CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES A HOLIDAY.
It was a hot day on the California coast. In the memory of the oldestAmerican inhabitant its like had not been experienced, and although thetestimony of the Spanish Californian was deemed untrustworthy where theinterests of the American people were concerned, the statement that forsixty years there had been no such weather was accepted withoutquestion. The additional fact, vouchsafed by Don Pedro Peralta, that thegreat earthquake which shook down the walls of the Mission of San JuanBautista had been preceded by a week of such abnormal meteorology, waspromptly suppressed as being of a quality calculated to checkimmigration. Howbeit it was hot. The usual afternoon trade-winds hadpretermitted their rapid, panting breath, and the whole coast lay, as itwere, in the hush of death. The evening fogs that always had lapped thewind-abraded surfaces of the bleak seaward hills were gone too; the vastPacific lay still and glassy, glittering, but intolerable. The outlyingsand dunes, unmitigated by any breath of air, blistered the feet andfaces of chance pedestrians. For once the broad verandahs, piazzas, andbalconies of San Francisco cottage architecture were consistent andserviceable. People lingered upon them in shirt-sleeves, with all theexaggeration of a novel experience. French windows, that had always beenbarred against the fierce afternoon winds, were suddenly thrown open;that brisk, energetic step, with which the average San Franciscanhurried to business or pleasure, was changed to an idle, purposelesslounge. The saloons were crowded with thirsty multitudes, the quays andwharves with a people who had never before appreciated the tonic of saltair; the avenues leading over the burning sand-hills to the ocean allday were thronged with vehicles. The numerous streets and by-ways,abandoned by their great scavenger, the wind, were foul andill-smelling. For twenty-four hours business was partly forgotten; asthe heat continued and the wind withheld its customary tribute, therewere some changes in the opinions and beliefs of the people; doubts wereeven expressed of the efficacy of the climate; a few heresies wereuttered regarding business and social creeds, and Mr. Dumphy and certainother financial magnates felt vaguely that if the thermometer continuedto advance the rates of interest must fall correspondingly.
Equal to even this emergency, Mr. Dumphy had sat in his office all themorning, resisting with the full strength of his aggressive nature anydisposition on the part of his his customers to succumb financially tothe unusual weather. Mr. Dumphy's shirt-collar was off; with it seemedto have departed some of his respectability, and he was perhaps, on thewhole, a trifle less imposing than he had been. Nevertheless, he wasstill dominant, in the suggestion of his short bull neck, and twovisitors who entered, observing the _d['e]shabill['e]_ of this greatman, felt that it was the proper thing for them to instantly unbuttontheir own waistcoats and loosen their cravats.
"It's hot," said Mr. Pilcher, an eminent contractor.
"You bet!" responded Mr. Dumphy. "Must be awful on the Atlantic coast!People dying by hundreds of sun-stroke; that's the style out there. Herethere's nothing of the kind! A man stands things here that he couldn'tthere."
Having thus re-established the supremacy of the California climate, Mr.Dumphy came directly to business. "Bad news from One Horse Gulch!" hesaid, quickly.
As that was the subject his visitors came to speak about--a fact ofwhich Mr. Dumphy was fully aware--he added, sharply, "What do youpropose?"
Mr. Pilcher, who was a large stockholder in the Conroy mine, responded,hesitatingly, "We've heard that the lead opens badly."
"D----n bad!" interrupted Dumphy. "What do you propose?"
"I suppose," continued Mr. Pilcher, "the only thing to do is to get outof it before the news becomes known."
"No!" said Dumphy, promptly. The two men stared at each other. "No!" hecontinued, with a quick, short laugh, which was more like a logicalexpression than a mirthful emotion. "No, we must hold on, sir! Look yer!there's a dozen men as you and me know, that we could unload toto-morrow. Suppose we did? Well, what happens? They go in on fourhundred thousand--that's about the figures we represent. Well. Theybegin to examine and look around; them men, Pilcher"--(in Mr. Dumphy'smore inspired moods he rose above considerations of the Englishgrammar)--"them men want to know what that four hundred thousand'sinvested in; they ain't goin' to take our word after we've got theirmoney--that's human nature--and in twenty-four hours they find they'resold! That don't look well for me nor you--does it?"
There was not the least assumption of superior honour orintegrity--indeed, scarcely any self-consciousness or sentiment of anykind, implied in this speech--yet it instantly affected both of thesesharp business men, who might have been suspicious of sentiment, with animpression of being both honourable and manly. Mr. Pilcher's companion,Mr. Wyck, added a slight embarrassment to his reception of these greattruths, which Mr. Dumphy noticed.
"No," he went on; "what we must do is this. Increase the capital stockjust as much again. That will enable us to keep everything in ourhands--news and all--and if it should leak out afterwards, we have halfa dozen others with us to keep the secret. Six months hence will be timeto talk of selling; just now buying is the thing! You don't believeit?--eh? Well, Wyck, I'll take yours at the figure you paid. What do yousay?--quick!"
Mr. Wyck, more confused than appeared necessary, declared his intentionof holding on; Mr. Pilcher laughed, Mr. Dumphy barked behind his hand.
"That offer's open for ninety days--will you take it? No! Well, then,that's all!" and Mr. Dumphy turned again to his desk. Mr. Pilcher tookthe hint, and drew Mr. Wyck away.
"Devilish smart chap, that Dumphy!" said Pilcher, as they passed out ofthe door.
"An honest man, by----!" responded Wyck.
When they had gone Mr. Dumphy rang his bell. "Ask Mr. Jaynes to come andsee me at once. D----n it, go now! You must get there before Wyck does.Run!"
The clerk disappeared. In a few moments Mr. Jaynes, a sharp but veryyouthful looking broker, entered the office parlour. "Mr. Wyck will wantto buy back that stock he put in your hands this morning, Jaynes. Ithought I'd tell you, it's worth 50 advance now!"
The precocious youth grinned intelligently and departed. By noon of thatday it was whispered that notwithstanding the rumours of unfavourablenews from the Conroy mine, one of the heaviest stockholders had actuallybought back, at an advance of $50 per share, some stock he hadpreviously sold. More than that, it was believed that Mr. Dumphy hadtaken advantage of these reports, and was secretly buying. In spite ofthe weather, for some few hours there had been the greatest excitement.
Possibly from some complacency arising from this, possibly from somesingular relaxing in the atmosphere, Mr. Dumphy at two o'clock shook offthe cares of business and abandoned himself to recreation--refusing evento take cognisance of the card of one Colonel Starbottle, which was sentto him with a request for an audience. At half-past two he was behind apair of fast horses, one of a carriage-load of ladies and gentlemen,rolling over the scorching sand-hills towards the Pacific, that lay calmand cool beyond. As the well-appointed equipage rattled up the BushStreet Hill, many an eye was turned with envy and admiration toward it.The spectacle of two pretty women among the passengers was perhaps onereason; the fact that everybody recognised in the showy and brilliantdriver the celebrated Mr. Rollingstone, an able financier and rival ofMr. Dumphy's, was perhaps equally potent. For Mr. Rollingstone was notedfor his "turnout," as well as for a certain impulsive South Seaextravagance and picturesque hospitality which Dumphy envied and attimes badly imitated. Indeed, the present excursion was one of Mr.Rollingstone's famous _fetes champetres_, and the present company wascomposed of the _['e]lite_ of San Francisco, and made self-complacent andappreciative by an enthusiastic Eastern tourist.
Their way lay over shifting sand dunes, now motionless and glittering inthe cruel, white glare of a California sky, only relieved here and thereby glimpses of the blue bay beyond, and odd marine-looking buildings,like shells scattered along the beach, as if they had been cast up andforgotten by some heavy tide. Farther on, their road skirted the
base ofa huge solitary hill, broken in outline by an outcrop of gravestones,sacred to the memory of worthy pioneers who had sealed their devotion tothe "healthiest climate in the world" with their lives. Occasionallythese gravestones continued to the foot of the hill, where, strugglingwith the drifting sand, they suggested a half-exhumed Pompeii to thepassing traveller. They were the skeletons at the feast of every SanFrancisco pleasure-seeker, the _memento mori_ of every picnicing party,and were visible even from the broad verandahs of the suburbanpavilions, where the gay and thoughtless citizen ate, drank, and wasmerry. Part of the way the busy avenue was parallel with another, upwhich, even at such times, occasionally crept the lugubrious processionof hearse and mourning coach to other pavilions, scarcely less crowded,where there were "funeral baked meats," and sorrow and tears. And beyondthis again was the grey eternal sea, and at its edge, perched upon arock, and rising out of the very jaws of the gushing breakers, a statelypleasure dome, decreed by some speculative and enterprising SanFrancisco landlord--the excuse and terminus of this popular excursion.
Here Rollingstone drew up, and, alighting, led his party into a bright,cheery room, whose windows gave upon the sea. A few other guests,evidently awaiting them, were mitigating their impatience by watchingthe uncouth gambols of the huge sea-lions, who, on the rocks beyond,offered a contrast to the engaging and comfortable interior that was atonce pleasant and exciting. In the centre of the room a table overloadedwith overgrown fruits and grossly large roses somewhat ostentatiouslyproclaimed the coming feast!
"Here we are!" said Mr. Dumphy, bustling into the room with that brisk,business-like manner which his friends fondly believed was frankcheerfulness, "and on time, too!" he added, drawing out his watch."Inside of thirty minutes--how's that, eh?" He clapped his nearestneighbour on the back, who, pleased with this familiarity from a manworth five or six millions, did not stop to consider the value of thiscelerity of motion in a pleasure excursion on a hot day.
"Well!" said Rollingstone, looking around him, "you all know each other,I reckon, or will soon. Mr. Dumphy, Mr. Poinsett, Mr. Pilcher, Mr. Dyce,Mr. Wyck, Mrs. Sepulvida and Miss Rosey Ringround, gentlemen; Mr. andMrs. Raynor, of Boston. There, now, that's through! Dinner's ready. Sitdown anywhere and wade in. No formality, gentlemen--this is California."
There was, perhaps, some advantage in this absence of ceremony. Theguests almost involuntarily seated themselves according to theirpreferences, and Arthur Poinsett found himself beside Mrs. Sepulvida,while Mr. Dumphy placed Miss Ringround--a pretty though boyish-lookingblonde, slangy in speech and fashionable in attire--on his right hand.
The dinner was lavish and luxurious, lacking nothing but restraint anddelicacy. There was game in profusion, fat but flavourless. The fruitswere characteristic. The enormous peaches were blowsy in colour androbust in fibre; the pears were prodigious and dropsical, and looked asif they wanted to be tapped; the strawberries were overgrown and yetimmature--rather as if they had been arrested on their way to becomepine-apples; with the exception of the grapes, which were delicate incolour and texture, the fruit might have been an ironical honouring bynature of Mr. Dumphy's lavish drafts.
It is probable, however, that the irony was lost on the majority of thecompany, who were inclined to echo the extravagant praise of Mr. Raynor,the tourist. "Wonderful! wonderful!" said that gentleman; "if I had notseen this I wouldn't have believed it. Why, that pear would make four ofours."
"That's the way we do things here," returned Dumphy, with the suggestionof being personally responsible for these abnormal growths. He stoppedsuddenly, for he caught Arthur Poinsett's eye. Mr. Dumphy ate little inpublic, but he was at that moment tearing the wing of a grouse with histeeth, and there was something so peculiar and characteristic in themanner that Arthur looked up with a sudden recollection in his glance.Dumphy put down the wing, and Poinsett resume his conversation with Mrs.Sepulvida. It was not of a quality that interruption seriously impaired;Mrs. Sepulvida was a charming but not an intellectual woman, and Mr.Poinsett took up the lost thread of his discourse quite as readily fromher eyes as her tongue.
"To have been consistent, Nature should have left a race of giantshere," said Mr. Poinsett, meditatively. "I believe," he added, morepointedly, and in a lower voice, "the late Don Jos['e] was not a largeman."
"Whatever he was, he thought a great deal of me!" pouted Mrs. Sepulvida.
Mr. Poinsett was hastening to say that if "taking thought" like thatcould add a "cubit to one's stature," he himself was in a fair way tobecome a son of Anak, when he was interrupted by Miss Rosey--
"What's all that about big men? There are none here. They're like thebig trees. They don't hang around the coast much! You must go to themountains for your Goliahs."
Emboldened quite as much by the evident annoyance of her neighbour asthe amused look of Arthur Poinsett, she went on--
"I have seen the pre-historic man!--the original athletic sharp! He isseven feet high, is as heavy as a sea-lion, and has shoulders like TomHyer. He slings an awful left. He's got blue eyes as tender as a seal's.He has hair like Samson before that woman went back on him. He's asbrave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb. He blushes like a girl, or asgirls used to; I wish I could start up such a colour on even double theprovocation!"
Of course everybody laughed--it was the usual tribute of Miss Rosey'sspeech--the gentlemen frankly and fairly, the ladies perhaps a littledoubtfully and fearfully. Mrs. Sepulvida, following the amused eyes ofArthur, asked Miss Rosey patronisingly where she had seen herphenomenon.
"Oh, it's no use, my dear, positively--no use. He's married. Thesephenomena always get married. No, I didn't see him in a circus, Mr.Dumphy, nor in a menagerie, Mr. Dyce, but in a girl's school!"
Everybody stared; a few laughed as if this were an amusing introductionto some possible joke from Miss Rosey.
"I was visiting an old schoolmate at Madame Eclair's _Pension_ atSacramento; he was taking his little sister to the same school," shewent on, coolly, "so he told me. I love my love with a G, for he isGuileless and Gentle. His name is Gabriel, and he lives in a Gulch."
"Our friend the superintendent--I'm blessed," said Dyce, looking atDumphy.
"Yes; but not so very guileless," said Pilcher, "eh, Dyce?"
The gentlemen laughed; the ladies looked at each other and then at MissRinground. That fearless young woman was equal to the occasion.
"What have you got against my giant? Out with it!"
"Oh, nothing," said Mr. Pilcher; "only your guileless, simple friend hasplayed the sharpest game on record in Montgomery Street."
"Go on!" said Miss Rosey.
"Shall I?" asked Pilcher of Dumphy.
Dumphy laughed his short laugh. "Go on."
Thus supported, Mr. Pilcher assumed the ease of a graceful _raconteur_."Miss Rosey's guileless friend, ladies and gentlemen, is thesuperintendent and shareholder in a certain valuable silver mine inwhich Dumphy is largely represented. Being about to leave the country,and anxious to realise on his stock, he contracted for the sale of ahundred shares at $1000 each, with our friend Mr. Dyce, the stocks to bedelivered on a certain date--ten days ago. Instead of the stock, thatday comes a letter from Conroy--a wonderful piece of art--simple,ill-spelled, and unbusiness-like, saying, that in consequence of recentdisappointment in the character and extent of the lead, he shall nothold Dyce to his contract, but will release him. Dyce, who has alreadysold that identical stock at a pretty profit, rushes off to Dumphy'sbroker, and finds two hundred shares held at $1200. Dyce smells alarge-sized rat, writes that he shall hold Gabriel to the performance ofhis contract, makes him hand over the stock, delivers it in time, andthen loads up again with the broker's 200 at $1200 _for a rise_. Thatrise don't come--won't come--for that sale was _Gabriel's too_--asDumphy can tell you. There's guilelessness! There's simplicity! And itcleared a hundred thousand by the operation."
Of the party none laughed more heartily than Arthur Poinsett. Withoutanalysing his feelings he was conscious of being greatly relieved
bythis positive evidence of Gabriel's shrewdness. And when Mrs. Sepulvidatouched his elbow, and asked if this were not the squatter who held theforged grant, Arthur, without being conscious of any special meanness,could not help replying with unnecessary significance that it was.
"I believe the whole dreadful story that Donna Dolores told me," saidshe, "how he married the woman who personated his sister, and allthat--the deceitful wretch."
"I've got that letter here," continued Mr. Pilcher, drawing from hispocket a folded piece of letter paper. "It's a curiosity. If you'd liketo see the documentary evidence of your friend's guilelessness, here itis," he added, turning to Miss Ringround.
Miss Rosey took the paper defiantly, and unfolded it, as the othersgathered round her, Mr. Dumphy availing himself of that opportunity tolean familiarly over the arm of her chair. The letter was written withthat timid, uncertain ink, peculiar to the illiterate effort, andsuggestive of an occasional sucking of the pen in intervals ofabstraction or difficult composition. Saving that characteristic, it isreproduced literally below:--
"1, Hoss Gulch, Argus the 10th.
"DEAR SIR,--On acount of thar heving ben bad Luck in the Leed witch has droped, I rite thes few lins hopping you air Well. I have to say we are disapinted in the Leed, it is not wut we thought it was witch is wy I rite thes few lins. now sir purheps you ixpict me to go on with our contrak, and furniss you with 100 shars at 1 Thousin dolls pur shar. It issint wuth no 1 Thousin dols pur shar, far frummit. No sir, it issint, witch is wy I rite you thes few lins, and it Woddent be Rite nor squar for me to tak it. This is to let you off Mister Dyce, and hopin it ant no trubbil to ye, fur I shuddint sell atal things lookin this bad it not bein rite nor squar, and hevin' tor up the contrak atween you and me. So no more at pressen from yours respectfuly. G. CONROY.
"P.S.--You might mind my sayin to you about my sister witch is loss sens 1849. If you happind to com acrost any Traks of hers, me bein' away, you can send the sam to me in Care of Wels Farko & Co., New York Citty, witch is a grate favor and will be pade sure. G. C."
"I don't care what you say, that's an honest letter," said Miss Rosey,with a certain decision of character new to the experience of herfriends, "as honest and simple as ever was written. You can bet yourpile on that."
No one spoke, but the smile of patronising superiority and chivalroustoleration was exchanged by all the gentlemen except Poinsett. Mr.Dumphy added to his smile his short characteristic bark. At thereference to the writer's sister, Mrs. Sepulvida shrugged her prettyshoulders and looked doubtingly at Poinsett. But to her greatastonishment that gentleman reached across the table, took the letter,and having glanced over it, said positively, "You are right, Miss Rosey,it is genuine."
It was characteristic of Poinsett's inconsistency that this statementwas as sincere as his previous assent to the popular suspicion. When hetook the letter in his hand, he at once detected the evident sincerityof its writer, and as quickly recognised the quaint honesty and simplenature of the man he had known. It was Gabriel Conroy, all over. Morethan that, he even recalled an odd memory of Grace in this frankdirectness and utter unselfishness of the brother who so plainly hadnever forgotten her. That all this might be even reconcilable with thefact of his marriage to the woman who had personated the sister, Arthureasily comprehended. But that it was his own duty, after he had impugnedGabriel's character, to make any personal effort to clear it, was not soplain. Nevertheless, he did not answer Mrs. Sepulvida's look, but walkedgravely to the window, and looked out upon the sea, Mr. Dumphy, who,with the instincts of jealousy, saw in Poinsett's remark only a desireto ingratiate himself with Miss Rosey, was quick to follow his lead.
"It's a clear case of _quien sabe_ anyway," he said to the young lady,"and maybe you're right. Joe, pass the champagne."
Dyce and Pilcher looked up inquiringly at their leader, who glancedmeaningly towards the open-mouthed Mr. Raynor, whose astonishment atthis sudden change in public sentiment was unbounded.
"But look here," said that gentleman, "bless my soul! if this letter isgenuine, your friends here--these gentlemen--have lost a hundredthousand dollars! Don't you see? If this news is true, and this man'sinformation is correct, the stock really isn't worth"----
He was interrupted by a laugh from Messrs. Dyce and Pilcher.
"That's so. It would be a devilish good thing on Dyce!" said the latter,good-humouredly. "And as I'm in myself about as much again, I reckon Ishould take the joke about as well as he."
"But," continued the mystified Mr. Raynor, "do you really mean to saythat you have any idea this news is true?"
"Yes," responded Pilcher, coolly.
"Yes," echoed Dyce, with equal serenity.
"You do?"
"We do."
The astonished tourist looked from the one to the other with undisguisedwonder and admiration, and then turned to his wife. Had she heard it?Did she fully comprehend that here were men accepting and considering anactual and present loss of nearly a quarter of a million of dollars, asquietly and indifferently as if it were a postage stamp! What superbcoolness! What magnificent indifference! What supreme and royalconfidence in their own resources. Was this not a country of gods? Allof which was delivered in a voice that, although pitched to the key ofmatrimonial confidence, was still entirely audible to the godsthemselves.
"Yes, gentlemen," continued Pilcher; "it's the fortune of war. T'otherman's turn to-day, ours to-morrow. Can't afford time to be sorry in thisclimate. A man's born again here every day. Move along and pass thebottle."
What was that?
Nothing, apparently, but a rattling of windows and shaking of theglasses--the effect of a passing carriage or children running on thepiazza without. But why had they all risen with a common instinct, andwith faces bloodless and eyes fixed in horrible expectancy? These werethe questions which Mr. and Mrs. Raynor asked themselves hurriedly,unconscious of danger, yet with a vague sense of alarm at the terror soplainly marked upon the countenances of these strange, self-poisedpeople, who, a moment before, had seemed the incarnation of recklessself-confidence, and inaccessible to the ordinary annoyances of mortals.And why were these other pleasure-seekers rushing by the windows, andwas not that a lady fainting in the hall? Arthur was the first to speakand tacitly answer the unasked question.
"It was from east to west," he said, with a coolness that he felt wasaffected, and a smile that he knew was not mirthful. "It's over now, Ithink." He turned to Mrs. Sepulvida, who was very white. "You are notfrightened? Surely this is nothing new to you? Let me help you to aglass of wine."
Mrs. Sepulvida took it with a hysterical little laugh. Mrs. Raynor, whowas now conscious of a slight feeling of nausea, did not object to thesame courtesy from Mr. Pilcher, whose hand shook visibly as he liftedthe champagne. Mr. Dumphy returned from the doorway, in which, to hisown and everybody's surprise, he was found standing, and took his placeat Miss Rosey's side. The young woman was first to recover her recklesshilarity.
"It was a judgment on you for slandering Nature's noblest specimen," shesaid, shaking her finger at the capitalist.
Mr. Rollingstone, who had returned to the head of his table, laughed.
"But _what_ was it?" gasped Mr. Raynor, making himself at last heardabove the somewhat pronounced gaiety of the party.
"An earthquake," said Arthur, quietly.