CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN.
Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. Duchesne, who had beensummoned from Sacramento, arrived, that eminent surgeon had instantlyassumed such light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, suchcaptiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of demeanourwhen he was alone, that, to those who knew him, it was equal to anunfavourable prognosis. Indeed, he evaded the direct questioning ofOlly, who had lately constituted herself a wondrously light-footed,soft-handed assistant of Pete, until one day, when they were alone, heasked more seriously than was his wont if Mr. Hamlin had ever spoken ofhis relations, or if she knew of any of his friends who were accessible.
Olly had already turned this subject over in her womanly mind, and hadthought once or twice of writing to the Blue Moselle, but on the directquestioning of the doctor, and its peculiar significance, she recalledJack's confidences on their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he hadoutlined; and so one evening, when she was alone with her patient, andthe fever was low, and Jack lay ominously patient and submissive, shebegan--what the doctor had only lately abandoned--probing a half-healedwound.
"I reckon you'd hev been a heap more comfortable ef this thing hedhappened to ye down thar in San Antonio," said Olly.
Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair persecutor.
"You know you'd hev had thet thar sweetheart o' yours--thet Mexicanwoman--sittin' by ye, instead o' me--and Pete," suggested the artfulOlympia.
Jack nearly leaped from the bed.
"Do you reckon I'd hev rung myself in as a wandering cripple--a trampthet hed got peppered--on a lady like _her_? Look yer, Olly," continuedMr. Hamlin, raising himself on his elbow, "if you've got the idea thetthet woman is one of them hospital sharps--one of them angels who waltzround a sick man with a bottle of camphor in one hand and a tract in theother--you had better disabuse your mind of it at once, Miss Conroy;take a back seat and wait for a new deal. And don't you go to talkin' ofthet lady as my sweetheart--it's--it's--sacrilegious--and the meanestkind of a bluff."
As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had expressed but littleinterest in it, and had evidently only withheld his general disgust ofGabriel's weakness from consideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlincondescended to explain his apparent coldness.
"There's a witness coming, Olly, that'll clear your brother--more shamefor him--the man ez _did_ kill Ramirez. I'm keeping my sympathies forthat chap. Don't you be alarmed. If that man don't come up to thescratch I will. So--don't you go whining round. And ef you'll take myadvice, you'll keep clear o' that Court, and let them lawyers fight itout. It will be time enough for you to go when they send for _me_."
"But you can't move--you ain't strong enough," said Olly.
"I reckon Pete will get me there some way, if he has to pack me on hisback. I ain't a heavy weight now," said Jack, looking sadly at his thinwhite hands; "I've reckoned on that, and even if I should pass in mychecks, there's an affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell's hands."
Nevertheless, on the day of the trial, Olly, still doubtful of Gabriel,and still mindful of his capacity to develop "God-forsaken mulishness,"was nervous and uneasy, until a messenger arrived from Maxwell with anote to Hamlin, carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins inCourt, and closing with a request for Olly's presence.
"Who's Perkins?" asked Olly, as she reached for her hat in nervousexcitement.
"He's no slouch," said Jack, sententiously. "Don't ask questions. It'sall right with Gabriel now," he added, assuringly. "He's as good asclear. Run away, Miss Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Lookhere, Olly, say!--do you take any stock in that lost sister of yoursthat your fool of a brother is always gabbing about? You do? Well, youare as big a fool as he. There! There!--never mind now--she's turned upat last! Much good may it do you. One! two!--go!" and as Olly's pinkribbons flashed through the doorway, Mr. Hamlin lay down again with atwinkle in his eye.
He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; most of the guests,and the hostess and her assistant, were at the all-absorbing trial; eventhe faithful Pete, unconscious of any possible defection of hisassistant, Olly, had taken the opportunity to steal away to hear thearguments of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Olly echoed alongthe vacant corridor, he felt that he possessed the house completely.
This consciousness to a naturally active man, bored by illness and thecontinuous presence of attendants, however kind and devoted, was atfirst a relief. Mr. Hamlin experienced an instant desire to get up anddress himself, to do various things which were forbidden--but which nowan overruling Providence had apparently placed within his reach. He rosewith great difficulty, and a physical weakness that seemed altogetherinconsistent with the excitement he was then feeling, and partiallydressed himself. Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintnessand vertigo, and struggling to the open window, fell in a chair besideit. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and he tried to rise, butfound it impossible. Then the faintness and vertigo returned, and heseemed to be slipping away somewhere--not altogether unpleasantly, noragainst his volition--somewhere where there was darkness and stillnessand rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it seemed tohim, to a room full of excited and anxious people, all extravagantly,and as he thought, ridiculously concerned about himself. He tried toassure them that he was all right, and not feeling any worse for hisexertion, but was unable to make them understand him. Then followedNight, replete with pain, and filled with familiar voices that spokeunintelligibly, and then Day, devoted to the monotonous repetition ofthe last word or phrase that the doctor, or Pete, or Olly had used, orthe endless procession of Olly's pink ribbons, and the tremulousness ofa window curtain, or the black, sphinx-like riddle of a pattern on thebed-quilt or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that was turbulent andconscious, and wakefulness that was lethargic and dim, and then infiniteweariness, and then lapses of utter vacuity--the occasional ominousimpinging of the shadow of death.
But through this chaos there was always a dominant central figure--afigure partly a memory, and, as such, surrounded by consistentassociations; partly a reality and incongruous with itssurroundings--the figure of Donna Dolores! But whether this figure cameback to Mr. Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in acloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or whether it bentover him, touching his feverish lips with cool drinks, or smoothing hispillow, a fact utterly unreal and preposterous seen against the patternof the wall-paper, or sitting on the familiar chair by his bedside--itwas always there. And when, one day, the figure stayed longer, and theinterval of complete consciousness seemed more protracted, Mr. Hamlin,with one mighty effort, moved his lips, and said feebly--
"Donna Dolores!"
The figure started, leaned its beautiful face, blushing a celestial rosyred, above his own, put its finger to its perfect lips, and said inplain English--
"Hush! I am Gabriel Conroy's sister."