The shrieks ended by Wun Lung’s throwing himself face downward on the floor, but they had roused the whole household, even the sleeping children. Those in the room below had rushed to the stairs, wondering what could possibly have happened to the Chinaman, whose outcries these certainly were. The little lads had sprang from their cot, screaming on their own account, and Mrs. Benton had awaked from the “fortywinks” she was taking in her chair. As a natural result of her sudden awakening she grasped the two children who were clinging to her skirts and shook them soundly, ordering them to “shut up to once ’fore you scare folks to death.” They were not easily pacified and she thus, fortunately, had her hands full, for the moment, else the fear-paralyzed Wun Lung might have fared hardly. As it was, none but Jessica had a full, clear view of the strange visitant, since the Chinaman had closed his eyes against it and the others had not thought to look out of doors; but she saw it, and with critical distinctness. For an instant, indeed, her own nerves had thrilled and her heart seemed to stand still; the next her overpowering desire to see the “spook” for herself had conquered her terror and she gazed with all her might. “It certainly looks like Pedro, with his clothes all white. And the horse––it may be his that died––but––but–––” The ghostly steed and its rider remained utterly motionless, as if scrutinizing the house on their own part or waiting for somebody to appear; then, as the little girl bounded to the open window the better to gratify her curiosity, the animal––if such it was––slowly wheeled about and loped away. There was a sound of muffled footfalls on the hard drive, and the vision had vanished. Jessica still leaned from the casement watching and thinking more rapidly than she had ever done before; but when convinced that the apparition was really gone, she slowly retreated below stairs, passing her mother and Ninian on the way, yet not pausing till she had gained the side of the sharpshooter. Him she seized, exultantly exclaiming: “Well, Ephraim, I’ve seen your spectre!” “You––have!” “And it’s no more a ‘ghost’ than I am.” “What do you mean?” he demanded, hastily; ashamed of himself for half regretting that the supernatural view of the matter might not be the right one. “It isn’t? Well, what is it, then?” “It’s Antonio Bernal and his horse, Nero.” “Huh! How do you fetch that? When both of them are black as my hat.” Her last, lingering uneasiness banished by his presence and the sound of her own words, with firmer conviction she declared to him and the others who had now gathered about her: “I ‘fetch it’ fast enough. This was the way dear old Pedro used to ride; and this is the way your “That’s them to a t-i-o-n-tion! Can seem to see ’em right here before me. Well––what next?” “Pedro wore his blanket like a king. Antonio has covered his head with that white thing, and even so wasn’t half Pedro’s height. I shall not soon forget that splendid Old Century, the last time I saw him ride away, that night. A hundred years old, yet as straight in his saddle as a rod.” “Antonio Bernal was a magnificent horseman, darling,” suggested Mrs. Trent, from the chair into which she had sunk, as if weakened by the series of startling events which had befallen her home. “Even so, mother, dear, he couldn’t match old Pedro. Antonio sat forward, so, with a careless sort of slouch––just like the ‘spook’ had.” “What could possibly be his motive for such foolishness, daughter, granting you are right?” The captain laughed. “Upon my word, mother, even you, as well as Ephraim, seem sorry it isn’t a truly ghost, after all.” “No, no, indeed. I’m sorry, rather, to think it may be Antonio, as you fancy, and that he still persists in troubling us, even by so silly a disguise.” “It hasn’t been so silly, Mrs. Trent, if it has hoodwinked a lot of sensible people, and you are right––there must be a motive for it in the actor’s mind. I hope Jessica’s judgment in the case is correct, for back there in Los Angeles, we didn’t find the manager a difficult person to deal with,” remarked Mr. Sharp. The girl went on: “Then that horse. Don’t you remember, mother, and you, Ephraim, the curious little switch Nero used to give his tail whenever he was turned around? Well, this ‘spook’ horse did just the same thing. Oh, I know, I know I’m right!” “But how could he turn a black horse snow white, even if you are? As I remember Nero he wouldn’t stand much nonsense, even from his own master,” said “Forty-niner.” “Pooh! If lack-wit Ferd could paint Prince, as he did––another spirited horse, if you please––Antonio could do what he liked with Nero. It’s paint, of course, or something like it.” “But the eyes? The eyes as we saw them on the road, a few hours back, were all on fire. You could see them almost before you could make out that it was a man on horseback was coming. Isn’t that so, Sharp?” demanded Ephraim, persistent to the last. Jessica turned upon him, triumphantly: “There! I knew from the way you two looked when we were talking a little while ago that you’d seen something out of common! Do tell me about it, please. Do, do!” Ninian laughed, glanced at his hostess’ face, and replied: “That’s a story will keep, and you should be in bed. I don’t want to have my coming harm you when I meant it to do you good. Even such a courageous child as you ought to sleep a great deal.” She had been courageous, indeed, and had astonished him by a coolness and readiness of observation which would have done credit to a much older person. He began to realize how different she was “Oh, what a dreamless, delicious rest I’ve had!” was the visitor’s waking thought. His next, that it must be very late and that he had put his hostess to unnecessary trouble. Then he turned over “for just one more wink” and slumbered on for another couple of hours. This time he had dreams in plenty; and finally roused from one, of beautiful gardens peopled by harmless “spooks,” to a sound of sweet music. By his watch he saw that it was eleven o’clock and remembered that it was Sunday. Also, the music was that of a familiar hymn, played upon a fine piano, which was taken up and sung by a choir of mixed voices, from the childish treble of the two little lads to the stentorian bass of Samson, the mighty. Hastily dressing, Ninian slipped quietly down the stairs and entered the sunny parlor; where Jessica motioned to a chair which had evidently been reserved for him, and softly approached him with an open hymn book. It was Mrs. Trent at the piano and her rich soprano voice faultlessly led her straggling chorus, Afterwards, Aunt Sally explained, for she had seen Ninian’s amused survey of her “boy,” that: “John can no more carry a tune than he can fly, and I’d rather hear him sawin’ his boards than tryin’ to sing. But he feels it’s his duty to help the others along by singing at it and sort of keepin’ Gabriell’ in countenance, seems if. Sweet, ain’t it?” It had been “sweet” in the guest’s opinion––the whole of the short service; conducted with such simple dignity and reverence by the Madonna-like ranch mistress; the music so well chosen, the few prayers so feelingly offered, and the brief exhortation read from the words of a famous divine who had the rare gift of touching men’s hearts. And he so expressed himself, as well as his surprise, over the belated breakfast which Mrs. Benton served him when the service was over and the household dispersed. “Yes, I think it’s the nicest thing there is about this dear Sobrante. There’s always been the best sort of inflooence here and that’s why I like my boy, John, to belong. Cass’us, he used to hold the meeting, and after he died I feared Gabriella wouldn’t be equal to it. But bless your soul! if down “Thank you, no. I’ve enjoyed my breakfast hugely, and feel as if I’d never known a moment’s illness.” There was the sound of wheels just then and Ninian strolled out to offer his service as escort to the ranch mistress in case she might desire it. But Ninian saw the state of affairs plainly enough, and, possibly, so did “Forty-niner” himself; who might, under some circumstances, have sacrificed his pleasure for that of the young man. But not now. Ever since he had returned from his long stay in the city, the sensitive old fellow had felt a difference in his surroundings. There was nobody mean enough to tell him of the base suspicions that his fellow workmen had harbored about him, and they fancied that by treating him with more than former friendliness they could offset the unknown injury they had done him. It was this very effusiveness that had roused his suspicions that something was wrong, and he saw in this solitary drive with his beloved mistress a chance to unburden his mind and get her wise opinion on the matter. So he merely “passed the time of day” with the guest, helped the lady to her place, and stepped up beside her; then chirruped to his horse and was off. But Ninian was not allowed much disappointment, for there was Lady Jess, clasping his hand and looking up into his face with the brightest of smiles, as she exclaimed: “First, I would like to walk around to that curious hedge yonder, that you told me before had been planted by the old padres. Everything about these ancient missions interests me.” “Oh! I love them, too, and I’m so glad we live on one, or the place where one used to be. That hedge is prickly-pear and was meant to keep the Indians out of the inclosure, if they were ugly. But it’s a hundred years old, and Pedro could remember when it was ever so much smaller than now.” It was a weird stretch of the repellent cactus, whose great gnarled branches locked and intertwined themselves in a verdureless mass of thorns and spikes which well might have daunted even an Indian. The hedge was many feet in width and higher than Ninian’s shoulder, still green on top, but too unlovely to have been preserved for any reason save its antiquity and history. One end of it was close to the kitchen part of the house, and the other reached beyond the fall of the farthest old adobe. “A formidable barrier, indeed! It reminds me of some of Dore’s fantastic pictures,” said the reporter. “Doesn’t it? My mother has books with his drawings in, and I have thought that, too. It is a trouble sometimes, because anybody coming across the field from yonder must go either way around the quarters or all along the back of the house, Mr. Sharp lifted his head from his close examination of a branch that had particularly interested him and saw Jessica pointing in astonishment at the very heart of the great hedge. “What is it? Something especially curious?” “Curious! It’s––it’s––dreadful! You can see right through it! Somebody has ruined it!” The reporter stooped and followed the direction of her guiding finger and saw that a strange thing had indeed been done. For a considerable length the terrible barrier had been literally tunneled, though the fact was not easily discernible. Walls of the bare and twisted branches were still left unbroken on either side, but a sufficient space had been scooped out to admit the passage of a human being should such desire a hiding place. “Oh! isn’t that dreadful? Who could have done it, and why?” cried the captain, in distress; and her companion could only think of Aunt Sally’s declaration, made to him at breakfast, that Sobrante was “bewitched.” |