"Then, so far, apparently, we are on a perfectly equal footing. All right, old fellow. It is rather hard lines that we should have gone a-foul of each other in this, of all things; but since it is so, let us treat each other with perfect fairness. I tell you frankly that I mean to marry Miss de Barryos."
"And my intention is equally strong that she shall be my wife."
"So be it," returned Pierrepont with more earnestness than he usually showed, though there was still a smile clinging to his lips. "At least, one is not deceived in the intentions of the other. I want you to clearly understand me that I intend to marry her. People have accused me of making love to women every time I speak to one; but I swear to you that I have never uttered to anywoman the words that I shall speak to her, never asked a woman in my life the question that I shall put to her. I am thirty-four years old, Olney, have never been balked in a desire in my life, and I don't intend to begin with this which means so much to me. It's a fair warning, old fellow."
Olney smiled.
"And forewarned is forearmed," he said, gravely.
"Oh, what a wretched ending! I positively hate to read a book like that. It gives me the blues for a week afterward. I don't see why writers can not have some respect for the nerves of their readers and not upset them with a jar that echoes through every fiber of the body."
Carlita flung the book from her, crossed her pretty feet, and leaning back in her chair, folded her hands behind her head and looked at Olney Winthrop, who was spending one of many evenings with her while the others were at the opera.
He smiled rather gravely.
"I don't see how else it could have ended. She couldn't have married the Disagreeable Man, you know."
"Why not?"
"Oh, who would want to? A sickly, treacherous-tempered beast like that."
"He wasn't anything of the kind. Do you think a 'sickly treacherous-tempered beast' could ever have written that exquisite letter which he tore up? He was only fretted into irascibility by the idiocy of others who had not sense enough to appreciate him. No man could have been as fond of his mother as he was and not be genuinely good. I don't see why he could not have been happy as well as any one else."
"He was treacherous-tempered or he wouldn't have torn up the letter, you see," argued Olney, mildly. "I don't see how she could have cared anyway for a great, gaunt, sickly fellow like that."
"That is like you men. You never seem to think a woman can like any one but a Hercules. Formy own part, I perfectly detest the conceited creatures who think they are gods of creation, and let you see it in every word they speak, in love with themselves and unrivaled by any woman in the universe, men like—like—well, Leith Pierrepont for example."
Winthrop flushed eagerly, never observing the curious break in her voice, then a sort of generous remorse took possession of him that he had found pleasure in that unjust criticism passed upon his friend.
"Oh, really, you mustn't say that!" he stammered, helplessly. "It isn't true of Leith, not the least in the world. I don't know a fellow more lacking in conceit than he. He is as generous and—"
"Pouf!" exclaimed Carlita, with the freedom of a privileged friend. "Do you think you can make me believe that? He thinks that every woman who looks at him is ready to fall into his arms if he would but say the word. There are times when I positively detest him, and—"
Singularly enough, she did not complete her sentence. She suddenly realized with a surprise that was intense that there were tears in her eyes, hot, angry tears, though why she should be angry, she had not the remotest idea. She hated herself for her absurd weakness, and sprang up swiftly and went to the piano, and rattled off a waltz that came more nearly being without time or melody than anything she had ever attempted in her life before.
She excused herself to herself by mentally asserting that the book, "Ships that Pass in the Night," had upset her, and then turned into a song that trembled upon her lips with a sweetness and pathos that her voice had never contained before.
It was only an old song, such an old one, with the music entirely unworthy of the exquisitewords, but she sang it with a depth of feeling that made it sublime.
"How tired we feel, my heart and I,We seem of no use in the world;Our fancies hang gray and uncurledAbout men's eyes indifferently;Our voice, which thrilled you so, will letYou sleep; our tears are only wet;What do we here, my heart and I?"
"How tired we feel, my heart and I,We seem of no use in the world;Our fancies hang gray and uncurledAbout men's eyes indifferently;Our voice, which thrilled you so, will letYou sleep; our tears are only wet;What do we here, my heart and I?"
But the last words were not spoken. They ended in a little sob, a little sob that would not be drowned by the power of the will. She would have risen and escaped from the room, but that Olney caught her about the waist, his face white and wistful and filled with apprehension.
"Carlita," he exclaimed, his voice low and soft with tenderness, "what is it? What has distressed you? You trust me—"
"It is nothing," she cried, endeavoring gently to free herself. "I am too stupid for anything. I really believe I am hysterical over that absurd book, and it is something new to me, too. You mustn't mind me, Mr. Winthrop, for—"
"But I do," he interrupted, huskily. "Anything that pains you is exquisite torture to me. I love you Carlita, love you so that I can not conceal it as the Disagreeable Man did. I must tell you. It is so much better than that I should keep it to myself until too late, if there should be any hope for me. I am not conceited enough to think there is—you mustn't believe that—but if love really begets love, as they tell us it does, mine ought to meet with some return, for Heaven knows it is great enough. I feel as if I were the Disagreeable Man myself, so gaunt and wasted through illness, so unworthy of your sweet trust and affection, and yet—Oh, Carlita, I don't want to wait as he did,when there might be hope. I know you don't love me. I know I am the most presumptuous man alive, that I can even speak upon the subject to you, but—but won't you say something—something kind?"
She was standing and he sitting, holding her by one hand, his other arm about her waist. He was leaning toward her with his face lifted—a face so true, so honest, so sincere, so wistfully pleading, she almost imagined there was a moisture in the frank blue eyes.
She didn't say anything. She was surprised, and stood there staring down at him, her tears dried suddenly. It seemed to her that she had never felt so strangely in her life. He was the first man who had ever whispered that magic word in her ear. It moved her—moved her peculiarly. She felt the strongest inclination to bend down and kiss him, kiss him upon those blue eyes as she would a little boy. He looked so pale and wan, so haggard through the illness which he did not seem able to shake off. Sympathy quivered in her heart like the flutter of a dove's wings, but she could not frame words to save her life, and stood there staring down at him dumbly.
A great anguish arose in his eyes under her silence. A cold dew gathered upon his brow and stood upon his mouth. He dropped his arm from about her waist and bowed his head.
"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely. "I ought to have known, and not have distressed you with a sentiment which I might have known you could not reciprocate. I might have been satisfied with your generosity in allowing me the privilege of your society without presuming upon that generosity. I suppose now I am to be banished, but I deserve it for my presumption. All the sweet, long evenings that have meant so much to me must be at an end. I must go back to the old emptiness, the old unrest."
"Why?"
The word escaped her unawares, but she was glad that she had spoken it when she saw him fling up his head, saw the eager light that came to his eyes, the flush that colored his pale cheeks.
"Carlita," he whispered, hoarsely, "that moment was like—hell! Speak quickly! Can you be my wife? Could you find in your pure heart toleration for a fellow such as I? I will worship you to the day I die! Speak and relieve me of this awful suspense!"
"I have—have been very happy during these evenings that we have spent together."
She never quite knew how she happened to say that either, whether it was sympathy, whether it was that she loved him, or—Oh, yes, she was quite sure she loved him when she saw that wild joy of expression. She did not shrink from him in the very least when he arose suddenly to his feet and drew her passionately to his breast. It was really very comforting to think that she belonged to some one, and that some one belonged to her, and—loved her.
It was even pleasant to be passionately, lovingly kissed, and as she looked with a smile into his eager, craving eyes, she even lifted her mouth to him of her own accord, and returned the caress while she listened to the burning words that fell from his lips.
"My darling, my wife, I can scarcely believe in the reality of my own happiness. I can scarcely believe it is true, that you love me, that you are mine. It seems to me that I must be dreaming. My God! if it be, let the dream last forever, forever!"
Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers returned before he left her, but there was no announcement made to them that night. They said good-night formallyand separated, Carlita going to her room, and Olney returned to his bachelor apartments.
He found Leith there before him, and went immediately to his old friend and put out his hand.
"Congratulate me, old man," he said, with a grin which was half idiotic in its happiness.
"Upon what?" inquired Leith, lazily.
"Miss de Barryos has promised to be my wife."
Leith did not even change color. He put out his hand and took that of his friend cordially.
"Certainly I congratulate you, if you wish it," he said, with his accustomed nonchalant indolence. "But what is the use? The marriage will never take place."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say."
Olney laughed lightly, disbelievingly, but there was not the shadow of a smile upon Leith's perfectly indifferent lips.
And Carlita had gone to her room, happy in the happiness she had given, believing that she had answered to the dictates of her heart, and then slowly the expression of content faded from her eyes, a white-lipped horror drew the corners of her mouth. She looked into space dully, hopelessly, stupidly.
She had suddenly remembered the curse of Pocahontas.
There was something of a sensation created in the Chalmers household when the announcement of Carlita's engagement was made.
Not that there was anything spoken in the presence of Olney Winthrop but the sweetest words of congratulation; but when he had departed, and mother and daughter were left alone, the latter stretched herself out at a comfortable angle, with a cigarette between her lips, and exclaimed, leisurely:
"It appears, to a man up a tree, that we are getting very little out of this game that we have played. Do you propose to let Winthrop's pair beat your full hand? It strikes me that you are losing your cunning with a vengeance. Four weeks in that beastly hole in New Orleans; a lot of sticky black garments clinging about one for the same length of time, and making life a nightmare; a funeral to attend, and tears until one could float a ship in them; acting a part from morning until night, and even through the night, for what? The really good Samaritan work of getting the little mulatto engaged and robbing us of eight thousand a year, not to speak of the advantage of handling her money, and so affording an abode 'fitted to her station in life,' as the idiotic lawyers say. Rats! It isn't my line, I confess. What are you going to do?"
Mrs. Chalmers pathetically fondled the ears of her ever-present dog.
"How should I know?" she answered, meekly. "I thought we were doing the safest thing possible when we were keeping Leith Pierrepont away from her. It never occurred to me that it could bepossible that she would fall in love with Olney Winthrop, though I knew he was head over ears in love with her. I told you she was dangerous when we brought her here, though you would not have it."
"What were we to do with her, pray? A school wasn't to be thought of at her age, and an asylum wasn't possible, worse luck! But something must be done. We can't commit highway robbery and deliberately pilfer her estate. I confess it wouldn't go greatly against my conscience, for I can see no earthly reason why she should have all and I nothing. But there is that confounded hole Sing Sing to consider. Look here, the blood in your veins has grown to milk and water recently. I wonder if you would have the nerve to carry out an idea that has struck me?"
"What is it?"
Jessica threw away her cigarette and lighted a fresh one before replying. When she spoke again, her voice had assumed a lower tone.
"You will agree, of course, that she is of a wildly, sentimental nature, like all Mexican and half-breed Indians. She has proven that by falling in love with Olney's white face. I don't think she cares the snap of her finger for him, except that she pities him and—wants to be loved. It is such a fine, beautiful thing. Pouf! Well, it is my belief that if we could get him out of the way for awhile, she would discover that fact, and jilt him."
"But how are we to get him out of the way?" inquired Mrs. Chalmers, actually putting the dog aside once and lifting her suspiciously golden head interestedly.
"I haven't quite prepared that side of my subject," answered Jessica, calmly. "There has not been time to go into it in detail as yet. The announcement is too new, and I confess it never occurred to me that she could be such a fool. Iam inclined to believe she might have made a sensation if only she had been content to wait until she got rid of that hideous mourning. Still, I have thought—"
"What?"
"Winthrop is largely interested in some Mexican mines."
"Yes, I know, I heard Leith Pierrepont speaking of it."
"He must be suddenly summoned there."
Mrs. Chalmers lifted her head and looked at her daughter admiringly.
"What a head you have, Jessica, to be sure! But how is it to be accomplished?"
"That is the detail which I haven't quite mastered. Do you know where your old friend Meriaz is located?"
Mrs. Chalmers colored. She hesitated a moment, then answered, slowly:
"Yes, I think so."
"That is good. Then we must utilize him. If he had had a little more money, I should have urged your marrying him. As it is, he must think you mean to recall him, and so be made to serve you."
"You forget—"
"No, I don't forget anything. I am peculiarly alive to the fact to which you would have called my attention. We must insure the co-operation of Meriaz."
"There will be no doubt of that. He will obey my instructions."
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly."
"All right. You write to him at once, telling him where these mines are and all the information which you remember Leith to have given. He can arrange the details of the affair better than I can. If you wish, you might tell him that I have fallenin love with the fellow, and that you are anxious to get him out of the city on that account. Tell him that Winthrop must be summoned at once, that time is valuable, and that he must make the excuse for summoning him there a tremendously strong one, else it will be of no avail. You understand just what I mean now?"
"Yes; and it strikes me as being a good one. It will give us a chance to get abroad, if we see that there is no possibility of weaning her from the attachment."
"Yes, and in the meantime give me an opportunity to look into her finances, and see what is possible to be done. I haven't been down in that God-forsaken country to be plucked of our game by Olney Winthrop, I will tell you. Money doesn't grow on trees, and it rather strikes me that men are getting rather shy of our poker-table. They don't seem half as anxious to lose their precious ducats as they once did."
"Last night at the opera I heard a man in the next box ask Dudley Maltby who you were and his answer was: 'The most inveterate little gambler in New York, and the most unscrupulous.'"
"Dudley Maltby said that?"
"He did."
There was a dangerous expression in the brown eyes. For a moment the lips were slightly compressed, then she arose and went to her desk quite calmly.
"What are you going to do?" inquired her mother.
"Ask Dudley Maltby to dinner and to the opera Friday night. He shall pay for that remark with every particle of his reputation."
"It strikes me that you are rather—rather neglecting Leith of late."
"Nonsense! That is something which I shall never do; but he is safe enough. He is more inlove with me than he ever was in his life before."
Mrs. Chalmers looked a trifle uncomfortable. She hesitated a moment while Jessica was selecting a pen, then said, forcing herself to speak quietly:
"What makes you think so?"
"He told me tonight that I had neglected him cruelly, and that he felt piqued and hurt. He said that there was no woman who had the power to hurt him as I had."
"But—but he—he didn't tell you that he—he loved you, did he? He didn't ask you to be his wife?"
"What do you mean?"
Jessica turned suddenly, her interest in the note abated.
"Nothing special," answered her mother, carelessly, "only—only that he—well, he doesn't seem half so devoted to you as he did before he went away."
"He called upon me almost within the hour of his return."
"Yes, I know he did, but—but he hasn't followed it up well, and—my dear Jessica, I found a Spanish book in his overcoat pocket tonight."
It never occurred to Jessica to ask how she had found it in his overcoat pocket, or what she was doing looking through the pocket. She was accustomed to that, and thought nothing of it. It was the fact which interested her. Her brows drew angrily.
"Do you mean to say that you think he is in love with Carlita?" she asked, her voice tense and strange.
"Perhaps not exactly in love with her," answered her mother, uneasily, "but very much interested in her."
"I would kill her first! I would kill them both!"
The words came through the set lips as if the speaker were perfectly capable of carrying out herthreat or any other dire calamity that should suggest itself to her, and Mrs. Chalmers moved anxiously.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said quite so much!" she exclaimed, soothingly. "It may be only a desire to—to understand, but—but—"
"I shall watch! I shall see!" exclaimed Jessica, leaving her desk and walking restlessly up and down the floor. "Do not fear but that I should know how to revenge myself upon him as well as her. I have rather suspected him. He has been so careful of all that he has said to me since his return, so careful of who should see him in our box. He is not too good to be there, but he doesn't want to be seen. I heard him say to her upon the night of their first meeting, that it would break his heart to see his sister play a game of poker."
"He said that?"
"He did! But I will teach him that he is playing with an edged tool this time. I shall prove to him that I know how to take a revenge, and it shall be a bitter one, if he dares to do this thing. Write your letter to Meriaz. I am anxious to see this to the end."
"Aïda" was in progress at the Metropolitan, and Jessica never lost a night at the opera. It was the first time in all her life that enough money had found its way into her exchequer to purchase a season's box, and she was making the very most of it that lay in her power.
Very many persons present had observed that no woman ever found her way into that box, and that most of the men concealed themselves in the rear, or even contented themselves with a visit to the anteroom. But Jessica never troubled her head about that. She didn't like women, didn't want women, and their absence affected her not at all.
Carlita was at home, as usual, beautiful as a dream in her soft chiffon gown, the exquisite dark hair rippling from her forehead in great waves that no hair-dresser's art could ever imitate.
She was standing before a huge soft-coal fire, looking down into it, with a faint smile curving the corners of her mouth, as she waited for Olney Winthrop—a smile which deepened as she heard the chime of the door-bell.
There was not the faintest perceptible start at the sound, not an increase of color at the knowledge of her lover's coming. She lifted her head to welcome him, and started, quivering in every nerve in her body, her face flushing crimson, as she saw who it was that had pushed aside the heavy portière and stood there in her fiancé's place.
It was Leith Pierrepont.
He came forward with the easy, nonchalant grace that was peculiar to him, the indolent smile upon his mouth, looking handsomer than he hadever done in his life before, and a woman would of necessity have been made of granite not to have seen it.
He put out his hand as he joined Carlita beside the fire, and because she could not refuse, she put her fingers into it.
She noticed that his hand had closed over hers firmly, in spite of the fact that she had only intended that he should touch it; and while he did not retain it, he was in no hurry whatever to loosen his grasp of the cold palm.
"Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers are not here," she stammered, angry with herself that she could not keep her voice steady.
"I know it," he replied, indolently. "They are at the opera. Jessica never misses 'Aïda.' It is a favorite of mine, too, and Nordica is excellent in it."
"And yet you are not there?"
"There are some things that I prefer even to a well-rendered opera. Olney will not be here this evening."
"Why?"
She flashed her great eyes up at him, as if he had given her a personal affront. He smiled enigmatically, and she flushed with anger.
"He has a headache," Leith returned, leisurely. "You know he isn't strong. That dose of jungle fever about knocked him out."
"I'm sorry he isn't feeling well. I'm—"
She strove to infuse the sentence with earnestness, but her voice had never sounded colder in her own ears, and she found it impossible to finish the speech. She paused uncomfortably, and after a moment Leith said, with another smile that somehow made her feel that she hated him more than ever:
"Won't you ask me to sit down? I never could stand with any degree of comfort."
"Certainly, if you wish to sit," she answered. "I thought perhaps you would be going to the opera."
"No; I told you I shouldn't," he answered, sitting down gracefully and looking up at her carelessly. "I had much rather hear you sing."
"But I never sing."
"Oh, yes, you do. Olney has told me. He says that you have a singularly lovely voice, and I have always considered Olney one of the few really good judges of music."
"I am not a musician."
"You mean you don't play your own accompaniments. That makes no difference. I will be very glad to do it for you. I am not in particularly good practice, but I used to be called rather good at that sort of thing."
She had seated herself, and as he spoke he rose as if he were going to the piano; but, instead, leaned over the back of the chair and looked down upon her. The look seemed to get into her veins and tingle through her blood like living fire. His voice was low and musical as that of a thrush, as he said, softly:
"Why will you, who are always so kind and gentle to others, be cruel to me? What have I done to win your dislike? How have I sinned that you withdraw your friendship from me alone of all the world?"
She bit her lip to keep the hot tears out of her eyes. She could not understand her own emotion, and hated him that he had caused it. She arose, not even glancing toward him, and threw out her hands deprecatingly:
"You are making too much of the fact that I do not care to sing for strangers," she replied haughtily. "If it will interest you, I will try, but I assure you that I am the most inexperienced of amateurs. What would you like me to sing?"
He did not reply to her. He was leaning against the piano, looking at her, not impertinently, but curiously, as if he did not quite understand her. She allowed her fingers to wander over the keys idly for a moment, then played and sang an excerpt from "Gioconda," not with her usual style and expression at all, but still with a sweetness and depth of voice and a breadth of expression that was infinitely pleasing.
"You can't do a thing of that sort playing your own accompaniment," he said, when she had finished, not complimenting her at all upon her beauty of voice or method. "Let me sit there, will you?"
She arose at once, a trifle nettled at his lack of praise, and he took the stool she had vacated. His fingers touched the piano with a tenderness that went to her soul. She loved music with a sort of ravenous passion, if one may so express it, a wild longing that had never been gratified, and she listened with an increased fascination that held her speechless.
"Do you know 'Aïda'?" he inquired at last.
She nodded.
"Do you remember the duet in the tomb?"
"Yes."
His fingers wandered into it, then his glorious voice, sweet as the lower tones of a harp, rang out full and rich. She joined him when her time came, singing as she had never sung before, enthused by the genius which she had never expected, enchanted by the magic of his touch.
When it was finished he turned to her.
"Who taught you?" he asked, quietly.
"My mother."
"Your method is faulty. I wish you would go to Arditi for a while. Your voice is excellent, but you waste it deplorably. You have a warmth of coloring and a breadth of expression rarely found,and would make a superb singer if properly taught. Will you go to Arditi? Please do."
"Perhaps. I have never heard good singers, that is, none except my mother, and she was not great. You have studied, of course?"
"Oh, yes; in Paris and Italy. Shall I sing something for you?"
"If you will."
He looked up at her. There was just the glimmer of a smile in his eyes, such a curious smile, so wistful, almost beseeching, a pathetic smile that made her heart tremble in spite of her hatred of him, that extraordinary hatred which she had never been able to explain to herself, and for which she could have found not the shadow of a cause if she had dared to question herself upon the subject.
His hands continued to wander over the keys as if he were improvising, and after a little time his voice, sweet, gentle, so low that it could scarcely have been heard behind the portières that fell between them and the hall, floated out:
"'The solemn sea of silence lies between us;I know thou livest and thou lovest me;And yet I wish some white ship would come sailingAcross the ocean, bearing word from thee."'The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness,No anxious doubts of fears disturb my breast;I only ask some little wave of languageTo stir this vast infinitude of rest."'Too deep the language which the spirit utters,Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred;Send some white ship across the sea of silenceAnd interrupt its utterance with a word.'"
"'The solemn sea of silence lies between us;I know thou livest and thou lovest me;And yet I wish some white ship would come sailingAcross the ocean, bearing word from thee.
"'The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness,No anxious doubts of fears disturb my breast;I only ask some little wave of languageTo stir this vast infinitude of rest.
"'Too deep the language which the spirit utters,Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred;Send some white ship across the sea of silenceAnd interrupt its utterance with a word.'"
He had never removed his eyes from her while he was singing, but she had dropped hers. The crimson glow which she could not command had crept into her cheeks. His voice fell almost to a whisper, and as the last word left his lips, he lifted his hands from the keys and imprisoned both of hers together, leaning toward her with his splendid face uplifted.
"Do you know what that sea of silence is, Carlita?" he asked, his low voice thrilling through her like old wine. "It is that great gulf that lies between you and me. Shall I tell you more?
"'I am oppressed with this great sense of loving—So much I give, so much receive from thee;Like subtle incense rising from a censer,So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.'"
"'I am oppressed with this great sense of loving—So much I give, so much receive from thee;Like subtle incense rising from a censer,So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.'"
She lifted her eyes, startled, wide with horror and alarm, and would have drawn back but that he held her, his beautiful eyes dull with passion.
"Did you think I did not know? Did you think I should not comprehend?" he continued in the same tone. "Did you really believe that I should allow another to steal you from me? There have been times when I almost thought you did not realize that you love me. There have been times when I have believed you fancied your heart given to that other to whom you have promised yourself, and then the knowledge of how absurd it all was comforted me. The knowledge that some day you would turn to me helped me to bear it all, but the sea of silence is killing me, Carlita, drowning me in my own desire. I love you—ah! you know that, and the words are so weak. You know that I would let the blood drain from my body through the ends of my fingers, drop by drop, for you. I don't believe you realized it all when you promised to be another man's wife; but it couldnot be concealed from you always. Won't you send the white ship across the sea, my darling? Won't you speak some word to comfort my waiting?"
He had not spoken the words in the headlong, pell-mell fashion of impassioned youth, but with a feeling that held her spell-bound until the sound of his voice had ceased, and then things looked black and swam before her eyes as if she were suddenly affected with vertigo. She staggered, and would have fallen but that he arose, and, placing his arm about her, held her closely. His warm breath aroused her, and tearing herself from him, she sprang aside.
"False friend! Craven! Coward!" she panted. "How dare you? How dare you speak the words to me that you have uttered? How dare you say that I love you—you—you, the man who has played the friend to Olney Winthrop, who has pretended to love him as a brother does? You come here in his absence, like the coward that you are, to steal that which belongs to him—only to him; but it is beyond you, thank God for that! I hate you—hate you as I have never hated a human thing in my life before—hate you for the cunning coward that you are! I shall tell Olney Winthrop of this, and—"
Pierrepont was leaning against the piano, all his nonchalance, his graceful indifference returned, listening to her as if she were speaking to him only the pleasantries of the drawing-room. She burst into tears before she could complete her sentence, and he moved for a moment restlessly, but naturally and calmly as he usually spoke, said:
"There will be no necessity for you to take that trouble. I shall tell him myself before I sleep tonight."
"I hope that Heaven will spare me the insult ofever looking upon your face again!" she cried as she started from the room.
She was forced to pass him in order to reach the door, and as she would have done so, he stepped before her almost indifferently. There was the smile still upon his mouth, his eyes were brilliant now, and his voice as slow and drawling as ever.
"I just want to say a word before you go," he said, quietly. "There will come a time when you will wish to recall what you have said, when you will yearn for the love which you disregard now. When it comes, send for me. You need not fear that I shall harbor any resentment for your cruelty. When you send, I shall be ready to respond, even if your message should reach me at the other end of the earth. You are the only woman whom I have ever loved, and some day you shall be my wife!"
He said the words with gentleness and perfect respect, but her face crimsoned with anger.
"Never!" she cried, fiercely.
He smiled.
"I have never failed to keep my word, particularly when the promise was made to myself," he answered, lightly. "Neither heaven nor earth, nor life nor death, nor yet eternity itself, could stand between us!"
He stepped out of her way, not a particle of excitement visible in his manner—on the contrary, he was calmer, more careless than usual—and she looked into his face for one moment, then fled by him and up the stairs to her own apartment.
Then she locked the door and threw herself upon the bed, in a passion of tears—tears such as she had never shed, not even at the death of her mother; but they were so different—hot, angry tears; and yet—yet there was some grief in them, too, though she could not have told why.
It was almost daylight when Jessica and her mother returned, and yet she was still lying there, never having removed her clothing.
She got up then, in a shamed sort of way, and undressed herself; but it was of the man she hated that she dreamed, not the man she loved; it was the gray eyes into which she looked, not the blue; and she rose in the morning unrefreshed, and with eyes still swollen from weeping.
Olney Winthrop was detained away for four days on account of illness, but on the fifth he came again.
He was pale and haggard, and about the mouth there was a wistful expression that touched Carlita in the old, fond way. She went up to him and placed her hand upon his shoulder with a loving gesture.
"You have been ill," she said; "but I did not dream that it had been so bad. Why did you not let me come to you?"
"You would have come?"
"Can you ask?"
She looked pathetically into his eyes and allowed him to kiss her. It brought a flush to his pallid cheeks and a warm light to his worn eyes.
"I wonder if man was ever blessed with so sweet a love as I?" he asked, more of himself than of her, his voice low with emotion. "Carlita, if I should lose you, death, by any means whatever, would be a happy release. You love me, darling? Say it once again. It is not that I doubt, but only that I adore the sound of the words from your exquisite lips."
She shivered slightly, some of the bright color fading from the olive cheek.
"What is it?" he questioned, with tender solicitude.
"I have so often meant to tell you," she answered, her eyes not upon his, but fixed absently upon a distant object which yet was unseen, "but have not had the courage. It seems almost likestabbing a living thing to the heart to speak of it to you; and yet—and yet—"
"Tell me, dear heart. Is there anything with which you would not trust me?"
"It is only that I would not distress you. There is an old curse in the family; such a foolish thing, you will think, for nineteenth century people to believe in, and I don't—really I don't; and yet it makes my blood freeze in my veins sometimes when I remember it. It is the curse of Pocahontas, Olney. Have you heard what it is?"
"No."
"It descends to the dark girl child of each generation—the child that shows the trace of the Indian in her unfortunate veins. It is a curse put upon her love, that unhappiness, misery may follow the giving of her heart, and—Olney, what a fool I am to alarm you with this absurdity!"
He had started and grown a shade paler, then caught her hands in a grip that would have hurt her had she been more alive to physical emotions.
"Why do you listen to such things?" she continued, laughing half hysterically.
"It was so strange," he returned, huskily—"so strange that you should have mentioned it at this, of all times."
"Why?"
"Because I have received a summons which takes me away from you for a time—upon a perilous journey, perhaps."
"Where? Why?"
She was breathless, and returned the pressure of his hands with a strength of which she was unaware.
"To Mexico. My whole fortune is involved, and it is necessary that I should go."
She leaned toward him eagerly.
"Don't!" she whispered, hoarsely. "Something tells me that you will not return. I have a presentimentof evil—a horrible presentiment! It is the curse in reality. Don't go, Olney. My fortune will be enough for both."
But he had recovered himself, and smiled reassuringly, though feebly.
"We are foolish, my darling, both of us. I could not be a dependent upon the bounty of my wife. You must understand that, love. However much one we may be, I could never consent to feel myself a burden. Don't ask it of me, dearest. It would only make the temporary parting all the harder to bear, and you must have strength to bolster up my weakness."
"Oh, Olney!"
"If you had never heard of that foolish curse, you would think nothing of it; and if I had not been ill and weak mentally as well as physically, it would not have impressed me in the least. Remember that you yourself called it an absurdity."
"But you are not well enough to go—not strong enough to stand the test."
"The warmth of the climate will benefit me as nothing else could. I shall not die, Carlita. The thought of your love will give me every courage. Besides, I shall have one near who cares for me as a brother."
"You mean—"
"Leith."
She sat there for a moment, dumb, stunned, never raising her eyes, but Olney was watching her narrowly; then she drew a trifle closer to him, and with bowed head, whispered:
"There is—something that—I must tell you. It is about—about—"
"Leith?" he questioned, gently.
"Yes," she returned in a voice which he did not remember.
"I know," he said, softly.
"He told you?"
"Yes."
"And yet you—trust him?"
"As I would my brother," he returned, simply.
Her hand closed over his with a violence that made him wince.
"God help you!" she returned, heavily. "I loathe the man as I would a coiling reptile. There can no good come of it. Remember that I have told you this. God help you and help me, for the curse has fallen, as I felt that it must when I dared to love!"
It was a very lonely time for Carlita, those weeks that followed.
Of course she had Olney's letters, letters filled with loving promises and words of hope for the future; but letters are a poor substitute for the presence of one we love. Still, they are infinitely better than nothing. They came every day at first, filled with all those messages so dear to a girlish heart; then when he had gotten further down into Mexico, where the mail service is so deplorably bad, of course they became fewer. She had understood that that must be so before he went.
He told her in many of them of the utterly uncivilized state of the country, almost as uncivilized as if millions of miles existed between it and our own United States, of the long-cloaked, dark-browed, sombrero-crowned men who either walked or slunk through the streets when there were any, or roads when there were not, of the strange, wild, brilliant, many-hued country, that still had its inthralling fascination for all its repulsiveness.
"I almost wish that I had persuaded you to come with me, to give me your sweet companionship, for I am sure that in spite of all the hardships, you would enjoy it all," he wrote in one of his many letters. "Even granting its barbaric state, there is an unconscious poetry in it all that I am sure would delight you, a tropical, luxurious, brilliant beauty that gets into one's veins like wine, or the seductive bewilderment of opium. I am not quite sure but that you would never leave, but live on and on, content, like these people, with only the joy of living, the mere halcyon pleasure of existence—alotus-eater. And yet there are parts of it so wild, so superbly barbaric almost that the very danger enchants one. I am growing well and strong under the excitement of it all and the desire to get back to you—the craving to feel the touch of your dear lips, to feel the warmth of your beautiful presence. Let us come here on our honeymoon, will you? To the home of your own people. Ah, there is romance enough in the very atmosphere, in the gorgeous color, the song of the birds, the picturesque buildings and customs and country, to make one die from excess of loving."
But after that, as has been said, the letters became less frequent, and there was nothing to do but sit beside the window and watch for the postman—the postman who went to others with his messages of happiness or pain, as it might be, but passed her by. She continued to write, though, every day, just as if she had received her daily effusion.
But never once had Leith Pierrepont's name been mentioned in it all.
It was very lonely. There were times when it seemed almost as if Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica had forgotten her very existence.
They rarely breakfasted before one o'clock in the afternoon, and then Carlita had had her luncheon and had gone out for a walk in the park or downtown to amuse herself by looking in the shop windows—not a very profitable pastime; but what was the poor child to do? By the time she returned they had gone for their drive, an excursion upon which she was never asked, although it was her money that paid for the new luxury of a victoria and pair, not to speak of the sumptuous coachman and footman; but she did not know it and therefore thought nothing of the omission. Unless there was a dinner party, which she never thought of attending, Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica sometimescondescended to dine with her; but that was not often; and if there was no opera in the evening there might be a theater party, with a dinner afterward—a really superb little dinner served by their new French chef, which was practically the greatest attraction the house offered since its reputation for "extraordinary" poker had been established.
For every night, whether there had been an opera or no opera, there was a poker game in progress, and always enough people willing to lose their money to make it profitable as well as interesting.
A few women had joined their ranks, women who rouged their faces and blackened their eyebrows and wore peroxide of hydrogen hair strangely like Mrs. Chalmers' own.
Carlita had seen the party once when the noise was so great that she could not sleep. She crept downstairs, concealed herself from sight, of course, and watched them for a little while, but her disgust was so great that she never did it again, but often covered up her head with the bedclothes in order to keep the sound out.
It was more lonely often than if she had lived all alone, and so no wonder she thought of Leith Pierrepont's words at last and of—Arditi.
She hated the very name of the man at first, because Leith had asked her to study under him, and then by degrees the thought became less repulsive to her, and she finally concluded that in sheer self-defense she would go and see him anyway, just to satisfy herself as to whether she had any voice or not, and to relieve the awful monotony of existence.
She found him—the great artist—in his studio, and he listened kindly to her words and then tried her voice. It was really a superb voice, filled with color and feeling, and a breadth of tone that was wonderful. He was delighted—as who would nothave been?—and accepted her as his pupil gladly, almost joyfully.
After that the work fascinated her, and she toiled faithfully, making marvelous strides, assisted perhaps by the very ache in her heart, for there is nothing under heaven that develops the soul like sorrow. I doubt whether a person has any very great amount of soul cultivation until grief has brought it there. And Carlita certainly suffered.
The letters had ceased altogether.
She was not particularly surprised at first, because Olney had told her of the wretched condition of the railroads, and consequently of the mail service; but it couldn't have been quite so bad as all that, to give her no letter in five long, apparently endless weeks.
But she covered up the hurt in her devotion to her new art, and Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica watched her curiously.
"Who could wish for anything better than this?" Jessica asked of her mother one day, as they heard the strains of the piano from the room which, at her request, had been set apart for her own particular use.
"No one—if it could only last," returned Mrs. Chalmers, with a little, only half-suppressed sigh.
But of course it couldn't, and that was the horrible pity of it all.
The music lessons continued, and Arditi forgot the time in his devotion to his new pupil.
"She is a genius!" he said, ecstatically; "the only one that I have discovered in years. She sings because she can't help it. She is like a bird in the forest, except that there is a note of sadness which the bird never acquires, because it has no soul. Some day she will show the world what an artiste is!"
And the full rich tones were floating out one day, glorious as the minor strains of an organ, whensuddenly the tone failed, the hands fell upon the key-board with a crash, the lovely face, flushed with devotion to its new master, whitened, and a little cry fell from the drawn lips.
She did not speak—it seemed as if she could not—and after a moment of silence the man who had caused her alarm went forward and put out his hand.
She hesitated a moment, half drew back, then, impelled by some strange power, placed her cold palm in his.
"I am afraid I startled you," he said, in that beautiful voice with which no male voice that she had ever heard could remotely compare. "I asked for Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers, but the servant said they were in the park; then I heard you singing, and begged to be allowed to come here. I see you have taken lessons of Arditi, as I asked you. It was very good of you."
"How—how do you know that I have?" she stammered.
"Ah, who knows the method so well as I? There is not another teacher in America that could do it, and you have put your whole heart and soul into it. God! what a voice it is!"
She threw out her hands deprecatingly.
"What matters it?" she cried, huskily, breathlessly. "Tell me, when did you come? And where is he—Olney? Why does he allow you to come first?"
There was the bitterest pain in her voice—pain, humiliation. Leith half put out his hand, then withdrew it, as if he were not quite sure of what it was that he would do. There was a new light in his eyes—a curious light which she could not quite comprehend. There seemed to be sorrow in it—sorrow for her—and yet it glowed with passion and—and something else—she could not quitemake out what, but it frightened her. She drew back and pressed her hands upon her breast.
"Is Olney with you?" she asked, whispering her question in this new fear that had come upon her.
He shook his head.
"You have—left him there," she stammered, helplessly—"left him in that awful place he wrote me of—deserted him—when he needed you?"
The hollow tone of his voice as he replied was not like that with which he had greeted her.
"There was nothing else to do," he answered, simply.
She stared at him for a moment in a silence that was uncanny, then said, hoarsely:
"What is it—you mean? He—he is not—"
"Dead?—yes," he said, completing the sentence for her.
She stood there, just a moment, all the color gone from her countenance, all the light from her eyes, and then she fell forward; it would have been at his feet but that he caught her in his arms.
He turned the white face upward and gazed into it long, lingeringly, lovingly. There was a wistful, yearning look about his mouth, a twitching at the corners that spoke of a suffering to which he had never given expression, and which was no longer to be endured, and then—he couldn't help it, perhaps—he bent his head and pressed his lips upon hers.
She would never know; she was unconscious, he told himself; but as he lifted his head with the wild, passionate expression of self-loathing burning in his eyes, he saw Jessica and her mother standing in the door-way.
Perhaps of the three conscious ones, Jessica was the first to recover herself.
A sort of fear that seemed to turn her cold from feet to brow oppressed Mrs. Chalmers, and she stood there white-lipped, stunned, in presence of that unnamed terror, while her daughter went forward, a smile that was almost playful making her treacherous lips beautiful.
"Leith, really Leith!" she cried sweetly. "What man but you ever could turn up in this most unexpected fashion, or this most welcome one? Was it your sudden coming that has upset Carlita? These Southern women are so easily affected. Mamma, can't you ring for Carlita's maid? Here is poor Leith holding her in his arms as if she were a china doll, which he feared to drop lest it should break. Has she really fainted, or is it only one of her pretty affectations because of the picturesque comfort of the position?"
"I am afraid I was a little abrupt in breaking some startling news to her," answered Leith, quietly, thankful for once for the incessant flow of Jessica's words. "Poor little girl! I am very sorry for her."
"Really? What was it?"
"Wait a moment."
Carlita had stirred ever so slightly in his embrace but he was painfully alive to every movement. It seemed to him that it would be impossible for him to look into her clear eyes then, eyes lighted with hatred and loathing for his despicable act, and it was with a feeling of absolute relief that he resigned his precious burden to her maid,who, with the assistance of Mrs. Chalmers, took her from the room.
"Do tell me!" cried Jessica, making not the slightest pretense of interest in her mother's ward. "I am consumed with curiosity. Is it about Olney?"
"Yes."
"He is ill?"
"Worse than that."
"Worse! Not—dead?"
"Yes."
"Good heavens!"
There was a desperate sort of silence that lasted she could never quite remember how long, but her mother's touch aroused her, her mother's voice speaking in her ear in a low, strained tone, which seemed unreal and ghastly to her.
"Olney is dead, Jessica. Do you hear me, child? Olney Winthrop is dead."
The girl shook off the hand and lifted her white face.
"Yes, I know," she answered, hoarsely, almost gruffly. "What is the good of making a scene about it? Many of—of our friends have died suddenly who appeared less like it than he. What was it, Leith—typhoid? Mexico is such a beastly hole for typhoid."
Her mother heard and understood all the bravado in the tone, and a shiver passed over her that added to her pallor under all the ghastly, artificial red. But she forgot it in listening to Leith's reply.
"No," he said, heavily, "it was not fever."
"Then what?"
He glanced away from her, even shot a half-nervous glance in the direction of the door, which was something he had never done before in his life.
"What was it?" she repeated, unable to control her impatient excitement. "Not—"
"Yes, murder!"
There was none of the old, graceful nonchalance in the voice as he spoke that word. It was strained, husky, tense, like that of a man who is putting the most violent restraint upon some wild passion.
Mrs. Chalmers uttered a little cry, a cry that could not be described in its terror, suspense, she knew not what, of horrible presentiment; but Jessica's head was flung up, her nostrils dilated, her eyes wild and filled with a curious expression which her mother could not fathom, even had she been in a mental condition to try.
And then Jessica repeated that awful word, repeated it in a voice which contained a note of triumph—hideous triumph—that shot through her mother's weaker soul with renewed terror:
"Murder!"
There were volumes in the mere utterance. She stood looking at him for just a moment, then deliberately sat down and crossed her hands between her knees, looking up at him curiously. Mrs. Chalmers leaned against the mantel-shelf for needed support.
"How horrible!" exclaimed Jessica. "And that it should be some one we all know—actually engaged to Carlita! It reads quite like a story book, doesn't it? Do sit down and tell us all about it."
But Leith did not sit. He passed his hands across his brow as if his head ached.
"I can't," he answered, heavily. "It is getting late, and I am worn out. I haven't slept for—I can't remember just how long, but I feel seedy and in need of rest. I think I'll go now, and come again tomorrow, if you'll let me."
"But at least you'll tell us the main facts!" cried Jessica. "It won't take a minute. Who murdered him?"
She seemed to delight in the mere utterance of the grewsome word, and Leith shivered, though his answer was filled with passion:
"I wish to God I knew!"
"Then you don't?"
"No."
The words were uttered so peculiarly that even Jessica was silent for a moment, then said, with sudden, swift meaning:
"Then you were not with him?"
"No."
"And there was no inquiry made, no effort to discover the murderer?"
Leith lifted his shoulders wearily.
"Oh, yes," he answered. "But what does inquiry amount to in a place like that? There is no law, and a man's importance is measured by the value of his hat and saddle, and the number of men he has slain."
"Then you have no suspicion?"
"None." But he stooped to pick up a handkerchief he had dropped as he spoke the word. "I really must go now," he said when he had regained it. "I am dead tired, and—"
"But you saw him after he was dead?" she persisted, observing that his hand trembled, in spite of his efforts to prevent it.
"Yes, I saw him," he stammered.
"Was he shot?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Directly through the heart."
"Ah! then he did not suffer much. You should be glad he was killed at once, and—"
But it seemed to Pierrepont that he could bear it no longer. His accustomed indifference had already deserted him, and he felt that all his courage was as rapidly following. He cried out passionately, more passionately than she believed possiblefor him, even after the kiss she had seen him press upon Carlita's lips:
"Glad! Glad, when it left not a moment for preparation to meet that God whom he feared! when it left not a moment for a word of farewell to the girl whom he loved! Glad! Good God! I had rather suffer a life-time of anguish than to die like that—a rat in a trap!"
"And you buried him down there?" his pitiless interlocutor continued.
"Yes," he answered, half sullenly. "What else was there to do?"
"Why not bring him home to the girl he loved, and who loved him?"
"Like that! It were a thousand times, ten thousand times, better that she never saw him again. Besides," managing by a superhuman effort to control himself somewhat, "there was no way. It was awful getting through, myself, and it would have been impossible with him. There were miles and miles that had to be done on mule-back, and miles and miles more, even after we reached the railroad, that had to be done on a hand-car. Then there were land-slides that had to be walked over and the car carried. Oh, it would have been impossible, quite impossible, even if—if—"
"If what?"
"If I had desired to," he blurted out, hastily, hoarsely. "I will come again tomorrow—tomorrow—when, I hope, Miss de Barryos will be better. Good-night."
He bolted from the room, snatched up his hat and coat in the hall, and rushed into the street.
Already the lamps were lighted, flickering brilliantly in the deadened gray of the gloaming that was so rapidly fading into night. Pedestrians were hurrying homeward, their faces cut to crimson by the sharp, frosty air.
The sting of it was pleasant to Pierrepont. Heopened his mouth and drank it into his lungs with the same relish that a thirsty man drinks water.
"God, what a relief!" he exclaimed, his step growing more elastic. "She knew how she was torturing me, saw it in every word that I spoke; and I, fool that I was, was betrayed into weakness and cowardice by a woman whom I despise! I felt myself a criminal striving to avoid the accusation of my crime. I think if she had cried out: 'You are the guilty one! 'Twas your hand fired the shot that killed poor Olney Winthrop!' I would have sunk upon my knees and begged for mercy. Pouf! how all this cursed affair has upset me! I wonder if I shall ever be myself again? I wonder if I shall ever be able to shake off the influence of all these lies I have been forced to tell, and shall be forced to tell from this time henceforth? God! it's the old story retold of Adam and Eve, without the Garden of Eden. A woman's beautiful face makes cowards of us all. And I, who so despise a liar, who never told a lie in my life until—"
He did not complete the sentence, but flung up his head with a gesture of repugnance and abhorrence.
A slow, pitiless, scornful, malignant laugh fell from Jessica's lips as she heard the outer door close upon him. She got up, went to the window, and watched him as he disappeared down the street; then, quite as calmly as she had moved the day before, returned to the mantel and laid one hand upon it, while with the other she lifted her dress and placed her foot upon the fender before the fire. Then, after a pause:
"Why do you look at me in that uncanny sort of way?" she exclaimed, half fretfully to her mother, without even glancing in her direction. "You make me feel creepy all up and down my back. Why don't you say it out and have done with it?"
"Say—what out?" stammered Mrs. Chalmers,her voice as stiff, as heavy, as full of terror as her face.
"What you are thinking."
"I—I don't believe I—could. It seems to—me that I—must have been asleep—and had a—horrible nightmare. I—think I must have been—wondering—what you—thought."
Jessica lifted her head. In the mirror she saw leaning against the door-jamb a figure clothed all in black, the white hands crossed upon its breast as if to hush the wild throb of the passionate heart. The beautiful face looked deathly in its pallor. It was Carlita.
Jessica turned her eyes upon her mother as if she had not seen, then answered slowly, her voice vibrating with intense meaning:
"What I think of the murder of Olney Winthrop? You mean whom do I believe to be the murderer? I am quite sure there can not be two ideas upon that score. The ball that entered Olney Winthrop's heart was fired by the hand of Leith Pierrepont, none other!"