Essential Novelists - Bret Harte. Bret Harte
has no value to me—the rankest weed that grows above it is worth more in my eyes. Take it. To the world it means everything—wealth and position. Take it. It will make you as proud and independent as your lover—it will make you always gracious in his eyes;—it will be a setting to your beauty,—it will be a pedestal to your virtue. Take it—it is yours."
"But you have relatives—friends," said the girl, drawing away from the shining stone with a half superstitious awe. "There are others whose claims"——
"None greater than yours," interrupted the old man, with the nervous haste of failing breath. "Call it a reward if you choose. Look upon it as a bribe to keep your lover to the fulfilment of his promise to preserve my manuscripts and collection. Think, if you like, that it is an act of retribution—that once in my life I might have known a young girl whose future would have been blessed by such a gift. Think—think what you like—but take it!"
His voice had sunk to a whisper. A greyish pallor had overspread his face, and his breath came with difficulty. Grace would have called her brother, but with a motion of his hand Devarges restrained her. With a desperate effort he raised himself upon his elbow, and drawing an envelope from his pocket, put it in her hand.
"It contains—map—description of mine and locality—yours—say you will take it—Grace, quick, say"——
His head had again sunk to the floor. She stooped to raise it. As she did so a slight shadow darkened the opening by the door. She raised her eyes quickly and saw the face of Dumphy!
She did not shrink this time; but, with a sudden instinct, she turned to Devarges, and said—
"I will!"
She raised her eyes again defiantly, but the face had disappeared.
"Thank you," said the old man. His lips moved again, but without a sound. A strange film had begun to gather in his eyes.
"Dr. Devarges," whispered Grace.
He did not speak. "He is dying," thought the young girl as a new and sudden fear overcame her. She rose quickly and crossed hurriedly to her brother and shook him. A prolonged inspiration, like a moan, was the only response. For a moment she glanced wildly around the room and then ran to the door.
"Philip!"
There was no response. She climbed up through the tunnel-like opening. It was already quite dark, and a few feet beyond the hut nothing was distinguishable. She cast a rapid backward glance, and then, with a sudden desperation, darted forward into the darkness. At the same moment two figures raised themselves from behind the shadow of the mound and slipped down the tunnel into the hut—Mrs. Brackett and Mr. Dumphy. They might have been the meanest predatory animals—so stealthy, so eager, so timorous, so crouching, and yet so agile were their motions. They ran sometimes upright, and sometimes on all fours, hither and thither. They fell over each other in their eagerness, and struck and spat savagely at each other in the half darkness. They peered into corners, they rooted in the dying embers and among the ashes, they groped among the skins and blankets, they smelt and sniffed at every article. They paused at last apparently unsuccessful, and glared at each other.
"They must have eaten it," said Mrs. Brackett, in a hoarse whisper.
"It didn't look like suthin' to eat," said Dumphy.
"You saw 'em take it from the fire?"
"Yes!"
"And rub it?"
"Yes!"
"Fool. Don't you see"——
"What?"
"It was a baked potato."
Dumphy sat dumfounded.
"Why should they rub it? It takes off the cracklin' skins," he said.
"They've got such fine stomachs!" answered Mrs. Bracket, with an oath.
Dumphy was still aghast with the importance of his discovery.
"He said he knew where there was more!" he whispered eagerly.
"Where?"
"I didn't get to hear."
"Fool! Why didn't ye rush in and grip his throat until he told yer?" hissed Mrs. Brackett, in a tempest of baffled rage and disappointment. "Ye ain't got the spunk of a flea. Let me get hold of that gal—Hush! what's that?"
"He's moving!" said Dumphy.
In an instant they had both changed again into slinking, crouching, baffled animals, eager only for escape. Yet they dared not move.
The old man had turned over, and his lips were moving in the mutterings of delirium. Presently he called "Grace!"
With a sign of caution to her companion, the woman leaned over him.
"Yes, deary, I'm here."
"Tell him not to forget. Make him keep his promise. Ask him where it is buried!"
"Yes, deary!"
"He'll tell you. He knows!"
"Yes, deary!"
"At the head of Monument Cañon. A hundred feet north of the lone pine. Dig two feet down below the surface of the cairn."
"Yes!"
"Where the wolves can't get it."
"Yes!"
"The stones keep it from ravenous beasts."
"Yes, in course."
"That might tear it up."
"Yes!"
"Starving beasts!"
"Yes, deary!"
The fire of his wandering eyes went out suddenly, like a candle; his jaw dropped; he was dead. And over him the man and woman crouched in fearful joy, looking at each other with the first smile that had been upon their lips since they had entered the fateful cañon.
CHAPTER III. GABRIEL.
It was found the next morning that the party was diminished by five. Philip Ashley and Grace Conroy, Peter Dumphy and Mrs. Brackett, were missing; Dr. Paul Devarges was dead. The death of the old man caused but little excitement and no sorrow; the absconding of the others was attributed to some information which they had selfishly withheld from the remaining ones, and produced a spasm of impotent rage. In five minutes their fury knew no bounds. The lives and property of the fugitives were instantly declared forfeit. Steps were taken—about twenty, I think—in the direction of their flight, but finally abandoned.
Only one person knew that Philip and Grace had gone together—Gabriel Conroy. On awakening early that morning he had found pinned to his blanket a paper with these words in pencil—
"God bless dear brother and sister, and keep them until Philip and I come back with help."
With it were a few scraps of provisions, evidently saved by Grace from her scant rations, and left as a parting gift. These Gabriel instantly turned into the common stock. Then he began to comfort the child. Added to his natural hopefulness, he had a sympathetic instinct with the pains and penalties of childhood, not so much a quality of his intellect as of his nature. He had all the physical adaptabilities of a nurse—a large, tender touch, a low persuasive voice, pliant yet unhesitating limbs, and broad, well-cushioned surfaces. During the weary journey women had instinctively entrusted babies to his charge; most of the dead had died in his arms; all forms and conditions of helplessness had availed themselves of his easy capacity. No one thought of thanking him. I do not think he ever expected it; he always appeared morally irresponsible and quite unconscious of his own importance, and, as is frequent in such cases, there was a tendency to accept his services at his own valuation. Nay more, there was a slight consciousness of superiority in those who thus gave him an opportunity of exhibiting his special faculty.
"Olly," he said, after an