In the cool of the following evening we find Clifford swinging dreamily in a hammock on the porch, while near by is ever-busy Maud, preparing a basket of martynias for the pickle-jar. As she deftly snipped off the curling ends of the green pods, locally known as "Devil Claws"—a very appropriate name indeed, when applied to the mature fruit—she cast a glance of suspicion toward her brother, and said:—
"I never like to see you so quiet, Clifford. I have always noticed that silent people need watching. Now, here is Rob, for instance:—Just so long as we can hear him whistling or singing, we rest contentedly; but the very moment he becomes quiet—ah! look out! There is mischief on hand every time; and we are likely to miss pie from the pantry soon, or find that the rogue has filched a bowl of cream down cellar. No, sir; you have been so suspiciously reticent to-day that I am led to think you have learned something since we had our talk yesterday."
"I always endeavor to store up some treasure of wisdom daily, my sister," Clifford replied, with lazy evasion, as he swung a polished boot to and fro over the hammock's side, and turned a feverish face toward Maud. Then, while a look of sarcasm gleamed in his half-closed eyes, he added, as she continued to glance askance: "Who was the philosopher, sage, or poet that said—or should have said, at least—something about the moral obloquy of groping through life with a cross eye?"
"Whoever that fellow was who strangled on such a proverb, I'll bet my boots he never clanked round of nights, like a loose horse, all the while fancying himself sly," said Rob, with a knowing chuckle, as he cocked his head on one side to view the horse-hair bridle-rein which he was braiding while seated on the edge of the porch.
A loud-mouthed clamor from the dogs precluded an answer to this thrust, and as the group on the porch looked toward the gate, Grace, Ralph, and Scott Moreland came into the yard, and they were all soon eagerly discussing the plan of holding a picnic in the Warlow pasture, on the opposite side of the river from the colonel's dwelling.
Before their neighbors left it was decided that the event should take place the last of the following week; but in the excitement of agreeing on a programme, and the wordy debate as to the propriety of including dancing in the list of amusements, all the leisure time of the next two days was consumed; so nothing more was said regarding the great discoveries which the week had revealed.
Verbal and written invitations were sown broadcast throughout the colony, bidding their friends to the picnic; and not many days had elapsed before Clifford had ridden down to the Estill Ranch to deliver the compliment in person to the members of that aristocratic household.
At the door he met Hugh, who was as cordial and genial as ever, and entered into the scheme of the picnic with his customary zest of pleasure, sharpened now, no doubt, with the desire to meet the fascinating Grace once again.
The call lengthened out astonishingly, as Clifford strolled back and forth on the star-lit terrace with the vivacious heiress of Monteluma and Estill Ranch, who promised to come up with Hugh the next day, to practice, with a dozen others, who were to meet at Moreland's, and agree on the music for the entertainment.
"What a delightful evening this has been!" said Clifford at a very late hour, as they walked down to the steps, at the base of which his horse was tied.
"Oh, charming indeed! I And don't you think that we are progressing well with our "practicing," for here we have had all the elements of a flirtation without the aid of either a moon or a gate," she said gaily, as he unfastened the chain at the steps, which served to bar the way at the top of the stairs, which led down from the terrace.
A cool "Good evening, Miss Estill," was all the answer this sally elicited from young Warlow, as he rode away, thinking gloomily that the proud heiress meant to show him, under the cover of her levity, that she was only amusing herself or "practicing" the arts of "flirtation" at his expense; and he determined that when they met again he would show her that he understood the hint, and would give her no further opportunity to repulse his advances.
So, accordingly, it was with a great deal of hauteur he met Miss Estill the following afternoon at Morelands'; but either that young lady was too indifferent to notice his behavior or had been gratified at the result of her light remark, for she was as gay and unchanged as ever.
All of our hero's stern resolves dissolved into smiles and admiration while he stood talking with the charming young lady; but when the wealthy, dissolute aristocrat, Major Stork, of Devondale, came up, and proceeded to monopolize Miss Estill, Clifford froze up completely, and became so polite and attentive to Grace that she at length declared she would box his ears if he did not quit persecuting her so; which persecutions consisted merely in keeping Hugh Estill away from her side—a crime which Clifford told her, hotly, was worse than murder in her eyes.
"Cliff Warlow, you are a booby!" said Miss Grace, with astonishing candor; "and you needn't come round me with any of your second-hand attentions; for I've got a pair of eyes in my head, and know how to use them too. The idea of your being jealous of that hawk-billed old reprobate. Why, it's perfectly absurd," she continued, casting a glance of scorn toward the spot where the stately major and Miss Estill were talking. "Oh, you should remember, Cliff, that a girl who is worth having is not going to fall into a fellow's mouth like a ripe persimmon whenever he shakes the tree."
Then in a tone of confidence she continued, with a look of wisdom, which Clifford thought, with an ill-concealed smile, resembled that of a prairie-owl: "Girls are very apt to pretend a great coldness toward a fellow that they want to catch; that is, after they see they have made a safe impression on him; and to see such a girl begin manœuvring around another fellow, one too that you know she can't care a straw for, why, it always shows plain enough that it is only to decoy fellow number one."
"There you are now far beyond my comprehension," Clifford interrupted, with returning good humor; and as Hugh Estill joined them he added: "I will now retire in favor of number one."
Emboldened by Grace's homily, young Warlow sought Miss Estill's side, and in her vivacious friendliness he soon found the happiness that had taken flight on the appearance of the major; but the returning bud of confidence, which her smiles had called forth, was nipped by a most untimely frost in the appearance of a new rival—John Downels, of Diamond Springs.
Mr. Downels was a debonair, graceful specimen of the gilded youth of New York, from whose make-up the last remaining trace of effeminacy had been eliminated by a stern course of ranch-life in the West. He appeared to be an old friend of Miss Estill, who presented him to Clifford; but after a moment's civility, young Warlow took his leave and retired, while the late comer devoted himself to the heiress.
While pretending to discuss music with Mrs. Warfield, Clifford watched the pair furtively. He began to realize that now he had just cause for uneasiness; for there was an air of culture and polished ease about the blonde-haired young ranchman which made him very attractive, and young Warlow became so absorbed and miserable that he only half realized what he was saying.
"Do you think we shall have time at the picnic to sing all the songs on the programme before dinner?" Mrs. Warfield inquired.
"Why, no; I believe it would be a better plan to dish it out by the quart to the individual tables," he replied, absently; then seeing a puzzled look sweep over her face, he hastened to add: "You know it would be more liable to melt if it was in such small quantities."
The situation flashed at once upon the keen-eyed lady, and although flirtation, jealousy, music, and ice-cream was a combination sufficient to upset the gravity of a sexton, yet she replied in a tone of perfect suavity while toying with her bracelet of jet and gold:
"A very good plan indeed, Mr. Warlow."
When evening came, and with its brooding shadows the company dispersed, our hero returned home with a heavy heart. As he pondered over each word and action of Miss Estill, he had to confess that there was nothing in her demeanor towards him but friendly courtesy at all times. The only way that he could interpret her remark on the terrace, regarding their "flirtation" and "practicing," was that she had seen his growing attachment for herself, and she had in that way shown him that it was only a flirtation, and that his case was hopeless. "Yes; she was too genuinely a lady to encourage his suit, then discard him at the last moment," he concluded, despondently.
A miserable day followed a sleepless night, and Clifford busied himself with the farm duties, trying vainly to forget the bewitching voice that was ever haunting him, and which, as he drove the reaper over the wild meadow, seemed to be singing above the clang and ring of the sickle the sweet refrain,—
in the tones of luscious melody that he never—no, never—could forget.
As he swung in the hammock again that evening, while Maud's guitar and the sweet strains of "Silver Threads" lulled him into a drowsy reverie, he remembered suddenly the incident of the "Moated Grange" which, Mora laughingly said, had secured her such "a round scolding" because she had neglected her household duties through too much reading of that affecting poem. Why should she have felt such sympathy for the forlorn Mariana, unless the pathetic cry,
had found an echo in her heart also?
"Yes; she was heart-free, and waiting for some one to come and fill its empty chambers with the treasures of his love," mentally concluded our hero in a flash of joyful conviction. But again the doubt and despondency prevailed; and in no very enviable mood he rode down to Estill's ranch alone the next day, to join the company that were to meet and practice for the coming musical festival, which now was the all-absorbing theme of the colony.
As he rode slowly along, Maud and Ralph passed him in a gallop, flinging back some gay badinage—something about "a laggard in love"—which he affected not to understand; then, as he saw Hugh and Grace cantering up the road behind, he put spurs to his horse, and arrived at the imposing mansion just in time to see young Downels and the military Stork alight from the latter's carriage, and, in the most amicable manner imaginable, both seek the young hostess and rain a shower of compliments upon her gracious head.
While these two devoted cavaliers, or rather charioteers—for they had ridden over in the barouche of Devondale, a vehicle sumptuous and costly—were engaged in a graceful skirmish of wit and verbiage with Miss Estill, our hero, after bowing coldly, passed on to the piano, where Mrs. Estill was chatting in a good-natured strain with a group of friends.
"You are late, Mr. Warlow, and we have been waiting for some one to 'break the ice' at the piano," she said, with her pleasing smile, as she shook hands with Clifford. "Let's see," she continued, "the quartette, 'My Native Hills,' is the first on the programme, I am very eager to hear your tenor since Mrs. Warfield said you made her home-sick when you sang it at the Moreland rehearsal," concluded the hostess, innocently.
"It would require a large bump of self-esteem to construe that into a compliment," thought Clifford; but meeting Mrs. Warfield's amused look, he said, with a smile:—
"I hope her longing for home was not of the same nature as that which a hand-organ inspires, Mrs. Estill."
"No, indeed, Mr. Warlow; but you will excuse my faulty compliment, and only remember that I've been totally isolated from society for a quarter of a century, and am apt to say the wrong thing in the right place."
"There she goes again!" the face of Mrs. Warfield seemed to say; but Clifford only answered with polite gravity:—
"Thank you, Mrs. Estill. I shall never forget that you are very kind; and if Mrs. Warfield will promise not to leave at once we will proceed with the singing," he added, with a twinkle of humor in his blue eyes.
"I will promise to stay as long as you are singing a tenor like an alpine horn," replied Mrs. Warfield, graciously.
"Well! good-bye, then?" said Clifford, as he joined the singers; and soon his voice was heard, clear and ringing, like the soft tones of a church-bell in some quiet mountain valley—pealing out with soaring, crystal notes, or floating down the wind with a vibrant, thrilling sweetness, that caused even the garrulous major to pause and say at the end:—
"Why, pon honah, Miss Estill, this young Warlow is a wonderful singah; indeed he quite reminds me of Mario, the enchanting, velvet-toned tennah, you know, whom I often have heard at the grand opera—aw—in delightful Paree. What a pity that he is—aw—only a pooah homesteadah, or was until of late, I heah."
"I am certain he is an earnest, industrious gentleman at all times, Major," said Miss Estill, with just enough reproof in her tone to cause the dissolute aristocrat to wince; then, pausing, only to see that her arrow had hit the mark, she continued:—
"His father was a wealthy planter who was ruined financially by the war; but we certainly respect the energy that has enabled him to repair his fortunes and found such a delightful home, as you will find the Warlow homestead to be. His example should encourage others to a similar course, instead of remaining in the overcrowded East or South to struggle along, hopelessly, amid the scenes of their misfortune."
"Ah! indeed—a plantah before the wah? Why, really, that is another mattah, Miss Estill. My fathah was also a plantah; but when the wah began he sold his niggahs and left Kentuckah, but finally returned and located thah again."
"You appear so sad, Mr. Downels, that I fear you are not enjoying our rehearsal," said Mora, ignoring the transaction in "niggahs," and turning with a questioning look to young Downels, who stood by her side yet, but seemingly lost in reverie since the music had ceased.
"Pardon the ungallantry, Miss Estill; but that song carried me back to the Hudson, and I almost fancied myself rambling over the hills and dales of my boyhood's home once again." But his sadness was seen to melt into an amused smile as Grace sang in a rich brogue:—
Several glees followed; then Miss Estill took her place at the rich-toned piano, which was banked in a bed of wild-flowers, where the flame-colored blossoms of the desert-sage and the golden sunflowers were relieved by sprays of snow-powdered lace-plant and rose-colored convolvuli, mingled with tufts of white and purple mignonette, which grew in fragrant profusion over all the surrounding hills. As the grand strains of Schubert's "Serenade" floated out through the open windows, or reverberated along the arched and frescoed ceiling of the elegant apartment, the listeners preserved an appreciative silence,—all the more flattering when we remember that not a baker's dozen of the audience understood a word of German.
"It was all very fine and grand, no doubt, but still perfect Greek, or Dutch—which is about the same—to my poor, untutored ears," said Grace at the close of the celebrated song, as she turned to Rob and spoke in an undertone.
"Well, it was not all quite plain," returned that youth, with a droll grimace; "but it was certainly p-r-r-r-r-rrretty." Then, as Grace strangled and recovered from an effort at swallowing her own chin, he added facetiously: "Didn't you recognize the place where the old fellow shuffled out in his wooden shoes, and, after threatening the serenader with 'a schlock on the coop,' finally turned the bull-dog loose?"
"No, I just did nothing of the kind; and I don't believe you understood one word of that heathen gibberish either," said Grace, with a sniff of suspicion.
"Oh, that only shows you can't interpret operatic music," Rob replied, with a derisive grin.
"Rob Warlow, you horrible creature! I never know when you are in earnest," she retorted, with a puzzled look, as she smoothed down the fluffy ruffles of her white muslin gown.
"Why, no—honest injun!—any one can learn to understand this classic music. It only requires a sufficient stretch of imagination, and then all is clear as—mud. Now, when Maud is playing Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March,' I can hear the cat squall like a panther when the baby pulls its tail; and she—that is Mrs. 'Sohn—takes an awful tantrum when 'Sohn wants her to get up of a cold morning and make a fire; and the way they shout and gabble—all in Dutch—would scare a krout-barrel," said Rob, with perfect gravity.
"Oh, humbug!" she replied with a shrug, as she flounced away to where Maud stood examining a book of engravings.
"Cliff and Mora are acting like a couple of idiots, Maud," whispered Grace, as she surveyed the elegant and finished picture, "The Carnival in Venice," with a critical glance that reminded one of a wren; but as Maud failed to reply to this personal comment, she continued in an undaunted undertone:—
"I don't pretend to understand flirtations, but if I did, I'd say that Mora Estill was a pronounced coquette. She bears all the ear-marks of a born flirt, and the way she throws herself at the head of young Downels—the sophisticated creature!—is just shameful. But still my fingers itch none the less to pull Cliff's ears; for there he goes, with his lip hanging so low you could step on it—and all on her account, too."
"Well, Grace, let's reserve our sympathy and censure for the future," said Maud, in a tone meant to discourage any further discussion of the subject; and as the supper-bell announced the unfashionable hour of six, and the guests were preparing to follow Mrs. Estill and Major Stork into the long, fresco-paneled dining-room, Grace ceased her comments, and soon forgot all about her friends while leaning on the arm of Hugh Estill and hurrying into the damask-draped and luxury-laden table.
However, she noticed that Clifford and Mrs. Warfield sat next to Mora and young Downels when they were, at length, all seated, and that while the latter couple were silent, the former kept up a semi-animated, constrained run of small talk during the meal; but she soon became so engrossed while listening to Hugh's not over-brilliant wit that all else was devoid of interest.
When the many luxuries had been discussed, and the guests were loitering in the parlor or sauntering out upon the terrace in groups of twos and—well, twos also, I believe—Clifford walked out alone to the fountain, and sat down on a stone seat near the basin, which was brimming with water. Here the broad-leaved lilies floated, with their blossoms of pale rose and cream, distilling an odor of entrancing sweetness for yards around the cool, moss-set brim. As he sat lost in bitter meditations, the twilight began to deepen, the cicadas tuned their shrill pipes, and Venus shone out with unclouded splendor over the tree-tops of the valley below, followed, as she has ever been, by an ardent host of glittering stars and planets. That great midsummer constellation, the Scorpion, seemed stinging the "milky way" with its venomous tail, while the jeweled Sickle sank in the west—an omen that the harvest-days were nearly ended. A shrill katydid, overhead in the branches, heralded the coming frost, while a low ripple of voices mingled with the faint notes of the piano and snatches of song from within the house.
As Clifford sat, trailing a lily through the water, thinking, alas! of the time when he had strolled here with Mora, only two short weeks before, and how trustfully she had told him of "the mystery that seemed haunting the very air of late," he found it hard to realize that another had supplanted him, and that henceforth they were to be as strangers. But slowly it began to dawn upon him that their paths had diverged since that fatal night upon the star-lit terrace, when she so lightly remarked upon their "practicing" and "flirtation," until now he felt they were rapidly and surely becoming totally estranged.
"It is better that I should never, never look upon her fair, proud face again; for when I meet her eyes—ah! what can it mean?—there seems such a look of pleading, mingled with pride and—something that I can never understand—that it totally unmans me, and I can not trust my lips to speak a word for fear of betraying the secret of my love. No; she will find that the Warlow pride will be a match for her own; for I would rather tear my heart out and fling it at her feet, than have her spurn my love, as only a proud creature like her can.
"To know that she looks upon me as a fortune hunter, and scans me with those haughty—oh, lovely—violet eyes, classing me as 'poor and proud,' but far beneath her caste,—oh, Heaven! it is more than I can or will bear!" mentally exclaimed fiery young Warlow with a flash of hot wrath,—which is about the best remedy known for a sore heart, I really believe.
"A fortune hunter? Well, can't a fellow who has yearned all his life to meet a high-bred, dainty, and elegant woman, dare to love her when he does meet such an ideal, for fear of being called by that contemptible name?" continued our hero, impatiently plucking another water-lily, and beginning to pace up and down the path in nervous haste, and resuming his meditations, saying, half audibly:—
"If she had only waited a few more days I could have shown her that Colonel Warlow's son was not the poor homesteader—that pariah of the cattle-king—which she seems to consider me in her high pride. But no; she must throw cold water on a poor devil before he has made too big a fool of himself to offend her pride by a declaration of his folly.
"But she has all the refined instincts of her class at any rate, and can send a disheartened, despairing wretch like me on a life-long journey of dreary longing, with a sweet graciousness that I must admire, though I curse it ever so bitterly!" Then, as there rose vividly to his mind a picture of that proud but vivacious face, lit by eyes of violet-blue, and framed by the mass of raven, wavy hair; the coral, tender lips and creamy, dimpled cheeks so soft and tinted; the graceful form, in its filmy, flower-wrought robe of white,—he leaned against the elm-tree, and covered his face with his hands as though to shut the lovely vision from his sight, and murmured in tones of deepest agony:—
"Oh, Mora, Mora, my lost love! how can I give you up? It seems as if I have loved you from eternity; and to lose you now is like the pangs of death!"
Rousing himself as the sound of retreating wheels was heard below the terrace, Clifford walked back to the hall-way, where he met several departing guests; and as he came into the hall, with a slow leaden step, he saw, with a start, that Miss Estill was standing alone by the stairs, where she had turned after bidding some of the guests good-night! When she saw his face, with its look of white, tense misery, she said quickly:—
"Oh, Mr. Warlow! I have missed you for an hour. You are ill, I fear."
"Yes, Miss Estill, I am—sick of the world; but it is a very slight matter—only a broken heart," young Warlow replied, in a low, husky tone, while his eyes flashed like purple amethysts.
She turned deadly white, and gave him a look wherein he read a proud pity, that sent a flash of hot indignation to his face; then he bowed and walked away without glancing back.
As he came into the glare of the lighted parlor, Maud met him, and, after giving him a glance of deep sympathy, she said with her accustomed tact:—
"Clifford, you are no better, I fear; so let's return home. Most of the guests are starting already, although it is only nine; but we have, like them, also a long drive before us to-night."
So, bidding their hostess good-night, the Warlow and Moreland party started toward the hall; but at the door Miss Estill met them, looking pale and distrait, though regretful at their early departure.
She tarried a moment at the door, talking to Maud and Grace regarding the details of the picnic; and as she stood under the full light of a large lamp, held by a marble statue of Mercury, the wonderful grace and beauty of her creole face came into dazzling relief, and Clifford paused with a look of hungry longing on his face, while the remainder of the group hurried on to where the carriage waited, leaving him alone with Mora.
"I will say farewell here, Miss Estill. We shall meet at the picnic, Friday, but there will be little chance to bid you adieu there. I start for South America the next morning to stay indefinitely; so good-bye—forever!"
Even now in this trying moment, while his heart turned cold with an agony that not even death could equal, Clifford was true to the instincts of a gentleman, and waited immovably for her to offer her hand; but she only stood and toyed with her dainty fan, saying with the same cold, proud look that she had given him once before that evening:—
"This is very sudden. Indeed you can not be in earnest; so I shall reserve my adieus until the very last. I will try at the picnic to persuade you to abandon such an unkind course, and remain with us."
"Very well, Miss Estill, but I had forgotten to tell you that I have a disclosure to make at the picnic—one of grave import to you—and beg for an hour of your time while there. I would prefer the morning, if you please."
"With pleasure, certainly," she replied; but their talk was interrupted by some guests preparing to depart; so young Warlow hurriedly said good-night, and joined Maud and the others in the carriage.
Soon they were rapidly whirling homeward up the level, winding road; but as no one seemed to be in a talking mood, the journey was rather a silent one, the monotony only relieved by a scurrying flock of wild-grouse or the dim and retreating form of a startled jack-rabbit, looming large and indistinct upon the level prairie. In places the tall blue-stem moved in the wind with a rolling, wave-like motion; then again giving place to vistas of open glades, carpeted by the buffalo-grass, that the rains and sun had bleached almost white.
A forecast of autumn was felt in the rising gales, which moaned through the tall cottonwoods along the stream; the water flashed cold and bright under the starlight, and the buffalo-birds—our Western whip-poor-will—swooped down with a bellowing roar close to the heads of our friends as they drove by, indicating that a rain was near at hand.
A pouring rain from a vapor-laden sky, dull and gray, saluted Clifford the next morning with a chill welcome; but still the general gloom that pervaded all nature was in such perfect harmony with his mood that he felt a grim satisfaction, in a cold, lethargic way, at the sympathy of the elements.
"I am growing tired of this monotonous life," he said at breakfast, "and have decided to commute my homestead and knock around in the world awhile; so if Mr. Moreland, Ralph, and you, father, are willing to go to Abilene as my witnesses, we will start Saturday morning. I can take the train from there, and save another trip;" then seeing Maud's and his mother's look of distress, he added: "I may not be gone long, so I'll leave every thing as it is untill my return."
"Why, Clifford, my boy, what has come over you? This is wholly unlike your nature. I had always felt so glad that you were not of a roving disposition, and now you fly off at a tangent, and when we were not looking for any thing of the kind either. It is very strange, indeed!"
Clifford made no reply, but rose from the table, followed by Rob, whose face was momentarily growing longer and more doleful in its expression, while Maud shot a warning look at her parents, and as the boy's retreating footsteps grew fainter, she answered their questioning looks by saying:—
"Poor Clifford! he is passing through that course of true love which is said to never run smooth, and it is best not to interfere; but I hope at the picnic to see him on better terms with Mora, which may change his plans at once."
"Only a lovers' quarrel?" said Mrs. Warlow, with a troubled smile.
"No; I fear it is not so tangible as that," Maud replied. "Clifford seems to have caught the impression, some way, that Mora regards him as a mere fortune hunter, or looks down on him for his poverty; you know that she will be equal heir with Hugh in the immense Estill estate, which is said to be worth half a million, she being their only other child," she added, while narrowly watching her parents' faces; but to her wonder, her father and mother betrayed no surprise at this last remark, which caused a doubt to enter her mind that they were aware of the great discovery that Mora was the daughter of Bruce and Ivarene, which she had until this moment believed was a fact revealed to them when the Estills made their visit, more than a week before.
"Can it be that they are still ignorant of that fact?" Maud mentally asked herself; and then she began to wonder why the Estills had shown the locket, with its pictures of Bruce and his wife, and withheld from her parents the more important secret that Mora was also the daughter of those ill-fated friends; but her reflections were cut short by her father saying, with a weary sigh:—
"Ah! this is the sting of poverty indeed! Oh, why should I have been so ill-fated as to lose two fortunes in succession?"
"George, do not grieve over the past; that's beyond recall," Mrs. Warlow said gently; then she added: "It is better that my children should confine themselves to their own sphere; for you can see that if Miss Estill loved my boy, as well she might, for himself alone, she would never think of the difference in their wealth. It may save them a life-time of misery; for without mutual love, matrimony would be a state of abject servitude."
"Well, if Clifford sees fit to take a change of scene, it will serve to cure him of his—attachment; and if Mora, in the meantime, discovers her mistake in undervaluing Clifford—a fellow that any girl under the sun might be proud of—why, it may all come out right yet," said Maud as she rose from the table and began to polish and clean the great silver coffee-urn, another relic of old plantation glory, but which had never been considered too good for every-day service.
All day Clifford worked with a fever of energy to prepare for his journey, which he was compelled to do; for the picnic was set for the coming day, Friday, and he had to see the Morelands to secure their attendance with him at the land-office as witnesses to prove his actual residence and cultivation upon his homestead, which he had concluded to commute, or in other words, pay the sum of two hundred dollars to the government in lieu of five years of residence and cultivation thereon. Having secured their testimony, or their willing promise to accompany him to Abilene and there testify to his good faith, etc., he made everything ready for his departure the next morning after the picnic.
When Maud and his mother questioned him regarding the destination and duration of his trip, he said he would go South awhile, but evaded telling them that he had determined to go to Buenos Ayres and remain until he had made a fortune that would cause Miss Estill to regard him as an equal.
He noticed the sadness, however, of the family, and when he met Rob's look of grief his fortitude was sorely tried, and he regretted having formed such a hasty resolution. But it was too late now to retreat, he foolishly concluded; so, choking down a lump in his throat, he walked out to take a last view of his farm. As he sauntered along in a listless way, looking at the fields, every furrow of which he had turned over in the past with such a deep pride of ownership; at the trees and deep pools, that greeted him with the air of old friendship, he began to realize how dear the place had become, and he wondered, in a self-pitying way, how he could bear the existence that awaited him out on the sky-begirt level and lonely pampas of the Rio La Plata.
When he came to the gothic dwelling, the circle of roses and trellises of luxuriant vines, the sloping orchard and vineyard, they all seemed to be still imbued with the strange thought which had ever haunted him while he was busied there. "Here for the first time since eternity began, I found a true home. All this is mine, and on this spot I shall pass my life. What events will transpire here in the unknown future! I shall know joy and sorrow here, but who will share it all with me?" As these visions recurred, he thought bitterly that he never had counted upon an hour of trial like the present. Then, throwing himself down in the shade of the old wall, he cried aloud in anguish, as he buried his face in the soft, matted buffalo-grass: "Oh, it is hard to part from all this—and only for a woman who cares nothing for me!" But at length he became calmer, and as a feeling of resentment towards the proud heiress began to possess him, he arose and went into the house: then, after taking the usual precautions against surprise, he raised the trap-door and unlocked the treasure-chest.
On glancing at the heap of red gold mingled with the dazzling gems, he took from the compartment the paper which he had almost forgotten having never read; then breaking the seal, he found that it was the wills of both Bruce and his wife on separate sheets of vellum, executed at Santa Fe, devising all their estate each to the other, in case of either dying during the long journey on which they were about starting.
"I will bring her here to-morrow. She shall read the pathetic Journal of Ivarene and this will. I shall tell her of the long search after the treasure, and her right to all this wealth; then, after restoring both her name and fortune, there will be little left for me to do but to slink away, while some long-necked aristocrat will step to the foreground and carry off the prize," soliloquized our hero with bitter sarcasm, as he placed the papers in an inner pocket of his drab coat, and closed the chest with a vicious snap.
The rain had ceased long since, and a band of crimson and rose on the western horizon gave a promise of fair weather on the morrow; but Clifford lingered about the beloved place, feeling that this was his farewell to a spot that had grown dear as life to him in the last year. He found it hard to tear himself away; so he seated himself upon a travel-worn ridge in the old trail, worn years ago by the wheels of the freight wagons, but now carpeted thickly with the buffalo-grass, which seems to delight in hiding just such an unsightly, trampled place with its pale-green tendrils. As the shadows darkened among the trees, and the gloom of a starless, fog-ladened night settled down with a palpable silence, young Warlow became lost in thought.
The scene which followed was always a mystery to him; for he never knew whether he had witnessed a supernatural sight or not. He often tried to persuade himself that he had lapsed into a fit of transient slumber, and the whole spectacle was only a vivid dream.
The time passed by unheeded, and it was near the hour of ten when his fit of abstraction was broken by seeing a group of fire-flies flashing about in an unnatural manner. He remembered, dimly, seeing great numbers of these luminous insects congregating around the long grave, not fifty paces away; and his blood grew cold as he saw, with a thrill of horror, that the flashing, mazy clouds began to slowly resolve themselves into the semblance of human forms, that leaped and danced in fiendish glee; now bounding high into the murky air, or again brandishing weapons, that resembled war-clubs and tomahawks, in a threatening and heart-sickening manner.
While these mysterious forms gyrated about in their unearthly war-dance, Clifford stood petrified with horror and astonishment, not unmixed with a strange curiosity to see how it would terminate; and when the luminous figures joined hands, and slowly paced about the grave, as though to the chant of some wild and savage death-song, a dim and glimmering circle of phantom warriors, Clifford could bear it no longer, but sprang to his feet with a cry of horror, that was echoed by a shriek which he instantly recognized as being the voice of Rob. As the skurrying hoofs went tearing away, he shouted quickly:—
"Rob! Rob! wait,—it is Cliff! Come back like a man, and let's investigate;" but he saw that at the first sound of their voices the figures had flashed asunder like thistle-down before a breath, and now were whirling and weaving in a bewildering maze of light that melted away as he gazed, and separated into the innocent flitting forms of fire-flies that were hieing off to the dark nooks along the stream.
As Rob came back, riding slowly and in an uncertain manner, Clifford emerged from the gloom of the trees into the less ebon darkness of the open ground; then Rob halted and said, in a shaky voice:—"I thought that I had run afoul of the old devil himself when you yelled so! What is the matter, anyway?"
Briefly as possible Clifford told of the strange sight which he had just witnessed—a scene which he then thought was more like a fevered dream than a reality.
"But how does it happen you were here?" he added.
"Why, we were uneasy about you, and I had come in search. I knew you would be up here, for I saw you walking this way. I had just got here, and was going to call you, when you yelled like a catamount down by the old grave. What does it mean, Cliff? It makes me cold yet!" he added, with chattering teeth.
"Well, it's something that can not be explained away," said Clifford, while walking back beside Rob, who, too well bred to ride while another walked, had dismounted, and was leading his horse. "There is only one view that I can take of it, and that is a supernatural one," he continued, as Rob linked his arm within his own, and they struck the road homeward. "There is a belief gaining ground, Rob, that the spirit—or the life principle, animation, or whatever it may be which we call soul—after it is disembodied by death, may yet linger about in some subtle, invisible form akin to electricity, and may become embodied again by entering into the being of a new-born child,—which, if true, may account for the strange resemblance we often see peering out of the eyes and face of an infant that recalls some long-dead friend or ancestor. It may be that the power which mind wields over matter would enable the strong, magnetic spirits of those savage warriors, who, no doubt, died terrible deaths of violence on this tragedy-haunted spot, to attract the fire-flies, and mold them into a semblance of their former bodies, or, at least, imprison them for a time within the spirit outline of their former selves. This, alone, would enable them to become visible to our eyes, proving what we already know, that without matter of a living nature the spirit—or magnetism, which we call soul—would be always as invisible as the air."
"Why, Cliff, you talk like a heathen!" replied Rob, vehemently, who, though addicted to the vice of swimming on the Sabbath, 'hooking' watermelons from the Mennonites, and hiding Easter eggs, was still strictly orthodox to his boot-heels. "So you think," he continued, "that a human soul may take the form of a panther or a pauper—whichever the spirit most resembles—and be cast and recast over and over again, like an old piece of boiler-iron, until at last it becomes—well, just what, I'd like to know?"
"A good Christian being that progresses towards perfection, and learns wisdom from his former mistakes, I guess," replied Clifford, as they turned the horse into the pasture and sought the house. As they came into the yard, he added: "If there is one spot on the continent that should be haunted, it certainly is the old Stone Corral and the near-by crossing of the Santa Fe and Abilene Trails; for there has been more crime and cruel deviltry committed there than upon any other square mile in the Western world."
The next morning broke with a cloudless sky, balmy and serene. A light wind from the south-west lifted the ribbon of vapor along the Cottonwood, and wafted the fresh and perfumed odors of wild hop-vine and water-mint, desert-sage and sand-plum, over the garden and into the Warlow breakfast-room, where Clifford was narrating to his horrified parents and sister the particulars of that unreal and mystery-wrapped scene which he had witnessed the night before.
"It all looks so unreal in this clear daylight that I am almost ashamed to repeat it," said Clifford, with a nervous laugh; but the hearers knew by the look of earnest gravity on his face that there could have been no mistake or deception as to his witnessing a sight that ever was a mystery to all.
"Well, this is a strange story indeed," said the colonel; "but, my boy, you must have been asleep unconsciously, and when you awoke your mind was in that abnormal state in which an optical illusion would have seemed like reality. An illusion of this nature is very hard to combat, from its very uncertainty; and we can only reason, from general principles, that it was a half-waking dream."
The preparations for the picnic put an end to any further discussion, and at ten the grounds were enlivened by a throng of people, all in their happiest mood and best attire.
When the Estill carriage came on the ground, Clifford hurried forward and assisted Miss Estill to alight; then, after shaking hands with Mrs. Estill, who excused her husband's absence by saying that he had not returned from the Comanche Pool, whither he had gone a week before, he found a seat for the elder lady, and disappeared with Mora on the pretext of boat-riding.
They walked in silence to where his boat was tied to the trunk of a weeping elm. As Clifford helped her into the seat, her warm clasp sent a thrill to his heart that caused a hot flush to mount to his face; but it soon receded, leaving him paler and more care-worn than ever. But Mora noticed that his cravat of dainty lawn was tied with that precision only attained by a thorough man of fashion, and the spray of snowy elder-bloom, late but fragrant, combined with a solitary pansy-shaped flower, pale blue with a fleck of gold at the heart, into a boutonnière that denoted a taste refined and fastidious in its wearer.
They shot out into the narrow stream under Clifford's vigorous strokes, and skimmed lightly along through the silver-linked pools, shaded by trees that were smothered by poison-ivy and wild-grape vines, that trailed in the water with their purple-laden tendrils of ripening fruit. At length they reached the bank near young Warlow's dwelling, after a journey which he thought had lasted for an age, but which, to be correct, was just four minutes in duration. There had been an attempt on her part at conversation, but seeing the far-away look in his eyes and the expression of haggard misery on his white, handsome face, she became more cold and reserved than ever, and sat with averted face, trailing a gaudy cardinal-flower through the water.
On landing, he again encountered her hand, which did not fail to send an electric shock through him, as he assisted her ashore, and for a moment he thought that she held his hand longer than the occasion required, and he raised his eyes to her face with a quick flash of joy; but the downcast look and pale cheeks which he saw, sent the blood back to his heart with a sickening chill, and they walked together in silence up toward his dwelling.
When they reached the house he led the way to the spring and motioning her to a seat under the shade of that giant elm, he drew the wills forth and handed them to her saying:—
"Here, Miss Estill, is what makes you the greatest heiress in this western land!" then, as she silently read them through and lifted a puzzled face to his, he handed her the Journal of Ivarene, and watched breathlessly, while she became flushed and pale by turns while perusing the faded and time-worn paper.
"Ah! poor, ill-fated Ivarene! what could have become of her and that helpless infant,—and brave Bruce too?" she cried, with tears in her eyes.
"The parents were murdered, no doubt, by that mad hunter, and the child was stolen and left at Estill's ranch along with a locket containing the name of Morelia and the pictures of Bruce and Ivarene. The mysterious kinsman buried on the hill-top was Olin Estill, who was only the mad hunter in disguise, who stole that blue-eyed, dark-haired daughter, named Morelia."
"Ah! you believe me to be the daughter of Bruce and his lovely wife!" said Mora, springing to her feet, while tears rained from her eyes, and her hands were wrung with deep emotion.
"Yes, I am certain that you are Morelia Walraven. I had suspected this from the hour that father called you Ivarene, and I set to work earnestly to recover the lost fortune, which I believed was buried near this spot. I worked faithfully, Miss Estill, to restore it all to you, knowing full well, all the while, that when found it would only widen the gulf between me and the cattle-king's daughter an hundred-fold. I will not dwell on the horrors of that fortune hunt, nor its perils, when I fought that gray-robed demon, which glared at you upon the grave-capped hill; how I struggled with that murderous spectre in the darkness of midnight, after being greeted in a noisome pit by a gigantic rattlesnake, which I slew as it writhed at my feet, with certain death in its fangs; nor the horror I felt when it was dead, at length, to grasp a human skull, that mocked me with eyeless sockets and grinning teeth when I snatched it from the buried cask—hoping I had found the casket of gems.
"But come with me, and I will show you that the Warlow honor and pride is no vain boast; that the poor planter's son can face danger and death for the sake of right alone."
Then, as she followed, pale and trembling, into the room, he threw back the lid of the treasure-chest, and the red gold, the glorious rays from frosty pearls, sparkling diamonds, blood-red rubies, and strange green emeralds mingled, in a dazzling glare, with the sheen of fire-opals and the glint of amethysts of purple, lilac, and rose.
"Here, Morelia Walraven, is your lost treasure, your million of gems and gold, your proud name and ancestral hall, which I restore," as he handed her the deed of Monteluma. "To-morrow I shall leave home and country, friends dearer than life, to prove—to prove to you I am not that vile thing which you take me for—a Fortune Hunter!"
She merely glanced at the pile of dazzling wealth; then raised her eyes that glittered through her tears like the turquois among the gold, and while he poured forth a torrent of hot words that seemed to come from his very soul, her color came and went until a burning blush spread over her face, and in a choking gasp she essayed to speak. When he had ceased, she gazed a moment up into his face, seamed and drawn in lines of white agony, then she cried out:—
"Oh! what do I care for all this dross, whose daughter I may be, or my pride of ancestry? Clifford—oh, Clifford!—you shall never leave me. I will die if you do. I love you! Oh, will I have to say it?—yes, I love you better than all the world beside. No, no! you shall never leave me!" she said, with her white arms about his neck and her soft, warm cheek pressed close to his; and—and—well, I just skipped out there, leaving them alone with a scene that was growing too unutterably "rich for my blood," to use a Western phrase; but half an hour later, as they strolled back to the boat I overheard him say:—
"But why, my love, did you look so proud and cold in the hall when I came in at your house only the other night?"
"Proud and cold, indeed," she replied, with a gay laugh, as she shot a look of mingled love and amazement into his beaming eyes. "Now, that shows how well you can read a woman's heart, sir. Dear Clifford," she added, tearfully, "do you know, you dear blind boy, that at that very time I was wretched and miserable, and longed to kiss you and say that I had waited for years for just such an ideal as you are?"
"It is not too late now for that!" he cried rapturously, as they passed under the boughs of a drooping tree, then followed a sound so explosive that I beat a hasty retreat from such a danger-fraught vicinity, and never came near again until their boat touched shore. Maud came to them as they landed, and said:—
"Where have you been, truants? I have missed you for an hour."
"In paradise," replied Clifford, with such a look of happy abandon that Maud started joyfully; then Mora said, with a blush, as she clasped her arms about the form of delighted Maud:—
"Yes, I have coaxed him to stay forever; but I had to propose to the selfish being before he would promise at all."
Then Maud, seeing the tears of earnestness that began to start, kissed her new sister and Clifford very tenderly, saying, between her smiles and tears:—
"Oh, this is happiness indeed!" which sentiment seemed to be fully shared by the radiant couple whom she addressed.
Maud was not long in finding an excuse to leave the lovers to themselves; and when she had disappeared among the throng, they sauntered on to a secluded seat, under a vine-canopied tree, where the trailing bitter-sweet swept the closely-cropped grass with its graceful tendrils, loaded with a burden of orange and pink berries. Here, secure from intrusion, they could see the crowd of well-dressed people loitering about in detached groups, but were far enough removed from them to talk in that confidential strain peculiar to newly-mated young people, with no fear of interruption.
"When shall we reveal to your parents the discoveries which I disclosed to you to-day, Mora?" said Clifford, in a low tone.
"Let us be in no haste, Clifford," she replied; "for father is away, and mother would be unnerved and agitated at the revelation. Then we will have several guests to entertain for the next week, as Mrs. Potter and Miss Hanford will remain with us after the picnic. So I believe it would be best to defer it for a week or two."
"But what shall be done in the meantime with the treasure, Mora dear? There is a million dollars in gold and gems lying there in that chest. I tremble to think what the result might be if its existence were suspected in such an unprotected spot."
"Well, sir, you must nerve yourself to the task of not only caring for it, but of me also in the future," she replied, with a furtive caress; and, judging from his looks, he appeared to be equal to the latter responsibility at least.
"I have made arrangements to start to Abilene in the morning to commute my homestead and secure a title to it before the great sale of public lands Monday, which, it is said, will be sold at a very low figure," he replied, returning her caress with compound interest.
"Clifford, it looks mercenary and not at all sentimental for us to talk of business at such a time; but still we can love one another no less for that. The time is very short before that sale. It is a critical moment. I advise you to buy all the land that you can Monday; it will be very valuable soon," she said, with that mingling of sentiment and business peculiar to Western women.
"I shall invest what little I possess in that way, Mora; it is secure at least. I have always longed to own more of the land to the north of the corral; and this is, as you say, a golden opportunity to acquire it."
Then there was silence for a moment as Clifford sadly thought how little he really had for investment compared to the hoard that was lying useless in the chest. His father's gold was there still, but he had no real claim upon it ("I must deliver it to-night," he mentally concluded); and an involuntary sigh escaped him at the thought that strangers yet might control all that rolling, fertile prairie to the north, which he had vainly dreamed of owning.
As if divining his thoughts, Mora quickly said, as her hand sought his own with a gentle clasp:—
"Why not use some of that idle treasure for this purpose, Clifford? If it is mine, as it really seems to be, there will be no harm in investing part of it in that way. The emergency is great for decision and swift action, so I really believe you should take a large sum along for that purpose, not less than fifty thousand dollars of the recovered treasure, at least."
"You dear, clear-headed little woman!" he replied radiantly; "that is a capital plan indeed; so, if you think it best, I will take that sum with me, and invest it in land for your benefit."
"No, no; you misunderstand me, Clifford; it is for your benefit that I made the suggestion. You may take it as a loan, and repay me some time in the future," she added, demurely.
He was on the point of making some laughing rejoinder, when he started at the recollection that it seemed like fate when he recalled the loan of exactly fifty thousand dollars which Ivarene had tendered his father, of which Mora was in total ignorance. Then, in a low tone, he told her of the strange coincidence, where history was repeating itself; but he had not finished the story when a summons to dinner was heard, and he accompanied Mora to the Estill carriage, finishing the recital as they walked slowly thither.
There were several guests clustered about the carriage, and Clifford accepted an invitation to remain for dinner, which Mrs. Estill gave him, and with Mora and young Downels, Miss Hanford and Mrs. Potter, Clifford was soon busy helping to spread the dinner on the snowy cloth beneath the shade of a dense-foliaged elm. When the hampers were unpacked and they were all seated upon the grass about the cloth, it was evident that the Estills could not be taxed with the sin of inhospitality, for they had brought enough in their hampers for an extra dozen guests.
There was boned turkey, hinting of sweet marjoram, garnished with quivering moulds of cherry-jelly; chicken salad, with sprays of parsley; tankards of silver and glass, filled with creamy milk; tall glasses of jelly—pink, amber, and crimson; pyramids of cake, bronzed and frosty, that conveyed a faint suspicion they were only meant for show; great baskets of silver, marvels of frostwork on flower and vine, piled high with purple grapes, peaches of white and crimson, and golden oranges,—all of which, alas! were the contribution of far-off California.
Young Downels sat near Mora, who was as fascinating and gracious as ever; but Clifford felt a contentment and trust too deep for jealousy, and was gay and witty to such a degree that Downels began to have a suspicion of the true situation, which was in no wise allayed when he saw their eyes meet in a quick flash of love and admiration; so he speedily transferred his attentions to Miss Hanford, who seemed not at all averse to receiving them "ad infinitum."
An afternoon of unalloyed bliss followed, and when our hero placed Mora in the carriage, he had given her a promise to ride down on his return from Abilene, the following week; then, as the stately barouche rolled away, he hurried homeward to complete his preparations for to-morrow's journey.
At the supper-table, which was spread at a later hour than usual, Colonel Warlow looked grave and care-worn, while his wife was sad and thoughtful, remembering that Clifford was to leave them, perhaps forever, and this was his last night under the home-roof, a delusion which he was soon to dispel. Maud's face wore a look of cheerfulness which puzzled her parents, who had not witnessed their son's manœuvres during the day; and Rob's eyes fairly danced with suppressed excitement.
"My boy, it is a sad day for us all when you leave the home nest. We shall miss you more than I can express," said the colonel at length. "Ah! I had hoped to see you settled near us in our old age in this grand country. Clifford, I have seen a great many regions on this continent famous for their beauty and fertility, but this is the only place that I have ever seen where I would be perfectly content to live and die. You have yet to learn that 'distant hills' are no greener than those of home, and you will travel the wide world over and find no other place to compare with this, my son. I have been thinking to-day, Clifford," continued his father, as he pushed his plate of untasted food back on the table and folded his napkin—"that if I had only a tithe of the fortune that I once lost on this spot, it might be enhanced an hundred-fold at the great land-sale Monday; for I learn by to-day's Times that the Mastodon Bank has failed, carrying down in its collapse all the parties who had the lands condemned for sale, so now they are unable to bid at the auction, and hundreds of thousands of acres will be sold at a few cents an acre without competition. Oh, I realize that it is bitter, indeed, to be poor, my boy, for it is only your ambition that drives you from us," and, rising, he paced back and forth with bowed head, while Mrs. Warlow's tears flowed unchecked as she thought of the long, dreary years that might drag on before her beloved boy returned.
The Warlow family were never demonstrative. There was always a matter-of-fact regard for each other; but this moment of sorrow brought to the surface a depth of family affection of which Clifford had never dreamed, and, as his father proceeded, he became more deeply affected than he ever had been before.
He thought, "The old days of trial and poverty are over forever," and as the realization of the great change, and his narrow escape from the misery, of self-exile flashed upon him, he leaned his head upon his hands, and a great sob shook his frame, while hot tears—yes, tears, which danger and the despair of a hopeless love had failed to wring—now fell in a torrent, as the storm of emotion, new and strange, surged in his breast.
"Oh, Clifford—Clifford! I thought you were not going," cried Maud, white with anguish.
"Cliff, I can't bear to see you leave," sobbed Robbie, while he clung to Clifford with the desperation born of his grief at the very thought of parting with his only brother.
"Clifford, what does this mean?" said Maud, seized by a nameless dread; but Clifford only answered by pushing back the table, the cover of which swept the floor and had concealed the object that was now revealed in the lamp-light.
"Gold! gold!" cried Maud in amazement, as her eyes caught the glitter of doubloons heaped upon the floor.
"Oh God!—my lost fortune!" said the colonel in a hoarse whisper, as he knelt beside the half-emptied sacks, which he remembered at a glance.
"My brother—Clifford—you are a grand hero," shrieked Maud, wild with excitement and relief, and then ensued a contest between herself and mother who should first strangle our young friend in their embraces.
"Hero, nothing!" said Rob, who had just blown his nose upon the table-cloth with a snort like a porpoise, and who was still blubbering in a suspicious manner; "heroes don't drip at the nose like a hydrant; but all the same he is a damn good fellow," he added, with a vigorous slap on his brother's back.
"I have something else to show you over at my dwelling," said Clifford, recovering from his emotion, and smiling up at Rob; "and, if you will drive around there, I will row ahead and light the lamps;" then, without waiting to explain, he hurried out into the night. Although they were devoured by curiosity, they soon concealed the gold, and were driven rapidly up to the corral.
"I bet my boot-heels that Cliff has got that old spook chained up here, feeding him like a pauper," said Rob, in a tone of confidence, to Maud—a remark which elicited no reply, however, for she was puzzling over the strange discovery which she knew Clifford had made.
When they arrived at his dwelling he met them at the door, which he closely locked behind them; then, going to the sunken chest, he threw back the lid, and a wavering glare of gems and red gold flashed out with a splendor which dazzled and almost blinded the astonished group.
"The treasure of Monteluma!" exclaimed the colonel, in a tone of deep emotion.
"Oh, those frosty, glimmering pearls!" said Maud, exulting in the splendor of the jewels that she loved so well, and had always dreamed of owning.
"What a pile of lucre!" cried Rob, dancing about in delight. "Lordy! if I owned all this tin, I'd make the shekels fly for awhile, you bet! First, I'd swap that slow, flea-bitten broncho for Ed Porter's white pony, if I had to give even twenty dollars to boot; then next I'd have me a brand-new hat—a broad brim, too—none of your flimsy old wool things, but an eight-dollar sombrero, thick as a board, with a leather band an inch wide; then two cravats—and—"
"And?" said Clifford with a quizzical smile, as Rob began to show signs of an embarrassment of riches.
"Well, that's all, unless it is a pair of high-top boots, like Johnnie Russell's—with stars and new moons of red and yellow leather on 'em."
"You are a reckless spendthrift, Rob. Thirty-five dollars gone already!" said Clifford, laughingly, as his young brother's eyes continued to gloat over the million of heaped-up riches in the chest.
"Clifford, my son, how did you find all this treasure? It seems like enchantment," Mrs. Warlow asked, in an anxious tone.
"Mother, it is too long a story to relate now; but when I return from Abilene I'll give all the particulars. It is ten now," he said, glancing at his watch, "and we must start at six sharp, in the morning, so there is but little time to spare."
"Yes," said the colonel, recovering from the stupor of amazement into which he had fallen, "we will start to the land-office early in the morning; for I have determined to invest twenty thousand of our new-found money in land; it seems providential that it should come just now. I had been grieving so much of late that this golden opportunity would pass by; but, thank God! it will come out right yet."
Maud, ever tactful and alert, seeing that Clifford was unwilling to explain the particulars of the discovery, hurried their departure for home. When they had all driven away, young Warlow filled one of the sacks with coin, and placed it in a trunk of clothing that was ready packed, locked the door behind, and slowly rowed down; but he had delayed long enough to be certain of finding that they had all retired when he arrived home.
In the morning Colonel Warlow was too unwell to appear at the breakfast-table, and finding that his indisposition was of too serious a nature to admit of his traveling that day, Clifford received twenty thousand dollars—nearly thirteen hundred Mexican doubloons—from his father, with the instruction to invest it in land at his discretion. The colonel told Clifford at parting to consider half of the money as his own; so with a light heart the youth started out on his third essay at "fortune hunting."
Accompanied by Squire Moreland and Ralph, who had unconsciously helped to load the Warlow carriage with more than seventy thousand dollars in gold, secreted in two innocent-looking trunks, Clifford took the winding trail for Abilene just as the sun appeared above the rim of the eastern hills. It was a cool, dry July morning, very favorable for producing that Western phenomenon, the mirage; and as they emerged from the corn-fields and tall thickets of blue-stem of the valley onto the rolling uplands, carpeted with buffalo-grass, a scene of mysterious grandeur burst upon their sight.
Objects that were miles away appeared close at hand, plain and distinct in the pure, clear air; and although a lofty ridge twenty miles wide interposed, all the valley of the Smoky Hill was rolled out like a map before them. The winding river, fringed by trees and groves; the wide prairie valley, flecked with white villages; a long train on the Union Pacific, "fleeing like a dragon through the level fields and leaving a breath of smoke behind," seemed but a few miles away.
The Iron Mound, sixty miles distant, loomed off to the north-west, and far beyond appeared the faint outline of the Soldier's Cap—a towering headland, that, like a giant's helmet, seemed to guard all the Saline Valley, but now dwarfed, by the hundred miles which intervened, to a mere dot upon the horizon.
The Smoky Hills flamed up in a long line of purple, jagged buttes on the west, while to the south stretched away the fat prairies of the Russian Mennonite colony, their quaint, old-world villages of thatch and white-plastered adobe clustering thickly over the level plain that was begemmed by lakes of waving water, or what appeared to be such, but which in reality was only an optical illusion caused by a glare of rarefied atmosphere. Soon these phantom lakes began to flood the prairie with a wavering shimmer. Broad rivers became momentarily wider, until all the landscape was submerged and the villages swam in a sea of water a moment, sinking down at length like foundered ships, the white buildings towering up strangely like masts, which, at last, all sank from sight, leaving only a glare of silver behind.
Soon nature resumed her wonted aspect, though it seemed strangely unreal to see the Iron Mound sink slowly as they ascended the ridge, until it was lost to view, and what had been the Smoky Valley but a moment before was now the rolling highland which they had to traverse for hours before reaching their destination. For a space of twenty miles square, not a solitary house was to be seen. In fact, after leaving the valley the only sign of life visible was a distant herd along some timber-fringed stream, by which the picturesque and fertile tract was threaded, or a long line of antelope, that would cautiously keep to the highest ridges as they loped away in single file.
The ridged and travel worn-trail, where in former years the herds of Texas and New Mexico had been driven along to Abilene, was now disused and lonely, as the traffic had been transferred to more western points; so our friends were relieved on reaching their destination after a monotonous drive of half a day.
Driving to a bank, Clifford deposited the unsealed bags of gold within the safe of that institution, while his two companions were looking for a hotel; then, next, young Warlow wrote a long and carefully worded dispatch to the American minister at Mexico, inquiring for information concerning Bruce Walraven and his wife, Herr Von Brunn and his wife Labella, and also the status of Monteluma, with a request for an immediate reply, that was no doubt facilitated by the information which the banker telegraphed, at Clifford's request, for the privilege of reference.
Without difficulty Clifford perfected the title to his homestead before the land officers. Then, in a fever of restlessness, our hero passed the intervening time until Monday morning, when he received a dispatch from the minister at the City of Mexico, stating that no trace could be found of either of the parties inquired for; that the old mansion of Monteluma had been confiscated during the "French invasion," but the estate was held by a wealthy foreign nobleman; that the agent of that nobleman was absent at Durango, so no further particulars could be learned until his return, etc.
"This is the last evidence in the proof that Mora is heiress to all the new-found treasure," mentally exclaimed young Warlow as he hurried into the land-office and elbowed his way through the dense throng of spectators to the desk, where the receiver was gloomily saying, "that the sale would be a failure, unless the agent of Lord Scholeigh arrived, which was improbable now, owing to the storm near St. Louis, that had prostrated the wires and stopped travel."
"Proceed with the sale, if you please; I would like to bid in a tract," said Clifford quietly. Then, after several tracts in small bodies had been purchased by the bystanders, he began to bid in section after section at fifty cents an acre; and when the amount ran up to ten, twenty, and twenty-three thousand acres, the crowd began to grow curious, and jostled each other to get a better view of the man who could bid in so quietly a six-mile square tract without faltering; but the grave-faced and gray-clad young ranchman, with no ornament about him save a gold buckle to the collar of his brown flannel shirt, kept steadily on, without any opposition, perfectly heedless of the scrutiny.
"He is a son of Colonel Warlow on the Cottonwood, who fell heir to a cool million from California, the other day," said a man, in a tone just loud enough to reach Clifford's ears, and the receiver wondered what the handsome young man found to smile at as he bid in the last section of sixty-nine thousand acres; but how should he know that Clifford was amused at the remark, thinking that the small legacy had grown, like the story of the "five black crows."
"Young man," said the receiver, in a tone of arrogant suspicion. "I shall insist on some proof of your ability to pay such a large sum before I proceed further."
"Very well, sir," replied Clifford, blowing a wreath of cigar-smoke into the official's face as he coolly handed him his certificate of deposit, subject to check of seventy thousand dollars, given Saturday evening after the banker had counted the gold. Then, young Warlow began to realize the prestige which wealth gives, as he saw the look of insolence on the officer's face quickly give place to respectful wonder, as he proceeded at once with the auction.
When the figures had reached a hundred thousand acres the crowd gave way to cheers, which swelled to a perfect tumult when six townships—nearly one hundred and thirty-nine thousand acres—were knocked down to the young bidder, who refused to bid any further, and the sale closed.
Clifford wrote out a check for the sum of sixty-nine thousand one hundred and twenty dollars, and received the receiver's certificate, which entitled the purchaser to a deed for the tract. As the officer closed the sale and the papers changed hands in the bank, a noted "wheat-king" hurried in and told Clifford that the New York agent of Lord Scholeigh was coming on a special train, fast as steam could carry him, and requested our young friend to await the arrival, as the agent had been detained by storms and wash-outs while en route to the sale; and the kingly real estate agent further intimated that a fine profit on the purchase could be realized if Clifford was willing to sell.
So our hero consented to remain, and when the agent arrived he was almost stunned by the offer of double the price he had paid; the agent offering to take the entire tract at one dollar an acre. After some deliberation Clifford consummated a sale of seventy-five thousand acres, keeping a township, six miles square, for himself, and forty thousand acres for his father; and finding that he had seventy-five thousand dollars left. "Equal," the wheat-king said, "to the Dutchman's profit of ten per schent."
Clifford found it was an easy matter to induce the receiver to accept the agent's certified check on New York in exchange for his own. Then he arranged to leave the bag of doubloons, sealed, and only left for safety until he could return them to the chest; but the twenty-five thousand dollars of profit he deposited with the bank, subject to check. Having bought a heavy steel safe, with time-lock, and leaving orders for it to be delivered at once, he returned home on Tuesday morning, proud and happy over the result of his transaction.