University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

At the announcement that she was a millionaire Clara turned pale, took the
proffered paper mechanically with trembling fingers, and then, without looking
at it, said, “Oh, Coronado!”

It was a tone of astonishment, of perplexity, of regret, of protest; it seemed
to declare, Here is a terrible injustice, and I will none of it. Coronado was delighted;
in a breath he recovered all his presence of mind; he recovered his
voice, too, and spoke out cheerfully:

“Ah, you are surprised, my cousin. Well, it is your grandfather's will. You,
as well as all others, must submit to it.”

Aunt Maria jumped up and walked or rather pranced about the room, saying
loudly, “He must have been the best man in the whole world.” After repeating
this two or three times, she halted and added with even more emphasis, “Except
you, Mr. Coronado!”

The Mexican bowed in silence; it was almost too much to be praised in that
way, feeling as he did; he bowed twice and waved his hand, deprecating the
compliment. The interview was a very painful one to him, although he knew
that he was gaining admiration with every breath that he drew, and admiration
just where it was absolutely necessary to him. Turning to Clara now, he begged,
“Read it, if you please, my cousin.”

The girl, by this time flushed from chin to forehead, glanced over the paper,
and immediately said, “This should not be so. It must not be.”

Coronado was overjoyed; she evidently thought that she owed him and Garcia
a part of this fortune; even if she kept it, she would feel bound to consider
his interests, and the result of her conscientiousness might be marriage.

“Let us have no contest with the dead,” he replied grandly. “Their wishes
are sacred.”

“But Garcia and you are wronged, and I cannot have it so,” persisted Clara.

“How wronged?” demanded Aunt Maria. “I don't see it. Mr. Garcia was
only a cousin, and he is rich enough already.”

Coronado, remembering that he and Garcia were bankrupt, wished he
could throw the old lady out of a window.

“Wait,” said Clara in a tone of vehement resolution. “Give me time. You
shall see that I am not unjust or ungrateful.”

“I beg that you will not bestow a thought upon me,” implored the sublime
hypocrite. “Garcia, it is true, may have had claims. I have none.”

Aunt Maria walked up to him, squeezed both his hands, and came near hugging
him. Once out of this trial, Coronado could bear no more, but kissed his
fingers to the ladies, hastened to his own room, locked the door, and swore all
the oaths that there are in Spanish, which is no small multitude.

In a few days after this terrible interview things were going swimmingly well
with him. To keep Clara out of the hands of fortune-hunters, but ostensibly to
enable her to pass her first mourning in decent retirement, he had induced her
to settle in one of Muñoz's haciendas, a few miles from the city, where he of
course had her much to himself. He was her adviser; he was closeted frequently
with the executors; he foresaw the time when he would be the sole
manager of the estate; he began to trust that he would some day possess it.
What woman could help leaning upon and confiding in a man who was so useful,
so necessary as Coronado, and who had shown such unselfish, such magnanimous
sentiments?

Meantime the girl was as admirable in reality as the man was in appearance.
Unexpected inheritance of large wealth is almost sure to alter, at least for a
time, and generally for the worse, the manner and morale of a young person,
whether male or female. Conceit or haughtiness or extravagance or greediness,
or some other vice, pretty surely enters into either deportment or conduct. If
this girl was changed at all by her great good fortune, she was changed for the
better. She had never been more modest, gentle, affable, and sensible than she
was now. The fact shows a clearness of mind and a nobleness of heart which
place her very high among the wise and good. Such behavior under such circumstances
is equal to heroism. We are conscious that in saying these things
of Clara we are drawing largely upon the reader's faith. But either her present
trial of character was peculiarly fitted to her, or she was one of those select
spirits who are purified by temptation.

She remembered Garcia's claims upon her grandfather, and her own supposed
obligations to Coronado. She informed the executors that she wished to
make over half her property to the old man, trusteeing it so that it should descend
to his nephew. Their reply, translated from roundabout and complimentary
Spanish into plain English, was this: “Yon can't do it. The estate is not
settled, and will not be for a year. Moreover, you have no power to part with it
until you are of age, which will not be for three years. Finally, your proposition
defies your grandfather's wishes, and it is altogether too generous.”

Clara's simple and firm reply was, “Well, I must wait. But it would seem
better if I could do it now.”

There was one reason why Clara should be so calm and unselfish in her elevation;
her sorrows served her as ballast. Why should she let riches turn her
head when she found that they could not lighten her heart? There was a certain
night in her past which gold could not illuminate; there had once been a
precious life near her, which was gone now beyond the power of ransom.
Thurstane! How she would have lavished this wealth upon him. He would
have refused it; but she would have prayed and forced him to accept it; she
would have been the meeker to him because of it. How noble he had been!
not now to be brought back! gone forever! And his going had been like the
going away of the sun, leaving no beautiful color in all nature, no guiding light
for wandering footsteps. She exaggerated him, as love will exaggerate the
lost.

Of course she did not always believe that he could be dead, and in her hours
of hope she wrote letters inquiring about his fate. In other days he had told her

much of himself, stories of his childhood and his battles, the number of his old
regiment and his new one, titles of his superiors, names of comrades, etc. To
which among all these unknown ones should she address herself? She fixed on
the commander of his present regiment, and that awfully mysterious personage
the Adjutant-General of the army, a title which seemed to represent omniscience
and omnipotence. To each of these gentlemen she sent an epistle recounting
where, when, and how Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane had been ambushed
by unknown Indians, supposed to be Apaches.

These letters she wrote and mailed without the knowledge of Coronado.
This was not caution, but pity; she did not suspect that he would try to intercept
them; only that it would pain him to learn how much she yet thought of his
rival. Indeed, it would have been cruel to show them to him, for he would have
seen that they were blurred with tears. You perceive that she had come to be
tender of the feelings of this earnest and scoundrelly lover, believing in his sincerity
and not in his villany.

“Surely some of those people will know,” thought Clara, with a trust in men
and dignitaries which makes one say sancta simplicitas. “If they do not
know,” she added, with a prayer in her heart, “God will discover it to them.”

But no answers came for months. The colonel was not with his regiment,
but on detached service at New York, whither Clara's letter travelled to find
him, being addressed to his name and not marked “Official business.” What he
did of course was to forward it to the Adjutant-General of the army at Washington.
The Adjutant-General successively filed both communications, and sent a
copy of each to headquarters at Santa Fe and San Francisco, with an endorsement
advising inquiries and suitable search. The mails were slow and circuitous,
and the official routine was also slow and circuitous, so that it was long before
headquarters got the papers and went to work.

Does any one marvel that Clara did not go directly to the military authorities
in the city? It must be remembered that man has his own world, as woman has
hers, and that each sex is very ignorant of the spheres and missions of the other,
the retired sex being especially limited in its information. The girl had never
been told that there was such a thing as district headquarters, or that soldiers in
San Francisco had anything to do with soldiers at Fort Yuma. Nor was she in
the way of learning such facts, being miles away from a uniform, and even from an
American.

One day, when she was fuller of hope than usual, she dared to write to that
ghost, Thurstane. Where should the letter be addressed? It cost her much
reflection to decide that it ought to go to the station of his company, Fort Yuma.
This gave her an idea, and she at once penned two other letters, one directed
“To the Captain of Company I,” and one to Sergeant Meyer. But unfortunately
those three epistles were not sent off before it occurred to Coronado that he
ought to overlook the packages that were sent from the hacienda to the city.
By the way, he had from the first assumed a secret censorship over the mails
which arrived.

Meantime he also had his anxiety and his correspondence. He feared lest
Garcia should learn how things had been managed, and should hasten to San
Francisco to act henceforward as his own special providence. In that case there
would be awkward explanations, there would be complicated and perilous plottings,
there might be stabblings or poisonings. Already, as soon as he reached
the Mohave valley, he had written one cajoling letter to his uncle. Scattered
through six pages on various affairs were underscored phrases and words, which,
taken in sequence, read as follows:

“Things have gone well and ill. What was most desirable has not been
fully accomplished. There have been perils and deaths, but not the one required.
The wisest plans have been foiled by unforeseen circumstances. The
future rests upon slow poison. A few weeks more will suffice. Do not come
here. It would rouse suspicion. Trust all to me.”

He now sent other letters, reporting the progress of the malady caused by
the poison, urging Garcia to remain at a distance, assuring him that all would be
well, etc.

“There will be no will,” declared one of these lying messengers. “If there
is a will, you will be the inheritor. In all events, you will be safe. Rely upon
my judgment and fidelity.”

It is curious, by the way, that such men as Coronado and Garcia, knowing
themselves and each other to be liars, should nevertheless expect to be believed,
and should frequently believe each other. One is inclined to admit the seeming
paradox that rogues are more easily imposed upon than honest men.

No responses came from Garcia. But, by way of consolation, Coronado had
Clara's correspondence to read. One day this hidalgo, securely locked in his
room, held in his delicate dark fingers a letter addressed to Miss Clara Van Diemen,
and postmarked in writing “Fort Yuma.” Hot as the day was, there was
a brazier by his side, and a kettle of water bubbling on the coals. He held the
letter in the steam, softened the wafer to a pulp, opened the envelope carefully,
threw himself on a sofa, scowled at the beating of his heart, and began to read.

Before he had glanced through the first line he uttered an exclamation,
turned hastily to the signature, and then burst into a stream of whispered curses.
After he had blasphemed himself into a certain degree of calmness, he read the
letter twice through carefully, and learned it by heart. Then he thrust it deep
into the coals of the brazier, watched it steadily until its slight flame had flickered
away, lighted a cigarito, and meditated.

This epistle was not the only one that troubled him. He already knew that
Clara was inquiring about this man of whom she never spoke, and conducting
her inquiries with an intelligence and energy which showed that her heart was in
the business. If things went on so, there might be trouble some day, and there
might be punishment. For a time he was so disturbed that he felt somewhat as
if he had a conscience, and might yet know what it is to be haunted by remorse.

As for Clara, he was furious with her, notwithstanding his love for her, and
indeed because of it. It was outrageous that a woman whom he adored should
seek to ferret out facts which might send him to State's Prison. It was abominable
that she would not cease to care for that stupid officer after he had been so
carefully put out of her way. Coronado felt that he was persecuted.

Well, what should be done? He must put a stop to Clara's inquiries, and he
would do it by inquiring himself. Yes, he would write to people about Thurstane,
show the letters to the girl (but never send them), and so gradually get this
sort of correspondence into his own hands, when he would drop it. She would
be led thereby to trust him the more, to be grateful to him, perhaps to love
him. It was a hateful mode of carrying on a courtship, but it seemed to be the
best that he had in his power. Having so decided, this master hypocrite, “full
of all subtlety and wiles of the devil,” turned his attention to his siesta.

For twenty minutes he slept the sleep of the just; then he was awakened by
a timid knock at his door. Guessing from the shyness of the demand for entrance
that it came from a servant, he called pettishly, “What do you want?
Go away.”

“I must see you,” answered a voice which, feeble and indistinct as it was,
took Coronado to the door in an instant, trembling in every nerve with rage and
alarm.