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  HOW OLD MAN PLUNKETT WENT HOME

  I think we all loved him. Even after he mismanaged the affairs of theAmity Ditch Company, we commiserated him, although most of us werestockholders, and lost heavily. I remember that the blacksmith went sofar as to say that "them chaps as put that responsibility on the old manoughter be lynched." But the blacksmith was not a stockholder; and theexpression was looked upon as the excusable extravagance of a large,sympathizing nature, that, when combined with a powerful frame, wasunworthy of notice. At least, that was the way they put it. Yet Ithink there was a general feeling of regret that this misfortune wouldinterfere with the old man's long-cherished plan of "going home."

  Indeed, for the last ten years he had been "going home." He was goinghome after a six-months' sojourn at Monte Flat; he was going home afterthe first rains; he was going home when the rains were over; he wasgoing home when he had cut the timber on Buckeye Hill, when there waspasture on Dow's Flat, when he struck pay-dirt on Eureka Hill, when theAmity Company paid its first dividend, when the election was over, whenhe had received an answer from his wife. And so the years rolled by, thespring rains came and went, the woods of Buckeye Hill were level withthe ground, the pasture on Dow's Flat grew sear and dry, Eureka Hillyielded its pay-dirt and swamped its owner, the first dividends of theAmity Company were made from the assessments of stockholders, there werenew county officers at Monte Flat, his wife's answer had changed into apersistent question, and still old man Plunkett remained.

  It is only fair to say that he had made several distinct essays towardgoing. Five years before, he had bidden good-by to Monte Hill with mucheffusion and hand-shaking. But he never got any farther than the nexttown. Here he was induced to trade the sorrel colt he was riding for abay mare,--a transaction that at once opened to his lively fancy a vistaof vast and successful future speculation. A few days after, Abner Deanof Angel's received a letter from him, stating that he was going toVisalia to buy horses. "I am satisfied," wrote Plunkett, with thatelevated rhetoric for which his correspondence was remarkable,--"Iam satisfied that we are at last developing the real resourcesof California. The world will yet look to Dow's Flat as the greatstock-raising centre. In view of the interests involved, I have deferredmy departure for a month." It was two before he again returned tous--penniless. Six months later, he was again enabled to start for theEastern States; and this time he got as far as San Francisco. I havebefore me a letter which I received a few days after his arrival, fromwhich I venture to give an extract: "You know, my dear boy, that I havealways believed that gambling, as it is absurdly called, is still in itsinfancy in California. I have always maintained that a perfect systemmight be invented, by which the game of poker may be made to yield acertain percentage to the intelligent player. I am not at liberty atpresent to disclose the system; but before leaving this city I intend toperfect it." He seems to have done so, and returned to Monte Flatwith two dollars and thirty-seven cents, the absolute remainder of hiscapital after such perfection.

  It was not until 1868 that he appeared to have finally succeeded ingoing home. He left us by the overland route,--a route which he declaredwould give great opportunity for the discovery of undeveloped resources.His last letter was dated Virginia City. He was absent three years. Atthe close of a very hot day in midsummer, he alighted from the Wingdamstage, with hair and beard powdered with dust and age. There was acertain shyness about his greeting, quite different from his usualfrank volubility, that did not, however, impress us as any accessionof character. For some days he was reserved regarding his recent visit,contenting himself with asserting, with more or less aggressiveness,that he had "always said he was going home, and now he had been there."Later he grew more communicative, and spoke freely and critically ofthe manners and customs of New York and Boston, commented on the socialchanges in the years of his absence, and, I remember, was very hard uponwhat he deemed the follies incidental to a high state of civilization.Still later he darkly alluded to the moral laxity of the higher planesof Eastern society; but it was not long before he completely tore awaythe veil, and revealed the naked wickedness of New York social life in away I even now shudder to recall. Vinous intoxication, it appeared, wasa common habit of the first ladies of the city. Immoralities which hescarcely dared name were daily practised by the refined of both sexes.Niggardliness and greed were the common vices of the rich. "I havealways asserted," he continued, "that corruption must exist where luxuryand riches are rampant, and capital is not used to develop the naturalresources of the country. Thank you--I will take mine without sugar."It is possible that some of these painful details crept into the localjournals. I remember an editorial in "The Monte Flat Monitor," entitled"The Effete East," in which the fatal decadence of New York and NewEngland was elaborately stated, and California offered as a means ofnatural salvation. "Perhaps," said "The Monitor," "we might add thatCalaveras County offers superior inducements to the Eastern visitor withcapital."

  Later he spoke of his family. The daughter he had left a child had growninto beautiful womanhood. The son was already taller and larger than hisfather; and, in a playful trial of strength, "the young rascal,"added Plunkett, with a voice broken with paternal pride and humorousobjurgation, had twice thrown his doting parent to the ground. But itwas of his daughter he chiefly spoke. Perhaps emboldened by theevident interest which masculine Monte Flat held in feminine beauty, heexpatiated at some length on her various charms and accomplishments, andfinally produced her photograph,--that of a very pretty girl,--to theirinfinite peril. But his account of his first meeting with her was sopeculiar, that I must fain give it after his own methods, which were,perhaps, some shades less precise and elegant than his written style.

  "You see, boys, it's always been my opinion that a man oughter be ableto tell his own flesh and blood by instinct. It's ten years since I'dseen my Melindy; and she was then only seven, and about so high. So,when I went to New York, what did I do? Did I go straight to my house,and ask for my wife and daughter, like other folks? No, sir! I riggedmyself up as a peddler, as a peddler, sir; and I rung the bell. When theservant came to the door, I wanted--don't you see?--to show the ladiessome trinkets. Then there was a voice over the banister says, 'Don'twant any thing: send him away.'--'Some nice laces, ma'am, smuggled,'I says, looking up. 'Get out, you wretch!' says she. I knew the voice,boys: it was my wife, sure as a gun. Thar wasn't any instinct thar.'Maybe the young ladies want somethin',' I said. 'Did you hear me?' saysshe; and with that she jumps forward, and I left. It's ten years, boys,since I've seen the old woman; but somehow, when she fetched that leap,I naterally left."

  He had been standing beside the bar--his usual attitude--when he madethis speech; but at this point he half faced his auditors with a lookthat was very effective. Indeed, a few who had exhibited some signsof scepticism and lack of interest, at once assumed an appearance ofintense gratification and curiosity as he went on,--

  "Well, by hangin round there for a day or two, I found out at last itwas to be Melindy's birthday next week, and that she was goin' to havea big party. I tell ye what, boys, it weren't no slouch of a reception.The whole house was bloomin' with flowers, and blazin' with lights; andthere was no end of servants and plate and refreshments and fixin's"--

  "Uncle Joe."

  "Well?"

  "Where did they get the money?"

  Plunkett faced his interlocutor with a severe glance. "I always said,"he replied slowly, "that, when I went home, I'd send on ahead of me adraft for ten thousand dollars. I always said that, didn't I? Eh? And Isaid I was goin' home--and I've been home, haven't I? Well?"

  Either there was something irresistibly conclusive in this logic, orelse the desire to hear the remainder of Plunkett's story was stronger;but there was no more interruption. His ready good-humor quicklyreturned, and, with a slight chuckle, he went on,--

  "I went to the biggest jewelry shop in town, and I bought a pair ofdiamond ear-rings, and put them in my pocket, and went to the house.'What name?' says the chap who opened th
e door; and he looked like across 'twixt a restaurant waiter and a parson. 'Skeesicks,' said I. Hetakes me in; and pretty soon my wife comes sailin' into the parlor,and says, 'Excuse me; but I don't think I recognize the name.' She wasmighty polite; for I had on a red wig and side-whiskers. 'A friend ofyour husband's from California, ma'am, with a present for your daughter,Miss--,' and I made as I had forgot the name. But all of a sudden avoice said, 'That's too thin;' and in walked Melindy. 'It's playin' itrather low down, father, to pretend you don't know your daughter's name;ain't it, now? How are you, old man?' And with that she tears off my wigand whiskers, and throws her arms around my neck--instinct, sir, pureinstinct!"

  Emboldened by the laughter which followed his description of the filialutterances of Melinda, he again repeated her speech, with more or lesselaboration, joining in with, and indeed often leading, the hilaritythat accompanied it, and returning to it, with more or less incoherency,several times during the evening.

  And so, at various times and at various places, but chiefly inbar-rooms, did this Ulysses of Monte Flat recount the story of hiswanderings. There were several discrepancies in his statement; there wassometimes considerable prolixity of detail; there was occasional changeof character and scenery; there was once or twice an absolute change inthe denoument: but always the fact of his having visited his wife andchildren remained. Of course, in a sceptical community like that ofMonte Flat,--a community accustomed to great expectation and smallrealization,--a community wherein, to use the local dialect, "theygot the color, and struck hardpan," more frequently than any othermining-camp,--in such a community, the fullest credence was not givento old man Plunkett's facts. There was only one exception to thegeneral unbelief,--Henry York of Sandy Bar. It was he who was alwaysan attentive listener; it was his scant purse that had often furnishedPlunkett with means to pursue his unprofitable speculations; it was tohim that the charms of Melinda were more frequently rehearsed; it was hethat had borrowed her photograph; and it was he that, sitting alone inhis little cabin one night, kissed that photograph, until his honest,handsome face glowed again in the firelight.

  It was dusty in Monte Flat. The ruins of the long dry season werecrumbling everywhere: everywhere the dying summer had strewn its redashes a foot deep, or exhaled its last breath in a red cloud above thetroubled highways. The alders and cottonwoods, that marked the line ofthe water-courses, were grimy with dust, and looked as if they mighthave taken root in the open air. The gleaming stones of the parchedwater-courses themselves were as dry bones in the valley of death. Thedusty sunset at times painted the flanks of the distant hills a dull,coppery hue: on other days, there was an odd, indefinable earthquakehalo on the volcanic cones of the farther coast-spurs. Again an acrid,resinous smoke from the burning wood on Heavytree Hill smarted the eyes,and choked the free breath of Monte Flat; or a fierce wind, drivingevery thing, including the shrivelled summer, like a curled leaf beforeit, swept down the flanks of the Sierras, and chased the inhabitants tothe doors of their cabins, and shook its red fist in at their windows.And on such a night as this, the dust having in some way choked thewheels of material progress in Monte Flat, most of the inhabitants weregathered listlessly in the gilded bar-room of the Moquelumne Hotel,spitting silently at the red-hot stove that tempered the mountain windsto the shorn lambs of Monte Flat, and waiting for the rain.

  Every method known to the Flat of beguiling the time until the advent ofthis long-looked-for phenomenon had been tried. It is true, the methodswere not many, being limited chiefly to that form of popular facetiaeknown as practical joking; and even this had assumed the seriousnessof a business-pursuit. Tommy Roy, who had spent two hours in digginga ditch in front of his own door, into which a few friends casuallydropped during the evening, looked ennuye and dissatisfied. The fourprominent citizens, who, disguised as foot-pads, had stopped the countytreasurer on the Wingdam road, were jaded from their playful effortsnext morning. The principal physician and lawyer of Monte Flat, who hadentered into an unhallowed conspiracy to compel the sheriff of Calaverasand his posse to serve a writ of ejectment on a grizzly bear, feeblydisguised under the name of one "Major Ursus," who haunted the grovesof Heavytree Hill, wore an expression of resigned weariness. Even theeditor of "The Monte Flat Monitor," who had that morning written aglowing account of a battle with the Wipneck Indians, for the benefitof Eastern readers,--even HE looked grave and worn. When, at last, AbnerDean of Angel's, who had been on a visit to San Francisco, walked intothe room, he was, of course, victimized in the usual way by one or twoapparently honest questions, which ended in his answering them, and thenfalling into the trap of asking another, to his utter and complete shameand mortification; but that was all. Nobody laughed; and Abner,although a victim, did not lose his good-humor. He turned quietly on histormentors, and said,--

  "I've got something better than that--you know old man Plunkett?"

  Everybody simultaneously spat at the stove, and nodded his head.

  "You know he went home three years ago?" Two or three changed theposition of their legs from the backs of different chairs; and one mansaid, "Yes."

  "Had a good time, home?"

  Everybody looked cautiously at the man who had said, "Yes;" and he,accepting the responsibility with a faint-hearted smile, said, "Yes,"again, and breathed hard. "Saw his wife and child--purty gal?" saidAbner cautiously. "Yes," answered the man doggedly. "Saw her photograph,perhaps?" continued Abner Dean quietly.

  The man looked hopelessly around for support. Two or three, who had beensitting near him, and evidently encouraging him with a look of interest,now shamelessly abandoned him and looked another way. Henry York flusheda little, and veiled his gray eyes. The man hesitated, and then with asickly smile, that was intended to convey the fact that he was perfectlyaware of the object of this questioning, and was only humoring it fromabstract good feeling, returned, "Yes," again.

  "Sent home--let's see--ten thousand dollars, wasn't it?" Abner Dean wenton. "Yes," reiterated the man with the same smile.

  "Well, I thought so," said Abner quietly. "But the fact is, you see,that he never went home at all--nary time."

  Everybody stared at Abner in genuine surprise and interest, as, withprovoking calmness and a half-lazy manner, he went on,--

  "You see, thar was a man down in 'Frisco as knowed him, and saw him inSonora during the whole of that three years. He was herding sheep, ortending cattle, or spekilating all that time, and hadn't a red cent.Well it 'mounts to this,--that 'ar Plunkett ain't been east of the RockyMountains since '49."

  The laugh which Abner Dean had the right to confidently expect came;but it was bitter and sardonic. I think indignation was apparent in theminds of his hearers. It was felt, for the first time, that there wasa limit to practical joking. A deception carried on for a year,compromising the sagacity of Monte Flat, was deserving the severestreprobation. Of course, nobody had believed Plunkett; but then thesupposition that it might be believed in adjacent camps that theyHAD believed him was gall and bitterness. The lawyer thought that anindictment for obtaining money under false pretences might be found. Thephysician had long suspected him of insanity, and was not certain butthat he ought to be confined. The four prominent merchants thought thatthe business-interests of Monte Flat demanded that something should bedone. In the midst of an excited and angry discussion, the door slowlyopened, and old man Plunkett staggered into the room.

  He had changed pitifully in the last six months. His hair was a dusty,yellowish gray, like the chemisal on the flanks of Heavytree Hill; hisface was waxen white, and blue and puffy under the eyes; his clotheswere soiled and shabby, streaked in front with the stains ofhurriedly eaten luncheons, and fluffy behind with the wool and hair ofhurriedly-extemporized couches. In obedience to that odd law, that, themore seedy and soiled a man's garments become, the less does he seeminclined to part with them, even during that portion of the twenty-fourhours when they are deemed less essential, Plunkett's clothes hadgradually taken on the appearance of a kind of a bark, or an outgro
wthfrom within, for which their possessor was not entirely responsible.Howbeit, as he entered the room, he attempted to button his coat overa dirty shirt, and passed his fingers, after the manner of some animal,over his cracker-strewn beard, in recognition of a cleanly publicsentiment. But, even as he did so, the weak smile faded from hislips; and his hand, after fumbling aimlessly around a button, droppedhelplessly at his side. For as he leaned his back against the bar, andfaced the group, he, for the first time, became aware that every eye butone was fixed upon him. His quick, nervous apprehension at once leapedto the truth. His miserable secret was out, and abroad in the very airabout him. As a last resort, he glanced despairingly at Henry York; buthis flushed face was turned toward the windows.

  No word was spoken. As the bar-keeper silently swung a decanter andglass before him, he took a cracker from a dish, and mumbled it withaffected unconcern. He lingered over his liquor until its potencystiffened his relaxed sinews, and dulled the nervous edge of hisapprehension, and then he suddenly faced around. "It don't look as if wewere goin' to hev any rain much afore Christmas," he said with defiantease.

  No one made any reply.

  "Just like this in '52, and again in '60. It's always been my opinionthat these dry seasons come reg'lar. I've said it afore. I say it again.It's jist as I said about going home, you know," he added with desperaterecklessness.

  "Thar's a man," said Abner Dean lazily, "ez sez you never went home.Thar's a man ez sez you've been three years in Sonora. Thar's a man ezsez you hain't seen your wife and daughter since '49. Thar's a man ezsez you've been playin' this camp for six months."

  There was a dead silence. Then a voice said quite as quietly,--

  "That man lies."

  It was not the old man's voice. Everybody turned as Henry York slowlyrose, stretching out his six feet of length, and, brushing away theashes that had fallen from his pipe upon his breast, deliberately placedhimself beside Plunkett, and faced the others.

  "That man ain't here," continued Abner Dean, with listless indifferenceof voice, and a gentle pre-occupation of manner, as he carelesslyallowed his right hand to rest on his hip near his revolver. "That manain't here; but, if I'm called upon to make good what he says, why, I'mon hand."

  All rose as the two men--perhaps the least externally agitated of themall--approached each other. The lawyer stepped in between them.

  "Perhaps there's some mistake here. York, do you KNOW that the old manhas been home?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know it?"

  York turned his clear, honest, frank eyes on his questioner, and withouta tremor told the only direct and unmitigated lie of his life. "BecauseI've seen him there."

  The answer was conclusive. It was known that York had been visiting theEast during the old man's absence. The colloquy had diverted attentionfrom Plunkett, who, pale and breathless, was staring at his unexpecteddeliverer. As he turned again toward his tormentors, there was somethingin the expression of his eye that caused those that were nearest to himto fall back, and sent a strange, indefinable thrill through the boldestand most reckless. As he made a step forward, the physician, almostunconsciously, raised his hand with a warning gesture; and old manPlunkett, with his eyes fixed upon the red-hot stove, and an odd smileplaying about his mouth, began,--

  "Yes--of course you did. Who says you didn't? It ain't no lie. I said Iwas goin' home--and I've been home. Haven't I? My God! I have. Who saysI've been lyin'? Who says I'm dreamin'? Is it true--why don't you speak?It is true, after all. You say you saw me there: why don't you speakagain? Say, say!--is it true? It's going now. O my God! it's goingagain. It's going now. Save me!" And with a fierce cry he fell forwardin a fit upon the floor.

  When the old man regained his senses, he found himself in York's cabin.A flickering fire of pine-boughs lit up the rude rafters, and fell upona photograph tastefully framed with fir-cones, and hung above the brushwhereon he lay. It was the portrait of a young girl. It was the firstobject to meet the old man's gaze; and it brought with it a flush ofsuch painful consciousness, that he started, and glanced quickly around.But his eyes only encountered those of York,--clear, gray, critical, andpatient,--and they fell again.

  "Tell me, old man," said York not unkindly, but with the same cold,clear tone in his voice that his eye betrayed a moment ago,--"tell me,is THAT a lie too?" and he pointed to the picture.

  The old man closed his eyes, and did not reply. Two hours before, thequestion would have stung him into some evasion or bravado. But therevelation contained in the question, as well as the tone of York'svoice, was to him now, in his pitiable condition, a relief. It wasplain, even to his confused brain, that York had lied when he hadindorsed his story in the bar-room; it was clear to him now that he hadnot been home, that he was not, as he had begun to fear, going mad.It was such a relief, that, with characteristic weakness, his formerrecklessness and extravagance returned. He began to chuckle, finally tolaugh uproariously.

  York, with his eyes still fixed on the old man, withdrew the hand withwhich he had taken his.

  "Didn't we fool 'em nicely; eh, Yorky! He, he! The biggest thing yetever played in this camp! I always said I'd play 'em all some day, andI have--played 'em for six months. Ain't it rich?--ain't it the richestthing you ever seed? Did you see Abner's face when he spoke 'bout thatman as seed me in Sonora? Warn't it good as the minstrels? Oh, it's toomuch!" and, striking his leg with the palm of his hand, he almostthrew himself from the bed in a paroxysm of laughter,--a paroxysm that,nevertheless, appeared to be half real and half affected.

  "Is that photograph hers?" said York in a low voice, after a slightpause.

  "Hers? No! It's one of the San Francisco actresses. He, he! Don't yousee? I bought it for two bits in one of the bookstores. I never thoughtthey'd swaller THAT too; but they did! Oh, but the old man played 'emthis time didn't he--eh?" and he peered curiously in York's face.

  "Yes, and he played ME too," said York, looking steadily in the oldman's eye.

  "Yes, of course," interposed Plunkett hastily; "but you know, Yorky, yougot out of it well! You've sold 'em too. We've both got em on a stringnow--you and me--got to stick together now. You did it well, Yorky: youdid it well. Why, when you said you'd seen me in York City, I'm d----dif I didn't"--

  "Didn't what?" said York gently; for the old man had stopped with a paleface and wandering eye.

  "Eh?"

  "You say when I said I had seen you in New York you thought"--

  "You lie!" said the old man fiercely. "I didn't say I thought any thing.What are you trying to go back on me for, eh?" His hands were tremblingas he rose muttering from the bed, and made his way toward the hearth.

  "Gimme some whiskey," he said presently "and dry up. You oughter treatanyway. Them fellows oughter treated last night. By hookey, I'd made'em--only I fell sick."

  York placed the liquor and a tin cup on the table beside him, and,going to the door, turned his back upon his guest, and looked out on thenight. Although it was clear moonlight, the familiar prospect never tohim seemed so dreary. The dead waste of the broad Wingdam highway neverseemed so monotonous, so like the days that he had passed, and were tocome to him, so like the old man in its suggestion of going sometime,and never getting there. He turned, and going up to Plunkett put hishand upon his shoulder, and said,--

  "I want you to answer one question fairly and squarely."

  The liquor seemed to have warmed the torpid blood in the old man'sveins, and softened his acerbity; for the face he turned up to York wasmellowed in its rugged outline, and more thoughtful in expression, as hesaid,--

  "Go on, my boy."

  "Have you a wife and--daughter?"

  "Before God I have!"

  The two men were silent for a moment, both gazing at the fire. ThenPlunkett began rubbing his knees slowly.

  "The wife, if it comes to that, ain't much," he began cautiously, "beinga little on the shoulder, you know, and wantin', so to speak a liberalCalifornia education, which makes, you know, a bad combinat
ion. It'salways been my opinion, that there ain't any worse. Why, she's asready with her tongue as Abner Dean is with his revolver, only withthe difference that she shoots from principle, as she calls it; and theconsequence is, she's always layin' for you. It's the effete East, myboy, that's ruinin' her. It's them ideas she gets in New York and Bostonthat's made her and me what we are. I don't mind her havin' 'em, if shedidn't shoot. But, havin' that propensity, them principles oughtn't tobe lying round loose no more'n firearms."

  "But your daughter?" said York.

  The old man's hands went up to his eyes here, and then both hands andhead dropped forward on the table. "Don't say any thing 'bout her, myboy, don't ask me now." With one hand concealing his eyes, he fumbledabout with the other in his pockets for his handkerchief--but vainly.Perhaps it was owing to this fact, that he repressed his tears; for,when he removed his hand from his eyes, they were quite dry. Then hefound his voice.

  "She's a beautiful girl, beautiful, though I say it; and you shall seeher, my boy,--you shall see her sure. I've got things about fixed now.I shall have my plan for reducin' ores perfected a day or two; andI've got proposals from all the smeltin' works here" (here he hastilyproduced a bundle of papers that fell upon the floor), "and I'm goin'to send for 'em. I've got the papers here as will give me ten thousanddollars clear in the next month," he added, as he strove to collect thevaluable documents again. "I'll have 'em here by Christmas, if I live;and you shall eat your Christmas dinner with me, York, my boy,--youshall sure."

  With his tongue now fairly loosened by liquor and the suggestivevastness of his prospects, he rambled on more or less incoherently,elaborating and amplifying his plans, occasionally even speaking of themas already accomplished, until the moon rode high in the heavens, andYork led him again to his couch. Here he lay for some time mutteringto himself, until at last he sank into a heavy sleep. When York hadsatisfied himself of the fact, he gently took down the picture andframe, and, going to the hearth, tossed them on the dying embers, andsat down to see them burn.

  The fir-cones leaped instantly into flame; then the features that hadentranced San Francisco audiences nightly, flashed up and passed away(as such things are apt to pass); and even the cynical smile on York'slips faded too. And then there came a supplemental and unexpected flashas the embers fell together, and by its light York saw a paper uponthe floor. It was one that had fallen from the old man's pocket. As hepicked it up listlessly, a photograph slipped from its folds. It was theportrait of a young girl; and on its reverse was written in a scrawlinghand, "Melinda to father."

  It was at best a cheap picture, but, ah me! I fear even the deftgraciousness of the highest art could not have softened the rigidangularities of that youthful figure, its self-complacent vulgarity, itscheap finery, its expressionless ill-favor. York did not look at it asecond time. He turned to the letter for relief.

  It was misspelled; it was unpunctuated; it was almost illegible; itwas fretful in tone, and selfish in sentiment. It was not, I fear, evenoriginal in the story of its woes. It was the harsh recital of poverty,of suspicion, of mean makeshifts and compromises, of low pains and lowerlongings, of sorrows that were degrading, of a grief that was pitiable.Yet it was sincere in a certain kind of vague yearning for the presenceof the degraded man to whom it was written,--an affection that was morelike a confused instinct than a sentiment.

  York folded it again carefully, and placed it beneath the old man'spillow. Then he returned to his seat by the fire. A smile that had beenplaying upon his face, deepening the curves behind his mustache, andgradually overrunning his clear gray eyes, presently faded away. It waslast to go from his eyes; and it left there, oddly enough to those whodid not know him, a tear.

  He sat there for a long time, leaning forward, his head upon his hands.The wind that had been striving with the canvas roof all at once liftedits edges, and a moonbeam slipped suddenly in, and lay for a momentlike a shining blade upon his shoulder; and, knighted by its touch,straightway plain Henry York arose, sustained, high-purposed andself-reliant.

  The rains had come at last. There was already a visible greenness on theslopes of Heavytree Hill; and the long, white track of the Wingdam roadwas lost in outlying pools and ponds a hundred rods from Monte Flat. Thespent water-courses, whose white bones had been sinuously trailed overthe flat, like the vertebrae of some forgotten saurian, were full again;the dry bones moved once more in the valley; and there was joy in theditches, and a pardonable extravagance in the columns of "The Monte FlatMonitor." "Never before in the history of the county has the yieldbeen so satisfactory. Our contemporary of 'The Hillside Beacon,' whoyesterday facetiously alluded to the fact (?) that our best citizenswere leaving town in 'dugouts,' on account of the flood, will be gladto hear that our distinguished fellow-townsman, Mr. Henry York, now on avisit to his relatives in the East, lately took with him in his 'dugout'the modest sum of fifty thousand dollars, the result of one week'sclean-up. We can imagine," continued that sprightly journal, "that nosuch misfortune is likely to overtake Hillside this season. And yet webelieve 'The Beacon' man wants a railroad." A few journals broke outinto poetry. The operator at Simpson's Crossing telegraphed to "TheSacramento Universe" "All day the low clouds have shook their garneredfulness down." A San Francisco journal lapsed into noble verse, thinlydisguised as editorial prose: "Rejoice: the gentle rain has come, thebright and pearly rain, which scatters blessings on the hills, and siftsthem o'er the plain. Rejoice," &c. Indeed, there was only one to whomthe rain had not brought blessing, and that was Plunkett. In somemysterious and darksome way, it had interfered with the perfection ofhis new method of reducing ores, and thrown the advent of that inventionback another season. It had brought him down to an habitual seat in thebar-room, where, to heedless and inattentive ears, he sat and discoursedof the East and his family.

  No one disturbed him. Indeed, it was rumored that some funds had beenlodged with the landlord, by a person or persons unknown, whereby hisfew wants were provided for. His mania--for that was the charitableconstruction which Monte Flat put upon his conduct--was indulged, evento the extent of Monte Flat's accepting his invitation to dine with hisfamily on Christmas Day,--an invitation extended frankly to every onewith whom the old man drank or talked. But one day, to everybody'sastonishment, he burst into the bar-room, holding an open letter in hishand. It read as follows:--

  "Be ready to meet your family at the new cottage on Heavytree Hill onChristmas Day. Invite what friends you choose.

  "HENRY YORK."

  The letter was handed round in silence. The old man, with a lookalternating between hope and fear, gazed in the faces of the group.The doctor looked up significantly, after a pause. "It's a forgeryevidently," he said in a low voice. "He's cunning enough to conceive it(they always are); but you'll find he'll fail in executing it. Watch hisface!--Old man," he said suddenly, in a loud peremptory tone, "this isa trick, a forgery, and you know it. Answer me squarely, and look me inthe eye. Isn't it so?"

  The eyes of Plunkett stared a moment, and then dropped weakly. Then,with a feebler smile, he said, "You're too many for me, boys. The Doc'sright. The little game's up. You can take the old man's hat;" and so,tottering, trembling, and chuckling, he dropped into silence and hisaccustomed seat. But the next day he seemed to have forgotten thisepisode, and talked as glibly as ever of the approaching festivity.

  And so the days and weeks passed until Christmas--a bright, clear day,warmed with south winds, and joyous with the resurrection of springinggrasses--broke upon Monte Flat. And then there was a sudden commotion inthe hotel bar-room; and Abner Dean stood beside the old man's chair,and shook him out of a slumber to his feet. "Rouse up, old man. York ishere, with your wife and daughter, at the cottage on Heavytree. Come,old man. Here, boys, give him a lift;" and in another moment a dozenstrong and willing hands had raised the old man, and bore him in triumphto the street up the steep grade of Heavytree Hill, and deposited him,struggling and confused, in the porch of a little cottage. At the sameinstant two women rush
ed forward, but were restrained by a gesture fromHenry York. The old man was struggling to his feet. With an effort atlast, he stood erect, trembling, his eye fixed, a gray pallor on hischeek, and a deep resonance in his voice.

  "It's all a trick, and a lie! They ain't no flesh and blood or kin o'mine. It ain't my wife, nor child. My daughter's a beautiful girl--abeautiful girl, d'ye hear? She's in New York with her mother, and I'mgoing to fetch her here. I said I'd go home, and I've been home: d'yehear me? I've been home! It's a mean trick you're playin' on the oldman. Let me go: d'ye hear? Keep them women off me! Let me go! I'mgoing--I'm going--home!"

  His hands were thrown up convulsively in the air, and, half turninground, he fell sideways on the porch, and so to the ground. They pickedhim up hurriedly, but too late. He had gone home.