University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
CLEANING UP.

As the master, wan-eyed and unrefreshed by
slumber, strayed the next morning among the
blackened ruins of the fire, he was conscious o
having undergone some strange revulsion of sentiment.
What he remembered of the last evening's
events, though feverish and indistinct as
a dream, without coherency or connected outline,
had nevertheless seriously impressed him. How
frivolous and trifling his past life and its pursuits
looked through the lightning vista opened
to his eyes by the flash of Water's pistol?

“Suppose I had been killed,” ruminated the
master, “what then? A paragraph in the Banner,
headed, `Fatal Affray,' and my name added
to the already swollen list of victims to lawless
violence and crime! Humph! A pretty scrape,
truly!' And the master ground his teeth with
vexation

Let not the reader judge him too hastily. In
the best regulated mind thankfulness for deliverance
from danger is apt to be mingled with
some doubts as to the necessity of the trial.

In this frame of mind the last person he
would have cared to meet was Clytie. That
young woman's evil genius, however, led her to
pass the burnt district that morning. Perhaps
she had anticipated the meeting. At all events,
he had proceeded but a few steps before he was
confronted by the identical round hat and
cherry-colored ribbons. But in his present
humor the cheerful color somehow reminded
him of the fire, and of a ruddy stain over McSnagley's
heart, and invested the innocent Clytie
with a figurative significance. Now, Clytie's
reveries at that moment were pleasant, if the
brightness on her eyes and freshened color on
her cheeks were any sign, and as she had not
seen the master since then, she naturally expected
to take up the thread of romance where
it had been dropped. But it required all her
feminine tact to conceal her embarrassment at
his formal greeting and constrained manner.

“He is bashful,” reasoned Clytie to herself.
“This girl is a tremendous fool,” growled the
master, inwardly. An awkward pause ensued
Finally, Clytie loquitur:

“Miss has been missing since the fire!”

“Missing!” echoed the master, in his natural
tone.

Clytie bit her lip with vexation. “Yes, she's
alway's running away. She'll be back again.
But you look interested. Do you know,” she
continued with exceeding archness, “I sometimes
think, Mr Gray, if Mliss were a little
older—”

“Well?”

“Well, putting this and that together, you
know!”

“Well?”

“People will talk, you know!” continued
Clytie, with that excessive fondness weak people
exhibit when enveloping in mystery the commonest
affairs of life.

“People are d—d fools!” roared the master.

The correct Clytie was a little shocked. Perhaps
underneath it was a secret admiration of
the transgressor. Force, even of this cheap
quality, goes a good way with some natures.

“That is”—continued the master, with an increase
of dignity, in inverse proportion to the
lapse he had made—“people are apt to be mistaken,
Miss Morpher, and without meaning it,
to do infinite injustice to their fellow mortals.
But I see I am detaining you. I will try and
find Melissa. I wish you good morning.” And
Don Whiskerandos stalked solemnly away.

Clytie turned red and white by turns, and her
eyes filled with tears. This denouement to her
dreams was utterly unexpected. While a girl of
stronger intelligence would have employed the
time in digesting plans of future retaliation and
revenge, Clytie's dull brain and placid nature
were utterly perplexed and shaken.

“Dear me!” said Clytie, to herself, as she
started home, “if he don't love me, why don't
he say so?”

The master, or Mr. Gray, as we may now call
him as he draws near the close of his professional
career, took the old trail through the forest
which led to Mliss's former hiding-place. He
walked on briskly, revolving on his mind the
feasibility of leaving Smith's Pocket. The late
disaster, which would affect the prosperity of
the settlement for some time to come, offered an
excuse to him to give up his situation. On
searching his pockets he found his present capital
to amount to ten dollars. This, increased by
forty dollars due him from the trustees, would
make fifty dollars; deduct thirty dollars for liabilities,
and he would have twenty dollars left
to begin the world anew. Youth and hope added
an indefinite number of ciphers to the right
hand of these figures, and in this sanguine mood
our young Alnascher walked on until he had
reached the old pine throne in the bank of the
forest. Mliss was not there. He sat down on
the trunk of the tree, and for a few minutes
gave himself to the associations it suggested.
What would become of Mliss after he was gone?
But he quickly dropped the subject as one too
visionary and sentimental for his then fiercely
practical consideration, and to prevent the recurrence
of such distracting fancies, began to
retrace his steps toward the settlement. At the

edge of the woods, at a point where the trail
forked toward the old site of Smith's Pocket, he
saw Mliss coming toward him. Her ordinary
pace on such occasions was a kind of Indian
trot; to his surprise she was walking slowly
with her apron thrown over her head, an indication
of meditation with Mliss, and the usual
way in which she excluded the outer world in
studying her lessons. When see was within a
few feet of him he called her by name. She
started as she recognized him. There was a
shade of seriousness in her dark eyes, and the
hand that took his was listless and totally unlike
her old frank, energetic grasp. “You look
worried, Mliss,” said Mr. Gray, soothingly, as
the old sentimental feeling crept over his heart.
“What's the matter now?”

Mliss replied by seating herself upon the bank
beside the road, and pointing to a place by her
side. Mr. Gray took the proffered seat. Mliss
then fixed her eyes on some distant part of the
view and remained for some moments in silence.
Then without turning her head or moving her
eyes, she asked.

“What's that they call a girl that has money
left her?”

“An heiress, Mliss?”

“Yes, a heiress.”

“Well, said Mr. Gray.

“Well,” said Mliss, without moving her eyes,
“I'm one, I'm a heiress!”

“What's that, Mliss?” said Mr. Gray, laughingly.

Mliss was silent again. Suddenly turning her
eyes full upon him, she said:

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Gray, beginning to be impressed
by the child's manner.

“Listen, then.”

In short, quick sentences, Mliss began. How
Aristides had several times hinted of the concealed
riches of Smith's Pocket. How he had,
last night, repeated the story to her of a strange
discovery he had made. How she remembered
to have heard her father often swear that there
was money “in that hole,” if he only had means
to work it. How, partly impressed by this
statement, and partly from curiosity and pity
for the prisoner, she had visited him in confinement.
An account of her interview. The
origin of the fire. Her flight with Waters.
[Questions by Mr. Gray:—What was your object
in assisting this man to escape? Ans. They
were going to kill him. Ques. Hadn't he killed
McSnagley? Ans. Yes, but McSnagley ought to
have been killed long ago.] How she had taken
leave of him that morning. How she had dragged
him on toward the Wingdam road, and how
he had told her that all the hidden wealth of
Smith's Pocket had belonged to her father
How she had found out, from some questions,
that he had known her father. But how all his
other answers were “silly.”

“And where is he now?” asked Mr. Gray.

“Gone,” said Mliss. “I left him at the edge
of the wood to go back and get some provisions
and when I returned he was gone. If he had
any of his senses left he's miles away by this
time. When he was off I went back to Smith”
Pocket. I found the hidden opening and saw
the gold.”

Mr. Gray looked at her curiously. He had, in
his more intimate knowledge of her character,
noticed the unconcern with which she spoke of
the circumstances of her father's death and the
total lack of any sentiment of filial regard.
The idea that this man whom she had aided in
escaping had ever done her injury had not apparently
entered her mind, nor did Mr. Gray
think it necessary to hint the deeper suspicion
he had gathered from Dr. Duchesne that Waters
had murdered her father. If the story of the
concealed treasures of Smith's Pocket were exaggerated
he could easily satisfy himself on that
point. Mliss met his suggestion to return to
the Pocket with alacrity, and the two started
away in that direction.

It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Gray
returned. His heightened color and eager inquiry
for Dr Duchesne provoked the usual hope
from the people that he met “That it was nothing
serious.” No, nothing was the matter, the
master answered with a slight laugh, but would
they send the doctor to his school-house when he
returned? “That young chap's worse than he
thinks,” was one sympathizing suggestion; “this
kind of life's too rough for his sort.”

To while away the interim, Mr. Gray stopped
on his way to the school-house at the stage office
as the Wingdam stage drew up and disgorged its
passengers. He was listlessly watching the
passengers as they descended, when a soft voice
from the window addressed him: “May I
trouble you for your arm as I get down?” Mr.
Gray looked up. It was a singular request, as
the driver was at that moment standing by the
door, apparently for that purpose. But the request
came from a handsome woman, and with
a bow the young man stepped to the door. The
lady laid her hand lightly on his arm, sprang
from the carriage with the dexterity that showed
the service to have been merely ceremonious,
thanked him with an elaboration of acknowledgement
which seemed equally gratuitous, and
disappeared in the office.

“That's what I call a dead set,” said the driver,
drawing a long breath, as he turned to Mr.

Gray, who stood in some embarrassment. “Do
you know her?

“No,” said Mr. Gray, laughingly, “do you?”

“Nary time! But take care of yourself, young
man. She's after you sure!”

But Mr. Gray was continuing his walk to the
school-house, unmindful of the caution. From
the momentary glimpse he had caught of this
woman's face, she appeared to be about thirty.
Her dress, though tasteful and elegant, in the
present condition of California society afforded
no criterion of her social status. But the figure
of Dr. Duchesne, waiting for him at the
school-house door, just then usurped the place
of all others, and she dropped out of his mind.

“Now, then,” said the doctor, as the young
man grasped his hand, “you want me to tell you
why your eyes are bloodshot, why your cheeks
burn, and your hand is dry and hot?”

“Not exactly! Perhaps you'll understand the
symptoms better when you've heard my story.
Sit down here and listen.”

The doctor took the proffered seat on the top
of a desk, and Mr. Gray, after assuring himself
that they were entirely alone related the circumstances
which he had gathered from Mliss
that morning.

“You see, doctor, how unjust were your surmises
in regard to this girl,” continued Mr.
Gray. “But let this pass now. At the conclusion
of her story, I offered to go with her to this
Ali Baba cave. It was no easy job finding the
concealed entrance, but I found it at last, and
ample corroboration of every item of this wild
story. The `Pocket' is rich with the most valuable
ore. It has evidently been worked for some
time since the discovery was made, but there is
still a fortune in its walls, and several thousand
dollars of ore sacked up in its galleries. Look
at that!” continued Mr. Gray, as he drew an
oblong mass of quartz and metal from his
pocket, “Think of a secret of this kind having
been entrusted for three weeks to a penuiless
orphan girl of twelve, and an eccentric
school boy of ten, and undivulged except when
a proper occasion offered.”

Dr. Duchesne smiled. “And Waters is really
clear?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Gray.

“And Mliss assisted him to escape.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you are an innocent one! And you
see nothing in this but an act of thoughtless
generosity? No assisting of an old accomplice
to escape?”

“I see nothing but truth in her statement,”
returned Mr. Gray, stoutly. “If there has been
any wrong committed, I believe her to be innocent
of its knowledge.”

“Well, I'm glad at least the money goes to
her and not to him. But how are you to estab
lish her right to this property?”

“That was my object in conferring with you.
At present the claim is abandoned. I have
`taken up' the ground in my own name (for
her), and this afternoon I posted up the usual
notice.”

“Go on. You are not so much of a fool, after
all.”

“Thank you. This will hold until a better
claim is established. Now, if Smith had discovered
this lead, and was, as the lawyers say,
`se zed and possessed' of it at the time of his
death, Mliss, of course, as next of kin, inherits
it.”

“But how can this be proved? It is the
general belief that Smith committed suicide
through extreme poverty and destitution.”

Mr. Gray drew a letter from his pocket.

“You remember the memorandum I showed
you, which came into my possession. Here it
is; it is dated the day of his death.”

Dr. Duchesne took it and read:

“July 25.—5 hours in drift—dipping west, Took
out 20 oz—cleaned up 40 oz.—Mem.—Saw M. S.”

“This evidently refers to actual labor in the
mine at the time,” said Dr. Duchesne. But is
it legally sufficient to support a claim of this
magnitude? That is the only question now.
You say this paper was the leaf of an old memorandum,
torn off and used for a letter by Mliss
—do you know where the original book can be
found?”

“A istides has it, or knows where it is,” answered
Mr. Gray.

“Find it by all means. And get legal advice
before you do anything, Go this very evening
to Judge Plunkett and state your case to him.
The promise of a bandsome contingent fee won't
hurt Mliss's prospects any. Remember our ideas
of abstract justice, and the letter of the law in
this case may be entirely different. Take Judge
Plunkett your proofs—that s,” said the doctor,
stopping and eyeing his friend, keenly, “if you
have no fears for Mliss if this matter should be
thoroughly ventilated.”

Mr. Gray did not falter.

“I go at once,” said he, gayly, “if only to
prove the child's claim to a good name if we fail
in getting her property.”

The two men left the school-house together.
As they reached the main street the doctor
paused.

“You are still determined?”

“I am,” responded the young man.

“Good-night, and God speed you then,” and
the doctor left him.

The fire had been particularly severe on the
legal fraternity in the settlement, and Judge
Plunkett's office, together with those of his
learned brethren, had been consumed with the
court-house on the previous night. The judge's
house was on the outskirts of the village, and
thither Mr. Gray proceeded. The judge was at
home, but engaged at that moment. Mr. Gray
would wait, and was ushered into a small room
evidently used as a kitchen, but just then littered
with law books, bundles or papers and
blanks, that had been hastily rescued from the
burning building. The side-board groaned with
the weight of several volumes of “New York
Reports,” that seemed to impart a dusty flavor
to the adjoining victual. Mr. Gray picked up a
volume of supreme court decisions from the
coal skuttle, and was deep in an interesting case
when the door of the adjoining room opened,
and Judge Plunkett appeared.

He was an oily man of about fifty, with spectacles.
He was glad to see the schoolmaster. He
hoped he was not suffering from the excitement
of the previous evening. For his part the spectacle
of sober citizens rising in a body to vindicate
the insulted majesty of the laws of society
and of man, had always something sublime in
it. And the murderer had really got away, after
all. And it was a narrow escape the schoolmaster
had, too, at Smith's Pocket.

Mr. Gray took advantage of the digression to
state his business. He briefly recounted the
circumstances of the discovery of the hidden
wealth of Smith's Pocket, and exhibited the
memorandum he had shown to the doctor.
When he had concluded, Judge Plunkett looked
at him over his spectacles, and rubbed his hands
with satisfaction.

“You apprehend,” said the judge, eagerly,
“that you will have no difficulty in procuring
this book from which the leaf was originally
torn?”

None,” replied Mr. Gray.

“Then, sir, I should give as my professional
opinion that the case was already won.”

Mr. Gray shook the hand of the little man
with great fervor, and thanked him for his belief.
“And so this property will go entirely to
Mliss?” he asked again.

“Well—ah—no—not exactly,” said Judge
Plunkett, with some caution. “She will benefit
by it undoubtedly—undoubtedly,” and he rubbed
his hands again.

“Why not Mliss alone. There are no other
claimants?” said Mr. Gray.

“I beg your pardon—you mistake,” said Judge
Plunkett with a smile, “you surely would not
leave out the widow and mother?”

“Why, Mliss is an orphan,” said Mr. Gray, in
utter bewilderment.

“A sad mistake, sir. A painful, though
natural, mistake. Mr. Smith, though separated
from his wife, was never divorced. A very
affecting history—the old story you know—an
injured and loving woman, deserted by her
natural protector, but disdaining to avail herself
of our legal aid. By a singular coincidence
that I should have told you. I am anticipating
you in this very case. Your service, however,
I feel will be invaluable, Your concern for her
amiable and interesting daughter, Narcissa—ah,
no, Melissa—will, of course, make you with us.
You have never seen Mrs. Smith? A fine-looking,
noble woman, sir—though still disconsolate
—still thinking of the departed one. By another
singular coincidence that I should have
told you, she is here now. You shall see her,
sir. Pray, let me introduce you,” and still rubbing
his hands, Judge Plunkett led the way
to the adjoining room.

Mr. Gray followed him mechanically. A
handsome woman rose from the sofa as they entered.
It was the woman he assisted to alight
from the Windgam stage.