Chapter X: Inez and Her Father

When Inez heard Tom’s voice and saw him standing near her she knew him at once and felt for a moment as if her heart stopped beating; then there was a sensation as if it were turning over rapidly, as she had seen a wheel turn in machinery, and swelling as it turned, until her throat was full and she could not breathe. Of what happened next she had only a confused recollection. Somebody shrieked, but whether it was herself, or Fanny she did not know. Somebody leaped from the stage and confronted Tom with a revolver. That was herself. She was clear on that point. She had threatened to shoot him and knew there was a feeling in her heart which would have let her do it, if he had not gone as she bade him go. Then Nero came, and with him a reaction of feeling and her thought was to save Tom from recognition, for he was still the man whom she loved, and she called the dog back and watched Tom till he disappeared from sight, straining her eyes while he was visible among the trees as if she would hold him as long as possible, for never again could he be to her what he had been. Then a great darkness came over her and she felt Fanny’s tears upon her face and heard the sound of many voices talking of her, and among them at last Tom’s; Tom, himself, in the clothes he had worn away that morning, when he kissed her good-bye, as he would never kiss her again. The impulse to kill him was gone. She must save him now from suspicion, for more than he was involved in the terrible thing which had happened.

Rallying all her strength she saw the stage depart leaving her alone with a despair which made her cover her mouth with her hands lest she should cry out and bring her friends back to her. With a feeling of disgust she drew away from Tom’s touch when he would have helped her and felt again a disposition to kill him if he came near her. All her Spanish and Mexican blood was at fever heat, nor did it abate at the sight of her father who was equally guilty with Tom. Ignoring his offer of help she went at once to her room and threw herself upon the bed in an agony of despair. Everything had been swept away, leaving a darkness so profound that she could see no light in the past or future. She loved Tom. She worshipped her father, and had been so proud of both, and both were brigands. She said the word to herself, pressing her hands first upon her temples, which throbbed with pain and then clasping them over her heart which burned like fire and beat so loudly that she could hear every beat and thought it sounded like a muffled drum.

“Brigands!” she repeated, while from every corner of the room the word came back to her till the air was filled with it.

She understood everything, for her mind had gone rapidly over the past, gathering up proof here and there until all was plain to her,—the double lives of the two men, who were all she had to love, and the knowledge gave her nearly as much shame as pain that she should have been so deceived. She knew now why her mother died so suddenly, with that awful look on her face as her palsied tongue tried in vain to speak. She had discovered the truth and it had killed her.

“Happy mother, to die!” she moaned. “I wish I could die too. Oh, father, I thought you a king among men, and Tom, too. I was so happy yesterday and this morning, with no thought that I was a brigand’s daughter,—that the men I wished could be caught and hung were father and Tom! Oh, I cannot bear it. I feel like a debased creature, whom no one would speak to, if he knew, and I loved Fanny so much, and she liked me some. But that is all over now. Tom meant to rob _her_, the only girl friend I ever had—Oh-h! I cannot bear it.”

Her agony was intense as the horror grew upon her and she was burning with excitement and fever. There was a feeling in her as if she could not breathe, and every heart beat was like a heavy blow. She had opened a window and she tried to rise again and go to it for air, but could not, and she fell back upon her pillow with her eyes staring at the pointed ceiling of her room. It was a pretty room, furnished with many articles her father had bought for her and which she knew were expensive. Fanny had liked it and her presence there had lent a halo to everything. But Inez loathed it all now, knowing where the money came from which had bought these luxuries which a poor mountaineer’s daughter ought never to have.

“I can’t stay here. I must go away and earn my living somewhere,” she was thinking, when she heard her father’s knock upon the door.

He was coming to explain, she thought, and she did not want an explanation. Nothing could change the shameful facts, and she did not look at him as he came in and sat down beside her. Her hand was lying near him and she drew it away quickly as if afraid he might take it. He saw the motion and interpreted it aright.

“Inez,” he began, “have no fear that I will touch you. I am not worthy to sit in the same room with you, and I am not here to make excuses; I want to ask what you know about Fanny Prescott. Who is she? I mean, who was her mother?”

Inez was too stupified and bewildered to wonder at her father’s question and replied, “Her mother was a Miss Helen Tracy, of New York. Judge Prescott was her step-father, whose name she took when her mother married him. Her own father was a Mr. Hilton, who was killed in the mines of Montana when Fanny was a baby—Father, father, what is it? What is the matter?” she exclaimed, as her father fell forward upon the bed. Everything was for the time forgotten in her anxiety for him as he lay like one dead.

“Tom, come quickly,” she cried, “Father is dying.”

But life was strong within him, and he soon recovered, but tore his cravat from his neck and unbuttoned his vest to help his breathing, which was nearly as labored as Inez’s had been.

“Tell me again who she is! Tell all you know!” he said, while Tom looked inquiringly at him and at Inez, who repeated what she had said of Fanny Prescott.

Tom, who was standing up, dropped into a chair as if he had been shot, while Mr. Hilton exclaimed, “Oh, Inez, Fanny is my daughter and your sister! For I am Mark Hilton—married first to Helen Tracy and divorced when our baby was a few months old, I thought she was dead. I heard so. Oh, my daughter, my daughter!” he cried in alarm at the look on Inez’s face as she listened to him. He had told everything with no thought of the effect it might have upon her. She had borne all she could bear, and with this fresh blow she lay for hours, not fainting, but dying it seemed to those who cared for her so tenderly,—the wretched father, the remorseful Tom, the kind neighbors who had been called in, and the doctor summoned from a hotel. The news of her bravery in confronting the robber had spread rapidly and the shock it must have given her was the cause assigned by the physician for the state in which he found her. There was also heart difficulty inherited from her mother, aggravated by the strain upon her nerves, he said. She was young. She might pull through, but the utmost care must be taken not to excite her in any way. All night a light shone from the window of the room where she lay with no sign of life except a feeble fluttering of the pulse and a low moan when her father spoke to her. Once when an allusion was made by some one to the adventure on the road and the belief expressed that the robbers would be captured if the whole state rose up to do it, she opened her eyes and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the foot of her bed. Her lips moved with a sound her watchers construed into “Do,” but which Tom, with his senses quickened and on the alert, knew was “Go,” and meant that he should fly before he was captured. But he was not that kind and would not have gone with Inez dying if he had known that all the police in San Francisco were on their way to take him.

Just as day was breaking there was a change for the better, and the women, who had cared for Inez during the night, left with a promise of returning as soon as possible. When no one was in the room but her father Inez whispered, “I want Fanny.”

“Yes, daughter,” Mark answered, feeling himself a strong desire to see her.

Then he remembered that if he would secure the daughter he must meet her mother,—once his wife. Could he do it, stained with sin as he was, and to find whom every foot in the valley had been gone over. There were placards out now he was sure in San Francisco and Stockton, offering thousands of dollars for his capture and that of his confederate. He had seen them before, and with Tom had stopped and read them, but never with a feeling that it was really himself that was meant. It had always been somebody else. Now it _was_ himself,—Mark Hilton,—who was wanted, and he could not meet Helen face to face. It was true she would not know the depths to which he had fallen. She would only be surprised to find him alive and very low down in the scale from what he was when she called him her husband. He could bear her look of proud disdain after her first fright was over, but, knowing himself as he did, he feared he could not meet her without betraying himself in some way. Tom could do it, and Tom must go. But Tom refused outright, and Mark was nearly beside himself.

As the morning wore on Inez grew more and more restless, asking for Fanny and if she had come and if they had sent for her. About noon the doctor came and found her fever so high that he said to Mr. Hilton, “If that young lady can come she may save your daughter’s life.”

Mark could hesitate no longer. “I am going for Fanny,” he said to Inez, “and will certainly bring her back.”

He found the hotel full of excited people, all talking of the hold up of the previous day and all inquiring for Inez, of whose serious illness they had heard when the morning stage from the valley came in. He was told that Mrs. Prescott was in her room, but Fanny had gone with a party to visit the big trees.

“I am not a card man now,” he thought, as he said to a servant, “Tell Mrs. Prescott that Mr. Rayborne wishes to see her,” and then sat down to try to quiet his nerves which tingled as if red hot lead was pouring through them.

It was years since he parted from Helen in bitter anger, but he was not thinking of that time now. His thoughts were back in Ridgefield and the summer morning when he saw her on the north piazza and fell under the spell of her wonderful eyes. He could see the mischief in them now as they had looked when she said to Uncle Zach “Which is Mark and which is Craig? You did not tell me.” He could see Craig dropping his straw into his tumbler of lemonade as he sprang up to meet her and himself knocking his head against Craig’s as each seized the same chair for her. He remembered, too, the rose in her ribbons and knew that somewhere among his belongings the faded leaves and dried calyx were hidden away. It was strange how every detail of that morning came back to him as he sat waiting the return of the servant, who, when he came, said to him, “The lady will see you. Second floor, No. —, to the right.”