Blanch toyed musingly with the pretty two-edged knife, admiring its richly carved silver handle. Surely she was right after all. Chiquita was a true child of the South whose passions subsided as quickly as they burst into flame. And as for the knife, it would make an excellent paper-cutter.
"Oh, dear, this is too absurd!" she exclaimed. And no longer able to control herself, she burst into a peal of laughter in which was easily detected the scorn, good humor and pity she felt for her would-be rival.
Perhaps Chiquita was as much puzzled by Blanch's behavior as the latter was by hers, for all the while Blanch laughed, she also regarded her with an expression of mingled curiosity and amusement.
"Señorita," said Blanch at length, heaving a sigh, "who are you?"
The latter did not reply immediately. Her face took on an earnest expression and for some moments she stood silent, gazing straight out before her as though oblivious to her surroundings. Then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said:
"I am a Tewana, and am called the Chiquita. My father was the Whirlwind, the War Chief of my people."
"The Whirlwind?" echoed Blanch. "What an appropriate name for a savage!"
"Ah, but you should have seen him! He was the tallest man of the tribe."
"Do you know," said Blanch musingly, "I fancy you must be something like him, Señorita."
"In spirit perhaps, but only a little," she answered. "I often wish that I were more like him, for although he was a child in many things, he was a man nevertheless—civilization had not spoilt him."
Again that dreamy, far-away look came into her eyes and again she seemed to forget for the moment the presence of the two girls as her thoughts reverted to the past.
"Señorita," she said at last, "when one like me stands on the threshold midway between savagery and civilization and compares the crudities and at times barbarities of the one with the luxuries and vices of the other, he often asks himself which is preferable, civilization and its few virtues, or the simple life of the savage. Which, I ask, is the greater—the man who tells the time by the sun and the stars or he who gauges it with the watch? I have listened to your music and gazed upon your art and read your books, but what harmonies compare to nature's—what book contains her truths and hidden mysteries? When I came here I was taught to revere your civilization and I did for a time until the disillusionment came, when I was introduced to the great world of men and discovered how shallow and inadequate it was. Your mechanical devices are wonderful, but as regards your philosophies, the least said of them the better. Spiritually, you stand just where you began centuries ago, and I found that I should be obliged todeny the existence of God if I continued to revere your institutions.
"Believe me, Señorita, for I speak as one who knows both worlds intimately, nature's and man's, that the great symphony of nature, the throb of our Mother Earth, the song of the forest, the voices of the winds and the waters, the mountains and plains, and the glory of the stars and the daily life of man in the fields, are grander by far, and more satisfying and enduring than all the foolish fancies and artificial harmonies ever created by civilized man."
Her words struck home. For the first time Blanch became thoroughly alive to the danger of the situation. This passionate child of the South had changed suddenly to a mature woman, and a chill seized Blanch's heart as she began to realize her depth and power. Again she was all at sea, and in a vain effort to say something, she stammered:
"Señorita, you are certainly the strangest person I ever met!"
"Not strange, only different," laughed Chiquita, throwing back her head and meeting Blanch's full gaze. "Señorita," she continued, "you are beautiful—more beautiful than any woman I have ever beheld. My heart stands still with fear and admiration when I look at you, for men are often foolish enough to love the beautiful women best. I fear this is going to be a bitter struggle, but let us bear one another no malice in order that we may both know that she who triumphs is the better woman." Frank though her words were, they causedBlanch to wince, while a flood of passion which she could ill conceal dyed her cheeks a deep crimson.
"Life's usually as tragic as it is comic," laughed Chiquita lightly, slowly moving in the direction of the highroad. "It's strange, isn't it," she exclaimed, pausing and looking back, "that a queen and a beggar should dispute the affections of the same man? Such things occur in the fairy-tales one reads in the books in the old Mission, but seldom in real life," and she was gone.
Consideringan all-night ride over a rough road in a lumbering old Spanish stagecoach, and the thrilling, harrowing events that succeeded their arrival at thePosada, it is little wonder that Mrs. Forest took to her bed early in the day on the verge of a nervous collapse, or that Colonel Van Ashton, contrary to his habit, retired early in the evening firmly convinced that his nephew was suffering from an acute attack of lunacy which took the form of a mania for everything that was wild and bizarre; everything in fact that was contrary to the Colonel's views of life.
How unfortunate that his nephew had not shown signs of madness earlier! It would have been so easy with the assistance of the family physician and lawyer to have confined him in a private sanitarium. And the Colonel fondly pictured his nephew wandering distractedly through a long suite of padded cells—but, alas! the bird had flown. Such things were always expedited with such felicitous despatch in those parts of the earth inhabited by civilized men, but here where everybody was equally mad, where chaos reigned, and nobody either recognized or respected beings of a superior order, what could be done to check the headlong career of his nephew who with twenty millions was rushing straight to destruction?
No wonder God had long since abandoned this land to his majesty, the devil who, as in the days of Scripture, roamed and roared at will. No one having passed twenty-four hours in the country could possibly doubt that his cup of joy was running over. Where his nephew had concealed his fortune was also a source of mystery to him. He certainly had displayed the diabolical cunning that is characteristic of the mentally deranged. Possibly he had concealed it in Mexico, but to combat the institutions of that land was like attempting to stem the tides.
The thought of those twenty millions tortured the Colonel's mind almost beyond endurance, and he groaned aloud as his imagination pictured them rolling in a bright, glittering stream of gold and silver coins into the gutter for the swine that waited to devour them.
Such were the Colonel's reflections as he sat on the edge of his bed in his shirt sleeves and wearily removed his tight fitting, dust-begrimed, patent-leather shoes with the assistance of his valet.
How his feet and back ached! He wanted sympathy, but got none, the others being too much occupied with their own woes to think of his comfort. On the walls of the room were hung numerous cheap biblical prints—the very things he abominated most. Among them, just over the foot of the bed, on the very spot where first his gaze would alight on opening his eyes in the morning, hung a small colored print of the Madonna. No wonder the people of this land spent so much time crossing themselves and calling upon her for protection—they certainly had cause to. The room, in his opinion, was a veritable rat-hole; the place little better than what one might expect to find in a suburb of hell.
The exertions of the last two days had been more than mortal could endure. Never had he felt so completely fagged, and it was with no little concern that he contemplated the reflection of his face in the small oval mirror which hung on the rough gray plaster wall opposite, just over the small, cheap, brown-stained wooden bureau. The sight of his countenance, as is the case with most of us who have not yet entered the limbo of senile decrepitude and still dare look ourselves in the face, was always a source of extreme satisfaction to him. He held it in the highest esteem as though it were the head of some beautiful antique Apollo, and in his, the Colonel's estimation, was the handsomest face on earth.
Indeed it was a handsome face, and like many others both in and outside of his particular set, he devoted hours to its preservation.
What was John, his valet, for? To press his clothes and run errands? Not at all. He was there to massage that precious face and drive away all harassing signs of care and age by means of a liberal use of cold cream and enamel. In the present instance, barring a sun-scorched nose, his delicately rouged cheeks like his exquisitely manicured finger tips blushed with rose of vermilion like those of the daughters of Judea of old, contrasting favorably with his dark eyes, wavy white hair, and mustache and eyebrows dyed a jet black. His regular features, long slender white hands, and tall erect figure betokened the born aristocrat of the spoiled, luxurious type.
In spite of his determination not to sleep a wink, this overindulged child and arch hypocrite, fell asleep almost the instant his tired head touched the pillow, and would have slept to a comparatively late hour had it not been for the ceaseless crowing of a cock in the barnyard, awakening him at daybreak.
What a land, where people were not even permitted to sleep! Vague apprehensions for the future went flitting through his mind, and, as he lay in bed moodily contemplating through the window the first sunrise he had witnessed in years, he cursed fate and his nephew, and secretly vowed that he would wring that infernal bird's neck at the first opportunity.
Mrs. Forest's mental attitude resembled that of her brother's, but with Blanch and Bessie it was different. The strangeness and novelty of the situation so different from anything they had hitherto experienced, began to interest them in spite of their previous determination to be bored. That evening they had visited the plaza with the Captain and Dick Yankton and had witnessed the dances beneath the greatalamosor poplar trees that surrounded the square, braving the risk of contamination which Mrs. Forest had vainly protested would be sure to ensue should they mingle with the populace—the Mexican-Indian rabble of which it was composed—a distinction which only she and the Colonel seemed able to divine, for had it been a garlic-tainted Egyptian or Neapolitan mob, little objection would have been raised to their going. The sights amused and interested them, and after an hour's mild dissipation, they returned to thePosadain time to meet a few of theSeñora's guests in the garden, among whom was Padre Antonio. The quaint, inborn courtesy of the well-bred Spaniard was a revelation to them; something they imagined did not exist outside of Spain.
The charm of the Padre's simple manner and ways proved no less irresistible to them than to the rest of the world, and they marveled that he spoke English so well. His intimate knowledge of the people and the customs of the country threw a new light on them, reconciling the girls to many things that had seemed incomprehensible.
The Señora, out of consideration for the ladies, by whose presence she was greatly honored, had relinquished her rooms to them; the best and most comfortably furnished which thePosadaafforded.
It was a late hour before the girls retired for the night. There was so much to talk over, and when they did finally lay themselves down to rest, it was with the conviction that Captain Forest was not quite so mad as they had supposed. He was at least a harmless lunatic and in no danger of running amuck.
As for Bessie, the gentle hand of sleep soon closed her eyes, and she slept the sleep of a tired child. With Blanch it was otherwise.
How could she sleep with the face of Chiquita constantly before her and the pangs of jealousy gnawing at her heart? How stupid to have imagined her to be one of those bovine women with large liquid eyes who, figuratively speaking, pass the major portion of their lives standing knee-deep in a pond, gazing stolidly out upon the world; a fat brown wench upon whose hip aman might confidently expect to hang his hat by the time she has attained the age of forty.
Nothing could have been farther from the mark. She might have known that Jack could not have been caught with so thin a bait. All night long she tossed on her pillow, or silently rose to gaze at the stars from the window.
"Oh, if she only were not so beautiful!" she moaned as the first pale streaks of light in the east told her that day had finally dawned, and she crept stealthily back to bed again. Of course Jack, the wretch, was sleeping peacefully—that was the irony of fate! What did he know of suffering? But he would pay for this!
Their rooms overlooked thepatio, and from behind an angle of a screen she could look straight across it into the garden beyond as she lay in bed. The bright shafts of the morning sun sifted down through the branches of the trees and lay in patches of gold on the grass and flowers beneath and flooded thepatiowith light. Above the tops of the trees and one corner of the low roof, the clear, pale blue skyline was just visible. Butterflies and humming-birds darted in and out among the fragrant white clematis and honeysuckle and passion vines that hung from the arcades surrounding the court, or hovered over the fountain and basin of gold fish in its center, edged with grasses and ferns. The notes of the golden oriole and cooing of pigeons and wood-doves mingling with the silvery jingle of an occasionalvaquero'sspurs, came from the garden beyond.
How peaceful it was! After all, why was the placeso unusual, so different from the rest of the world? But forget where one was, and the scene might have been one in Algiers or Egypt, or in a town in Spain or Northern Italy. And why, she asked herself, as her thoughts reverted to Chiquita, was this Indian woman so very different from themselves?
Dress her as they were dressed, and place her in the proper surroundings, and she would easily pass for a Gypsy or a Spaniard. Was there any reason to believe that the queens of Sheba and Semiramis with their tawny skins were any less fair than she, Blanch Lennox, with her rosy, soft white complexion? Or Chiquita a shade darker than Cleopatra, the witch of the Nile, whose beauty caused the downfall of Antony and with it the waning power and splendor of ancient Egypt?
Was her lineage superior to Chiquita's, the descendant of a long line of rulers whose ancestry stretched back into the dim, remote past as ancient as the hills, the record of whose lives and deeds stood inscribed on the ruined temples and palaces scattered throughout the land where they once dwelt at a time when her European ancestors roamed the wilderness half naked and clad in the skins of wild beasts?
White men of eminence had married Indians and their descendants were proud of their lineage. True, Chiquita was an exception just as she towered above most women of her race. And who were they, that they should criticize—vaunt their superiority in the face of the universal scheme of things? Were they really any better? The same passions, longings andaspirations that swayed them, swayed the Red man as well.
Their daily lives were different—their aspirations were directed in different channels, that was all. What was true civilization and culture, any way? Who had ever succeeded in defining them? The so-called civilized world might prattle of culture. Its ideas compared with those of mankind as a whole were purely relative and of a local origin and color, and could not be gauged by a uniform standard of ethics. What pleases the one fails to attract the other. The man in power who talks of culture may be taken seriously by those of his own race who stand by and applaud his words, but remove him from his home surroundings and place him on a footing of equality with those of a different race and environment and his arguments fail to convince.
Did the harangues of Louis the Sixteenth's tormentors convince him of the ethical standards of universal justice, or John Brown's sacrifice the representatives of a slave-holding population?
Which is the most convincing—the example set by the early Spartans, or that of the man who surrounds himself with every luxury and convenience of modern life; the man who reads books and lives in a house and travels by train and automobile, or he who dwells in a tent, who is ignorant of letters, and prefers the slower locomotion of horse and foot? Who is the arbiter of fashion? The sun shines alike on the just and the unjust, the great world still continues to laugh and goes on its way in spite of men's philosophies,but tear up the map, as the French say, and where are our standards and codes?
Prove it if you can, that the wild flower in the meadow is less beautiful than the one reared beneath the hand of the gardener. Argue and theorize as we will, our sophistries count for little when we are brought face to face with the realities of life. The law of compensation and certainty of facts still hold the balance when the bed-rock of human existence is reached. One might as well expect the mountains to slip into the sea, or the stars to pause in their courses to hearken to the voice of a modern Joshua as a man in love with a vision of beauty, to listen to ethics.
It was quite evident that somebody had lied. In fact, all men of her race had been lying from the beginning of time, for what, after all, did civilization amount to if it were not convincing? Did it ever soothe a wounded heart, stifle the pangs of jealousy, or was it ample compensation for the loss of the great prize of life—happiness?
Civilization and blindness were fast becoming synonymous terms, and there were even moments when one almost fancied one heard the laughter of the gods. Let the dull brute civilized herd sweep by, all its moralizing and sophistries could not arouse so much as a single heart-beat where sentiment was concerned.
The truth of these convictions surged in upon her with overwhelming force. Had Jack also noted them, she asked herself.
Possibly, but not, perhaps, with the keener intuition of the woman. She breathed hard. Hot tears ofrage, jealousy and disappointment surged to her eyes. She could endure it no longer—she felt as though she would stifle. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in bed and then sprang to the floor, noticing for the first time the pretty little Mexican girl, Rosita, who at Bessie's summons, had entered and deposited a tray containing oranges, chocolate andtortillason the table in the center of the room.
The dark circles beneath Blanch's eyes and her general appearance of a disheveled Eve told Bessie how little she had slept.
"I knew you were thinking of her," she said, throwing herself back in the pillows and stretching her arms. Her eyelids drooped for a moment over her great violet eyes and she laughed lightly with the contentment of one whose heart is free.
"Of course I am," returned Blanch, coloring and biting her lip. "What else should I be thinking of?"
"Do you know, I rather like her," continued Bessie, raising on one elbow and stretching herself again with the delicious satisfaction of one who has slept soundly and well.
"And I hate her!" cried Blanch. And seizing Chiquita's dagger which lay on the table beside the tray, she plunged it viciously into an orange.
Thingsbegan to assume a more favorable aspect. Even Mrs. Forest had plucked up enough courage to venture beyond the confines of thePosada'sgarden.
Late one afternoon as she with Blanch and Bessie descended the veranda steps, preparatory to a stroll through the town, a horseman, dressed in the height of Mexican fashion, shot suddenly round the curve in the road at full gallop and drew rein before them, tossing the dust raised by his animal's hoofs into their faces.
Dust and a horse's nose thrust suddenly into Mrs. Forest's face could hardly improve a temper already strained to the breaking point.
"Are people beasts—mere cattle of the fields to be trampled upon by a horse?" she gasped, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently from her surprise.
"A thousand pardons—I did not see you!" replied the horseman, his English colored with a slight accent.
"What are people's eyes for?" returned Mrs. Forest, making no attempt to conceal her irritation.
"Mrs. Forest, I see you do not recognize me," answered the horseman, smiling and raising his broad-brimmedsombrerowhich partially concealed his features.
"Don Felipe Ramirez!" cried Blanch and Bessie inthe same breath. "How," exclaimed Blanch, "could you expect us to recognize you in that costume? Why are you masquerading in such a disguise?" Don Felipe laughed as he swung himself lightly from the saddle.
"It's the costume of our people," he answered, shaking them cordially by the hand. "It's the one they prefer, without which one cannot always command their respect. They detest modern innovations and cling to the customs of their ancestors. It's a bit of old Mexico, that's all. But what brings you here?" he asked, changing the topic of conversation. "Did you drop from the clouds? I would as soon have thought of finding oranges growing on the cactus as seeing you here."
"Only a pleasure trip combined with a little exploration on our own account," answered Blanch indifferently. "We hope," she continued, "to emulate the example of the old SpanishConquistadores—some of your ancestors perhaps?"
"Then may your wanderings lead you southward. Myhaciendalies but twenty miles from here, and from this moment, it is placed at your disposition. Not in the polite terms of the proverbial Spanish etiquette which presents the visitor with everything and yet nothing at all, but actually. Indeed, I shall expect to see you there soon. The life will interest you, I know."
"We certainly shall avail ourselves of the rare privilege, Don Felipe," said Bessie. "Do you intend stopping here?" she asked.
"For a few days, yes. A room is always waiting for me here."
"How delightful!" exclaimed Blanch. "We shall expect to see a great deal of you. In the meantime, we shall visit the town and shall see you this evening. Until then,á Dios, as you Spaniards say. You observe, we are making rapid progress in the language," she added, smiling and glancing back at him over her shoulder as they moved away in the direction of the highroad.
"What a strange costume for a man like Don Felipe to wear! It's as gay and extravagant as a woman's!" said Bessie as soon as they were out of hearing.
"It's becoming though," answered Blanch. "This is truly the land of surprises. I wonder what will happen next?"
"What can have brought them here, to this out-of-the-way place?" mused Don Felipe, throwing one arm lightly over the neck of his horse as he leaned gently against the animal.
Don Felipe Ramirez was young and handsome—the handsomest and wealthiest man in all Chihuahua. One who measured his lands not by acres, but by hundreds of square miles, over which roamed vast herds of horses, cattle and sheep, and of which Chiquita might have been mistress had she so chosen. Within this vast domain were situated numerous villages of Mexican and Indian populations, subject in a measure to his command. His word, where it did not conflict with the central Government, was law; but Don Felipe, selfish and unprincipled though he was by nature, was too easygoing ever to think of making unscrupulous use of such power. So long as things went smoothly, he was the last man to exercise his almost unlimited authority for the mere pleasure of dominating others as many men might were they placed in his position.
His leniency in governing, his lavish manner of living, and a way he had of fraternizing with his people on occasions—the latter prompted not from motives of generosity, but purely from those of vanity and a love of popularity—made him fairly popular among his subjects. It was when Don Felipe wanted something in particular that he became dangerous, especially if that something lay within his jurisdiction. Then indeed, was he one to be feared.
His appearance was striking; a swarthy complexion, thick, shiny, black curly hair and mustache, lustrous black eyes and delicate features, and a lithe sinewy body, every movement of which was cat-like and expressive of treachery.
His high-crowned, broad-brimmedsombreroof gray felt was richly embroidered with gold and silver. A slender, pale yellow satin tie adorned his soft white, heavily frilled shirt front. His soft gray jacket and leggins of goat skin, also ornamented with gold and silver buttons and embroidery, were slashed at the sleeves below the elbow and knee and interlaced with filmy gold cords from beneath which shone a pale yellow satin facing embroidered with tiny red flowers. A gay scarlet silkenbandafrom beneath which peeped the silver hilt of a knife, encircled his slender waist, while his feet were encased in russet tanned boots adornedwith spurs inlaid with gold and silver and which tinkled like fairy bells with every step he took. The trappings of his horse were also heavily inlaid with silver. Theatrical though his costume was, it became him well and harmonized perfectly with his surroundings, completing the picture of a Spanish Don, the representative of a past era. A costume that was only to be seen in the remoter parts of the country—one which was becoming rarer each day.
Four years had elapsed since he had last looked upon the familiar scenes about him. Nothing appeared to have changed during that time as his gaze wandered from the oldPosadato the garden beyond. He sighed, and a momentary expression of pain and weariness passed across his countenance as he silently surveyed the scene which recalled memories whose bitterness was enough to overwhelm a man of maturer character and years.
In the Indianpueblo, La Jara, had lived the beautifulmestizagirl, Pepita Delaguerra, with whom he had fallen in love in early youth.
The gentle, confiding nature of Pepita was ill suited to that of the passionate, impulsive Felipe, and proved her undoing. For, when old Don Juan, Felipe's father, heard of his son's infatuation, he immediately packed him off to the City of Mexico with the injunction not to return under a year. An obscure half-caste for a daughter-in-law! Holy Maria! the thought was enough to cause his hair to stand on end. No, the old Don had other plans for his son. Maria Dolores, Felipe's cousin, was the woman he had picked out for his wife,and marry her he should if he wished to inherit his father's vast estates. In case he disregarded the latter's wish and married Pepita, the estates were to go to the Church, so it was stipulated in Don Juan's will. But neither the Church nor old Don Juan, as it afterwards proved, were a match for the clever Felipe. The handsome scapegrace had already secretly married Pepita.
The strangest of all things is perhaps the irony of fate. Before the year was up during which Felipe was charged to remain in the City of Mexico, both his father, Don Juan, and the priest who had performed the marriage ceremony for Felipe and Pepita, died. During his absence from home, the observant and quick-witted Felipe had learned not only many new things, but had made the acquaintance of other women as well. At its best, the love of the passionate, hot-blooded Felipe and the gentle Pepita could have endured only for a time. The attractions and fascinations of the Capitol opened his eyes to many things which he had hitherto overlooked, especially, that there are many beautiful women in the world, and always one who is just a little more beautiful than the others if one took the trouble to look for her. And so it happened that he forgot not only his honor, but his obligations to Pepita, and destroying the record of their marriage which he managed to secure with the assistance of a confederate, he turned a deaf ear to her pleadings and went his way.
What had he, Don Felipe Ramirez, who lived and ruled like a prince on his vast estates, to fear from a pretty little half-caste Indian girl?
But Don Felipe was young and still had much to learn in the world. The avenging angel that inevitably awaits us all at some turn or other in the lane, stood nearer to him than he realized, and the vengeance which followed was swift and complete.
Pepita took poison and died, but she died not alone—she died in the arms of Chiquita who had but recently returned from the convent.
The latter frequently accompanied Padre Antonio on his charitable missions and thus it chanced that she made Pepita's acquaintance and learned her story. Time passed and all went well with Felipe until the day he chanced to meet Chiquita.
We may deaden our souls to the voice of conscience, disavow a belief in destiny and shut our eyes to those forces of the Invisible which, in spite of ourselves, we know to exist, but how is it, that no man ever succeeds in escaping his fate?
When Don Felipe Ramirez looked for the first time into the two dark lustrous worlds of Chiquita's eyes, he beheld the height and depth of his existence. From that moment he fell at her feet and worshiped her with a passion that consumed and mastered him. Waking and dreaming she was ever in his thoughts—he could not live without her. But not until he was mad, ravished with desire, did she consent to become his wife. A smile, or a gentle pressure of the hand were the only caresses she deigned to bestow upon him; not until they were married would he be permitted to embrace and kiss her, give rein to his passion. A strange attitude for one of her nature to assume, and, as helooked back upon it, he wondered how he had endured it—that he had not suspected something.
At length the day set for the wedding arrived, and Chiquita with Señora Fernandez drove in state to the old Mission church where Padre Antonio awaited them to perform the marriage ceremony.
Don Felipe, in a state of exultation that lifted his soul to the clouds, stood waiting for her on the steps of the church as had been agreed between them; but as the two advanced, Chiquita suddenly paused before the door, and turning, tore the bridal-veil and wreath of orange blossoms from her brow and flung them into his face, crying: "Pepita Delaguerra is avenged!" Then turning, she deliberately descended the church steps and reëntering her carriage, drove home, leaving Don Felipe dazed and speechless before the crowd of spectators that had gathered to witness the passing of the bride and groom.
Later she confessed the reason for her motives to Padre Antonio, but one circumstance she withheld even from him, the nature of which Don Felipe did not suspect, but which he would have given worlds to know.
Chiquita's conduct became the scandal of the country for miles around, and as is invariably the case, the majority of the women sided with Felipe. In more refined circles of society, her act would have been considered highly reprehensible and Felipe overwhelmed with sympathy. His base ingratitude would have been lightly censured in the familiar, sugared terms of the most approved fashion. He would have been forgiven, and petted, and even lauded as a martyr—and then, theworld would have forgotten. With the Indian woman, however, it was different.
On the altars of her people was still written, "blood for blood," the same as in the ancient days.
Crushed, humiliated, his pride humbled to the dust, Don Felipe left the country and for four years sought to forget his shame and the taunts of his enemies in the distractions of the world. He traveled everywhere, was presented at the different Courts of Europe, and it was in Washington where his uncle was the Mexican Minister to the United States, that he met Blanch and Mrs. Forest and her niece. In vain did he try to forget. In vain did he search for another woman to supplant his love for Chiquita. He plunged into the wildest dissipation, but to no effect. The beautiful face of the dark woman followed him everywhere, stood between him and the world, lured him, fascinated him still as nothing else could, tortured him day and night and he knew no rest.
A thousand times he resolved to return and kill her, and a thousand times he relented, for he loved her as madly as ever and could not carry out his resolve. A prey to alternate fits of remorse and hatred, and tortured constantly by the knowledge of an unrequited love, the soul of Don Felipe Ramirez suffered the torments of the damned. His unconquerable love for Chiquita devoured him, gnawed constantly at his heart, and he cursed her—cursed her as only one of his temperament who had suffered as he suffered, could curse.
What could he do? Anguish succeeded anguish untilhe was at length drawn back again as irresistibly as the magnet is drawn to the north, to the woman he both loved and hated. He would throw himself at her feet. He, the proud, arrogant Don Felipe of former years, and bowed in the dust, implore forgiveness. Nothing was too hard. Any sacrifice she might demand of him, he would make. Surely, when she saw his remorse, his contrite humbled spirit, understood his suffering and realized that he could not forget her, could not live without her, that he loved her still through all the years of suffering, that his life was irrevocably linked to hers, she would relent, forgive him—become his wife.
His wife! The thought electrified, elated his being to an extent that it was lifted for the moment from out the black depths of his despondency. If not, well then, there would be time for the fulfillment of that which must inevitably follow—either his death or hers.
"Holy Mother!but I am glad to see you again, Don Felipe Ramirez! What blessed chance has brought you back to us again?" Don Felipe started like one in a dream, and turning in the direction whence came the sound of the voice, he beheld Señora Fernandez standing on the veranda regarding him intently.
"Doña Fernandez!" he exclaimed with genuine pleasure, advancing to meet her, and extending his hand which she eagerly seized and held between both her own.
"Muchacho—muchacho!" she cried, clapping her hands as she released her hold on Don Felipe's. "Carlos, theCaballero'shorse!" she continued, addressing thevaquerothat appeared in the doorway of the Inn at her summons and who advancing, took possession of Don Felipe's horse and led him away to the stables.
"Let me look at you, Don Felipe," she continued, regarding him closely. "Why, you have not changed a hair! It might have been but yesterday that you left us."
"And you, Doña Fernandez are still the charming, handsome mistress of thePosada de las Estrellasto whom all men are irresistibly drawn."
"Flatterer!" retorted Señora, laughing gayly andblushing like a girl of sixteen. How sweet it was to hear such words from a handsomeCaballerolike Don Felipe! It reminded her of the old days when all men thought her beautiful and went out of their way to tell her so.
"It was unkind of you to remain away so long, Don Felipe. Your friends have missed you sadly and have prayed for the day of your return."
"Friends?" echoed Felipe with a sneer.
"Aye, friends. You will find that you have more friends now than when you left us."
"I can scarcely believe it. And yet," he added, "I wish it might be so."
"You shall learn shortly for yourself," returned Señora.
"How long," interrupted Felipe, eager to change the drift of the conversation, "have the American ladies been here?"
"Ah, you have seen them?"
"Yes, they were just going out for a walk when I arrived. It was a pleasant surprise to see them here. They are friends of mine."
"You know them?"
"Yes. I met them a year ago in Washington."
"Dios!to think of it!" she exclaimed.
"But what are they doing here?" he asked.
"Ah! that is just what I would like to know myself," replied Señora. "Caramba!but they are grand ladies! They say," she went on, "that they are traveling for pleasure, but what pleasure can such delicate, refined ladies possibly find in the desert, I should liketo know? Judging from their talk and actions they can not have seen very much of the world.Dios!you should have witnessed the scene they created the day they arrived. And yet," she continued, "I like them and am glad they are here. They have brought new life into the place. God knows it is no longer what it used to be in the old days when Don Carlos, my husband, was alive," she added with a sigh.
Don Felipe smiled at the Señora's provincialism. What a great world lay outside that of her own, of which she was entirely ignorant.
A trip to the City of Mexico during her honeymoon was the only journey she had ever taken beyond the confines of Chihuahua.
"And then there is Mrs. Forest's brother, Col-on-el Van Ash-ton," she continued, pronouncing the latter's name slowly and with difficulty.
"Holy Maria! but he has caused us trouble! Nothing seems to suit him."
"Colonel Van Ashton?" repeated Felipe. "Ah, yes, I remember him."
"But that is not all," interrupted Señora. "There is also Captain Forest, Mrs. Forest's son. He came here before the others and seemed very much surprised and put out by their unexpected appearance."
"Captain Forest?" repeated Don Felipe slowly, as if trying to recall a chance meeting. "I have never met him. What is he like?"
"Ah, he's a grand Señor," answered Señora with enthusiasm. "ACaballeroevery inch, and rides a horse that's the devil himself. Why, only yesterdaythe brute kicked out the side of the corral, and after chasing the men off the place who had been teasing him, calmly walked into the garden and rolled in my choicest flower-bed."
"He must be a thoroughbred at any rate," laughed Felipe.
"Thoroughbred? He's the devil, I say! Captain Forest and his man, José, are the only ones that dare go near him." Don Felipe drew a gold cigarette-case thickly studded with diamonds and rubies from the inner pocket of his jacket, and lighted a cigarette.
"As I was saying," Señora went on, "Captain Forest is a fine gentleman. He's a great friend of Señor Yankton, and—" she stopped abruptly.
"And what?" asked Felipe suspiciously, closely scanning her face as he tossed away the burnt end of the match.
"Oh, nothing," answered Señora evasively. "Only much has transpired during your absence, Don Felipe." She hesitated as though uncertain how to proceed, then said: "I might speak of certain things, but perhaps I had better not. They would not interest you, anyway."
"Ah!" he said at length, endeavoring to conceal the emotion her words aroused. "I—I think I understand. You—you refer to her, I suppose?" There was a slight tremor in his voice and his hand trembled as he raised his cigarette to his lips for a fresh puff.
"Yes," she answered quietly. "I—I was about to say that she appears to be interested in this Captain Forest. But of course, that's nothing to you," sheadded hastily, watching him narrowly the while. Her words acted like fire to tinder.
"Interested in him?" he cried, starting violently and letting his cigarette fall to the ground. His face grew ashen pale and his right hand involuntarily went to the knife in his sash. "No, no, it cannot be!" he muttered excitedly. "Are you sure of what you say, Doña Fernandez? Tell me that it is not true—that it is a lie!" he almost hissed, his eyes glowing with the fires of passion and jealousy.
"Why, what has come over you, Don Felipe Ramirez?" cried Señora in alarm. "Surely you cannot—she can be nothing to you any more?"
"Nothing to me? Why do you suppose I am here?" he answered.
"Madre de Dios!" muttered Señora.
"Doña Fernandez," he began after a pause, his voice trembling in spite of himself, "God knows I have tried to forget her, but I—I cannot!" and his voice broke.
"What?" cried Señora excitedly. "You don't really mean to say that you still—love her?"
"I do," answered Felipe fiercely, driving his heel furiously into the ground. For some moments neither spoke. Then a flush of anger mounted to Señora's brow and she cried:
"Fie! Don Felipe! Have you forgotten your self-respect? The handsomest, richest man in all Chihuahua running after an Indian—the woman who treated you so shamefully—an ingrate who is unworthy of a love like yours? If I could have had my way, she wouldhave been whipped publicly! What would Don Juan, your father, peace be to his soul, say if he were alive? Love her!" she cried in a frenzy of hatred and jealousy. "How can you possibly love her, Don Felipe Ramirez?"
"How can I love her?" retorted Felipe fiercely. "Why does the grass grow? Why do the birds sing? Why do the streams run to the ocean? Why do the flowers turn to the sun? Tell me that, Doña Fernandez," he cried in agony and bitterness, "and I will tell you why I love her in spite of myself, in spite of what she did, in spite of every effort I have made to resist her fascination! God!" and he struck his breast with his clenched hand, "I wonder I did not kill her then and there, but I could not, I could not; I loved her so!"
"Dios, but this is strange!" gasped Señora, raising both hands for an instant and then crossing herself devoutly as if to avert the power of some evil—the spell which seemed to cling to Don Felipe and bind him as with hoops of steel. She did not realize that Chiquita belonged to that rare type of beings who seem immortal; that it was impossible to imagine her other than young, that the years could work no change within her, and although Felipe had not yet seen her, his soul must flame up at the sight of her as of yore.
Felipe was silent, his eyes cast on the ground. His face wore a malignant expression of pain and hatred, and he trembled in every limb.
The revelation of his anguish startled her. She stepped close up to him and laying her hand gentlyon his shoulder, said in a voice full of compassion, almost of pity: "I understand, Don Felipe! You still see her as she was when you last knew her—it is but natural. Of course you could not know, but she has changed since then. In the opinion of every one, she has fallen, degraded herself."
"Degraded herself? What do you mean?" asked Felipe, turning his searching gaze upon her.
"Only a fortnight ago," answered Señora, "on the great day of theFiesta, she danced publicly in Carlos Moreno's theater."
"Chiquita danced in Carlos Moreno's hall? Impossible!"
"Don Felipe," replied Señora with just the suggestion of a smile, "all things are possible with a woman."
"But why did she dance?" he asked.
"I don't know; neither does any one else. They say she received three thousandpesosin gold."
"Three thousandpesos?" echoed Felipe. "What did she do with them?"
"Ah! that's the mystery! What did she do with them?" answered Señora.
"It was not so much her dancing that scandalized the community, for we all know what a wonderful dancer she is. Nobody ever danced as she does, and we are willing to give her credit for it, but what did she do with the money? That's the scandal of it! I have noticed no change in her dress," she continued, "nor is it known that she has spent a singlepesoas yet."
"Strange," he murmured. "I cannot understand it."
"No more can I nor any one else," answered Señora. "But I have been forgetting my duty; I must prepare a room for you, Don Felipe. In the meantime," she added, ascending the veranda and pausing for an instant, "be assured of the hearty welcome of your friends when they learn of your return."
"Chiquita danced in public? I can't understand it!" he said aloud after Señora Fernandez had disappeared in the house. "And she interested in this Captain Forest?" His face grew livid and then black with hatred as a fresh wave of rage and jealousy swept over him.
"No, no; it cannot be!" he gasped, his left hand resting over his heart as though in pain. For some time he remained motionless as a statue, lost in thought with his eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly he raised his head with a quick jerk. His face no longer wore an expression of pain and anguish, but one of settled, calm determination.
"I have come just in time," he said quietly. He smiled, and drawing forth his cigarette-case once more, he opened it and lit a fresh cigarette.
Doña Fernandezcould not sleep. All night long she tossed on her bed, repeating her conversation with Don Felipe and revolving what course to pursue. She instinctively felt that a great tragedy of some kind was imminent. Unless some plan of concerted action were immediately adopted, nothing could prevent it.
She knew her people too well. A reckless, hot-blooded man like Don Felipe in his present mood could not be trusted for long, but must sooner or later provoke a quarrel with Captain Forest, who she knew, would be equally dangerous if aroused. Since her conversation with Felipe she had noted the attitude of Blanch toward the Captain and her woman's instinct had half guessed the truth. But beautiful and irresistible though Blanch appeared, there was Chiquita, more beautiful and attractive than when Felipe had last seen her, and also quite as dangerous.
She knew that Felipe's passion was hopeless—that Chiquita would not hesitate to show her dislike and contempt for him anew—that should Captain Forest be attracted to her also, she would act like a fire-brand between the two men. If only one of them might be persuaded to leave the place, the clash which must inevitably occur, might be averted for a time at least,but this was clearly impossible. There was only one thing to be done for the present—advise Chiquita of Felipe's return and warn her of the danger that threatened them all if she provoked him unnecessarily.
Hopeless though this plan seemed, Chiquita might for the Captain's sake, if she really cared for him, act more discreetly than was her wont. But what could be expected from a woman in love? Who could tell how she would act? Besides, she argued, all men are fools. They seem to be born only to become the playthings of women, the majority of whom are invariably deceived by them in the end.
How she hated her! To think of Don Felipe running after her, eating out his heart, throwing away his young life for one like her! A love like his going begging! Merciful God! was there no justice in this world? And for the moment, she was quite carried away by a paroxysm of fury.
Ah, if only she, Doña Fernandez, were but ten years younger! But the chosen birds of Venus, the white doves of matrimony, were not destined to hover over her head a second time. Tears of longing and vexation dimmed her eyes as she thought of the golden, halcyon days of youth that would never return. At any rate, Felipe and Chiquita must not meet until after she had warned the latter. Blanch must be used as a foil as long as possible.
And so it happened that, when breakfast was over, Señora adroitly arranged that Felipe should conduct the two girls for a morning's ramble to the pretty little cañon of the river which lay but a mile distant fromthe town where the foothills began; a plan that suited Blanch perfectly. She, too, had been doing some thinking over night and had recognized the possibility of using Don Felipe as a foil against Jack; he was certainly handsome and clever enough to serve the purpose admirably.
Captain Forest had gone for a ride an hour before for the purpose of giving his horse a short run to the foothills and back. So, when Señora had seen the others safely off, she slipped quietly away in the direction of Padre Antonio's house.
It lacked a quarter of eleven when she left the house. She knew that Chiquita would have long since returned from the market and would be at home. So occupied was she with her thoughts as she hurried forward intent upon her mission, she did not look up until she turned into the road leading directly past Padre Antonio's gate, when she suddenly stopped short. Before her she beheld Captain Forest standing in front of the gate holding his horse, and Chiquita handing him a red rose. Another instant, and Chiquita vanished through the gate into the garden and Captain Forest, remounting his horse, came riding leisurely down the road at a walk, inhaling the rose with evident pleasure. She drew back into the shadow of the old wall and pressed close into the thick bushy mass of white clematis vine which hung over it from above and waited until he passed.
It is the unexpected that always happens. The meeting between Chiquita and the Captain was purely accidental. While returning from his ride, he had beenattracted by the beauty and luxuriance of Padre Antonio's garden as he rode by. He wheeled his horse about and drew rein before the open iron grating of the gate in order to obtain a better view of it. Its flowers consisted chiefly of roses of different varieties and colors. The air was spicy with their perfume and, as he inhaled their fragrance in deep breaths, his attention was presently attracted by the figure of Chiquita who appeared in the pathway before him, pausing beside a luxuriant bush of blood-red blossoms and apparently quite unconscious of his presence. The picture which she presented was one he carried with him for many a day afterward.