has perished in the wilderness.”
“I believe he lives,” she answered: “I should know it, were it otherwise. But if I cannot have him, neither shall she. I have told you already that, unless you swear to me not to put forth your power upon me to dismiss me, I will not lead you to the treasure. But that is not enough; for men deceive, and you are a man. But if at any
time hereafter I feel within me those pangs that tell me you are about to separate me from this world, at that moment, Kamaiakan, I will drive this knife through the
heart of Miriam! If I cannot keep her body, at least it shall be but a corpse when I leave it. You know Semitzin; and you
know that she will keep her word!”
She reined in her horse, as she spoke, and sat gazing upon her companion with flashing eyes. The Indian, after a pause, made a
gesture of gloomy resignation. “It shall be as you say, then, Semitzin; and upon your head be it! Henceforth, Miriam is no
more. But do you beware of the vengeance of the gods, whose laws you have defied.”
“Let the gods deal with me as they will,” replied the Aztecan. “A day of happiness with the man I love is worth an age of
punishment.”
Kamaiakan made no answer, and the two rode forward in silence.
It was midnight, and a bright star, nearly in the zenith, seemed to hang precisely above the summit of the great white pyramid at the mouth of the gorge.
“It was here that we stopped,” observed Semitzin. “We tied our horses among the
shrubbery round yonder point. Thence we must go on foot. Follow me.”
She struck her heels against her horse’s sides, and went forward. The long ride
seemed to have wearied her not a whit. The lean and wiry Indian had already betrayed symptoms of fatigue; but the young princess appeared as fresh as when she started. Not once had she even taken a draught from her canteen; and yet she was closely clad, from head to foot, in the doublet and leggings of the Golden Fleece. One might have thought it had some magic virtue to preserve its wearer’s vitality; and possibly, as is sometimes seen in trance, the energy and concentration of the spirit reacted upon the body.
She turned the corner of the pyramid, but had not ridden far when an object lying in her path caused her to halt and spring from the saddle. Kamaiakan also dismounted and came forward.
The dead body of a mustang lay on the ground, crushed beneath the weight of a
fragment of rock, which had evidently fallen upon it from a height. He had apparently been dead for some hours. He was without either saddle or bridle.
“Do you know him?” demanded Semitzin.
“It is Diego,” replied Kamaiakan. “I
know him by the white star on his muzzle. He was ridden by the Senor Freeman. They must have come here before the earthquake. And there lie the saddle and the bridle. But where is Senor Freeman?”
“He can be nowhere else than in this
valley,” said Semitzin, confidently. “I knew that I should find him here. Through all the centuries, and across all spaces, we were destined to meet. His horse was killed, but he has escaped. I shall save him. Could Miriam have done this? Is he not mine by right?”
“It is at least certain, princess,” responded the old man rather dryly, “that had it not been for Miriam you would never have met the Senor Freeman at all.”
“I thank her for so much; and some time, perhaps, I will reward her by permitting her to have a glimpse of him for an hour,–or, at least, a minute. But not now, Kamaiakan, –not till I am well assured that no thought but of me can ever find its way into his heart. Come, let us go forward. We will
find the treasure, and I will give it to my lord and lover.”
“Shall we bring the pack-horse with us?” asked the Indian.
“Yes, if he can find his way among these rocks. The earthquake has made changes
here. See how the water pours from this spring! It has already made a stream down the valley. It shall guide us whither we are going.”
Leaving their own horses, they advanced with the mule. But the trail, rough enough at best, was now well-nigh impassable.
Masses of rock had fallen from above; large fissures and crevasses had been formed in the floor of the gorge, from some of which steaming vapors escaped, while others gave forth streams of water. The darkness added to the difficulties of the way, for, although the sky was now clear, the gloom was
deceptive, and things distant seemed near. Occasionally a heavy, irregular sound would break the stillness, as some projection of a cliff became loosened and tumbled down the steep declivity.
Semitzin, however, held on her way
fearlessly and without hesitation, and the Indian, with the pack-horse, followed as best he might, now and then losing sight for a moment of the slight, grayish figure in front of him. At length she disappeared behind the jutting profile of a great promontory which formed a main angle of the gorge. When
he came up with her, she was kneeling beside the prostrate form of a man, supporting his head upon her knee.
Kamaiakan approached, and looked at the face of the man, which was pale; the eyes were closed. A streak of blood, from a
wound on the head, descended over the right side of the forehead.
“Is he dead?” the Indian asked.
“He is not dead,” replied Semitzin. “A flying stone has struck him; but his heart beats: he will be well again.” She poured some water from her canteen over his face, and bent her ear over his lips. “He
breathes,” she said. Slipping one arm beneath his neck, she loosened the shirt at his throat and then stooped and kissed him. “Be alive for me, love,” she murmured.
“My life is yours.”
This exhortation seemed to have some
effect. The man stirred slightly, and emitted a sigh. Presently he muttered, “I can–
lick him–yet!”
“He will live, princess,” remarked
Kamaiakan. “But where is the treasure?”
“My treasure is here!” was her reply; and again she bent to kiss the half-conscious man, who knew not of his good fortune.
After an interval she added, “It is in the hollow beneath that archway. Go down
three paces: on the wall at the left you will feel a ring. Pull it outwards, and the stone will give way. Behind it lies the chest in which the jewels are. But remember your
promise!”
Kamaiakan peered into the hollow, shook his head as one who loves not his errand, and stepped in. The black shadow swallowed him up. Semitzin paid no further
attention to him, but was absorbed in ministering to her patient, whose strength was every moment being augmented, though he
was not yet aware of his position. But all at once a choking sound came from within the cave, and in a few moments Kamaiakan staggered up out of the shadow, and sank down across the threshold of the arch.
“Semitzin,” he gasped, in a faint voice, “the curse of the gods is upon the spot! The air within is poisonous. It withers the limbs and stops the breath. No one may
touch the treasure and live. Let us go!”
“The gods do not love those who fear,” replied the princess, contemptuously. “But the treasure is mine, and it may well be that no other hand may touch it. Fold that
blanket, and lay it beneath his head. I will bring the jewels.”
“Do not attempt it: it will be death!” exclaimed the old man.
“Shall a princess come to her lover
empty-handed? Do you watch beside him while I go. Ah, if your Miriam were here, I would not fear to have him choose between us!”
With these words, Semitzin stepped across the threshold of the crypt, and vanished in its depths. The Indian, still dizzy and
faint, knelt on the rock without, bowed down by sinister forebodings.
Several minutes passed. “She has
perished!” muttered Kamaiakan.
Freeman raised himself on one elbow,
and gazed giddily about him. “What the deuce has happened?” he demanded, in a
sluggish voice. “Is that you, professor?”
Suddenly, a rending and rushing sound burst from the cave. Following it, Semitzin appeared at the entrance, dragging a heavy metal box, which she grasped by a handle at one end. Immediately in her steps broke forth a great volume of water, boiling up as if from a caldron. It filled the cave, and poured like a cataract into the gorge. The foundations of the great deep seemed to be let loose.
Semitzin lifted from her face the woollen mask, or visor, which she had closed on
entering the cave. She was panting from exertion, but neither her physical nor her mental faculties were abated. She spoke
sharply and imperiously:
“Bring up the mule, and help me fasten the chest upon him. We must reach higher ground before the waters overtake us. And now—-” She turned to Freeman, who by
this time was sitting up and regarding her with stupefaction.
“Miriam!” was all he could utter.
She shook her head, and smiled. “I am she who loves you, and whom you will love. I give you life, and fortune, and myself. But come: can you mount and ride?”
“I can’t make this out,” he said,
struggling, with her assistance, to his feet. “I have read fairy-tales, but this . . . Kamaiakan, too!”
Semitzin, meanwhile, brought him to the mule, and half mechanically he scrambled into the saddle, the chest being made fast to the crupper. Semitzin seized the bridle, and started up the gorge, Kamaiakan bringing up the rear. The lower levels were
already filling with water, which came pouring out through the archway in a full flood, seemingly inexhaustible.
“I see how it is,” mumbled Freeman,
half to himself. “The earthquake–I remember! I got hit somehow. They
came from the ranch to hunt me up. But where are the general and Professor
Meschines? How long ago was it? And how came Miriam . . . Could the mirage have
had anything to do with it?–Here, let me walk,” he called out to her, “and you get up and ride.”
She turned her head, smiling again, but hurried on without speaking. The roar of the torrent followed them. Once or twice the mule came near losing his footing.
Freeman, whose head was swimming, and his brains buzzing like a hive of bees, had all he could do to maintain his equilibrium in the saddle. He was excruciatingly
thirsty, and the gurgling of waters round about made him wish he might dismount and plunge into them. But he lacked power to form a decided purpose, and permitted the more energetic will to control him. It
might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, for all he knew: at last they halted, near the base of the white pyramid.
“Here we are safe,” said Semitzin,
coming to his side. “Lean on me, my love, and I will lift you down.”
“Oh, I’m not quite so bad as that, you know,” said Freeman, with a feeble laugh; and, to prove it, he blundered off the saddle, and came down on the ground with a
thwack. He picked himself up, however, and recollecting that he had a flask with brandy in it, he felt for it, found it
intact, and, with an inarticulate murmur of apology, raised it to his lips. It was like the veritable elixir of life: never in his life before had Freeman quaffed so deep a
draught of the fiery spirit. It was just what he wanted.
But he felt oddly embarrassed. He did not know what to make of Miriam. It was
not her strange costume merely, but she seemed to have put on–or put off–something with it that made a difference in her.
She was assertive, imperious; as loving, certainly, as lover could wish, but not in the manner of the Miriam he knew. He might
have liked the new Miriam better, had he not previously fallen in love with the former one. He could not make advances to her:
he had no opportunity to do so: she was making advances to him!
“My love,” she said, standing before
him, “I have come back to the world for your sake. Before Semitzin first saw you, her heart was yours. And I come to you,
not poor, but with the riches and power of the princes of Tenochtitlan. You shall see them: they are yours!–Kamaiakan, take
down the chest.”
“What’s that about Semitzin?” inquired Freeman. “I’m not aware that I knew any
such person.”
“Kamaiakan!” repeated the other, raising her voice, and not hearing Freeman’s last words. Kamaiakan was nowhere to be seen. Both Freeman and she had supposed that he was following on behind the mule; but he had either dropped behind, or had
withdrawn somewhere. “O Kamaiakan!” shouted Freeman, as loud as he could.
A distant hail, from the direction of the desert, seemed to reply.
“That can’t be he,” said Freeman. “It was at least a quarter of a mile off, and the wrong direction, too. He’s in the gorge, if he’s anywhere.”
“Hark!” said Semitzin.
They listened, and detected a low murmur, this time from the gorge.
“He’s fallen down and hurt himself,”
said Freeman. “Let’s go after him.”
In a few moments they stumbled upon the old Indian, reclining with his shoulders against a rock, and gasping heavily.
“My princess,” he whispered, as she bent over him, “I am dying. The poisonous
air in the cave was fatal to me, though the spell that is upon the Golden Fleece
protected you. I have done what the gods commanded. I am absolved of my vow.
The treasure is safe.”
“Nonsense! you’re all right!” exclaimed Freeman. “Here, take a pull at this flask. It did me all the good in the world!”
But the old man put it aside, with a feeble gesture of the hand. “My time is come,—-” said he.–“Semitzin, I have been faithful.”
“Semitzin, again!” muttered Freeman. “What does it mean?”
“But what is this?” cried the girl,
suddenly starting to her feet. “I feel the sleep coming on me again! I feel Miriam returning! Kamaiakan, have you betrayed me at
the last?”
“No, no, princess, I have done nothing,” said he, in a voice scarcely audible. “But, with death, the strength of my will goes from me, and I can no longer keep you in this world. The spirit of Miriam claims
her rightful body, and you must struggle against her alone. The gods will not be
defied: it is the law!”
His voice sank away into nothing, and his beard drooped upon his breast.
“He’s dying, sure enough, poor old
chap,” said Freeman. “But what is all this about? I never heard anything like
this language you two talk together.”
Semitzin turned towards him, and her eyes were blazing.
“She shall not have you!” she cried. “I have won you–I have saved you–you are
mine! What is Miriam? Can she be to you what I could be?–You shall never have him!” she continued, seeming to address
some presence invisible to all eyes but hers. “If I must go, you shall go with me!”
She fumbled in her belt, caught the handle of a knife there, and drew it. She lifted it against her heart; but even then there was an uncertainty in her movement, as if her mind were divided against itself, or had failed fully to retain the thread of its purpose. But Freeman, who had passed rapidly from one degree of bewilderment to another, was actually relieved to see, at last,
something that he could understand. Miriam– for some reason best known to herself–was about to do herself a mischief. He leaped forward, caught her in his arms, and snatched the knife from her grasp.
For a few moments she struggled like a young tiger. And it was marvellous and
appalling to hear two voices come from her, in alternation, or confusedly mingled. One said, “Let me kill her! I will not go!
Keep back, you pale-faced girl!” and then a lower, troubled voice, “Do not let her come! Her face is terrible! What are those strange creatures with her? Harvey, where are
you?”
At last, with a fierce cry, that died away in a shuddering sigh, the form of flesh and blood, so mysteriously possessed, ceased to struggle, and sank back in Freeman’s
arms. His own strength was well-nigh at an end. He laid her on the ground, and,
sitting beside her, drew her head on his knee. He had been in the land of spirits, contending with unknown powers, and he
was faint in mind and body.
Yet he was conscious of the approaching tread of horses’ feet, and recollected the hail that had come from the desert. Soon loomed up the shadowy figures of mounted men, and they came so near that he was
constrained to call out, “Mind where you’re going! You’ll be over us!”
“Who are you?” said a voice, which
sounded like that of General Trednoke, as they reined up.
“There’s Kamaiakan, who’s dead; and
Miriam Trednoke, who has been out of her mind, but she’s got over it now, I guess; and I,–Harvey Freeman.”
“My daughter!” exclaimed General Trednoke.
“My boy!” cried Professor Meschines. “Well, thank God we’ve found you, and
that some of you are alive, at any rate!”
CHAPTER VIII.
As it was still some hours before dawn, and Freeman was too weak to travel,
it was decided to encamp beside the pyramid till the following evening, and then
make the trip across the desert in the comparative coolness of starlight. Meanwhile, there was something to be done, and much to be explained.
The spirit of Kamaiakan had passed away, apparently at the same moment that the
peculiar case of “possession” under which Miriam had suffered came to an end. They determined to bury him at the foot of the great pyramid, which would form a fitting monument of his antique character and virtues.
Miriam, after her struggle, had lapsed into a state of partial lethargy, from which she was aroused gradually. It was then
found that she could give no account what ever of how or why she came there. The
last thing she distinctly remembered was standing on the veranda at the ranch and looking towards the east. She was under
the impression that Kamaiakan had approached and spoken with her, but of that
she was not certain. The next fact in her consciousness was that she was held in
Freeman’s arms, with a feeling that she had barely escaped from some great peril. She could recall nothing of the journey down the gorge, of the adventure at the bottom of it, or of the return. It was only by degrees that some partial light was thrown upon this matter. Freeman knew that he was at the
entrance of the cave when the earthquake began, and he remembered receiving a blow on the head. Consequently it must have
been at that spot that Miriam and the Indian found him. He had, too, a vague impression of seeing Miriam coming out of the cave, dragging the chest; and there, sure enough, was a metal box, strapped to the saddle of the pack-mule. But the mystery remained
very dense. And although the reader is in a position to analyze events more closely than the actors themselves could do, it may be doubted whether the essential mystery is much clearer to him than it was to
them.
“We know that the ancient Aztecan
priests were adepts in magic,” observed the professor, “and it’s natural that some of their learning should have descended to
their posterity. We have been clever in giving names to such phenomena, but we
know perhaps even less about their esoteric meaning than the Aztecans did. I should
judge that Miriam would be what is called a good ‘subject.’ Kamaiakan discovered that fact; and as for what followed, we can only infer it from the results. I was always an admirer of Kamaiakan; but I must say I
am the better resigned to his departure, from the reflection that Miriam will
henceforth be undisturbed in the possession of her own individuality.”
“As near as I could make out, she called herself Semitzin,” put in Freeman.
“Semitzin?” repeated the general.
“Why, if I’m not mistaken, there are accounts of an Aztecan princess of that name, an ancestress of my wife’s family, in some old documents that I have in a box, at
home.”
“That would only add the marvel of
heredity to the other marvels,” said Meschines. “Suppose we leave the things we can’t understand, and come to those we can?”
“I have something to say, General
Trednoke,” said Freeman.
“I think I have already guessed what it may be, Mr. Freeman,” returned the general, gravely. “Old people have eyes, and
hearts too, as well as young ones.”
“Come, Trednoke,” interposed the
professor, with a chuckle, “your eyes might not have seen so much, if I hadn’t held the lantern.”
“I love your daughter, and I told her so yesterday morning,” went on Freeman,
after a pause. “I meant to tell you on my return. I know I don’t appear desirable as a son-in-law. But I came here on a
commission—-“
“Meschines and I have talked it all
over,” the general said. “When an old West-Pointer and a professor of physics get together, they are sometimes able to put two and two together. And, to tell the truth, I received a letter from a member of your
syndicate, who is also an acquaintance of mine, which explained your position. Under the circumstances, I consider your course to have been honorable. You and I were
both in search of the same thing, and now, as it appears, nature has sent an earthquake to do our affair for us. No operations of ours could have achieved such a result as last night’s disturbance did; and if that do not prove effective, nothing else will.”
“If it turns out well, I was promised a share in the benefits,” said Freeman, “and that would put me in a rather better condition, from a worldly point of view.”
“After all,” interrupted Meschines, “you found your way to the spot from which the waters broke forth, and may fairly be
entitled to the credit of the discovery.–Eh, Trednoke? At any rate, we found nothing. –Yes, I think they’ll have to admit you to partnership, Harvey: and Miriam too,– who, by the way, seems to be the only one who actually penetrated into this cave you speak of. Maybe the removal of the chest pulled the plug out of the bung-hole, as it were: the escape of confined air through such a vent would be apt to draw water
along with it. By the way, let’s have a look at this same chest: it looks solid
enough to hold something valuable.”
“I would like, in the first place, to hear what General Trednoke has to say about
what I have told him,” said Freeman, clearing his throat.
“Miriam,” said the general, “do you
wish to be married to this young man?”
The old soldier was sitting with her hand in his, and he turned to her as he spoke. She threw her arms round his neck, and
pressed her face against his shoulder. “He is to me what you were to mamma,” she
said, so that only he could hear.
“Then be to him what she was to me,”
answered the general, kissing her. “Ah me, little girl! I am old, but perhaps this is the right way for me to grow young again. Well, if you are of the same mind six
months hence—-“
“Worse; it will be much worse, then,” murmured the professor. “Better make it
three.”
The chest was made of some alloy of steel and nickel, impervious to rust, and very hard. It resisted all gentle methods of
attack, and it was finally found necessary to force the lock with a charge of powder. Within was found another case, which was pried open with the point of the general’s bowie-knife.
It was filled to the brim with precious stones, most of them removed from their
settings. But such of the gold-work as remained showed the jewels to be of ancient Aztecan origin. There was value enough
in the box to buy and stock a dozen ranches as big as the general’s, and leave heirlooms enough to decorate a family larger than that of the most fruitful of the ancient patriarchs.
“I call that quite a respectable dowry,” remarked Meschines. “Upon my soul,
Miriam, if I had known what you had up your sleeve, I should have thought twice before allowing a ‘civil engineer’–do you remember?–to run off with you so easily.”
At dawn, they prepared the body of old Kamaiakan for its interment. In doing
this, the professor noted the peculiar appearance of the corpse.
“The flesh is absolutely withered,” said he, “especially those parts which were
uncovered. It must have been subjected to the action of some destructive vapor or gas, fatal not only to breathe, but to come in contact with. I have heard of poisonous
emanations proceeding from the ground in these regions, but I never saw an instance of their effects before. That skull that you say you found, Harvey, was probably that of a victim of the same cause. But it is strange that Miriam, who must have
remained some time in the very midst of it, should have escaped without a mark, or
even any inconvenience.”
“Kamaiakan ascribed it to the magic of the Golden Fleece,” said Freeman.
“Well,” rejoined the other, “he may
have been right; but, for my part, the only magic that I can find in it lies in the fact that it is made of pure wool, which undoubtedly possesses remarkable sanative properties; or maybe the fiery soul of Semitzin was
powerful enough to repel all harmful influences. The poor old fellow himself, being clad in cotton, and with no soul but his own, was destroyed. Let us wrap him in
his blanket, and bid him farewell–and with him, I hope, to all that is uncanny and abnormal in the lives of you young
folks!”
The last rites having been paid to the dead, the party mounted their horses and rode out of the gorge on to the long levels of the desert.
“Who come yonder?” said Freeman.
“A couple of Mexicans, I think,” said the general.
“One of them is a woman,” said Meschines.
“They look very weary,” remarked Freeman.
Miriam fixed her eyes on the approaching pair for a moment, and then said, “They
are Senor de Mendoza and Grace Parsloe.”
And so, indeed, they were; and thus, in this lonely spot, all the dramatis personae of this history found themselves united.
In answer to the obvious question, how Grace and De Mendoza happened to be
there, it transpired that, left to their own devices, they had undertaken no less an
enterprise than to discover the hidden treasure. Grace had communicated to the Mexican
such bits of information as she had picked up and such surmises as she had
formed, and he had been able to supplement her knowledge to an extent that seemed to justify them in attempting the adventure,– not to mention the fact that Don Miguel
(such was the ardor of his sentiment for Grace) would, had she desired it, have gone with her into a fiery furnace or a den of lions. Grace, who was ambitious as well as romantic, and who longed for the power
and independence that wealth would give, was all alight with the idea of capturing the hoard of Montezuma: her social position
would be altered at a stroke, and the world would be at her feet. Whether she would
then have rewarded Don Miguel for his devotion, is possibly open to doubt: the sudden acquisition of boundless wealth has been known to turn larger heads than hers.
Fortunately, however, this temptation was withheld from her: so far from finding the treasure, she and Don Miguel very soon lost themselves in the desert, and had been
wandering about ever since, dolely uncomfortable, and in no small danger of losing
their lives. They were already at the end of their last resource when they happened to encounter the other party, as we have seen; and immeasurable was their joy at the unlooked-for deliverance. So there was
another halt, to enable them to rest and recuperate; and it was not until the evening of that day that the journey was finally resumed.
Meanwhile, Grace had time to think over all that happened, and to arrive at certain conclusions. She was at bottom a good
girl, though liable to be led away by her imagination, her vanity, and her temperament. Don Miguel’s best qualities had revealed themselves to her in the desert: he
had always thought of her before himself, had done all that in him lay to save her from fatigue and suffering, and had stuck to her faithfully when he might perhaps have increased his own chances of escape by
abandoning her. Did not such a man deserve to be rewarded?–especially as he was a handsome fellow, of good family, and possessed
of quite a respectable income. Moreover, Harvey Freeman was now beyond her reach: he was going to marry Miriam, and she had realized that her own brief infatuation for him had had no very deep root after all. Accordingly, she smiled encouragingly upon Don Miguel, and before they set out on
their homeward ride she had vouchsafed him the bliss of knowing that he might call her his.
The general, as her guardian, did not withhold his approval; but when Grace drew him aside and besought him never to reveal to her intended the fact that she had once been a shop-girl, the old warrior smiled.
“You can depend upon me to keep your
secret, if you wish it, my dear,” said he; “but I warn you that such concealments
between husband and wife are not wise. He loves you and would only love you the
more for your frankness in confessing what you seem to consider a discreditable episode: though I for my part am free to tell you that you will be lucky if your future life affords you the opportunity of doing anything else so much to your credit. But the chances
are that he will find it out sooner or later; and that may not be so agreeable, either to him or to you. Better tell him all now.”
But Grace pictured to herself the aristocratic pride of an hidalgo shocked by the
suggestion of the plebeianism of trade; and she would not consent to the revelation. But the general’s prediction was fulfilled sooner than might have been expected.
For, after they were married, Don Miguel decided to visit the Atlantic coast on the wedding journey; and one of the first notable places they reached was, of course, New
York. Don Miguel was delighted, and was never weary of strolling up Fifth Avenue and down Broadway, with his beautiful wife on his arm. He marvelled at the vast white pile of the Fifth Avenue Hotel; he frowned at the Worth Monument; he stared inexhaustibly into the shop-windows; he exclaimed
with admiration at the stupendous
piles of masonry which contained the goods of New York’s merchant princes. It seemed to be his opinion that the possessors of so much palpable wealth must be the true
aristocracy of the country.
And one afternoon it happened that as they were strolling along Broadway, between Twenty-third Street and Union Square, and were crossing one of the side-streets, a horse belonging to one of Lord and Taylor’s delivery- wagons became frightened, and bolted
round the corner. One of the hind wheels of the vehicle came in contact with Grace’s shoulder, and knocked her down. The blow and the fall stunned her. Don Miguel’s
grief and indignation were expressed with tropical energy; and a by-stander said,
“Better carry her into the store, mister; it’s their wagon run her down, and they can’t do less than look after her.”
The counsel seemed reasonable, and Don Miguel, with the assistance of a policeman, lifted his wife and bore her into the stately shop. One of the floor-walkers met them at the door; he cast a glance at their burden, and exclaimed, “Why, it’s Miss Parsloe!” And immediately a number of the employees gathered round, all regarding her with
interest and sympathy, all anxious to help, and–which was what mystified Don Miguel –all calling her by name! How came they to know Grace Parsloe? Nay, they even
glanced at Don Miguel, as if to ask what was HIS business with the beautiful unconscious one!
“This lady are my wife,” he said, with dignity. “She not any more Miss Parsloe.”
“Oh, Grace has got married!” exclaimed the young ladies, one to another; and then an elderly man, evidently in authority, came forward and said, “I suppose you are aware, sir, that Miss Parsloe was formerly one of our girls here; and a very clever and useful girl she was. I need not say how sorry we are for this accident: I have sent for the physician: but I cannot but be glad that the misfortune has at least given me the opportunity of telling you how highly your wife was valued and respected here.”
At this juncture, Grace opened her eyes: she looked from one face to another, and knew that fate had brought the truth to
light. But the physical shock tempered the severity of the mental one: besides, she could not help being pleased at the sight of so many well-remembered and friendly faces; and, finally, her husband did not look by any means so angry and scandalized as she had feared he would. Indeed, he appeared almost gratified. The truth probably was, he was flattered to see his wife the centre of so much interest and attention, and at the discovery that she had been in some way an honored appanage of so imposing an
establishment. So, by the time Grace was well enough to be driven back to her hotel, the senor was prattling cheerfully and familiarly with all and sundry, and was promising to bring his wife back there the next day, to talk over old times with her former associates.
Such was Grace’s punishment: it was not very severe; but then her fault had been a venial one; and the episode was of much
moral benefit to her. She liked her husband all the better for having nothing more
to conceal from him; her vanity was rebuked, and her false pride chastened; and
when, in after-years, her pretty daughters and black-haired sons gathered about her knees, she was wont to warn them sagely
against the un-American absurdity of fearing to work for their living, or being ashamed to have it known.
But the married life of Miriam and
Harvey Freeman was characteristically American in its happiness. The representatives of the oldest and of the latest inhabitants of this continent, their union seemed to produce the flower of what was best in both. Their wedding is still remembered in that region, as being everything that a Southern Californian wedding should be; and the bride, as
she stood at the altar, looked what she was,– one of those women who, more than anything else in this world, are fitted to bring back to earth the gentle splendors of the Garden of Eden. In her dark eyes, as she fixed them upon Freeman, there was a mystic light,
telling of fathomless depths of tenderness and intelligence: it seemed to her husband that love had expanded and uplifted her; or perhaps that other spirit in her, which had battled with her own, had now become reconciled, and therefore yielded up whatever it had of good and noble to aggrandize
the gentle victory of its conqueror. Somehow, somewhere, in Miriam’s nature, Semitzin
lived; and, as a symbol of the peace and atonement that were the issue of her strange interior story, her husband preserves with reverence and affection the mysterious garment called the Golden Fleece.