"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.



XXVIII

Pale and trembling and humiliated, Blanch pulled herself together with an effort and stood for some time as one dazed where the Captain had left her. Then, she remembered, she had smiled and bowed absently to the men and women in the patio on the way back to her room, where she flung herself down upon the couch in a frenzy, burying her face in the cushions; her frame shaking with passionate, convulsive sobs as she writhed in paroxysms of untold grief and pain.

He had refused her, dared to refuse her—her! She had failed! Was this, then, the end, the reward for righteous ambition, conscientious endeavor? For years she had worked and schemed for the realization of her ideal, and this was the end. How proud she always had been of him, and how perfectly her beauty and brilliancy would have crowned his career—their lives! And now, when ambition's goal was attained, that rare cup of earthly joys of which few men drink, had been rudely dashed from her lips.

So this was the reward that had been reserved for her who had been endowed with wealth and position, and who was the fairest and best this civilization could produce? Fate had been kind to her merely in order that she might realize to the utmost the bitterness and emptiness of life.

Life—what did it mean, what did it hold for her now? She knew as well as Captain Forest did that, strong though she was, she was nevertheless too weak to share with him the life he had chosen. Civilization and culture had prepared her for everything but that; the one vital essential which nature alone can give to man was lacking. After all she was but a poor, helpless creature, incapable of meeting and being satisfied with the simple demands occasioned by the natural conditions of man's surroundings. Neither could she return to the old life again, now that it was shorn of its vital interest, and year after year cast her bread upon the waters in the uncertain pursuit of happiness, only to reap the harvest of dead-sea fruit that is ever borne in on the shallow tides of worldliness.

She recognized in herself the victim of a system of lies and frauds, a world of artificiality, deceit and tawdry tinsel, a life which, in spite of the good it contains, makes weaklings of men. Thanks to her bringing-up, the sunland of love, that valley of the earthly paradise, was closed to her forever. She cursed this world of hypocrisy and deception and all it contained—her friends and acquaintances and the memory of her father and mother, who unabashed, had perverted the pure, unsullied gaze of the child, directed its steps in the paths trodden by its degenerate forefathers, taught it to regard falsehood in the light of truth.

Let the world cry out in protest—say they did their best. The world lies, and knows it lies. They did not do their best. They followed the dictates of selfishness, despicable, inherent weakness. But why had this come to her who had been a willing instrument, who had lent herself to the dictates of this world and who, of all others, was the most fit to grace it?

"I curse you—curse you!" she cried aloud, springing to her feet in a fresh paroxysm and frenzy, flinging her clenched hands aloft, her features livid with rage. But what did her mingled transports of grief and pain and anger avail her? There was no redress, no appeal from the decision of destiny. It was fate, and she had been singled out for the sacrifice. Again she cried out in agony of heart and soul. Had she been strong like the other woman, he must have loved her—his love never could have died!

The thought of Chiquita brought her to herself in a measure, and as she slowly began to pace the floor, Don Felipe's words came back to her. If she did not possess Jack, no other woman should. Besides, she knew what he did not know—that even if he wished to, he could not marry Chiquita. A grim smile flitted across her countenance as the knowledge of this fact flashed through her mind, the only ray of light in the chaos into which she had been plunged by that misguided, luckless decision on her part—her refusal to follow the Captain while he was still hers.

She knew it was purely revenge that had prompted Don Felipe to run her rival's secret to earth, and she despised him for it. It was not so with her—the thought of revenge had not entered into her calculations. But neither Chiquita nor the Captain would escape. It was justice, nothing more nor less; for they, too, like her, stood before the tribunal of destiny and must bow to its decrees the same as she had been forced to bow to them. Yes, she would give the signal to Don Felipe that night; it was the only right thing to do.

She was calmer now, and when Rosita knocked lightly at her door and entered the room to assist her in dressing for the evening, no one would have suspected the ache at her heart or the storm-swept soul which her calm exterior concealed.



XXIX

Padre Antonio sat before the open window in his living-room in a large, comfortable chair, enjoying the beauty of the evening and the fragrance of the last flowers in the garden, waiting for Chiquita to complete her toilet.

It was one of those soft, balmy autumnal evenings, and gave promise of a night of majesty and serenity when the moon rose in her full glory to hold her silent watch over the earth once more. It was sweet to live on such a day as this, when all the world seemed at peace; and what a perfect night for the fandango. Presently the sound of light footsteps and the soft rustle of a dress interrupted the train of his thoughts, causing him to turn from the window to Chiquita, who, attired in her ball dress, entered the room and paused before him.

There was not an inharmonious touch in her attire of soft creamy satin and lace, richly embroidered with golden flowers. Delicate filmy threads of gold intersected the heavy white Valenciennes lace mantilla attached to her high silver comb, etched in gold and studded with diminutive diamonds, which sparkled in the light like dew in the sunshine. Her white satin slippers and silk stockings, like her corsage and saya, were also delicately worked in gold. A sheaf of golden poppies adorned one side of her head, nestling close down upon her neck and shoulder in the folds of her jet black hair. She presented a truly striking appearance, and Padre Antonio gazed long and silently at her, his keen eyes scanning her critically from head to foot in an effort to detect a fault.

How he loved his little girl! It almost seemed as though she were endowed with something more than earthly beauty. In her the strength and grace of the deer and panther were blended with the ethereal delicacy and beauty of the flower. But it was her face that bespoke the luminous nature of the soul which dwelt within her. So close was the bond of sympathy and mutual understanding between them, that she instinctively half divined his thoughts and it gave her courage.

"Will I do, Padre mio?" she asked with a slight hesitancy, smiling and looking down at him inquiringly. The question was so characteristic of her that he could only smile in response.

"Chiquita mia—there's one thing lacking," he said at length, the far-away, dreamy look fading from his eyes.

"Something lacking?" she repeated in surprise, turning and casting an involuntary glance at the small mirror on the wall opposite in a vain effort to catch a full view of herself.

"Yes, Senorita," he answered knowingly, almost mysteriously. "But it's not your fault. It sometimes takes the discerning eye of a man to perceive what a woman's toilet lacks."

What can it be, she asked herself, looking wonderingly and inquiringly up into his face, and then turning to follow him with her gaze as, without further comment, he left the room and slowly ascended the stairs to his study on the floor above. He paused for an instant on entering the room, then walked straight to his desk at the other end; a large upright piece of furniture of ancient pine made in the mission style and stained dark to represent oak, which, owing to its age, it closely resembled. Pulling out the middle drawer, he pushed back a secret panel on the inside, disclosing an opening in the back of the desk from which he drew a small sandalwood box which, on being opened, contained a silver casket, richly chased and of an antique design.

Years had elapsed since he last looked upon it, and he regarded it curiously for some moments as he held it in his hands. Then setting it down upon the desk, he turned the small key which unlocked it and raised the lid, disclosing its contents, which consisted of a fan, a bracelet of six strands of large pearls with a diamond clasp in the shape of a crown, and a long, magnificent necklace of still larger pearls, also composed of six strands, like the bracelet, and a large diamond slide also in the shape of a crown. The fan was one of those exquisite, daintily hand-painted French creations of ivory, lace and vellum of a century gone by. On one of the outer ribs was also a small diamond crown and on the other was traced a name in letters of gold. A delicate fragrance like that of withered rose leaves escaped the casket, and, as he silently contemplated its contents, his gaze fell upon the name on the fan—Chiquita Pia Maria Roxan Concepcion Salvatore—the name was much longer, but his eyes dimmed—he could read no further.

Instinctively he raised the casket with both hands and was in the act of pressing his lips to its contents, when he caught sight of a crucifix on the desk in front of him, causing him to pause, cross himself reverently and lower the casket again.



Who was Padre Antonio? Involuntarily his thoughts traveled back over the stream of years when, as a youth of twenty, he bade farewell to old Spain forever and with a heavy heart set forth alone to find God and peace in the wilderness of the new world. Fifty years had passed since then and with them, the secret and tragedy of his life lay buried.

He heaved a deep sigh and, picking up the casket, turned toward the door. Chiquita listened to the sound of his footsteps as he slowly descended the stairs, and gazed in wonderment at the casket he held in his hand when he reentered the room. Without a word, he deposited it upon the table in the center of the room and, raising the lid, displayed its contents to the dazzled eyes of his ward. Never had she beheld such wonderful jewels—what did it mean?

"Padre mio!" she gasped, her eyes wandering questioningly from the casket to his face, which appeared a little paler than when he left the room but a few minutes before.

"I never imagined that another woman would ever be created worthy to wear them," he said quietly, picking up the bracelet and fastening it about her left wrist, and winding the necklace twice round her throat, the ends falling down over her bosom to her waist. "May God's blessing forever rest upon you, my child," he added, making the sign of the cross above her, and stooping, he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

Involuntarily her hand went out for the fan, and as her eyes fell on the name upon it, her woman's instinct told her all.

"Padre—Padre mio!" she cried, and throwing her arms about his neck, burst into a passionate flood of tears on his breast.

"There, there, my child!" he said at last, regaining his accustomed composure. "I now know why I was never able to part with them—not even to the Church. I was keeping them for you."

"But I'm not worthy to wear them, Padre!" she exclaimed.

"Tut, tut!" he replied. "The ways of God are past all understanding. When I think of how you came to me unsought and unbidden, and now, how Captain Forest of a different race—"

"Oh, Padre, do you think I stand a chance of winning him?" she interrupted, looking inquiringly up into his face as if to read the answer there.

"Ah! that is a difficult question, my child. Love and intrigue are such uncertain quantities to deal with, you know. Yet it seems strange that he should have come into your life at this juncture. Captain Forest," he went on after a pause, "is a great man. As you know, we have talked much together of late on that most interesting of all topics—life. And it seems to me that if ever God had plainly indicated his wish, you have been reserved for one another to perform his will. Of course, I can not say this for a certainty, but it appears so to me, and to see your hands and hearts joined together will be the crowning joy of my life—" Suddenly his left hand went to his heart, where he experienced a sharp pain. A dizziness seized him, causing him to lean heavily upon her for support.

"Padre mio—what is it?" she cried in alarm. "You are not well! We'll not go to the fiesta to-night—'tis better we remain at home!"

"It's nothing—nothing, my child," he answered, after the dizziness had passed. "It's only a slight attack of indigestion, like the one I had last summer while engaged in the mission work. You know," he added lightly, "I'm no longer as young as I was—such things must be expected." All day long she had experienced a dread of impending disaster which she could not shake off, and which she naturally connected with Don Felipe. But why go to the Posada that evening if Padre Antonio was not feeling well—there would be other days.

Again she protested and urged him to remain at home, but in vain—he would not hear of it.

"It will do me good to go," he said, helping her on with her long white silk Spanish mantle, embroidered with gold and lace to match her dress. Then, drawing on his black silk gloves, he picked up his hat and stick, and they passed out into the garden and through the tall iron gate, turning their steps in the direction of the Posada.



XXX

The garden and patio of the Posada were hung with many lanterns whose light, in addition to that of the stars and the full moon, made them appear as bright as day.

Mrs. Forest maintained a frigid attitude toward the world throughout the evening. Inwardly she longed to be gay like the others, but prudery and short-sightedness, the fruits of her training, prevailed, effectually debarring her from all enjoyment and leaving her cold and isolated like one afflicted with the plague. Could she have followed the dictates of her wishes, she would have remained within the seclusion of her room during the entire evening, but not being able to reconcile such a course with the duties of a chaperon, she was obliged to appear. If noblesse oblige demanded that she should sacrifice herself, suffer the martyred isolation of patience on a monument, then be it so!

As for Colonel Van Ashton, he had suffered long enough. He secretly despised his sister's prudery though he dared not acknowledge it. Anything to break the infernal monotony! He welcomed this occasion of mild revelry with sensations akin to those of a boy's during the advent of a circus in his town. Of all the State and grand social functions in which he had participated, not one, so far as he could remember, had ever inspired him with such anticipations. An indescribable joy and spirit of recklessness, born of desperation, filled him, and he silently vowed that he would drink to the moon that night even though there might perchance be blood upon it.

Owing to the attack of dizziness which had occasioned a slight delay, Padre Antonio and his ward were the last of the guests to arrive. Low murmurs and suppressed exclamations escaped the Spanish element of the assembly as Chiquita entered the patio on the padre's arm. If they had been enraptured by the beauty of Blanch and Bessie and loud in their praises of their jewels and exquisite gowns, they were crushed by Chiquita's appearance, clad as she was in white and gold, a dress they had never seen before, and adorned with jewels, the magnificence of which they had not dreamed.

At last the mystery of the golden pesos was solved—the jewels of course! A great weight slipped from the souls of the Spanish women as they gazed in envy and amazement upon the person they hated most in all the world.

Happy, blissful ignorance—thrice blessed by the gods were they! Those golden pesos would not have purchased a single strand in her bracelet, while as to the necklace, its value would have purchased the entire Posada and many broad acres besides. Don Felipe and the Americans had seen such jewels before in the world of fashion, but how came Chiquita by them? Who was she? Blanch and Bessie began asking themselves. That she had timed her entrance well, all admitted; though in reality she had thought nothing about it—chance had favored her, that was all. Interesting though the subject under discussion had become, there was little time left the company for further speculation before Juan Ramon, the major-domo, announced supper.

The musicians struck up a lively Spanish air. The night was mild and soft, the stars and moon glittered overhead, the wine flowed and the sounds of laughter and gay, merry voices echoed throughout the patio. The company sat long at the tables, tempted by innumerable dainties, and encouraged and soothed by the wine, the night and soft strains of music. Not even in the old days had the Posada witnessed a gayer scene. Indeed, for the time being, they had returned like a far-off echo of those times when Dona Fernandez reigned supreme in her beauty and men admired and flattered and paid homage to her. Little wonder she sighed in the midst of the gayety and alternately flushed and paled as her thoughts traveled back over the years.

Don Felipe was in an exultant mood. That morning his horse had stumbled and later, while dressing for the evening, a bat flitted in and out of his room through the open window. The fact that these two signs of ill omen did not affect a mind ordinarily subject to the influence of superstition, showed the state of his confidence. He drank freely of the wine and laughed and talked incessantly. What an opportunity to spring the trap he had laid for Chiquita!

"If Captain Forest proposes to her to-night, she'll never lift her eyes to the world again," he whispered to Blanch beside whom he sat.

"What do you propose doing?" she asked.

"Have patience," he answered, his face lighting up with an expression of malicious joy. "Of course, it all depends whether you give the signal or not."

"I came here with the intention of doing so," she confessed. "But everybody seems so happy. Why not let the evening pass pleasantly? It would be a pity to mar its harmony."

"Mere sentiment!" he replied. "Do you think she would show you such consideration? I assure you, to-night is the time of all times!" There was something so malicious, so weird in his tone and manner that she shuddered as she listened to his words. In spite of her humiliation, her bitterness and suffering, and her desire for retribution, she never realized that one could find such sweet satisfaction in revenge as did Don Felipe. The prospect of it filled him with a joy that seemed almost devilish at times.

At length the tables were cleared, and coffee, liqueurs, cigars and cigarettes served, Blanch and Bessie, like the Spanish women, indulging in the latter. In fact, everybody, with the exception of Mrs. Forest, smoked. The musicians were ranged in a semicircle across the upper end of the patio opposite the garden and continued to render national and Spanish airs upon their instruments while the company smoked and sipped coffee and liqueurs. And by the time the men had finished their first cigars, the different artists, dancers and singers, who had been engaged for the occasion, came forward and began to display their talent, adding to the novelty and gayety of the evening. Considering the time and the place, they did well enough in their way and were quite picturesque and pleasing as a whole, but at no time did their performance rise above the level of mediocrity, such as one was accustomed to see anywhere in the world on the vaudeville stage. At the end of an hour, Blanch felt that the moment had arrived to ask Chiquita to dance. So, without imparting her intention to any one, she rose from her chair and walked over to where Chiquita sat conversing with the Captain and Don Agusto Revera, Alcalde of Santa Fe.

"We have heard so much about your dancing, Senorita," she began, interrupting the conversation. "Won't you favor us with a dance to-night?"

"A dance?" repeated Chiquita with a little start of surprise, the request coming from Blanch was so unexpected. She seemed confused, and her face wore a troubled look. "I would rather not," she said at length, glancing nervously about her at the company. She had heard the cruel things that had been said of her of late and knew how ready those present would be to criticize her anew.

"Do dance, Senorita; just to please me, if for nothing else," persisted Blanch.

"To please you?" repeated Chiquita. A peculiar light came into her eyes and she smiled as though pleased by the request.

"I hope I'm not asking too much?" continued Blanch. Again Chiquita smiled.

"Do you know," she answered with warmth, "there's only one thing in this world I wouldn't do for you?" and she laughed lightly, nervously opening and closing her fan the while. Again she glanced around at the company, wavering between assent and refusal. In the faces of the women she read the jealousy and envy which filled their hearts toward her, and it was perhaps that, not Blanch's request, which decided her to dance.

"Yes, Senorita," she said at length. "I'll dance for you this night—for you only!" she repeated with emphasis. Yes, she would dance as she had never danced before; for would not the most critical eye in the world be watching her? It was worth while. Blanch gave a little laugh as she returned to her seat by the side of Don Felipe.

Ah! the wiles of woman—subtle and illusive as a breath or a shadow—the one thing her own sex fears most! Blanch knew that if there was a common streak in her rival, it would be brought out in the glaring reality of the dance, and the Captain should see it. She knew he could never marry any one but a lady, and this was her reason for asking Chiquita to dance. She had in mind, of course, the performances she had just witnessed, or, to be more exact, the contortions of the ballet and the modern music-hall artist with which we are all so familiar; the inane balancing and pirouetting on the toes, the heavy hip and protruding stomach, quivering breasts and bellowing and frothing at the mouth, and colored light effects and risque posing in scant attire, coupled with a display of attractive lingerie. But Blanch forgot, or rather did not know, that she had to do with genius over whose individuality most men are prone to trip.

Chiquita's conception of plastic art was something different from vulgar Salome creations and the cheap spring-song and lolling and capering of the fatted calf just alluded to. Had Don Felipe cherished a ray of hope of reinstating himself in Chiquita's eyes, he would have done all in his power to prevent her dancing, but, as matters stood, he welcomed it with enthusiasm, for he knew that she would be irresistible—that Captain Forest would be ravished by her enchanting creation and alluring beauty as she glided through the intricate mazes of the dance in the moonlight. He had felt that spell, and knew its irresistible charm.

The announcement that Chiquita was going to dance caused a stir among the company. A large dark blue Indian rug which shone black in the moonlight, was brought from the living-room of the house by the servants and spread out upon the patio's pavement. A murmur of approbation arose from the Mexicans when the first bars of music announced the dance she had chosen. It was the famous "Andalusia"—the most difficult and intricate of all Spanish-Moorish dances; the one in which few dancers have ever excelled for the reason that its beauty lies not so much in its intricacy of form as in the poetic conception and free interpretation of the artist. Besides, the dance called for two parts, obliging her to execute the part of her supposed partner as well. The dance opened with the song of a Torero who had repaired in the dusk to the hills overlooking Granada where dwelt his sweetheart.

With a coquettish little laugh and toss of the head, she tossed her fan to Captain Forest who caught it and held it in his hand as he would a flower. Then, after some words of direction to the musicians, she stepped upon the end of the rug nearest them, and to the amazement of the Americans, lightly kicked off her slippers, displaying a pair of small, slender, exquisitely formed feet and ankles. Only amateurs have the courage to dance in shoes. Even that strict and stilted institution, the ballet, was forced generations ago to break through its time-honored traditions by abandoning heels as useless appendages. Had she been on the stage, she would have danced in her bare feet as she had done on the night of the fiesta when Captain Forest had seen her.

A smile rested on her face and she nodded her head lightly to the time of the music as she stood erect in the full flood of moonlight, tall and slender as a lily.

"Thy face, Sweetheart, haunts me amid the dust and glare of the arena!" she began in her deep rich contralto voice, at the first notes of which everybody sat up straight and listened to the volume of swelling sounds which filled the court and garden and floated away on the night. There was no mistaking the fact, they were in the presence of an artist.

"I await thee, Beloved, in the hills, in the hour of our tryst!" came the far-away answer of the woman's voice, faint and plaintive as an echo, soft and sweet and clear as the notes of the skylark, falling in silvery, rippling cadences of melody from out the gold, blue vault of heaven above.

"Nearer and nearer love guideth our steps, On the hills we shall dance, chant our song of Delight 'neath the silvery stars and the Mellow gold horn of the soft shining moon.

"'Neath the silvery stars, and the mellow gold horn of the soft shining moon," echoed the musical refrain and chorus of musicians. Nearer and nearer drew the answering echoes of the lovers' voices until they met in the hills and the dancing began.

So realistic and dramatic was her rendering of the song, that the listeners saw the progress of the lovers and felt the thrill and rapture of their meeting. Up to this point she had held herself in abeyance, but with the opening bars of the dance, she suddenly became transformed, electrified. Her whole being became suffused with the vibrant, passionate intensity of the South, and then they witnessed an exhibition that was beautiful and wonderful in its poetic conception.

A thrill of rapturous, exquisite emotion swept over them, as suddenly and without warning, she threw back her head and sprang to the center of the rug with a swift, whirling motion, the effect of which was like a shower of sparks or a jet of glittering spray tossed unexpectedly into the air from a fountain, expressive of the abandon and exuberance felt by the lovers as they met in the dance.

Again, without warning, she paused as abruptly as she began, and with short, interluding snatches of song, slowly began to sway to the soft rhythm of the music and sharp click of her castanets. First slowly, then swifter and swifter she glided and whirled noiselessly in the moonlight, graceful as a wind-blown rose, or suddenly paused, languid and sensuous, according to the rhapsodic character of the dance when the music ceased altogether and naught was heard save the plashing of the fountain in the patio, the click of her castanets and the soft swish of her silken saya which seemed to whisper and sigh like a living thing, like the mythical voices of Lilith's hair. Like a musician transposing upon a theme, she introduced new and elaborate motives of her own until, at a sign from her, the music took up the principal theme of the dance once more.

Captain Forest had seen practically all the great dancers of our time, the Geisha and Nautch girls of the East, the Gypsies from Granada to St. Petersburg, and the Bedouin women dance naked on the sands of the Sahara beneath the stars while celebrating the sacred rites of their festivals, but it soon became apparent that, all with few exceptions, were mere novices in comparison, and stood in about the same relation to her as a dilettante does to an artist.

She lifted the dance above the portrayal of sensuous emotion into the realms of poetry. The wild spirit of the Gypsy, captivating, fresh and invigorating and compelling as the winds of the mighty Sierras and plains of the land she inhabited, enveloped and animated her. The rushing, whirling climaxes up to which she worked were startling—tremendous. The subtle, hypnotic influence and witchery of her presence filled her entire surroundings and so held and dominated the spectators that they were swept irresistibly along with her as the rhythm of the dance increased. She swayed and enthralled the imagination and emotions with a supremacy akin to that of music or the noblest landscape. The mastery of every motion, every fleeting expression but increased the impression she endeavored to convey—the intensity of life, vibrant, joyous life.

The soft, rhythmic undulations of her graceful, sinuous body, vibrating and pulsating with the ecstatic, rapturous emotion inspired by the music and the dance, were a revelation of beauty. She became the living expression of rhythm and grace as she paused for an instant before them, scintillating and quivering like an aspen leaf, or glided and whirled wraith-like, fragile and delicate and ethereal, wondrously lithe and airy like films of gossamer or foam tossed up by the sea. The dance itself seemed to fade into the background as their attention became riveted upon her, and visions and vistas of life rose before the imagination instead.

She danced with her soul, not with her feet; became the living incarnation of the ancients' conception of plastic creation, enchanting, intoxicating. They heard the myriad voices of spring, the voices of birds and insects and the sound of falling waters; beheld the Elysian, flower-strewn fields of youth, recalling the immortal, fairy days of childhood and with them their golden dreams, and experienced the sweetness and bitterness of unfulfilled longings and aspirations of later years. All felt that it was an event of a lifetime—one of those hours that would never again return.

The company gave vent to its emotion in alternate exclamations of enthusiasm or sighs as it was swept irresistibly along by the buoyancy and captivating creation of the dancer. Two bright tears stood in Padre Antonio's eyes as he gazed upon the object of his love and pride. Don Felipe forgot his hatred for the moment and gazed enraptured, drinking in with eyes and soul the enchanting vision before him. The heart of Blanch grew cold as ice as she, like the rest, looked on entranced in spite of herself by the witchery of her rival, for she knew she had blundered again, that she had lost, that Chiquita was transformed—irresistible. The blood seemed to freeze in her veins as the truth was borne in upon her. She longed to scream, to rush forward and stop her—anything to break the spell, but in vain. Helpless and immovable she was forced to look on; see the prize of life slip slowly from her grasp.

Again Captain Forest beheld the mighty expanse of mountain and plain, heard the lashing of the sea and the myriad voices of the singing stars as they whirled in their courses through space—listened to the chant of life. Yes, she was the ideal, the living incarnation of nature, the Golden Girl with the white starry flower on her breast who was awaiting his coming, the woman of Jose's dream to whom he had been guided unconsciously by the hand of the Unseen. No wonder he had failed to find the place of his dreams; without knowing it, he had been waiting for her. But now all was changed. The earth had become their footstool; the old life had come to an end.



XXXI

A sigh of regret escaped the company as the dance ceased. Blanch turned to speak to Don Felipe, but he was no longer by her side—he had vanished. The musicians struck up a waltz. It was now the turn of the guests to dance if they chose; a privilege of which they were not slow to avail themselves.

Captain Forest crossed over to where Chiquita sat, resting after the exertion of the dance.

"I'm sure you've had enough dancing this evening, Senorita," he said, handing her her fan. "Let us go into the garden; it's quieter there." His words filled her with a tumult of emotion. She realized that the moment for which she had been waiting had arrived. She looked up at him without replying, then rose from her seat, and the two quietly left the patio, disappearing among the shrubbery and the shadows.

Neither spoke. Each guessed the other's thoughts, and they walked on in silence until they came to an open circular space surrounded by trees and flooded by moonlight, where, as if moved by a common impulse, they halted. Without a word he turned and silently folded her in his arms.

"Jack—" she murmured.

"Chiquita mia," he said at length, gazing down into her upturned face where the dusk and the moon-fire met and blended in a radiance of unearthly beauty, "is it not wonderful that, all unwittingly and unconscious of each other's existence, we have been brought together from the ends of the earth?" She was about to reply when a voice, close at hand, cut her short. It was Don Felipe's.

"A pretty sentiment, Captain Forest," he said, stepping out into the light before them. "I wish I might congratulate you, but you will never marry her."

"How dare you!" cried the Captain furiously, advancing toward him with flushed face and clenched hands. Chiquita started violently at the sound of Don Felipe's voice. The apprehension of an impending catastrophe that had oppressed her during the day, but which she had forgotten during the excitement of the dance, again took possession of her.

"I apologize most humbly for intruding on your privacy," answered Don Felipe, meeting the Captain's gaze unflinchingly, "but as one who wishes you well, I could not stand quietly by and see a man like you cunningly tricked by this woman."

"What do you mean?" asked the Captain, his eyes blazing and his voice almost beyond control.

"Chance or fortune, which ever you may choose to call it, has recently placed certain information in my possession which will entirely preclude any thought on your part of marrying her." What can he mean, Chiquita asked herself. She had expected an attack on the Captain and was prepared for it, but this—what was it?

"You perhaps already know," continued Don Felipe coolly, "that this woman and I were once betrothed to one another, but had I at that time known what I now know of her, such a thing as a betrothal would have been out of the question."

"And this information?" interrogated the Captain.

"It is very simple, Captain Forest," replied Don Felipe, slowly and firmly. "The Senorita Chiquita is—the mother of a child."

"The mother of a child?" cried Chiquita in astonishment. "You lie!" His words were like a blow in the face to the Captain. For an instant the world seemed to swim before his eyes, but only for an instant. Had he rushed upon Don Felipe then and there as he felt impelled, it would have been what the latter most wished him to do. He would have then had sufficient provocation to kill him on the spot. But a lion never springs before he has taken the measure of his leap.

"Don Felipe Ramirez," said Captain Forest at length, in a hoarse, half-audible voice, "unless you give me instant proof of what you say, either you or I shall never leave this place alive! Understand," he continued, "that when I ask you for proof, it is not because I doubt this woman, but that your life and mine are at stake."

"Well spoken, Captain Forest," returned Don Felipe. "'Tis the answer I expected; the utterance of a gentleman, a Caballero! You shall have the proof you desire—the living proof, Captain Forest," he added with emphasis.

"Proof?" exclaimed Chiquita in amazement. "Are you bereft of your senses, Don Felipe Ramirez?"

"Ah! you have played your part well these many years, Senorita. It is now my turn to cut the cards. If you will return to the patio—" he continued, turning to the Captain.

"Why not here?" asked the latter.

"Because the proof which you desire awaits you there." The Captain was about to protest further, when Chiquita interposed.

"Come!" she said, and without further words, turned and silently led the way back to the patio followed by Don Felipe and the Captain, the latter scarcely able to control his desire to seize Don Felipe by the throat and choke the breath out of his body. She knew that Don Felipe had laid a most ingenious trap for her; that was to be expected. But what form it would take, she was at a loss to divine until they reached the patio; then it all came over her at once. She was to be publicly accused. Don Felipe was capable of that, and she shuddered as she pictured to herself the scene it would be certain to create.

There was a pause in the dancing. The musicians were playing an interlude, and as the three reentered the patio, the eyes of all present immediately became centered upon them. Just opposite to where they halted sat Blanch and Padre Antonio, conversing together.

"I would much prefer to spare you a public humiliation," said Don Felipe, addressing the Captain in a low tone. "It is not too late. But if you still insist on having the proof at this time—"

"The proof by all means!" exclaimed Chiquita without giving the Captain time to answer, her eyes blazing with indignation.

"Very well, since you insist," replied Don Felipe, glancing for an instant in the direction of Blanch. As he did so, both the Captain and Chiquita noticed that she let fall, as if by accident, the pink rose she held in her hand. Instantly Don Felipe turned and clapped his hands, whereupon, an old Indian woman, bowed with age and supporting herself with a stick, and accompanied by a pretty little Indian girl of five or six years of age, emerged from one of the doors of the house and paused, bewildered by the unusual sight that greeted their eyes; the lights and flowers, the music and gayly dressed men and women. Chiquita started and uttered a low cry as her gaze fell upon the old woman and the child. Captain Forest noted the ashen hue of her face and felt her hand tremble as she involuntarily clutched at his arm as if for support. Then she suddenly seemed to recover her composure.

"That?" she exclaimed, and began to laugh, almost hysterically. It was evident to the others that something unusual had occurred. The music suddenly ceased, and save for the murmur of the fountain in the center of the court, not a sound was to be heard. All eyes were now turned upon the old woman and the child who still stood silent and motionless, gazing in bewilderment upon the strange scene before them. Suddenly the child uttered a cry of joy.

"Madre! Madre mia!" she cried, and running across the court, flung herself into Chiquita's arms. Then it was that the latter grasped the full significance and gravity of the situation. What could have been more compromising and humiliating for her?



"Marieta, nina mia!" she exclaimed, stooping and kissing the child, without realizing that her words and action only compromised her the more.

"Is this the beautiful garden you told me of, Mother—which you said you would one day take me to see?" asked the child, gazing delightedly about her.

"Yes, yes, cara mia!" she answered hastily, holding the child close to her. Instinctively the others began to draw near the little group.

"What brings you here, Juana?" she asked sternly of the old woman who by this time had crossed the court and stood before her, leaning on her stick.

"They said you sent for us, Senorita, and compelled us to come."

"I never sent for you!" answered Chiquita.

"Do you wish for further proof?" asked Don Felipe, addressing the Captain. "You see, the child found no difficulty in recognizing its mother," he added sarcastically.

"'Tis a lie!" cried Chiquita. Captain Forest was speechless, stunned. As for Don Felipe, he only laughed at Chiquita's impotent rage.

"Between five and six years ago," he began, "the Senorita and one Joaquin Flores brought this child late one night to the Indian pueblo, Onava, and placed it in charge of this woman with whom it has lived ever since. Is it not so?" he asked, turning to the old Indian woman.

"It is, Senor," she answered in confusion.

"And has not the Senorita visited the child each month and provided for its wants ever since the day it was given into your charge?" Again the old woman answered in the affirmative. "And has not the child," continued Don Felipe, "always called her mother ever since it has been able to speak, and have you not always thought her to be its mother?" The old woman hesitated and glanced nervously about her as though seeking a way of escape.

"Speak, Juana!" commanded Don Felipe sharply. "Onava lies within my domain. Unless you speak the truth, I'll have you and the rest of your family driven to the desert to starve."

"It is so, Senor!" sobbed the old woman, thoroughly frightened by Don Felipe's threat, yet not daring to raise her eyes to those of Chiquita.

"You now know why the Senorita Chiquita danced in public during the Fiesta. It was to provide for the wants of her child," he added with a sneer.

"I can't believe it!" exclaimed Captain Forest contemptuously, breaking the long silence he had preserved. "The introduction of this child and woman doesn't prove anything that I can see."

"Every Indian in the village," interrupted Don Felipe, "will substantiate what you have just heard. Why, the Senorita herself taught this child to call her mother. But there are still other things which you shall learn in due time."

"Chiquita," said the Captain without heeding Don Felipe's words, "speak! I know you can explain." She glanced up at him for a moment and then cast her eyes down at the child.

"I must first send to La Jara for Joaquin and Manuelita Flores," she answered. "When they come, I shall be able to tell something definite concerning this child."

"You can spare yourself the trouble," broke in Don Felipe. "They are both dead."

"Dead?" she cried, starting violently. "Joaquin and Manuelita dead?"

"Their bodies, together with those of their horses and wagon, were discovered early this morning at the foot of the mesa which lies between here and La Jara, directly below the point where the road winds along the rim of the cliff. Doubtless their horses became frightened in the dark and jumped over the cliff before they could save themselves."

Chiquita uttered a low cry. "You've done your work well, Don Felipe Ramirez," she said at length, suddenly straightening and stiffening as she faced him, the expression on her face changing to one of hatred and contempt.

"It was no easy task to run you to earth, I'll admit," he retorted with the same sneering look of triumph on his countenance.

The only two persons upon whom she could rely, who could corroborate what she had to say concerning the child, were dead. No, there was one other, a man, but he too was gone—no one knew where. She saw the hopelessness of her plight. Nothing she could say or do could alter the opinion of the world toward her. She might continue to deny the charge, protest her innocence, accuse others, but to what avail? Without the actual proof, all must believe that which they were so ready and willing to believe. Had not the child recognized her, called her mother before the world? Even though the charge might never be actually proven, and Captain Forest refuse to believe it, there would always be this thing between them which she could never explain satisfactorily. It was not natural to suppose that he could possibly forget it or continue to believe in her protestations of innocence without the corroboration of others. The hour must surely come in which he would be assailed by doubts. She felt she had lost him, and with the knowledge of her failure, was seized with a sickening sensation and an acute pain at the heart. A misty veil rose between her and the world and she swayed unsteadily as though about to fall. She knew she must not faint. She drew her hand across her eyes, then, putting all her remaining strength into the effort, she slowly drew herself up.

Strange, that she and Don Felipe should have been created to become the nemesis of one another! The child, awed by the silence and grave faces of the bystanders, instinctively divined that there was something wrong between her and them, and clung mutely to Chiquita's skirt, a frightened look on her face.

Chiquita, meanwhile, stood gazing straight out before her, her head slightly inclined forwards, her face white and set, her heart burning with shame. It was not so much the question of guilt or innocence that affected her now, but the shame of it all. What must the Americans think of her? She felt the burning, searching gaze of those about her and the joy they experienced at her discomfiture. Never had she been at a loss to know which way to turn to extricate herself from a difficulty; but now, how helpless she was. She nervously tapped the palm of her left hand with her fan, vainly racking her brain in an effort to find a solution. Dick, who had been watching her narrowly the while, saw a strange light begin to play in her eyes in which he read Don Felipe's death as plainly as though it were written across the heavens in letters of flame.

"Chiquita, you must say something," said Captain Forest. "I tell you again, I don't believe it, but for your own sake—speak!"

"Yes, my child, speak!" entreated Padre Antonio, stepping before her. "Can't you see your silence is condemning you?" She looked up at him and saw that his face was ashen, colorless like the Captain's—that he seemed to have suddenly aged. Notwithstanding, there was the same kindly expression in his eyes she had always known, and she felt that, even though the world refused to believe in her, he might; he might even forgive her. She saw in her present humiliation and shame, a direct punishment for the betrayal of the Padre's confidence. Had she confided her secret to him, this could not have come upon her. Now, however, it was too late. She had no right to expect sympathy even from him.

"Chiquita, for the last time, I ask you to speak!" pleaded Captain Forest, racked between doubt and belief in the woman he loved. Just then, little Marieta began to cry.

"Madre, madre!" she gasped between her sobs. "I'm afraid of these people. Take me away—take me home again!"

"Be not afraid, my little one, they cannot harm you," she answered, drawing the child closer to her and laying one hand on its shoulder. Another embarrassing silence, broken only by the low sobs of Marieta, followed.

"Chiquita," demanded Padre Antonio at length, "has this child the right to call you mother?" There was a stern ring in his voice and she knew her last moment of grace had come; that it was useless to hesitate longer. She glanced at the Captain, then at the Padre and then down at the pretty, tear-stained face of the clinging child. Again she felt that peculiar pain at the heart and thought she was going to faint as she struggled with herself between honor, her love and respect for Captain Forest and Padre Antonio and her devotion to the child whose life, she knew, depended upon her answer. Up to that moment she had been completely at a loss to know what to say or how to act, but that invisible something which until then had deprived her of speech, now seemed to impel her to answer in the affirmative.

It was the supreme moment of her life. After all the years she could not abandon the child now; the woman in her forbade it. She must go on to the end. Again she glanced down at Marieta, and then raising her head and looking into Padre Antonio's eyes, said quietly: "Yes, she has that right."

"It's not true; I don't believe it!" cried Captain Forest in a tone in which was expressed all the shame and disgust he experienced on seeing the woman he loved dragged into the mire before his eyes.

"Captain Forest, you have heard the truth," answered Chiquita.

"Then there is nothing further to be said!" broke in Padre Antonio who was anxious to end a scene that was growing more painful each moment. Without a word, the Captain whirled on his heel and walked toward the garden. Clearly, the effects of the drop of poison instilled so adroitly into their lives by Don Felipe were beginning to be felt.

It is doubtful whether Blanch would have given Don Felipe the signal could she have foreseen the consequences. Her rival could have been exposed without being publicly humiliated. Nevertheless, an ineffable joy filled her soul. She knew now that Jack either must return to her, or he would never marry. His sensitive, overwrought mind frenzied and made desperate by despair might even drive him to kill himself in the end, but what did it really matter so long as no other woman possessed him?

Don Felipe fairly reveled in his revenge and took no pains to conceal it. It was the sweetest moment of his life. At last she too knew what it was to be struck to earth, to lie prone with one's face in the dust, the jeers of the world ringing in her ears. Of a truth, to quote Dick's words, "Had the devil raked hell with a fine-tooth comb, he could not have produced a more accomplished villain than Don Felipe Ramirez."



XXXII

As Chiquita and Padre Antonio left the patio, accompanied by Marieta and old Juana, the women drew back from her as though from some unclean thing. Gladly would they have spared Padre Antonio's feelings, but their hatred and jealousy were too intense and the opportunity to cast a stone at her too tempting for flesh and blood to resist.

Greatly to the astonishment of every one, it was noted that Padre Antonio carried his head quite as high while leaving, as when he entered the patio during the early part of the evening. They expected him to limp away, a crushed and broken old man; but they had yet to learn the unbending spirit of the Padre. Although humble in the sight of God, experience had taught him that the only way to command the respect of men was to hold one's head high while among them.

What must he think of her now, to be requited thus after all he had done for her? Chiquita asked herself as she, with Marieta and Juana, followed him homeward. The opinion of the world concerning her, and the loss of Captain Forest's love, seemed little in comparison to the thought that he should believe she had betrayed his confidence. She could endure anything but that. Had she but told him all in the beginning, he might have been spared the shame of this disgrace. Perhaps it was not yet too late; she would tell him all that night. True, she could not make amends for the pain she had caused him, but perhaps he would understand—forgive her.

She knew that a continuance of her residence in Santa Fe was no longer possible. Strange that it should have ended thus, and what was before her now? She knew the world only waited to shower wealth and distinction upon her should she choose the stage for a career; or, she might return to her people. But what would life be to her under any conditions without Padre Antonio's respect and the Captain's love?

Strong and versatile and capable though she was to cope with the world, her lot was not an enviable one. It was with Godspeed, not the maledictions of one's neighbors, that she had hoped to leave the place which had sheltered her so long. And Padre Antonio—how could she part from him thus?

Captain Forest's last words were her only solace; he had tried to believe in her to the end. Let come what might, they would remain with her always like a benediction, a tower of strength in some future hour of trial. And then there was Don Felipe. Ah, yes, Don Felipe! Her teeth came together with a snap, for she knew that, even after what had transpired, he would follow her.

Padre Antonio walked silently homeward without so much as turning round once to look at the others. Not even after arriving at the great iron gate before the garden did he pause to allow the others to pass in ahead of him as he otherwise would have done, but walked straight on to the house and entered the living-room without so much as looking round, leaving Chiquita to dispose of old Juana and the child for the night.

Padre Antonio was no fool. Perplexed though he was by what had occurred, he knew there was a time for silence as well as a time for speech. He also knew that Chiquita would join him as soon as the others were settled for the night, and that she would then tell him her story.

Outside, the garden was almost as light as during the day, and the room, though partially in shadow, was illumined by the moonlight to an extent that rendered objects within it distinctly visible. The events of the evening had sorely taxed his strength. He was thoroughly tired, and with a sigh he threw himself into his large leathern chair to rest until Chiquita returned.

"What was the mystery in connection with the child?" he asked himself, closing his eyes in thought. Don Felipe's story could not be true. "It was absurd, preposterous!" he cried aloud, opening his eyes with a start. As he did so, his gaze fell upon a picture on the wall opposite, gleaming conspicuously in the full flood of moonlight. It was that beautiful illustration of what human faith may accomplish; the familiar representation of Saint Elizabeth of Thuringia meekly displaying the contents of her apron before her lord, the Landgrave—that heavy, sporadic type of whiskered ass whose only mission in life seems to be that of pulling the stars and all else down about his wassail-soaked head and ears through sheer avoirdupois and stupidity. Padre Antonio experienced a sudden thrill as he gazed at the picture. Clearly, it was the hand of God directing him. So did Saint Elizabeth deliberately deny the truth, and yet the bread in her apron was turned to roses.

Instinctively he recalled Captain Forest's last words. And then, putting two and two together, he also recalled the fact that he had noted something during the scene which nobody else seemed to have noticed, namely: that the face of the child, Marieta, was the living image of Don Felipe's. Like a flash all became clear to him, and he smiled and nodded as the truth dawned upon him, and he wondered greatly at Chiquita's discretion. Yet why should he be astonished? Was it not like her?

Chiquita also wondered in turn, and was much perplexed by his attitude, the quiet, benign expression of his face, when she entered the room after bidding Juana and Marieta good night. She had expected exactly the reverse. What did it mean, did he know anything? But she did not stop to question him. Before unburdening her soul, she must first divest herself of the jewels which, ever since the terrible scene at the Posada, she felt she had dishonored. Their touch seemed to burn her flesh.

"Padre mio," she said quietly, as though nothing unusual had occurred, "you know I said it would not be necessary to wear these jewels longer than to-night. I really never should have worn them at all. It was not right, for, as you see, I am not worthy of them." She began to unclasp the bracelet on her arm, but hastily putting forth his hand, he checked her.

"No, my child!" he said, rising from the chair. "You must keep them—they are yours. Besides, they are so becoming to you! Again I say—you are the only woman in this world worthy to wear them."

"Padre, Padre mio!" she cried, starting backward and gazing full in his face. "You—you believe in me?"

"How could you have imagined anything else, my child?" he answered quietly. Without attempting a reply, she threw herself upon his breast, convulsed with sobs and trembling in every limb, telling him plainer than words how terribly shaken she had been by the ordeal through which she had just passed. He did not attempt to soothe or pacify her with words, knowing how useless it would be, but waited quietly for her passionate outburst to subside.

"Ah! Padre mio, how good you are, and how have I requited you!" she said at length, looking up at him through her tears and slowly disengaging herself from his arms. "You know," she continued between convulsive sobs, and slowly drying her tears, "that little Marieta is the child of Don Felipe and Pepita Delaguerra." Padre Antonio started at the mention of the latter's name.

"Pepita Delaguerra?" he repeated. "I felt all along that she was Don Felipe's child, the resemblance is so striking, and I wonder the others did not notice it, but I never connected her with Pepita; perhaps because it is so long since she died. How strange that he should have introduced his own child without knowing it!"

"Yes," returned Chiquita. "And yet it is not so strange after all. Persons of his character invariably blunder in the end, clever though they be. Another strange coincidence is that they were married just six years ago to-day in the little Mission church of San Isidor at Onava."

"Why, that was before Don Juan's death, and in direct opposition to the stipulations of his will!" exclaimed Padre Antonio excitedly.

"Just so," answered Chiquita. "That's what caused the trouble. The entire property should have gone to the Church, but Felipe destroyed the record of his marriage before his father's death and the birth of his child."

"The scoundrel!" cried the Padre.

"But that is not all," continued Chiquita. "Everything seemed to be in league with him to further his plans. Father Danuncio, who secretly married them, also died before Don Juan did, without divulging the secret."

"Strange!" ejaculated Padre Antonio.

"There were three witnesses to the marriage—Joaquin and Manuelita Flores, whom Don Felipe has cleverly put out of the way, and Bob Carlton, the gambler, who, at that time, was Don Felipe's intimate friend; but he, too, is gone and never dare return."

"The clever scoundrel!" interrupted the Padre.

"Yes," answered Chiquita. "When it comes to deviltry, Don Felipe has yet to meet his match. But as I was about to say: Six months after the marriage, Don Felipe deserted Pepita, then the child was born, and knowing that he would unhesitatingly make way with it should he learn of its existence, Joaquin and I took it to Onava, where we knew it would be hid effectually from the world. Of course old Juana and all the other Indians in the village thought the child was mine, and I let them think so in order that its identity might the better be concealed until we were able to prove to whom it belonged."

"But why did you not tell me this in the beginning, my child?" he asked with a note of reproach in his voice. "I might have—"

"Ah, that was to protect you, Padre mio! It might have been wiser had I done so, and yet I think not. I felt impelled to keep you in ignorance of the facts, for I knew that Don Felipe would stop at nothing. What would your life have been to him, had you come between him and his position? His wealth is too vast. I knew that, as surely as you raised your voice against him, as you would have been obliged to in the interests of the Church, you one day would have been found dead in some lonely pass in the mountains while engaged in your Mission work."

Padre Antonio was too astute an observer of men not to perceive the force of her words.

"I marvel at your sagacity, my child; but think what it has cost you!"

"Ah! that is the marvelous part of it!" she replied. "Whoever would have imagined that, unconscious of the true facts, he would have succeeded in turning my own weapons against me? It's fate, Padre mio."

He paced back and forth for some time in silence, then suddenly pausing before her, said: "This cloud must not rest upon you, Chiquita mia. We must find that blackleg, Carlton, if we have to raise heaven and earth to do it."

"That is easier said than done, Padre mio," she answered quietly.

"God never wholly abandons his children to the evil of the world," he returned firmly. "Don Felipe has deceived the Church once, but he shall not do so a second time. God has allowed him to triumph thus far in order that his punishment may be all the greater in the end when it comes upon him. Carlton must be somewhere just across the border—in Texas or Arizona or New Mexico. Within twenty-four hours after the word has been flashed over the wires, runners will have passed through all our remote Missions along the border, and if he is no longer in Mexico, then the word shall be passed across the frontier into the United States. If he still be alive, he can not escape us. We will find him and bring him back again. No, the Church is not so powerless as many, strong in worldly possessions, imagine. The Church of Rome has never yet failed to find the man or woman she has set out to find. Don Felipe will be stripped of his possessions and his child restored to its rightful position.

"Again I say, God's ways are past all understanding. You have been His unconscious instrument. Think of what you were and how you came to me, and what your life has been since then! Have you endured all for naught? Are God's plans to be frustrated by a man, a dastardly craven like Don Felipe? No, my child, I see things clearer now than I ever have seen them before. You and Captain Forest have not been brought together from the ends of the earth only to be mocked by the world of evil. God demands that we all shall pass through the fire in order that we may be fitted to bear the burden He lays upon us. You both have endured the trial; proved yourselves worthy of the mission He has entrusted to you."

He paused. Then, suddenly recollecting the all-important question, he exclaimed: "I forget, we are wasting time; we must find Carlton! This very night word shall go forth!" and hastily snatching up his hat and stick, he hurried out into the night.



XXXIII

Captain Forest's feelings are better imagined than described. His brain was in a whirl, on fire. For the second time a woman had treated his confidence lightly. The whole world seemed to spin round him in chaotic confusion as he sought to lay hold of a single, tangible thought that might temper his judgment, steady his nerves and check the fierce outbursts of passion which were fast sweeping him beyond self-control. He had reached a state of recklessness that renders a man of his temperament most dangerous, and unless his judgment soon got the better of his passions, he would, as likely as not, either kill Chiquita or Don Felipe, or both of them.

The company had broken up shortly after the departure of Chiquita and Padre Antonio, leaving the patio silent and deserted, save for the presence of the Captain, who paced silently back and forth; the moon flooding the patio with broad sheets of white light, causing objects to appear almost as sharp and distinct as before the lights of the lanterns were extinguished.

Blanch, who was the last to leave, would have offered him her sympathy, but on approaching him, he gave her a look so terrifying that even she dared not speak to him. She accordingly retired to her room and seated herself before the open window from which she commanded a view of the court and could observe him at her leisure. Perhaps he will come to his senses now, she thought. At any rate, he now knew what she suffered. She experienced a feeling of cruel satisfaction and exultation while calmly watching the struggle going on within him as he paced slowly back and forth.

How strange that they should be there in that out-of-the-way place! In spite of the terrible ordeal through which she had passed and the dramatic climax in which the struggle had just culminated, it still appeared so unreal, so unnatural to her, that she wondered whether she was not still dreaming and must soon awaken to find herself back in the old life again and Jack near her, as in the old days. Who could have foreseen this tragedy, this end to their lives? But a few months previous all things appeared so clear and defined, so definitely ordained for them.

Truly the future was veiled—a sealed book for man! Had she been permitted to dip for but an instant beneath the cover of that book, or lift the veil ever so little, the catastrophe that had overtaken them and the suffering it entailed might have been averted.

But no. The strange nemesis that had pursued them step by step had been permitted to wreck their lives completely. And for what end—what purpose? Was there no justice, no recompense for them? The answer, she somehow felt, lay not here, but with the stars—in the great universal scheme of things, and was quite beyond her reasoning powers.

She felt the utter hopelessness of longer struggling against the unseen, and in that hour she became a fatalist. Better drift from day to day without purpose, than living, behold one's dreams and ambitions come to naught. She was like a strong, self-confident swimmer who had been caught by the tide and was being swept irresistibly out to sea. Blurred though her vision was, she seemed to see things clearer than she had ever seen them before, and she somehow felt that the fate which had overtaken her was the result of self-aggrandizement—that she in a measure typified the passing or end of a condition out of whose decay the new life must spring.

Submit she must, and yet a fierce resentment against all things filled her soul. She rebelled at the apparent injustice which she felt had been done her. Why had she, the most fit, been chosen? What had she really done to merit such an end? She realized that her trouble was unalterable; that it had its root in the social scheme of things and nothing she could do could alter it. That in reality it was no fault of hers, but the fault of her bringing up; that the world which she had been taught to respect as a thing representing truth and beauty, all that is best in man, was only a mocking illusion.

The injustice of it amazed, appalled, stunned her. She seemed to think and move like one in a dream, struggling with shadowy, intangible forces with which she was incapable to cope. The thought that it was not her fault only added to her bitterness and agony, and she longed for death—the death that knows no awakening—to be blotted out utterly, and forever. Her life was devoid of hope, there was nothing to look forward to, the future had become a blank.

A low moan, in which was expressed the despair and agony of men since the beginning of time, escaped her. She pressed her cold hands to her burning, throbbing temples and prayed that, whatever her end might be, it would come swiftly.

Again she raised her head and glanced through the open window. To her surprise she saw the tall form of Dick Yankton leaning against one of the pillars of the arcade that ran round the patio. He was smoking quietly and observing the Captain, who still strode back and forth apparently unaware of his presence. Suddenly the Captain stopped short as if he had come to a decision. As he did so, he turned half round and saw Dick, whom he regarded for some moments in silence. Then, going over to where he stood, she heard him exclaim: "It's not true, Dick, I don't believe it. I'm going to her now and tell her so!" At the same instant she also saw Don Felipe glide noiselessly and stealthily from one of the doors opening on to the patio and pause in the deep shadow of the arcade next to the wall, close to where they stood. Instantly she was on her feet and leaning forward, breathless and eager to catch all that was said.

"Neither do I believe it," answered Dick. "But I wouldn't have told you so. I wanted you to make up your mind first, and if you hadn't said so just now, I wouldn't show you this, either," he continued, drawing from his inner coat pocket a large envelope from which he took a letter and handed it to the Captain.

She saw the sheet of paper tremble in the Captain's hands as he read its contents. Again Dick handed him another sheet somewhat larger and darker than the first. He seized it eagerly, glancing hurriedly over its contents, his hands trembling more violently than before.

"Marvelous!" he exclaimed excitedly, looking at Dick. "And yet," he added, "it's not so strange after all; it's so natural!"

Blanch uttered a suppressed cry. She felt that her last chance of winning back the Captain was gone forever. It was a last stab at her heart. At this juncture Jose appeared from out the shadows of the garden beyond the patio and hurriedly approached them. She heard him say something in Spanish which she did not understand. Then, all became blurred before her eyes. She felt herself begin to sway and totter—she fainted.

* * * * *

Following Jose, the Captain and Dick came upon Starlight, quietly cropping the grass in the garden, just outside the corral. On hearing their approach, the Chestnut raised his head, and, seeing his master, gave a low whinny of recognition. Close beside him on the grass lay a dark, shapeless object which, on closer inspection, proved to be the remains of Juan Ramon, trampled almost beyond recognition by the stallion's terrible hoofs.

While Chiquita was being confronted by Don Felipe and the attention of every one was occupied by the scene that followed, Juan seized the opportunity for which he had been waiting. Stealing quietly away to the corrals, he deftly flung a riata over the stallion's head, and, looping it about the animal's nose, was on his back with a bound.

There was no question of Juan's ability to ride him. Once on a horse's back, he had never yet been unseated. He had expected the Chestnut to rear and plunge, to fight desperately on finding a stranger on his back and he was prepared for it, but greatly to his surprise, the horse showed no signs of fight and went meekly out of the corral at his bidding. All went well until they reached the garden, and Juan was beginning to congratulate himself on making his escape so easily, when suddenly and without warning, the Chestnut stopped short, reached round with his head, and seizing Juan by the leg with his teeth, jerked him to the ground. Juan heard the stallion's fierce cry of rage, and—that was the end.

The luck had changed again for Juan, and with it vanished his fair dream of life on the little hacienda with the pretty Rosita.

Jose had long been aware of Juan's intentions regarding the horse, and laughed quietly to himself as he thought of the trap Juan was laying for himself. That afternoon he appeared to be drinking heavily, and early in the evening feigned intoxication in order that Juan might go to his death which he knew awaited him should he so much as lay his hand on the horse.

When Blanch regained consciousness once more, she found herself in a half sitting and kneeling posture before the window with one arm resting on the sill. She must have been unconscious for some time, for when she came to herself, she again saw Captain Forest and Dick standing in the patio conversing in low tones. They soon separated, Dick going into the house, and the Captain making his way through the garden. She knew he was on his way to Chiquita. She also saw Don Felipe steal from the shadow of his concealment and follow him.

A great fear seized her. She felt the imminence of a disaster greater than that which had already occurred. Something terrible was about to happen. The thought aroused her to action and she hurriedly rose to her feet. If possible, she would prevent that final catastrophe which her intuition told her was imminent—which she knew must overtake either one or all three of them should Don Felipe and the Captain meet again that night in Chiquita's presence.

There was not a moment to lose, and seizing a light wrap which lay on a chair beside her, she flung it about her shoulders and hurriedly left the room.



XXXIV

Before leaving the patio, Bessie promised to meet Dick in the garden after the company dispersed for the night. After the Captain's departure, Dick returned to the patio and took his stand in the shadow of the nearest trees, where he awaited her.

Never had her mood appeared so distracted and evasive as that evening. She had avoided him as much as possible. He was quite at a loss to know how to take her, and wondered what would be the outcome of their interview which, he felt, might possibly be their last.

Notwithstanding this melancholy prospect, he still experienced the same spirit of buoyancy which possessed him during the day. He had caught her regarding him several times during the evening with what he thought to be a look of tenderness in her eyes, and this, perhaps, accounted in a measure for his present elation.

She, in turn, had wondered greatly at the change that had come over him. How could he possibly be so gay when everybody else was so miserable, and she thoroughly resented it.

During the interval that had elapsed after the breaking up of the company, she had participated in a stormy interview with her father and aunt; the latter endeavoring to point out to her the danger incurred by holding intercourse with obscure, low-born persons, as had just been demonstrated in the Captain's case.

She was surprised on returning to her room not to find Blanch there, but, on second thought, felt it was only natural after what had occurred that she should want to be alone, and thought she must be somewhere in the garden. She had seen Dick leave the patio and disappear in the shadow beyond, whither she directed her steps, passing out and around the front of the house, as she did not wish to incur the risk of being seen by her father or aunt.

Dick, who had tossed aside his hat on the grass and stood leaning against the trunk of a tree, was presently aroused from his meditations by the object of his thoughts, who stood close beside him.

"Well, I'm here," she said, by way of beginning, looking up into his face.

"I was looking for you in the other direction," he replied, throwing away his half-burnt cigar. "I ought to have known better. You are always doing the opposite of that which one expects."

A smile lit up her face for a moment, as she flashed her beautiful wide eyes upon him. She seemed a part of that beauteous night, elfish and delicate as a moonbeam or a flower, fragile as the song of a bird. He could not speak, but stood drinking her in with his eyes and soul, his face wearing a mixed expression of rapture and pain. She knew what he felt, and like him, she, too, struggled with herself for the mastery of her emotion.

"Do you know," she said at length, "this is the first time I have ever been guilty of a clandestine meeting with a man. If my father knew I was here, he would be beside himself."

"Then you did want to come!" he exclaimed.

"Of course. Otherwise, why should I be here?" she responded shyly, raising her eyes to his for an instant and then lowering them again.

"Bessie!" he cried, starting toward her.

"Hush!" she said, raising her hand in protest and checking him. Had he taken her in his arms then and there, she would have surrendered without a struggle, for she was in that soft, languid mood of a woman in love in spite of herself. But he dared not give way to his impulse. He loved her too much, and feared lest his impetuosity might ruin forever his chance of winning her.

"I know it was foolish of me to come, especially when there was no reason for it," she continued with assumed indifference, casting a sidelong glance at him out of the corners of her eyes. In spite of the pain she knew she inflicted, she could not resist flirting with him just a little even at such a moment. It filled her with such exquisite joy to feel anew the power she exercised over him and the unfathomable depth of his love which each fresh thrust at his heart revealed to her.

"I came here," she slowly resumed, "to ask what you think of Chiquita?"

"Think!" he burst forth savagely, aroused almost to a pitch of desperation by her irritating manner. "Do you take me for as big a fool as Don Felipe, or—" your father? he was about to add, but checked himself just in time. "When one has known Chiquita as long as I have, you don't think things about her, you know. Don Felipe," he went on, "reminds me of the naughty little boy who one day, while playing in a park, threw mud on a swan, imagining that he had besmirched the bird forever until it dived under the water and reappeared again as white as before. Why, even if I at this moment did not possess the absolute proof of her innocence, nobody could ever persuade me to believe that story. You don't know the Indian as I do, Miss Van Ashton. The high-caste Indian women are quite as incapable of such things as you are. It was a devilishly clever stroke on Don Felipe's part, I'll admit, but he has deceived himself as thoroughly as the rest of the world."

"What proof have you?" she asked with a surprised and mystified look, her woman's curiosity thoroughly aroused. Dick chuckled softly in reply.

"What are you laughing at?" she demanded, not a little nettled by his manner.

"I'm not laughing," he answered. "I'm merely trying to smother the rage you have aroused in me by dallying with me in this manner when you know perfectly well that I asked you to come here to tell you that I—"

"Stop!" she commanded authoritatively. "I wish to see that proof before anything further passes between us."

"Will you never become serious?" he asked, drawing an envelope from his pocket, the contents of which he had shown Captain Forest. "It's strange," he continued, "that this document should concern you as well as Don Felipe and Chiquita."

"What do you mean?" she asked in astonishment. Again he laughed softly by way of reply.

"It's funny you should get mixed up in their affairs!"

"I don't understand you," she interrupted, more mystified and irritated than ever. "Give me that letter, Mr. Yankton!" she demanded, holding out her hand.

"Then step out into the light, please, you lovely, tantalizing witch," he answered, drawing the papers from the envelope and handing them to her. "If I didn't love you to distraction, I wouldn't stand this sort of thing a minute longer. God!" he cried, glancing heavenward, "you'll be the death of me yet."

"Have you forgotten, Mr. Yankton?" she asked calmly, her face turning a delicate crimson.

"Then read—read!" he cried in desperation, scarcely able to control himself. She knew it could not last much longer. She slowly unfolded the large sheets of paper and began to read their contents in the moonlight.

"Aloud, please," he said.

"Why aloud?"

"Oh, just as you please!"

"Very well, if you wish it. 'Dear Dick,' she began with a slight hesitancy. 'When this reaches you I shall have passed over the border to that unknown range from whence nobody ever returns. Enclosed you will find the record of Don Felipe Ramirez's and Pepita Delaguerra's marriage which, at Don Felipe's instigation, I stole from the register in the church at Onava, giving him a copy of the same which he destroyed, believing it to be the original. I did this with the intention of extorting money from him later on. I and Joaquin Flores and his wife were the only witnesses to the marriage. But there is a sequel. Pepita gave birth to a child, a girl, after Felipe deserted her. I learned later that Chiquita and the two Flores concealed it somewhere in one of the Indian pueblos near La Jara, as they feared Don Felipe would make way with the child should he learn of its existence.'

"How strange!" exclaimed Bessie excitedly. "Why, that was Don Felipe's own child which he introduced this evening and said was Chiquita's."

"Exactly," said Dick, quietly.

"But I don't see what all this has to do with me," she added.

"Proceed, please," he answered. "That's not the only surprise his letter contains."

Glancing down at the sheets once more she resumed:

"'You will also be greatly surprised to learn that the young lady who was present on the day you saved my life and whose name I asked, is my sister.'

"The insinuation is infamous!" she cried, letting the papers fall to the ground.

"Miss Van Ashton," he interrupted, calmly stooping and picking up the papers and handing them to her again, "you forget—you are reading the confession of a dying man."

"His sister!" she continued indignantly. "It can't be possible—I never had a brother!"

"Please proceed, Miss Van Ashton," he replied. Amazed and bewildered, Bessie excitedly resumed the reading of the strange letter.

"'My sister never knew me because I left home shortly after she was born; but, notwithstanding, I recognized her the instant I set eyes on her, not only owing to the presence of my father that day, but to the remarkable resemblance she bears to my mother. She is the living image of her.'" Bessie paused, overcome with agitation.

"How very remarkable," she said, as if to herself. "Every one who knew my mother says we resemble one another very closely in manner as well as in looks. My father always keeps our photographs placed side by side on his desk at home. Except for the difference in the style of dress, it is almost impossible to tell which is which. What he says does sound true," she admitted. "Yet—"

"There can be no doubt of it," broke in Dick. Again Bessie looked down at the papers and resumed:

"'Before I breathe my last, Dick, I want to tell you that I have discovered the lead to the old Esmeralda mine; the enclosed chart will guide you to it. Tell my sister that half of it belongs to her and the other half to Pepita's child if you are able to find her. Perhaps this one and only generous act of my selfish life will atone somewhat for my many misdeeds. Good-by, Dick, and God bless you.'"

"You needn't read that!" he interrupted. But without heeding him, she continued:

"'You are the best and bravest fellow alive. Good-by, Dick, again, for the last time.

"'Harry Van Ashton, better known to the world as Bob Carlton, gambler and—'" The letter ended abruptly. A sob broke from Bessie. Two bright tears glistened like jewels in the moonlight on her long lashes and then stole silently down her cheeks.

"Don't take it so hard, Miss Van Ashton," he said. "Your brother was wild, but not so bad as the world thought him."

"My poor brother!" she murmured.

"I am sure," he resumed after a little, "that when your brother looked into your eyes that day, his manhood reasserted itself; that he repented and threw off his past life like an old garment, and from that moment, stood prepared to enter the presence of his Maker."

"You are very good to say that," she answered, looking up at him with shining eyes.

"No, it's not good of me at all," he returned. "I love you too much to say anything but what I know to be true." She did not reply, but remained lost in thought, her eyes cast on the ground.

"Bessie!" he exclaimed passionately, drawing nearer to her. "Why do you hesitate? You know that I understand you better than any one else ever could. You know you love me!" She knew her moment had come; that she must answer him for all time, and strive as she would, she could not conceal her confusion. He did not know how intense was the struggle going on within her, nor realize what it meant to her to give up the life she had known always.

"And what if I told you," she said at length, her eyes still downcast, "that I care more for you than anything else in this world, Dick?" pronouncing his name aloud for the first time. "What would you say then?"

"That I will love you for all time, Sweetheart! That I will make you the happiest woman in the world!" he cried, his arms closing about her, and kissing her full on the lips.

"When we are married," he said at last, "we'll start in search of the Esmeralda, the famous old Spanish mine that was destroyed by the earthquake, and if, as your brother said, he really found the lead again, you and Don Felipe's child will be the two richest women in Chihuahua."

"Then let it be soon, Dick!" she answered. "Oh! I know I've been perfectly horrid!" she cried, flinging her arms about his neck in a fresh outburst, and kissing him again and again. "But I'll make it up to you, Dick! I'll show you how Bessie Van Ashton can love!" There was another long silence, during which each could hear the beating of the other's heart. Then looking up with a pained, disheartened expression on her face, she said: "I'm sorry I can't come to you with a fortune, Dick. My father will cast me off, and all I now possess in this world are you and the clothes on my back."

"Why, you sweet, pathetic little beggar!" he exclaimed, sealing her lips with a kiss.

"He said he would rather see me dead at his feet than married to you," she went on. "Of course, if you were immensely wealthy, he might learn to tolerate you in time. We're all like that, you know, but as things are, we'll have to shift as best we can."

"Well, I don't lay claim to much," he said, restraining his mirth with difficulty. "There's the Esmeralda, you know, but even if that fails us, there's no cause for immediate worry. We'll find a modest little hovel somewhere that is large enough to contain our love." And then he laughed long and loud, laughed as he had never laughed before.

"What are you laughing at?" she inquired, with a dawning suspicion that he was keeping something from her.

"Oh, nothing," he answered at length. "You'll forgive me, I'm sure, when I say, that I can't help thinking what an ass your father is!" And Bessie Van Ashton stepped into a bigger life than she had ever known.



XXXV

Perhaps all was not yet lost. The Padre's words and attitude acted like a wonderful elixir upon Chiquita. They buoyed her up, lifted her soul from the dust where it had been flung and trampled upon.

The house oppressed her, and sleep being impossible, she opened the door and stepped out into the garden and wandered along the paths that led in and out among the flowers and shrubs, inhaling the delicious night air, faintly perfumed with the delicate fragrance of mignonette and heliotrope and a few last roses.

The fresh air and the beauty and quiet of the night soothed her. She felt her strength return, and a great calm took possession of her as she moved to and fro in the moonlight, now casting her eyes toward the stars, now downward at the wan, drooping heads of the flowers which swayed gently in the faint night breeze. Her face radiantly beautiful, her jewels flashing against the pale white setting of her dress and her tawny skin, she resembled more the lovely ghost of some long-departed Spanish woman that had returned to earth to revisit familiar haunts, than one still among the living.

What was he doing now? she asked herself. It was impossible that he should continue to believe in her. It was more than could be expected; no one but Padre Antonio was capable of that. Just then she heard the sound of footsteps on the walk outside the wall and a moment later, the click of the latch on the gate as it swung open. She thought it must be Padre Antonio come back again, and she turned to meet him. A faint, suppressed cry escaped her, for there, just inside the gate, stood Captain Forest.