CHAPTER XIX
The grand jury sat upon the Whittaker case and returned a true billagainst Emerson Mead, indicting him for the murder of Will Whittaker.Mead was confined in the jail at Las Plumas to await his trial, whichwould not take place until the following autumn. The finding of WillWhittaker's body convinced many who had formerly believed in hisinnocence that Mead was guilty. Everybody knew that his usual practicein shooting was to fire three quick shots, so rapidly that the threeexplosions were almost a continuous sound, pause an instant, and then,if necessary, fire three more in the same way. The three bullets werepretty sure to go where he meant they should, and if he wished hecould put them so close together that the ragged edges of the holestouched one another, as did those in the back of Whittaker's corpse.It was the number and character of those bullet holes that made manyof Mead's friends believe that he was guilty of the murder. "Nobodybut Emerson could have put those bullets in like that," they said tothemselves, although publicly the Democrats all loudly andpersistently insisted that he was innocent.
In the constant debate over the matter which followed the finding ofthe body the Democrats contended that the two men who had held ThomsonTuttle captive all night near the White Sands must have been themurderers. And it was on them and their mysterious conduct that JudgeHarlin rested his only hope for his client. The lawyer did not believethey had Whittaker's body in their wagon, although he intended to tryto make the jury think so. Privately he believed that Mead was guilty,but he admitted this to no one, and in his talks with Mead heconstantly assumed that his client was innocent. He had never askedMead to tell him whether or not he had committed the murder.
Nick Ellhorn and Tom Tuttle lingered about Las Plumas for a shorttime, sending their gold to the mint, and trying to contrive somescheme by which Emerson Mead could be forced into liberty. Each ofthem felt it a keen personal injury that their friend was in jail, andthey were ready to forego everything else if they could induce him tobreak his promise and with them make a wild dash for freedom. But hewould listen to none of their plans and told them, over and over, thathe had given his word and proposed to keep it.
"Of course," he said, "when I made that promise to Wellesly I didn'tsuppose they would find Will's body. But they did, and I mean to keepmy promise. I gave my word for you-all too, and I don't want you tomake any fool breaks that will cause people to think I'm trying toskip."
Finally they gave up their plans and Tom returned to his duties withMarshal Black at Santa Fe and Nick went out to Mead's ranch to keepthings in order there.
Ellhorn returned to Las Plumas for his own trial, the result of whichwas that he was found guilty of assault and battery upon the Chineseand fined five hundred dollars. The moment sentence was pronouncedupon him he strode to the judge's desk and laid down his check for theamount of his fine. Then he straightened up, thrust his hands in hispockets, and exclaimed:
"Now, I want that pig tail!"
"You are fined five dollars for contempt of court," said the judge,frowning at the tall Texan, who looked very much in earnest.
"All right, Judge! Here you are!" said Nick cheerfully, as he put agold piece down beside the check. "Now, I want that Chiny pig tail!It's mine! I've paid big for it! It's cost me five hundred and fivedollars, and no end of trouble, and it belongs to me."
"You are fined ten dollars for contempt of court," the judge saidseverely, biting his lips behind his whiskers.
"Here you are, Judge!" and Nick spun a ten-dollar gold piece on thedesk. "I want that scalp as a memento of this affair, and to remind menot to mix my drinks again. I've paid for it, a whole heap more'n it'sworth, and I demand my property!" And Nick brought his fist down onthe judge's desk with a bang that made the gold coins rattle.
"Mr. Sheriff, remove this man!" ordered the Judge, and John Danielsstepped forward to seize his arm. Ellhorn leaped to one side,exclaiming, "I'll not go till I get my property!" He thrust his handinto the accustomed place for his revolver, and with a look ofsurprise and chagrin on his face stood meekly before the sheriff.
"A man can't get his rights unless he has a gun, even in a court," hegrowled, as he submitted to be led out. At the door he looked back andcalled to the judge:
"That scalp's mine, and I mean to have what I've paid for, if I haveto sue your blamed old court till the day o' judgment!" And he went atonce and filed a suit against the district attorney for the recoveryof the queue.
Marguerite Delarue kept on with her quiet life through the summer,caring for little Paul and attending to her father's house. She didnot see Emerson Mead again after the day when, with her little whitesunbonnet pulled over her disordered hair, she helped her baby brotherto mount his horse. Long before the summer was over she decided thathe cared nothing for her and that she must no longer feel moreinterest in him than she did in any other casual acquaintance. Butsometimes she wakened suddenly, or started at her work, seeming tofeel the intent gaze of a pair of brown eyes. Then she would blush,cry a little, and scold herself severely.
It was late in the summer when Albert Wellesly made his next visit toLas Plumas. He had decided to buy a partly abandoned gold mine in theHermosa mountains, and he explained to Marguerite Delarue, as he saton her veranda the afternoon of his arrival, that he was making ahurried visit to Las Plumas in order to give it a thoroughexamination. And then he added in a lower tone and with a meaning lookin his eyes, that that was not the only reason for the trip. Sheblushed with pleasure at this, and he felt well enough satisfied notto go any farther just then.
He came to see her again after he returned from the mine. It wasSunday afternoon, and they sat together on the veranda, behind therose and honeysuckle vines, with Marguerite's tea table between them.He told her about his trip to the mine and what he thought of itscondition and deferentially asked her advice in some small mattersthat had an ethical as well as a commercial bearing. She listened withmuch pleasure and her blue eyes shone with the gratification thatfilled her heart, for never before had a man, fighting his battleswith the world, turned aside to ask her whether or not he was doingright. Then he told her how much he valued her judgment upon suchmatters and how much he admired and reverenced the pure, highstandard of her life. His tones grew more lover-like as he said itwould mean far more to him than he could express if he might hope thather sweet influence would some day come intimately into his own life.Then he paused and looked at her lowered eyelids, bent head andburning cheeks. But she said nothing, sitting as still as one dead,save for her heaving breast. After a moment he went on, saying that hecared more for her than for any other woman he had ever known, andthat if she did not love him then, he would be willing to wait manyyears to win her love, and make her his wife. Still she did not speak,and he laid one hand on hers, where it rested on the table, andwhispered softly, "Marguerite, do you love me?" With that she liftedher head, and the troubled, appealing look in her eyes smote his heartinto a brighter flame. He pressed her hand in a closer grasp andexclaimed, "Marguerite, dearest, say that you love me!"
The innocent, fluttering, maiden heart of her, glad and proud to feelthat she had been chosen above all others, but doubtful of itself, andignorant of everything else, leaped toward him then and a wistfullittle smile brightened her face. She opened her lips to speak, butsuddenly she seemed to see, beside the gate, a tall and comely figurebending toward her with eyes that burned her cheeks and cast her ownto the ground. She snatched her hand from Wellesly's grasp and buriedher face in her palms.
"I do not know," she panted. "I must think about it."
"Yes, certainly, dear--you will let me call you dear, won't you--taketime to think it over. I will wait for your answer until your heart isquite sure. I hope it will be what I want, and don't make me wait verylong, dear. Good-bye, sweetheart."
He lifted her hand to his lips and went away. She sat quite stillbeside the table, her burning face in her hands, her breast a turmoilof blind doubts, and longings, and keen disappointments with, she knewnot what, and over all an imperious, su
dden-born wish to be loved.
Wellesly walked down the street smiling to himself in serene assuranceof an easy victory. He was accustomed to having women show him muchfavor, and more than one had let him know that he might marry her ifhe wished. Moreover, he thought himself a very desirable match, and hedid not doubt for an instant that any woman, who liked him as well ashe was sure Marguerite did, would accept his offer.
"It was evidently her first proposal," he thought, "and she did notknow exactly what to do with it. She is as shy and as sweet as alittle wood-violet. Some girls, after my undemonstrative manner thisafternoon, would write me a sarcastic note with a 'no' in it as big asa house. But nothing else would have done with Marguerite. She isn'tone of the sort that wants every man she knows to begin kissing her atthe first opportunity. And that is one of the reasons I mean to marryher. The other sort are all very well, but a man doesn't want to marryone of them. I want my wife to have such dignity and modesty that Ican feel sure no other man ever has, or ever will, kiss her but me.And I can feel sure of that with Marguerite--just as sure as I canthat I'll have a favorable answer from her by the time I make my nextvisit to Las Plumas."
Marguerite sat behind her screen of honeysuckle vines, her face in herhands and a mob of blind, wild, incoherent desires and doubts makingtumult in her heart, until she heard her father's footsteps in thehouse. Pierre Delarue had been taking his Sunday afternoon siesta, andhe came out upon the veranda in a very comfortable frame of mind. Hepatted Marguerite's shoulder affectionately and asked her to make hima cup of tea. He was very fond of his fair young daughter, who hadgrown into the living likeness of the wife he had married in the daysof his exuberant youth. But he rarely withdrew his thoughts fromoutside affairs long enough to be conscious of his affection, excepton Sunday afternoons, when interest and excitement on Main street wereat too low an ebb to attract his presence. On other days, she endearedherself to him by the sympathetic attention she gave to his accountsof what was going on down-town and to his rehearsals of the speecheshe had made. On Sundays, when he had the leisure to feel a quickenedsense of responsibility, he both pleased himself and felt that he wasdischarging a duty to her by discoursing upon his observations andexperiences of the world and by propounding his theories of life andconduct. For Pierre prided himself on his philosophy quite as much ashe did on his oratory.
Marguerite, on her part, was very fond of her father, but it was afondness which considered his love of speech-making and his flightyenthusiasms with smiling tolerance. Her cooler and more critical wayof looking at things had caused her, young as she was, to distrust hisjudgment in practical affairs, and about most matters she had longsince ceased asking his advice.
She sat beside him and talked with him while he drank his cup of tea.A recently married young couple passed the house, and Marguerite madesome disapproving comment on the man's character, adding that she didnot understand how so nice a girl could have married him.
"Oh, he has a smooth and ready tongue," answered her father, "and Idare say it was easy for him to make love. When you are older you willknow that it is the man who can talk love easily who can make the mostwomen think they love him." Pierre Delarue stopped to drink the lastof his tea, and Marguerite blushed consciously, remembering the scenethrough which she had just passed. She rose to put his cup on thetable, and was glad that her face was turned away from him when nexthe spoke:
"When a man tells a woman that he loves her," Delarue went on, "and itrolls easily off his tongue, she should never believe a word that hesays. If a man really loves a woman, those three little words, 'I loveyou,' are the hardest ones in the whole world for him to say. Mostwomen do not know that when they hear their first proposals, but theyought to know it, especially in this country, where they make so muchof love. But, after all, I do not know that it makes so muchdifference, because all women want to hear no end of love talked tothem, and it is only the man who does not feel it very deeply who cantalk enough about it to satisfy them. A woman is bound to bedisappointed, whichever way she marries, for she is sure to find outafter a while that the flow of words is empty, and the love withoutthe words never satisfies. After all, it is better for a woman tothink of other things than love when she marries. They manage thesethings better in France. Don't you think so, my daughter?"
There was a deep thrill of passionate protest in her voice as sheanswered, "No, father, I certainly do not."
He laughed indulgently and patted her hand as he said: "Ah, you are alittle American!" Then he added, more seriously: "I suppose you, too,will soon be thinking of love and marriage."
She threw her arms around his neck and there was a sob in her voice asshe exclaimed: "Father, I shall never marry!"
He smoothed her brown hair and laid his hand on her shoulder saying,"Ah, that means you will surely be married within a year!"
She shook her head. "No, I mean it, father! I shall never marry!"
"My dear, I should be sorry if you did not," he answered with dignity,and with a strong note of disapproval in his voice. "For what is awoman who does not marry and bear children? Nothing! She is a rosebush that never flowers, a grape vine that never fruits. She isuseless, a weed that cumbers the earth. No, my daughter, you mustmarry, or displease your father very much."
Marguerite lay awake long that night, trying to decide what she oughtto do. Her father's words gave sight to a blind, vague misgiving shehad already felt, but at the same time she could not believe thatWellesly meant less than his words when he told her that he loved herand wished to make her his wife.
"Why should he propose to me if he does not wish to marry me?" sheargued with herself, "and why should he want to marry me if he doesnot love me? No, he surely loves me. Perhaps father is right about theFrenchmen. He knows them, but he does not understand the Americans.They always feel so sure about things, and they do everything as ifthere was no possibility of failure. But I wish I knew if I love him!I suppose I do, for I felt so pleased that he should wish to marry me.But I don't have to decide at once. I'll wait till he comes to LasPlumas again before I give him an answer."
She debated whether or not she ought to tell her father and ask hisadvice, but she feared that in his mind other considerations wouldoutweigh the one she felt to be the chief, and she decided to saynothing to him until she knew her own mind in the matter. "If I refusehim," she said to herself, "there will be no reason for me to sayanything about it, and it wouldn't be fair to Mr. Wellesly for me totell father or any one else that he had proposed to me. Besides,father might possibly speak of it outside, and I couldn't bear tothink that people were gossiping about it. No, I will not sayanything, unless I should decide that I want to marry him. Then I willask father if he thinks I'd better."
The next morning she woke with a sudden start, all her consciousnessfilled with an overwhelming desire to love and be loved, to be all oflife to some one who would be more than life to her. She sat up,panting, pressing her hand to her heart. At once her thoughts leapedto Wellesly.
"He loves me, he has told me so, and surely this is love I feel now,and for him. I suppose--I do--love him."
She lifted her nightgown above her bare feet and stood beside littlePaul's crib. With her disheveled hair falling in waving masses aroundher face she bent over him and lightly kissed his forehead.
"My little Bye-Bye, I would not leave you to be any man's wife. But hewill not wish me to leave you, because he thinks--that it is beautifuland noble that I--that I have cared for you--though how could I havedone anything else--and that is partly why he loves me. Surely, I lovehim, and I suppose--it is best--for me to marry him. But I'll waittill he comes again--there!"
With burning cheeks she stood erect and stamped one bare foot on thefloor. Again the memory of the brown eyes smote suddenly into herconsciousness. Her chin took a sharper angle and her red lips shuttightly as she threw back her head and twisted her fingers together.
"I will not think of him again," she said slowly, in a low voice. "Heis in jail, to be tried for m
urder, and he will probably be hung--"She hesitated, her face turned white and there was a spasmodicthrobbing in her throat, but she went resolutely on: "And he does notcare the least thing about me. He was merely fond of my littleBye-Bye, and I am grateful to him for that. But he is nothing to me.I'll marry Mr. Wellesly--I think--but I'll wait--" And then thethrobbing in her throat choked her voice and she threw herself uponthe bed and buried her face in the pillow and cried. Just as thousandsof young girls have cried over their fluttering, doubtful, ignorantmaiden hearts, ever since man gave up seizing the girl of his choiceand carrying her away, willy-nilly, and began proposing to herinstead.