Chapter 15

He did not entirely reveal his plans to Blanch, knowing that the woman in her and her consideration for the Captain would cause her to shrink from inflicting so cruel a revenge even upon a rival. He was far too clever for that. So, without going into details concerning his plans, he led her to believe that, at a prearranged signal from her, he would confront Chiquita personally and compel her to acknowledge the truth before himself and the Captain. Her nature revolted at that which Don Felipe told her, cried out for justice, for the exposure of the impostor; nevertheless, she disliked a scene, and for the Captain's sake, made Don Felipe promise to do nothing unless she gave the signal.

One week hence and their scores would be even. The thought thrilled him as he paced the length of his room, his hands clasping and unclasping nervously behind his back; his mind actively engaged in rehearsing the events of the last few days which led to the discovery, and the details of the plan he had formulated, the carrying out of which was to be deferred until that eventful evening when the principal families of the town and neighborhood, her friends and acquaintances, would be gathered together to witness her shame--the same as they had witnessed his. Her disgrace would be far worse than his had been. She would be an outcast; for let a man transgress and the world may forgive him, but let a woman fall and she is damned forever so far as the world is concerned. He would make no mistake this time. He carefully weighed every detail of his plan, considered every eventuality that might arise. Subtle and resourceful though he knew her to be, there would be no loophole of escape for her.

It was almost too good to be true. He was beside himself. He talked and laughed aloud repeatedly when alone, scarcely able to retain himself, so rapturously sweet was the thought of her humiliation. Suddenly a new thought flashed through his mind. He had sworn that he would kill Captain Forest--lay him dead at her feet; but that, thanks to circumstances, would not now be necessary. The thought of killing a man in cold blood was not pleasant even to one of Don Felipe's temperament in his present state of mind. But should circumstances compel him to do so to complete his revenge, he would stop at nothing, let the consequences be what they might.

That he had received his just deserts for his betrayal of a woman, did not enter his thoughts. Had he not atoned for that misdeed through years of suffering? Had ever mortal been humiliated as he had been? That fact alone decided him. The memory of his transgression had been effaced long since by his intense longing for revenge. Nothing short of revenge could satisfy him now.

A grim smile lit up his countenance as he pondered upon what he knew. And yet, he reflected, who could tell? Infatuation might blind the Captain to the truth. It was best to be prepared for all emergencies. Stepping to his dresser, he opened the top drawer from which he took a knife which lay concealed beneath the numerous articles it contained. Drawing the blade from its leathern sheath, he ran his thumb lightly over its double edge to assure himself that it had lost none of its keenness. He always carried a pistol, but considering the circumstances a knife would be better. It would make no noise, create less disturbance. It would be so easy, in some secluded part of the garden, to thrust it home and get away quietly before the deed was discovered. One quick thrust, a stifled cry, that would be all. As a youth he could have placed that blade at ten paces in the center of a mark no larger than a silver dollar at every cast. But he had no thought of employing such a method now even if he were able to. Striking the Captain would be like sinking the blade in Chiquita's heart; for did he not hate the Captain, because she loved him, almost as much as he hated her? No, he would not forego that exquisite sense of pleasure and satisfaction, born of jealousy and his insatiable thirst for revenge.

For some time he toyed absently with the knife. Then, from sheer exuberance of spirits, he began tossing it aloft; watching with sparkling eyes the glittering blade as it turned over and over in the air and catching it deftly by the hilt in his right hand as it descended. His hand and wrist were firm and supple as of old; they had lost none of their vigor during the long years he had wandered aimlessly about the world. Again that cold smile, cruel and cutting as the edge of his knife, lit up his face as he at length sheathed the blade in its leathern case and returned it to its resting place in the drawer of his dresser.

XXVI

Conviction is one thing, decision another. Any one who has been taught from earliest childhood to regard black as white could hardly be expected to distinguish in a moment the virtue of the latter.

Daily Bessie resolved to follow the promptings of her heart; usually at the close of the day when the cool of the evening set in, when the stars again took up their procession across the heavens and she walked and chatted with Dick in the garden. But when morning dawned and she thought of her father's awful prognostications and the dire consequences which must inevitably ensue should she take the step, her ardor cooled and she as often changed her mind. Her father spent hours arguing with her, trying to impress her with the importance of the duty she owed society which consisted in obeying to the letter the behests of the set in which she had always moved.

Greatly to the Colonel's astonishment and disgust, his daughter seemed strangely lacking in this particular moral quality. How had her insight become so obtuse? He could not understand it, especially as he had taken particular pains while bringing her up to steel her heart against the insidious longings of maudlin sentiment and to teach her to despise everything outside of her particular world. He and his wife had not regarded love the chief essential to marriage, so why should his daughter? That she, under the circumstances, should hesitate between happiness and a life of regret, was a thing unique, almost incomprehensible to him. That she should question his authority, his right to choose for her, and his superior knowledge of the world, was still more surprising. Her disaffection was strongly suggestive of disrespect, a lack of faith in his infallibility in which he, the Colonel, firmly believed, if nobody else did.

The thought that the efforts of years might come to naught was bitter as wormwood to him. It was bad enough that his nephew should besmirch the family escutcheon, but that his daughter should deliberately contract a mesalliance in the face of his objections, was too much. It was the last straw. The country was going to the dogs. He argued, pleaded, stormed and swore and beat his head against the wall of indifference and obstinacy which his daughter reared between them with the unremitting fury of a wasp that finds itself on the wrong side of a windowpane. This new turn in affairs rendered Mrs. Forest so furious that she snapped right and left regardless of persons like a dog possessed of the rabies, rendering herself the most disagreeable person in the house.

The alarming rapidity with which event succeeded event, whirling them onward to some unseen end, was more than sufficient to convince them all that life was fast becoming a very uncertain quantity. No one knew what the morrow might bring forth; and all, with the exception of the Captain, were wrought up to a pitch of nervous tension that threatened the breaking point. Don Felipe shadowed Chiquita and the Captain--Chiquita and Blanch regarded one another with increasing suspicion--Dick pressed his suit with the ardor of desperation; while the Colonel and Mrs. Forest nagged on all sides. Even Señora wore an anxious, worried look. It was evident to all that things, as they were, could not continue much longer. Only the Captain seemed capable of keeping his head above water; for him the future held no terrors. The more complicated matters became, the more serene he grew; for had he not vowed that he would see things through to the end? They would all have an opportunity of judging who it would be that would laugh last.

The _fandango_ would relieve the tension. Blanch's inspiration was truly a stroke of genius, for anything was better than a continuance of the present state of affairs. Ever since Dick's declaration of love, Bessie had fought and struggled against the tide of events which was overwhelming her by making herself as disagreeable as possible in his eyes. But what could she do to thwart the machinations of a man who laughed at her moods, who encouraged her with each fresh outburst?

Scarcely an hour elapsed after parting from him, than a note was slipped into her hand by some one of the many Mexican attendants, telling her how he adored her moods. That a frown from her was sweeter than the perpetual smile of another woman; that he loved a woman of spirit; that she would find him on the morrow in the dust at her feet as usual; that the sensation he experienced while being trampled upon could only be likened unto that of being borne aloft on wings, etc. She grew hot and cold by turns as she read these missives, and sulked and softened and flew into fits of passion, and tore them into bits, thoroughly disgusted with her weakness and her inability to remedy matters, and invariably ended by wishing to see him again. Clearly, her only hope of delivery lay in the alternatives of instant flight, or of ridding herself of his importunities by marrying him; either of which she found equally difficult and impossible to execute. She did not know that Dick was putting on a bold front; that his attitude was assumed; that, like her, he was at his wits' end; that, if she suffered, he suffered tenfold. Her annoyance was insignificant in comparison to the cyclonic outbursts that swept over him.

Ah, yes, Anita, Concho's wife, had predicted events with fair accuracy. When he sought to take her, she was not there, but somewhere else--everywhere. Just like a kitten that frisks among the leaves in autumn when they are whirled about by the wind; now here, now there, now up a tree. Though each had taken the measure of the other with fair accuracy, each had misjudged the other's strength; and it was becoming problematical just how much longer he would be able to hold out. Nothing had ever daunted him. All his life long he had never failed to accomplish the things of real importance. No undertaking had ever proved too great. Colonel Yankton, his foster-father, had taught him the value of perseverance, and he had learned his lesson well. He instinctively felt that the great crisis of his life was at hand; that all his efforts, his successes in life must count for naught so far as he personally was concerned, should he fail to win her. He knew that his fate hung in the balance, that the morrow would practically decide whether the one thing his life lacked would be added unto it, or that he would go on to the end alone.

He had gone for a stroll in the town after the customary gathering in the _patio_ in the evening. The others had long since retired for the night when he returned to the _Posada_. Feeling no inclination to sleep, he seated himself on the veranda in front of the house, and lighting a fresh cigar, smoked and mused; his gaze fixed on the tall moonlit hedge which separated the _Posada_ from the highroad; his thoughts reverting to the days of his boyhood. Again he saw the Colonel, tall and erect, the personification of manhood, indomitable will and courage, seated upon his horse at the head of his regiment, and heard the ringing, clarion notes of the bugle--the signal for the charge. Yes, he would make one more supreme effort, and if that failed, well.... His cigar had burned low. He tossed it over the veranda rail and rose with the intention of retiring, when his attention was arrested by the faint sound of a horse's hoofs on the highroad in the distance. Something seemed to tell him to wait, and acting on the impulse, he paused and listened. The sounds drew nearer, increasing in volume as the animal approached, until a horseman finally turned in from the road at an easy canter and drew rein before the _Posada_. Both man and horse were covered with dust which shone white as snow in the moonlight; a proof that they had traveled far during the day.

"_Buenas noches_, Señor," said the rider, a Mexican, swinging himself from the saddle and ascending the steps to where Dick stood.

"Good evening," replied the latter in Spanish, eyeing the man curiously.

"I wish," continued the stranger, "to speak with one Señor Yankton who, I was told, lives in Santa Fé. Perhaps, Señor, you can tell me where I may find him?"

"I am Señor Yankton. What do you want?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the man, stepping back a pace and regarding Dick critically. "Your appearance answers the description well, Señor, but that is not enough--I must have proof." Just then a _vaquero_ on night duty who had been lounging in the deep shadow at the far end of the veranda came forward on hearing the sounds of voices.

"Diego," said Dick, addressing the latter, "tell this gentleman whether I be Señor Yankton or not. He says he wishes to see him."

"Of a truth, Señor, here is the man you seek," answered Diego, addressing the stranger.

"_Bueno_--good!" ejaculated the Mexican, pulling a sealed packet from the inner pocket of his jacket. "I come from the Rio Plata, six days' journey toward the west. I have been commissioned to deliver this to you, Señor," and he handed the packet to Dick who, taking it, gave instructions to Diego that the man and his horse be properly housed for the night. Then, with an "_hasta la vista_," and "God be with you until the morrow, Señor," he retired to his room. There, by the dim light of a candle, he carefully scrutinized the address on the packet, but did not recognize the writing. Nevertheless, he instinctively felt as he turned it over in his hands before breaking the seal, that, in some manner or other, it was intimately concerned with his fate.

XXVII

The preparations for the _fandango_ were complete. The men and women of the household, under Juan Ramon's supervision, had worked hard since sunrise, stringing gayly colored lanterns and arranging tables and chairs, palms and potted flowers and shrubs in the _patio_. It was close on to five o'clock and they now rested in the _patio_ in the shade of its arcades, smoking cigarettes and sipping black coffee, and chatting and laughing as they viewed with satisfaction the results of their handiwork. The day gave promise of a perfect night. It was to be a typical Spanish _fiesta_, and in order that the illusion might be complete, both the Whites and the Indians were to appear in their national costumes. All the leading Spanish families of the town and the neighborhood would be present. Not an invitation had been refused.

Captain Forest had agreed to take tea with Blanch in the garden, and, true to his word, he appeared punctually, almost on the minute. The pretty Rosita, the only one of the household excepting Señora Fernandez and Juan Ramon who understood and spoke English after a fashion, withdrew reluctantly after depositing her tray containing tea and _tortillas_ upon the table. She adored the beautiful _Americana_, and had been doing a great deal of thinking of late. The reason for her coming might not be Don Felipe at all, but Captain Forest, the grand Señor. Who could say? The ways of the Americano, the _gringo_, were so different from theirs. Everything they did was exactly opposite to their way of thinking and doing things. No well-bred, unmarried Spanish woman would dare take tea alone with a man unless they were engaged.

The signs of autumn were visible on every hand. The long, languid, summer travail had ceased and the season of dreams begun. Though the sky was a clear steel-blue overhead, the horizon was veiled in a thin blue haze into which the landscape and distant objects seemed to fade and lose themselves. Filmy threads of gossamer floated through the air, suffused with a soft golden glow. Most of the birds had ceased to sing and the drone of insects became less persistent, as if fearful to disturb the hush and calm that pervaded the land.

Captain Forest noticed, as he seated himself at the table opposite Blanch, that the golden glow in her hair was almost a perfect match to the shafts of sunlight which sifted down upon her through the branches of the trees overhead. And he wondered at his resisting powers--why the spell of her fascination no longer held him as of old, not realizing that his love for her had waned in the same proportion that he had grown beyond her. The air of restraint which existed between them would have been apparent even to a stranger, but Blanch had decided to dissipate this feeling if possible. She laughed and chatted as though entirely at her ease, as though nothing had ever come between them; making sarcastic remarks on the customs of the country; calling into requisition all the blandishments and fascinations which a woman of her intelligence and attraction was capable of exercising upon a man. Every word, every look and gesture fell upon him like a caress. She flattered, cajoled and contradicted him, employing that subtle, deceptive art of refined coquetry to which a sensitive nature like the Captain's was most susceptible. Nor were its effects lost upon him; they were soon both at their ease. She was the old Blanch again; the girl and companion of his youth--the woman of yesterday.

The struggle that was being fought out inch by inch between her and Chiquita was drawing swiftly to its close, and must end as abruptly as it began. She had only begun to realize what the full significance of love meant in the hour that she felt the loneliness occasioned by the lack of it. She had miscalculated. She thought she was stronger than Captain Forest, but could she have cared for him had he been a weaker man? It was his strength which she both loved and hated, and deep down in her heart she knew full well that, were he weaker than herself, she must have ended by despising him. She, like Chiquita, was fighting for her life, her very existence so to speak; but of course he did not divine the full significance of the struggle--what it meant to them both; no man could.

"Does the charm of this land still continue to hold you, Jack?" she asked carelessly, passing him a cup of tea.

"More than ever," he answered, lighting a cigarette and wondering what she was leading up to.

"Don't you think you have had about enough of it?" she continued, with just a shade of sarcasm in her voice. "You have had a royal vacation and I'm glad you have enjoyed yourself so thoroughly, but, honestly, don't you think it's about time you were returning to your work again, to the world to which you belong, of which you are a part and from which, in spite of all effort and argument, you cannot possibly separate yourself? You know, I never could take your idea seriously, Jack," she added, with increasing confidence, addressing him as one would a naughty child. He only smiled by way of reply, and quietly blew a ring of smoke into the air.

"I see you are as obstinate and determined as ever," she continued rather petulantly. "Don't be overconfident though; you might fail, you know, and failure is always discouraging--it involves such a waste of time."

"If I do, it will be the first time I have failed." He was about to continue, but checked himself. They were getting on dangerous ground. She understood his inference and colored and smiled. For some time neither spoke. A gold leaf, one of the first heralds of autumn, dropped silently down from the bough overhead to the center of the table. He took another sip of tea.

"Jack," she said at length, raising her eyes from her hands in her lap where she toyed with her fan, "supposing a position were offered you, one quite worth your while, would you return? Not immediately, but later on, when you have grown a little tired of playing at the game of life? In six months, say--or even a year if you like?" Her whole attitude and expression had changed, and a look of pleading and expectancy shone from her eyes. Again he smiled. What was she driving at? he asked himself.

"I'm afraid it will be longer than that, Blanch," he answered. "Besides, what position could possibly be open to me? You know, my name is struck from the lists. At least, it ought to be if it isn't."

"Possibly," she answered. "But, if you cared enough, there might be another chance!"

"What do you mean?" he interrupted, regarding her curiously. In reply, she quietly drew an official document from her bosom and handed it to him across the table without a word. He colored, and she saw that his hand trembled slightly, betraying the emotion he felt as he opened the envelope and glanced hastily over its contents. "The Ministry to Turkey--Blanch!" he gasped, regarding her in astonishment.

"Yes," she answered nervously, watching closely the effect the news had upon him. "I received it a week ago. The President knows how clever you are, Jack, and has promised to keep the position open for you if you will consent to accept it. You know, he always had a warm place in his heart for you."

"Blanch!" he said again, overcome by emotion. And laying the document down upon the table in front of him he rose to his feet.

"Turkey, Jack, is but a step to London, St. Petersburg, Berlin or Paris," she said softly, looking up at him and catching her breath in the effort to conceal her excitement. "It is yours, Jack, if you wish it. Understand," she resumed, lowering her gaze and running her slender white hand slowly back and forth over the edge of her half-open fan, "that it is yours without reservation. You are under no obligations. Turkey and--I are two different things," she added slowly and with difficulty, without looking up; her neck and face turning a deep scarlet. She felt the intensity of his blazing eyes upon her.

"Blanch!" he cried, and this time there was a note of anger in his voice. "Don't think me ungrateful, I beg of you. I appreciate what you have done, and I thank you with my whole heart, but--I can't do it, Blanch!"

"Jack!" she cried, throwing off the mask and springing to her feet. "I can't stand it any longer! I can't see you wreck your life in this way! Can't you see the folly you are committing? Don't think me presumptuous; that I am trying to meddle, interfere in your life. I am merely trying to save you from yourself! It's your last chance, Jack. Go back again and never mind me; I've nothing to do with it! I can easily understand how this life can have a certain fascination for you, but only for a time; it can't last. The more I see of it, the more I'm convinced that I'm right. What's the use of mincing words, fencing about the truth any longer? I understand--I've seen it from the first. It's not this life, but the woman that holds you!" she cried abruptly and passionately, almost fiercely, betraying her jealousy.