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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas




The God-given title to batten in luxury, is one which depends now
on the possession of golden wealth. It finally burns its gleaming
pathway through every barrier.

With direct Western frankness, the Pacific "jeunesse doree" will
date from bonanza or railroad deal. Spoliated don, stolen franchise,
giant stock-job, easy political "coup de main," government lands
scooped in, or vast tracts of timber stolen under the law's easy
formalities, are their quarterings. Whiskey sellers, adventuresses,
and the minor fry of fighting henchmen, make up the glittering
train of these knights. The diamond-decked dames of this "Golden
Circle" exclaim in happy chorus, as they sit in the easy-chairs of
wealth's thronging courts:

"This is the way we long have sought, And mourned because we found
it not."

But riding behind Philip Hardin is the grim horseman, Care. He mourns
his interrupted political career. The end of the war approaches.
His spirited sultana now points to the lovely child. Her resolute
lips speak boldly of marriage.

Hardin wonders if any refluent political wave may throw him up to
the senate or the governor's chair. His powers rust in retirement.
He fears the day when his stewardship of Lagunitas may be at an
end.

He warily determines to get rid of Padre Francisco as soon as
possible. The death of Donna Dolores places all in his hands. As he
confers with the quick-witted ex-queen of the El Dorado, he decides
that he must remove the young Mariposa heiress to San Francisco.
It is done. Philip Hardin cannot travel continually to watch over
a child.

"Kaintuck" and the sorrowing padre alone are left at Lagunitas. The
roses fall unheeded in the dead lady's bower. On this visit, when
Hardin takes the child to the mansion on the hill, he learns the
padre only awaits the return of Maxime Valois, to retire to France.
Unaware of the great strength of the North and East, the padre
feels the land may be held in the clutches of war a long period. He
would fain end his days among the friends of his youth. As he draws
toward old age, he yearns for France. Hardin promises to assist
the wishes of the old priest.

After Padre Francisco retires to the silent cottage by the chapel,
Hardin learns from "Kaintuck" a most momentous secret. There are
gold quartz mines of fabulous richness on the Lagunitas grant.
Slyly extracting a few tons of rock, "Kaintuck" has had these ores
worked, and gives Philip Hardin the marvellous results.

Hardin's dark face lights up: "Have you written Colonel Valois of
this?" "Not a word," frankly says "Kaintuck."

"Judge, I did not want to bring a swarm of squatters over our lines.
I thought to tell you alone, and you could act with secrecy. If
they stake off claims, we will have a rush on our hands."

Hardin orders the strictest silence. As he lies in the guest chamber
of Lagunitas, Philip Hardin is haunted all night by a wild unrest.
If Lagunitas were only his. There is only Valois between him and
the hidden millions in these quartz veins. Will no Yankee bullet
do its work?

The tireless brain works on, as crafty Philip Hardin slumbers
that night. Visions of violence, of hidden traps, of well-planned
crime, haunt his dreams. Only "Kaintuck" knows. Secretly, bit by
bit, he has brought in these ores. They have been smuggled out and
worked, with no trace of their real origin. No one knows but one.
Though old "Kaintuck" feels no shadow over his safety, the sweep
of the dark angel's wing is chilling his brow. He knows too much.

When Hardin returns to San Francisco he busies himself with
Lagunitas. His brow is dark as he paces the deck of the Stockton
steamer. Hortense Duval has provided him with a servant of great
discretion to care for the child. Marie Berard is the typical
French maid. Deft, neat-handed, she has an eye like a hawk. Her
little pet weaknesses and her vices give spice to an otherwise
colorless character.

The boat steams down past the tule sloughs. Hardin's cigar burns
late on the deck as he plots alone.

When he looks over his accumulated letters, he seizes eagerly a
packet of papers marked "Havana." Great God!

He has read of Sherman's occupation of Atlanta. The struggle of
Peachtree Creek brought curses on Tecumseh's grizzled head. Now,
with a wildly beating heart, he learns of the death of Colonel
Valois among the captured guns of De Gress. As the last pages are
scanned, he tears open the legal documents. The cold beads stand
out on his brow. He is master now. The king is dead!

He rings for Madame Duval. With shaking hand, he pours a draught
from the nearest decanter. He is utterly unnerved. The prize is at
last within his grasp. It shall be his alone!

Lighting a fresh cigar he paces the room, a human tiger. There is
but one frail girl child between him and Lagunitas, with its uncoined
millions. He must act. To be deep and subtle as a thieving Greek,
to be cold and sneaking as an Apache, to be as murderous as a Malay
creeping, creese in hand, over the bulwarks of a merchantman,--all
that is to be only himself. Power is his for aye.

But to be logically correct, to be wise and safe in secret moves.
Time to think? Yes. Can he trust Hortense Duval? Partly. He needs
that devilish woman's wit of hers. Will he tell her all? No.
Professional prudence rules. A dark scheme has formulated itself
in his brain, bounding under the blow of the brandy.

He will get Hortense out of the State, under the pretext of
sending the colonel's child to Paris. The orphan's education must
be brilliant.

He will have no one know of the existence of Valois' mine. If
"Kaintuck" were only gone. Yes! Yes! the secret of the mines. If
the priest were only in France and locked up in his cloister. The
long minority of the child gives time to reap the golden harvest.

A sudden thought: the child may not live! His teeth chatter. As he
paces the room, Hortense enters. She sees on his face the shadow
of important things.

"What has happened, Philip?" she eagerly asks.

"Sit down, Hortense. Listen to me," says Hardin, as he sees the
doors all secure.

Her heart beats fast. Is this the end of all? She has feared it
daily.

"How would you like to live in Paris?" he ejaculates.

He watches her keenly, pacing to and fro. A wild hope leaps up.
Will he retire, and live his days out abroad? Is the marriage to
come at last?

"Philip, I don't understand you," she murmurs. Her bosom heaves
within its rich silks, under its priceless laces. The sparkling
diamonds in her hair glisten, as she gazes on his inscrutable face.
Is this heaven or hell? Paradise or a lonely exile? To have a name
at last for her child?

"Colonel Valois was killed at the battles near Atlanta. I have
just received from the Havana bankers the final letters of Major
Peyton, his friend." Hardin speaks firmly.

"Under the will, that child Isabel inherits the vast property. She
must be educated in France. Some one must take care of her."

Hortense leans over, eagerly. What does he mean? "There is no one but
me to look after her. The cursed Yankees will probably devastate
the South. I dare not probate his will just now. There is confiscation
and all such folly."

Philip Hardin resumes his walk. "I do not wish to pay heavy war
taxes and succession tax on all this great estate. I must remain
here and watch it. I must keep the child's existence and where-abouts
quiet. The courts could worry me about her removal. Can I trust
you, Hortense?" His eyes are wolfish. He stops and fixes a burning
glance on her. She returns it steadily.

"What do you wish me to do?" she says, warily.

It will be years and years she must remain abroad.

"Can I trust you to go over with that child, and watch her while
I guard this great estate? You shall have all that money and my
influence can do for you. You can live as an independent lady and
see the great world."

She rises and faces him, a beautiful, expectant goddess. "Philip,
have I been true to you these years?"

He bows his head. It is so! She has kept the bond.

"Do I go as your wife?" Her voice trembles with eagerness.

"No. But you may earn that place by strictly following my wishes."
He speaks kindly. She is a grand woman after all. Bright tears
trickle through her jewelled fingers. She has thrown herself on
the fauteuil. The woman of thirty is a royal beauty, her youthful
promise being more than verified. She is a queen of luxury.

"Listen to me, Hortense," says Hardin, softly. He seats himself
by her side and takes the lovely hands in his. His persuasive voice
flows like honey. "I am now surrounded by enemies. I am badly
compromised. I am all tied up. I fear the Union League, the government
spies, and the damned Yankee officers here. One foolish move would
utterly ruin me. If you will take this child you can take any
name you wish. No one knows you in Paris. I will have the bankers
and our Southern friends vouch for you in society. I will support
you, so you can move even in the Imperial circles. If you are
true to me, in time I will do as you wish. I dare not now." He is
plausible, and knows how to plead. This woman, loving and beloved,
cannot hold out.

"Think of our child, Philip," cries Hortense, as she throws herself
on his breast. He is moved and yet he lies.

"I do at this very moment, Hortense. I am not a rich man, for I have
lost much for the South. These Yankee laws keep me out of court.
I dare not get in their power. If I hold this estate, I will soon
be able to settle a good fortune on Irene. I swear to you, she
shall be my only heiress except yourself. You can take Irene with
you and give her a superb education. You will be doing a true
mother's duty. I will place such a credit and funds for you that
the future has no fears. When I am free to act, 'when this foolish
war is over,' I can come to you. Will you do as I wish?"

"Philip, give me till to-morrow to think. I have only you in the
world." The beautiful woman clings to him. He feels she will yield.
He is content to wait.

While they talk, the two children chatter under the window in
childish glee.

"Hortense, you must act at once! to-morrow! The steamer leaves in
three days. I wish you to go by Panama direct to France. New York
is no place for you. I will have much to arrange. I will give you
to-night. Now leave me, for I have many papers to draw up."

In her boudoir, Hortense Duval sits hours dreaming, her eyes fixed
on vacancy. All the hold she has on Hardin is her daily influence,
and HIS child. To go among strangers. To be alone in the world.
And yet, her child's future interests. While Hardin paces the floor
below, or toils at his cunningly worded papers, she feels she is
in the hands of a master.

Philip Hardin's late work is done. By the table he dreams over the
future. Hortense will surely work his will. He will divest himself
of the priest. He must open these mines. He will get rid of
"Kaintuck;" but how?

Dark thoughts come to him. He springs up aghast at the clatter when
his careless arm brushes off some costly trifles. With the priest
gone forever and the child in Paris, he has no stumbling block in
his way but "Kaintuck." There are ways; yes, ways.----!----!----!----!

"He must go on a journey; yes, a long, long journey." Hardin stops
here, and throwing himself on his couch, drifts out on the sea of
his uneasy dreams.

Morning proves to him Hortense is resigned; an hour's conclave
enlightens her as to the new life. Every contingency will be met.
Hortense, living in wealth's luxurious retirement, will be welcomed
as Madame Natalie de Santos, everywhere. A wealthy young widow,
speaking French and Spanish, with the best references. She will
wear a discreet mask of Southern mystery, and an acknowledged
relationship to families of Mexico and California. Her personal
appearance, tact, and wealth will be an appropriate dower to the
new acquisition of the glittering Capital of Pleasure. She is GOOD
ENOUGH for Paris.

Rapidly, every preparation moves on. The luggage of Madame de
Santos is filled with the varied possessions indicating years of
elegance. Letters to members of the Confederate court circle at
Paris are social endorsements. Wealth will do the rest.

Hardin's anxiety is to see the heiress lodged at the "Sacred Heart"
at Paris. In his capacity as guardian, he delegates sole power to
Madame Natalie de Santos. She alone can control the little lady of
Lagunitas. With every resource, special attentions will be paid to
the party, from Panama, on the French line. The hegira consists of
the two children, Marie Berard, and the nameless lady, soon to be
rebaptized "Natalie de Santos." Not unusual in California,--!--a
golden butterfly.

Vague sadness fills Hortense Duval's heart as she wanders through
her silent mansion, choosing these little belongings which are dear
to her shadowed heart. They will rob a Parisian home of suspicious
newness. The control of the heiress as well as their own child,
the ample monetary provision, and the social platform arranged for
her, prove Hardin's devotion. It is the best she can do.

True, he cannot now marry with safety. He has promised to right
that wrong in time.

There has been no want of tenderness in his years of devotion.
Hortense Duval acknowledges to herself that he dares not own her
openly, as his wife, even here. But in Paris, after a year or so.
Then he could come, at least as far as New York. He could meet
her, and by marriage, legitimize his child. Her child. The tiger's
darling.

A sudden thought strikes her. Some other woman!--Some one of REAL
station and blood. Ah, no! She shivers slightly as she paces the
room. No corner of the earth could hide him from her vengeance if
he betrays her.

The dinner of the last evening is a serious feast. As Hortense
ministers to the dark master of the house, she can see he has not
fully disclosed his ultimate plans. It is positive the child must
be hidden away at Paris from all. Hardin enjoins silence as to
the future prospects of the orphan. The little one has already
forgotten her father. She is rapidly losing all memories of her
sweet mother.

In the silence of these last hours, Philip Hardin speaks to the
woman who has been his only intimate in years.

"Hortense, I may find a task for you which will prove your devotion,"
he begins with reluctance.

"What is it, Philip?" she falters.

He resumes. "I do not know how far I may be pushed by trouble. I
shall have to struggle and fight to hold my own. I am safe for a
time, but I may be pushed to the wall. Will you, for the sake of
our own child, do as I bid you with that Spanish brat?"

At last she sees his gloomy meaning. Is it murder? An orphan child!

"Philip," she sobs, "be careful! For MY SAKE, for YOUR OWN." She
is chilled by his cold designs.

"Only at the last. Just as I direct, I may wish you to control
the disappearance of that young one, who stands between me and our
marriage."

She seizes his hands: "Swear to me that you will never deceive me."

"I do," he answers huskily.

"On the cross," she sternly says, flashing before his startled eyes
a jewelled crucifix. "I will obey you--I swear it on this--as long
as you are true." She presses her ashy lips on the cross.

He kisses it. The promise is sealed.

In a few hours, Hortense Duval, from the deck of the swift Golden
Gate, sees the sunlight fall for the last time, in long years, on
San Francisco's sandy hills.

With peculiar adroitness, in defence of her past, for the sake of
her future position, she keeps her staterooms; only walking the
decks with her maid occasionally at night. No awkward travelling
pioneer must recognize her as the lost "Beauty of the El Dorado."
A mere pretence of illness is enough.

When safely out of the harbor of Colon, on the French steamer,
she is perfectly free. Her passage tickets, made out as Madame de
Santos, are her new credentials.

She has left her old life behind her. Keen and self-possessed, with
quiet dignity she queens it on the voyage. When the French coast is
reached, her perfect mastery of herself proves she has grown into
her new position.

Philip Hardin has whispered at the last, "I want you to get rid of
your maid in a few months. It is just as well she should be out of
the way."

When out of Hardin's influence, reviewing the whole situation,
Hortense, in her real character, becomes a little fearful. What
if he should drop her? Suppose he denies her identity. He can
legally reclaim the "Heiress of Lagunitas." Hortense Duval well
knows that Philip Hardin will stop at nothing. As the French coast
nears, Hortense mentally resolves NOT to part with Marie Berard.
Marie is a valuable witness of the past relations. She is the only
safeguard she has against Hardin's manifold schemes. So far there
is no "entente cordiale" between mistress and maid. They watch
each other.

By hazard, as the children are brought out, ready for the landing,
Hortense notices the similarity of dress, the speaking resemblance
of the children. Marie Berard, proud of their toilettes, remarks,
"Madame, they are almost twins in looks."

Hortense Duval's lightning mind conceives a daring plan. She broods
in calm and quiet, as the cars bear her from Havre to Paris. She
must act quickly. She knows Hardin may use more ways of gaining
information than her own letters. His brain is fertile. His purse,
powerful.

Going to an obscure hotel, she procures a carriage. She drives
alone to the Convent of the Sacre Coeur. With perfect tranquillity
she announces her wishes. The Mother Superior, personally, is charmed
with Madame de Santos. A mere mention of her banking references
is sufficient. Blest power of gold!

Madame Natalie de Santos is in good humor when she regains her
apartment. On the next morning, after a brief visit to her bankers,
who receive her "en princesse," she drives alone with her OWN
child to the Sacred Heart. While the little one prattles with some
engaging Sisters, Hortense calmly registers the nameless child
of sin as ISABEL VALOIS, THE HEIRESS OF LAGUNITAS. A year's fees
and payments are made. A handsome "outfit allowance" provides all
present needs suited to the child's station. Arranging to send the
belongings of the heiress to the convent, Hortense Duval buries
her past forever in giving to her own child the name and station
of the heiress of Lagunitas. To keep a hold on Hardin she will
place the other child where that crafty lawyer can never find her.
Her bosom swells with pride. Now, at last, she can control the
deepest plans of Philip Hardin. But if he should demand their own
child? He has no legal power over the nameless one--not even here.
Marriage first. After that, the secret. It is a MASTER STROKE.

Hortense Duval thinks only of her own child. She cares nothing
for the dead Confederate under the Georgia pines. Gentle Dolores
is sleeping in the chapel grounds at Lagunitas. Isabel Valois has
not a friend in the world!

But, Marie Berard must be won and controlled. Why not? It is
fortune for her to be true to her liberal mistress. Berard knows
Paris and has friends. She will see them. If the maid be discharged,
Hortense loses her only witness against Hardin; her only safeguard.
As Madame de Santos is ushered to her rooms, she decides to act
at once, and drop forever her past. But Marie?

Marie Berard wonders at the obscure hotel. Her brain finds no
reason for this isolation. "Ah! les modes de Paris." Madame will
soon emerge as a lovely vision.

In the years of her service with Hortense Duval, Marie has quietly
enriched herself. She knows the day of parting comes in all unlawful
connections. Time and fading charms, coldness and the lassitude of
habit, eat away the golden chain till it drops off. "On se range
enfin."

The "femme de chambre" knows too much to ever think of imposing
on Judge Hardin. He is too sly. It is from Madame de Santos the
golden stream must flow.

Self-satisfied, Marie Berard smiles in her cat-like way as she thinks
of a nice little house in Paris. Its income will support her. She
will nurse this situation with care. It is a gold mine.

There is no wonderment in her keen eyes when Madame de Santos returns
without the child she took away. A French maid never wonders. But
she is astonished when her mistress, calling her, calmly says,
pointing to the lonely orphan:

"Marie, I wish you to aid me to get rid of this child. Do you know
any one in Paris whom we can trust?"

"Will Madame kindly explain?" the maid gasps, her visions of that
snug house becoming more definite.

"Sit down, Marie," the newly christened Madame de Santos commands.
"I will trust you. You shall be richly rewarded."

The Frenchwoman's eyes glitter. The golden shower she has longed
for, "Auri sacra fames."

"You may trust me perfectly, Madame."

"I wish you to understand me fully. We must act at once. I will see
no friends till this girl is out of the way. Then I shall at once
arrange my household."

"Does the young lady not go to the convent?" says the astonished
servant, a trifle maliciously.

"Certainly not," coldly says Hortense. "My own child shall be the
heiress of that fortune. She is already at the Sacred Heart."

Marie Berard's keen eye sees the plot. An exchange of children.
The nameless child shall be dowered with millions. Her own future
is assured.

"Does any one know of this plan?" the maid eagerly asks.

"Only you and I," is the response.

Ah! Revenge on her stately tyrant lover. The maid dreams of a golden
shower. That snug hotel. It is a delicious moment. "What do you
wish me to do, Madame?" Marie is now cool.

"Find a place, at once, where the child can be well treated in
a 'bourgeois' family. I want you to place her as if she were your
own. I wish no one to ever see me or know of me in this matter."

The maid's eyes sparkle. Fortune's wheel turns. "And I shall be--"
she pauses.

"You may be suspected to be the mother. No one can learn anything
from the child. I wish her to be raised in ignorance."

Madame de Santos is a genius in a quiet way. It is true, the
prattling heiress, on the threshold of a new life, speaks only
Spanish and a little English. She has forgotten her father. Even
now her mother fades from her mind. A few passing months will sweep
away all memories of Lagunitas. The children are nearly the same
age, and not dissimilar.

"And the Judge?" murmurs the servant.

"I will take care of that," sharply says Hortense.

"Madame, it is a very great responsibility," begins the sly maid,
now confidante. There is a strong sharp accent on the "very."

"I will pay you as you never dreamed of being paid." Madame Natalie
is cool and quiet. Gold, blessed gold!

"It is well. I am yours for life," says Marie Berard. The two women's
eyes meet. They understand one another. Feline, prehensile nerves.

Then, action at once. Hortense hands the woman a package of
bank-notes. "Leave here as if for a walk. Take a 'fiacre' on the
street, and go to your friends. You tell me you have some discreet
ones. Tell them you have a child to take care of. Say no more.
They will guess the rest. I want the child to be left to-morrow
morning. After your return we can arrange her present needs. The
rest you can provide through your friends. I want you to see the
child once a week, not oftener. Go."

In ten minutes Marie Berard is rolling away to her advisers. Her
letter has already announced her arrival. She knows her Paris. If
a French maid has a heart history, hers is a succession of former
Parisian scenes.

Madame Natalie de Santos closes the doors. While her emissary is
gone she examines the child thoroughly. Not a single blemish or
peculiar mark on the girl, save a crossed scar on her left arm,
between the wrist and elbow. Some surgical operation of trifling
nature has left a mark in its healing, which will be visible for
many years.

Making careful mental note, the impatient woman awaits her servant's
return.

Seated, she watches the orphan child trifling with her playthings.
Hortense Duval feels no twinge of conscience. Her own child shall
be lifted far beyond the storms of fate. If Hardin acts rightly,
all is well. If he attempts to betray her, all the better. She
will guard the heiress of Mariposa with her life. She shall become
a "bourgeoise."

Should Hardin die before he marries her, the base-born child is
then sure of the millions. She will make her a woman of the world.
When the great property is safely hers, then she can trust HER OWN
daughter.

As to the poor orphan, buried in Paris, educated as a "bourgeoise,"
she will never see her face, save perhaps, as a passing stranger.
The child can be happy in the solid comforts of a middle-class
family. It is good enough for her.

And Marie Berard. She needs her, at all cost, as a protection, the
only bulwark against any dark scheme of Hardin's. Her tool, and
her one witness.

Ten years in the mansion on the hills of San Francisco have
given her an insight into Philip Hardin's desperate moves on the
chessboard of life. Love, faith, truth, she dares not expect. A
lack of fatherly tenderness to the child he has wronged; his refusal
to put a wedding ring on her own finger, tell her the truth. She
knows her hold is slight. But NOW the very millions of Lagunitas
shall fight against him. Move for move in the play. Blow for blow,
if it comes to a violent rupture.

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