Chapter 11

"What assurance have you," she asked, "that you will find happiness in this new life which you propose to lead?"

"The consciousness which tells me I exist, voices the fulfillment of that promise. There can be no doubt of it. The traditions that have come down to us from the past from all nations that once men were free, is no myth. The true poetry of life, I repeat, is not found in the epics men have created, but in the sources that inspired them. In the glories of the earth and the air, in the stars and mountains and forests and fields and streams, in man, in the birds and animals, in the turning of the soil with the plow and the spade, and in the growing corn. These are the things which, before all else, add to the spiritual growth of man and inspire him to pray and hope, to sing and to love, and draw him close to the invisible world because they are a part of the life of man, not imitations of life. The instant man realizes this he will be free.

"I know you cannot understand this," he continued with a shade of impatience in his voice, "for what can a lot of slaves like you, the brick and mortar type of man, know of freedom, all that is best and noble in life? You are so bound to the world of your own creating that it has become as meaningless as a fancy to you. Your souls run on the dead level; the great song of life sweeps by you unheeded, and is gone forever."

XVII

Señora Fernandez erred in her judgment of Don Felipe, which was but natural. She still regarded him as the impetuous, hot-headed youth of former days, not what he really was--the mature man, sobered by years of experience and suffering which had taught him the value of self-control.

He understood the nature, knew as never before the mettle of the woman with whom he had to deal, and on no account would he foolishly precipitate a quarrel with the Captain. He would bide his time and strike only when the moment seemed propitious. The vague rumors which were current concerning Chiquita must have some foundation, else why the continual gossip on every tongue? He would investigate the matter for himself, in his own time and way; meanwhile he would reinstate himself in the good graces of the community by making himself as agreeable and popular as possible, a thing not difficult for one of his wealth and accomplishments.

He had doffed his Mexican costume for the more prosaic attire of the modern man which became him equally well and which was more to his liking. To the cosmopolitan that he had become, the place and the people had shrunk terribly during his absence, and there seemed to be little left in common between him and them. The presence of the Americans was a godsend to him, while he in turn was like a fresh breeze from the outer world to them.

He instinctively recognized a confederate in Blanch. They possessed a common interest and spent much time together. Strange that the same fate which had overtaken him was now threatening her! Those who deny a fixed destiny and can therefore afford to ignore the laughter of the gods, may answer with some assurance that the lives of most people, especially the marked ones, are tragic--perhaps. But why had Colonel Van Ashton, the bon-vivant and habitué of clubs, the adored of pretty young women and confidant of duennas, taken the one road which led to the wilderness when it is well known that all roads lead to Rome, especially when the Colonel had about as much interest in his present surroundings as a polar bear might reasonably expect to find on the equator? Possibly it was for the same reason that the Colonel also watched with increasing alarm the sudden and growing interest which his daughter began to take in the man he detested most on earth.

Reveal the cause, the hidden well-spring of destiny, and the effect may be predicted with comparative accuracy. Can the lamb lie down with the lion? Were there ever substantial grounds for the assertion, or was it only metaphor--mere poetical allusion? The world has been on the _qui vive_ for the fulfillment of prophecy ever since the expulsion of our common ancestry from Eden. The actual motives and reasons which underlie the workings of destiny are usually about as clear as those which bereft Samson of his locks or left the lone figure of Marius seated amid the ruins of Carthage. And yet, even in the face of time-worn contradictions apparent to the most superficial and credulously minded, pretty, distracting Bessie Van Ashton had begun to cast her eyes in the direction of Dick Yankton, the handsome, open-handed, devil-may-care son of nature who regarded the world of fashion to which she belonged with about as much concern as he did the dust on his boots.

Possibly _ennui_ prompted this willful bit of womanhood to make a plaything of that picturesque child of nature, just as loneliness caused him to open his eyes to the existence of that, which in the logical and ordinary course of events, he would have entirely overlooked. But since life is made up almost entirely of contraries, it is not so much with reasons that we have to deal as with facts--things as they are. Clothe human nature in whatever garb you like, at heart it remains the same. Time and place and condition make little difference; the real man within is sure to assert himself at some time or other by throwing off the disguise.

Was Bessie, the spoilt, pampered child of fashion with her soft, white body, any more fit for a life lived close to nature than Blanch who was naturally strong, sinuous and supple, though so softened by luxury and the overrefinements of civilization? To all appearances, no. And yet, the very things which seemed to pass by Blanch unheeded, began imperceptibly to impress themselves upon Bessie. Possibly because Blanch was so strong and individualized that, having once given herself up wholly to the present life, she was enslaved irrevocably by it--held fast by it with a power that had grown with her strength day by day--so that while a weaker woman might slip through the meshes and escape, she was held irresistibly bound through her own force and strength of character.

The spell and magic of the land seemed to hold like an unseen hand all things as in the grip of a vice, and were no less potent in the present than they were in the past. The plaintive notes of the wood-dove found a response within Bessie's soul. The winds seemed laden with new voices and unconsciously interrupted the train of her thoughts and caused her to pause and listen and wonder. The wild, forbidding landscape from which her stronger companion involuntarily shrank, for some unknown reason attracted her. The broad expanse of heaven and earth, the far horizon, the hazy, mysterious silhouetted peaks of distant mountains aroused vague longings within her--emotions which she did not understand and concerning which she failed in her attempts to analyze.

Had she been at home, she would have regarded these new sensations as sentimental enthusiasm and laughed at them, denying them a permanent place in her nature. But here, it was different. They seemed to have a hold upon one and were as irresistible as those vague longings that come with the awakening of spring. There was music everywhere in the world about her. Flowers of the imagination sprang from the desert on every hand. Voices and hands called and beckoned to her from out the unseen. The quickening and awakening within her gave promise of a new life, and her feet became light as sunbeams. The fact of being alive and the increasing desire to live filled her with a new joy and vigor that darted through her soul like tongues of flame, causing her blood to surge and tingle as never before since the days of childhood.

A genuine interest in the new life and the lives of those about her, took the place of the apathy and indifference with which she regarded the sated pleasures of that jaded world from which she had departed so recently. She had come to be bored--fully resigned for Blanch's sake to endure the _ennui_ of mere vegetation until the prodigal Jack had been safely gathered within the fold once more. After the rude shock of first impressions had passed and she had found time to pause and breathe, she began to cast her eyes about her for something more real and tangible than the memories of the world she had left behind her, but had failed to find anything of interest until the occurrence of that unfortunate episode with Dick.

His arms still clung to her in spite of the persistent efforts she made to shake them off. And stranger still, no amount of scrubbing seemed to remove the sting of those burning kisses he had impressed upon her hand. That unpardonable piece of impudence was unprecedented. Men had made love to her, adored her, and completely lost their heads over her; and one man in particular, as she well knew, was scouring the ends of the earth in an effort to obtain news of her present whereabouts. Much to her astonishment, however, and contrary to her preconceived notions concerning men, she found that she had suddenly lost interest in this particular man for another.

But why? What was the cause of this newly awakened interest in Dick? Was it because he was so different from the men she had known, or was it that strong touch of the feminine in him which certain sensitive masculine natures possess; that rare, distinguishing characteristic which is so attractive to men and women alike? Did any real affinity exist between them? How could it, considering the different conditions and environment in which they had been reared and the width of the gulf that divided them? What then was the cause of this attraction which in spite of her efforts to check it, was beginning to become a source of vexation to a woman of the world who had always prided herself on being able to keep herself well in hand?

That it might be love, or even the dawning of love, she refused to admit. She shuddered at the mere thought of such a catastrophe. The thing, however, was becoming annoying. Like any thought which we hold too long in our minds, it was bound to absorb all others in time, and she resolved to make an end of it. She would play with him. One could not maintain a serious interest in that which one treated as a jest--held up to ridicule. She would play with him like an expert angler plays with a fish, and when landed, would walk over him rough-shod--trample him back into the dust of that coarser clay from which he sprang.

Ah, yes, the country was not so dull after all! It would be a royal lark; a holiday long to be remembered. They were so far from the great world that, when it was all over, not even the slightest rumor or breath of scandal would remain to remind her of the flirtation upon which she had decided to embark.

With these thoughts running through her mind, the fascinating, violet-eyed daughter of Colonel Van Ashton lightly dipped the tips of her dainty fingers into a rouge-pot, glanced into the mirror and drew them across her lips, and then deliberately attired herself in one of her smartest gowns preparatory to flinging the first bones of condescension to the rustic Yankton; the preliminaries of a series of expectations and hopes deferred that were intended to reduce him to a state of submission suitable to receive the final kick which was to leave Mr. Yankton a wiser but a sadder man.

XVIII

Blanch stood before a long mirror that adorned one of the walls of her room, trying the effect of a new tea-gown.

The mirror was an ancient piece of furniture consisting of a faded gilt frame and six separate rows of large, unevenly fitting squares of glass; the style that was in vogue two centuries ago. As she regarded herself in it, she saw herself reflected in sections, probably with much the same effect as Marie Antoinette saw her reflection at Versailles.

"Coronada must have brought this mirror with him on his first expedition," she remarked to Bessie who lounged on the sofa on the opposite side of the room amid a heap of florid cushions. "I feel as though I had a personal grudge against that man," she continued, vainly endeavoring to catch an unbroken outline of herself in the glass.

"It's stunning, Blanch!" broke in Bessie from the sofa. "What is it--a Worth?"

"No--a Doucet. Isn't it absurd that I should array myself in these gorgeous gowns to compete with that Indian in her few flimsy calicoes and silks? The contrast is out of all proportion. It's the sublime and the ridiculous. And yet she looks well in anything! Dress her in rags and she is picturesque; robe her in silks and she is fascinating."

"That's just what I can't understand," said Bessie. "We couldn't wear her clothes, but she can wear ours. Why is it?"

"It's quite simple. We have been handicapped from the start because we have been forced to compete with them on their own ground. They are perfectly natural; they have nothing and aspire to nothing, while we are wholly artificial--have everything and aspire to more."

"Why, to hear you, one would think that Jack was talking!" exclaimed Bessie in genuine surprise.

"Oh! I don't pretend to agree with his views, but as regards us, he's about right. I was never able to see ourselves as some others see us until we came here. And I have come to the conclusion that our views of life are about as distorted as the cracked reflection of myself in the mirror yonder. We have unconsciously lived a life antagonistic to nature and consequently find ourselves ridiculous in our simplest endeavors to be natural. Of course," she added, "they would appear the same if things were reversed and we had them on our ground.

"With us," she went on, "marriage is more a game of intrigue than love; here it is purely one of sentiment. Aside from my intrinsic value, what weapon have I to employ against this Indian woman? The things which count for so much with us, fall flat here.

"Why, I'm not even in a position to make Jack jealous! If I were at home, I would have a dozen men at my feet and as many more as I wished to play off against him, not to mention the thousand opportunities for neglect. In fact, all the weapons which we women are so fond of employing against men. Whereas, here I am at the feet of my Lord Jack--his indifference is insufferable! Oh! I'll pay him back for this!" she cried, pale with anger.

"Men are brutes--all of them!" remarked Bessie laconically, rising to a sitting posture on the sofa.

"I hate him--hate him!" continued Blanch in a fresh paroxysm of passion. "To think that he of all men should have been the one chosen to show me myself--the only one of us who was strong enough to break away! Why was I not able to hold him? Why am I not able to come to him now? There is something wrong somewhere. We seem to have lost our grip on things. I can't understand it!" Just then the old, gilt French clock on the white marble mantelpiece slowly chimed the hour of five. The sound of the clock caused Blanch to pause. "Five o'clock," she said, calming herself. "Don Felipe will be waiting for us in the garden."

"That's so," answered Bessie, rising from the sofa and crossing the room to the window which looked out over the _patio_ into the garden. "There he is now, pacing back and forth beneath the trees. What a restless man he is!"

"After the first cup, you might disappear, Bess," said Blanch. "I want to try to find out if he still cares for that Indian?"

"That was the most romantic thing I ever heard!" exclaimed Bessie.

"I wonder he ever returned," answered Blanch, opening the door and leading the way across the _patio_ in the direction of the garden. The tinkle of a guitar attracted their attention to a group of _peons_ and women squatted on their heels on one side of the court, in the shade of the arcades, smoking and chatting. A little beyond them, in the shadow of the doorway, stood the major-domo, Juan Ramon and the pretty housekeeper, Rosita.

"_Dios!_ but she is _magnifico_--the tall one!" whispered Juan to Rosita as the girls passed them, nodding and smiling in response to Juan's deep salutation and Rosita's courtesy.

"And the little one," said Rosita in turn. "Is she not like a half-blown pink rose?"

"Aye! 'tis a feast for the eyes to look at them!" answered Juan. "There has not been so much life in the place since the old days when the Master was alive."

"If Don Felipe doesn't marry one of them he's a fool," added Rosita.

"That's just what I have been saying to myself," returned Juan.

"What else can he be doing here if he doesn't intend to take one of them back to his _hacienda_ with him?" continued Rosita. "I've noticed that he and the tall one spend much time together."

"Aye!" ejaculated Juan. "It must be lonely at the old _rancho_ without a woman to keep him company."

"The tall Señorita would be just the one for the place!" exclaimed Rosita enthusiastically.

"Rosita _mia_," began Juan confidentially after a short silence, during which his gaze rested pensively on the retreating figures of the girls, "I've just been thinking that there is no happiness for a man, still less for a woman, in a single life. What say you, Rosita _mia_," he went on, patting her familiarly on the cheek.

"Juan Ramon," interrupted Rosita with an angry flush, "if you don't want to get your face slapped, you had better behave like a _Caballero_!"

"_Caramba!_ what a little spitfire!" returned Juan, pulling the end of his thin mustache, yet not in the least disconcerted by her show of temper. "But supposing, my pearl of a housekeeper, that I bought a neat little _rancheria_--do you know of any one who might care to look after it?"

"Bah! First pay your gambling debts, Juan Ramon. There will then be time enough to look for some one who will allow herself to be beaten on feast-days when you have drunk more _pulque_ than is good for you. But _Dios!_ why am I wasting words with you? The Señoritas will begin to wonder what has become of their chocolate and _tortillas_ if I don't hurry."

"Ungrateful woman," responded Juan, assuming an injured tone. "Would you leave me without a kiss?"

"Holy Mother! what has come over you, Juan Ramon--has the sunshine gone to your head? A kiss, indeed!" and she tossed her head. "Go to Petronita, the cook! She is old; doubtless she will give you a plenty!" and laughing, she hurried into the dining-room in search of a tray with which to serve the ladies. The mere mention of the ancient, withered Petronita, with the parchment-like face, caused Juan's mouth to pucker as though he had bitten into an unripe persimmon.

"_Diablos!_ if the luck would only change!" he muttered. "Rosita would be the very one--" The sound of light footsteps and the tinkle of spurs caused Juan to turn.

"Ah! _buenas dias_, Señorita!" he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing before Chiquita, who had entered the _patio_ from the opposite side of the house. Her riding-habit, her boots and gloves and gray felt hat beneath which were twisted her thick braids of hair, were covered with thin white particles of dust.

"Where is your mistress, Doña Fernandez, Juan?" she asked.

"I will call her, Señorita," answered Juan, replacing his hat on his head and starting for the hallway.

"Never mind, Juan," called Chiquita, catching sight of Blanch and Bessie in the distance. "I will first speak with the Señoritas," and she turned toward the garden.

Juan's beady black eyes followed her tall figure as she moved toward the girls. Ever since the arrival of the Americans there had been much discussion in the household as to which was the more beautiful, Blanch or Chiquita. The Señora's dislike for the latter was well known, but in spite of this prejudice, opinion was pretty evenly divided concerning the merits of the two. It was a vexing question, and the opportunity of comparing the two women as they met in the garden was too tempting to be missed. So, with one end of his _zerape_ slung carelessly over his shoulder, Juan strolled casually past the little group of women in the direction of the corrals, where he could observe them at his leisure from the recesses of the garden without attracting attention.

Notwithstanding the fact that the dark woman was at a disadvantage in her dust-covered riding-habit, he could not for the life of him tell which was the more beautiful of the two as he passed behind a thicket of lilac bushes, and seated himself on a rustic bench and began rolling a _cigarillo_ between his long slim fingers.

Juan was a born gambler, and like all of his tribe, was usually in want of money. To-day he needed it more than ever, for that very morning his mistress had taunted him and threatened to leave him if he did not pay for the new dresses she had recently purchased, and for which she was now being dunned by her creditors. Never had he had such a run of bad luck. During the great week of the _Fiesta_ he had tried everything from roulette to monte, but fortune's wheel had turned steadily against him. It was truly the devil's own luck and no mistake. If only the luck would turn, he would quit the game of chance forever--cast off the ungrateful Dolores, and.... He drew a much-worn pack of cards from his breast pocket and began cutting them with a dexterity acquired through long years of practice.

Like all of his race, and the majority of mankind for that matter, he was intensely superstitious. Three times in succession he cut and dealt the cards, and three times the ace of hearts, the luckiest card in the pack, turned face upwards on the bench.

"_Santa Maria!_ 'tis a miracle--the luck has changed at last!" he muttered excitedly, as with dilated eyes and trembling hands he gathered up the cards and replaced them carefully in his pocket. His dream of the _hacienda_ and the fair Rosita might yet come true. But how? The cards were too fickle to trust for long. Just then the rich, deep voice of Chiquita fell upon his ears. Without knowing why, yet intuitively he seemed to connect her with the turn in his fortune--and it set him thinking.

Ever since the _Fiesta_, curiosity had prompted him to learn something concerning Chiquita's motive for dancing; and whenever the opportunity presented itself, he had shadowed her. His patience was soon rewarded by learning that she made frequent visits to the Indian _pueblo_, Onava, often riding there in the late evening under cover of the dusk. On one occasion he saw an Indian ride forth from the village and meet her on the plain where she awaited him. They engaged in long and earnest conversation, at the end of which he fancied he saw Chiquita draw nearer to her companion and hand him something, and then the darkness shut them from view. He did not dare follow her farther or enter the village, for fear of attracting suspicion to himself; but surely this was a clew to something, to the mystery, perhaps.

At this juncture, Juan rolled a fresh _cigarillo_ as he listened to the voices of the women, his eyes resting on Captain Forest's horse in the corral beyond the garden. The animal fascinated him; never had he laid eyes on such a superb creature. Each day he visited the corral for a look at him, and each time the Chestnut would rush at him with ears laid flat on his neck and mouth wide open, displaying his formidable teeth.

"_Caramba!_ what an animal to stock a _rancho_ with, if only--" Juan sighed, and for some moments roundly cursed the past run of cards. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and the shade sleep inviting. He threw the burnt end of his _cigarillo_ on the ground, and, drawing up his feet, stretched himself at full length on the bench--the upper half of his fox-like face appearing just above the edge of his _zerape_.

_Dios!_ was it not better to sleep and even dream bad dreams, than waking, meditate upon the misfortunes of life?

XIX