Chapter 18

"My very dear Sir" (it began), "a curious change in my fortunes enables me to carry out a long-cherished plan. I purpose, D.V., to pay a pilgrimage to my poor son's grave, and shall start for California immediately. Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a couple of days at the rectory. It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meet one who was kind to my dear lad.

"I will write to you again from San Francisco.

"Very gratefully yours,

"George Carteret."

If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the 'Bishop' would have manifested far less consternation. He raved incoherently for nearly ten minutes, while Dick sat silent and nervous beneath a storm of remorse.

"I'll meet your father in San Francisco," said the unhappy Crisp, "and make a clean breast of it." "That spells ruin," said Dick coldly. "The governor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper. He would make this place too hot for you and too hot for me. I've a voice in this matter, and for once," he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, "I propose to be heard."

"What do you mean to do?"

"If necessary I'll resurrect myself. I'll play the hand alone. You've no more tact than a hippopotamus. And I'll meet the governor. Don't stare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth- faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, the colour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable. It may be necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him down here. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."

"What?"

"I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return to England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And you would give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright, the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not for that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten minutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellow you were."

"Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.

But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deuce did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"

* * * * *

The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms at the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet not unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty. It seemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches should have come to him--riches from a distant kinsman who, living, had hardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson. Five thousand pounds a year was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numbered as many hundreds. And--alas! his son was dead. Not that the parson loved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadet of an ancient family he had a Tory squire's prejudice in favour of a Salique Law. With the thousands went a charming grange in the north country and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to a male Carteret. If--futile thought--Dick had only been spared!

Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card. The parson placed his glasses upon a fine aquiline nose.

"Ahem! Mr.--er--Cartwright. The name is not familiar to me, but I'll see the gentleman."

And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers. Dick fluently explained the nature of his errand. Mr. Carteret's letter had been given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp's estate. He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret's name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.

"And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"

Dick admitted that he had known himself--slightly.

"A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." Dick pulled his beard.

"Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, I fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm not trespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can of him. What good, I mean."

Dick kept on pulling his beard.

"Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend, Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said Dick had no enemies but himself."

Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had expected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men are strangely inconsistent. Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful of them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. The parson sighed and pressed the matter no further. He desired, he said, to see Dick's grave. Then he hoped to return to England.

Now Dick had made his plans. In a new country, where five years bring amazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards. In the San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the sexton chanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read nor write. So Dick identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place, and told the sexton that a marble cross would be erected there under his (Dick's) direction. Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument, taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained. There are scores of such in every marble-worker's yard. Upon it were cut Dick's initials, a date, and an appropriate text. Within three days of the receipt of Mr. Carteret's letter, the cross was standing in the cemetery. None knew or cared whence it came. Moreover, Dick had passed unrecognised through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily as Lord Carteret. He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obvious reasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus death and burial.

Thus it came to pass that Dick and his father travelled together to San Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery. Presently Dick walked away; and then the old man knelt down, bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes. Later, the father pointed a trembling finger at the initials. "Why," he demanded querulously, "did they not give the lad his full name?" And to this natural question Dick had nothing to say.

"It seems," murmured the old man mournfully, "that Mr. Crisp, with all his kindness, felt that the name should perish also. Well, amen, amen. Will you give me your arm, sir?"

So, arm in arm, they passed from the pretty garden of sleep. Dick was really moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make full confession there and then. But he strangled it, and his jaw grew set and hard. As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father's fortunes. Mr. Carteret assumed none of the outward signs of prosperity. He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowed along the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, but babbling of no Pactolian sands. And then, quite suddenly and simply, he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wished to set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended as the experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.

"You--you are a rich man?" faltered Dick.

"My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand a year."

Dick gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season. Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret's immediate plans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbara on the morrow. Dick had determined not to let his father stray from his sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he told himself that he must confer with the 'Bishop' at once. The 'Bishop' must act as go-between; the 'Bishop,' by Jove! should let the cat out of the bag; the 'Bishop' would gladly colour the facts and obscure the falsehoods. So he bade his father good-bye, and the old gentleman thanked him courteously and wished him well. To speak truth, Mr. Carteret was not particularly impressed with Mr. Cartwright, nor sorry to take leave of him. Dick soon secured a buggy, and drove off. _En route_ he whistled gaily, and at intervals burst into song. He really felt absurdly gay.

The 'Bishop,' however, pulled a long face when he understood what was demanded of him. "It's too late," said he.

"Do you funk it?" asked Dick angrily.

"I do," replied his reverence.

"Well, he must be told the facts before he goes south."

Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church, chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente, kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev. Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy father realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be said.

He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.

"Is your name Crisp?"

"Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'

"The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"

"I--er--once held deacon's orders."

"Can I see you alone?"

The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The 'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other, who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel, carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.

"Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have you to say to me?"

The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite truthfully.

"You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

"And with the money obtained under false pretences you bought a saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

"The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and marking the comfort of the room.

"Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick.

"Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work miracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can sent you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."

"All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I--er--I don't blame you. I think you're behaving with great moderation."

"Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"

"The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp.

"Men have been shot for less than this."

"There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You can shoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and keep you out of it, if--if you use that pistol."

Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. He stared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit that he had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also a magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

"Will you kindly send for my--for your partner?" he said suddenly. "Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have a right to conduct this inquiry in my own way."

Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the 'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr. Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other, and received the _same_ answers, the 'Bishop' entering an inarticulate demurrer.

"It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of telling this story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has unquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathies are with the liar. He is the honester man."

"Yes," said Dick. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll find anywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father--forgive me."

One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterly fashion. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any puling hypocrisy. So he told the truth.

"Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: my forgiveness and my blessing?"

Dick's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

"The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curious story. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word, sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay this price for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he is prepared to support you to the end?"

"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can never, _never_," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is another son whom I do not know--whom I do not want to know--let him ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train. He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so many cheques. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued the speaker--"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is _not_--let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life, and to secure the same to Richard _Cartwright_ after my death, so long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the buggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man lightly on the shoulder.

"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick, but----"

Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live to be an honest man."

"I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dick will pan out all right--in the end."

But Dick's father shuddered.

"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr. Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."

XIX

A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS

Jeff looked ruefully at the hot dusty road which curled upward and in front of him like a great white snake. At the top of the grade, where some pines stood out against the blue sky, hung a small reek of dust concealing the figure of his late companion. As Jeff gazed, the reek melted away. The young man told himself that he was alone in the brush foothills, with a lame horse, and a body (his own) so bruised and battered that it seemed to belong to somebody else.

"Hello!" said a voice.

Jeff stared into the chaparral. Wild lilac and big sage bushes, flowering lupins and gilias, bordered the road, for spring was abroad in San Lorenzo county. A boy slipped through the lilacs.

"Jee-whiz!" said the boy. "You've hurt yourself."

"That's right," Jeff replied.

"How did it happen?"

"The plug crossed his feet in the dip yonder, and rolled plum over me. Say--do you want to earn an honest dollar?"

The adjective was emphasised, for none knew better than Jeff that the foothills harboured queer folk. The boy nodded.

"You must get a buggy, sonny."

"A buggy? Anything else? As if buggies grew in the brush-hills!"

Just then Jeff's sanguine complexion turned grey, and his eyes seemed to slip back into his head. The boy perceived a bulging pocket, out of which he whipped a flask. Jeff took a long drink; then he gasped out: "Thunder! you was smart to find that flask. Ah-h-h!"

"You're in a real bad fix," said the boy.

"I _am_ in bad shape," Jeff admitted. "If I'd known I was going to lose the use o' myself like this, I wouldn't ha' been so doggoned keen about my friend leavin' me."

"Your friend must be in a partic'lar hurry."

"He was that," Jeff murmured. A queer buzzing in his ears and an overpowering feeling of giddiness made him close his eyes. When he opened them, the boy had disappeared. Jeff saw that his horse had been tied up in the shade of a scrub-oak.

"That boy seems to have some sense," he reflected. "This is a knock- out, sure."

Again he closed his eyes. A blue jay began to chatter; and when he had finished his screed, a cock-quail challenged the silence. Very soon the wilderness was uttering all its familiar sounds. Jeff, lying flat on his back, could hear the rabbits scurrying through the chaparral. After an interminable delay his ears caught the crackle of dry twigs snapped beneath a human foot.

"Feelin' lonesome?"

"I'm mighty glad to see you again," Jeff admitted. "Ah, water! That's a sight better'n whisky."

He drank thirstily, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the road as hot as an oven.

"I reckoned you'd come back," Jeff continued.

"Why?"

"To earn that dollar." He eyed the lad's somewhat ragged overalls. "Say--what do they call ye to home?"

"Bud."

"Bud, eh? Short for brother. Folks got a fam'ly." He reflected that Bud's sister, if he had one, might be nice-looking. "Well, Bud, I'm under obligations to ye, for hitchin' up the plug in the shade. 'Twas thoughtful. Where ha' ye been?"

"I've been hunting Dad. But he's off in the hills. If I could get ye to our camp----"

"The plug'll have to do it. Unhitch him."

Bud untied the animal, who limped even more acutely than his master. Perhaps he lacked his master's grit. Jeff was the colour of parchment when he found himself in the saddle, whereon he sat huddled up, gripping the horn.

"Freeze on," said the boy.

"You bet," Jeff replied laconically.

Bud led the horse a few yards down the road, passing from it into the chaparral. Thence, through a tangled wilderness of scrub-oak and manzanita, down a steep slope, into a pretty cañon.

"Here we are."

A sudden turn of the trail revealed a squatter's hut built of rough lumber, and standing beneath a live-oak. A small creek was babbling its way to the Salinas River. The clearing in front of the hut was strewn with empty tins. A tumble-down shed encircled by a corral was on the other side of the creek. Jeff knew at once that he was looking at one of the innumerable mountain-claims taken up by Eastern settlers in the days of the great land boom, and forsaken by them a couple of years afterwards.

Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly the shining tins, he said reflectively:--

"Bin here about a month, I reckon."

"Yes--Mister--Sherlock--Holmes."

Jeff stared. The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit of reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.

"Kin you read?" said Jeff.

"I--_kin_," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"

"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.

"But you've got to catch him first."

The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down propping his broad back against a tree.

"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, who twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this was no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men would choose to live in such a desolate spot?

Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley. Then he unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him. Jeff grunted approval.

"You're earnin' that dollar--every cent of it." A delightful fragrance of bacon floated to Jeff's nostrils. Evidently provision had been made for man as well as beast.

"That smells mighty good," said Jeff.

Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.

"It's my boot," he explained. "See--I'm wearing a number eight on a number fifteen hoof. W-w-what? Pull it off? Not for ten thousand dollars. We'll cut it off."

Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.

"It's sharp," he said, "sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it! I can't use it."

Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injured foot towards him.

"S'pose I do it?" the boy suggested.

"You've not got the nerve, Bud. Why, you're yaller as cheese, you poor little cuss."

"I'm not," said the boy, flushing suddenly.

He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather: a delicate operation, for Jeff's leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen. Slowly and delicately the knife did its work. Finally, a horribly contused limb was revealed.

"Cold water--and plenty of it," murmured Jeff.

"Or hot?"

"Mebbee hot'd be better."

Bud disappeared, whistling.

"That boy's earning a five-dollar bill," said Jeff. "I'm a liar if he ain't as bright as they make 'em."

The hot water was brought and some linen.

"I feel a heap better," Jeff declared presently.

"How about dinner?"

"Bud, if ever I hev a son I hope he'll be jest like you. Say--you're earning big money--d'ye know it?--and my everlastin' gratitude."

"That's all right. Hadn't I better bring the grub out here? It's nice and cool under this tree."

Jeff nodded. The bacon and beans were brought out and consumed. Bud, however, refused to eat. He preferred to wait for his father. Jeff asked some questions, as he stowed away the bacon and beans.

"Your dad must be an awful nice man," said he.

"He's the best and smartest man in the State," said Bud proudly.

"Is he! And you two are campin' out for yer health--eh? Ye can't fool me, Bud."

"Oh!"

"I sized you up at once as a city boy."

"You're more than half right."

"I'm all right, Bud. In my business I have to be all right. Bless you, it don't do to make mistakes in my business."

"And what is your business?"

Jeff beamed. He was certainly a good-looking fellow, and warmed by food and, comparatively speaking, free from pain, he was worthy of more than a passing glance.

"I'm deputy-sheriff of San Lorenzo County," he declared, "and mighty proud of it."

"Proud of this yere county?" said the boy, "or proud of being dep'ty- sheriff?"

"By Jing! I'm proud o' both. The county's comin' along fine, and so'm I, Bud. It's a fact, sonny, that I'm held in high esteem as an officer. Why, my boss said to me this very day: 'Jeff,' says he, 'yer makin' a record.'"

"What sort o' record?"

Jeff flushed slightly. He was not in the habit of "tooting his own horn," as he would have put it, but the boy's face invited confidence.

"A record for dooin' my duty," he answered slowly. "'Tain't as easy as you might think for."

"No?"

"Not by no means. Ye see, Bud, in a new country 'tisn't only the real bad eggs that worries us. The community can deal with them. No, no, it's the good fellers gone wrong, the straight 'uns grown crooked, who keep us stirrin'. And, sometimes, when a friend, a neighbour, flies the track, an officer is kind o' tempted to look the other way. See?"

"And you don't look the other way?"