"No!the whole mountain-side belongs to Don Diego Fletcher.He lives away back in the coast range at Los Gatos,but he has a cottage and mill on the beach.""Don Diego Fletcher--Fletcher!Is he a Spaniard then?""Half and half,I reckon;he's from the lower country,I believe.""Is he here often?"
"Not much;he has mills at Los Gatos,wheat ranches at Santa Clara,and owns a newspaper in 'Frisco!But he's here now.There were lights in his house last night,and his cutter lies off the point.""Could you get a small package and note to him?""Certainly;it is only a row across the bay.""Thank you."
Without removing her hat and cloak she sat down at the table and began a letter to Don Diego Fletcher.She begged to inclose to him a manuscript which she was satisfied,for the interests of its author,was better in his hands than hers.It had been given to her by the author,Mr.J.M.Harcourt,whom she understood was engaged on Mr.Fletcher's paper,the "Clarion."In fact,it had been written at HER suggestion,and from an incident in real life of which she was cognizant.She was sorry to say that on account of some very foolish criticism of her own as to the FACTS,the talented young author had become so dissatisfied with it as to make it possible that,if left to himself,this very charming and beautifully written story would remain unpublished.As an admirer of Mr.Harcourt's genius,and a friend of his family,she felt that such an event would be deplorable,and she therefore begged to leave it to Mr.Fletcher's delicacy and tact to arrange with the author for its publication.She knew that Mr.Fletcher had only to read it to be convinced of its remarkable literary merit,and she again would impress upon him the fact that her playful and thoughtless criticism--which was personal and confidential--was only based upon the circumstances that the author had really made a more beautiful and touching story than the poor facts which she had furnished seemed to warrant.She had only just learned the fortunate circumstance that Mr.Fletcher was in the neighborhood of the hotel where she was staying with her brother.
With the same practical,business-like directness,but perhaps a certain unbusiness-like haste superadded,she rolled up the manuscript and dispatched it with the letter.
This done,however,a slight reaction set in,and having taken off her hat and shawl,she dropped listlessly on a chair by the window,but as suddenly rose and took a seat in the darker part of the room.She felt that she had done right,that highest but most depressing of human convictions!It was entirely for his good.
There was no reason why his best interests should suffer for his folly.If anybody was to suffer it was she.But what nonsense was she thinking!She would write to him later when she was a little cooler,--as she had said.But then he had distinctly told her,and very rudely too,that he didn't want her to write.Wanted her to make SIGNALS to him,--the idiot!and probably was even now watching her with a telescope.It was really too preposterous!
The result was that her brother found her on his return in a somewhat uncertain mood,and,as a counselor,variable and conflicting in judgment.If this Clementina,who seemed to have the family qualities of obstinacy and audacity,really cared for him,she certainly wouldn't let delicacy stand in the way of letting him know it--and he was therefore safe to wait a little.A few moments later,she languidly declared that she was afraid that she was no counselor in such matters;really she was getting too old to take any interest in that sort of thing,and she never had been a matchmaker!By the way now,wasn't it odd that this neighbor,that rich capitalist across the bay,should be called Fletcher,and "James Fletcher"too,for Diego meant "James"in Spanish.Exactly the same name as poor "Cousin Jim"who disappeared.Did he remember her old playmate Jim?But her brother thought something else was a deuced sight more odd,namely,that this same Don Diego Fletcher was said to be very sweet on Clementina now,and was always in her company at the Ramirez.And that,with this "Clarion"apology on the top of it,looked infernally queer.
Mrs.Ashwood felt a sudden consternation.Here had she--Jack's sister--just been taking Jack's probable rival into confidential correspondence!She turned upon Jack sharply:--"Why didn't you say that before?"
"I did tell you,"he said gloomily,"but you didn't listen.But what difference does it make to you now?""None whatever,"said Mrs.Ashwood calmly as she walked out of the room.
Nevertheless the afternoon passed wearily,and her usual ride into the upland canyon did not reanimate her.For reasons known best to herself she did not take her after-dinner stroll along the shore to watch the outlying fog.At a comparatively early hour,while there was still a roseate glow in the western sky,she appeared with grim deliberation,and the blue lamp-shade in her hand,and placed it over the lamp which she lit and stood on her table beside the window.This done she sat down and began to write with bright-eyed but vicious complacency.
"But you don't want that light AND the window,Constance,"said Jack wonderingly.
Mrs.Ashwood could not stand the dreadful twilight.
"But take away your lamp and you'll have light enough from the sunset,"responded Jack.
That was just what she didn't want!The light from the window was that horrid vulgar red glow which she hated.It might be very romantic and suit lovers like Jack,but as SHE had some work to do,she wanted the blue shade of the lamp to correct that dreadful glare.
