Thesituation was becoming intolerable. Something must be done and done at once to clear the atmosphere. Captain Forest's apparent indifference to all things, including herself, aroused Blanch to a pitch of exasperation which might best be likened to that of a high-strung, thoroughbred horse that has been ignominiously hitched to a plow and compelled to drag it. At the end of a week he either drops dead in the furrow or becomes a broken-spirited hack for the rest of his days.
Nothing short of love or hatred could satisfy her. It was a new experience. Never had she suffered such ignominy. It was like being coerced. One could respect an enemy, but this exasperating indifference was unendurable. The more she thought of it, the more convinced she became, that it was just such an antagonistic attitude which had prompted the beautiful, though wicked Borgia, to administer certain love potions to numerous unappreciative gallants. Deliberate, cold-blooded murder committed under such extenuating circumstances began to appear more in the light of justice than of crime.
Captain Forest offered an entirely new front. Not that he had changed so much, she knew better than that, but she marveled at his self-control. The dashand spirit of the soldier, which every one admired so much in him, had given way to the most insulting, good-humored complacency; the frame of mind one looks for in an aged sinner whose terror of an uncertain future has driven him to prepare for heaven. She knew well enough that his attitude was assumed for a purpose only, until he had made up his mind what to do; waiting to make up his mind as to which of them, she or Chiquita, was preferable. This, of course, was merely a jealous supposition on her part.
She had hoped to arouse his jealousy, or, failing in that, at least his enthusiasm. Thus far she had failed to accomplish either and she could not understand it. Surely he was flesh and blood like other men, yet nothing seemed to move him. He appeared like one at peace with all the world, calm and serene as a summer's day, and smoked incessantly. She could endure it no longer. The depression from which she suffered was crushing her slowly and irresistibly to earth. She was at her wits' end to know what to do to relieve the tension, until she finally hit upon the idea of giving an old-fashioned Spanishfandango—afiesta.
The thought was a happy one. It was not only one of those things she had always wanted to see, but it would be a break—something to relieve the strain of her daily existence; she pursuing, he avoiding her. The novelty of the scene—the bright, gay costumes of the Mexicans, music and twinkling lights, dancing and wine and laughter and song, and the stars overhead, mellowed by the light of the full moon, must infuse new life into them all—recall memories of other daysto him. With such a setting, a woman of her beauty, refinement and attraction, and an adept at the game of flattery and intrigue, must shine with new luster—become doubly dangerous and irresistible to a man. Though this was her chief motive for giving thefiesta, she had still another in view.
The fame of Chiquita's dancing had naturally aroused her curiosity. She would ask her to dance; not that she believed the half of what she heard concerning it, but it would be a satisfaction to see it. Besides, she had a certain motive of her own for so doing which she imparted to no one; the subtlest of a woman's thoughts which only the intuition of a woman could have prompted. She laughed to herself at the thought which invariably aroused within her a feeling akin to triumph. Why had she not thought of it before? She knew the Captain had already seen her dance, but then that was before he knew who she was. It had been in a theater, and his enthusiasm must have been prompted in a measure by that of the audience about him. The emotion of a large assembly was always contagious—sweeping the individual along with it. Whereas, in private, her dancing, lacking the glamour and artificiality of the stage, would be a very different thing. It would appear in a more realistic, commonplace light. Any faults which the atmosphere of the stage might have concealed would immediately become apparent in the light of natural surroundings and her performance sink to the level of the commonplace.
Her dancing could only be amateurish at its best, for where could she possibly have learned to dance?What instruction could she, living in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, have received in the art? As for local enthusiasm, it counted for little—amateurs were always so popular at home. And after all was said, what did the achievements of the great dancers really amount to? Their creations were not ranked with those of other artistic achievements. In fact, dancing could scarcely be ranked with the legitimate branches of art at all. At its best, it was only a pastime; something to amuse. This, of course, was the light in which she viewed one of the greatest arts which few ever succeed in mastering. Possibly because the world has really seen no dancing to speak of since the days of the great Taglioni, until the Pavlowa appeared. Even parts of the latter's art were questionable, but then, she was the Pavlowa!
Chiquita's dancing differed from anything Captain Forest had ever seen. As a matter of fact, much of it would not have been called dancing at all by many people, so different has the modern conception of the art become since the days of the ancients. But where had she received her instruction? The ability to dance, like any other talent, is born in one, not acquired. True, it must be developed through constant practice just like any other talent, if ever it is to amount to anything; but even then, great dancers are born just as great painters, poets and musicians are born.
The Indian's greatest pastime and amusement is dancing, and Chiquita had danced almost daily from earliest childhood to her sixteenth year when fate had led her to Padre Antonio's door. Then she went tothe City of Mexico and also had visited Europe. In both places she had had the opportunity of seeing some of the greatest dancers of the day and was able to draw comparisons between their conceptions of the art and hers. But when she began the study of ancient history her attention was called to the Greeks' conception of the art, and she soon discovered that modern dancing was a direct violation of that which was most plastic in art, and consisted chiefly of contortions, high kicking and pirouetting on the toes. She also discovered that the conceptions of her own people regarding the art stood nearer that of the ancients than did modern man's. To her it was an interesting discovery. It was as natural for her to dance as to breathe, and from that hour she began to study and practice the art with renewed interest.
Shortly after her admittance to the convent, it was also discovered that she possessed a voice of unusual quality and range; and, as Padre Antonio had instructed the Sisters to do their utmost to develop any natural talent she might possess to a marked degree, the best teacher in voice culture which the city afforded was procured for her. These were Padre Antonio's wishes and they had been obeyed conscientiously by the Sisters who recognized Chiquita's strong dramatic ability.
The years passed, and, as the day finally arrived on which she was to leave school, the performances which marked the closing exercises were given as usual by the pupils. The last number on the programme represented an ancient Greek festival arranged by Padre Alesandro,the instructor in classic literature, in which Chiquita took the leading part, and in which, at her request, she was permitted to introduce a dance of her own creation. Among the many guests that had been invited to attend the closing ceremonies was one Signor Tosti, a ballet-master, who at the time was visiting the Capitol with an Italian opera company. A friend whose daughter took part in the exercises had persuaded him, much against his will, to attend; for what possible interest could a veteran of the ballet take in such amateurish exhibitions?
Touring the world with a troup of quarrelsome artists was arduous work for a tired old gentleman at its best. So, like the sensible man that he was, he promptly went to sleep at the opening of the performance and probably would have slept through the entire evening, had he not been aroused from his slumbers in the midst of the last number on the programme by the sound of a glorious voice—a deep mezzo-soprano of the richest contralto quality. Opening his eyes, he saw an assembly of beautifully clad, flower-bedecked Grecian youths and maidens drawn up across the back of the stage, chanting the chorus, and in their midst, in the foreground, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He drew himself up with a start and rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he was really awake. And then, considering the occasion and the time and the place, he witnessed a performance that fairly took his breath away.
His Southern temperament became thoroughly aroused, and at the conclusion of the dance, he suddenly rose from his seat and without waiting for an introduction, rushed to the stage and springing upon it, bowed low before Chiquita and seizing her hand, kissed it in view of the audience. No one knew better than he did that, in his profession, a new star had just fallen from heaven to earth. The following day he and the director of his company waited upon Chiquita and offered her any sum she might choose to name if she would consent to join the company and return to Europe with them. But they did not know what Chiquita's past had been—that she was still the Amazon as of old—that the woman who had been trained to battle in her early youth the same as the men of her people had been trained, regarded as mere pastime that which they considered one of the heights of earthly attainment. The woman who at sunrise had listened daily to the song of the Memnon, who had experienced the shock of battle, whose life lived close to nature had taught her the meaning of the ethics of the dust and instilled into her veins the rippling laughter of water and sunshine and the song of the winds, and whose every breath had been the rapturous breath of freedom, viewed life from a different standpoint than that of men debased by centuries of servitude. The world of their creation was trifling in comparison to that of God's which to her was all sufficing and enabled her to look upon their doings with the same equanimity and indulgence as that with which the parent regards the frolicsome gambols of the child.
Twenty years of almost uninterrupted practice had kept her body and limbs supple and pliant, but this Blanch did not know.
Trueto his resolve, Dick rose to the exigency of the occasion by laying stubborn siege to Miss Van Ashton's heart. During the day he bombarded her with flowers and books and bonbons, and gentle but passionate missives; all of which the fair recipient as promptly hurled back into his face. At night relays of musicians serenaded her uninterruptedly until the glowing cast announced the coming of a new day. He took the whole household into his confidence, rendering it impossible for her to set foot outside her door without meeting him.
The first day she laughed at his eccentricities; on the second, she grew furious, and on the third, not having closed her eyes for two whole days and nights, she felt herself on the verge of a nervous collapse. There being no rest for any one, Colonel Van Ashton suddenly appeared before his daughter on the morning of the fourth day and gave her to understand that if the infernal nuisance did not cease instantly he would shoot the first person who entered the garden that evening after he had retired. And to back his threat, he displayed a new automatic pistol which he had purchased in the town the day before; the shopkeeper having assured him that, for a running fire, it was the most convenient and effective weapon on the market. TheColonel was in a reckless mood and seemed in imminent danger of losing in a moment the self-control which years of civilization had instilled within him. Having been literally goaded to madness, little wonder that he too was on the verge of succumbing to the customs of the land, and was beginning to feel a secret longing to shoot and swear and swagger and destroy. Knowing her father to be as good as his word, and to possess the courage of a lion when aroused, Bessie found herself forced to capitulate a day earlier than she otherwise would have, for, incensed though she was, not even a woman of her grit and spirit could possibly have held out much longer under conditions that turned night into day.
It was galling in the extreme to be compelled to surrender so soon, but there being no alternative, she was obliged to accept the humiliation with the best grace possible. Accordingly, she appeared in the garden late on the afternoon of the fourth day where she espied the object of her wrath and annoyance seated comfortably on the grass at the foot of a pear tree, and as usual—smoking. The sight of him was hardly conducive to soothe the feelings of one who inwardly was a seething volcano, and she vowed that she would pay him out to the full before she was done with him.
He seemed greatly surprised by her appearance, and hastily throwing away his cigar, rose to his feet with the intention of speaking to her, but without noticing him, she made her way to the farthest corner of the garden and seated herself in a large rustic chair thatstood in the shadow of the high wall which surrounded the garden. She knew he would not be long in renewing his persecutions. And angry though she was, she could not help wondering at the novelty of the situation. She, Bessie Van Ashton, placed at the mercy of an obscure person, a rustic nobody! Like every other woman, she had dreamed of such a man as this, one that would seize and carry her off; but then the time and place were other than the present, and he resembled more closely the type of man with which she had been familiar all her life. The spirit of antagonism which he aroused was due rather to pique than to dislike, for in spite of his audacity she could not help admiring his spirit.
Her sense of injury was poignantly enhanced by the fact that she recognized herself to be the true cause of her trouble. Had she not led him on this thing might never have happened; and yet, she was neither sorry nor repentant for what she had done. Had any other man dared take the liberties he had taken with her, she would have despised him, but with him, though she was unable to explain it, things were somehow different. She was furious with him for kissing her, and yet deep down in her inner consciousness she was not so certain that she was sorry he had done so. The things he did, which would have branded any other man as a cad, were the very things the man of her dreams might have done under similar circumstances. Yet she shuddered as she daily foresaw the consequences that might ensue should she encourage him further. Flirting with a man whose high-handed, arbitrary methods dazed rather than offended her, was becoming dangerous.
Self-preservation being always our first thought, she had decided to fly, but the presence of Blanch rendered such a course impossible. The only alternative left her was to extricate herself as swiftly and gracefully as possible from her dilemma by making herself as disagreeable as possible in his eyes. In this wise she hoped to disillusion him, and it was with this intention she had come forth to meet him. She could not see him from where she sat, having turned her back upon him; but, judging from the length of time it took him to approach, she rightly conjectured that he had been walking in a circle, doubtless at a loss what course to pursue. The silence that ensued when he paused behind her was broken only by the sound of his labored breathing and a nervous cough, plainly betraying the embarrassment he felt on finding himself once more in her presence.
"Miss Van Ashton," he said at length, "it is extremely gratifying to know that you have at last decided to leave the oppressive walls of your inhospitable abode for the world of sunshine without, where the essence and being of all things fill one with a desire to live." Nothing he could have said at the moment could have aroused her resentment more than this idiotic speech. She had expected him to eat humble pie, to throw himself at her feet and implore forgiveness; but, no! She sprang to her feet and facing him, turned a pair of beautiful blazing eyes upon him. She wasso furious she choked, and for some moments was quite unable to speak.
"I suppose," she said at last, her voice trembling with suppressed indignation, "that you take pleasure in pursuing a helpless woman like a hunted beast. It's so manly," she added scathingly, looking in vain for some sign of contrition in his face. "Why," she went on, "if a man where I live had done the hundredth part of what you have done, society would shun him as it would a pariah!"
"Or a leper," he added good humoredly, quick to recognize the disadvantage at which the loss of her temper placed her. "They must be a poor lot where you live," he continued. "I think we had better pass them by without further comment." She was suffocated—she could have bitten her tongue off!
"Have you no consideration for others' feelings—for what they might want?" she cried.
"Ah! I see, Miss Van Ashton," he answered, regarding her compassionately. "You quite overlook the true facts of the case. This is not at all a question of what you may want, but of what is best for you. I have merely been trying to tell you in my awkward way that it is not good for one to live alone." She laughed hysterically. The colossal impudence of the man took her breath away. She gasped—attempted to speak, but words failing her, turned her back upon him and began tearing into shreds the end of the silken gauze Indian scarf which she wore over her shoulders.
"Can't you think of what you want, Miss Van Ashton?" he asked gently, in the tone of one addressing a refractory child.
"No!" she screamed, without at all realizing what she was saying. To think that this man was able to play with her like a worm on the end of a pin! It was too much! "How dare you! I—I hate you!" she cried, without turning round and quite beside herself. There was no mistaking her attitude; he had gone far enough. The limit of her endurance had been reached, and he suddenly became serious. Again there was silence between them.
"Miss Van Ashton," he said, drawing himself up, "it really doesn't matter what you or the rest of the world may think of me so long as I can see you. Can you imagine what it would be like if you were never to see the sun again? What could be more absurd than to allow such a trifle as convention to come between you and me? Three feet of wretched adobe wall between me and heaven!" he burst forth. "The idea's preposterous! Why, if you shut yourself up in that miserable hovel again, I'll set fire to the place!" She knew he would.
"Can't you understand," he went on, his voice softening, "that your attitude has aroused the savage, the primeval man in me—that, had I met you here fifty or a hundred years ago, I would have picked you up and quietly carried you away? I know I've been a brute by driving you into the open like this, but that's not me, myself—the man who loves you, who would pass through fire for you, who has dreamed of you and watched and waited through the long years for yourcoming; and now that you have come, you surely can't blame me for what I cannot help—for loving you and telling you so in my own way?"
She tried in vain to stifle the emotion his words aroused. She had set out with the intention of wringing this avowal from him in jest, but how differently it affected her now that she heard it. She forgot her anger, everything, in fact, as she listened to the flow of his passion and longed to hear him continue. Every note of his voice thrilled her as it did on the day she first saw him. She remembered that she experienced a peculiar sensation at the time; that his appearance reminded her of the heroic type of manhood which the ancients had sought to depict in their marbles. In him she had unconsciously recognized the true spirit of the Argonaut on whose brow rests the star of empire. She did not idealize him; she simply recognized him for what he was—a man; one in whose soul the sentiment and enthusiasm of youth still sat enthroned, not smothered by the crushing process of modern civilization which was the case with the men she knew. A terror seized her as she compared the latter to him, and beheld how small they appeared beside him.
"Miss Van Ashton," he continued passionately, "you wouldn't thank me if I continued to bandy words with the woman I love, whose presence has become the sunshine of life to me. The whole world has become filled with song since you came into my life. Music and laughter have taken the place of loneliness and despair. Flowers spring from the earth where your feet rest! Don't imagine that you can ever estrange yourself from me. Wherever you are, by day or by night, waking or dreaming, I also will be there and ever whispering:'Bessie Van Ashton, I love you—you have filled my life so completely I can't live without you!'"
Had her face been turned toward him, he would have seen that it was radiant, that her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy, that her hands trembled beneath the folds of her scarf where she had concealed them.
"Bessie, sweet—"
"Stop!" she cried, almost in a voice of terror. "I've not given you permission to speak to me, thus—to call me by name—"
"Then turn round and say you will be human once more! That you will talk and walk and ride again! If you don't, I'll begin all over again by telling you that you are the sweetest—"
"Hush!" she said softly, turning round abruptly with a gesture of protest, looking up into his face, and then down at the ground to conceal her confusion. "I think we understand one another," she said at length, and raising her eyes to his again, she held out both her hands which he seized and held in his own.
"Let us be friends again," she continued, gently withdrawing her hands from his.
"No, don't say that!" he interrupted. "We can't be that! Let it rest as it is!"
"Whenyou love, you love," runs a gypsy proverb.
Bessie wore the despairing look of one who clings to a last vain hope. How had it happened? Why had everything gone contrary to her expectations? Why was Mr. Yankton dragging her at the wheels of his chariot instead of she him? According to her social standards he had seen but little, and yet he had thesavoir faireof a man of the world. Her preconceived ideas on certain subjects were so upset that she no longer appeared to have a hold on anything; the very ground seemed to be slipping away beneath her.
Strange that one could care for the person whom one least expected to, that the most humiliating moment in one's life might be the happiest as well. If any one had suggested such a possibility to her six months previously, she would have laughed at the mere thought. How could she relinquish the life she knew for his? She fought against his influence with all her powers of resistance. And yet, what woman in her right mind would hesitate to follow the man of her choice to the sunlit valleys of our dreams? Weaker women than she had done so and been happy, while stronger ones had hesitated, as was the case with Blanch, and lived to regret it. She secretly prayed that she might be sparedthe torture which Blanch was suffering and the despair which must inevitably overtake her should she fail to win back the man she had let slip from her; for what, after all, could life be to one without the true comradeship of love? She began to feel and realize the ineffable sweetness of life's fullness as the days of her awakening continued, while the ache at her heart told her plainly enough that the decisive moment of her life had arrived—that she must choose between happiness and ambition. The one, rich and full though accompanied perhaps by pain and even denial at times; the other fraught with uncertainty.
She understood now the meaning of Chiquita's passionate longing for the man she loved; a thing which the worldliness of the life she had lived hitherto had taught her to be too extravagant to exist anywhere outside of books, but which was true nevertheless. Her intuition told her this in the face of all the world might say to the contrary. As she looked back over the years and thought of her friends, she realized that she like them had submerged her life in the superficial pleasures of the world; but had they filled her cup of happiness? Until now she had not felt the lack of life's crowning joy, for the reason that youth is buoyant and full of hope, and the grand passion had not yet entered into her life. These and a thousand other thoughts ran through her mind that night as she recalled Dick's words.
She could not sleep. From where she lay she could see the moonlight in thepatioand hear the murmur of the fountain in its center. The night seemed to beckon and whisper to her to come outside. So she arose andsilently dressed herself in the dimly moonlit room without disturbing Blanch, who murmured incoherently in her sleep of the things she was thinking of. She slipped noiselessly through the low window to thepatiowithout and stealthily made her way in the shadow of the overhanging arcades to the garden beyond.
The hour was late—close on to dawn. The silvery half-moon hung low in the west accompanied by great cohorts of stars that shone with a brilliancy she had never before seen, and which seemed to be waiting with the moon to usher in the new dawn. All was silence and mystery—all earthly ties seemed severed. Under the cover of the night all things seemed equal. There were no high, no low, no eyes to see, no ears to hear, no towns, no cities, no conventions. All things that hold and bind us had slipped away into the shadows and she seemed to breathe again the primeval freshness of life.
She knew that she must decide between Dick and her family. Her father had given her plainly to understand as much, and this she knew meant the loss of her fortune—the giving up of all for him. Her father threatened, raged and fumed with the petulance of a spoiled child, his paternal displeasure taking that uncompromising form of obstinacy with which the world has long been familiar. She was amazed at herself for being able to take his displeasure with so little concern; a thing which, had it occurred at home, would have caused her to pause and reflect and probably would have been the deciding factor in her life. Her removal from the old life and the glimpses of the new had unconsciously wrought a change within her. She began tosee things as they really are when shorn of their glamour. The life she hitherto had known, she realized, was purely a superficial condition, not only foreign to the realities of things, but superfluous to man himself. Never had Captain Forest appeared so sane and her father so superficial as the hour in which she grasped that truth. It is not what the world makes of you, but what you make of yourself that counts, the beauteous, seductive night kept whispering to her. Why, then, if this be true, should the world about her appear so remote? It was not the actual world—the world as it really is that she would be called upon to give up, but merely the world of that particular set of men and women in which she hitherto had moved.
The same earth rolled beneath her feet—the same stars that looked down upon her in the past still glittered in the heavens overhead—the same winds that crept through the garden and sighed among the trees, wafting the spicy, fragrant odors of the flowers into her face, were the same that had fanned her cheek in the past. All things remained practically the same, only the people were different. But could the old interests and friendships and associations compensate her for the loss of the man that had come into her life to remain for the rest of her days whether she chose to keep him or not? These new and perplexing questions she was forced to ask herself for the first time, and she knew that there could be but one answer forthcoming.
Love was knocking at the portals of her heart as it had never knocked before. It had come to her warm and living, deep and subtle and indefinable, leaving nothing to be said or desired. She saw clearly that principle, as the world conceives it, was not involved. Affection recognizes no such principle—only virtuous longing and desire which is a principle in itself—the fulfillment of creation's grandest purpose; and it rested with her to accept this truth or pass it by.
The chill of the early morning caused her to draw her wrap more closely about her shoulders. A deep sigh of relief escaped her as she glanced upwards once more for a last look at the paling stars. How satisfactory it was to know even though the knowledge pained her!
She had entered the garden a girl, she returned to the house a woman, hugging her secret close to her heart.
Successhad crowned Juan Ramon's efforts. The pretty littlehaciendaof which he had dreamed so long was no longer a vision of the future, but a reality. It was actually in his possession, purchased with a part of the money he had received from Don Felipe for his work. It now only remained for the pretty Rosita to consent to become the mistress of the place and he, Juan Ramon, would bid farewell to the oldPosadaand the gaming-tables forever. This Juan naïvely promised himself as his thoughts dwelt upon the bright picture of domestic felicity which his imagination conjured up before him.
The attractive presence of Rosita was undoubtedly the source of this inspiration which actually led him to believe in the possibility of the sudden and complete reformation of an inveterate gambler whose desire for play was like the toper's insatiable thirst for liquor. And then, there was Captain Forest's horse. Juan had an idea regarding that animal. When everybody's attention was occupied with the festivities during the night of thefandango, and he had succeeded in filling José with the proper amount ofaguardiente, he would slip quietly away with the horse and conceal him at hishacienda.Caramba!what a horse—the like of which there was not in all Mexico! And Juan Ramon, thechampionvaqueroof Chihuahua, was the man to ride him! And he rolled and smoked innumerablecigarillosas he sauntered about the garden and corrals, or lounged in thepatio, musing on these and many other things.
To say that Don Felipe was elated by what he had discovered but mildly describes his state of exultation. At last the woman who had ruined his life was in his power. Not for years had he experienced such delicious transports of rapture. How sweet a thing is revenge! He was like one born anew. The expression of melancholy faded from his countenance, his eyes shone with renewed luster and he smiled upon all the world. There was no more escape for her than there had been for him when she so treacherously thrust the knife into his heart. What he had discovered was different from anything his imagination had pictured in connection with her. Nothing could be more compromising, and the marvel of it was that she had been able to keep the facts concealed from the world so long. Only a woman could have done it, and only the cleverest of women at that. No wonder she had danced in public. She had reason to!
Never had he dreamed that he would live to enjoy this hour. When he first imparted his information to Blanch, she refused to believe it; but the proofs were too convincing to leave so much as the shadow of a doubt in her mind. How fortunate that he had discovered her secret at this time; just before thefandango. What an opportunity to confront her with the truth; force her to make a public confession of her guilt.Nothing could be more propitious for the execution of his plans; the annihilation of the woman who had wrecked his life. It was not enough that she should be exposed. She must be humiliated publicly as he had been.
He did not entirely reveal his plans to Blanch, knowing that the woman in her and her consideration for the Captain would cause her to shrink from inflicting so cruel a revenge even upon a rival. He was far too clever for that. So, without going into details concerning his plans, he led her to believe that, at a prearranged signal from her, he would confront Chiquita personally and compel her to acknowledge the truth before himself and the Captain. Her nature revolted at that which Don Felipe told her, cried out for justice, for the exposure of the impostor; nevertheless, she disliked a scene, and for the Captain's sake, made Don Felipe promise to do nothing unless she gave the signal.
One week hence and their scores would be even. The thought thrilled him as he paced the length of his room, his hands clasping and unclasping nervously behind his back; his mind actively engaged in rehearsing the events of the last few days which led to the discovery, and the details of the plan he had formulated, the carrying out of which was to be deferred until that eventful evening when the principal families of the town and neighborhood, her friends and acquaintances, would be gathered together to witness her shame—the same as they had witnessed his. Her disgrace would be far worse than his had been. She would be an outcast;for let a man transgress and the world may forgive him, but let a woman fall and she is damned forever so far as the world is concerned. He would make no mistake this time. He carefully weighed every detail of his plan, considered every eventuality that might arise. Subtle and resourceful though he knew her to be, there would be no loophole of escape for her.
It was almost too good to be true. He was beside himself. He talked and laughed aloud repeatedly when alone, scarcely able to retain himself, so rapturously sweet was the thought of her humiliation. Suddenly a new thought flashed through his mind. He had sworn that he would kill Captain Forest—lay him dead at her feet; but that, thanks to circumstances, would not now be necessary. The thought of killing a man in cold blood was not pleasant even to one of Don Felipe's temperament in his present state of mind. But should circumstances compel him to do so to complete his revenge, he would stop at nothing, let the consequences be what they might.
That he had received his just deserts for his betrayal of a woman, did not enter his thoughts. Had he not atoned for that misdeed through years of suffering? Had ever mortal been humiliated as he had been? That fact alone decided him. The memory of his transgression had been effaced long since by his intense longing for revenge. Nothing short of revenge could satisfy him now.
A grim smile lit up his countenance as he pondered upon what he knew. And yet, he reflected, who could tell? Infatuation might blind the Captain to the truth.It was best to be prepared for all emergencies. Stepping to his dresser, he opened the top drawer from which he took a knife which lay concealed beneath the numerous articles it contained. Drawing the blade from its leathern sheath, he ran his thumb lightly over its double edge to assure himself that it had lost none of its keenness. He always carried a pistol, but considering the circumstances a knife would be better. It would make no noise, create less disturbance. It would be so easy, in some secluded part of the garden, to thrust it home and get away quietly before the deed was discovered. One quick thrust, a stifled cry, that would be all. As a youth he could have placed that blade at ten paces in the center of a mark no larger than a silver dollar at every cast. But he had no thought of employing such a method now even if he were able to. Striking the Captain would be like sinking the blade in Chiquita's heart; for did he not hate the Captain, because she loved him, almost as much as he hated her? No, he would not forego that exquisite sense of pleasure and satisfaction, born of jealousy and his insatiable thirst for revenge.
For some time he toyed absently with the knife. Then, from sheer exuberance of spirits, he began tossing it aloft; watching with sparkling eyes the glittering blade as it turned over and over in the air and catching it deftly by the hilt in his right hand as it descended. His hand and wrist were firm and supple as of old; they had lost none of their vigor during the long years he had wandered aimlessly about the world.Again that cold smile, cruel and cutting as the edge of his knife, lit up his face as he at length sheathed the blade in its leathern case and returned it to its resting place in the drawer of his dresser.
Convictionis one thing, decision another. Any one who has been taught from earliest childhood to regard black as white could hardly be expected to distinguish in a moment the virtue of the latter.
Daily Bessie resolved to follow the promptings of her heart; usually at the close of the day when the cool of the evening set in, when the stars again took up their procession across the heavens and she walked and chatted with Dick in the garden. But when morning dawned and she thought of her father's awful prognostications and the dire consequences which must inevitably ensue should she take the step, her ardor cooled and she as often changed her mind. Her father spent hours arguing with her, trying to impress her with the importance of the duty she owed society which consisted in obeying to the letter the behests of the set in which she had always moved.
Greatly to the Colonel's astonishment and disgust, his daughter seemed strangely lacking in this particular moral quality. How had her insight become so obtuse? He could not understand it, especially as he had taken particular pains while bringing her up to steel her heart against the insidious longings of maudlin sentiment and to teach her to despise everything outside of her particular world. He and his wife had not regarded lovethe chief essential to marriage, so why should his daughter? That she, under the circumstances, should hesitate between happiness and a life of regret, was a thing unique, almost incomprehensible to him. That she should question his authority, his right to choose for her, and his superior knowledge of the world, was still more surprising. Her disaffection was strongly suggestive of disrespect, a lack of faith in his infallibility in which he, the Colonel, firmly believed, if nobody else did.
The thought that the efforts of years might come to naught was bitter as wormwood to him. It was bad enough that his nephew should besmirch the family escutcheon, but that his daughter should deliberately contract a mesalliance in the face of his objections, was too much. It was the last straw. The country was going to the dogs. He argued, pleaded, stormed and swore and beat his head against the wall of indifference and obstinacy which his daughter reared between them with the unremitting fury of a wasp that finds itself on the wrong side of a windowpane. This new turn in affairs rendered Mrs. Forest so furious that she snapped right and left regardless of persons like a dog possessed of the rabies, rendering herself the most disagreeable person in the house.
The alarming rapidity with which event succeeded event, whirling them onward to some unseen end, was more than sufficient to convince them all that life was fast becoming a very uncertain quantity. No one knew what the morrow might bring forth; and all, with the exception of the Captain, were wrought up to a pitch of nervous tension that threatened the breakingpoint. Don Felipe shadowed Chiquita and the Captain—Chiquita and Blanch regarded one another with increasing suspicion—Dick pressed his suit with the ardor of desperation; while the Colonel and Mrs. Forest nagged on all sides. Even Señora wore an anxious, worried look. It was evident to all that things, as they were, could not continue much longer. Only the Captain seemed capable of keeping his head above water; for him the future held no terrors. The more complicated matters became, the more serene he grew; for had he not vowed that he would see things through to the end? They would all have an opportunity of judging who it would be that would laugh last.
Thefandangowould relieve the tension. Blanch's inspiration was truly a stroke of genius, for anything was better than a continuance of the present state of affairs. Ever since Dick's declaration of love, Bessie had fought and struggled against the tide of events which was overwhelming her by making herself as disagreeable as possible in his eyes. But what could she do to thwart the machinations of a man who laughed at her moods, who encouraged her with each fresh outburst?
Scarcely an hour elapsed after parting from him, than a note was slipped into her hand by some one of the many Mexican attendants, telling her how he adored her moods. That a frown from her was sweeter than the perpetual smile of another woman; that he loved a woman of spirit; that she would find him on the morrow in the dust at her feet as usual; that the sensation he experienced while being trampled upon could onlybe likened unto that of being borne aloft on wings, etc. She grew hot and cold by turns as she read these missives, and sulked and softened and flew into fits of passion, and tore them into bits, thoroughly disgusted with her weakness and her inability to remedy matters, and invariably ended by wishing to see him again. Clearly, her only hope of delivery lay in the alternatives of instant flight, or of ridding herself of his importunities by marrying him; either of which she found equally difficult and impossible to execute. She did not know that Dick was putting on a bold front; that his attitude was assumed; that, like her, he was at his wits' end; that, if she suffered, he suffered tenfold. Her annoyance was insignificant in comparison to the cyclonic outbursts that swept over him.
Ah, yes, Anita, Concho's wife, had predicted events with fair accuracy. When he sought to take her, she was not there, but somewhere else—everywhere. Just like a kitten that frisks among the leaves in autumn when they are whirled about by the wind; now here, now there, now up a tree. Though each had taken the measure of the other with fair accuracy, each had misjudged the other's strength; and it was becoming problematical just how much longer he would be able to hold out. Nothing had ever daunted him. All his life long he had never failed to accomplish the things of real importance. No undertaking had ever proved too great. Colonel Yankton, his foster-father, had taught him the value of perseverance, and he had learned his lesson well. He instinctively felt that the great crisis of his life was at hand; that all his efforts, his successesin life must count for naught so far as he personally was concerned, should he fail to win her. He knew that his fate hung in the balance, that the morrow would practically decide whether the one thing his life lacked would be added unto it, or that he would go on to the end alone.
He had gone for a stroll in the town after the customary gathering in thepatioin the evening. The others had long since retired for the night when he returned to thePosada. Feeling no inclination to sleep, he seated himself on the veranda in front of the house, and lighting a fresh cigar, smoked and mused; his gaze fixed on the tall moonlit hedge which separated thePosadafrom the highroad; his thoughts reverting to the days of his boyhood. Again he saw the Colonel, tall and erect, the personification of manhood, indomitable will and courage, seated upon his horse at the head of his regiment, and heard the ringing, clarion notes of the bugle—the signal for the charge. Yes, he would make one more supreme effort, and if that failed, well.... His cigar had burned low. He tossed it over the veranda rail and rose with the intention of retiring, when his attention was arrested by the faint sound of a horse's hoofs on the highroad in the distance. Something seemed to tell him to wait, and acting on the impulse, he paused and listened. The sounds drew nearer, increasing in volume as the animal approached, until a horseman finally turned in from the road at an easy canter and drew rein before thePosada. Both man and horse were covered with dust which shone white assnow in the moonlight; a proof that they had traveled far during the day.
"Buenas noches, Señor," said the rider, a Mexican, swinging himself from the saddle and ascending the steps to where Dick stood.
"Good evening," replied the latter in Spanish, eyeing the man curiously.
"I wish," continued the stranger, "to speak with one Señor Yankton who, I was told, lives in Santa Fé. Perhaps, Señor, you can tell me where I may find him?"
"I am Señor Yankton. What do you want?"
"Ah!" exclaimed the man, stepping back a pace and regarding Dick critically. "Your appearance answers the description well, Señor, but that is not enough—I must have proof." Just then avaqueroon night duty who had been lounging in the deep shadow at the far end of the veranda came forward on hearing the sounds of voices.
"Diego," said Dick, addressing the latter, "tell this gentleman whether I be Señor Yankton or not. He says he wishes to see him."
"Of a truth, Señor, here is the man you seek," answered Diego, addressing the stranger.
"Bueno—good!" ejaculated the Mexican, pulling a sealed packet from the inner pocket of his jacket. "I come from the Rio Plata, six days' journey toward the west. I have been commissioned to deliver this to you, Señor," and he handed the packet to Dick who, taking it, gave instructions to Diego that the man and hishorse be properly housed for the night. Then, with an "hasta la vista," and "God be with you until the morrow, Señor," he retired to his room. There, by the dim light of a candle, he carefully scrutinized the address on the packet, but did not recognize the writing. Nevertheless, he instinctively felt as he turned it over in his hands before breaking the seal, that, in some manner or other, it was intimately concerned with his fate.
Thepreparations for thefandangowere complete. The men and women of the household, under Juan Ramon's supervision, had worked hard since sunrise, stringing gayly colored lanterns and arranging tables and chairs, palms and potted flowers and shrubs in thepatio. It was close on to five o'clock and they now rested in thepatioin the shade of its arcades, smoking cigarettes and sipping black coffee, and chatting and laughing as they viewed with satisfaction the results of their handiwork. The day gave promise of a perfect night. It was to be a typical Spanishfiesta, and in order that the illusion might be complete, both the Whites and the Indians were to appear in their national costumes. All the leading Spanish families of the town and the neighborhood would be present. Not an invitation had been refused.
Captain Forest had agreed to take tea with Blanch in the garden, and, true to his word, he appeared punctually, almost on the minute. The pretty Rosita, the only one of the household excepting Señora Fernandez and Juan Ramon who understood and spoke English after a fashion, withdrew reluctantly after depositing her tray containing tea andtortillasupon the table. She adored the beautifulAmericana, and had been doing a great deal of thinking of late. The reason for her coming might not be Don Felipe at all, but Captain Forest, the grand Señor. Who could say? The ways of the Americano, thegringo, were so different from theirs. Everything they did was exactly opposite to their way of thinking and doing things. No well-bred, unmarried Spanish woman would dare take tea alone with a man unless they were engaged.
The signs of autumn were visible on every hand. The long, languid, summer travail had ceased and the season of dreams begun. Though the sky was a clear steel-blue overhead, the horizon was veiled in a thin blue haze into which the landscape and distant objects seemed to fade and lose themselves. Filmy threads of gossamer floated through the air, suffused with a soft golden glow. Most of the birds had ceased to sing and the drone of insects became less persistent, as if fearful to disturb the hush and calm that pervaded the land.
Captain Forest noticed, as he seated himself at the table opposite Blanch, that the golden glow in her hair was almost a perfect match to the shafts of sunlight which sifted down upon her through the branches of the trees overhead. And he wondered at his resisting powers—why the spell of her fascination no longer held him as of old, not realizing that his love for her had waned in the same proportion that he had grown beyond her. The air of restraint which existed between them would have been apparent even to a stranger, but Blanch had decided to dissipate this feeling if possible. She laughed and chatted as though entirely ather ease, as though nothing had ever come between them; making sarcastic remarks on the customs of the country; calling into requisition all the blandishments and fascinations which a woman of her intelligence and attraction was capable of exercising upon a man. Every word, every look and gesture fell upon him like a caress. She flattered, cajoled and contradicted him, employing that subtle, deceptive art of refined coquetry to which a sensitive nature like the Captain's was most susceptible. Nor were its effects lost upon him; they were soon both at their ease. She was the old Blanch again; the girl and companion of his youth—the woman of yesterday.
The struggle that was being fought out inch by inch between her and Chiquita was drawing swiftly to its close, and must end as abruptly as it began. She had only begun to realize what the full significance of love meant in the hour that she felt the loneliness occasioned by the lack of it. She had miscalculated. She thought she was stronger than Captain Forest, but could she have cared for him had he been a weaker man? It was his strength which she both loved and hated, and deep down in her heart she knew full well that, were he weaker than herself, she must have ended by despising him. She, like Chiquita, was fighting for her life, her very existence so to speak; but of course he did not divine the full significance of the struggle—what it meant to them both; no man could.
"Does the charm of this land still continue to hold you, Jack?" she asked carelessly, passing him a cup of tea.
"More than ever," he answered, lighting a cigarette and wondering what she was leading up to.
"Don't you think you have had about enough of it?" she continued, with just a shade of sarcasm in her voice. "You have had a royal vacation and I'm glad you have enjoyed yourself so thoroughly, but, honestly, don't you think it's about time you were returning to your work again, to the world to which you belong, of which you are a part and from which, in spite of all effort and argument, you cannot possibly separate yourself? You know, I never could take your idea seriously, Jack," she added, with increasing confidence, addressing him as one would a naughty child. He only smiled by way of reply, and quietly blew a ring of smoke into the air.
"I see you are as obstinate and determined as ever," she continued rather petulantly. "Don't be overconfident though; you might fail, you know, and failure is always discouraging—it involves such a waste of time."
"If I do, it will be the first time I have failed." He was about to continue, but checked himself. They were getting on dangerous ground. She understood his inference and colored and smiled. For some time neither spoke. A gold leaf, one of the first heralds of autumn, dropped silently down from the bough overhead to the center of the table. He took another sip of tea.
"Jack," she said at length, raising her eyes from her hands in her lap where she toyed with her fan, "supposing a position were offered you, one quite worth your while, would you return? Not immediately, butlater on, when you have grown a little tired of playing at the game of life? In six months, say—or even a year if you like?" Her whole attitude and expression had changed, and a look of pleading and expectancy shone from her eyes. Again he smiled. What was she driving at? he asked himself.
"I'm afraid it will be longer than that, Blanch," he answered. "Besides, what position could possibly be open to me? You know, my name is struck from the lists. At least, it ought to be if it isn't."
"Possibly," she answered. "But, if you cared enough, there might be another chance!"
"What do you mean?" he interrupted, regarding her curiously. In reply, she quietly drew an official document from her bosom and handed it to him across the table without a word. He colored, and she saw that his hand trembled slightly, betraying the emotion he felt as he opened the envelope and glanced hastily over its contents. "The Ministry to Turkey—Blanch!" he gasped, regarding her in astonishment.
"Yes," she answered nervously, watching closely the effect the news had upon him. "I received it a week ago. The President knows how clever you are, Jack, and has promised to keep the position open for you if you will consent to accept it. You know, he always had a warm place in his heart for you."
"Blanch!" he said again, overcome by emotion. And laying the document down upon the table in front of him he rose to his feet.
"Turkey, Jack, is but a step to London, St. Petersburg, Berlin or Paris," she said softly, looking up at himand catching her breath in the effort to conceal her excitement. "It is yours, Jack, if you wish it. Understand," she resumed, lowering her gaze and running her slender white hand slowly back and forth over the edge of her half-open fan, "that it is yours without reservation. You are under no obligations. Turkey and—I are two different things," she added slowly and with difficulty, without looking up; her neck and face turning a deep scarlet. She felt the intensity of his blazing eyes upon her.
"Blanch!" he cried, and this time there was a note of anger in his voice. "Don't think me ungrateful, I beg of you. I appreciate what you have done, and I thank you with my whole heart, but—I can't do it, Blanch!"
"Jack!" she cried, throwing off the mask and springing to her feet. "I can't stand it any longer! I can't see you wreck your life in this way! Can't you see the folly you are committing? Don't think me presumptuous; that I am trying to meddle, interfere in your life. I am merely trying to save you from yourself! It's your last chance, Jack. Go back again and never mind me; I've nothing to do with it! I can easily understand how this life can have a certain fascination for you, but only for a time; it can't last. The more I see of it, the more I'm convinced that I'm right. What's the use of mincing words, fencing about the truth any longer? I understand—I've seen it from the first. It's not this life, but the woman that holds you!" she cried abruptly and passionately, almost fiercely, betraying her jealousy.
"Don't wreck your life and happiness before it is too late. You must tire of her as inevitably as you will tire of this life, and what then? Can't you see that, when you have exhausted the glamour, and the fascination of things is gone, she would no longer be a companion to you? The difference between you—your lives, your world and hers, is too great. It is insurmountable—impassable! What can she know of the world which you and I know, to which you belong? Of another race, another blood, she must ever remain an alien, a thing apart from yourself; there can never be a true affinity between you. She is a savage—an aborigine sprung from the soil. The tinsel and veneer of civilization which she has acquired doesn't change her and can't endure. She is still a savage in spite of it, the product of savage ancestry living close to the soil. The simplicity and glamour and freedom of this life casts a spell over one and attracts one of your adventurous nature, sated with the pleasures and luxuries of our world, but will the spell last? Once you have exhausted the simple, elemental joys of such a life, it must become irksome, mere animal existence, unbearable, positive boredom to you. That in her which attracts you now must inevitably become commonplace in time and repel you. You could not endure that, Jack; you who are evolved through thousands of generations from a higher, superior race. Your reason and instinct must tell you that.
"Jack!" she cried in a fresh outburst, "we were made for one another! How can she, an Indian, the product of savagery, understand you who are of a different race, the product of civilization? Your soul cannever find the full response in hers that it can in mine. I know I was foolish—call it willful rather than foolish—the instinct that is born in me to command. I should not have let you go. I should have consented to share the life you proposed, but I did not believe you were in earnest; I did not think it would last. Besides, how could you have expected me to understand? It was too much; you had no right to ask it of me then. I thought, of course, you would come back to me again, Jack; I waited for that. Can't you understand? But you didn't come back, and I repented of my mistake a thousand times. We all make mistakes, Jack!"
His manhood revolted against being compelled to listen to her confession, her pleading. It was undignified, cowardly. It disgusted him and he hated himself for it, but what could he do?
"Don't say that, Blanch," he answered gently. "It is I who should ask forgiveness. I know it was too much to ask you to share such a life with me, but I did not realize it at the time. I wronged you, I know. I would gladly make reparation if I knew how."
"Oh! none of that virtuous, good-humored acquiescence, Jack! I want you to forget everything, all but the days before it happened, when you loved me—when you swore that your love was as constant as the stars! Have you forgotten your oath? To be true to yourself, Jack, you must forget!" She paused. It was the first frank utterance she had made since her coming; and, for the time being, she seemed to have forgotten her resentment toward him.
"I have not changed, Jack," she went on. "I am thesame as then; I only did not understand you. How could I have guessed that which lay buried within you, those latent ideals and conceptions of life which you yourself were ignorant of? But I understand you now, Jack. It was the foolish conceit of the girl's heart that caused me to forget what I owed you; but now it is the woman who speaks, who bares her soul to you, brimming full of love and passion and tenderness for the man she loves and longs to protect—the woman who loves as the girl could never have loved, Jack."
The light that shone from her eyes bespoke the voice of her conscience; told him that she at least spoke the truth. Never had she appeared more beautiful, more fascinating and alluring than at this moment, as she stood before him, flushed and radiant and trembling with passion, confused and indignant and ashamed; the woman rebelling within her at being thus forced to lay bare her soul, make confession before the man she loved. It was cruel and he knew it. Her words were like knife-thrusts at his heart, filling his soul to its depths with sympathy and compassion for her, and bitterness and loathing for himself.
The vision of yesterday with its gay scenes which he had cast aside, rose before him again. Its seductive allurements swept over him with redoubled force like a great compelling wave, filled with music and light and laughter, the false, seductive charms of which their present surroundings knew naught. The magic of her voice, her face, her touch had lost none of its charm. He felt her fascination still, in spite of himself and the bitterness of former days which he had cherished in his heartagainst her. The lure of the old life was strong upon him. He felt the hot blood rush to his face and heart; his being surged. She had been a part of his life, they had grown up together, and do what he would, her presence brought him face to face again with certain realities, with the old life which he thought was dead but which was not yet buried. When he looked upon her, he heard the old familiar sounds of the sea, of music and siren-voices of civilizations in their decay—breathed again the intoxicating atmosphere of that exotic, voluptuous, sensuous existence in which he had been reared and had lived, and with which he was saturated and from which he was striving to escape. But when he thought of Chiquita, he heard the murmur of forests and waters and saw the broad expanse of the plains and the wild crags and peaks that rear their heads heavenward, above which the eagles soar. Nature beckoned with widespread arms to her child to come—the manhood within him cried for release, for the recognition of the individual's right to self-assertion.
Poets have sung of the raptures of first love, but was Blanch really his first love? The true first love is only that man or woman who can cause one to forget oneself. Somewhere deep down in our souls there's a something which sleeps until that hour when it suddenly bursts into flame, as it were, and the new man is born within us; and this is what had happened to him, though all unknown to himself, at the time when he first beheld Chiquita riding alone in the hills. In an instant his soul was aflame. He thrilled at the sight of her as she turned and rode away in the dusk, and felt like cryingout to her to stop; that she was his, that she had been his from the beginning of time and he likewise hers; that he had been searching for her down the ages and had found her at last. All this and much more flashed through his mind as he gazed upon the beautiful vision of Blanch before him and felt the charm of her presence slowly creeping over him and fastening itself upon him in spite of his resistance like the subtle, mysterious influence of music or rich old wine.
For some time he seemed uncertain how to act or what to say. She noted it. His hesitation inspired her with fresh courage, causing her face and eyes to shine with the radiance of hope, dazzlingly beautiful. Her breath came quick and fast as she drew nearer to him and then seemed to cease altogether as she waited for his answer. All this he too noticed, and felt himself weakening under her spell. The suspense was as terrible for him as for her. A thousand memories rose from out the past and began pulling at his heart-strings. Inch by inch he felt himself slowly slipping back into the old life again, like a boat that has slipped her moorings and glides silently and almost imperceptibly out into the easy-flowing current. The struggle grew more intense within him as the minutes passed. Great beads of perspiration broke out upon his brow as he listened to those voices whose sweetness and intensity increased with his hesitancy—those voices beneath whose charm and spell the strongest men have succumbed in the past.
"Blanch," he said at last, hoarsely and almost in a whisper, "it takes a better man than I to say 'no' to you, and I don't say it. But I have changed." Themere fact of speaking and the sound of his voice seemed to recall him to himself, to the realization of where he was and what he was doing. He felt that he was still master of himself and his confidence slowly returned. "I know you can't understand," he continued. "But somehow, I seem to have grown beyond you."
"Jack," she said, drawing still closer and laying her hand upon his arm and looking up into his face, "I know you have had more experience than I have had, but don't imagine that you have grown beyond me. Your ideas have caused me to think. I, too, have grown since we last parted. If you can give up the world, so can I. If you will not return again to the world with me, I'll remain here with you. I'll do anything you say!" she cried in passionate surrender. "My body is soft perhaps in comparison to hers, but I'm strong. I'll soon be as strong as you or she and be all the more to you, infinitely more to you than she can ever be. I know I did you a great wrong in the past, Jack, but let me make up for it now. It is my privilege, my debt to you, and your duty to let me do it. You have no right to break your promise to me, Jack. You can't. Your manhood must tell you that it is as sacred now as the day you gave it to me, and I hold you to it. I'll show you a love you have never known—can never know without me!" She drew still closer, laying her other hand upon his shoulder caressingly; her arm almost encircling his neck. He felt her warm, fragrant breath upon his lips and the thrilling, magnetic touch of her body, vibrating and pulsating with passion and emotion. How soft and voluptuous and tempting and alluringthat body and presence were! It was as though the spices and perfumes and sunshine of far away, mythical Cathay had suddenly descended upon him and enveloped him.
"Jack," she continued, "we have always been comrades, pals; we were made for one another! We are one in thought now as much as we ever were—more than we ever have been!"
He knew this to be false; that he possessed a grip on life which she did not; that he had passed far beyond her since they had last parted. She had had her opportunity and had thrown it away. It was too late. She could not follow him now, she had missed the psychological moment. Even had she cast her lot with his in the beginning, he knew that she never could have followed him. She was immeshed; her feet were caught in the net. The blandishments of life had taken too deep root in her soul for her to cast them forth as he had done. And yet his conscience smote him for her sake, for what she suffered, that she was thus forced to humiliate herself before him. Sentiment and old memories surged up within him and urged him to keep her. What, after all, did it matter where or how they lived? The world would go on its way the same as it had always done; it didn't wish to be reformed and wasn't worth reforming.
"Take her! take her!" cried those voices more persistently than ever. "Don't be a fool and miss this opportunity which, once gone, shall pass out of your life forever. She's as beautiful and as brilliant as the other woman; one of your own race and, after all, will wear as well. Besides, you know her and you don't know theother woman, and if disappointed in the latter—what then? Take her!"
The vision of Glaire's wonderful conception, "The Lost Illusions," rose before him. He saw again that exquisite figure of the Egyptian, strong and sensitive, in the prime of manhood, seated upon the shore of the Nile, watching the bark of destiny laden with the fair illusions of youth, draw slowly away from him and grow fainter and fainter in the soft, mellow light of age, as it floated away on the evening tide of life. He, too, stood in the prime of manhood. Was this to be his end, mocked and laughed at by fate—the price he must pay for daring to lift his eyes from the dust to the stars to fulfill the dream of the ages? God knew how he had fought against the invisible power that had driven him on step by step to his present state. He looked down into the beautiful upturned face of the woman before him whom he had known so long, whom he had loved and adored; gazed deep into those soft, azure eyes, limpid as two crystal pools, saw those full red upturned lips waiting to be kissed—kissed. Again her lips parted.
"Jack, Jack, Sweetheart, I'm waiting—" she murmured softly, encircling his neck completely with her arm and drawing his face gently down to her own. Just then the rhythmic silvery whir of wings caused them to look upward. Through the boughs of the tree they saw the indistinct form of a white dove that fluttered overhead for an instant and then was gone. At the same moment Captain Forest distinctly recognized the scent of Castilian roses, as though their fragrance hadbeen wafted full in his face by a breeze, and yet there was no breeze, nor were there any roses close at hand; the season of roses had passed.
No man could have resisted for long the fascinations of a woman like Blanch Lennox if she chose to make love to him. It was the sound of those wings and the fragrance of the roses that upheld Captain Forest's resolution; especially the fragrance of the roses. Whence it came or how it originated, who could say? For it came and passed like a mere breath. Perhaps the invisible angel who, it is said, presides over the destiny of the individual, caused it; for with it flashed the vision of Chiquita before his eyes as he had seen her on that day in the garden among the roses and had silently watched her from the back of his horse and breathed deep drafts of the flowery fragrance. The same subtle, invisible something that has changed the destiny of individuals and of nations through all the ages, caused him to remember, recalled him to himself. The manhood surged up within him, asserting its supremacy, and he drew himself up with a sudden impulse. She noted the change, and in a fierce, passionate voice, almost of terror, cried: "Jack, you are mine, you have always been mine! I will not give you up—I claim my own!" and she flung her arms passionately about his neck in an endeavor to draw his lips down to her own.
"I can't—I can't do it, Blanch!" he said, and shook himself free. With a cry, terrible in its intensity and despair, she sank across the table.