The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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SAN FRANCISCO.

Count Ernesto killed while visiting a mine, with friends. Accident
of hoisting machinery. I was not there. Leave to-night for the
place. Telegraph your wishes. Remain. Wait my reports. Write fully
in a few days.

HARDIN.

She is all alone on earth. This is a crushing blow. No one to trust.
None to advise, for she has leaned on Ernesto. Her mind reels under
this blow. Pere Francois is her only stay. The sorrow of these days
needs expression.

Villa Rocca's gay letters continue to arrive. They are a ghastly
mockery of these hours. Hardin can cast her off now, and claim the
heiress.

Hardin's full account dispels any suspicion of foul play. After
a visit to the interior, the count went to see some interesting
underground workings. By a hazard of mining life, a broken rope
caused the death of the visitor, with several workmen, and a mine
superintendent who was doing the honors. Death waited at the foot
of the shaft for the noble stranger.

Hundreds of days, on thousands of trips like this, the princes
of the Comstock have risked their own lives in the perils of the
yawning pits. These dark holes blown out of the mountain rocks have
their fearful death-rolls to show.

It is the revenge of the gnomes. Every detail points to a frank
explanation. Journals and reports, with letters from the Italian
consul, lifted the sad tragedy above any chance of crime or
collusion. It is kismet.

Hardin's letter was manly. In it, he pledged his honor to carry
out the agreement, advising Natalie to select a friend to accompany
her to California with the heiress, as soon as she could travel.
His banker had orders to supply funds.

"I suggest, in view of this untimely accident, you would sooner
have your funds settled on you in Europe. It shall be as you wish.
You may rely on me," so ran the closing lines.

The parted strands of the hoisting cable cannot reveal whether it
was cut or weakened, yet Hardin knows. It was his devilish masterpiece.

Days of sadness drag down the self-reliant adventuress. Whom can
she trust now? Dare she confide in Pere Francois?

A simple envelope addressed in a scrawling hand, and postmarked San
Francisco, drives all sorrow from her heart. The tiger is loosened
in her nature. She rages madly. A newspaper slip contains the
following, in flaming prominence:

"THE UNITED STATES SENATE.

"The choice of the Legislature for U. S. Senator will undoubtedly
fall upon that distinguished jurist Judge Hardin, who is now
supported by the railroad kings and leading financiers of the coast.

"It is rumored that Judge Hardin will, in the event of his election,
contract a matrimonial alliance with one of our leaders of society.
His bride will entertain extensively in the national capital."

A paper bears pithy advice:

"Come out and strike for your rights. You will find a friend to
back you up. Don't delay."

Natalie recognizes Joe Woods in this. He is the only man knowing
half the secret. Tossing on her pillow, the Queen of the El Dorado
suffers the tortures of the Inferno. Now is the time to strike
Hardin. Before the great senatorial contest. Before this cruel
marriage. She will boldly claim a secret marriage. The funds now
in the Paris bank are safe. She can blast his career. If she does
not take the heiress out, her chances vanish. And once there,
what will not Hardin do? What is Woods' motive? Jealousy. Revenge.
Hatred.

Ah, the priest! She will unbosom herself to Pere Francois. She will
urge him to accompany her and the girl to San Franciso. He will
be a "background." And his unrivalled calmness and wisdom. Pere
Francois only knows her as the "elegante" of the Champs Elysees.
She feels that Woods has been wisely discreet.

Summoning the ecclesiastic, Madame de Santos tells the story of
her claims upon Hardin.

The old Frenchman passes his rosary beads, with a clinking sound,
as he listens to the half-truths told him.

"And your child?" he queries.

"I have placed her secretly where Hardin cannot reach her. She
will be produced if needed."

There is a peculiar smile in the priest's face. "Madame, I will
accompany you on one condition."

"Name it," cries the siren, "I will furnish money, and every comfort
for you. It shall be my duty to reward you."

The priest bows gravely.

"I wish to have a resolute man with our party. My young friend,
Raoul Dauvray, has a lion's courage. Let him go with us. I do not
wish Judge Hardin to know of my presence in San Francisco. Dauvray
will guard you with his life."

"I agree to your wishes!" says madame thoughtfully. And loyal
Raoul will fight for her and his hoped-for bride. In a month there
is a notable departure from Paris. Madame de Santos, Mademoiselle
Isabel Valois, with their maids, and Raoul, "en cavalier." On the
same steamer, Pere Francois travels. He affects no intimacy with
the distinguished voyagers. His breviary takes up all his time.
Arrived at New York, Pere Francois leaves for San Francisco several
days in advance of the others.

It is singular that he goes no farther than Sacramento. The
legislature is about to assemble. Joseph Woods, as State senator,
is launched in political life. The robust miner laughs when he is
asked why he accepts these cheap honors.

"I'm not too old to learn some new tricks," he cheerfully remarks.
His questions soon exhaust Pere Francois' stock of answers.

A day's conference between the friends leads to a series of
Napoleon-like mandates of the mining Croesus. Telegraph and cable
bear abroad to the shores of the Lake of Geneva the summons which
brings Peyton, with Armand Valois and the lovely blooming "Louise
Moreau," secretly to the Pacific. Natalie knows nothing of these
pilgrims. Quietly reaching San Francisco, by a local train, Pere
Francois becomes again Padre Francisco. He rests his weary head
under the hallowing sounds of the well-remembered bells of the past
at the Mission Dolores.

Natalie de Santos rubs her eyes in wonder at the queen city of the
West, with its conquered hills and vanished sand-dunes. Whirled away
to a secure quiet retreat in a convent, selected by Pere Francois,
the heiress and her young guardian are safe from even Hardin's
wiles.

Pere Francois at New York has conferred a day with Judge Davis,
and bids his new charge be calm and trust to his own advice. Isabel
Valois is in a maze of new impressions, and bewildered by a strange
language.

Bravely attired, and of a generous port, Raoul Dauvray installs
himself in one of the palatial hotels which are the pride of the
occidental city. Colonel Joseph Woods is conspicuously absent.

When the fatigue of travel is over, Natalie de Santos quietly summons
Philip Hardin to the interview she dreads. She has been prepared
by Pere Francois for this ordeal. Yet her tiger blood leaps up in
bubbling floods. She will at last face the would-be traitor, and
upbraid him. Oh, for one resolute friend!

It is in another convent that lovely "Isabel Valois" is concealed.
The heiress longs to burst her bonds. Is not Raoul near her?
Assured of a necessity for patience, the wayward beauty bides her
time. Every day the roses she caresses, whisper to her of the ardent
lover who sighs near her in vain.

Philip Hardin steels himself to face the woman he intends to trick
and deceive at the very last. There are such things as insane
asylums in California, if she makes any hubbub.

But he has a "coup d'etat" in his mind. The old schemer will bring
Natalie to terms. Flattery first; fear afterwards.

"And they are face to face once more."

CHAPTER XIX.

LOVERS ONCE.--STRANGERS NOW.--FACE TO FACE.

Ushered into a private room, the soulless Hardin's iron nerves
fail him. His heart leaps up wildly when royal "Madame de Santos"
approaches silently. Heavens! Her startling beauty is only mellowed
with time. Another woman than the Hortense Duval of old stands
before him. A goddess.

She has grown into her new role in life.

"Hortense!" he eagerly cries, approaching her.

"Spare me any further deceit, Philip," she coldly replies. Seating
herself, she gazes at him with flaming eyes! She is a queen at
bay!

He is startled. A declaration of war. No easy mastery now.

"Where is your charge?" Hardin queries.

"Where you will not see her, until we understand each other,"
rejoins the determined woman. Her steady glance pierces his very
soul. Memories of old days thrill his bosom.

"What do you mean by all this?" Hardin's nerve returns. He must
not yield to mortal.

The woman who queened it over his home, extends a jewelled hand
with an envelop. "Explain this," she sharply cries.

The Judge reads it. It is the announcement of his double senatorial
and matrimonial campaign.

"Is there any foundation for that report?" Madame de Santos
deliberately asks.

"There is," briefly rejoins the lawyer. He muses a moment. What
devil is awakened in her now? This is no old-time pleading suppliant.

"Then you will not see Isabel until you have settled with me and
provided the funds promised before the death of the count."

"Ah!" sneers the old advocate; "I understand you NOW, madame. Blood
money!"

"Partly," remarks Madame de Santos. "I also insist upon your giving
up this marriage."

Hardin springs from his chair. Age has robbed him of none of his
cold defiance. He will crush her.

"You dare to dream of forcing me to marry you?" His eyes have the
glitter of steel.

"You need not give up the senate, but you must marry me, privately,
and give your own child a name. Then I will leave, with the funds
you will provide. You can separate from me afterward by the mere
lapse of time. There will be no publicity needed."

"Indeed!" Hardin snarls, "A nice programme, You have had some
meddling fool advise you; some later confidant; some protector."

"Exactly so, Judge," replies the woman, her bosom heaving in scorn
and defiance. "We have lived together. We are privately married
now by law! Philip, you know the nameless girl you have never asked
for is your own child."

Hardin paces the floor in white rage. He gazes sternly in her eyes.
She regards his excited movements, glaring with defiant eyes. A
tigress at bay.

"I will end this here, madame! In two weeks Isabel Valois will be
eighteen. If she is not forthcoming I will invoke the law. If I
am forced to fight you, you will not have a cent from me. I will
never marry you! I decline to provide for you or yours, unless you
yield this girl up. You must leave the country before the senatorial
election. That is my will."

Natalie faces her old lover. Tyrant of her heart once, he is now
a malignant foe!

"Philip Hardin," she pleads, "look out of that window. You can see
the house my child was born in--YOUR home, OUR home! Philip, give
that child a name; I will leave you in peace forever!" There is
the old music in her velvet voice.

"Never!" cries the Judge. "Give up the girl you took away. Leave
at once. I will secure your fortune. You cannot force me. You never
could. You cannot now!" He glares defiance to the death.

His eyes tell the truth. He will not yield,

"Then God help you, Philip," the woman solemnly says. "You will
never reach the Senate! You will never live to marry another
woman!"

"Do you threaten me, you she-devil?" snarls Hardin, alarmed at
the settled, resolute face. "I have a little piece of news for
you which will block your game, my lady. There is no proof of the
legitimacy of the child, Isabel Valois. A claim has already been
filed by a distant Mexican relative of the Peraltas. The suit will
come up soon. If the girl is declared illegitimate, you can take
her back to France, and keep her as a beggar. You are in my hands!"
He chuckles softly.

"Philip Hardin, you are a liar and a monster. This is your conspiracy.
Now, show yourself a thief, also." Natalie retorts. The words cut
the proud man like a lash.

He seizes her jewelled wrist. He is beside himself.

"Beware," she hisses. "By the God who made me, I'll strike you
dead."

He recoils.

She is once more the queen of the El Dorado. Her ready knife is
flashing before his eyes. "You have a fearful reckoning to answer.
You will meet your match yet at the game of Life!" she cries.

But, Natalie de Santos is stunned by his devilish plot to rob the
despoiled orphan even of her name. He reads her face. "I will
give you a day to think this over. I will come to-morrow." Hardin's
voice rings with ill-concealed triumph.

"Not ten minutes will you give me. I tell you now I will crush you
in your hour of victory, if I die to do it. Once more, will you
marry me and give your child a name?" She rises and paces room, a
beautiful fury.

"You have your answer," he coldly replies.

"Then, may the plundered orphan's curse drag you down to the hell
you merit," is Natalie's last word as she walks swiftly out of the
door. She is gone.

He is alone. Somethings rings with dull foreboding in his ears as
his carriage rolls away. An orphan's curse! A cold clammy feeling
gnaws at his heart. An orphan's curse!

Ah! from the tomb of buried years the millionaire hears the voice
of Maxime Valois and shudders:

"May God deal with you as you deal with my child."

At home, in his library, where the silken rustling of that woman's
dress has thrilled him in bygone years, the old Judge drinks a
glass of cognac and slowly recovers his mental balance.

Through smoke-clouds he sees the marble chamber of the Senate of
the Great Republic. He must move on to the marriage, he has deferred
until the election. It is a pledge of twenty votes in joint ballot.

As for the girl Isabel, why, there is no human power to prove her
legitimacy now. That priest. Bah! Dead years ago. Silence has
rolled the stone over his tomb.

Hardin has foreseen for years this quarrel with Natalie de Santos.
But she can prove absolutely nothing. He will face her boldly. She
is ALONE in the world. He can tear the veil aside and blacken her
name.

And yet, as evening falls, his spirit sinks within him. He can
not, will not, marry the woman who has defied him. What devil, what
unseen enemy put her on his track again? If he had never trusted
her. Ah, too late; too late!

Secretly he had laid his well-devised mines. The judge in Mariposa
is weighted down with a golden bribe. The court officials are under
his orders. But who is the unknown foe counselling Natalie? He
cannot fathom it. Blackmail! Yes, blackmail.

In three days Hardin is at Sacramento. His satellites draw up their
cohorts for the senatorial struggle. If the legislature names him
senator, then his guardianship will be quickly settled before the
Mariposa Court. There, the contest will be inaugurated, which will
declare Isabel Valois a nameless child of poverty. This is the last
golden lock to the millions of Lagunitas, The poor puppet he has
set up to play the contestant is under his control. He had wished
to see Natalie homeward bound before this denouement. It must be.
He muses. Kill her! Ah, no; too dangerous. He must FOIL her.

But her mad rage at his coming marriage. Well, he knew the ambitious
and stately lady who aspired to share his honors would condone the
story of his early "bonnes fortunes." What could lonely Natalie
do at the trial? Nothing. He has the Court in his pocket. He will
brave her rage.

Hardin writes a final note, warning the woman he fears, to attend
with the heiress on the day of the calling for his accounting.

Marvels never cease. He tears open the answer, after two sleepless
nights. She simply replies that the young Lady of Lagunitas will be
delivered to him on the appointed day. He cannot read this riddle.
Is it a surrender in hopes of golden terms? He knows not of Pere
Francois' advice.

He smiles in complacent glee. He has broken many a weak woman's
nerve: she is only one more.

While he ponders, waiting that reply, Natalie Santos, with heavy
heart, tells the priest the story of her tryst with her old lover.

Pere Francois smiles thoughtfully. He answers: "Be calm. You will
be protected. Trust to me. I will confer with our advisers. Not
a word to Isabel of impending trouble."

The little court-house at Mariposa is not large enough for the
crowd which pours in to see the Lady of Lagunitas when the fated
day approaches. It is the largest estate in the country. A number
of strangers have arrived. They are targets for wild rumors. Several
grave-looking arrivals are evidently advocates. There is "law" in
their very eyebrows.

Raoul Dauvray escorts Madame de Santos and the girl whose rumored
loveliness is famous already. Philip Hardin, with several noted
counsel, is in readiness. Pere Francois is absent. There is an
elderly invalid, with an Eastern party of strangers, who resembles
him wonderfully.

On the case being reached, there is a busy hum of preparation.
One or two professional-looking men of mysterious identity quietly
take their places at the bar. In the clerk's offices there is also
a bevy of strangers. By a fortuitous chance, the stalwart form of
Colonel Joe Woods illuminates the dingy court-room. His business
is not on the calendar, He sits idly playing with a huge diamond
ring until the "matter of the guardianship of Isabel Valois" is
reached.

Several lawyers spring to their feet at once. A queer gleam is
in Joe Woods' eye as he nods carelessly to Hardin. They are both
Knights of the Golden Circle.

Judge Hardin's counsel opens the case, Hardin passes Natalie in
the court-room, with one last look of warning and menace. There
is no quiver to her eyelids. The graceful figure of a veiled young
girl is beside her.

When Hardin's advocate ceases, counsel rises to bring the contest
for the heirship of Lagunitas to the judicial notice of the Court.

The Judge is asked to stay the confirmation of the guardian's
accounts and reports. His Honor blandly asks if the young lady is
in court.

"Let Isabel Valois take the stand," is the direction.

Judge Hardin arises and passing to Natalie Santos, whose glittering
eyes are steadily fixed on his, in an inscrutable gaze, leads the
young lady beside her to the stand. Natalie has whispered a few
words of cheer.

All eyes are fixed upon the beautiful stranger, who is removing a
veil from a face of the rarest loveliness. There is a sensation.

Philip Hardin rises to his feet, ghastly pale, as Joseph Woods
quietly leads up to the platform a slight, girlish form. It is
another veiled woman, who quietly seats herself beside the claimant.

There is amazement in the court-room, "His Honor," with a startled
glance at Judge Hardin, who is gazing vacantly at the two figures
before him, says, "Which of these young ladies is Miss Isabel
Valois?"

A voice is heard. It is one of the strange counselors speaking.

Hardin hears the words, as if each stabbed him to the heart.

"Your Honor, we are prepared to show that the last young lady who
has taken the stand, is Miss Isabel Valois."

There is consternation in the assembly. Hardin's veins are knotted
on his forehead. He stares blankly at the two girls. His eyes turn
to Natalie de Santos. She is gazing as if the grave had given up
its dead. Her cheeks whiten to ashes. Pere Francois, Henry Peyton,
and Armand Valois enter and seat themselves quietly by the side
of the man who is speaking. What does this all mean? No one knows.
The lawyer resumes.

"We will show your Honor, by the evidence of the priest who baptized
her, and by the records of the church, that this young lady is the
lawful and only child of Maxime Valois and Dolores Peralta. We
have abundant proof to explain the seeming paradox. We are in a
position to positively identify the young lady, and to dispose of
the contest raised here to-day, as to the marriage of the parents
of the real heiress."

Philip Hardin has sprung to his lawyers. They are amazed at the
lovely apparition of another Isabel Valois. At the bidding of the
Court, Louise Moreau's gentle face appears.

"And who is the other young lady, according to your theory?" falters
the astounded judge, who cannot on the bench receive the support
of his Mephistopheles.

"We will leave that to be proved, your Honor! We will prove OUR
client to be Isabel Valois. We will prove the other lady not to
be. It remains for the guardian, who produces her, to show who she
may be." The lawyer quietly seats himself.

There is a deadlock. There is confusion in court. Side by side
are seated two dark-eyed girls, in the flush of a peerless young
womanhood. Lovely and yet unlike in facial lines, they are both
daughters of the South. Their deep melting eyes are gazing, in
timid wonder, at each other. They are strangers.

"What is the name of your witness?" the judge mechanically questions.
The lawyer calmly answers, "Francois Ribaut (known in religion
as 'Padre Francisco'), who married the father and mother of this
young lady, and also baptized her."

A faint sob from Natalie breaks the silence. Her eyes are filled
with sudden tears. She knows the truth at last. The priest has
risen. Hardin looks once more upon that pale countenance of the
padre which has haunted his dreams so long. "Is it one from the
dead?" he murmurs. But, with quick wit, his lawyer demands to place
on the witness stand, the lady charged with the nurture of "Isabel
Valois." Philip Hardin gazes wolfishly at the royal beauty who is
sworn. A breathless silence wraps the room.

The preliminary questions over, while Hardin's eyes rove wildly over
the face of the woman he has cast off, the direct interrogatory is
asked:

"Do you know who this young lady is?" says the attorney, with
a furtive prompting from Hardin. "I do!" answers the lady, with
broken voice.

Before another question can be asked, the colleagues of Hardin's
leading lawyer hold a whispered colloquy with their chief.

There is a breathless silence in the court. The principal attorney
for the guardian asks the Court for a postponement of two weeks.

"We were prepared to meet an inquiry into the legitimacy of the
ward of our client. This production of another claimant to the
same name, is a surprise to us. On account of the gravity of this
matter, we ask for a stay."

No objection is heard. His Honor, anxious himself to have time
to confer with the would-be senator, adjourns the hearing for two
weeks.

Before Hardin could extricate himself from the circle of his
advisers, the long-expected girl he has seen for the first time
has disappeared with Madame de Santos. He has no control over her
now. Too late!

His blood is bounding through his veins. He has been juggled with.
By whom? Natalie, that handsome fiend. And yet, she was paralyzed
at the apparition of the second beauty, who has also vanished.

He must see Natalie at once before she can frame a new set of lies.
After all, the MINE is safe.

As he strides swiftly across the plaza, the thought of the senatorial
election, and the lady whom he has to placate, presses on his mind.

As for the election, he will secure that. If Natalie attempts
exposure, he will claim it to be a blackmail invention of political
enemies. Ha! Money! Yes, the golden arguments of concrete power.
He will use it in floods of double eagles.

He will see Natalie on her way to Paris before the second hearing.
Yes, and send some one out of the State to watch her as far as New
York. He must buy her off.

A part of the money in hand; the rest payable at Paris to her own
order. She must be out of the way.

Mariposa boasts two hotels. The avoidance of Hardin's friends brings
all the strangers, perforce, together in the other. They have been
strangely private in their habits.

Philip Hardin's brow is set. It is no time for trifling. He sends
his name up to Madame de Santos. She begs to be excused. "Would
Judge Hardin kindly call in the evening?"

This would be after a council of war of his enemies. It must be
prevented. He pens a few words on a scrap of paper, and waits with
throbbing pulses,

"Madame will receive him." As he walks upstairs, he realizes he has
to face a reckoning with Joe Woods. He will make that clumsy-headed
Croesus rue the day. And yet Woods is in the State Senate, and may
oppose his election.

With his eyes fixed on the doors of Natalie's apartment, he does
not notice Woods gazing at him, from the end of the hall, in the
open door of the portico.

Natalie motions him to a seat as he enters. He looks at her in
amazement. She is not the same woman who entered that court-house.
He speaks. The sound of his own voice makes him start.

"What is all this devil's tomfoolery? Explain it to me. Are you
mad?" His suppressed feelings overmaster him. He gives way to an
imprudent rage.

"Are you ready to marry me? Are you ready to keep the oath you
swore to stand by me?" Her dark eyes burn into his heart. She is
calm, but intense in her demand.

"Tell me the truth or I'll choke it out of you," he hisses, grasping
her rudely.

His rashness breaks the last bond between them. A shriek from the
struggling woman echoes through the room.

The door flies open.

Hardin is hurled to the wall, reeling blindly.

The energetic voice of Joe Woods breaks the silence. "You are a
mean dog, but, by God, I did not think you'd strangle a woman."

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