Mr. Jack Hamlin's Mediation

Jarman did not laugh. “If you had told me,” he said gravely, “I could have kept watch for you with my glass while you were there. I could see further than you.”

“Tould you see US?” asked the little girl, with hopeful vivacity.

“No!” said Jarman, with masterly evasion. “There are little sandhills between this and the beach.”

“Then how tould other people see us?” persisted the child.

Jarman could see that the older girl was evidently embarrassed, and changed the subject. “I sometimes go out,” he said, “when I can see there are no vessels in sight, and I take ray glass with me. I can always get back in time to make signals. I thought, in fact,” he said, glancing at Cara’s brightening face, “that I might get as far as your house on the shore some day.” To his surprise, her embarrassment suddenly seemed to increase, although she had looked relieved before, and she did not reply. After a moment she said abruptly:—

“Did you ever see the sea-lions?”

“No,” said Jarman.

“Not the big ones on Seal Rock, beyond the cliffs?” continued the girl, in real astonishment.

“No,” repeated Jarman. “I never walked in that direction.” He vaguely remembered that they were a curiosity which sometimes attracted parties thither, and for that reason he had avoided the spot.

“Why, I have sailed all around the rock in father’s boat,” continued Cara, with importance. “That’s the best way to see ‘em, and folks from Frisco sometimes takes a sail out there just on purpose,—it’s too sandy to walk or drive there. But it’s only a step from here. Look here!” she said suddenly, and frankly opening her fine eyes upon him. “I’m going to take Lucy there to-morrow, and I’ll show you.” Jarman felt his cheeks flush quickly with a pleasure that embarrassed him. “It won’t take long,” added Cara, mistaking his momentary hesitation, “and you can leave your telegraph alone. Nobody will be there, so no one will see you and nobody know it.”

He would have gone then, anyway, he knew, yet in his absurd self-consciousness he was glad that her last suggestion had relieved him of a sense of reckless compliance. He assented eagerly, when with a wave of her hand, a flash of her white teeth, and the same abruptness she had shown at their last parting, she caught Lucy by the arm and darted away in a romping race to her dwelling. Jarman started after her. He had not wanted to go to her father’s house particularly, but why was SHE evidently as averse to it? With the subtle pleasure that this admission gave him there was a faint stirring of suspicion.

It was gone when he found her and Lucy the next morning, radiant with the sunshine, before his door. The restraint of their previous meetings had been removed in some mysterious way, and they chatted gayly as they walked towards the cliffs. She asked him frankly many questions about himself, why he had come there, and if he “wasn’t lonely;” she answered frankly—I fear much more frankly than he answered her—the many questions he asked her about herself and her friends. When they reached the cliffs they descended to the beach, which they found deserted. Before them—it seemed scarce a pistol shot from the shore arose a high, broad rock, beaten at its base by the long Pacific surf, on which a number of shapeless animals were uncouthly disporting. This was Seal Rock, the goal of their journey.

Yet after a few moments they no longer looked at it, but seated on the sand, with Lucy gathering shells at the water’s edge, they continued their talk. Presently the talk became eager confidences, and then,—there were long and dangerous lapses of silence, when both were fain to make perfunctory talk with Lucy on the beach. After one of those silences Jarman said:—

“Do you know I rather thought yesterday you didn’t want me to come to your father’s house. Why was that?”

“Because Marco was there,” said the girl frankly.

“What had HE to do with it?” said Jarman abruptly.

“He wants to marry me.”

“And do you want to marry HIM?” said Jarman quickly.

“No,” said the girl passionately.

“Why don’t you get rid of him, then?”

“I can’t, he’s hiding here,—he’s father’s friend.”

“Hiding? What’s he been doing?”

“Stealing. Stealing gold-dust from miners. I never cared for him anyway. And I hate a thief!”

She looked up quickly. Jarman had risen to his feet, his face turned to sea.

“What are you looking at?” she said wonderingly.

“A ship,” said Jarman, in a strange, hoarse voice. “I must hurry back and signal. I’m afraid I haven’t even time to walk with you,—I must run for it. Good-by!”

He turned without offering his hand and ran hurriedly in the direction of the semaphore.

Cara, discomfited, turned her black eyes to the sea. But it seemed empty as before, no sail, no ship on the horizon line, only a little schooner slowly beating out of the Gate. Ah, well! It no doubt was there,—that sail,—though she could not see it; how keen and far-seeing his handsome, honest eyes were! She heaved a little sigh, and, calling Lucy to her side, began to make her way homeward. But she kept her eyes on the semaphore; it seemed to her the next thing to seeing him,—this man she was beginning to love. She waited for the gaunt arms to move with the signal of the vessel he had seen. But, strange to say, it was motionless. He must have been mistaken.

All this, however, was driven from her mind in the excitement that she found on her return thrilling her own family. They had been warned that a police boat with detectives on board had been dispatched from San Francisco to the cove. Luckily, they had managed to convey the fugitive Franti on board a coastwise schooner,—Cara started as she remembered the one she had seen beating out of the Gate,—and he was now safe from pursuit. Cara felt relieved; at the same time she felt a strange joy at her heart, which sent the conscious blood to her cheek. She was not thinking of the escaped Marco, but of Jarman. Later, when the police boat arrived,—whether the detectives had been forewarned of Marco’s escape or not,—they contented themselves with a formal search of the little fishing-hut and departed. But their boat remained lying off the shore.

That night Cara tossed sleeplessly on her bed; she was sorry she had ever spoken of Marco to Jarman. It was unnecessary now; perhaps he disbelieved her and thought she loved Marco; perhaps that was the reason of his strange and abrupt leave-taking that afternoon. She longed for the next day, she could tell him everything now.

Towards morning she slept fitfully, but was awakened by the sound of voices on the sands outside the hut. Its flimsy structure, already warped by the fierce day-long sun, allowed her through chinks and crevices not only to recognize the voices of the detectives, but to hear distinctly what they said. Suddenly the name of Jarman struck upon her ear. She sat upright in bed, breathless.

“Are you sure it’s the same man?” asked a second voice.

“Perfectly,” answered the first. “He was tracked to ‘Frisco, but disappeared the day he landed. We knew from our agents that he never left the bay. And when we found that somebody answering his description got the post of telegraph operator out here, we knew that we had spotted our man and the L250 sterling offered for his capture.”

“But that was five months ago. Why didn’t you take him then?”

“Couldn’t! For we couldn’t hold him without the extradition papers from Australia. We sent for ‘em; they’re due to-day or to-morrow on the mail steamer.”

“But he might have got away at any time?”

“He couldn’t without our knowing it. Don’t you see? Every time the signals went up, we in San Francisco knew he was at his post. We had him safe, out here on these sandhills, as if he’d been under lock and key in ‘Frisco. He was his own keeper, and reported to us.”

“But since you’re here and expect the papers to-morrow, why don’t you ‘cop’ him now?”

“Because there isn’t a judge in San Francisco that would hold him a moment unless he had those extradition papers before him. He’d be discharged, and escape.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“As soon as the steamer is signaled in ‘Frisco, we’ll board her in the bay, get the papers, and drop down upon him.”

“I see; and as HE’S the signal man, the darned fool”—

“Will give the signal himself.”

The laugh that followed was so cruel that the young girl shuddered. But the next moment she slipped from the bed, erect, pale, and determined.

The voices seemed gradually to retreat. She dressed herself hurriedly, and passed noiselessly through the room of her still sleeping parent, and passed out. A gray fog was lifting slowly over the sands and sea, and the police boat was gone. She no longer hesitated, but ran quickly in the direction of Jarman’s cabin. As she ran, her mind seemed to be swept clear of all illusion and fancy; she saw plainly everything that had happened; she knew the mystery of Jarman’s presence here,—the secret of his life,—the dreadful cruelty of her remark to him,—the man that she knew now she loved. The sun was painting the black arms of the semaphore as she toiled over the last stretch of sand and knocked loudly at the door. There was no reply. She knocked again; the cabin was silent. Had he already fled?—and without seeing her and knowing all! She tried the handle of the door; it yielded; she stepped boldly into the room, with his name upon her lips. He was lying fully dressed upon his couch. She ran eagerly to his side and stopped. It needed only a single glance at his congested face, his lips parted with his heavy breath, to see that the man was hopelessly, helplessly drunk!

Yet even then, without knowing that it was her thoughtless speech which had driven him to seek this foolish oblivion of remorse and sorrow, she saw only his HELPLESSNESS. She tried in vain to rouse him; he only muttered a few incoherent words and sank back again. She looked despairingly around. Something must be done; the steamer might be visible at any moment. Ah, yes,—the telescope! She seized it and swept the horizon. There was a faint streak of haze against the line of sea and sky, abreast the Golden Gate. He had once told her what it meant. It WAS the steamer! A sudden thought leaped into her clear and active brain. If the police boat should chance to see that haze too, and saw no warning signal from the semaphore, they would suspect something. That signal must be made, BUT NOT THE RIGHT ONE! She remembered quickly how he had explained to her the difference between the signals for a coasting steamer and the one that brought the mails. At that distance the police boat could not detect whether the semaphore’s arms were extended to perfect right angles for the mail steamer, or if the left arm slightly deflected for a coasting steamer. She ran out to the windlass and seized the crank. For a moment it defied her strength; she redoubled her efforts: it began to creak and groan, the great arms were slowly uplifted, and the signal made.

But the familiar sounds of the moving machinery had pierced through Jarman’s sluggish consciousness as no other sound in heaven or earth could have done, and awakened him to the one dominant sense he had left,—the habit of duty. She heard him roll from the bed with an oath, stumble to the door, and saw him dash forward with an affrighted face, and plunge his head into a bucket of water. He emerged from it pale and dripping, but with the full light of reason and consciousness in his eyes. He started when he saw her; even then she would have fled, but he caught her firmly by the wrist.

Then with a hurried, trembling voice she told him all and everything. He listened in silence, and only at the end raised her hand gravely to his lips.

“And now,” she added tremulously, “you must fly—quick—at once; or it will be too late!”

But Richard Jarman walked slowly to the door of his cabin, still holding her hand, and said quietly, pointing to his only chair:—