CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MOCKERY OF FATE.
It did not require more than that one glance to declare the identity of this figure.
It was Hildegarde.
She stood not more than six feet away—my back was toward her, and as the space under the canopy could not boast of any too much light, evidently she had no suspicionof my presence. I did not move at once, but sat there feasting my eyes upon her.
She looked over the sea—somewhere in that direction lay the tropical land of Bolivar, whence we had just sailed.
Did she know that?—was her gaze bent in that quarter with anything like regret?—could she have left any one there about whom she felt concern?
That sigh—was it meant for grief or satisfaction? In short, had I after all done her as great a service as I thought in carrying her away from the disturbed town of Bolivar?
Ah! another sigh.
Plainly she was not wholly happy.
My heart reproached me—I had been the cause of her misery—I who had allowed my pride to force me into an act that separated two hearts intended for each other.
Was it too late to make amends?
I arose from my seat and moved toward her, and hearing me she turned quickly.
“Hildegarde!” I said, softly.
She started back.
“I thought you—all must be asleep; it was so warm below, I could not rest, and I felt I must come where I could get the air,” she said, quickly, as though desirous of having me believe it was not her intention to seek me.
“I am glad you did—I had quite made up my mind to doze here in a chair. It is very pleasant; but the sea air grows cool and you have no wrap—let me get you something.”
Without waiting to hear her reply I darted into the cabin; one of the first things that caught my eye was a delicate pink thing in zephyr wool—Diana had tossed it aside when entering—it would just fill the bill.
I snatched it up and ran out.
The prospect of atête-à-têtewith Hildegarde affected me strangely; I was even weak with excitement and hope.
Who could tell what it might not bring forth.
I resolved to be very considerate, yet seek for light regarding her presence in Bolivar.
There was one ghost I wanted laid before throwing myself on her mercy.
When I reached her again she was sitting in the chair I had just vacated, which I took to be a favorable symptom—at least she would not permit her hatred for me to stand in the way of a little talk that might clear the air.
I placed the light wrap about her, wondering meanwhile why she shivered.
“You have already taken cold,” I said.
“Oh, no, it was not that,” she replied.
Then it must have been my touch—was it so very repulsive? I thought, in dismay.
Dolt that I was not to see the fault lay in the soft, clinging thing I had thrown around her shoulders—that she shuddered because she seemed to guess intuitively it belonged to Diana.
But in such matters men are usually so very stupid.
I stood there leaning against the rail, because it pleased me to look upon her thus, and perhaps she would not care to have me sit down beside her.
An awkward silence followed.
“Why do you not smoke, Morgan?” she asked.
Even a little thing like that pleased me; she had not forgotten that I had always been devoted to the weed.
I hastened to assure her that I had no desire to indulge, since I had been smoking nearly the whole evening.
How could I break the ice, how ask her to tell me what she had promised—the story of her coming to this region of the world?
What a strange position to be in! Three feet from mesat the woman I loved, the woman whom the law had given to me for my own, and whom I had called by the sacred name of wife, yet I dared not put out a hand to touch her any more than if she were the veriest stranger.
Secretly I chafed and fretted at the chains that held me, and in my heart I groaned.
Hildegarde it was who spoke first.
“How long had you been in Bolivar, Morgan?” she asked, showing that her thoughts had been going back to what we had endured.
“Just four days. I had intended sailing by to-morrow, but the steamer came ahead of time.”
She did not ask what the steamer had to do with my movements—nor did I think to insist on explaining that point, which would no doubt have proved the part of wisdom.
“Four days—and I was there ten,” she said, as though reflecting.
“Ten—in the house of the alcalde?” I asked, determined to pursue the subject.
“Yes; always in that house,” with a shudder.
“They kept you there against your will?”
“Until you came—yes. At first I defied them, but my spirit was slowly breaking down, and because of the threats they made, threats that concerned others besides myself, I must soon have yielded.”
I began to feel my blood boiling. Who was it dared to threaten her?—who had any right to demand that she do this or that? Since I had released her from her vows what man on earth had any authority over her?
What was it made me suddenly gasp and cringe as though a bucket of ice water had been dashed over me? What but a flash of memory, as that hated photograph again played the deuce with my nerves? Some other man might indeed have the rights I had chosen to discard.
I had a little struggle with myself, and managed to gain the mastery over this weakness. If my hand trembled as I mechanically passed it over my head, it did not affect my voice.
“I don’t know that I have any right to ask you to tell me all about this affair, Hildegarde—I forfeited that privilege long ago; but you must understand that I have done what I could while utterly in the dark, and if you think it worth while to enlighten me, I should be glad to hear the solution of the mystery, and equally glad to go to any length to serve you further.”
That was not a speech from the heart, but rather one dictated by reason and prudence.
Pride was not yet dead.
I could not let her know that I loved her more madly than in the days of our courtship—loved her as might a man who had suffered all the pangs of outrageous fortune, always like his sex, loath to find the cause in himself. No, I would not demean myself to tell her what a wretch I had discovered myself to be, and how my heart hungered for her, until I knew whether some other man stood between us.
There had been several—one I remembered in particular, who had been hard set to win her in those days, a fellow who had given me many a twinge of jealousy by his boasts, until finally I dared put my fate to the test and discovered how I had been fighting phantoms. If it were he now, what agony, what punishment would be mine!
“You are kind, Morgan. You have done much for me to-night. Sometimes I am glad, and then again it makes me sad, and I even wish you had left me there to struggle against my fate, or that it had been some one else who came, a perfect stranger, whom I might reward with gold for serving me,” she said, sadly, almost brokenly.
I did not fancy that—it seemed to take the conceit outof me; plainly I must have been mistaken when I thought she still cared for me.
She would rather it were a stranger to whom she owed her escape—she did not fancy being under obligations to me of all men—surely that was enough to cool me off.
“I hope you won’t trouble yourself about the reward part—you can give me nothing I would care a snap for, except, of course, your gratitude. Men of my stamp don’t do these things for reward, Hildegarde.”
She looked up at me, as though trying to weigh the meaning of my words.
“You are much changed, Morgan,” she said, slowly.
“Naturally so. I have led a misanthropic life for some little time. Things don’t look rosy through smoked glasses.”
“I didn’t mean that, but you are not the same as then—what you have done to-night—how you carried me through the streets and stood up in that boat—I can never forget it. Yes,” with a sigh, “you are much changed.”
A thrill of exultation possessed me at this declaration that I had appeared in her eyes as at least a mild type of a hero—and then it was gone again.
“Pardon me; I am not changed so much as you may imagine; it was the same man then, only no opportunity arose to put him to the test. When once you dared me to get you some flowers growing on the face of a precipice, and I firmly declined, it was not cowardice that influenced me, but a determination not to risk my life for a pretty woman’s mere whim, even if she did happen to be my wife.”
There was a low cry, almost a sob.
“I have never forgiven myself for such wickedness,” she murmured, but it was music to me, that late confession.
“Well, I have,” I said, nonchalantly, as if all thosethings in the past had very little interest for me any longer.
She had started up somewhat eagerly in her chair, but immediately sank back.
“It is kind of you to forgive, even if you cannot forget,” she said.
I was on the point of bursting out and declaring what a sinner I was, and how I yearned for absolution on her part—to throw myself on the mercy of the court, pleading guilty to the charge, when she spoke again, and what she said rather took the wind out of my sails.
“I promised to explain in a brief way how I came to be in Bolivar, and why I was kept a prisoner in the alcalde’s house. This I should have told you to-morrow or before you landed me at New Orleans; but since we have been thrown together here, and sleep is impossible, I shall relate it now, so that you may know how basely one of your boasted sex has acted toward a defenseless woman who loaded him with favors, and for whom she had only shown affection.”
I snapped my teeth shut and ground them together. Then it was as I feared—she had married again, perhaps my old rival, Hilary Tempest, and he had turned out a villain.
I do not know why I should be so furious, since I had renounced all alliance with her, and my taking up cudgels in her defense would be Quixotic indeed; but there it was, the glow of righteous indignation. I had once loved her dearly, and no matter who he might be, the man who abused her in any way must settle with Morgan Kenneth.
But what folly to thus arrange matters when I had not as yet heard her tell the story that was to decide my fate.