It is in life's supreme moments that destiny calls the loudest.
Miss Charlotte stands in the Westbrook morning-room, her demeanor plainly indicating nervousness and irresolution. From time to time she looks in a hesitating way at Doctor Westbrook's broad back, as he stares out of the window. Presently she speaks, as if with an effort; but her deliciously soft and gentle voice in its free and expressive play falls upon the listener's ears so like a harmony struck from silver strings, that to say it breaks the silence is to use a phrase too harsh.
"I don't consider our age—that is, seriously," she is saying; "but, Mobley, there are other things."
She paused and contemplated his back a moment.
"If what you see from that window is of more consequence than what I am saying," she observed, "I will—"
The Doctor wheeled about instantly, before she had done.
"Believe me, Charlotte," he made haste to protest, "you had my undivided attention. I saw nothing out of the window—or elsewhere; I was conscious only of your words."
His obvious sincerity satisfied her. She smiled and proceeded, the man watching her with sober, thoughtful eyes.
"I will confess something to you, Mobley, and perhaps you will understand better—why—why I hesitate." She paused again, and the Doctor could see that she was trying to overcome a nervousness and embarrassment quite foreign to her nature. But she conquered this feeling at once, and went on.
"Mobley," with added earnestness, her lustrous eyes bravely meeting his, "I am possessed of a pride so strong that I am afraid it is greater than my love. What a poor, miserable, wretched affection my love for you must be! I am ashamed of it."
"Oh, dear girl," he commenced with abrupt impetuosity; but she stopped him.
"No, no; let me finish. All my life, Mobley, I have lived more or less in the past. In my fancies we have not been poor; to me the poor little cottage we have called home has indeed been a home; and the dear old home that is sinking so rapidly into irremediable ruin only a phantasm of what might have been. But when I think of home, Mobley, the old place rises in my mind. It has been my constant yearning that it may be rehabilitated; that mamma, Clay, and I might once more foregather beneath its roof in the circumstances which I cannot help feeling are ours by right; and for this consummation I have looked to Clay with an unfaltering faith. Perhaps it is wicked, Mobley, but I cannot help it. If you take me, I want it to be from such a station; not like a mendicant creeping to shelter. Oh, I could not bear that!"
The man was profoundly affected, shaken to the very depths of his nature; but he felt that he understood her; and so great was his respect for this unexpected confidence, that, chaotic and fanciful as its tenor might be, he exerted a mighty effort to restrain a swelling tide that threatened to sweep him from his feet and leave him pouring out his passion in fervid incoherences, kneeling there before her.
"Charlotte, I can only repeat that I love you. I have waited. But, dearest, now—now," he came quickly close up to her, "now can you make this confession and still hesitate? Can you look at me and still say that any obstacle stands between us? Oh! Charlotte, Charlotte! My love can no longer be denied!"
Her eyes were downcast, her bosom rose and fell tumultuously; but when he would have taken her in his arms, she stopped him.
"Oh, don't—don't, Mobley," in a whisper. "There are—there are other things." Although he obeyed her, he stood with arms outstretched, his attitude an impassioned appeal from which the woman turned away her eyes.
"Since you have been here with Joyce," he resumed, after a moment, "it has been a delight to watch you go about the house; for it made it so easy to fancy that you would come and go thus always. Charlotte, dear heart, look at me."
Slowly the beautiful eyes, suffused with wonderful softness and light, rose to the appealing hands, to his own eager orbs, and straightway dropped again.
"Charlotte, will you not stay? Dear?"
"Mobley, I—I can't."
Quite suddenly she clenched her slim fingers together in a little gesture of helplessness. Her next words were inconsequential.
"Oh, why does not Mr. Converse return? Where can he be? Has he abandoned us?"
The Doctor, being ignorant of the connecting links of thought, may be pardoned if, at this momentous juncture, he mentally consigned the Captain to the limbo of eternal darkness. His arms dropped, and he asked, wonderingly,
"What has he got to do with it?"
"Mobley, can't you understand?" She laid a hand lightly upon his broad chest, regarding him now with a look of anxious seriousness.
"I said there were other things," she went on; "that there was something else we must consider before we think of—of our own happiness. This awful cloud still hangs over us, and until it is cleared away, I am afraid. It is selfish—wrong—for us to consider our own happiness at such a time. He is the only one who can clear that cloud away, Mobley. Oh, why doesn't he come? It is time! It is time!"
Doctor Westbrook's impatience evinced itself only by a shrug of the shoulders.
"I have no such hope," said he. "He's like all the rest of them; unless a thing's as plain as a pikestaff, he can't do any more than an ordinary mortal,—unless, again, it's further to complicate matters and cause more trouble. Why doesn't he come, indeed! He will, perhaps, when the whole affair has had time to die of inanition."
Now, neither of them had heard footsteps in the hall, so deeply were they engrossed, and when a sudden knock was struck upon the door, both started. Charlotte sat down in some confusion, and, after a second's hesitation, the Doctor called, "Come in," his tone betraying his vexation at the interruption.
The door opened barely wide enough to admit a tall, slender man, a stranger to Charlotte, but one whose features were somehow familiar. The movement was silent and stealthy. His look shot about the entire apartment, apparently without noting its two human occupants. He noiselessly closed the door again, and placed his back against it. Charlotte glanced at the physician and perceived that he was regarding the intruder with frank disfavor and an annoyance he did not attempt to conceal.
"Your name's Adams, is it not?" the Doctor sharply asked.
The man ducked his head in a swift bow of acknowledgment. When he stood upright again he held a card in his hand. The action was like a sleight-of-hand performance, so quickly was it done; for Charlotte was entirely unable to see where that card came from.
The Doctor ignored it; while Adams, in nowise abashed, said:
"Yes, sir, Doctor Westbrook,—Adams. Septimus Adams; Magnolia Investigating Agency." He discomfited Charlotte by turning abruptly and thrusting the card at her.
"Here, never mind that," said Doctor Westbrook, with a brusqueness that caused Charlotte to wonder. "How did you get in here? What do you want?"
Adams ran a finger around the inside of his collar, an action which betrayed an astonishing limberness of neck.
"Well, Doctor," he began, casting rapid side-glances at Charlotte, and not looking at his interlocutor at all, "you see, what I have to say had best be said in priv—"
"Say it here and now or not at all," the Doctor demanded. "Had I known who was knocking, you would not have intruded, I tell you candidly; but since you are here, state your business as briefly as possible."
Adams made a peculiar sound with his tongue and accompanied it with an expression of protestation.
"Don't take that way with me, Doctor," said he; "you'll regret it presently, I'm sure. If you don't care about the lady being present I'm sure I don't. It was only out of a consideration for her feelings—and yours, too, Doctor—that I threw out the suggestion."
"And once more, I tell you there is nothing privy between you and me, Adams. Be brief."
"Very well."
With a movement that was again almost like prestidigitation, Adams had the door open, and there appeared the familiar, now puzzled, countenance of McCaleb.
"That's the man," Adams went on, pointing to Doctor Westbrook,—assuredly, direct enough now. "I charge Mobley Westbrook with the murder of Señor Alberto de Sanchez." With extraordinary adroitness, he placed McCaleb between himself and the physician.
For a moment the silence could almost be felt, tense and breathless as it was. McCaleb was the only one present who evinced any embarrassment; he had every air of a man suddenly and unwillingly thrust into a ridiculous position. Charlotte was too dazed to comprehend at once what was going forward, and she simply sat motionless and stared at Adams with a blank look. That individual, by his recent manoeuvre, had placed himself near the open door, and he was, moreover, again smiling and flashing his teeth. As for the Doctor, he seemed for the time being overcome with astonishment; then he laughed harshly and unnaturally; and what he said was quite unaccountable:
"So it has come at last. Well, I have been expecting it."
He sat down suddenly and fell to stroking his beard. His glance seemed to pass casually to Adams, who, when his shifting eyes caught it, swallowed hastily and edged still nearer the door.
A sudden anger burst from the Doctor.
"Close that door!" he thundered. "Don't let that rascal slip away till we see how far he means to push this thing."
With the Doctor's first enigmatic words McCaleb seemed to recover hissang-froid. Briefly he regarded the other with a startled look, as if the words were unexpected and surprising; now he turned to Adams, his surprise very manifest.
He closed the door.
"I must warn you, Doctor," said he, "that anything you say may be used against you; yet, if you wish to make a statement, you are at liberty to do so. It is true that you have been charged with this—this crime; I have the warrant here, sworn to by Adams."
The Doctor had not moved his look from Investigator Adams, who now betrayed every sign of uneasiness. Once or twice that wonderfully flexible right hand stole toward the region of his hip pocket, but each time it came stealthily back again, to pluck uncertainly at his prognathous chin.
"McCaleb, do your duty!" said he.
"When I get good and ready," McCaleb returned, without looking at him; he was still waiting on Doctor Westbrook. The latter now spoke.
"Oh, I have no statement to make; why should I? The whole wretched business has been such a nightmare that I haven't the heart to attempt a defence."
Once more he turned to Adams.
"So this is your revenge, is it?" he asked. "This is your way of getting back at me for the old Civic Reform League; it's a pity I didn't stay with it until I had smoked you out, you scoundrel."
He looked again to McCaleb. "Well, I suppose I must go with you; I am ready."
But there came an interruption from an unlooked-for source. Before any one was aware of it, Charlotte had arisen and was between the Doctor and the other two men. She faced them magnificently—like a tigress at bay.
"You touch him if you dare!"
The words were uttered with ominous quietness. If a look could convey any physical effect, McCaleb and Adams would have been seared and scorched and blasted by the lightning-like fire of wrath that blazed about them. All of her moving personality showed plainly in that look, dominating the situation as if the other actors therein were no more than wooden marionettes. McCaleb recoiled; Adams cowered behind him.
"Mobley, tell him that he lies—there, that wretched creature hiding behind the other."
She levelled a potent finger at the abject Adams.
"Charlotte," Doctor Westbrook whispered in her ear, "this is only making matters worse; believe me, this is not the place to correct whatever mis—"
Charlotte stamped her foot with fierce impatience.
"Tell him that he lies; make him swallow those vile words before either of you leaves this room."
That terrible, menacing finger was to Adams like an iron spit upon which he, impaled, was being held up to a threatening multitude. McCaleb essayed a diversion.
"This is unfortunate, Miss Fairchild. You know me pretty well; you know that I must serve this warrant; you know I would never do it were it not—" But she was not paying the slightest attention to him. He turned helplessly to the Doctor.
At last the awful look in Charlotte's eyes, the menacing finger, became unbearable. Adams, like the well-known worm, turned. He also squirmed, worm-like, and was heard to mutter something.
"What does the creature say?" demanded Charlotte.
"He says that he has an eye-witness to the murder," McCaleb interpreted.
Two regal strides, and she was standing above Adams, an incarnation of outraged womanhood, of implacable, devastating wrath.
"Who is your witness?"
For once his eyes had ceased to rove; they were held by Charlotte's—hypnotized by their compelling magnetism.
"Who is your witness?" she repeated, sternly—not to be denied.
"Don't—don't touch me," he hissed. "Keep away!"
"Touch you, you filthy thing? Ugh! Who is your witness?"
Of a sudden McCaleb sprang toward them.
"Here, none of that!" he cried through clenched teeth. Something flashed for an instant between the two men, and when he stepped back again he was holding a pistol in his hand and regarding the unfortunate Adams with anger and contempt.
"Who is your witness?" She was apparently oblivious of the little by-play.
There was no escaping it. In the end he stammered something, to Charlotte unintelligible, but McCaleb started and came on a step nearer.
"Who?" asked Charlotte.
"How—How—Howard Lynden."
Now it was her turn to recoil. The sternness of her countenance gave way to a mingled look of amazement and incredulity. She laughed a little wildly.
"How ridiculous! I see now; it is merely a vulgar joke—some spite which this wretched creature is trying to vent upon you, Mobley."
Now that the tension was broken, McCaleb felt that he could again make himself heard.
"Indeed, Miss Fairchild, it is no joke," earnestly. "If Adams, here, should try such a game, he would find it the worse for him, as he knows very well."
"You'll see how much of a joke it is," muttered Adams, with a malignant look at the Doctor. But McCaleb went on, ignoring him.
"However unpleasant it may be, I have the warrant issued in proper form, and, one way or another, I must serve it."
What next occurred banished from the minds of all everything that had preceded it.
The door noiselessly swung open and revealed the large figure and the impassive features of Captain John Converse.
While they stared at him in speechless surprise, he nodded briefly to the Doctor; long afterward, when Charlotte looked back at the scene, she became possessed of a conviction which is with her to this day—that he deliberately winked at her.
He turned to McCaleb, to whom the familiar sibilant voice was inexpressibly welcome.
"I will relieve you of your unpleasant duty, Mac," said he, smoothly. The young man passed over the warrant with an alacrity which demonstrated that the Captain had correctly characterized his task.
"Pardon me for intruding, Doctor," Converse continued, "but it seems you were so absorbed in here that you didn't hear me knock.... Miss Fairchild, you—"
Something in her manner bade him stop. He glanced significantly at Doctor Westbrook; but before either had time to do or say anything further, Charlotte had risen hastily from the chair into which she had sunk upon the Captain's unexpected entrance, her every movement betraying a suppressed excitement, an agitation imminently upon the point of mastering her self-control.
"No, no!" she said, laughing somewhat hysterically, "I am not going to faint; but oh! Mr. Converse, I am so glad you have come!" She sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and sat on the floor, laughing and crying together.
The Doctor went over to her, raised her gently, and led her to the couch, where he sat beside her and held her head on his shoulder. There was something exultant in his look, as if he enjoyed being arrested; for the woman now clung to him as though she had never refused the caress of those sheltering arms.
The Captain stood silently watching them with expressionless eyes, turning the warrant over and over in his hands. At last he thrust it carelessly into his pocket and turned away.
Adams and McCaleb slipped unobserved from the room.
Some time later, when Charlotte was again calm, Mr. Converse said to her, "Miss Fairchild, I have an answer to our riddle."
"Then, thank God! the mystery is solved!" she said; and the Doctor burst forth eagerly:
"Is that true?"
Converse ignored both inquiries.
"Come nearer, Miss Fairchild," said he; and when, wondering, she had obeyed, he leaned forward and whispered one word into her ear.... "That's what our riddle has for its answer," he went on in a louder tone. "'Paquita—what do you spell?' is a riddle no longer."
Charlotte started back.
"Revenge—but that tells me nothing," she said, blankly. Converse smiled knowingly and shook his head.
"Perhaps you will not press me with questions which I haven't time to answer; it cannot be told in a word. It's a long story, and a remarkable one too; but we will hear it soon. It is not for me to tell it. I am waiting for Mr. Nettleton, Mr. Mountjoy, Clay, and Howard Lynden—though I don't believe that last gentleman will come now—and one or two others.... Ah, here are Clay and Mr. Nettleton now. You got my message, I see,"—this last to Clay.
"Yes," returned the young man; "but I'm dashed if I understand it. What's it all about, anyhow? Where have you been? When did you—"
"What?—where?—when?" Converse interrupted. "Pray make allowance for my age. Better yet, don't ask any questions at all. You will soon have enough to occupy your mind fully."
Mr. Nettleton merely spoke a word or two of greeting; otherwise he remained silent until Mr. Converse now abruptly addressed him.
"Did you bring it?" he asked.
For answer the lawyer drew a manuscript from his pocket. His manner was sober, and unconsciously it foreshadowed the gravity of what was about to transpire. A spirit of expectancy animated everybody present; a dawning realization that at last the crisis was at hand, that the veil hiding the mystery was about to be rent. So far as this is concerned, they were soon to learn that the rending of one veil was to disclose but a single one of many complexities and yet another concealing veil beyond; that while the enveloping mists were surely dissipating, they passed but slowly, revealing only a little at a time.
"While we are waiting for the others, Mr. Nettleton will read this aloud," said the Captain.
"What is it?" from the Doctor.
"I suppose you might call it the 'Ante-Mortem Statement of William Slade, Deceased,'" Mr. Nettleton replied; and Converse interjected, "'Slade's Blessing.'"
"Good," the lawyer rejoined. "That would not be an inept title. It came to me this morning through the mail, and evidently was only lately written."
Again Converse spoke. "How is Miss Joyce? Could she be present?" He proceeded no further, when he noticed the Doctor shaking his head in a decided negative.
"She is rapidly regaining her strength," the latter added; "but of everything that happened up to the time of returning consciousness, she remembers nothing."
"Dear me!" ejaculated the Captain; "that is unfortunate. Is this blank likely to be permanent?"
"God knows that I hope not. It is too early to hazard a positive opinion."
"Well, well," Converse repeated, thoughtfully; "yet, perhaps—However, Mr. Nettleton, go on; read."
"But, Mr. Converse," Charlotte interposed, "this is all so incomprehensible; we are tossed about in such a turmoil of bewilderment that my mind is incapable of understanding anything, and I am sure that Mobley is no better off. When did you return? Where have you been so long? Have some mercy upon us, for I feel as though I were going mad."
"Dear lady," he returned, "try to have a little patience; you shall know all, quickly."
"But, about Mobley—what did that man mean by accusing him? by saying that Howard had witnessed the—the murder? My God! when will this end?"
The Captain spoke soothingly.
"Let this manuscript be read, and everything else will fall in naturally. I have already said that the story cannot be told in a word. It is a strange tale, and we must take one thing at a time if we hope ever to comprehend it. Now go ahead, Mr. Nettleton."
The lawyer appeared to consider.
"I question the advisability of reading this," he said at length; "but Mr. Converse thinks otherwise. I wish to say first, however, that many things in this manuscript will prove to be exceedingly painful to you, Mobley, and to you, Charlotte and Clay. So much so, that it will be impossible for you to hear them unmoved. I have read it, and I know. It is contemptible. It brings grave charges against your two fathers; yet, if you wish ever to understand the mystery that so entangles you, a perusal of this will be necessary. Each one of you could take it alone and go through with it as you may; but to read it here aloud will be a terrible ordeal. What are your wishes?"
"Bob," the Doctor returned, "we have all borne so much that the fact of this being an additional ordeal weighs but little against the assurance that we are to see this web of mystery and suspicion untangled. I think the three of us most concerned will agree to that?" He looked to Charlotte and Clay, who nodded acquiescence. Converse also nodded his head vigorously, adding: "My idea, exactly. You will hear the dead vilified and yourselves damned roundly; but, dear me, what of that?" he asked, cheerfully. "Slade was as cracked as a brick sidewalk, and he couldn't do anything else."
Mr. Nettleton smiled. "It wouldn't do to go too far into that, Converse; remember the will."
"Well," the other retorted, "that is the most sensible thing he ever did. He was sane enough when that was drawn. You must remember, it is fourteen years old."
Now the lawyer turned to Clay and Charlotte. "It is agreed, then, that I shall read this aloud?" he asked, looking from one to the other.
"Fire away," from Clay; and his sister supplemented, "If we can't bear it, we can stop you."
Although there were times during the reading when she hid her face in her hands and wept softly; when Clay or the Doctor or both sat with white set faces, with clenched hands and rigid jaws, to the credit of their self-control may it here be set down, that there was no interruption until Mr. Nettleton had quite finished.
That which follows is merely aprécisof what constituted a remarkable document. Those portions deleted, comprising quite a half of the writing, are nothing more nor less than a manifestation of Slade's arrant egotism, his innate selfishness, an almost fiendish vindictiveness, and a seemingly inborn malevolence that was baffled at every turn. Indeed, the one bright spot in the entire writing—his professed affection, if so tender an emotion can be associated with his nature—is all the more extraordinary because it stands alone among all the man's ungenerous impulses and thwarted ambitions. Those portions may well be dispensed with; they are simply unpleasant reading. Otherwise the document is given as he wrote it.
To begin with, I was unfortunate in being born the son of an overseer. The generation that has come since the war recks little how pregnant this simple statement is. It bestowed upon me an ethic value somewhat lower than that possessed by the meanest nigger on Richard Fairchild's plantation. They had a place; I had none. Besides, my father was a rascal and a thief, possessing not a single leavening trait or characteristic; for he was without any refinement or culture, impenetrable to any noble sentiment—coarse and vulgar to the end. God! Could human effort come to aught in the face of such overwhelming odds? Yet, one helping hand, an occasional encouraging word from those who usurped position and authority, one sympathetic soul to spur my honorable aspirations, and I had been a better man. But, with one exception, that helping hand, the encouraging word, were withheld; the sympathetic spirit did not exist. God bless Elinor Clay, and reward her with a saint's crown of glory; may He everlastingly damn the rest! ...
Most vicious of all—proud, stiff-necked, sick in his self-esteem, overweening, and malicious—was Peyton Westbrook. From the first he stood in my path, thwarting and despising me, looking upon William Slade as something less than the dirt beneath his aristocratic feet. What was Peyton Westbrook that I was not? We were man and man. Had our positions been reversed, his would have been a wretched lot, indeed. Small of soul, narrow of mind, regardless of any interest that did not harmonize with his own, he would have remained the overseer's son, to live unhonored, and, dying, to pass into an oblivion merited by his worth; while I, William Slade, endowed with intellect and fine sensibilities, might have risen to greatness, the limits of which I hesitate to define. But no; he was born to the purple; it was given him to make such futile and petty uses of his father's fortune and position as his little mind and mediocre abilities could devise; while I, not lacking in all those naturally inherent qualities which made me in every way his superior—except the one of position—must stand in the background of obscurity and console myself as best I could for Life's cruel arbitrariness in the selection of her favorites....
Peyton Westbrook loved—nay, I cannot prostitute the word to such base use; he coveted Elinor Clay and her acres. I loved Elinor Clay. So did Richard Fairchild, poor creature that he was....
Peyton Westbrook's nature was so mean that he could applaud his conduct in turning from her to Louise Shepardson. The world marvelled at the time; but the truth, like all puzzles of simple solution, was never hit upon. Louise Shepardson, when the Judge, her father, died, became possessed of more acres than would ever come to Elinor Clay. Good, broad acres constituted the only bait to which so cold-blooded a fish as Westbrook would ever rise. Did gracious Elinor ever suspect this simple explanation? No; her gentle soul never could comprehend such infamy. She wedded Richard Fairchild, believing she had driven Peyton Westbrook from her—blaming her pure self for his heartless baseness. Were I to attempt a writing of the curse which rises to my lips when I think of this soulless, bowelless nature, its scorching fervor would dry the ink on my pen. "Slade's Blessing" it has been called! "Blessing," indeed! Heaven grant that it may land him in the midst of the torment whither it has consigned him again and again, and is at last made eternal by the ineffaceable record which preserves forever the prayers of dying men!
Did I aspire to Elinor Clay's hand? God help me, if I did! I was young and ambitious; I was full of the dreams of youth—the young blood pulsed hotly in my body; and this was sweet—the one incident in my miserable past that I can look back upon and feel a shadow of pleasure's glow mount to my withered cheek. Even now, soured as I am by adversity, that beautiful name stirs a warmth in my heart; and I can pity myself and her in tears, and not by curses for those who wronged us. So does it soften the heart of bitterness. My sentiment was a matter of repression, my adoration silent; Elinor was as far from me as the stars. Because I was son of an overseer I was lonely enough; besides, what had I to do with boys of my own age, their foolish sports and inane pastimes? We had nothing in common.
But Elinor Clay never spoke aught to me but gentle words; and in the end I came to set her up in the shrine of my thoughts as the object of an adoration which, could she but have had a glimpse of it, surely would have melted her tender heart to pity. To have lived for her; to have toiled and laid up year by year, that in the end she might alone benefit; to have done this with a singleness of purpose that never faltered—does this signify selfishness or meanness? Then I am the meanest and most selfish that ever encumbered the earth....
I realized in my love-madness that I must have patience; that I must toil and labor unceasingly to attain to the place merited by my talents and intellect; for naturally I was superior to them all, being possessed of mental gifts of no mean order. I knew that with the advantages I could acquire I could rise above them; then I could take what to ask for then would have brought forth only derision and mockery. But here again the world was against me; I was only the overseer's son. But they feared me, and every hand was extended to keep me down....
Although my father was a rascal, he was a far-seeing one. Long before war's dire besom swept our fair land, he had a sure knowledge of the outcome, and with commendable enterprise laid his plans accordingly. He had put by a little money, and, as opportunity offered (and such opportunities were by no means lacking), he would lend a bit here and a bit there to the planters about our neighborhood, that they might be able to stem the rising tide of misfortune. Richard Fairchild was a poor weakling, and my father kept him from going under. There are those who may term it ingratitude to speak thus of my "benefactor." Bah! Benefactor! Fool! I pen the epithet in scorn and contempt. I can select no better evidence to support my opinion of him than that he should have opened wide the fast-emptying Fairchild purse, to take thence the gold that was exchanged for my education. The act was prompted by no spirit of kindness, but was animated by the same foolish vanity and love of ostentation that marked the wasting of all his substance. How carefully I could have husbanded it! Even at this late day the thought of the small fortune that he wasted upon his niggers alone makes me quiver with indignation. No; such learning as I have was come by through sore labor. His mean gift was thrown to me as a bone is tossed to a vagrant cur.
But no mortal could have saved that man. My father's error lay in taking payment twice, and somewhat over, for the money he had lent him. The highest tribute I can pay to Richard Fairchild's astuteness is that he never suspected this, although, during a period covering many years, he made many payments to my father, and probably had continued doing so had not every resource become exhausted.
My father used to say, in his vulgar way: "I fit for my country against the greasers,"—meaning thereby the Mexicans,—"and while I am too old to fight now, I may save some of these broad acres. But old association cannot be ignored; so long as my poor neighbors have a chance of keeping up their brave show, my small means are at their service. If they go down—well, I shall not." And not to place upon them any sense of obligation to an overseer, they never knew whence the money came. I might observe that, had they known, they would not have touched a penny of it. But thus my father went about his charitable work, with his tongue in his cheek, and one eye knowingly closed.
Also, I may say here that my father was a conscienceless liar. He never fought anything but occasional virtuous impulses, the same being ever put to an inglorious rout; for during the Mexican War he was nothing more nor less than a sutler, although there is much to be commended in providing nourishment, raiment, and refreshment to those who are battling for their country's honor. But he prospered, and in Mexico became connected with a certain young hidalgo of Spain who had moneys to invest. Why this partnership was severed I can only conjecture. My father was wont to accuse him of ingratitude, saying that Don Juan del Castillo was an ungrateful creature, who turned upon those that befriended him; but at the same time my parent would loudly forgive him for certain dim and unspecified wrongs, the which, I shrewdly suspect, were of my father's doing rather than the Spanish gentleman's. However that may be, it was largely the latter's money that went to Richard Fairchild as a loan for such of his acres as remained unincumbered. My father could well be the agent of Don Juan in these transactions, even though the gentry would not tolerate him as a principal. My father was a shrewd rascal.
As I have already stated, the money advanced to Richard Fairchild was repaid more than twice over. (A schedule will be found in the envelope with my will.) Hence, I have been no more than a trustee—a faithful one—of Richard Fairchild's property. Take it, Clay and Charlotte; I ask nothing for my lifetime of toil and care, because I know it will not be granted me. It is yours, freely and joyously bestowed. I have added to it many fold; but that is of no moment. I seek no credit for this generous impulse. I could not have the desire of my heart: Elinor has gone from me for ever. I want nothing else. Heaven give you happiness in the property that I, William Slade, the overseer's despised son, have laid up for you....
Only one single time did fate, or Providence, favor me, and then only to turn in the end and discomfit me. But for Elinor's sake, I may not tell all thereof.
On a night shortly after the Mexican man was overtaken by a most righteous wrath in the Nettleton Building, certain evidences that Peyton Westbrook had for once gone a step too far in his villany came to my hands. I gave thanks to God that I should have been the one chosen as the humble instrument of that man's undoing. The testimony was irrefragable—as we lawyers say, conclusive—and I held him in the hollow of my hand. Here, my lifelong affection led me into error of judgment—something that I am not often guilty of; my tenderness of heart blinded me to my hatred of this man, and instead of stripping him of his smug and gaudy trappings of virtue, and showing him up to be the scoundrel he was, I ended by allowing that evidence to be taken from me—I standing by complaisant—and the opportunity to unmask him to be destroyed. So did gentle Elinor reward him for his base heartlessness of other days! What is the use for me to say that Peyton Westbrook was a scoundrel, if I cannot prove it? Although it is the bare truth, I will refrain from telling it. Besides, sweet Elinor has begged me not to....
For a time I thought of that snip of a girl who bears the Westbrook name with about as much dignity as really invests it—
But enough of her. I was wrong, and I bear her no ill will for being a witless butterfly. Butterflies, I dare say, have their uses in the vast scheme of creation.
To return to my error of judgment. When I had satiated my senses by gloating over this evidence, I was possessed of an idea. Never had I breathed a word to any living soul of my love for Elinor Clay; it was a secret locked safely in the treasure-house of my heart; and now I could overwhelm her with gratitude. I would go to her—now that her foolish girl sentiment for the bowelless Westbrook had long been dead—and at once show her what a hypocrite he was, how basely he had treated her, and then present the immense contrast offered by my lifelong devotion and generosity. Could any mortal—especially a woman—resist such an appeal? I pride myself on my knowledge of the sex; to the intelligent, observant mind they are as open books; and I unhesitatingly answer, No. But alas for human frailty! When I appeared to my beloved Elinor, I had not taken into account her years of enervating illness; I failed to consider that she was not the woman she had been; but I did not hesitate—to me she would ever remain unchanged.
When she comprehended the tenor of my errand, the shock was too much for her gentle nature; she was quite overcome and rendered irresponsible, and all unconsciously she reviled me,—she who had ever been all gentleness and tenderness,—and treated me with a harshness that was very, very painful. What could I do but deliver my testimony over to her? How could I refrain, when her delirium or hallucination was so great that it actually led her to defending Peyton Westbrook! to calling him by many endearing names! And presently, her daughter—who, I make no doubt, had been listening at the door—entered, and I thoughtfully and considerately desisted in my importunities for the testimony's return (for my beloved Elinor had it at the moment); and I decided to leave her until a more propitious time. Alas! that time was destined never to come.
But enough. I reap from my trust no material benefit. The envious call my conduct Miserliness; I spell it differently; Fidelity.
Charlotte, Clay, dear children of my beloved Elinor, take what is yours. I ask for no meed of thanks. My reward is the consciousness of a duty well accomplished, of a trust faithfully guarded. But never forget that William Slade, son of an overseer, despised and spurned by an unfeeling and heartless world, ever had your interests near to his heart. If the reader in his soul does not say that my unselfishness is sublime, then are you inhuman, cold, and bloodless; for I end my trust with the firm conviction that thecestuis que trustare in no wise worthy or deserving of this magnificent gift of fortune.
The tongues of dying menEnforce attention like deep harmony.Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain,For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.—RICHARD II.
When Mr. Nettleton came to the end of the extraordinary composition from the hand of William Slade, his listeners were sitting in a tense stillness that was fairly galvanic with many mingled emotions. Doubtless, Converse realized the conflicting feelings animating the three individuals most concerned; he arose immediately, and began speaking with an assumption of brisk determination designed to hold their attention to the programme as he intended it should be carried out.
"I have taken the liberty of ordering two carriages," said he, addressing the Doctor; "and as Miss Fairchild is to accompany us"—he bowed to Charlotte—"let me beg that you hurry. Time is of some moment now."
"I am to go?" she returned, wide-eyed. "Where?"
"To hear the final chapter; to be present at the lifting of the veil."
And at once she gave a satisfying example of how rapidly a woman may make herself presentable under the spur of excitement and irresistible curiosity.
What with the introduction of the man Adams into the enigma, the Doctor's arrest, the assertion that Lynden had been an eye-witness of De Sanchez's murder, Converse's abrupt and unexpected advent after so long an absence, Slade's confession, and—to cap each of these climaxes—an assurance that the mystery was a mystery no longer, it may be believed that Charlotte's tranquil exterior belied the tumult of thought and emotion which presently came to possess her, increasing the more as she pondered. Added to the other agitating influences was a lively apprehension of what form the pending disclosure would take—upon whom it would now fasten its fangs of accusation. But her habit of self-control came admirably to her aid; to a certain extent she was able to busy her tired brain with other matters, although patience had become a virtue forgotten.
Naturally, Converse had assumed the role of master of ceremonies, and the others watched him with curiosity. Into the first of two waiting carriages he ushered Charlotte, her brother, Doctor Westbrook, and Mr. Nettleton; and as soon as the door was banged to, the vehicle started with an assurance and speed signifying foreknowledge on the part of the driver. The two officers entered the other conveyance, which, just as it emerged from the driveway, was met by the Coroner and Mr. Mountjoy in the former's buggy.
Aside from the fact that it was taken without a word being uttered by any of her companions, Charlotte retained but the most nebulous memory of that ride.
In a little while the carriage was penetrating a neighborhood wholly unknown to her, and presently it swerved to one side and drew up at the curb.
Charlotte looked out with some interest. The building before which they had stopped stood on a corner; it was two-storied, of stuccoed brick, and made gloomy by wide galleries resting on brick and stone arches. It exhaled a strong odor of cooking onions and garlic, of wine from the wine-room at the corner, and she insensibly drew back. Almost at once Converse and McCaleb, Mr. Mountjoy and the Coroner appeared before the carriage door.
The first-named shot a quizzical look at her, but still vouchsafed no explanation more than the fact that they were at their journey's end.
After stepping under the balcony which roofed the walk, she was enabled to read on one of the door-panes the words, "La Posada Mejicana, R. Velasquez," which she did with a little start. It was the place whither Clay had fled upon that memorable day, and where he had written to Mr. Nettleton. She glanced at the latter now, but he appeared unwontedly sober. The Doctor's curiosity was frank, though speechless; he doubtless had resigned himself to await the issue.
The door was opened by a short stout man, whose features were broad and dark. His hair was very black and straight and coarse, and to this man Converse spoke a word or two in Spanish. He responded volubly, and smiled a bright welcome upon the remainder of the party.
"Coom een," he said, cordially; "entre Ustedes—ah, Señor Nettletone—como esta Usted? Entre! Entre!" To which the lawyer responded gravely.
"Eet ees a fine day—si?" vociferated the stout little man, cheerfully; and when the last of the party had entered he closed the door once more and placed himself beside Mr. Converse.
"Lead on," said the latter with a gesture; "you know."
"Dees way." He piloted them down a chilly, dark corridor to a flight of stairs.
The party presently arrived at the second floor, Charlotte holding the Doctor's arm tightly, and the way led through another dim corridor to a door, before which the guide paused. His manner had become all at once comically mournful.
"Ah,el póbre señor—he ees un seeckhombre—mucho malo," he whispered hoarsely. "I must go." He departed on tiptoe, and Converse tapped lightly upon the door.
Full of wonder, his companions waited in silence. They heard a soft fall of feet on the other side, a softer swish of feminine skirts, and the door opened.
Both Clay and the Doctor uttered low exclamations of astonishment, for the open portal revealed a vision of dazzling loveliness. But it was not the remarkable, melancholy beauty of the young girl that moved them so powerfully; not the faultless, ivory-tinted features, nor the wealth of silky tresses—black and wavy, like Joyce's; nor yet the liquid black eyes which were almost a counterpart of Charlotte's: they were wonderful eyes, but oh, so sad! Instead, it was the unexpectedness of the apparition, a conviction of having seen that beautiful face before—the unparalleled incongruity of associating it with its present setting—that occasioned such intense surprise. Clay at once identified her with the girl he had seen while in this same building on the day of his flight; to the Doctor the fancied resemblance was fleeting, incapable of being fixed. But he succeeded in doing this later on.
Beyond this lovely girl with the sad, heavy-lidded eyes could be seen a large room with whitewashed walls, lighted by two high, barred windows which overlooked a paved court strewn with bottles and empty wine-casks. The room's furnishings were austere and uninviting: a high wooden bed, a plain table beside it, another on which were a ewer and basin, and a long bench extending around two sides of the apartment constituted all the conveniences. They might have served a monk, but scarcely a sick man.
Still wondering, the party followed Mr. Converse into the room, and as they did so, they received another shock.
A wild, terrifying figure reared up in the bed, and, supporting itself on an elbow, glared at the intruders like some fierce animal of the wild disturbed in its den.
"Good God!" burst from Doctor Westbrook as he recoiled from this spectacle. "How came you here and in this plight?"
It was Señor Vargas. The Doctor's countenance was eloquent with horror and amazement, and he stood petrified—unconscious of Charlotte clinging to his arm, blind to all else except the wretched creature, fever-flushed and emaciated, now staring at him from the bed. Suddenly he read aright; he recalled the significant cough while the man was in his office, and again at the inquest; an unconscious exposure to the rigor of an unfamiliar climate, and a severe cold, had forced the issue of life and death.
Converse drew near to Charlotte and glanced at her with a whimsically lifted brow.
"And this is what you discovered?" said she.
"Here is where I have spent the last few weeks. As soon as Vargas became ill he had himself removed here—to be with the girl."
"Oh, there are so many things I cannot understand," she returned. "What did that creature Adams mean by saying that Howard Lynden—"
A quick alteration in his manner made her pause and regard him anxiously. At once Converse made a little grimace of disgust.
"It was very simple," said he. "Lynden was a poor weakling, without any will of his own. Adams merely bent him to his own purposes. Lynden saw the Doctor standing over the dying De Sanchez; Adams made him think he had seen the rest. It presents a peculiar psychological condition, fortunately rare, but by no means unprecedented. That young fellow has very wisely effaced himself. You will never see him again."
At this moment Charlotte caught the melancholy eyes of the beautiful girl directed toward her.
"How superb!" she murmured. "She is like a breath from the Orient; she fills the mind like Coleridge's 'damsel with a dulcimer.' Who is she?"
"That," whispered Converse, "isPaquita."
As in its last outburst a dying volcano is said to vomit forth its hottest flow of lava, so did the perfervid words pour from the lips of Vargas. But the malevolence and implacable hate revealed in the man's look and tone, in the bitter denunciation of his utterance, were so intense that the scene amounted at times to an almost unendurable ordeal.
The tale he unfolded was one of wrong and betrayal, of a heartlessness unbelievable, and it was plain that years of brooding had made of revenge an obsession, a fixed idea that gave him the cunning to work out his ends, patience to abide his opportunity, ingenuity in concealing his identity and purpose, truly marvellous.
"Years ago," his story began, after an outburst that left him nearly exhausted, "my father, my mother, my sister, and I lived in Seville. There it was that I was born; so you see, señores, I am not of Mexico, but of Spain. There it was that I was happy, though cruelly poor. I was young and strong, and from a small lad up to manhood I was ever working to perfect myself in all the tricks of a juggler's calling. Ah, señores, I made an art of it. At one time I, Fernando del Castillo, was the greatest, the most adept juggler in the whole of Europe. There is none who knew me then that will deny it. But it came natural to me, señores; even before I was twenty I excelled them all, just as my sister, the little Paquita, the sunshine and gladness of my father's house, was more beautiful, more graceful, and lighter of foot—ah, such a tiny foot it was!—than any woman within the length and breadth of Spain.
"Señores, it is her brother who is telling the tale; he loved her with a tenderness beyond the power of words to express. But you should have beheld her in those days: beautiful—beautiful she was, her voice like a bird's for very sweetness; and there was none who could make such a living, breathing poem of atangoor ajoto; none who could glance at you with such sparkling eyes, firing the blood and the brain like old wine; none that could flash such pearly teeth between such coaxing lips—lips like the soft petals of a crimson rose. It was her fame that spread beyond Seville to Madrid, and even to Paris.
"In Paris the fame of Paquita and Fernando—for so were we known—was on every tongue. God knows she was innocent enough then, and content with the love and companionship of her brother. God knows that in those days we were sufficient each unto the other, and happy, señores—happy....
"But it ended."
De Sanchez, at that time attending college in Paris, on the strength of his knowledge of Castillo's uncle, Don Juan Sebastian del Castillo, attained an intimacy with Paquita and Fernando that led to disaster for the girl. Don Juan had long been a resident of Mexico, and was a man of wealth and affairs.
"There was a certain dance of my sister's," said Vargas,—or Castillo, to give him his proper name,—"that always held the audience spellbound. It was of her own devising; born of her warm Southern blood and her romantic heart. Ah, señores, it was a thing of beauty—a perfect treasure of art. With the lithe movements of her dainty body, the dropping of her lashes, the flashing of her starlike eyes, the curving of her ripe, crimson lips—either in a smile of witchery or of scorn and disdain,—she told a tale of love and disappointment, of betrayal and revenge. Truly was it inspired of the evil that later was to befall herself.
"When, at the end, she would flash a dagger from her garter with the swiftness of a serpent darting from its coil, the audience would rise to her and cry 'Brava!' until the walls reverberated. Ah, it was marvellous! Is it strange that I adored her?
"Upon the very night, señores, that she innocently revealed her love for De Sanchez, he brought to her a dagger. Many days passed before I knew of this, because, for the first time, I was not remembered with a gift also.
"'Paquita mia!' I cried, holding the pretty toy in my hand, 'Paquita mia, how could you do me, your brother, this cruel wrong?'"
"'He loves me,' she whispered, for the first time in her life not daring to look me in the eyes.
"'Loves you!' I cried. 'Have I not loved you since the day you were born?' And right there, señores, the first great lesson of this life came to me. For the first time there was no response in her bosom to the emotion in my own—to the yearning of my heart—and I became faint, my spirit sick.
"'I love him,' she gasped, faintly, her hand on her heart, and bending her head still lower.
"'O Paquita! Paquita!' was all that I could say in my sorrow. 'Love him? This is madness. Behold, you are unhappy even now, and never before this hour has a shadow of sorrow fallen between you and me.'
"'This is different,' she murmured, her head still bowed, her hand still striving to restrain the wild beating of her heart. 'We are to be wed.'
"As I was turning to leave her, she suddenly burst into tears and threw herself upon my breast. 'Oh, you are wrong! You are wrong!' she cried, looking for the first time into my eyes, but through tears, devouring my doubts in the fire of her passion. Señores, think of a joy drowned in tears! 'O my brother,' she cried, 'you are wrong, for I was never so happy in my life! I love him! I love him! Say that you are not angry; say that you love me, too; tell me that you will never leave me; for I am afraid.' And she clung to me with a wild strength that you will not believe.
"It was not long after that night that I learned the whole story.
"'When next you dance,' said De Sanchez, as he handed her the dagger, 'wear this token of my love for you.'
"'And do you love me?' she replied, seeking to read through his black eyes the blacker soul behind.
"'Here is a symbol of the True Cross,' he said, placing his hand upon the cross of the dagger's hilt, and upon her hand; 'let it be the emblem of our faith, each in the other's love.'
"'And here is the sharpness of a serpent's tooth,' she said, placing a little finger-tip upon the dagger's point; for you see—God help her!—deep in her heart she mistrusted him at that moment, and did not know it.
"'May it sting me to death if I am not forever true to you,' he uttered solemnly, before she could finish.
"Again she strove to search his soul.
"'My ears never weary of it,' she said; 'once more, do you love me?'
"'Once more, my Paquita, life of my life, soul of my soul. Once more, if my heart is ever false to you may this token of our troth still it forever.'"
So a mockery of a ceremony led to five short months of almost delirious happiness, and then—
"Then, hear!" gasped the dying man. "In five short months he tired of her, my beautiful one; he laughed at her and the babe unborn when she called him husband; and there was another woman—a woman of Paris....
"Is it not enough that he had won her heart, then thrown it torn and bleeding into the dirt? Is it not enough that his every word had been false; that he had betrayed her; that he left her without a name for her child? Is it not enough that he had won God's own gift, the love of a pure woman, and that it was to him of such little value that he trampled it beneath his feet; that he made what was priceless a thing of no value—of mockery and derision? Yet all this he did; and can you believe me,—a man pleading with death to wait till he shall finish,—that this was not the worst? As I hope for mercy from the God I am about to face; as I hope for the intercession of the Virgin Mother, it is not!"
After a daughter was born to the luckless dancer, the brother and sister began a wandering that carried them through many lands. Always before them, like an evil star, gleamed the compelling idea, revenge; and after more than a decade it guided them to Mexico, where De Sanchez and General Westbrook were conducting a banking business. They learned that their uncle there had died more than a year previous to their arrival, and that his property had been entirely dissipated in a series of disastrous investments covering a period of several years before his death. The banking concern of De Sanchez & Westbrook were the administrators of the Castillo estate.
"Then, señores, almost without warning came the blackest time of all.
"Of a sudden, a scourge of smallpox fell upon the city, and in a day those who lived in the poorer quarter were dying like flies in a frost. My beloved sister was among the very first upon whom that horrible blight fastened, and she was sorely stricken.
"There is a period during those days that is lost from my recollection; my senses were dulled as by an opiate, and I can remember only a bit here and there, as one remembers parts of a nightmare. The sickness came so suddenly that I had no time to send the little Paquita away; but by the mercy of the Holy Mother did she escape the terrible evil that had laid its hand so sorely upon her mother.
"But my sister, señores! Steadily she grew worse; steadily she sank lower and lower; and one day—the day she was at her lowest—I gave to the doctor the last gold-piece.
"He would come no more.
"So I sat by my sister. In her madness she talked, now of the times when we were happy together; now of the times when Alberto de Sanchez,el mas perfido, came into her life. More often it was of him.
"Asi, as I sat, I was myself stricken; my head suddenly became heavy, and a pain as from a knife thrust seized upon my loins. I was giddy and weak; but at that moment I rose up and passed out of our house.
"Señores, you will not believe it of me—a dying man; but, I swear by the Virgin of Guadalupe, that what I now tell you is true. I forgot everything—everything but my present distress; and I went to seek aid for my sister oflos Señoresde Sanchez and Westbrook, where they sat at ease in their banking-house. God, but I was desperate!
"I might have known how it would fall out. Had De Sanchez then shown a little tenderness, señores, a little compassion, a little remorse for the past, I might have forgiven him; but he merely stood silent, eyeing me sideways with an odd look.
"Of a sudden it came to an end. He grasped the Señor Westbrook's arm and drew him to the farthest corner of the room.
"'Back!' cried he, 'al instante—immediately; this fellow is in the delirium of smallpox.'
"How I was thrust forth into the street, how a great night of forgetfulness closed down upon me, how I awoke many days later in the pest-camp, is not to be told by me.
"Now, señores,oiga—listen.
"While I lay in my sleep of forgetfulness, Paquita crept to where the gold and silver dagger was kept, and thrust it into her heart.
"So did it end for her.
"Certain poor women of the neighborhood tended my sister and cared for the little Paquita. These had once survived the smallpox, and they feared it not. Heaven give them many days to enjoy the life that I was afterwards able to make easier for them!
"By the hands of one of these the dagger came to me—all that I possessed in the world except the humble clothes upon my back, poor and much worn.
"I looked into a mirror, and I laughed, señores. I laughed the laugh of a man whose heart is dead. Then I threw myserapeover my shoulder and strode from the pest-camp.
"In the old days, señores, I was accounted a handsome man; I was vain and much of a dandy. My complexion was lighter than you see it now; there was a curl to my hair that I was proud of; my features were regular, and there was an erectness to my figure, a nimbleness in all my movements, and a suppleness that had followed naturally on the practice of my calling.
"Now, what I beheld in the mirror was a man altogether different, and I had no fear that any one might recognize me. I drew the dagger from my sash; I pressed my lips to the dark stains upon its silver blade.
"At that moment, señores, Fernando del Castillo died to the world; and Juan Sebastian de Vargas was born—bound irrevocably to a vow of vengeance."
After his return to the city Castillo sought out his niece. Let him speak again:
"'Mi Paquita poco,' said I, taking her sweet face between my hands—so—when she had come to know me for her uncle and the tears of her greeting were dry, 'Paquita mia, henceforth, and in memory of the great sorrow that was thy mother's and mine, thou shalt be Dolores. May God and the Blessed Virgin ever fend you from the like!' And, repeating my vow inwardly as a prayer, I kissed her solemnly and departed, leaving her in the care of the women, who had come to love her as their own."
After pawning the dagger to an American dealer in curios, he departed for the mines. Thence onward his progress was marked by success from a worldly point of view, and he was soon able to establish intimate business relations with the object of his hatred. Two incidents marked his return to the city, both of which were destined to exercise a powerful influence over the future. One was the fact that the dealer with whom he had left the dagger as a pledge had departed, no one knew whither, and the dagger was not to be found; the other was the astonishing intelligence, acquired by an infinity of toil and patient waiting, that De Sanchez and General Westbrook were responsible for his uncle's bankruptcy. The General was straightway included in his hatred and scheme of vengeance.
But a controlling strain of fatalism and superstition in the man stayed his hand; he was convinced that his sister's dagger would come to him again; that its return would be the signal to strike; and he bided the time, watching De Sanchez as a cat might watch the mouse marked for its prey. With instinctive caution, though, Castillo had avoided General Westbrook, so the latter never became familiar with his presence and appearance. He continued:
"I gradually won the confidence of Alberto de Sanchez; soon we had immense interests in common—here—there—everywhere; and these, I always took care, should be profitable for him, even though I might lose thereby myself.
"But never, for some reason, could I gain his unreserved friendship, though I strove to that end daily. There was something intangible, unnamable, unseen by either of us, that ever stood between him and me, and this I could not overcome. Nothing could have surprised my mask of a face or my near-sighted eyes into betraying, by so much as would cover a needle's point, the seething fire of hate for this man that burned within; but as I watched him, unceasingly, I caught now and then a puzzled look in his eyes as they regarded Juan de Vargas—an expression in which there was something of fear; and I knew that he was reminded, in a dim way, of the evil he had done. There was something in my presence that made him ponder without understanding, and would not allow him to forget.
"In many ways Alberto de Sanchez, without knowing it, allowed to escape him that upon which his mind was turning when his brooding glance rested upon me. Once, at the organization of a mining company in which I then had some small interest, the question of a name arose. The Señor de Sanchez was regarding me with the wondering look that had become so familiar.
"'Paquita,' he said, half aloud, as one musing, 'The Paquita Gold Mining and Milling Company.' And I, señores—I perforce led the laugh that followed, the while my fingers twitched for his throat.
"What emotions stirred uneasily in that dark bosom, señores?Quien sabe?"
During this time General Westbrook was usually in the United States. On one occasion Joyce accompanied him to Mexico, and De Sanchez fell madly in love with her.
"As you know," said Castillo, "the Señor Westbrook's one virtue was his regard for and pride in his family; for their sake had he resorted to infamy. He knew the Señor de Sanchez to be a rascal; he might do very well as a business associate; but deliver his cherished daughter into that rascal's possession? No. On the other hand, De Sanchez had that which could defeat the very object of the other's villany—knowledge of it. He had but to come forward with the proofs, and the proud General would be humbled to the dust; his name would become an execration on the lips of his friends; his fortune would be taken from him—all that for which he had stolen would be lost. However great as a soldier the Señor Westbrook might have been, he was a coward here; and De Sanchez was too cunning and shrewd a scoundrel to overlook this weak spot in striving for his ends. Fate had started this game of conflicting interests, and I had but to watch and encourage it. Of course, you would say, the Señor de Sanchez would have likewise ruined himself by such an exposure; but to such a madness was he driven, when the señorita was not immediately given to him, that I feared for a time he would destroy all.
"At last it fell out as you might expect; they quarrelled and severed their partnership. De Sanchez, still holding the threat over the other, accepted a compromise because he was made to see he had to. The Señor Westbrook pointed out that his daughter was too young; that while such a marriage might be popular enough in Mexico, it would precipitate nothing short of social disaster in the States. Such matters were regarded and arranged quite differently here: the señorita's wishes had to be considered; were the matter laid before her, she would develop a will of her own; and so, and so, until that son of a devil agreed to wait four years. At the end of that time he was to present himself to claim his bride, and she was to be prepared for the great event during the time of waiting. I believe the Señor Westbrook's life was embittered; I believe he said nothing of all this to his charming daughter; it is my idea that he attempted to put off the evil until the day thereof, hoping that time would deliver him from his trouble; and so he returned with the señorita to his own country, there to face as best he could the day when it should confront him.
"When the time had nearly passed, I cunningly laid my plans so that I could follow naturally the Señor de Sanchez when he went to your country. Dolores I brought with me privately, as you know, and lodged her and the woman who has tended her since her mother's death, here where I knew she would be well cared for. For her I had a particular task. Because of the blood that was in her veins—because she was the pledge of that wretched union—I intended that she should share in the revenge, though, for the sake of her future, innocently.
"I went with Alberto de Sanchez to the office of the Señor Doctor on a certain night, pondering, as I walked along, the progress of my companion's love affair, and knowing from his silence and his scowling brow—for we were alone together—that it was not to his liking.
"We went slowly down the hall leading to the Señor Doctor's apartment, and my heart leaped; something whispered in my brain, 'This is the place!' I must observe the doors, the windows, all the possibilities. This I did. We entered the apartment of the Señor Doctor.
"But where was the dagger?
"I should not have been astonished had it come floating down from the ceiling into my hand. My brain was like a theatre in which was being enacted all that happened seventeen years before, and still I was calm. In the other room, where the Doctor and the Señor de Sanchez were, I heard that which confirmed my suspicions concerning his love affair. Surely Alberto de Sanchez would never have the opportunity of wronging his sister as he had wronged mine. Then, señores, those two—deep in their own concerns—did not hear the cry that burst from my throat.
"There, before me on a table, half covered by a paper, lay something bright and shining; my eyes caught a glint of silver and gold.
"I tore the paper away and beheld—my sister's dagger!
"At last! At last! The blood sang in my veins for very joy. At last, Alberto de Sanchez—now that your time has come, laugh as you laughed in my sister's face! Spurn the blade from your throat as you spurned her helpless pleading! Flee from me, the avenger of many horrid wrongs, as you fled from the stricken girl! Ah, you cannot do it. Alberto de Sanchez, a hundred-fold accursed—son of hell—liar—betrayer of women—look! Your time has come—at last!
"Together, my Paquita and I had a trick with the knives that—even if it be I that say it—was wonderful to behold. It was our grand climax, and oh, the sensation it would create!—the astonishment of our audiences! You have seen it, but it was new in those days.Pouf!'t was easy.
"Well, señores, the next evening after I had awaited Alberto de Sanchez's coming a sufficient time at the 'otel, I took up my stand at the entrance of the Field Building. I rolled a cigarette and lighted it, and as I tossed the match away, I saw him coming confidently as of old. God, how I hated him then!
"I walked leisurely up the Field Building stairway, knowing that I need not hurry, and down the hall to the window overlooking the—what you call the little space?—light-well?Gracias, señor. Not too close, for there might be some one to observe me at the other windows. Looking across the light-well, I could see the whole length of the other hall—that along which he was to approach me. Ah, how beautifully it was all arranged, for I was in darkness, while he would be in the light.
"So I stood there smoking my cigarette, one arm folded across my breast—so—the hand thereof resting on the dagger in my pocket—for I had taken it from the Señor Doctor's desk; and presently I saw a woman flit swiftly across the hall from the Señor Doctor's office and vanish. I had no time to wonder at this, for at the same instant I beheld Alberto de Sanchez appear at the head of the stairs and turn toward the Señor Doctor's office—toward me!