In a Hollow of the Hills

by Bret Harte

  CHAPTER VII.

  The reappearance of Chivers in the mill with Collinson, and the briefannouncement that the prisoner had consented to a satisfactorycompromise, were received at first with a half contemptuous smile bythe party; but for the commands of their leaders, and possibly aconviction that Collinson's fatuous cooperation with Chivers would besafer than his wrath, which might not expend itself only on Chivers,but imperil the safety of all, it is probable that they would haveinformed the unfortunate prisoner of his real relations to his captor.In these circumstances, Chivers's half satirical suggestion thatCollinson should be added to the sentries outside, and guard his ownproperty, was surlily assented to by Riggs, and complacently acceptedby the others. Chivers offered to post him himself,--not without aninterchange of meaning glances with Riggs,--Collinson's own gun wasreturned to him, and the strangely assorted pair left the mill amicablytogether.

  But however humanly confident Chivers was in his companion'sfaithfulness, he was not without a rascal's precaution, and determinedto select a position for Collinson where he could do the least damagein any aberration of trust. At the top of the grade, above the mill,was the only trail by which a party in force could approach it. Thiswas to Chivers obviously too strategic a position to intrust to hisprisoner, and the sentry who guarded its approach, five hundred yardsaway, was left unchanged. But there was another "blind" trail, orcut-off, to the left, through the thickest undergrowth of the woods,known only to his party. To place Collinson there was to insure himperfect immunity from the approach of an enemy, as well as from anyconfidential advances of his fellow sentry. This done, he drew a cigarfrom his pocket, and handing it to Collinson, lighted another forhimself, and leaning back comfortably against a large boulder, glancedcomplacently at his companion.

  "You may smoke until I go, Mr. Collinson, and even afterwards, if youkeep the bowl of your pipe behind a rock, so as to be out of sight ofyour fellow sentry, whose advances, by the way, if I were you, I shouldnot encourage. Your position here, you see, is a rather peculiar one.You were saying, I think, that a lingering affection for your wifeimpelled you to keep this place for her, although you were convinced ofher death?"

  Collinson's unaffected delight in Chivers's kindliness had made hiseyes shine in the moonlight with a doglike wistfulness. "I reckon Idid say that, Mr. Chivers," he said apologetically, "though it ain'tgoin' to interfere with you usin' the shanty jest now."

  "I wasn't alluding to that, Collinson," returned Chivers, with a largerhetorical wave of the hand, and an equal enjoyment in his companion'sevident admiration of him, "but it struck me that your remark,nevertheless, implied some doubt of your wife's death, and I don't knowbut that your doubts are right."

  "Wot's that?" said Collinson, with a dull glow in his face.

  Chivers blew the smoke of his cigar lazily in the still air. "Listen,"he said. "Since your miraculous conversion a few moments ago, I havemade some friendly inquiries about you, and I find that you lost alltrace of your wife in Texas in '52, where a number of her fellowemigrants died of yellow fever. Is that so?"

  "Yes," said Collinson quickly.

  "Well, it so happens that a friend of mine," continued Chivers slowly,"was in a train which followed that one, and picked up and brought onsome of the survivors."

  "That was the train wot brought the news," said Collinson, relapsinginto his old patience. "That's how I knowed she hadn't come."

  "Did you ever hear the names of any of its passengers?" said Chivers,with a keen glance at his companion.

  "Nary one! I only got to know it was a small train of only two wagons,and it sorter melted into Californy through a southern pass, and kinderpetered out, and no one ever heard of it agin, and that was all."

  "That was NOT all, Collinson," said Chivers lazily. "I saw the trainarrive at South Pass. I was awaiting a friend and his wife. There wasa lady with them, one of the survivors. I didn't hear her name, but Ithink my friend's wife called her 'Sadie.' I remember her as a ratherpretty woman--tall, fair, with a straight nose and a full chin, andsmall slim feet. I saw her only a moment, for she was on her way toLos Angeles, and was, I believe, going to join her husband somewhere inthe Sierras."

  The rascal had been enjoying with intense satisfaction the return ofthe dull glow in Collinson's face, that even seemed to animate thewhole length of his angular frame as it turned eagerly towards him. Sohe went on, experiencing a devilish zest in this description of hismistress to her husband, apart from the pleasure of noting the slowawakening of this apathetic giant, with a sensation akin to havingwarmed him into life. Yet his triumph was of short duration. The firedropped suddenly out of Collinson's eyes, the glow from his face, andthe dull look of unwearied patience returned.

  "That's all very kind and purty of yer, Mr. Chivers," he said gravely;"you've got all my wife's pints thar to a dot, and it seems to fit herjest like a shoe I picked up t'other day. But it wasn't my Sadie, foref she's living or had lived, she'd bin just yere!"

  The same fear and recognition of some unknown reserve in this trustfulman came over Chivers as before. In his angry resentment of it hewould have liked to blurt out the infidelity of the wife before herhusband, but he knew Collinson would not believe him, and he hadanother purpose now. His full lips twisted into a suave smile.

  "While I would not give you false hopes, Mr. Collinson," he said, witha bland smile, "my interest in you compels me to say that you may beover confident and wrong. There are a thousand things that may haveprevented your wife from coming to you,--illness, possibly the resultof her exposure, poverty, misapprehension of your place of meeting,and, above all, perhaps some false report of your own death. Has itever occurred to you that it is as possible for her to have beendeceived in that way as for you?"

  "Wot yer say?" said Collinson, with a vague suspicion.

  "What I mean. You think yourself justified in believing your wifedead, because she did not seek you here; may she not feel herselfequally justified in believing the same of you, because you had notsought her elsewhere?"

  "But it was writ that she was comin' yere, and--I boarded every trainthat come in that fall," said Collinson, with a new irritation, unlikehis usual calm.

  "Except one, my dear Collinson,--except one," returned Chivers, holdingup a fat forefinger smilingly. "And that may be the clue. Now, listen!There is still a chance of following it, if you will. The name of myfriends were Mr. and Mrs. Barker. I regret," he added, with aperfunctory cough, "that poor Barker is dead. He was not such anexemplary husband as you are, my dear Collinson, and I fear was not allthat Mrs. Barker could have wished; enough that he succumbed fromvarious excesses, and did not leave me Mrs. Barker's present address.But she has a young friend, a ward, living at the convent of SantaLuisa, whose name is Miss Rivers, who can put you in communication withher. Now, one thing more: I can understand your feelings, and that youwould wish at once to satisfy your mind. It is not, perhaps, to myinterest nor the interest of my party to advise you, but," hecontinued, glancing around him, "you have an admirably secludedposition here, on the edge of the trail, and if you are missing fromyour post to-morrow morning, I shall respect your feelings, trust toyour honor to keep this secret, and--consider it useless to pursue you!"

  There was neither shame nor pity in his heart, as the deceived manturned towards him with tremulous eagerness, and grasped his hand insilent gratitude. But the old rage and fear returned, as Collinsonsaid gravely:--

  "You kinder put a new life inter me, Mr. Chivers, and I wish I had yergift o' speech to tell ye so. But I've passed my word to the Captingthar and to the rest o' you folks that I'd stand guard out yere, and Idon't go back o' my word. I mout, and I moutn't find my Sadie; but shewouldn't think the less o' me, arter these years o' waitin', ef Istayed here another night, to guard the house I keep in trust for her,and the strangers I've took in on her account."

  "As you like, then," said Chivers, contracting his lips, "but keep yourown counsel to-night. There may be those who w
ould like to deter youfrom your search. And now I will leave you alone in this delightfulmoonlight. I quite envy you your unrestricted communion with Nature.Adios, amigo, adios!"

  He leaped lightly on a large rock that overhung the edge of the grade,and waved his hand.

  "I wouldn't do that, Mr. Chivers," said Collinson, with a concernedface; "them rocks are mighty ticklish, and that one in partiklar. Atech sometimes sends 'em scooting."

  Mr. Chivers leaped quickly to the ground, turned, waved his hand again,and disappeared down the grade.

  But Collinson was no longer alone. Hitherto his characteristicreveries had been of the past,--reminiscences in which there was onlyrecollection, no imagination, and very little hope. Under the spell ofChivers's words his fancy seemed to expand; he began to think of hiswife as she might be now,--perhaps ill, despairing, wanderinghopelessly, even ragged and footsore, or--believing HIM dead--relapsinginto the resigned patience that had been his own; but always a newSadie, whom he had never seen or known before. A faint dread, thelightest of misgivings (perhaps coming from his very ignorance), forthe first time touched his steadfast heart, and sent a chill throughit. He shouldered his weapon, and walked briskly towards the edge ofthe thick-set woods. There were the fragrant essences of the laureland spruce--baked in the long-day sunshine that had encompassed theirrecesses--still coming warm to his face; there were the strangeshiftings of temperature throughout the openings, that alternatelywarmed and chilled him as he walked. It seemed so odd that he shouldnow have to seek her instead of her coming to him; it would never bethe same meeting to him, away from the house that he had built for her!He strolled back, and looked down upon it, nestling on the ledge. Thewhite moonlight that lay upon it dulled the glitter of lights in itswindows, but the sounds of laughter and singing came to even hisunfastidious ears with a sense of vague discord. He walked back again,and began to pace before the thick-set wood. Suddenly he stopped andlistened.

  To any other ears but those accustomed to mountain solitude it wouldhave seemed nothing. But, familiar as he was with all the infinitedisturbances of the woodland, and even the simulation of intrusioncaused by a falling branch or lapsing pine-cone, he was arrested now bya recurring sound, unlike any other. It was an occasional muffledbeat--interrupted at uncertain intervals, but always returning inregular rhythm, whenever it was audible. He knew it was made by acantering horse; that the intervals were due to the patches of deadleaves in its course, and that the varying movement was the effect ofits progress through obstacles and underbrush. It was therefore comingthrough some "blind" cutoff in the thick-set wood. The shifting of thesound also showed that the rider was unfamiliar with the locality, andsometimes wandered from the direct course; but the unfailing andaccelerating persistency of the sound, in spite of these difficulties,indicated haste and determination.

  He swung his gun from his shoulder, and examined its caps. As thesound came nearer, he drew up beside a young spruce at the entrance ofthe thicket. There was no necessity to alarm the house, or call theother sentry. It was a single horse and rider, and he was equal tothat. He waited quietly, and with his usual fateful patience. Eventhen his thoughts still reverted to his wife; and it was with asingular feeling that he, at last, saw the thick underbrush give waybefore a woman, mounted on a sweating but still spirited horse, whoswept out into the open. Nevertheless, he stopped in front of her, andcalled:--

  "Hold up thar!"

  The horse recoiled, nearly unseating her. Collinson caught the reins.She lifted her whip mechanically, yet remained holding it in the air,trembling, until she slipped, half struggling, half helplessly, fromthe saddle to the ground. Here she would have again fallen, butCollinson caught her sharply by the waist. At his touch she startedand uttered a frightened "No!" At her voice Collinson started.

  "Sadie!" he gasped.

  "Seth!" she half whispered.

  They stood looking at each other. But Collinson was already himselfagain. The man of simple directness and no imagination saw only hiswife before him--a little breathless, a little flurried, a littledisheveled from rapid riding, as he had sometimes seen her before, butotherwise unchanged. Nor had HE changed; he took her up where he hadleft her years ago. His grave face only broadened into a smile, as heheld both her hands in his.

  "Yes, it's me--Lordy! Why, I was comin' only to-morrow to find ye,Sade!"

  She glanced hurriedly around her, "To--to find me," she saidincredulously.

  "Sartain! That ez, I was goin' to ask about ye,--goin' to ask about yeat the convent."

  "At the convent?" she echoed with a frightened amazement.

  "Yes, why, Lordy Sade--don't you see? You thought I was dead, and Ithought you was dead,--that's what's the matter. But I never reckonedthat you'd think me dead until Chivers allowed that it must be so."

  Her face whitened in the moonlight "Chivers?" she said blankly.

  "In course; but nat'rally you don't know him, honey. He only saw youonc't. But it was along o' that, Sade, that he told me he reckoned youwasn't dead, and told me how to find you. He was mighty kind andconsarned about it, and he even allowed I'd better slip off to you thisvery night."

  "Chivers," she repeated, gazing at her husband with bloodless lips.

  "Yes, an awful purty-spoken man. Ye'll have to get to know him Sade.He's here with some of his folks az hez got inter trouble--I'mforgettin' to tell ye. You see"--

  "Yes, yes, yes!" she interrupted hysterically; "and this is the Mill?"

  "Yes, lovey, the Mill--my mill--YOUR mill--the house I built for you,dear. I'd show it to you now, but you see, Sade, I'm out here standin'guard."

  "Are YOU one of them?" she said, clutching his hand desperately.

  "No, dear," he said soothingly,--"no; only, you see, I giv' my word to'em as I giv' my house to-night, and I'm bound to protect them and see'em through. Why, Lordy! Sade, you'd have done the same--for Chivers."

  "Yes, yes," she said, beating her hands together strangely, "of course.He was so kind to bring me back to you. And you might have never foundme but for him."

  She burst into an hysterical laugh, which the simple-minded man mighthave overlooked but for the tears that coursed down her bloodless face.

  "What's gone o' ye, Sadie," he said in a sudden fear, grasping herhands; "that laugh ain't your'n--that voice ain't your'n. You're theold Sadie, ain't ye?" He stopped. For a moment his face blanched ashe glanced towards the mill, from which the faint sound of bacchanalianvoices came to his quick ear. "Sadie, dear, ye ain't thinkin' anythingagin' me? Ye ain't allowin' I'm keeping anythin' back from ye?"

  Her face stiffened into rigidity; she dashed the tears from her eyes."No," she said quickly. Then after a moment she added, with a faintlaugh, "You see we haven't seen each other for so long--it's all sosudden--so unexpected."

  "But you kem here, just now, calkilatin' to find me?" said Collinsongravely.

  "Yes, yes," she said quickly, still grasping both his hands, but withher head slightly turned in the direction of the mill.

  "But who told ye where to find the mill?" he said, with gentle patience.

  "A friend," she said hurriedly. "Perhaps," she added, with a singularsmile, "a friend of the friend who told you."

  "I see," said Collinson, with a relieved face and a broadening smile,"it's a sort of fairy story. I'll bet, now, it was that old Barkerwoman that Chivers knows."

  Her teeth gleamed rigidly together in the moonlight, like adeath's-head. "Yes," she said dryly, "it was that old Barker woman.Say, Seth," she continued, moistening her lips slowly, "you're guardingthis place alone?"

  "Thar's another feller up the trail,--a sentry,--but don't you beafeard, he can't hear us, Sade."

  "On this side of the mill?"

  "Yes! Why, Lord love ye, Sadie! t'other side o' the mill it drops downstraight to the valley; nobody comes yer that way but poor low-downemigrants. And it's miles round to come by the valley from the summit."

  "You didn't hear your friend
Chivers say that the sheriff was out withhis posse to-night hunting them?"

  "No. Did you?"

  "I think I heard something of that kind at Skinner's, but it may havebeen only a warning to me, traveling alone."

  "Thet's so," said Collinson, with a tender solicitude, "but none o'these yer road-agents would have teched a woman. And this yer Chiversain't the man to insult one, either."

  "No," she said, with a return of her hysteric laugh. But it wasoverlooked by Collinson, who was taking his gun from beside the treewhere he had placed it, "Where are you going?" she said suddenly.

  "I reckon them fellers ought to be warned o' what you heard. I'll beback in a minit."

  "And you're going to leave me now--when--when we've only just met afterthese years," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, which,however, did not reach the cold glitter of her eyes.

  "Just for a little, honey. Besides, don't you see, I've got to getexcused; for we'll have to go off to Skinner's or somewhere, Sadie, forwe can't stay in thar along o' them."

  "So you and your wife are turned out of your home to please Chivers,"she said, still smiling.

  "That's whar you slip up, Sadie," said Collinson, with a troubled face;"for he's that kind of a man thet if I jest as much as hinted you washere, he'd turn 'em all out o' the house for a lady. Thet's why I don'tpropose to let on anything about you till to-morrow."

  "To-morrow will do," she said, still smiling, but with a singularabstraction in her face. "Pray don't disturb them now. You say thereis another sentinel beyond. He is enough to warn them of any approachfrom the trail. I'm tired and ill--very ill! Sit by me here, Seth,and wait! We can wait here together--we have waited so long,Seth,--and the end has come now."

  She suddenly lapsed against the tree, and slipped in a sitting postureto the ground. Collinson cast himself at her side, and put his armround her.

  "Wot's gone o' ye, Sade? You're cold and sick. Listen. Your hoss isjust over thar feedin'. I'll put you back on him, run in and tell 'emI'm off, and be with ye in a jiffy, and take ye back to Skinner's."

  "Wait," she said softly. "Wait."

  "Or to the Silver Hollow--it's not so far."

  She had caught his hands again, her rigid face close to his, "Whathollow?--speak!" she said breathlessly.

  "The hollow whar a friend o' mine struck silver. He'll take yur in."

  Her head sank against his shoulder. "Let me stay here," she answered,"and wait."

  He supported her tenderly, feeling the gentle brushing of her hairagainst his cheek as in the old days. He was content to wait, holdingher thus. They were very silent; her eyes half closed, as if inexhaustion, yet with the strange suggestion of listening in the vacantpupils.

  "Ye ain't hearin' anythin', deary?" he said, with a troubled face.

  "No; but everything is so deathly still," she said in a frightenedwhisper.

  It certainly was very still. A singular hush seemed to have slid overthe landscape; there was no longer any sound from the mill; there wasan ominous rest in the woodland, so perfect that the tiny rustle of anuneasy wing in the tree above them had made them start; even themoonlight seemed to hang suspended in the air.

  "It's like the lull before the storm," she said with her strange laugh.

  But the non-imaginative Collinson was more practical. "It's mightylike that earthquake weather before the big shake thet dried up theriver and stopped the mill. That was just the time I got the news o'your bein' dead with yellow fever. Lord! honey, I allus allowed tomyself thet suthin' was happenin' to ye then."

  She did not reply; but he, holding her figure closer to him, felt ittrembling with a nervous expectation. Suddenly she threw him off, androse to her feet with a cry. "There!" she screamed frantically,"they've come! they've come!"

  A rabbit had run out into the moonlight before them, a gray fox haddashed from the thicket into the wood, but nothing else.

  "Who's come?" said Collinson, staring at her.

  "The sheriff and his posse! They're surrounding them now. Don't youhear?" she gasped.

  There was a strange rattling in the direction of the mill, a dullrumble, with wild shouts and outcries, and the trampling of feet on itswooden platform. Collinson staggered to his feet; but at the samemoment he was thrown violently against his wife, and they both clunghelplessly to the tree, with their eyes turned toward the ledge. Therewas a dense cloud of dust and haze hanging over it.

  She uttered another cry, and ran swiftly towards the rocky grade.Collinson ran quickly after her, but as she reached the grade hesuddenly shouted, with an awful revelation in his voice, "Come back!Stop, Sadie, for God's sake!" But it was too late. She had alreadydisappeared; and as he reached the rock on which Chivers had leaped, hefelt it give way beneath him.

  But there was no sound, only a rush of wind from the valley below.Everything lapsed again into its awful stillness. As the cloud liftedfrom where the mill had stood, the moon shone only upon empty space.There was a singular murmuring and whispering from the woods beyondthat increased in sound, and an hour later the dry bed of the oldmill-stream was filled with a rushing river.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Preble Key returned to his hotel from the convent, it is to be feared,with very little of that righteous satisfaction which is supposed tofollow the performance of a good deed. He was by no means certain thatwhat he had done was best for the young girl. He had only shown himselfto her as a worldly monitor of dangers, of which her innocence wasprovidentially unconscious. In his feverish haste to avert a scandal,he had no chance to explain his real feelings; he had, perhaps, evenexposed her thwarted impulses to equally naive but more dangerousexpression, which he might not have the opportunity to check. Hetossed wakefully that night upon his pillow, tormented with alternatevisions of her adorable presence at the hotel, and her bowed,renunciating figure as she reentered the convent gate. He waitedexpectantly the next day for the message she had promised, and which hebelieved she would find some way to send. But no message wasforthcoming. The day passed, and he became alarmed. The fear that herescapade had been discovered again seized him. If she were in closerestraint, she could neither send to him, nor could he convey to herthe solicitude and sympathy that filled his heart. In her childishfrankness she might have confessed the whole truth, and this would notonly shut the doors of the convent against him, under his formerpretext, but compromise her still more if he boldly called. He waylaidthe afternoon procession; she was not among them. Utterly despairing,the wildest plans for seeing her passed through his brain,--plans thatrecalled his hot-headed youth, and a few moments later made him smileat his extravagance, even while it half frightened him at the realityof his passion. He reached the hotel heart-sick and desperate. Theporter met him on the steps. It was with a thrill that sent the bloodleaping to his cheeks that he heard the man say:--

  "Sister Seraphina is waiting for you in the sitting-room."

  There was no thought of discovery or scandal in Preble Key's mind now;no doubt or hesitation as to what he would do, as he sprang up thestaircase. He only knew that he had found her again, and was happy!He burst into the room, but this time remembered to shut the doorbehind him. He looked eagerly towards the window where she had stoodthe day before, but now she rose quickly from the sofa in the corner,where she had been seated, and the missal she had been reading rolledfrom her lap to the floor. He ran towards her to pick it up. Hername--the name she had told him to call her--was passionately tremblingon his lips, when she slowly put her veil aside, and displayed a pale,kindly, middle-aged face, slightly marked by old scars of smallpox. Itwas not Alice; it was the real Sister Seraphina who stood before him.

  His first revulsion of bitter disappointment was so quickly followed bya realization that all had been discovered, and his sacrifice ofyesterday had gone for naught, that he stood before her, stammering,but without the power to say a word. Luckily for him, his utterembarrassment seemed to reassure her, and to calm that timidity whichhis brusque
man-like irruption might well produce in the inexperienced,contemplative mind of the recluse. Her voice was very sweet, albeitsad, as she said gently:--

  "I am afraid I have taken you by surprise; but there was no time toarrange for a meeting, and the Lady Superior thought that I, who knewall the facts, had better see you confidentially. Father Cipriano gaveus your address."

  Amazed and wondering, Key bowed her to a seat.

  "You will remember," she went on softly, "that the Lady Superior failedto get any information from you regarding the brother of one of ourdear children, whom he committed to our charge through a--a companionor acquaintance--a Mrs. Barker. As she was armed with his authority byletter, we accepted the dear child through her, permitted her as hisrepresentative to have free access to his sister, and even allowed her,as an unattended woman, to pass the night at the convent. We weretherefore surprised this morning to receive a letter from him,absolutely forbidding any further intercourse, correspondence, orassociation of his sister with this companion, Mrs. Barker. It wasnecessary to inform the dear child of this at once, as she was on thepoint of writing to this woman; but we were pained and shocked at herreception of her brother's wishes. I ought to say, in justice to thedear child, that while she is usually docile, intelligent, andtractable to discipline, and a devote in her religious feelings, she issingularly impulsive. But we were not prepared for the rash and suddenstep she has taken. At noon to-day she escaped from the convent!"

  Key, who had been following her with relief, sprang to his feet at thisunexpected culmination.

  "Escaped!" he said. "Impossible! I mean," he added, hurriedlyrecalling himself, "your rules, your discipline, your attendants are soperfect."

  "The poor impulsive creature has added sacrilege to her madness--asacrilege we are willing to believe she did not understand, for sheescaped in a religious habit--my own."

  "But this would sufficiently identify her," he said, controllinghimself with an effort.

  "Alas, not so! There are many of us who go abroad on our missions inthese garments, and they are made all alike, so as to divert ratherthan attract attention to any individuality. We have sent privatemessengers in all directions, and sought her everywhere, but withoutsuccess. You will understand that we wish to avoid scandal, which amore public inquiry would create."

  "And you come to me," said Key, with a return of his first suspicion,in spite of his eagerness to cut short the interview and be free toact,--"to me, almost a stranger?"

  "Not a stranger, Mr. Key," returned the religieuse gently, "but to awell-known man--a man of affairs in the country where this unhappychild's brother lives--a friend who seems to be sent by Heaven to findout this brother for us, and speed this news to him. We come to the oldpupil of Father Cipriano, a friend of the Holy Church; to the kindlygentleman who knows what it is to have dear relations of his own, andwho only yesterday was seeking the convent to"--

  "Enough!" interrupted Key hurriedly, with a slight color. "I will goat once. I do not know this man, but I will do my best to find him.And this--this--young girl? You say you have no trace of her? May shenot still be here? I should have some clue by which to seek her--Imean that I could give to her brother."

  "Alas! we fear she is already far away from here. If she went at onceto San Luis, she could have easily taken a train to San Franciscobefore we discovered her flight. We believe that it was the poorchild's intent to join her brother, so as to intercede for herfriend--or, perhaps, alas! to seek her."

  "And this friend left yesterday morning?" he said quickly, yetconcealing a feeling of relief. "Well, you may depend on me! And now,as there is no time to be lost, I will make my arrangements to take thenext train." He held out his hand, paused, and said in almost boyishembarrassment: "Bid me God speed, Sister Seraphina!"

  "May the Holy Virgin aid you," she said gently. Yet, as she passed outof the door, with a grateful smile, a characteristic reaction came overKey. His romantic belief in the interposition of Providence was notwithout a tendency to apply the ordinary rules of human evidence tosuch phenomena. Sister Seraphina's application to him seemed littleshort of miraculous interference; but what if it were only a trick toget rid of him, while the girl, whose escapade had been discovered, waseither under restraint in the convent, or hiding in Santa Luisa? Yetthis did not prevent him from mechanically continuing his arrangementsfor departure. When they were completed, and he had barely time to getto the station at San Luis, he again lingered in vague expectation ofsome determining event.

  The appearance of a servant with a telegraphic message at this momentseemed to be an answer to this instinctive feeling. He tore it openhastily. But it was only a single line from his foreman at the mine,which had been repeated to him from the company's office in SanFrancisco. It read, "Come at once--important."

  Disappointed as it left him, it determined his action; and as the trainsteamed out of San Luis, it for a while diverted his attention from theobject of his pursuit. In any event, his destination would have beenSkinner's or the Hollow, as the point from which to begin his search.He believed with Sister Seraphina that the young girl would make herdirect appeal to her brother; but even if she sought Mrs. Barker, itwould still be at some of the haunts of the gang. The letter to theLady Superior had been postmarked from "Bald Top," which Key knew to bean obscure settlement less frequented than Skinner's. Even then it washardly possible that the chief of the road agents would present himselfat the post-office, and it had probably been left by some less known ofthe gang. A vague idea, that was hardly a suspicion, that the girlmight have a secret address of her brother's, without understanding thereasons for its secrecy, came into his mind. A still more vague hope,that he might meet her before she found her brother, upheld him. Itwould be an accidental meeting on her part, for he no longer dared tohope that she would seek or trust him again. And it was with verylittle of his old sanguine quality that, travel-worn and weary, he atlast alighted at Skinner's. But his half careless inquiry if any ladypassengers had lately arrived there, to his embarrassment produced abroad smile on the face of Skinner.

  "You're the second man that asked that question, Mr. Key," he said.

  "The second man?" ejaculated Key nervously.

  "Yes the first was the sheriff of Sierra. He wanted to find a tall,good-looking woman, about thirty, with black eyes. I hope that ain'tthe kind o' girl you're looking arter--is it? for I reckon she's ginyou both the slip."

  Key protested with a forced laugh that it was not, yet suddenlyhesitated to describe Alice; for he instantly recognized the portraitof her friend, the assumed Mrs. Barker. Skinner continued in lazyconfidence:--

  "Ye see they say that the sheriff had sorter got the dead wood on thatgang o' road agents, and had hemmed 'em in somewhar betwixt Bald Topand Collinson's. But that woman was one o' their spies, and spottedhis little game, and managed to give 'em the tip, so they got cleanaway. Anyhow, they ain't bin heard from since. But the big shake hasmade scoutin' along the ledges rather stiff work for the sheriff. Theysay the valley near Long Canyon's chock full o' rock and slumgullionthat's slipped down."

  "What do you mean by the big shake?" asked Key in surprise.

  "Great Scott! you didn't hear of it? Didn't hear of the 'arthquakethat shook us up all along Galloper's the other night? Well," he addeddisgustedly, "that's jist the conceit of them folks in the bay, thatcan't allow that ANYTHIN' happens in the mountains!"

  The urgent telegrams of his foreman now flashed across Key'spreoccupied mind. Possibly Skinner saw his concern, "I reckon yourmine is all right, Mr. Key. One of your men was over yere last night,and didn't say nothin'."

  But this did not satisfy Key; and in a few minutes he had mounted hishorse and was speeding towards the Hollow, with a remorsefulconsciousness of having neglected his colleagues' interests. Forhimself, in the utter prepossession of his passion for Alice, he carednothing. As he dashed down the slope to the Hollow, he thought only ofthe two momentous days that she had passed
there, and the fate that hadbrought them so nearly together. There was nothing to recall itssylvan beauty in the hideous works that now possessed it, or thesubstantial dwelling-house that had taken the place of the old cabin.A few hurried questions to the foreman satisfied him of the integrityof the property. There had been some alarm in the shaft, but there wasno subsidence of the "seam," nor any difficulty in the working. "WhatI telegraphed you for, Mr. Key, was about something that has cropped upway back o' the earthquake. We were served here the other day with alegal notice of a claim to the mine, on account of previous work doneon the ledge by the last occupant."

  "But the cabin was built by a gang of thieves, who used it as a hoardfor their booty," returned Key hotly, "and every one of them areoutlaws, and have no standing before the law." He stopped with a pangas he thought of Alice. And the blood rushed to his cheeks as theforeman quietly continued:--

  "But the claim ain't in any o' their names. It's allowed to be thegift of their leader to his young sister, afore the outlawry, and it'sin HER name--Alice Riggs or something."

  Of the half-dozen tumultuous thoughts that passed through Key's mind,only one remained. It was purely an act of the brother's to securesome possible future benefit for his sister. And of this she wasperfectly ignorant! He recovered himself quickly, and said with asmile:--

  "But I discovered the ledge and its auriferous character myself. Therewas no trace or sign of previous discovery or mining occupation."

  "So I jedged, and so I said, and thet puts ye all right. But I thoughtI'd tell ye; for mining laws is mining laws, and it's the one thing yecan't get over," he added, with the peculiar superstitious reverence ofthe Californian miner for that vested authority.

  But Key scarcely listened. All that he had heard seemed only to linkhim more fatefully and indissolubly with the young girl. He wasalready impatient of even this slight delay in his quest. In hisperplexity his thoughts had reverted to Collinson's: the mill was agood point to begin his search from; its good-natured, stupidproprietor might be his guide, his ally, and even his confidant.

  When his horse was baited, he was again in the saddle. "If yer goingCollinson's way, yer might ask him if he's lost a horse," said theforeman. "The morning after the shake, some of the boys picked up amustang, with a make-up lady's saddle on." Key started! While it wasimpossible that it could have been ridden by Alice, it might have beenby the woman who had preceded her.

  "Did you make any search?" he inquired eagerly; "there may have been anaccident."

  "I reckon it wasn't no accident," returned the foreman coolly, "for theriata was loose and trailing, as if it had been staked out, and brokenaway."

  Without another word, Key put spurs to his horse and galloped away,leaving his companion staring after him. Here was a clue: the horsecould not have strayed far; the broken tether indicated a camp; thegang had been gathered somewhere in the vicinity where Mrs. Barker hadwarned them,--perhaps in the wood beyond Collinson's. He wouldpenetrate it alone. He knew his danger; but as a SINGLE unarmed man hemight be admitted to the presence of the leader, and the alleged claimwas a sufficient excuse. What he would say or do afterwards dependedupon chance. It was a wild scheme--but he was reckless. Yet he wouldgo to Collinson's first.

  At the end of two hours he reached the thick-set wood that gave uponthe shelf at the top of the grade which descended to the mill. As heemerged from the wood into the bursting sunlight of the valley below,he sharply reined in his horse and stopped. Another bound would havebeen his last. For the shelf, the rocky grade itself, the ledge below,and the mill upon it, were all gone! The crumbling outer wall of therocky grade had slipped away into immeasurable depths below, leavingonly the sharp edge of a cliff, which incurved towards the woods thathad once stood behind the mill, but which now bristled on the very edgeof a precipice. A mist was hanging over its brink and rising from thevalley; it was a full-fed stream that was coursing through the formerdry bed of the river and falling down the face of the bluff. He rubbedhis eyes, dismounted, crept along the edge of the precipice, and lookedbelow: whatever had subsided and melted down into its thousand feet ofdepth, there was no trace left upon its smooth face. Scarcely an angleof drift or debris marred the perpendicular; the burial of all ruin wasdeep and compact; the erasure had been swift and sure--the obliterationcomplete. It might have been the precipitation of ages, and not of asingle night. At that remote distance it even seemed as if grass werealready growing ever this enormous sepulchre, but it was only the topsof the buried pines. The absolute silence, the utter absence of anymark of convulsive struggle, even the lulling whimper of fallingwaters, gave the scene a pastoral repose.

  So profound was the impression upon Key and his human passion that itat first seemed an ironical and eternal ending of his quest. It waswith difficulty that he reasoned that the catastrophe occurred beforeAlice's flight, and that even Collinson might have had time to escape.He slowly skirted the edge of the chasm, and made his way back throughthe empty woods behind the old mill-site towards the place where he haddismounted. His horse seemed to have strayed into the shadows of thiscovert; but as he approached him, he was amazed to see that it was nothis own, and that a woman's scarf was lying over its side saddle. Awild idea seized him, and found expression in an impulsive cry:--

  "Alice!"

  The woods echoed it; there was an interval of silence, and then a faintresponse. But it was HER voice. He ran eagerly forward in thatdirection, and called again; the response was nearer this time, andthen the tall ferns parted, and her lithe, graceful figure camerunning, stumbling, and limping towards him like a wounded fawn. Herface was pale and agitated, the tendrils of her light hair werestraying over her shoulder, and one of the sleeves of her school-gownwas stained with blood and dust. He caught the white and tremblinghands that were thrust out to him eagerly.

  "It is YOU!" she gasped. "I prayed for some one to come, but I did notdream it would be YOU. And then I heard YOUR voice--and I thought itcould be only a dream until you called a second time."

  "But you are hurt," he exclaimed passionately. "You have met with someaccident!"

  "No, no!" she said eagerly. "Not I--but a poor, poor man I found lyingon the edge of the cliff. I could not help him much, I did not care toleave him. No one WOULD come! I have been with him alone, all themorning! Come quick, he may be dying."

  He passed his arm around her waist unconsciously; she permitted it asunconsciously, as he half supported her figure while they hurriedforward.

  "He had been crushed by something, and was just hanging over the ledge,and could not move nor speak," she went on quickly. "I dragged himaway to a tree, it took me hours to move him, he was so heavy,--and Igot him some water from the stream and bathed his face, and blooded allmy sleeve."

  "But what were you doing here?" he asked quickly.

  A faint blush crossed the pallor of her delicate cheek. She lookedaway quickly. "I--was going to find my brother at Bald Top," shereplied at last hurriedly. "But don't ask me now--only come quick, do."

  "Is the wounded man conscious? Did you speak with him? Does he knowwho you are?" asked Key uneasily.

  "No! he only moaned a little and opened his eyes when I dragged him. Idon't think he even knew what had happened."

  They hurried on again. The wood lightened suddenly. "Here!" she saidin a half whisper, and stepped timidly into the open light. Only a fewfeet from the fatal ledge, against the roots of a buckeye, with HERshawl thrown over him, lay the wounded man.

  Key started back. It was Collinson!

  His head and shoulders seemed uninjured; but as Key lifted the shawl,he saw that the long, lank figure appeared to melt away below the waistinto a mass of shapeless and dirty rags. Key hurriedly replaced theshawl, and, bending over him, listened to his hurried respiration andthe beating of his heart. Then he pressed a drinking-flask to hislips. The spirit seemed to revive him; he slowly opened his eyes.They fell upon Key with quick recognition. But the look change
d; onecould see that he was trying to rise, but that no movement of the limbsaccompanied that effort of will, and his old patient, resigned lookreturned. Key shuddered. There was some injury to the spine. The manwas paralyzed.

  "I can't get up, Mr. Key," he said in a faint but untroubled voice,"nor seem to move my arms, but you'll just allow that I've shook handswith ye--all the same."

  "How did this happen?" said Key anxiously.

  "Thet's wot gets me! Sometimes I reckon I know, and sometimes I don't.Lyin' thar on thet ledge all last night, and only jest able to lookdown into the old valley, sometimes it seemed to me ez if I fell overand got caught in the rocks trying to save my wife; but then when I kemto think sensible, and know my wife wasn't there at all, I getmystified. Sometimes I think I got ter thinkin' of my wife only whenthis yer young gal thet's bin like an angel to me kem here and draggedme off the ledge, for you see she don't belong here, and hez dropped onto me like a sperrit."

  "Then you were not in the house when the shock came?" said Key.

  "No. You see the mill was filled with them fellers as the sheriff wasarter, and it went over with 'em--and I"--

  "Alice," said Key, with a white face, "would you mind going to myhorse, which you will find somewhere near yours, and bringing me amedicine case from my saddle-bags?"

  The innocent girl glanced quickly at her companion, saw the change inhis face, and, attributing it to the imminent danger of the injuredman, at once glided away. When she was out of hearing, Key leanedgravely over him:--

  "Collinson, I must trust you with a secret. I am afraid that this poorgirl who helped you is the sister of the leader of that gang thesheriff was in pursuit of. She has been kept in perfect ignorance ofher brother's crimes. She must NEVER know them--nor even know hisfate! If he perished utterly in this catastrophe, as it would seem--itwas God's will to spare her that knowledge. I tell you this, to warnyou in anything you say before her. She MUST believe, as I shall tryto make her believe, that he has gone back to the States--where shewill perhaps, hereafter, believe that he died. Better that she shouldknow nothing--and keep her thought of him unchanged."

  "I see--I see--I see, Mr. Key," murmured the injured man. "Thet's wotI've been sayin' to myself lyin' here all night. Thet's wot I binsayin' o' my wife Sadie,--her that I actooally got to think kem back tome last night. You see I'd heerd from one o' those fellars that awoman like unto her had been picked up in Texas and brought on yere,and that mebbe she was somewhar in Californy. I was that foolish--andthat ontrue to her, all the while knowin', as I once told you, Mr. Key,that ef she'd been alive she'd bin yere--that I believed it true for aminit! And that was why, afore this happened, I had a dream, right outyer, and dreamed she kem to me, all white and troubled, through thewoods. At first I thought it war my Sadie; but when I see she warn'tlike her old self, and her voice was strange and her laugh wasstrange--then I knowed it wasn't her, and I was dreamin'. You'reright, Mr. Key, in wot you got off just now--wot was it? Better toknow nothin'--and keep the old thoughts unchanged."

  "Have you any pain?" asked Key after a pause.

  "No; I kinder feel easier now."

  Key looked at his changing face. "Tell me," he said gently, "if itdoes not tax your strength, all that has happened here, all you know.It is for HER sake."

  Thus adjured, with his eyes fixed on Key, Collinson narrated his storyfrom the irruption of the outlaws to the final catastrophe. Even thenhe palliated their outrage with his characteristic patience, keepingstill his strange fascination for Chivers, and his blind belief in hismiserable wife. The story was at times broken by lapses of faintness,by a singular return of his old abstraction and forgetfulness in themidst of a sentence, and at last by a fit of coughing that left a fewcrimson bubbles on the corners of his month. Key lifted his eyesanxiously; there was some grave internal injury, which the dying man'sresolute patience had suppressed. Yet, at the sound of Alice'sreturning step, Collinson's eyes brightened, apparently as much at hercoming as from the effect of the powerful stimulant Key had taken fromhis medicine case.

  "I thank ye, Mr. Key," he said faintly; "for I've got an idea I ain'tgot no great time before me, and I've got suthin' to say to you, aforewitnesses"--his eyes sought Alice's in half apology--"afore witnesses,you understand. Would you mind standin' out thar, afore me, in thelight, so I kin see you both, and you, miss, rememberin', ez a witness,suthin' I got to tell to him? You might take his hand, miss, to makeit more regular and lawlike."

  The two did as he bade them, standing side by side, painfully humoringwhat seemed to them to be wanderings of a dying man.

  "Thar was a young fellow," said Collinson in a steady voice, "ez kem tomy shanty a night ago on his way to the--the--valley. He was asprightly young fellow, gay and chipper-like, and he sez to me,confidential-like, 'Collinson,' sez he, 'I'm off to the States thisvery night on business of importance; mebbe I'll be away a longtime--for years! You know,' sez he, 'Mr. Key, in the Hollow! Go tohim,' sez he, 'and tell him ez how I hadn't time to get to see him;tell him,' sez he, 'that RIVERS'--you've got the name, Mr. Key?--you'vegot the name, miss?--'that RIVERS wants him to say this to his littlesister from her lovin' brother. And tell him,' sez he, this yerRIVERS, 'to look arter her, being alone.' You remember that, Mr. Key?you remember it, miss? You see, I remembered it, too, being, so tospeak, alone myself"--he paused, and added in a faint whisper--"tillnow."

  Then he was silent. That innocent lie was the first and last upon hishonest lips; for as they stood there, hand in hand, they saw his plain,hard face take upon itself, at first, the gray, ashen hues of the rocksaround him, and then and thereafter something of the infinitetranquillity and peace of that wilderness in which he had lived anddied, and of which he was a part.

  Contemporaneous history was less kindly. The "Bald Top Sentinel"congratulated its readers that the late seismic disturbance wasaccompanied with very little loss of life, if any. "It is reportedthat the proprietor of a low shebeen for emigrants in an obscure hollowhad succumbed from injuries; but," added the editor, with a fine touchof Western humor, "whether this was the result of his being forciblymixed up with his own tanglefoot whiskey or not, we are unable todetermine from the evidence before us." For all that, a small stoneshaft was added later to the rocks near the site of the old mill,inscribed to the memory of this obscure proprietor, with the singularlegend: "Have ye faith like to him?" And those who knew only of thematerial catastrophe looking around upon the scene of desolation itcommemorated, thought grimly that it must be faith indeed, and--werewiser than they knew.

  "You smiled, Don Preble," said the Lady Superior to Key a few weekslater, "when I told to you that many caballeros thought it mostdiscreet to intrust their future brides to the maternal guardianshipand training of the Holy Church; yet, of a truth, I meant not YOU. Andyet--eh! well, we shall see."