CHAPTER VII.
A LEAF OUT OF THE PAST.
Arthur's letter to his partners was a brief explanation of his delay,and closed with the following sentence--
"Search the records for any deed or transfer of the grant from Dr. Devarges."
He had scarcely concluded before Diego entered ready for the journey.When he had gone, Arthur waited with some impatience the reappearance ofDonna Dolores. To his disappointment, however, only the solemnmajor-domo strode grimly into the room like a dark-complexioned ghost,and, as it seemed to Arthur, with a strong suggestion of the Commanderin "Don Giovanni" in his manner, silently beckoned him to follow to theapartment set aside for his reception. In keeping with the sun-evadinginstincts of Spanish Californian architecture the room was long, low,and half lighted; the two barred windows on either side of the doorwaygave upon the corridor and courtyard below; the opposite wall held onlya small narrow, deeply-embrasured loop-hole, through which Arthur couldsee the vast, glittering, sun-illumined plain beyond. The hard,monotonous, unwinking glare without did not penetrate the monastic gloomof this chamber; even the insane, incessant restlessness of the windthat perpetually beset the bleak walls was unheard and unfelt in thegrave, contemplative solitude of this religious cell.
Mingled with this grateful asceticism was the quaint contrast of apeculiar Spanish luxuriousness. In a curtained recess an immensemahogany bedstead displayed a yellow satin coverlet profuselyembroidered with pink and purple silk flowers. The borders of the sheetsand cases of the satin pillows were deeply edged with the finest lace.Beside the bed and before a large armchair heavy rugs of barbariccolours covered the dark wooden floor, and in front of the deepoven-like hearth lay an immense bear-skin. About the hearth hung anebony and gold crucifix, and, mingled with a few modern engravings, theusual Catholic saints and martyrs occupied the walls. It struck Arthur'sobservation oddly that the subjects of the secular engravings were snowlandscapes. The Hospice of St. Bernard in winter, a pass in the AustrianTyrol, the Steppes of Russia, a Norwegian plain, all to Arthur's fancybrought the temperature, of the room down considerably. A smallwater-colour of an Alpine flower touched him so closely that it mighthave blossomed from his recollection.
Dinner, which was prefaced by a message from Donna Dolores excusingherself through indisposition, was served in solemn silence. A cousin ofthe late Don Jos['e] Salvatierra represented the family, and pervaded themeal with a mild flavour of stale cigaritos and dignified criticism ofremote events. Arthur, disappointed at the absence of the Donna, foundhimself regarding this gentleman with some degree of asperity, and adisposition to resent any reference to his client's business as anunwarrantable impertinence. But when the dinner was over, and he hadsmoked a cigar on the corridor without further communication with DonnaDolores, he began to be angry with himself for accepting her invitation,and savagely critical of the motives that impelled him to it. He wasmeditating an early retreat--even a visit to Mrs. Sepulvida--whenManuela entered.
Would Don Arturo grant the Donna his further counsel and presence?
Don Arturo was conscious that his cheek was flushing, and that hiscounsel at the present moment would not have been eminently remarkablefor coolness or judiciousness, but he followed the Indian woman with aslight inclination of the head. They entered the room where he had firstmet the Donna. She might not have moved from the position she hadoccupied that morning on the couch, so like was her attitude and manner.As he approached her respectfully, he was conscious of the samefragrance, and the same mysterious magnetism that seemed to leap fromher dark eyes, and draw his own resisting and unwilling gaze toward her.
"You will despise me, Don Arturo--you, whose country-women are so strongand active--because I am so little and weak, and,--Mother of God!--solazy! But I am an invalid, and am not yet quite recovered. But then I amaccustomed to it. I have lain here for days, Don Arturo, doing nothing.It is weary-eh? You think? This watching, this waiting!--day afterday--always the same!"
There was something so delicately plaintive and tender in the cadence ofher speech--a cadence that might, perhaps, have been attributed to thecharacteristic intonation of the Castilian feminine speech, but whichArthur could not help thinking was peculiar to herself, that at themoment he dared not lift his eyes to her, although he was conscious shewas looking at him. But by an impulse of safety he addressed himself tothe fan.
"You have been an invalid then--Donna Dolores?"
"A sufferer, Don Arturo."
"Have you ever tried the benefit of change of scene--of habits of life?Your ample means, your freedom from the cares of family or kinship,offer you such opportunities," he continued, still addressing the fan.
But the fan, as if magnetised by his gaze, became coquettishlyconscious; fluttered, faltered, drooped, and then languidly folded itswings. Arthur was left helpless.
"Perhaps," said Donna Dolores: "who knows?"
She paused for an instant, and then made a sign to Manuela. The Indianwoman rose and left the room.
"I have something to tell you, Don Arturo," she continued, "something Ishould have told you this morning. It is not too late now. But it is asecret. It is only that I have questioned my right to tell it--not thatI have doubted your honour, Don Arturo, that I withheld it then."
Arthur raised his eyes to hers. It was her turn to evade his glance.With her long lashes drooped, she went on--
"It is five years ago, and my father--whom may the Saints assoil--wasalive. Came to us then at the Presidio of San Geronimo, a young girl--anAmerican, a stranger and helpless. She had escaped from a lost camp inthe snowy mountains where her family and friends were starving. That wasthe story she told my father. It was a probable one--was it not?"
Arthur bowed his head, but did not reply.
"But the name that she gave was not a true one, as it appeared. Myfather had sent an _Expedicion_ to relieve these people, and they hadfound among the dead the person whom this young girl--thestranger--assumed to be. That was their report. The name of the younggirl who was found dead and the name of the young girl who came to uswas the same. It was Grace Conroy."
Arthur's face did not move a muscle, nor did he once take his eyes fromthe drooping lids of his companion.
"It was a grave matter--a very grave matter. And it was the moresurprising because the young girl had at first given another name--thename of Grace Ashley--which she afterwards explained was the name of theyoung man who helped her to escape, and whose sister she at firstassumed to be. My father was a good man, a kind man--a saint, DonArturo. It was not for him to know if she were Grace Ashley or GraceConroy--it was enough for him to know that she was alive, weak,helpless, suffering. Against the advice of his officers, he look herinto his own house, into his own family, into his own fatherly heart, towait until her brother, or this Philip Ashley, should return. He neverreturned. In six months she was taken ill--very ill--a little child wasborn--Don Arturo--but in the same moment it died and the motherdied--both, you comprehend--both died--in my arms!"
"That was bad," said Arthur, curtly.
"I do not comprehend," said Donna Dolores.
"Pardon. Do not misunderstand me. I say it was bad, for I really believethat this girl, the mysterious stranger, with the _alias_, was reallyGrace Conroy."
Donna Dolores raised her eyes and stared at Arthur.
"And why?"
"Because the identification of the bodies by the _Expedicion_ washurried and imperfect."
"How know you this?"
Arthur arose and drew his chair a little nearer his fair client.
"You have been good enough to intrust me with an important andhonourable secret. Let me show my appreciation of that confidence byintrusting you with one equally important. I knew that theidentification was imperfect and hurried, because _I_ was present. Inthe report of the _Expedicion_ you will find the name, if you have notalready read it, of Lieutenant Arthur Poinsett. That was myself."
Donna Dolores raised herself to a sitting posture.
"But why did you not tell me this before?"
"Because, first, I believed that you knew that I was LieutenantPoinsett. Because, secondly, I did _not_ believe that you knew thatArthur Poinsett and Philip Ashley were one and the same person."
"I do not understand," said Donna Dolores slowly, in a hard metallicvoice.
"I am Lieutenant Arthur Poinsett, formerly of the army, who, under theassumed name of Philip Ashley, brought Grace Conroy out of StarvationCamp. I am the person who afterwards abandoned her--the father of herchild."
He had not the slightest intention of saying this when he first enteredthe room, but something in his nature, which he had never tried tocontrol, brought it out. He was neither ashamed of it nor apprehensiveof its results; but, having said it, leaned back in his chair, proud,self-reliant, and self-sustained. If he had been uttering a moralsentiment he could not have been externally more calm or inwardly lessagitated. More than that, there was a certain injured dignity in hismanner, as he rose, without giving the speechless and astonished womanbefore him a chance to recover herself, and said--
"You will be able now to know whether your confidence has beenmisplaced. You will be able now to determine what you wish done, andwhether I am the person best calculated to assist you. I can only say,Donna Dolores, that I am ready to act either as your witness to theidentification of the real Grace Conroy, or as your legal adviser, orboth. When you have decided which, you shall give me your furthercommands, or dismiss me. Until then, _adios_!"
He bowed, waved his hand with a certain grand courtesy, and withdrew.When Donna Dolores raised her stupified head, the door had closed uponhim.
When this conceited young gentleman reached his own room, he was, Igrieve to say, to some extent mentally, and, if I may use the word,morally exalted by the interview. More than that, he was in betterspirits that he had been since his arrival. From his room he strode outinto the corridor. If his horse had been saddled, he would have taken asharp canter over the low hills for exercise, pending the decision ofhis fair client, but it was the hour of the noonday _siesta_, and thecourtyard was deserted. He walked to the gate, and looked across theplain. A fierce wind held uninterrupted possession of earth and sky.Something of its restlessness, just at that instant, was in Arthur'sbreast, and, with a glance around the corridor, and a momentaryhesitation, as an opening door, in a distant part of the building,suggested the possibility of another summons from Donna Dolores, hestepped beyond the walls.