University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

Opening the door softly and with tremulous fingers, Coronado looked out
upon an old gray-headed man, short and paunchy in build, with small, tottering,
uneasy legs, skin mottled like that of a toad, cheeks drooping and shaking, chin
retiring, nose hulbous, one eye a black hollow, the other filmy and yet shining,
expression both dull and cunning, both eager and cowardly.

The uncle seemed to be even more agitated at the sight of the nephew than
the nephew at the sight of the uncle. For an instant each stared at the other
with a strange expression of anxiety and mistrust. Then Coronado spoke.
The words which he had in his heart were, What are you here for, you scoundrelly
old marplot? The words which he actually uttered were, “My dear uncle,
my benefactor, my more than parent! How delighted I am to see you! Welcome,
welcome!”

The two men grasped each other's arms, and stuck their heads over each
other's shoulders in a pretence of embracing. Perhaps there never was anything
of the kind more curious than the contrast between their affectionate attitude
and the suspicion and aversion painted on their faces.

“Have you been seen?” asked Coronado as soon as he had closed and
locked the door. “I must contrive to get you away unperceived. Why have
you come? My dear uncle, it was the height of imprudence. It will expose
you to suspicion. Did you not get my letters?”

“Only one,” answered Garcia, looking both frightened and obstinate, as if
he were afraid to stay and yet determined not to go. “One from the Mohave
valley.”

“But I urged you in that to remain at a distance, until all had been
arranged.”

“I know, my son, I know. I thought like you at first. But presently I became
anxious.”

“Not suspicious of my good faith!” exclaimed Coronado in a horrified
whisper. “Oh, that is surely impossible.”

“No, no—not suspicious—no, no, my son,” chattered Garcia eagerly. “But
I began to fear that you needed my help. Things seemed to move so slowly.
Madre de Dios! All across the continent, and nothing done yet.”

“Yes, much has been done. I had obstacles. I had people to get rid of.
There was a person who undertook to be lover and protector.”

“Is he gone?” inquired the old man anxiously.

“Ask no questions. The less told, the better. I wish to spare you all responsibility.”

“Carlos, you are my son and heir. You deserve everything that I can give.
All shall be yours, my son.”

“That Texas Smith of yours is a humbug,” broke out Coronado, his mind
reverting to the letter which he had just burned. “I put work on him which he
swore to do and did not do. He is a coward and a traitor.”

“Oh, the pig! Did you pay him?”

“I had to pay him in advance—and then nothing done right,” confessed
Coronado.

“Oh, the pig, the dog, the toad, the villanous toad, the pig of hell!” chattered
Garcia in a rage. “How much did you pay him? Five hundred dollars!
Oh, the pig and the dog and the toad!”

“Well, I have been frank with you,” said Coronado. (He had diminished
by one half the sum paid to Texas Smith.) “I will continue to be frank. You
must not stay here. The question is how to get you away unseen.”

“It is useless; I have been recognized,” lied Garcia, who was determined
not to go.

“All is lost!” exclaimed Coronado. “The presence of us two—both possible
heirs—will rouse suspicion. Nothing can be done.”

But no intimidations could move the old man; he was resolved to stay and
oversee matters personally; perhaps he suspected Coronado's plan of marrying
Clara.

“No, my son,” he declared. “I know better than you. I am older and
know the world better. Let me stay and take care of this. What if I am suspected
and denounced and hung? The property will be yours.”

“My more than father!” cried Coronado. “You shall never sacrifice yourself
for me. God forbid that I should permit such an infamy!”

“Let the old perish for the young!” returned Garcia, in a tone of meek
obstinacy which settled the controversy.

It was a wonderful scene; it was prodigious acting. Each of these men,
while endeavoring to circumvent the other, was making believe offer his life as
a sacrifice for the other's prosperity. It was amazing that neither should lose
patience; that neither should say, You are trying to deceive me, and I know it.
We may question whether two men of northern race could have carried on such
a dialogue without bursting out in open anger, or at least glaring with eyes full
of suspicion and defiance.

“You will find her changed,” continued Coronado, when he had submitted
to the old man's persistence. “She has grown thinner and sadder. You must
not notice it, however; you must compliment her on her health.”

“What is she taking?” whispered Garcia.

“The less said, the better. My dear uncle, you must know nothing. Do
not talk of it. The walls have ears.”

“I know something that would be both safe and sure,” persisted the old
man in a still lower whisper.

“Leave all with me,” answered Coronado, waving his hand authoritatively.
“Too many cooks spoil the broth. What has begun well will end well.”

After a time the two men went down to a shady veranda which half encircled
the house, and found Mrs. Stanley taking an accidental siesta on a sort of
lounge or sofa. Being a light sleeper, like many other active-minded people,
she awoke at their approach and sat up to give reception.

“Mrs. Stanley, this is my uncle Garcia, my more than father,” bowed Coronado.

“I have not forgotten him,” replied Aunt Maria, who indeed was not likely
to forget that mottled face, dyed blue with nitrate of silver.

Warmly shaking the puffy hand of the old toad, and doing her very best to
smile upon him, she said, “How do you do, Mr. Gracia? I hope you are well.
Mr. Coronado, do tell him that, and that I am rejoiced to see him.”

Garcia's snaky glance just rose to the honest woman's face, and then crawled
hurriedly all about the veranda, as if trying to hide in corners. Thanks to Coronado's
fluency and invention, there was a mutually satisfactory conversation

between the couple. He amplified the lady's compliments and then amplified
the Mexican's compliments, until each looked upon the other as a person of unusual
intelligence and a fast friend, Aunt Maria, however, being much the more
thoroughly humbugged of the two.

“My uncle has come on urgent mercantile business, and he crowds in a few
days with us,” Coronado presently explained. “I have told him of my little
cousin's good fortune, and he is delighted.”

“I am so glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Stanley. “What an excellent old man
he is, to be sure! And you are just like him, Mr. Coronado—just as good and
unselfish.”

“You overestimate me,” answered Coronado, with a smile which was almost
ironical.

Before long Clara appeared. Garcia's eye darted a look at her which was
like the spring of an adder, dwelling for just a second on the girl's face, and
then scuttling off in an uncleanly, poisonous way for hiding corners. He saw
that she was thin, and believed to a certain extent in Coronado's hints of poison,
so that his glance was more cowardly than ordinary.

Liking the man not overmuch, but pleased to see a face which had been
familiar to her childhood, and believing that she owed him large reparation for
her grandfather's will, Clara advanced cordially to the old sinner.

“Welcome, Señor Garcia,” she said, wondering that he did not kiss her
cheek. “Welcome to your own house. It is all yours. Whatever you choose
is yours.”

“I rejoice in your good fortune,” sighed Garcia.

“It is our common fortune,” returned Clara, winding her arm in his and
walking him up and down the veranda.

“May God give you long life to enjoy it,” prayed Garcia.

“And you also,” said Clara.

Coronado translated this conversation as fast as it was uttered to Mrs.
Stanley.

“This is the golden age,” cried that enthusiastic woman. “You Spaniards
are the best people I ever saw. Your men absolutely emulate women in unselfishness.”

“We would do it if it were possible,” bowed Coronado.

“You do it,” magnanimously insisted Aunt Maria, who felt that the baser
sex ought to be encouraged.

“Señor Garcia, I ask a favor of you,” continued Clara. “You must charge
all the costs of the journey overland to me.”

“It is unjust,” replied the old man. “Madre de Dios! I can never permit
it.”

“If you need the money now, I will request my guardians, the executors, to
advance it,” persisted Clara, seeing that he refused with a faint heart.

“I might borrow it,” conceded Garcia. “I shall have need of money presently.
That journey was a great cost—a terribly bad speculation,” he went on,
shaking his mottled, bluish head wofully. “Not a piaster of profit.”

“We will see to that,” said Clara. “And then, when I am of age—but
wait.”

She shook her rosy forefinger gayly, radiant with the joy of generosity, and
added, “You shall see. Wait!”

Coronado, in a rapid whisper, translated this conversation phrase by phrase

to Mrs. Stanley, his object being to make Clara's promises public and thus engage
her to their fulfilment.

“Of course!” exclaimed the impulsive Aunt Maria, who was amazingly generous
with other people's money, and with her own when she had any to spare.
“Of course Clara ought to pay. It is quite a different thing from giving up her
rights. Certainly she must pay. That train did nothing but bring us two
women. I really believe Mr. Garcia sent it for that purpose alone. Besides,
the expense won't be much, I suppose.”

“No,” said Coronado, and he spoke the exact truth; that is, supposing an
honest balance. The expedition proper had cost seven or eight thousand dollars,
and about two thousand more had been sunk in assassination fees and
other “extras.” On the other hand, he had sold his wagons and beasts at the
high prices of California, making a profit of two thousand dollars. In short,
even deducting all that Coronado meant to appropriate to himself, Garcia would
obtain a small profit from the affair.

Now ensued a strange underhanded drama. Garcia stayed week after week,
riding often to the city on business or pretence of business, but passing most of
his time at the hacienda, where he wandered about a great deal in a ghost-like
manner, glancing slyly at Clara a hundred times a day without ever looking her
in the eyes, and haunting her steps without overtaking or addressing her.
Every time that she returned from a ride he shambled to the door to see if the
saddle were empty. During the night he hearkened in the passages for outcries
of sudden illness. And while he thus watched the girl, he was himself incessantly
watched by his nephew.

“She gets no worse,” the old man at last complained to the younger one.
“I think she is growing fat.”

“It is one of the symptoms,” replied Coronado. “By the way, there is one
thing which we ought to consider. If she gives you half of this estate—?”

“Madre de Dios! I would take it and go. But she cannot give until she is
of age. And meantime she may marry.”

He glanced suspiciously at his nephew, but Coronado kept his bland composure,
merely saying, “No present danger of that. She sees no one but us.”

He thought of adding, “Why not marry her yourself, my dear uncle?”
But Garcia might retort, “And you?” which would be confusing.

“Suppose she should make a will in your favor?” the nephew preferred to
suggest.

“I cannot wait. I must have money now. Make a will? Madre de Dios!
She would outlive me. Besides, he who makes a will can break a will.”

After a minute of anxious thought, he asked, “How much do you think she
will give me?”

“I will ask her.”

“Not her,” returned Garcia petulantly. “Are you a pig, an ass, a fool?
Ask the old one—the duenna. It ought to be a great deal; it ought to be half
—and more.”

To satisfy the old man as well as himself, Coronado sounded Mrs. Stanley
as to the proposed division.

“Yes, indeed!” said the lady emphatically. “Clara must do something for
Garcia, who has been such an excellent friend, and who ought to have been
named in the will. But you know she has her duties toward herself as well as
toward others. Now the property is not a million; it may be some day or

other, but it isn't now. The executors say it might bring three hundred thousand
dollars in ready money.”

The executors, by the way, had been sedulously depreciating the value of
the estate to Clara, in order to bring down her vast notions of generosity.

“Well,” continued Aunt Maria, “my niece, who is a true woman and magnanimous,
wanted to give up half. But that is too much, Mr. Coronado. You
see money” (here she commenced on something which she had read)—“money is
not the same thing in our hands that it is in yours. When a man has a hundred
and fifty thousand dollars, he puts it into business and doubles it, trebles it, and
so on. But a woman can't do that; she is trammelled and hampered by the
prejudices of this male world; she has to leave her money at small interest.
If it doubles once in her life, she is lucky. So, you see, one half given to Garcia
would be, practically speaking, much more than half,” concluded Aunt Maria,
looking triumphantly through her argument at Coronado.

The Mexican assented; he always assented to whatever she advanced; he
did so because he considered her a fool and incapable of reasoning. Moreover,
he was not anxious to see half of this estate drop into the hands of Garcia, believing
that whatever Clara kept for herself would shortly be his own by right of
marriage.

“You are the greatest woman of our times,” he said, stepping backward a
pace or two and surveying her as if she were a cathedral. “I should never have
thought of those ideas. You ought to be a legislator and reform our laws.”

“I never had a doubt that you would agree with me, Mr. Coronado,” returned
the gratified Aunt Maria. “Well, so does Clara; at least I trust so,”
she hesitated. “Now as to the sum which our good Garcia should receive. I
have settled upon thirty thousand dollars. In his hands, you know, it would
soon be a hundred and fifty thousand; that is to say, practically speaking, it
would be half the estate.”

“Certainly,” bowed Coronado, meanwhile thinking, “You old ass!” “And
my little cousin is of your opinion, I trust?” he added.

“Well—not quite—as yet,” candidly admitted Aunt Maria. “But she is
coming to it. I have no sort of doubt that she will end there.”

So Coronado had learned nothing as yet of Clara's opinions. As he sauntered
away to find Garcia, he queried whether he had best torment him with this
unauthorized babble of Mrs. Stanley. On the whole, yes; it might bring him
down to reasonable terms; the rapacious old man was expecting too large a slice
of the dead Muñoz. So he told his tale, giving it out as something which could
be depended on, but increasing the thirty thousand dollars to fifty thousand, on
his own responsibility. To his alarm Garcia broke out in a venomous rage, calling
everybody pigs, dogs, toads, etc., and crying and cursing alternately.

“Fifty thousand piasters!” he squeaked, tottering about the room on his
short weak legs and wringing his hands, so that he looked like a fat dog walking
on his hind feet. “Fifty thousand piasters! O Madre de Dios! It is nothing.
It is nothing. It will not save me from ruin. It will not cover my debts. I
shall be sold out. I am ruined. Fifty thousand piasters! O Madre de Dios!”

Fifty thousand dollars would have left him more than solvent; but ten times
that sum would not have satisfied his grasping soul.

Coronado saw that he had made a blunder, and sought to rectify it by lying
copiously. He averred that he had been merely trying his uncle; he begged his
pardon for this absurd and ill-timed joke; he admitted that he was a pig and a
dog and everything else ignoble; he should not have trifled with the feelings of

his benefactor, his more than father; those feelings were to him sacred, and
should be held so henceforward and forever

But he was not believed. He could fool the old man sometimes, but not on
this occasion. Garcia, greedy and anxious, apt by nature to see the dark side
of things, judged that the fifty-thousand-dollar story was the true one. Although
he pretended at last to accept Coronado's explanation for fact, he remained at
bottom unconvinced, and showed it in his swollen and trembling visage.

Thenceforward the nephew watched the uncle incessantly; during his absence
he stole into his room, opened his baggage, and examined his drawers
and if he saw him near Clara at table, or when refreshments were handed around,
he never took his eyes off him.

But he could not be always at hand. One day the two men rode to the city
in company. Garcia dodged Coronado, hastened back to the hacienda, asked to
have some chocolate prepared, poured out a cup for Clara, looked at her eagerly
while she drank it, and then fell down in a fit.

An hour later Coronado returned at a full run, to find the old man just recovering
his senses and Clara alarmingly ill.