mw ^y. University of California Berkeley Gift of ROBERT B. HONE YM AN, JR. . m^sm^m, miimijmjmiif m^^mmmm ^^^ffi^W | v , ; j* . is. VW *^vw'wW Uu 1 wayMwiO^&s/SgS.WnWa U A i .M U f COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS TAUCHNITZ EDITION. VOL. 1450. IDYLS OF THE FOOTHILLS BY BRET HAETE. IN ONE VOLUME. TATJCHNITZ EDITION. By the same Author, PROSE AND POETRY 2 vols. 8JIG1 IDYLS OF THE FOOTHILLS. IN PROSE AND VERSE. " BY BRET HARTE. AUTHORIZED EDITION. LEIPZIG w BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ 1874. CONTENTS. PROSE. Page Bret Harte, a Sketch . . . . . . . ....'" 9 Author's Preface (to Continental Edition) 17 A Passage in the Life of Mr. John Oakhurst 21 The Rose of Tuolumne . . ..... . . 53 An Episode of Fiddletown 88 A Monte Flat Pastoral . . . . . . " * . . . 152 Baby Sylvester ..- * . . . . 177 Wan Lee, the Pagan . . . . . "... . . . 199 IN VERSE. Luke . . . . > 225 " The Babes in the Woods " ........ 231 Guild's Signal 235 Truthful James to the Editor . . ... . . . 238 Don Diego of the South 241 "For the King" , . , 246 Friar Pedro's Ride 255 Miss Blanche Says 262 Dolly Varden . . V * r 267 CONTENTS. r Page 270 a we o p 273 277 . . . 278 PROSE. BRET HARTE. SOME ten years ago, Thomas Starr King, then unknowingly near the end of his short but noble and glowing life, was guiding an acquaintance through the dingy, gold-strewn recesses of the Government Mint building in San Francisco. Pausing before entering the secretary's little office, he said: "Now I want you to meet a young man who will be heard of far and wide some of these days." The visitor went in and was introduced to Francis Bret Harte, then secretary of the Branch Mint. We all know how the later career of the young writer has more than justified the affectionate prediction of Starr King; for, since that day, Bret Harte's fame has, to borrow the language of his admiring German trans lator, "extended from the coasts of the Pacific Ocean to the English coast of the North Sea." "His works have drawn hearts to him wherever the language of Shakespeare, of Milton, and Byron is spoken." A man who has so many readers must needs inspire a kindly curiosity to know something of the antecedents in a life which has given such generous promise of nobler works to come. Mr. Harte was 10 BRET HARTE. born at Albany, New York, in 1839. He was christened Francis Bret Harte; but the second name, an old family one, was that by which he was familiarly known among home friends and acquaint ances. Later in life, the initial of his Christian name was dropped altogether, and the world learned to know and love him by the somewhat crisp title of "Bret Harte." Young Harte grew up surrounded by refining influences; his father was a teacher of girls, and a ripe and cultured student withal. Left fatherless, Harte wandered off to California in 1854, dazzled with the golden visions which then transfigured that distant land; and, won by the fantastic romance with which stories of the early Spanish occupation, sudden wealth, surprising adventure, and novel life and scenery invested the country, he cast himself into the changeful stream of humanity which ebbed and flowed among the young cities by the sea, the pine-clad ridges of the Sierra, and the rude camps of the gold-hunters which were then breaking the stillness of long unvexed solitudes. No age . nor condition, no quality of manhood, nor grade of moral or mental culture was unrepresented in that motley tide of migration. The dreamy young student, the future poet of the Argonauts of 1849, drifted on with the rest. For two or three years, he, like all the restless wanderers of those days, pursued a various calling and had no fixed abode. An unsatisfied desire for change, a half- confessed impatience with long tarry ing in any spot, seemed to possess every soul. BRET HARTE. 1 1 Mining camps and even thrifty towns were depopu lated in a single day, the unnoted casualties of their rough life emptying a few places, the rest being eagerly left behind by men who drifted far and wide; their lately coveted "claims" were quickly occupied by other rovers from other fields. Harte mined a little, taught school a little, tried his hand at type-setting and frontier journalism, climbed mountains and threaded ravines as the mounted messenger of an express company, or acted as agent for that company in some of the mountain towns which we have learned to know so well as Sandy Bar, Poker Flat, and Wingdam. But all the while the lithe, agile, and alert young artist was ab sorbing impressions of the picturesque life, scenery, manners, and talk which surrounded him as an at mosphere. In 1857, or thereabouts, he drifted back to San Francisco "The Bay," as the pleasant city by the sea was fondly called by the wandering sons of ad venture. The Bay was the little heaven where were cool sea-winds, good cheer, and glimpses of that sensuous life which was then thought of as a far- off, faintly-remembered good found only in "the States." Here Harte speedily developed into a clever young litterateur. Working in the compos ing-room of a weekly literary journal, he put into type some of his own graceful little sketches by way of experiment. These were noticed and ap preciated by the editor, and he was translated from "the case" to the editorial room of The Golden Era, where some of the pleasant papers which find 12 BRET HARTE. place in his later published works were written. These were chiefly local sketches, like "A Boy's Dog," "Sidewalkings" and "From a Balcony." Meantime marriage and the cares of a growing household had changed the vagrant fancy of the young writer, and he roved no more. He wrote a great deal which has not been gathered up, and in the columns of daily papers, as well as in The Calif ornian , a literary weekly which he some time edited, appeared innumerable papers which enriched the current literature of those times, and swelled the volume of that higher quality of California journalism which seems now to have passed quite away. In 1864 he was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint in San Francisco, a position which, during the six years he held it, gave him time and opportunity for more careful work than any which he had heretofore accomplished. During this time some of the most famous of his poems and sketches were written. "John Burns of Gettysburg," "The Pliocene Skull," "The Society upon the Stanislow," "How are you, Sanitary?" and other little unique gems of verse were written about this time and first appeared (for the most part) anonymously in the San Francisco newspapers. In July, 1868, the publication of The Overland Monthly was begun, with Bret Harte as its organizer and editor. The success of the magazine was immediate and decided. We cannot tell how much of its renown was owing to the series of remarkable stories which immediately began to flow from the pen of BRET HARTE. 13 its accomplished editor, nor how much to the rare talent which he seems to have had in awaking the dormant energies of those who constituted his loyal staff of contributors. The Overland became at once a unique, piquant and highly-desired element in the current literature of the Republic; and it found a multitude of readers on both sides of the Atlantic. In its pages, August, 1868, appeared "The Luck of Roaring Camp," a story which, whatever may be the merits of those which have succeeded it, gave Harte the first of his great fame as a prose-writer. But it was not until January of the next year that the stimulated appetite of the impatient public was appeased by the production of "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," a dramatic tale which probably con tains more firmly-drawn and distinct characters than have appeared in any one of Harte's stories or sketches. "Miggles" came next, and, marshaled in their long array, the inimitable personages who figure in still later stories emerged from their shadowy realm and passed into the language and familiar acquaintance of the English-speaking world. Col. Starbottle, John Oakhurst, Stumpy, Tennes see's Partner and Higgles with laughter and with tears we remember them all; we shall know them as long as we know Sam Weller, Micawber, Little Nell and the goodly company called into being by that other magician who has, at last, laid down his wand forever. Harte's poems are more thickly scattered through his later work in California than elsewhere. Some of the best-known were written between 1865 and 1.4 BRET HARTE, 1870; "Plain Language from Truthful James," popularly quoted as the "Heathen Chinee," ap peared in The Overland of September, 1870. A more ambitious work, "The Lost Galleon," was an earlier production, and gave title to a thin volume of fugitive bits of verse published in San Francisco a year or two before. Harte's first book was the Condensed Novels, a collection of wonderful imita tions, too real to be called parodies, first printed in The Calif ornian, published in a poorly executed volume in New York, called in and republished and reinforced in 1871. Four new volumes have issued from the pen of the poet-storyteller, and a great constituency hungrily waits for more. In the Spring of 1871, Harte, resigning the editorial position which he held, as well as the Pro fessorship of Recent Literature in the University of California, to which he had lately been called, re turned to his native State with the ripened powers and generous fame which he had gathered during his seventeen years of absence. When his life shall have been adjusted to the new conditions which meet here any long-absent wanderer, we shall, no doubt, see the somewhat wavering panorama of his genius move on more steadily, glowing with more vivid colors and crowded with more life-like shapes than any which his magical touch has yet placed on canvas. What Harte's repute and standing are in his own land need not now be told. Few writers of modern times have been more discussed; it were better if his critics had always been generous as BRET HARTE. *5 well as just. But it would not be fair to close this little sketch without noting the fact that most of his works have found eager readers in other lands. English editions of his stories are popular and widely circulated. In Germany, the genial old poet, Ferdinand Freiligrath, has translated a volume of Harte's prose tales, to which is prefixed a charming preface by the translator. We cannot forbear mak ing this extract, so full of the simple-hearted Freilig- rath's goodness: "Nevertheless he remains what he is the Cali- fornian and the gold-digger. But the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is not the gold in the bed of rivers, not the gold in the veins of mountains; it is the gold of love, of good ness, of fidelity, of humanity, which even in rude and wild hearts, even under the rubbish of vices and sins, remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That he there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly ex hibited it to the world, that is his greatness and his merit. That it is which drew hearts to him wherever the language of Shakespeare, of Milton and Byron is spoken. And that it is which has made me, the old German poet, the translator of the young American colleague; and which has led me to-day to reach to him warmly and cordially my hand across the sea. Good luck, Bret Harte! Good luck, my gold-digger!" Th. Dentzon has charmingly introduced some of Harte's California sketches to the French world of readers, and, in an article in the Revue des Deux 1 6 BRET HARTE. Maudes^ he has given at great length a critical analysis of the powers and genius of our favorite story-teller. Our French and German friends alike wrestle with the difficulties of the untranslatable; but, malgre their failure to master the dialect of the gold-digger, they reproduce admirably the deli cate finish and felicitous manipulation of the author. Thus his genius has found expression in many languages, and the gentle, loving spirit which animates his works lives and walks in other lands beyond the sea. AUTHOR'S PREFACE. A PREFACE to these little stories, of which the present edition, published by Baron Tauchnitz, is the only authorized one on the Continent of Europe, may seem somewhat gratuitous to that English reading audience who have good humoredly ac cepted my previous performances without special introduction from their author. But as I am partly responsible for this present publication on the Con tinent, I am emboldened to address myself more confidently to those English readers with whom I am thus brought into closer relation. Otherwise there would be little to add to the few words with which "The Luck of Roaring Camp" was first introduced to the American public. Since the publication of that work California has become better known and more accessible. The completion of the Pacific Railway, and the increased facilities for speedy transit have placed that hitherto isolated community within easy reach of the ordinary tourist. The Sierra Nevada that Chinese wall of California exclusiveness has been pierced to let in the foreigner. Already there are ominously shaven faces and Poolers coats to be seen on Montgomery Idyls of the Foothills. 2 1 8 AUTHOR'S PREFACE. Street, tweed suits on railways, and the obvious print of an English walking shoe in the red dust of the mountains. It may be well imagined that these conditions are disastrous to the writer of dramatic romance, who would fain keep his little stage from the in vasion of the critic in the stalls, or the enthusiast in the boxes. It is very possible that this scenery, so effective from the gallery, is mean in detail; these flats, so striking at a little distance, viewed closely are but broad splatches of color. Even the performers may suffer. This hero, lounging at the wings, is unmistakably loud and unpleasant, this little lady, whose Magdalen virtues made us weep only a moment ago, is certainly no better than she should be. To this hypothetical criticism I fear I must add the more practical view of a patriotic local press, namely, that no idea consistent with material pro gress, conducive to immigration or appreciative of real estate, is to be gathered from these pages, and that the "Luck of Roaring Camp" is not to be accepted by the casual visitor with the same profit and security that obtains with recent works upon the resources of California. Let me briefly add for the benefit of those who have a pecuniary or busi ness interest in that country, that the characters and elements herein described belong to an era long past, and now no longer found except in localities remote from the populous centres; that life and property are, in the larger cities, as safe as they are in Broadway or the Strand; that Vigilance AUTHOR'S PREFACE. jg Committees no longer patrol the streets; and that the tourist of to-day will meet nothing more danger ous than the native wine, or more aggressive than the native .hospitality. An explanation of this change a change that leaves behind it so little of the past even in debris or ruin may -be necessary to those who are more familiar with the results than the peculiar processes of American civilization. The real pioneer or ad venturer, like his prototype, the Indian, retires be fore improvement and progress, and seldom remains to be civilized or merged into the commonalty. He lives to form the nucleus of another settlement, perhaps one or two more, with precisely the same result. The conditions of San Francisco life in 1849, were repeated in Sacramento in '50, in the Southern Mines in '54, in Virginia City in '60, and in every one of the later discovered mining dictricts 'by the same actors. The dramatis personcE were the same; the incidents were monotonously alike. The climaxes were identical. Judge Lynch rode a circuit in California. But it was most remarkable that the actors left no trace nor impress on the after civilization. Their footprints vanished utterly and were swallowed up. They left no memorial even in the shape of a ruin; their very vices were not the vices of to-day. It is to be even feared that they did not >meet that fate which was the logical conclusion of their lives and deeds; that, pointing no moral 'whatever, they flourished and still flourish in remoter regions in abiding and efflorescent impropriety, without reform and without 2* 2O AUTHOR'S PREFACE. punishment. A very small proportion only have been elected to legislative functions, or appointed to office. I like to think, however, that there may be some kindlier readers who, even at the risk of being thought sentimental, will still love to linger with me over those scenes that suffering, weakness, and sin have made human. I believe that it will not be necessary for them to draw any moral that shall be inconsistent with their experience or knowledge of a higher plane of life than it has been my lot to study and transcribe. It is only three years ago that I stood upon that spot of which my readers have learned something in its fictitious title of " Roaring Camp." The sun shone as vividly, the hillsides looked as green, and the outlying pines as sedate and reticent as on the first day I saw it. But a new and thriving settle ment stood upon the river bank, and of the settlers but one remembered the past history of the camp. At the head of the gulch a few children were play ing under a large pine tree. I knew that at its roots lay the dust of one who had walked these pages under another name than that which had been obliterated from the bark of the tree, and was now forgotten. It was the name of a man of desperate deeds, of many sins, and baleful example. But looking at the children I could only tell them, in reply to their artless questioning, how long ago he had been singularly kind to a truant school-boy. BRET HARTE. A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. HE always thought it must have been Fate. Certainly nothing could have been more inconsistent with his habits than to have been in the Plaza at seven o'clock of that midsummer morning. The sight of his colorless face in Sacramento was rare at that season, and indeed at any season, anywhere, publicly, before two o'clock in the afternoon. Look ing back upon it in after years, in the light of a chanceful life, he determined, with the characteristic philosophy of his profession, that it must have been Fate. Yet it is my duty, as a strict chronicler of facts, to state that Mr. Oakhurst's presence there that morning was due to a very simple cause. At exactly half-past six, the bank being then a winner to the amount of twenty thousand dollars, ;he had risen from the faro table, relinquished his seat to an accomplished assistant, and withdrawn quietly, without attracting a glance from the silent, anxious faces bowed over the table. But when he entered his luxurious sleeping-room, across the passage-way, he was a little shocked at finding the sun streaming 22 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE through an inadvertently-opened window. Some thing in the rare beauty of the morning, perhaps something in the novelty of the idea, struck him as he was about to close the blinds, and he hesitated. Then, taking his hat from the table, he stepped down a private staircase into the street. The people who were abroad at that early hour were of a class quite unknown to Mr. Oakhurst. There were milkmen and hucksters delivering their wares, small trades-people opening their shops, house-maids sweeping door- steps, and occasionally a child. These Mr. Oakhurst regarded with a certain cold curiosity, perhaps quite free from the cynical disfavor with which he generally looked upon the more pretentious of his race whom he was in the habit of meeting. Indeed, I think he was not alto gether displeased with the admiring glances which these humble women threw after his handsome face and figure, conspicuous even in a country of fine- looking men. While it is very probable that this wicked vagabond, in the pride of his social isolation, would have been coldly indifferent to the advances of a fine lady, a little girl who ran admiringly by> his side in a nagged dress had the power to call a faint flush into his colorless cheek. He dismissed her at last r but not until she had found out what sooner or later her large-hearted and discriminating sex inevitably did that he was. exceedingly free and open-handed with his money, and also what perhaps none other of her sex ever did that the bold, black eyes of this fine gentleman were in reality of a brownish and even tender gray. OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 23 There was a small garden before a white cottage in a side street that attracted Mr. Oakhurst's atten tion. It was filled with roses, heliotrope and verbena flowers familiar enough to him in the ex pensive and more portable form of bouquets, but, as it seemed to him then, never before so notably lovely. Perhaps it was because the dew was yet fresh upon them, perhaps it was because they were unplucked, but Mr. Oakhurst admired them, not as a possible future tribute to the fascinating and ac complished Miss Ethelinda, then performing at the Varieties, for Mr. Oakhurst's especial benefit as she had often assured him nor yet as a douceur to the enthralling Miss Montmorrissy, with whom Mr. Oak- hurst expected to sup that evening, but simply for himself, and mayhap for the flowers' sake. Howbeit he passed on and so out into the open plaza, where, finding a bench under a cotton-wood tree, he first dusted the seat with his handkerchief, and then sat down. It was a fine morning. The air was so still and calm that a sigh from the sycamores seemed like the deep-drawn breath of the just awakening tree, and th,e faint rustle of its boughs as the outstretch ing of cramped and reviving limbs. Far away the Sierras stood out against a sky so remote as to be of no positive color; so remote that even the sun despaired of ever reaching it, and so expended its strength recklessly on the whole landscape, until it fairly glittered in a white and vivid contrast. With a very rare impulse, Mr. Oakhurst took off his hat, and half reclined on the bench, with his face to the 24 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE sky. Certain birds who had taken a critical attitude on a spray above him, apparently began an animated discussion regarding his possible malevolent intentions. One or two, emboldened by the silence, hopped on the ground at his feet, until the sound of wheels on the gravel walk frightened them away. :'-..>">. Looking up, he saw a man coming slowly toward him, wheeling a nondescript vehicle in -which a woman was partly sitting, partly reclining. With out knowing why, Mr. Oakhurst instantly conceived that the carriage was the invention and workman ship of the man, partly from its oddity, partly from the strong, mechanical hand that grasped it, and partly from a certain pride and visible conscious ness in the manner in which the man handled it. Then Mr. Oakhurst saw something more; the man's face was familiar. With that regal faculty of not forgetting a face that had ever given him pro fessional audience, he instantly classified it under the following mental formula: "At 'Frisco, Polka Saloon. Lost his week's wages. I reckon seventy dollars on red. Never came again." There was, however, no trace of this in the calm eyes and un moved face that he turned upon the stranger, who, on the contrary, blushed, looked embarrassed, hesitated, and then stopped with an involuntary motion that brought the carriage and its fair occupant face to face with Mr. Oakhurst. I should hardly do justice to the position she will occupy in this veracious chronicle by describ ing the lady now if, indeed, I am able to do it at OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 25 all. Certainly, the popular estimate was conflicting. The late Col. Starbottle to whose large experience of a charming sex I have before been indebted for many valuable suggestions had, I regret to say, depreciated her fascinations. "A yellow-faced cripple, by dash a sick woman, with mahogany eyes. One of your blanked spiritual creatures with no flesh on her bones." On the other hand, however, she enjoyed later much complimentary disparagement from her own sex. Miss Celestina Howard, second leader in the ballet at the Varieties, had, with great alliterative directness, in after years, denominated her as an "aquiline asp." Mile. Brimborion remem bered that she had always warned "Mr. Jack" that this woman would "empoison" him. But Mr. Oakhurst, whose impressions are perhaps the most important, only saw a pale, thin, deep-eyed woman raised above the level of her companion by the refinement of long suffering and isolation, and a certain shy virginity of manner. There was a sug gestion of physical purity in the folds of her fresh- looking robe, and a certain picturesque tastefulness in the details, that, without knowing why, made him think that the robe was her invention and handi work, even as the carriage she occupied was evidently the work of her companion. Her own hand, a trifle too thin, but well-shaped, subtle-fingered, and gentle- womanly, rested on the side of the carriage, the counterpart of the strong mechanical grasp of her companion's. There was some obstruction to the progress of the vehicle, and Mr. Oakhurst stepped forward to 26 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE assist. While the wheel was being lifted over the curbstone, it was necessary that she should hold his arm, and for a moment her thin hand rested there, light and cold as a snow-flake, and then as it seemed to him like a snow-flake melted away. Then there was a pause, and then conversation the lady joining occasionally and shyly. It appeared that they were man and wife. That for the past two years she had been a great invalid, and had lost the use of her lower limbs from rheu matism. That until lately she had been confined to her bed, until her husband who was a master carpenter had bethought himself to make her this carriage. He took her out regularly for an airing before going to work, because it was his only time, and they attracted less attention. They had tried many doctors, but without avail. They had been advised to go to the Sulphur Springs, but it was expensive. Mr. Decker, the husband, had once saved eighty dollars for that purpose, but while in San Francisco had his pocket picked Mr. Decker was so senseless. (The intelligent reader need not be told that it is the lady who is speaking.) They had never been able to make up the sum again, and they had given up the idea. It was a dreadful thing to have one's pocket picked. Did he did not think so? Her husband's face was crimson, but Mr. Oak- hurst's countenance was quite calm and unmoved, as he gravely agreed with her, and walked by her side until they passed the little garden that he had admired. Here Mr. Oakhurst commanded a halt, OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 27 and, goimg to the door, astounded the proprietor by a preposterously extravagant offer for a choice of the flowers. Presently he returned to the carriage with his arms full of roses, heliotrope, and verbena, and cast them in the lap of the invalid. While she was bending over them with childish delight, Mr. Oakhurst took the opportunity of drawing her hus band aside. " Perhaps/' he said, in a low voice, and a manner quite free from any personal annoyance, "perhaps it's just as well that you lied to her as you did. You can say now that the pickpocket was arrested the other day, and you got your money back." Mr. Oakhurst quietly slipped four twenty - dollar gold pieces into the broad hand of the bewildered Mr. Decker. "Say that or anything you like but the truth. Promise me you won't say that!" The man promised. Mr. Oakhurst quietly re turned to the front of the little carriage. The sick woman was still eagerly occupied with the flowers, and as she raised her eyes to his her faded cheek seemed to have caught some color from the roses, and her eyes some of their dewy freshness. But at that instant Mr. Oakhurst lifted his hat, and before she could thank him was gone. I grieve to say that Mr. Decker shamelessly broke his promise. That night, in the very good ness of his heart and uxorious self-abnegation* he, like all devoted husbands, not only offered himself, but his friend and benefactor, as a sacrifice on the family altar. It is only fair, however, to add that he spoke with great fervor of the generosity of Mr. 28 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE Oakhurst, and dealt with an enthusiasm quite com mon with his class on the mysterious fame and prodigal vices of the gambler. "And now, Elsie dear, say that you'll forgive me," said Mr. Decker, dropping on one knee beside his wife's couch; "I did it for the best. It was for you, dearey, that I put that money on them cards that night in 'Frisco. I thought to win a heap enough to take you away, and enough left to get you a new dress." Mrs. Decker smiled and pressed her husband's hand. "I do forgive you, Joe, dear," she said, still smiling, with eyes abstractedly fixed on the ceiling; "and you ought to be whipped for deceiving me so, you bad boy, and making me make such a speech. There, say no more about it. If you'll be very good hereafter, and will just now hand me that cluster of roses, I'll forgive you." She took the branch in her fingers, lifted the roses to her face, and presently said, behind their leaves: "Joe!" "What is it, lovey?" "Do you think that this Mr. what do you call him? Jack Oakhurst would have given that money back to you if I hadn't made that speech?" "Yes." "If he hadn't seen me at all?" Mr. Decker looked up. His wife had managed in some way to cover up her whole face with the roses, except her eyes, which were dangerously bright. "No; it was you, Elsie it was all along of seeing you that -made him do it." OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 29 "A poor sick woman like me?" "A sweet, little, lovely, pooty Elsie Joe's own little wifey! How could he help it?" Mrs. Decker fondly cast one arm around her husband's neck, still keeping the roses to her face with the other. From behind them she began to murmur gently and idiotically, "Dear, ole square Joey. Elsie's oney booful big bear." But, really, I do not see that my duty as a chronicler of facts* compels me to continue this little lady's speech any further, and out of respect to the unmarried reader I stop. Nevertheless, the next morning Mrs. Decker betrayed some slight and apparently uncalled-for irritability on reaching the plaza, and presently desired her husband to wheel her back home. Moreover, she was very much astonished at meeting Mr. Oakhurst just as they were returning, and even doubted if it were he, and questioned her husband as to his identity with the stranger of yesterday as he approached. Her manner to Mr. Oakhurst, also, was quite in contrast with her husband's frank welcome. Mr. Oakhurst instantly detected it. "Her husband has told her all, and she dislikes me," he said to himself, with that fatal appreciation of the half truths of a woman's motives that causes the wisest masculine critic to stumble. He lingered only long enough to take the business address of the husband and then lifting his hat gravely, with out looking at the lady, went his way. It struck the honest master carpenter as one of the charming anomalies of his wife's character, that, although the 30 -A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE meeting was evidently very much constrained and unpleasant, instantly afterward his wife's spirits began to rise. "You was hard on him a leetle hard, wasn't you, Elsie?" said Mr. Decker deprecatingly "I'm afraid he may think I've broke my promise." "Ah, indeed," said the lady indifferently. Mr. Decker instantly stepped round to the front of the vehicle. "You look like an Ai first-class lady riding down Broadway in her own carriage, Elsie," said he; "I never seed you lookin' so peart and sassy before." . A few days later the proprietor of the San Isabel Sulphur Springs received the following note in Mr. Oakhurst's well-known dainty hand: DEAR STEVE: I've been thinking over your proposition to buy Nichols' quarter interest, and have concluded to go in. But I don't see how the thing will pay until you have more accom modation down there, and for the best class I mean my cus tomers. What we want is an extension to the main building, and two or three cottages put up. I send down a builder to take hold of the job at once. He .takes his sick wife with him, and you are to look after them as you would for one of us. I may run down there myself, after the races, just to look after things; but I sha'n't set upon any game this season. Yours always, JOHN OAKHURST. It was only the last sentence of this letter that provoked criticism: "I can understand," said Mr. -Hamlin, a professional brother, to whom Mr. Oak- -hurst's letter was shown, "I can understand why Jack c goes in heavy and builds, for ;itfs ia ? sure spec, and is botmd to be -a mighty soft thing in 'time, if OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. ^1 he comes here regularly. But why in blank he don't set up a bank this season and take the chance of getting some of the money back that he |>uts into circulation in building, is what gets me. I wonder now," he mused deeply, "what is his little game." The season had been a prosperous one to Mr. Oakhurst, and proportionally disastrous to several members of the Legislature, Judges, Colonels, and others who had enjoyed but briefly the pleasure of Mr. Oakhurst's midnight society. And yet Sacra mento had become very dull to him. He had lately formed a habit of early-morning walks so unusual and startling to his friends, both male and female, as to occasion the intensest curiosity. Two or three of the latter set spies upon his track, but the inquisition resulted only in the discovery that Mr. Oakhurst walked to the plaza, sat down upon one particular bench for a few moments, and then returned without seeing anybody, and the theory that there was a woman in the case was abandoned. A few superstitious gentlemen of his own profession believed that he did it for "luck." Some others, more practical, declared that he went out to "study points.' 7 After the races at Marysville, Mr. Oakhurst went to San Francisco; from that place he returned to Marysville, but a few days after was seen at San Jose, Santa Cruz, and Oakland. Those who met him declared that his manner was restless and feverish, and quite unlike his ordinary calmness and phlegm. Col. Starbottle pointed out the fact that 33 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE at San Francisco at the club , Jack had declined to deal. "Hand shaky, Sir; depend upon it; don't stimulate enough blank him!" From San Jos he started to go to Oregon by land with a rather expensive outfit of horses and camp equipage, but on reaching Stockton he suddenly diverged, and four hours later found him with a single horse entering the canon of the San Isabel Warm Sulphur Springs. It was a pretty triangular valley lying at the foot of three sloping mountains, dark with pines and fantastic with madrono and manzanita. Nestling against the mountain side, the straggling buildings and long piazza of the hotel glittered through the leaves; and here and there shone a white toy-like cottage. Mr. Oakhurst was not an admirer of nature, but he felt something of the same novel satisfaction m the view that he experienced in his first morning walk in Sacramento. And now carriages began to pass him on the road filled with gayly-dressed .women, and the cold, California outlines of the landscape began to take upon themselves some what of a human warmth and color. And then the long hotel piazza came in view, efflorescent with the full-toiletted fair. Mr. Oakhurst, a good rider, after the California fashion, did not check his speed as he approached his destination, but charged the hotel at a gallop, threw his horse on his haunches within a foot of the piazza, and then quietly emerged from the cloud of dust that veiled his dismounting. Whatever feverish excitement might have raged within, all his habitual calm returned as he stepped $F MR. JOHN OAKHURSt. 3^ Upon the piazza. With the instinct of long habit he turned and faced the battery of eyes with the same cold indifference with which he had for years encountered the half-hidden sneers of men and the half-frightened admiration of women. Only one person stepped forward to welcome him. Oddly enough, it was Dick Hamilton, perhaps the only one present who, by birth, education, and position might have satisfied the most fastidious social critic. Happily for Mr. Oakhurst's reputation, he was also a very rich banker and social leader. "Do you know who that is you spoke to?" asked young Parker, with an alarmed expression. "Yes;" replied Hamilton, with characteristic effrontery, "the man you lost a thousand dollars to last week. / only know him socially" "But isn't he a gambler?" queried the youngest Miss Smith. "He is," replied Hamilton, "but I wish, my dear young lady, that we all played as open and honest a game as our friend yonder, and were as willing as he is to abide by its fortunes." But Mr. Oakhurst was happily out of hearing of this colloquy, and was even then lounging list lessly, yet watchfully, along the upper hall. Suddenly he heard a light footstep behind him, and then his name called in a familiar voice that drew the blood quickly to his heart. He turned and she stood be fore him. But how transformed! If I have hesitated to describe the hollow-eyed cripple the quaintly- dressed artisan's wife, a few pages ago what shall I do with this graceful, shapely, elegantly-attired gentle- Idyls of the Foothills. 3 34 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE woman into whom she has been merged within these two months? In good faith she was very pretty. You and I, my dear madame, would have been quick to see that those charming dimples were misplaced for true beauty, and too fixed in their quality for honest mirthfulness, that the delicate lines around these aquiline nostrils were cruel and selfish, that the sweet virginal surprise of these lovely eyes were as apt to be opened on her plate as upon the gallant speeches of her dinner partner, that her sympathetic color came and went more with her own spirits than yours. But you and I are not in love with her, dear madame, and Mr. Oakhurst is. And even in the folds of her Parisian gown I am afraid this poor fellow saw the same subtle strokes of purity that he had seen in her homespun robe. And then there was the delightful revelation that she could walk, and that she had dear little feet of her own in the tiniest slippers of her French shoemaker with such preposterous blue bows, and Chappell's own stamp, Rue de something or other, Paris, on the narrow sole. He ran toward her with a heightened color and outstretched hands. But she whipped her own be hind her, glanced rapidly up and down the long hall, and stood looking at him with a half auda cious, half mischievous admiration in utter contrast to her old reserve. "I've a great mind not to shake hands with you, at all. You passed me just now on the piazza. without speaking, and I ran after you, as I suppose many another poor woman has done." OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 35^, Mr. Oakhurst stammered that she was so changed. "The more reason why you should know me. Who changed me? You. You have recreated me. You found a helpless, crippled, sick, poverty-stricken woman, with one dress to her back, and that her own make, and you gave her life, health, strength, and fortune. You did, and you know it, Sir. How do you like your work?" She caught the side seams- of her gown in either hand and dropped him a play ful courtesy. Then, with a sudden, relenting gesture, she gave him both her hands. Outrageous as this speech was, and unfeminine, as I trust every fair reader will deem it, I fear it pleased Mr. Oakhurst. Not but that he was accus tomed to a certain frank female admiration; but then it was of the coulisses and not of the cloister, with which he always persisted in associating Mrs. Decker. To be addressed in this way by an invalid Puritan, a sick saint, with the austerity of suffering still clothing her; a woman who had a Bible on the dressing-table, who went to church three times a day, and was devoted to her husband, completely bowled him over. He still held her hands as she went on: "Why didn't you come before? What were you doing in Marysville, in San Jose, in Oakland? You see I have followed you. I saw you as you came down the canon, and knew you at once. I saw your letter to Joseph, and knew you were coming. Why didn't you write to me? You will some time! Good evening, Mr. Hamilton." She had withdrawn her hands, but not until 3* 36, A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE Hamilton, ascending the staircase, was nearly abreast of them. He raised his hat to her with well-bred composure, nodded familiarly to Oakhurst, and passed on. When he had gone Mrs. Decker lifted her eyes to Mr. Oakhurst. "Some day I shall ask a great favor of you!" Mr. Oakhurst begged that it should be now. "N6, not until you know me better. Then, some day, I shall want you to kill that man!" * She laughed, such a pleasant little ringing laugh, such a display of dimples albeit a little fixed in the corners of her mouth such an innocent light in her brown eyes, and such a lovely color in her cheeks, that Mr. Oakhurst who seldom laughed^- was fain to laugh too. It was as if a lamb had proposed to a fox a foray into a neighboring sheep- fold. A few evenings after this, Mrs. Decker arose from a charmed circle of her admirers on the hotel piazza, excused herself for a few moments, laugh ingly declined an escort, and ran over to her little cottage one of her husband's creation across the road. Perhaps from the sudden and unwonted exercise in her still convalescent state, she breathed hurriedly and feverishly as she entered her boudoir, and once or twice placed her hand upon her breast. She was startled on turning up the light to find her husband lying on the sofa. "You look hot and excited, Elsie, love," said Mr. Decker; "you ain't took worse are you?" !' Mrs. Decker's face had paled, but now flushed OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 37 again. "No," she said, "only a little pain here," as she again placed her hand upon her corsage. "Can I do anything for you," said Mr. Decker, rising with affectionate concern. "Run over to the hotel and get me some brandy, quick!" Mr. Decker ran. Mrs. Decker closed and bolted the door, and then putting her hand to her bosom, drew out the pain. It was folded four square, and was, I grieve to say, in Mr. Oakhurst's handwriting. She devoured it with burning eyes and cheeks .until there came a step upon the porch. TJien she hurriedly replaced it in her bosom and unbolted the door. Her husband entered; she raised the spirits to her lips and declared herself better. "Are you going over there again to-night," asked Mr. Decker, submissively. "No," said Mrs. Decker, with her eye fixed dreamily on the floor. "I wouldn't if I was you," said Mr. Decker with a sigh of relief. After a pause he took a seat on the sofa, and drawing his wife to his side, said: "Do you know what I was thinking of when you came in, Elsie?" Mrs. Decker ran her fingers through his stiff black hair, and couldn't imagine. "I was thinking of old times, Elsie; I was think ing of the days when I built that kerridge for you, Elsie when I used to take you out to ride, and was both hoss and driver! We was poor then, and you was sick, Elsie, but we was happy. We've got money now, and a house, and you're quite another woman. I may say, dear, that you're a new woman. 3.8 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE And that's where the trouble comes in. I could build you a kerridge, Elsie; I could build you a :house, Elsie but there I stopped. I couldn't build up you. You're strong and pretty, Elsie, and fresh and new. But somehow, Elsie, you ain't no work of mine!" He paused. With one hand laid gently on his forehead and the other pressed upon her bosom as if to feel certain of the presence of her pain, she said sweetly and soothingly: "But it was your work, dear." Mr. Decker shook his head sorrowfully. "No, Elsie, not mine. I had the chance to do it once and I let it go. It's done now; but not by me." Mrs. Decker raised her surprised, innocent eyes to his. He kissed her tenderly and then went on in a more cheerful voice. "That ain't all I was thinking of, Elsie. I was thinking that may be you give too much of your company to that Mr. Hamilton. Not that there's any wrong in it, to you or him. But it might make people talk. You're the only one here, Elsie," said the master carpenter, looking fondly at his wife, "who isn't talked about: whose work ain't inspected or condemned?" Mrs. Decker was glad he had spoken about it. She had thought so, too, but she could not well be uncivil to Mr. Hamilton, who was a fine gentleman, without making a powerful enemy. "And he's al ways treated me as if I was a born lady in his own circle," added the little woman, with a certain pride that made her husband fondly smile. "But I have OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. ( ty thought of a plan. He will not stay here if I should go away. If, for instance, I went to San Francisco to visit Ma for a few days he would be gone before I should return." Mr. Decker was delighted. "By all means/ 7 he said, "go to-morrow. Jack Oakhurst is going down, and I'll put you in his charge." Mrs. Decker did not think it was prudent. "Mr. Oakhurst is our friend, Joseph, but you know his reputation." In fact she did not know that she ought to go now, knowing that he was going the same day but with a kiss Mr. Decker overcame her scruples. She yielded gracefully. Few women, in fact, knew how to give up a point as charmingly as she. She stayed a week in San Francisco. When she returned she was a trifle thinner and paler than she had been. This she explained as the re sult of perhaps too active exercise and excitement. "I was out of doors nearly all the time, as Ma will tell you," she said to her husband, "and always alone. I am getting quite independent now," she added, gayly, "I don't want any escort I believe, Joey dear, I could get along even without you I'm so brave!" But her visit, apparently, had not been pro ductive of her impelling design. Mr. Hamilton had not gone, but had remained, and called upon them that very evening. "I've thought of a plan, Joey dear," said Mrs. Decker when he had de parted. "Poor Mr. Oakhurst has a miserable room at the hotel suppose you ask him when he returns 40 ' A PASSAGE IN THE LIFB from San Francisco to stop with us. He can have our spare room. I don't think," she added archly, "that Mr. Hamilton will call often." Her husband laughed, intimated that she was a little coquette, pinched her cheek, and complied. "The queer thing about a woman," he said afterward confi dentially to Mr. Oakhurst, "is, that without having any plan of her own she'll take anybody's and build a house on it entirely different to suit herself. And dern my skin if you'll be able to say whether or not you didn't give the scale and measurements yourself. That's what gets me." The next week Mr. Oakhurst was installed in the Deckers' cottage. The business relations of her husband and himself were known to all, and her own reputation was above suspicion. Indeed, few women were more popular. She was domestic, she was prudent, she was pious. In a country of great feminine freedom and latitude, she never rode or walked with anybody but her husband; in an epoch of slang and ambiguous expression, she was always precise and formal in her speech; in the midst of a fashion of ostentatious decoration she never wore a diamond, nor a single valuable jewel. She never permitted an indecorum in public; she never countenanced the familiarities of California society. She declaimed against the prevailing tone of infidelity and skepticism in religion. Few people, who were present, will ever forget the dignified yet stately manner with which she rebuked Mr. Hamil ton in the public parlor for entering upon the dis cussion of a work on materialism , lately published, OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 41 and some among them, also will not forget the expression of amused surprise on Mr. Hamilton's face that gradually changed to sardonic gravity as he courteously waived his point. Certainly not Mr. Oakhurst, who, from that moment, began to be un easily impatient of his friend, and even if such a term could be applied to any moral quality in Mr. Oakhurst to fear him. For, during this time, Mr. Oakhurst had begun to show symptoms of a change in his usual habits. He was seldom, if ever, seen in his old haunts, in a bar-room, or with his old associates. Pink &nd white notes, in distracted handwriting, accumulated on the dressing-table in his rooms at Sacramento. It was given out in San Francisco that he had some organic disease of the heart for which his physician had prescribed perfect rest. He read more, be took long walks, he sold his fast horses, he went $o -church. I have a very vivid recollection ofc his first appearance there. He did not accompany the Deckers, nor did he go into their pew, but came in as the service commenced, and took a seat quietly in one of the back pews. By some mys terious instinct his presence became presently known to .the congregation, some of whom so far forgot themselves, in their curiosity, as to face around and apparently address their responses to him. Before the service was over it was pretty well understood that "miserable sinners" meant Mr. Oakhurst. Nor did this mysterious influence fail to affect the offi ciating clergyman, who introduced an allusion to 4/2 -A PASSAGE IN TJKE LIFE Mr. Oakhurst's calling and habits in a sermon on the architecture of Solomon's Temple, and in a manner so pointed and yet labored as to cause the youngest of us to flame with indignation. Happily, however, it was lost upon Jack I do not think he even heard it. His handsome, colorless face albeit a trifle worn and thoughtful was inscrutable. Only once, during the singing of a hymn, at a certain note in the contralto's voice, there crept into his dark eyes a look of wistful tenderness, so yearning and yet so hopeless that those who were watching him felt their own glisten. Yet I retain a very vivid remembrance of his standing up to receive the benediction, with the suggestion in his manner and tightly-buttoned coat, of taking the fire of his ad versary at ten paces. After church he disappeared as quietly as he had entered, and fortunately escaped hearing the comments on his rash act. His ap pearance was generally considered as an imper tinence attributable only to some wanton fancy or possibly a bet. One or two thought that the sexton was exceedingly remiss in not turning him out after discovering who he was; and a prominent pew-holder remarked that if he couldn't take his wife and daughters to that church without exposing them to such an influence, he would try to find some church where he could. Another traced Mr. Oakhurst's presence to certain Broad Church radical tendencies, which he regretted to say he had lately noted in their Pastor. Deacon Sawyer, whose de licately organized, sickly wife had already borne him eleven children and died in an ambitious at- pF MR, JOHN OAKHURST. 43 .tempt to complete the dozen, avowed that the pre sence of a person of Mr. Oakhurst's various and indiscriminate gallantries, was an insult to the me mory of the deceased, that, as a man, he could not brook. It was about this time that Mr. Oakhurst, con trasting himself with a conventional world in which he had hitherto rarely mingled, became aware that there was something in his face, figure, and car riage, quite unlike other men something that if it did not betray his former career, at least showed an individuality and originality that was suspicious. Jn this belief he shaved off his long, silken mus tache, and religiously brushed out his clustering curls every morning. He even went so far as to affect a negligence of dress and hid his small, slim, arched -feet in the largest and heaviest walking shoes. There is a story told that he went to his tailor in Sacra mento, and asked him to make him a suit of clothes like everybody else. The tailor, familiar with Mr. Oak- hurst's fastidiousness, did not know what he meant. '"I mean," said Mr. Oakhurst savagely, "something respectable something that doesn't exactly fit me you know." But however Mr. Oakhurst might hide .his shapely limbs in homespun and home-made gar ments, there was something in his carriage, some thing in the pose of his beautiful head, something in the strong and fine manliness of his presence, something in the perfect and utter discipline and control of his muscles, something in the high repose of his nature a repose not so much a matter of intellectual ruling as of his very nature that go 44 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE where he would and with whom, he was always a notable man in ten thousand. Perhaps this was never so clearly intimated to Mr. Oakhurst as when, emboldened by Mr. Hamilton's advice and assistance and his own predilections, he became a San Fran cisco broker. Even before objection was made to his presence in the Board the objection, I remem ber, was urged very eloquently by Watt Sanders, who was supposed to be the inventor of the "freez ing out" system of disposing of poor stock-holders, and who also enjoyed the reputation of having been the impelling cause of Briggs of Tuolumne's ruin and suicide even before this formal protest of re spectability against lawlessness, the aquiline sugges tions of Mr. Oakhurst's mien and countenance, not only prematurely fluttered the pigeons, but abso lutely occasioned much uneasiness among the fish- hawks, who circled below him with their booty. "Dash me! but he's as likely to go after us as anybody," said Joe Fielding. It wanted but a few days before the close of the brief Summer season at San Isabel Warm Springs. Already there had been some migration of the more fashionable, and there was an uncom fortable suggestion of dregs and lees in the social life that remained. Mr. Oakhurst was moody it was hinted that even the secure reputation of Mrs. Decker could no longer protect her from the gossip which his presence excited. It is but fair to her to say that during the last few weeks of this trying ordeal she looked like a sweet, pale martyr, and OF MR, JOHN OAKHURST. 45 conducted herself toward her traducers with the gentle, forgiving manner of one who relied not upon the idle homage of the crowd, but upon the se curity of a principle that was dearer than popular favor. "They talk about myself and Mr. Oakhurst, my dear," she said to a friend, "but heaven and my husband can best answer their calumny. It never shall be said that my husband ever turned his back upon a friend in the moment of his adversity be cause the position was changed, because his friend was poor and he was rich." This was the first in timation to the public that Jack had lost money, although it was known generally that the Deckers had lately bought some valuable property in San Francisco. A few evenings after this an incident occurred which seemed to unpleasantly discord with the general social harmony that had always existed at San Isabel. It was at dinner, and Mr. Oakhurst and Mr. Hamilton, who sat together at a separate table, were observed to rise in some agitation. When they reached the hall, by a common instinct they stepped into a little breakfast-room which was vacant and closed the door. Then Mr. Hamilton turned, with a half- amused, half-serious smile, to ward his friend, and said: "If we are to quarrel, Jack Oakhurst you and I in the name of all that is ridiculous, don't let it be about a !" I do not know what was the epithet intended. It was either unspoken or lost. For at that very 46 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE instant Mr. Oakhurst raised a wine-glass and dashed its contents into Hamilton's face. As they faced each other the men seemed to have changed natures. Mr. Oakhurst was trembling with excitement, and the wine-glass that he returned to the table shivered between his fingers. Mr. Hamilton stood there, grayish white, erect, and drip ping. After a pause he said, coldly: "So be it. But remember! our quarrel com mences here. If I fall by your hand you shall not use it to clear her character; if you fall by mine you shall not be called a martyr. I am sorry it has come to this, but amen! the sooner now the better." He turned proudly, dropped his lids over his cold steel-blue eyes as if sheathing a rapier, bowed, and passed coldly out. They met twelve hours later in a little hollow two miles from the hotel, on the Stockton road. As Mr. Oakhurst received his pistol from Col. Star- bottle's hands he said- to him, in a low voice: "Whatever turns up or down I shall not return to the hotel. You will find some directions in my room. Go there " but his voice suddenly faltered, and .he turned his glistening eyes away, to his second's intense astonishment. "I've been out a dozen times with Jack Oakhurst," said Col. Star- bottle afterward, "and I never saw him anyways cut before. Blank me if I didn't think he was losing his sand, till he walked to position." The two reports were almost simultaneous. Mr. Oakhurst's right arm dropped suddenly to his side, OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST. 47 and his pistol would have fallen from his paralyzed fingers, but the discipline of trained nerve and muscle prevailed, and he kept his grasp until he had shifted it to the other hand, without changing his position. Then there was a silence that seemed interminable, a gathering of two or three dark figures where a smoke curl still lazily floated, and then the hurried, husky, panting voice of Col. Star- bottle in his ear: "He's hit hard through the lungs you must run for it!" Jack turned his dark, questioning eyes upon his second, but did not seem to listen rather seemed to hear some other voice, remoter in the distance. He hesitated, and then made a step forward in the direction of the distant group. Then he paused again as the figures separated, and the surgeon came hastily toward him. "He would like to speak with you a moment," said the man. "You have little time to lose, I know; but," he added, in a lower voice, "it is my duty to tell you he has still less." A look of despair, so hopeless in its intensity, swept over Mr. Oakhurst's usually impassive face, that the surgeon started. "You are hit," he said, glancing at Jack's helpless arm. "Nothing a mere scratch," said Jack hastily. Then he added, with a bitter laugh, "I'm not in luck to-day. But come! We'll see what he wants." His long, feverish stride outstripped the sur geon's, and in another moment he stood where the dying man lay like most dying men the one, calm, composed central figure of an anxious group. 4 A PASSAGE IN THE Mf. Oakhurst's face was less calm as he dropped on one* knee beside him and took his hand. "I. want to speak with this gentleman alone ," said Hamilton, with something of his old imperious manner, as he turned to those about him. When they drew back, he looked up in Oakhurst's face. "I've something to tell you, Jack." His own face was white, but not so white as that which Mr. Oakhurst bent over him a face so ghastly, with haunting doubts and a hopeless pre sentiment of coming evil a face so piteous in its infinite weariness and envy of death that the dying man was touched, even in the languor of dissolu tion, with a pang of compassion, and the cynical smile faded from his lips. "Forgive me, Jack," he whispered more feebly, "for what I have to say. I don't say it in anger, but only because it must be said. I could not do my duty to you I could not die contented until you knew it all. It's a miserable business at best, all around. But it can't be helped now. Only I ought to have fallen by Decker's pistol and not yours." A flush like fire came into Jack's cheek, and he would have risen, but Hamilton held him fast. "Listen! in my pocket you will find two letters. Take them there! You will know the handwrit ing. But promise you will not read them until you are in a place of safety. Promise me!" Jack did not speak, but held the letters between his fingers as if they had been burning coals. "Promise me," said Hamilton, faintly. OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST, 49 "Why?" asked Oakhurst, dropping his friend's hand coldly. "Because," said the dying man with a bitter smile, "because when you have read them you will go back to capture and death!" They were his last words. He pressed Jack's hand faintly. Then his grasp relaxed, and he fell back a corpse. It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and Mrs. Decker reclined languidly upon the sofa with a novel in her hand, while her husband discussed the politics of the country in the bar-room of the hotel. It was a warm night, and the French window look ing out upon a little balcony was partly open. Suddenly she heard a foot upon the balcony, and she raised her eyes from the book with a slight start. The next moment the window was hurriedly thrust wide and a man entered. Mrs. Decker rose to her feet with a little cry of alarm. "For heaven's sake, Jack, are you mad? He has only gone for a little while he may return at any moment. Come an hour later to-morrow any time when I can get rid of him but go, now, dear, at once." Mr. Oakhurst walked toward the door, bolted it, and then faced her without a word. His face was haggard, his coat-sleeve hung loosely over an arm that was bandaged and bloody. Nevertheless her voice did not falter as she turned again toward him. "What has happened, Jack, Why are you here?" Idyls of Hie Foothills. 4 5O .A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE He opened his coat, and threw two letters in her lap. "To return your lover's letters to kill you an