CHAPTER XLVII.

THE PEN WINS.

Upon his return to the ball-room Ashley is taken to task by General Murillo. “I have been searching for you for over half an hour,” the general assures him. “Come over here while I introduce you to the prettiest girl in Cuba.”

“Confound his kindness,” grumbles Jack, mentally, who has no time to squander in talking nonsense with dark-eyed senoritas. There is work to be done. But he follows Murillo over the floor and is amused to find himself being introduced to Juanita de Quesada, who is the center of attraction of a group of young Santiago swells.

“Oh, Senor Ashley and I are old friends,” cries Juanita, smiling at General Murillo.

“Are you, indeed?” remarks the general, favoring the American with a keen glance. “Well, I will leave you together with my blessing,” and the warrior takes himself off.

“I have much to tell you to-night, senorita, but at another moment,” Ashley says, as he makes his excuses for terminating a conversation that has hardly begun. “I have work to do, and it means much to you,” he explains to the pouting young lady, and leaving her somewhat mystified and not at all pleased, he goes off to hunt up Isabel Harding.

He finds the latter alone. For excellent reasons Count Gonzaga is holding himself aloof. Captain Alvarez is not in sight.

“Don’t you find the atmosphere of the room close?” he inquires, as he reaches Isabel’s side.

“Not at all. I am entirely cool,” she responds.

“But it is ever so much pleasanter in the garden,” persists Ashley, as he twists his mustache and meets her curious glance with a smile that is amiability itself. Without another word she rises and accepts his extended arm.

“How delightful it is out here under the stars,” rattles on Jack, as they emerge into the garden. “These glorious nights almost repay one for the sweltering days. Ah, here is an ideal summer house. You will find it as cozy as a society darling’s boudoir. Won’t you take a seat?”

Mrs. Harding laughs, a trifle ironically, as she sinks upon the wooden bench that runs around the interior.

“Now, Mr. Ashley,” she remarks, “will you be good enough to inform me what you have brought me out here to tell me?”

“With pleasure, madam,” responds Ashley, dropping back into his old deliberate self.

“If you will let your thoughts stray back about six weeks, Mrs. Harding, you will perhaps remember that on a certain evening I had the pleasure of relating to you a fairy tale, to assist you in dissipating the monotony of an attendance upon the French ball. The fairy tale lacked the closing and most interesting chapter, you will recall, and I requested that you supply it. ‘Not to-night,’ you protested, but you kindly promised me an interview upon the following forenoon.

“That promise, I regret to say, you broke with as little ceremony as one would—”

“I presume,” interrupts Mrs. Harding, “that it will be unnecessary for me to assign my reason for failing to keep my promise.”

“Quite. It would not mend matters. Now, suppose, as the novelists say, we take up the thread of our narrative, which was broken when I left your box at the garden.”

“Suppose we do? What do you desire of me?”

“I wish to possess myself of certain information in your keeping.”

“Relative to that Vermont affair?”

“Precisely.”

“I can tell you nothing.”

“Excuse me. Perhaps you mean you will tell me nothing.”

“As you please, sir.”

“I think you will,” Jack says, calmly. “Will you pardon a cigar, Mrs. Harding? Perhaps the smoke will keep these inquisitive mosquitoes at a distance.”

Isabel laughs unpleasantly. “Do I understand you to intimate that you will resort to force?” she inquires, sarcastically.

“Assuredly; although I don’t fancy the word ‘force.’ ‘Induce’ is the better term.”

“A truce to your euphemism, Mr. Ashley. I am curious to learn what possible lever you can possess.”

“I shall not delay the information. I have in mind a lever whose potency you can readily appreciate. I refer to the Count de Gonzaga.”

“Good heavens! What do you mean?” In awed, whispered tones.

“I think you grasp my meaning,” Jack returns, coolly. “Or will it be necessary for me to relate another fairy tale, concerning a beautiful woman who posed successfully for a time as the widow of an enormously wealthy American ship-owner?”

“You would not dare—”

“I would dare do several things, if the occasion for unusual trepidity seemed to arise. Besides, the vaunted brotherhood of man—”

“The vaunted brotherhood of man would lead you to betray a defenseless woman—one who never did you aught of harm, would it?” pants Isabel.

“My dear Mrs. Harding, consider how easily you may avert such an unfortunate denouement. I don’t care a rap about Count Gonzaga. Conceding your natural charms, which are legion, the count’s affections are undoubtedly centered in your supposed fortune. That is usually the principal item in the matrimonial calculations of European nobility that seeks alliance with American beauty. As a matter of fact, I should rather enjoy seeing Gonzaga thrown down, if you will excuse the slang. Come. A bargain is a bargain!”

There is a silence. Isabel is presumably weighing the situation carefully, and she disappoints Ashley by rising and remarking: “I think I will return to the ball-room, Mr. Ashley, if you will kindly escort me.”

“One moment,” detains Jack. Isabel resumes her seat. “Have you carefully considered the probable result of your silence?”

“Perfectly.”

“You must have some powerful reason for sealing your lips on that Raymond affair,” comments Jack; and then he growls under his breath: “Why in thunder don’t they come?”

“We may as well terminate this interview. Do your worst, Mr. Ashley.”

“That is rather theatric, Mrs. Harding,” banters Jack. “Clever woman, this,” he thinks. “She knows I would not be such a beastly cad as to tell her story to Gonzaga. Ah!”

Footsteps are heard approaching. They stop just without the summer house.

“Stay!” Ashley whispers in Isabel’s ear. “The count is here.”

She starts to ask, “how do you know it is he?” but remains mute. An instant later the new arrival is joined by another.

“Captain Alvarez!” breathes Jack, gripping Isabel’s arm. “Not a word!”

Isabel sinks into a seat. Ashley can feel her tremble. He tosses away his cigar and remains standing. The silence that broods over the garden nook is broken by Captain Alvarez, who is so near the listeners that they could reach out and almost touch him.

“While I can find no objection, Count Gonzaga, to satisfying your unfortunate demand, I would advise that you drop this matter where it is. No good can come of wittingly injuring your amour propre. Believe me—”

“Captain Alvarez,” interrupts the count, frigidly, “you made a distinct accusation against the character of the lady whom I have honored with an offer of my hand. I demand that you retract your statement and apologize for its utterance, or prove its truth.”

“I am willing to recall my hasty words, count.”

“Then you lied?”

There is a short but eloquent silence. “Very well,” says Alvarez. “I perceive that you are determined to be wholly undeceived as to the imposition which has been put upon you. Know then that the wealthy American widow, Isabel Harding, is neither wealthy nor a widow.”

“Not a widow?” repeats Count Gonzaga. “Caramba! What, then, is she?”

“What you will,” replies Alvarez, indifferently. “What usually is an adventuress?”

“But the proof? Dios! The proof?” demands the count. Perchance Alvarez is lying to him.

A low, unpleasant laugh from the latter. “I had the honor of being at one time the very good friend of madam,” he says.

“Scoundrel!” grits Ashley in Mrs. Harding’s ear. The critical moment is at hand. “Victory!” murmurs Jack, as Mrs. Harding, who has risen and is twisting her lace handkerchief into shreds, gasps once or twice as Alvarez finishes his brutal story, and then faints in Ashley’s arms.

“El Diablo!” the latter hears the count ejaculate, and with the mortification in his voice is mingled much of mental relief.

“Rather indelicate, but when a life is at stake delicacy must go by the board,” mutters Ashley.

“Ah, the precious papers! Now, my lady, we will part company.”

The fanfare of trumpets in the ball-room announces that the captain-general has at last arrived to grace the festivities with his presence.

“Have you quite recovered?” Ashley asks Isabel, with as much solicitude in his voice as he can command.

“Yes, thank you. You see I am yet a woman,” she says bitterly. And she adds in tones of intense hatred: “The cur! The coward! But come, let us return to the ball—”

They have reached the entrance of the ball-room. Mrs. Harding stops and favors Ashley with the kindest look she has ever bestowed upon him.

“Mr. Ashley, you are no friend of mine. In fact, you are the only man I have ever feared. But I know you would not have been the coward that Capt. Alvarez has proved.”

Ashley’s response is an enigmatic smile. He remarks, lightly: “I have the honor of wishing you a very good-evening, Mrs. Harding.”

He watches her disappear in the crowd and sees her a few moments later in the long line that is passing the “reviewing stand.” As she pauses an instant before the captain-general Ashley notes the latter incline his head slightly. Some words are spoken and Mrs. Harding continues on.

A triumphant smile flits over Ashley’s face; he thinks exultingly:

“The pen wins this time! Now for Juanita!”