CHAPTER XXIII.

A REPRISAL OF TREACHERY.

“Don’t be absurd, Don Manada.”

“Absurd? Dios! I was never more thoroughly in earnest in my life.”

“Nevertheless, you are absurd,” Isabel Harding smiles tantalizingly over her champagne glass at the flushed face and glistening eyes of her companion.

This conversation occurs shortly after midnight at an out-of-the-way table in the arcade at the east end of the Garden.

For all it began so decorously, this year’s ball is a particularly riotous affair and already the fantastic orgee is well under way. Masks have been scattered to the patchouli-laden winds. Yet there are a few discreet folks who, though they mingle with the mad crowd, have retained their masks. As Don Manada and his companion are comparatively removed from observation, they have laid aside their dominos for the moment and are conversing in earnest whispers.

Isabel Harding is so radiantly, magnificently, dangerously beautiful that it is a terrific strain for the gentleman at her side to maintain the least semblance of composure.

“In what does my absurdity consist?” he demands in a passionate whisper.

“Can you ask? You tell me that you love me—which I already know—and urge a suit which I have twice before told you is hopeless. You profess to believe that I could learn in time to honestly return your undoubtedly sincere affection. It is impossible. I will be honest with you. I am not one to whom love comes slowly. I love only one man, and he—don’t look so murderous, Don Manada—he cares nothing for me,” she finishes, bitterly.

“Come, a truce to lovemaking!” rallies Isabel. “Don’t look so fiercely downcast, Don Manada. Fill up the glasses and we will drink a melancholy toast to unrequited love. We are alike unsuccessful lovers. But we will continue to be good friends.”

“Impossible,” replies Don Manada, as he gloomily pours out the wine. “I go to Cuba to-morrow.”

“Indeed? I trust that I am not responsible for the loss of your society to your New York friends.”

“No, senora. I go because duty calls me, but I had expected to wear a lighter heart than that which will accompany me.”

Don Manada is too much occupied with his despair to note the peculiar look which Isabel darts at him from between her half-dropped eyelids.

“Cuba?” she repeats, dreamily. “Ah, I should like to visit that country some day.”

Don Manada looks up with swift hope. “You would, senora? Then you shall!” he cries. “We will leave to-morrow on my vessel. I will be your slave. You have but to speak and every wish will be gratified. You will do me this favor,” he urges, and then, with the fervor and descriptive powers of a Claude Melnotte, he proceeds to paint a fascinating picture with a tropical background, his enthusiasm fired by ravishing glances from his companion.

“Quite an escapade you have outlined,” smiled Isabel. “But it is too prosy. If the voyage promised a dash of adventure, if it were spiced with an element of danger, I—” she pauses and lifts the wineglass slowly to her lips.

“Danger?” echoes Don Manada, with a curious smile. “Dios! The voyage might not be without all the adventure your heart could desire, senora.” He takes from his pocket a newspaper clipping and hands it to Isabel, after a glance about him to make certain that they are unobserved. The clipping is from the current edition of the Hemisphere. It is a dispatch from Key West, and a portion of it reads as follows:

“This city has been in a fever of excitement all day over the report that an important filibustering expedition is to leave New York this week to aid the Cuban insurgents. The report is backed by excellent authority, and there is no doubt that an effort will be made to send valuable assistance to the patriots of the Antilles some time during the week. In some way the United States authorities and the Spanish government have got wind of the proposed expedition and they are striving to nip it in the bud. The Spanish warship Infanta Isabel this morning steamed from this harbor for the purpose, one of her officers said, of intercepting the filibusters on the high seas.

“It is also stated that a prominent and gallant member of the Cuban revolutionary society will head the expedition, but his identity has not been disclosed.”

Mrs. Harding glances through the clipping and hands it back with a quizzical smile.

“So you are the prominent and gallant member of the Cuban revolutionary society referred to?” she infers.

“Not so loud!” cautions Don Manada. “We may be overheard. What think you of the voyage now, senora?”

“I fear it is a bit too dangerous,” replies Isabel, with a yawn. “We should never reach Cuba.”

“Trust me,” assents Don Manada, complacently. “Once on the high seas, the Isabel will lead the Spanish warships a pretty chase.”

“Ah, the name of your schooner is the Isabel?”

“Of our yacht—yes. Is it not happily named?”

“Perhaps so,” answers Mrs. Harding, with an enigmatic expression in her lustrous eyes. “And where should I find your yacht in case I should at the last moment decide to accept your offer of a merry voyage to the tropics?”

“My yacht? I should conduct you to it,” says Don Manada in some surprise.

“Oh, no; that would not do,” objects Isabel. “I should be driven to it veiled just preceding its departure.”

Don Manada looks around the arcade, but there is no one within twenty feet of their table.

“North river, foot of 23d street,” he whispers. “You will go?” as Isabel appears to be hesitating mid conflicting emotions.

“You will promise not to make love to me during the entire voyage?”

“I will promise anything, senora, though you have imposed an unhappy obligation.”

“Then I think I will say—yes.”

“Bueno!” cries the delighted Don Manada, and, seizing Isabel’s hand, he covers it with passionate kisses.

“Oh, by the way, what time do you sail?”

“At 5 o’clock.”

“Very well. I will send final word to your hotel in the morning. Now, leave me to dream over my folly,” says Mrs. Harding, disengaging the hand which Don Manada still tenderly holds.

Then, as the latter goes off to the wine-room to submerge his happiness in champagne, Isabel leans back in her chair and laughs softly. “The fool,” she sneers. “Well, all men are fools—all but one.”

“And that one?” inquires a voice behind her. She looks up startled, to meet the calm gaze of a man of perhaps 50, with dark hair and mustache slightly tinged with gray and the distinct air of a soldier.

“Ah, who but yourself?” returns Isabel composedly. “Sit down, Gen. Murillo. I have much to tell you.”

The intelligence is plainly of a pleasing nature. Gen. Murillo murmurs “Bueno!” more than once as he listens, and when she finishes he remarks approvingly: “You have done well and may count on my gratitude.”

“Gracias,” responds Isabel. “That is about the extent of my Spanish, General.”

“Ah, but you will learn readily. It is simple. Hist! a gentleman approaches. It were well if we be seen little together to-night. Until the morrow then, adios.”

Gen. Murillo moves off toward the swirl of dancers and Isabel surveys with an air of recognition a gentleman in the costume of Don Caesar de Bazan, who has descended to the arcade by the north stairway and is coming slowly toward her. Don Caesar looks curiously after the departing form of the Spaniard; then, dropping into a chair beside Isabel, he tosses off his mask and asks carelessly: “Well, my dear Isabel, when do you leave for Cuba?”

“For Cuba?” repeats Mrs. Harding in simulated surprise.

“Exactly. After a glance at the gentleman who just left you I do not need to be enlightened as to the diplomatic duties to which you alluded last night.”

“Well, Phillip, I have few secrets that you do not share,” Isabel says sweetly; “I leave for Cuba to-morrow.”

“So soon,” he murmurs courteously.

“The sooner the better. Every day I am near you makes eventual separation the harder. I know that you care nothing for me,” she goes on, her cheeks flushed crimson. “Don’t interrupt me,” as Van Zandt seeks to interpose a protest. “I know that you care nothing for me, not in the way I would have you feel. I have your friendship, yes, beyond that I am nothing to you. And I—I love you, Phillip—love you as I never expected to love a man. I make the avowal without shame, for I know there is no possibility of a change in your sentiments toward me. And I am going away—to-morrow,” half sobs the woman, as she covers her face with her hands.

Van Zandt lays his hand upon Isabel’s head and smooths the dark tresses sympathetically. She pushes the hand away.

“Courage! Tears ill become a diplomat,” declares Van Zandt. “This is a dreary world. We seldom attain our heart’s desire, even though the object we seek be a lowly one. Will you have some wine?” Isabel shakes her head. She has dried her eyes and has relapsed into an apathetic melancholy.

Van Zandt signals to a waiter. “A little wine will help lighten our hearts,” he tells Mrs. Harding; “for believe me, mine is not less heavy than yours. Cheer up and we will drink a toast to all unrequited love.”

Isabel gives him a swift look of surprise. “You heard?” she demands.

“I heard nothing,” he replies, smilingly. “What has given rise to your question?”

“’Tis less than an hour since I offered that very toast. I have had a proposal to-night.”

“Indeed? And you rejected it?”

“Can you ask such a question. The world is full of Don Manadas, but there is only one—”

“So? The swarthy gentleman, with the curious white mustachios?” interrupts Van Zandt. “I noticed you talking with him.”

“I had rejected him twice before, but his persistence is worthy of a better cause. To-night I promised to accompany him on a filibustering expedition to Cuba. Think of it! The fool!” sneers Isabel.

“And you will not go.”

“Most certainly not. I only half-promised. To-morrow I shall send word that I have changed my mind.”

“And meanwhile you have accomplished something toward your new duties, eh?” remarks Van Zandt. If Isabel Harding could read the dark, handsome face that she loves so well, she would know that she has lost forever the esteem of Phillip Van Zandt.

“You have betrayed the man who trusted you,” continues Van Zandt in the same quiet and impassive voice.

“Betrayed him? And what if I did?” flashes Isabel passionately. “Call it treachery if you will. I say it is only a reprisal of treachery. Take me out of here, Phillip. I am sick of these lights and the music and the scent of the flowers.”

“I will see you to a carriage,” says Van Zandt, quietly.

Ten minutes later he says good-by to her, as he prepares to close the carriage door.

“Some day, Phillip, you will realize how much I love you,” Isabel whispers, as she presses to her lips the hand he mechanically gives her.

Words, words, words; but destined to have a tragic fulfillment!

Van Zandt looks after the retreating carriage with a darkening brow. “Call it treachery if you will,” he repeats, grimly. “By George! I’ll spike her ladyship’s guns! The cause of liberty shall not be jeopardized by the indiscretion of its friends or the machinations of its enemies!”

As he turns and re-enters the garden a man steps to a waiting cab, and, indicating the carriage which is bearing off Isabel Harding, he whispers to his driver: “Keep that rig in view till it stops. Understand?”