sheets; the floor was swept andthe dishes washed, and he knew whose hands had done it. It was Mrs.Hill's, that kindest of all women; who had even invited him to theirhome. Denver started a fire and cooked a hasty supper from the cannedgoods that were left in his boxes and then he looked down on the town.The sun had set now and a single bright star glowed solemnly in thewest, but the valley was silent except for the frogs that made the airpalpitate with their chorus. Old Bunk came out and went over to thestore; someone struck a chord in the house, and as Denver listenedhungrily a voice rose up, clear and flute-like, yet somehow changed.
It was her's, it was Drusilla's, and yet it was not; the year had made achange. There was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness,of yearning, of sadness, of love. Yes, he recognized it now, it had thequality of the Cradle Song that she had listened to so enviously on hisphonograph. She had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle somethingwhich gives Schumann-Heink her power; and which comes only fromlove--and suffering. Denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of itbefore, but Drusilla must have suffered, too. Not as tragically as hebut in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. He went inhastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failedhim and he bowed his head on the table. He dared not face her--now.
The singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din hisconvict's shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fellon his shoulders and he looked up to see Drusilla. She was morebeautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had wornwhen first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tearsand she drew her hand away.
"What is it?" she asked. "Can't you ever care for me? Must I make everysingle advance? Oh, Denver, after I'd come clear home to see you--whywouldn't you come down to the house?"
He roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl ofemotions.
"I was afraid you didn't want me," he said at last and she sank down onthe bench beside him.
"Not want you?" she repeated. "Why, haven't I done everything to get youout of prison? Didn't I go to the Professor and beg and plead with himand sing all my German songs; didn't I go to the Governor and take himwith me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?"
"Pardoned!" burst out Denver and then he stopped and shook his headregretfully. "No," he said, "I wish you had, though. I traded my minefor it--to Murray!"
"Why, Denver!" she cried, "you did nothing of the kind. I got you thatpardon myself! And then, after all that--and after I'd played, and sung,and waited for you--you wouldn't even come down to see me!"
"Why, sure I would!" he protested brokenly, "I'd do anything for you,Drusilla! But I was afraid you wouldn't want me. I've been in prison,you know, and it makes a difference. They call me an ex-con now."
"No, but Denver," she entreated, "surely you didn't think--why, we_asked_ you to come and stay with us."
"Yes, I know," he said but the sullen look had come back; he could notforget so soon. "I know," he went on, "but it wouldn't be right--I guesswe've made a mistake. I wanted to see you, Drusilla; I gave everything Ihad, just to get here before you went----"
"Did you really?" she asked taking him gently by the hand and lookingdeep into his eyes, "did you give up your mine--for me?"
"Just to see you," answered Denver, "but after I got here----"
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she sighed, "and you haven't lost your mine. I got tothe Governor first."
"You did?" he cried and then he sat up and the old fire came back intohis eyes. "That's right," he laughed, "you must have beat him to it--Ithought that pardon came quick! This'll cost old Murray a million."
"No, you haven't lost your mine," she went on, smiling curiously. "Youthink a lot of it, don't you?"
"Well, I don't know," grumbled Denver, "whether I do or not now. Ibelieve that mine was a Jonah. I believe I made a mistake and chose thewrong treasure--I should have taken the gold."
"Oh, Denver!" she beamed, "do you really think so? I've always justhated that mine. I've always had the feeling that you thought more of itthan you did of me--or anybody."
"Well, I did," confessed Denver, "it seemed to kind of draw me--to makeme forget everything else. And Drusilla, I'm sorry I didn't comedown--that night when you went away."
"It was the mine," she frowned, "I believe it was accursed. It alwayscame between us. But you must sell it now, and not work for a while--Iwant you to entertain me."
"I'll do it!" exclaimed Denver, "I'll sell out for what I can get andthen we can be together. How did you get along on your trip?"
"Oh, fine!" she burst out radiantly, "Oh, I had such _luck_. I wasonly the understudy, and doing minor parts, when the soprano was takenill in the second act and I went in and scored a triumph. It was 'LoveTales of Hoffmann'
and when I sang the 'Barcarolle' they recalled meseven times! That is they recalled us both--it's sung as a duet, youknow."
"Um," nodded Denver and listened in glum silence as she related thedetails of her premier. "And how about those tenors?" he asked at last,"did any of 'em steal my kiss?"
"No--or that is--well, we won't talk about that now. But of course Ihave to act my parts."
"Oh, sure, sure!" he answered rebelliously and a triumphant twinkle cameinto her eyes.
"Do you still believe in the prophecy?" she asked, "and in all thatMother Trigedgo told you? Because if you do, I've got some news--youwon't die until you're past eighty."
"I won't?" challenged Denver and then he stopped and waited as shesmiled back at him mischievously.
"She's a nice old woman," went on Drusilla demurely, "but I wouldn'ttake her too seriously. She told me, for instance, that I'd give up agreat career in order to marry for love. Yes, I went over to see her,myself."
"But what about me?" demanded Denver eagerly, "did she say I'd live tillI was eighty?"
"Yes, she did; and she told me some other things, including the color ofyour eyes. But don't you see, Denver, that you made a mistake when youtook what she said so seriously? Why, you wouldn't even speak to me orlet us be friends for fear that I'd rise up and kill you; and now itappears that it was all a mistake and you're going to live till you'reeighty."
"Well, all the same," responded Denver sighing and stretching his greatarms, "I'm awful glad she said it. And a man could live to be eighty andstill be killed by his friend. No, I believe that prophecy was true!"
"Very well," she assented, "but you don't need to worry about ourfriendship, and that's the principal thing. I just did it to set yourmind at rest."
"Yes, it _was_ true," he went on rousing up from a reverie, "but Iwas wrong--I should have taken the gold."
"Is that all you think of?" she asked impatiently, "is there nothing butsilver and gold?"
"Yes, there is," he acknowledged, "but--say, Drusilla I'm going to buyout the Dutchman. I believe that stringer of his is rich."
"What stringer?" she demanded looking up from her own musings and thenshe nodded and sighed. "Yes, I know," she said, "you're back at yourmining--but you promised you'd think only of me. I may not be here longand you want to be nice to me; because I almost hated you, once. Nowlisten, Denver, and let _me_ interpret--don't you know you've goteverything wrong?"
"No!" declared Denver, "it has all come out perfectly. I've lived clearthrough it, already. Only I chose the wrong treasure and so I lost themboth and suffered a great disgrace. I should have taken the gold."
"No; listen Denver," she went on patiently, "and don't always bethinking of _things_. A golden treasure isn't necessarily of gold,it might be even--me."
"You?" echoed Denver and then he clutched his hands and stared about himwildly.
"Why, yes," she answered evenly, "haven't you noticed my hair? Other menare not so blind--and one of them said it reminded him of fine-spungold. Yes, I was the golden treasure in the shadow of Apache Leap, butall you could think of was mines. The mine was your silver treasure, andyou had to choose between us--and you always chose the mine. No matterhow I sang, or did up my hair or came around where you were at work; youalways went into that black, hateful hole, and I used to go home andcry. But--no, listen, Denver--when you saw me come back, and you wantedto see me, and there was no other way to do it; then you threw away yourmine and told Murray to take it--and I knew that you really loved me.You loved me even more than your mine, and so you won us both. Do youlike your golden treasure?"
"I was a fool!" moaned Denver but she stroked his rumpled hair andraised his face from his hands.
"We've both of us been foolish," she whispered, "I nearly hated youonce, and nearly gave your kiss to a tenor. But--oh Denver, I'll neversing with those men again! I know you wouldn't like it."
"No, I wouldn't," he admitted, "and if you'll only----"
"There it is," she interrupted, giving him the long-treasured kiss. "Isaved it just for you."
Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp Page 29