Chapter 6

The spark of the old love still smoldered within him, and would she succeed again in fanning it into flame? He had not forgotten, however, that he had suffered, and her presence acted like some wonderful balm to his wounded soul. It was his turn now and he could afford to humor her. Though there was nothing triumphant in his manner, he, nevertheless, enjoyed that sneaking feeling of satisfaction which most of us experience on beholding the discomfiture of those who have treated us lightly. Moreover, he thoroughly realized what the coming of Blanch and his family meant. They had come to laugh at him and his surroundings--to ridicule his ideas. The great harlot world had come to pooh-pooh--to scoff and laugh him out of his convictions, and no one knew better than he did what the mighty power and influence of the great civilized guffaw meant. For had he not, during his diplomatic career, seen the primitive man laughed out of his cool, naked blessedness into a modern, cheap pair of sweltering pantaloons? But things were now equal, and this promised to be the most exciting diplomatic game in which he had yet engaged. The defeat of Spain and the annexation of the Philippines were trifles in comparison. And he decided then and there to make the most of it--that come what might, all who entered this game would pay the price to the last farthing. Time and circumstances would prove who was right--they or he.

"Do you know," he said at length, "I don't pity you a bit; it serves you right for coming."

"Pity?" retorted Bessie. "Do we look like a pair of beggars that have come two thousand miles to crave pity at the feet of the high and mighty Captain Forest? Your condescension, Cousin, is insufferable," she added.

"I was just thinking," he resumed, thoroughly enjoying his cousin's wrath, "that you had better drop your silly affectations and spoiled ways while here."

"Really!" burst out Bessie again, her face flushing with growing indignation.

"I do," he returned placidly, "for somehow, the people about here don't seem to appreciate such things."

"I can readily believe it," answered Blanch with a contemptuous laugh and hauteur of manner that were almost insulting. "I don't wonder you feel uneasy on our account considering that we have never enjoyed the advantages their social standards offer. We trust, however, for the sake of old friendship, that you will overlook our shortcomings. A lesson in manners might not be lost on us," she added with a withering glance and tone that would have reduced any other man to a sere and yellow leaf.

She paused, her delicately gloved hand resting lightly on the handle of her sunshade on which she leaned, throwing the graceful outline of her tall slender figure into clear relief against the green background of trees and shrubs. A strange light came into her beautiful blue eyes, softening the expression of her face; a face that had been the hope and despair of many a man; a face that was not alone beautiful but alive and interesting; a face into which all men longed to gaze and once seen could never be forgotten.

Only one man had ever resisted the power and fascination of that face; the man whom she had flung from her in an ungovernable fit of passion; the man whom she either had come to claim as her own again, or to humiliate as he had humiliated her. Who could guess the real motive that prompted her to humble her pride so far as to follow him? Was it love or hatred? Who could say? Her delicate, coral lips curled with just the suggestion of a sneer as she raised her eyes to his again and said in a tone of contempt: "So this is the place where your wild woman lives--" but the words died on her lips. Her head came up with a jerk and her figure suddenly straightened and stiffened as her gaze became riveted on the face of Chiquita who stood just opposite on the veranda lightly poised with one foot on the steps.

It would have been interesting to have read the thoughts of these two women as they stood silently confronting one another, each taking the measure of the other.

The contrast between the two could not have been more striking. The soft, delicate, well-groomed figure of Blanch, the accomplished woman of the world, with eyes intoxicating as wine and a glowing wealth of golden hair, tempting and alluring as the luxuriance of old Rome at the height of her triumphs before her decadence set in--the last fair breath of her ancient glory--the best and fairest that modern civilization had produced. She had no need of the artificial head-gear and upholstery with which the modern society belle is wont to bolster up herself. There was not the slightest trace of rouge on her lips or cheeks. She had learned that simple food, fresh air and sleep and exercise were the only preservatives for the form and complexion. Spoiled though she was, she was genuine to the core.

On the other hand, what the symmetrical well-rounded lines of Chiquita's figure lost by the unfair comparison of her worn and faded dress with that of the latest Parisian creation, was more than compensated for by the heavy luxuriant masses of blue-black hair, straight nose, large, dark piercing eyes that shone from beneath delicately penciled, broad arching brows, and the mysterious hawk-like wildness of her gaze and appearance and general air of strength and power, baffling and inscrutable as the origin of her race; a face and figure which exemplified the perfect type of a race that carried one back to the forgotten days of ancient Egypt and India.

Truly, twice blessed or cursed by the gods was he to be loved by two such women; the one fashion's, the other nature's child.

The look of embarrassment on Captain Forest's face, together with the ludicrousness of the situation, caused Bessie to burst into a sudden fit of laughter into which Blanch, in spite of herself, was irresistibly drawn. Fortunately for the Captain, he did not entirely lose his presence of mind as one is apt to do who unexpectedly finds himself between two tigers about to spring. He did the only sensible thing a man could do under the circumstances. He retired precipitately, leaving the field to whomsoever wished it most.

"The Señoritas laugh," said Chiquita at length, the first to speak. There was a strange light in her eyes as she slowly descended the veranda and came toward them. The sound of her full, rich, musical voice, colored with a soft accent that was pleasing to the ear, instantly brought Blanch and Bessie to themselves.

"Perhaps," she began again calmly, "it is because I am poor?"

"Oh, no, Señorita, how could you imagine--" exclaimed Blanch, recovering her breath.

"Then perhaps it is because I am an Indian and red, not white like yourselves?"

"Are you an Indian, Señorita?" asked Blanch. "I thought you were a Mexican."

"And if I were, I would not be ashamed of it!"

"What a strange creature!" thought Bessie.

"But why did the Señoritas laugh when they saw me?" persisted Chiquita, her expression softening a bit, a faint smile illumining her face.

"Believe me, Señorita," replied Blanch, "we were not laughing at you at all. We were laughing at Captain Forest."

"Ah, the Señor!" ejaculated Chiquita.

"Yes," continued Blanch, "we had already heard of you through Captain Forest, and--I--" she hesitated, "I really can't explain because you wouldn't understand, you know."

"But I do understand, Señorita," answered Chiquita quietly. "You do not deceive me, and since you refuse to tell me why you laughed, I shall be obliged to tell you. I think I can guess the truth."

"Really, I'm curious!" and Blanch smiled compassionately.

"Ah, you think I can't read your face," and Chiquita smiled in turn. "Señorita," she continued with sudden emphasis, "you love the Señor!" Blanch started, the attack was so sudden, her face coloring in spite of her endeavor to conceal her confusion.

"Yes, Señorita, you love him."

"How do you know I love him?" laughed Blanch lightly in turn, by this time thoroughly mistress of herself. "Why, you have only met me for the first time!"

"How do I know? Because I am a woman. I saw you as you spoke to him. Your whole manner betrayed you--your voice, your eyes. Yes, Señorita," she added with growing passion, fixing her dark piercing eyes on those of Blanch, "you laughed because a poor girl like me of a different race and color, a race despised by you white people, should have imagined that Captain Forest might possibly cast his eyes upon her--"

"Señorita!" cried Blanch protestingly.

"It is the truth," continued Chiquita passionately, "and what is more, I will tell you frankly that I--I, too, love the Señor!"

"I thought so!" exclaimed Blanch.

"Yes, I love him--love him as you do--love him as you can never love him, Señorita!"

"What makes you think so?" asked Blanch, endeavoring to stifle the emotion Chiquita's passionate words aroused within her.

"I know it," she answered quietly; "something tells me so. And should he not love me as I love him, my life will go out of me swiftly and silently like the waters of the streams in summer when the rains cease; my soul will become barren and parched like the desert, and I shall wither and die."

"Die?" echoed Blanch. "Nobody dies of love nowadays, Señorita," and she laughed lightly.

"Perhaps not among your people, but with Indians it is different. When we love it is terrible--our passion becomes our life, our whole existence! Such a confession sounds absurd perhaps, but you assumed an air of superiority--racial superiority, I mean--a thing which I know to be as false as it is presumptuous. I might assume the airs and attitude of one of your race if I chose, but you laughed, and the race-pride in me cries out that I should be to you what I really am--an Indian, not that which I have learned and borrowed from the white race."

"How extraordinary!" thought Blanch. Surely such passion was short lived and a weak admission on the part of her rival. She was a true character of melodrama--one which she had seen a hundred times on the stage. The battle was hers already--she would win. She heaved a sigh of relief, and drawing herself up to her full height, assumed an attitude of ease, an air of patronage and condescension that only Blanch Lennox could adopt. She could afford to be generous to a child, treat with lenience this clever _ingenue_ who in this age could die, or at least imagine herself dying of love.

"Perhaps," resumed Chiquita, with an air of naïveté that seemed perfectly natural to her, "you women do not love as passionately as your darker sisters?"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Señorita," answered Blanch with warmth. "At any rate, you in all probability will have an opportunity to judge that for yourself."

Chiquita gave a little laugh, then said: "Señorita, you love Captain Forest and so do I. Let it, therefore, be a fair fight between us, and in order that you may know you can trust me, I give you this," and drawing a small silver-mounted dagger from out her hair, she handed it to Blanch who took it wonderingly.

"It is often safer," she added, "for a man to go unarmed in this land than for a woman. But as I said, I shall henceforth be to you what I am--an Indian. It is what a woman of my people would do were she to meet you in my country under similar circumstances; what I would have done had I met you before I came here. The knife signifies that, with it goes the sharp edge of my tongue--that I shall take no unfair advantage of you."

Blanch toyed musingly with the pretty two-edged knife, admiring its richly carved silver handle. Surely she was right after all. Chiquita was a true child of the South whose passions subsided as quickly as they burst into flame. And as for the knife, it would make an excellent paper-cutter.

"Oh, dear, this is too absurd!" she exclaimed. And no longer able to control herself, she burst into a peal of laughter in which was easily detected the scorn, good humor and pity she felt for her would-be rival.

Perhaps Chiquita was as much puzzled by Blanch's behavior as the latter was by hers, for all the while Blanch laughed, she also regarded her with an expression of mingled curiosity and amusement.

"Señorita," said Blanch at length, heaving a sigh, "who are you?"

The latter did not reply immediately. Her face took on an earnest expression and for some moments she stood silent, gazing straight out before her as though oblivious to her surroundings. Then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said:

"I am a Tewana, and am called the Chiquita. My father was the Whirlwind, the War Chief of my people."

"The Whirlwind?" echoed Blanch. "What an appropriate name for a savage!"

"Ah, but you should have seen him! He was the tallest man of the tribe."

"Do you know," said Blanch musingly, "I fancy you must be something like him, Señorita."

"In spirit perhaps, but only a little," she answered. "I often wish that I were more like him, for although he was a child in many things, he was a man nevertheless--civilization had not spoilt him."

Again that dreamy, far-away look came into her eyes and again she seemed to forget for the moment the presence of the two girls as her thoughts reverted to the past.

"Señorita," she said at last, "when one like me stands on the threshold midway between savagery and civilization and compares the crudities and at times barbarities of the one with the luxuries and vices of the other, he often asks himself which is preferable, civilization and its few virtues, or the simple life of the savage. Which, I ask, is the greater--the man who tells the time by the sun and the stars or he who gauges it with the watch? I have listened to your music and gazed upon your art and read your books, but what harmonies compare to nature's--what book contains her truths and hidden mysteries? When I came here I was taught to revere your civilization and I did for a time until the disillusionment came, when I was introduced to the great world of men and discovered how shallow and inadequate it was. Your mechanical devices are wonderful, but as regards your philosophies, the least said of them the better. Spiritually, you stand just where you began centuries ago, and I found that I should be obliged to deny the existence of God if I continued to revere your institutions.

"Believe me, Señorita, for I speak as one who knows both worlds intimately, nature's and man's, that the great symphony of nature, the throb of our Mother Earth, the song of the forest, the voices of the winds and the waters, the mountains and plains, and the glory of the stars and the daily life of man in the fields, are grander by far, and more satisfying and enduring than all the foolish fancies and artificial harmonies ever created by civilized man."

Her words struck home. For the first time Blanch became thoroughly alive to the danger of the situation. This passionate child of the South had changed suddenly to a mature woman, and a chill seized Blanch's heart as she began to realize her depth and power. Again she was all at sea, and in a vain effort to say something, she stammered:

"Señorita, you are certainly the strangest person I ever met!"

"Not strange, only different," laughed Chiquita, throwing back her head and meeting Blanch's full gaze. "Señorita," she continued, "you are beautiful--more beautiful than any woman I have ever beheld. My heart stands still with fear and admiration when I look at you, for men are often foolish enough to love the beautiful women best. I fear this is going to be a bitter struggle, but let us bear one another no malice in order that we may both know that she who triumphs is the better woman." Frank though her words were, they caused Blanch to wince, while a flood of passion which she could ill conceal dyed her cheeks a deep crimson.

"Life's usually as tragic as it is comic," laughed Chiquita lightly, slowly moving in the direction of the highroad. "It's strange, isn't it," she exclaimed, pausing and looking back, "that a queen and a beggar should dispute the affections of the same man? Such things occur in the fairy-tales one reads in the books in the old Mission, but seldom in real life," and she was gone.

IX

Considering an all-night ride over a rough road in a lumbering old Spanish stagecoach, and the thrilling, harrowing events that succeeded their arrival at the _Posada_, it is little wonder that Mrs. Forest took to her bed early in the day on the verge of a nervous collapse, or that Colonel Van Ashton, contrary to his habit, retired early in the evening firmly convinced that his nephew was suffering from an acute attack of lunacy which took the form of a mania for everything that was wild and bizarre; everything in fact that was contrary to the Colonel's views of life.

How unfortunate that his nephew had not shown signs of madness earlier! It would have been so easy with the assistance of the family physician and lawyer to have confined him in a private sanitarium. And the Colonel fondly pictured his nephew wandering distractedly through a long suite of padded cells--but, alas! the bird had flown. Such things were always expedited with such felicitous despatch in those parts of the earth inhabited by civilized men, but here where everybody was equally mad, where chaos reigned, and nobody either recognized or respected beings of a superior order, what could be done to check the headlong career of his nephew who with twenty millions was rushing straight to destruction?

No wonder God had long since abandoned this land to his majesty, the devil who, as in the days of Scripture, roamed and roared at will. No one having passed twenty-four hours in the country could possibly doubt that his cup of joy was running over. Where his nephew had concealed his fortune was also a source of mystery to him. He certainly had displayed the diabolical cunning that is characteristic of the mentally deranged. Possibly he had concealed it in Mexico, but to combat the institutions of that land was like attempting to stem the tides.

The thought of those twenty millions tortured the Colonel's mind almost beyond endurance, and he groaned aloud as his imagination pictured them rolling in a bright, glittering stream of gold and silver coins into the gutter for the swine that waited to devour them.

Such were the Colonel's reflections as he sat on the edge of his bed in his shirt sleeves and wearily removed his tight fitting, dust-begrimed, patent-leather shoes with the assistance of his valet.

How his feet and back ached! He wanted sympathy, but got none, the others being too much occupied with their own woes to think of his comfort. On the walls of the room were hung numerous cheap biblical prints--the very things he abominated most. Among them, just over the foot of the bed, on the very spot where first his gaze would alight on opening his eyes in the morning, hung a small colored print of the Madonna. No wonder the people of this land spent so much time crossing themselves and calling upon her for protection--they certainly had cause to. The room, in his opinion, was a veritable rat-hole; the place little better than what one might expect to find in a suburb of hell.

The exertions of the last two days had been more than mortal could endure. Never had he felt so completely fagged, and it was with no little concern that he contemplated the reflection of his face in the small oval mirror which hung on the rough gray plaster wall opposite, just over the small, cheap, brown-stained wooden bureau. The sight of his countenance, as is the case with most of us who have not yet entered the limbo of senile decrepitude and still dare look ourselves in the face, was always a source of extreme satisfaction to him. He held it in the highest esteem as though it were the head of some beautiful antique Apollo, and in his, the Colonel's estimation, was the handsomest face on earth.

Indeed it was a handsome face, and like many others both in and outside of his particular set, he devoted hours to its preservation.

What was John, his valet, for? To press his clothes and run errands? Not at all. He was there to massage that precious face and drive away all harassing signs of care and age by means of a liberal use of cold cream and enamel. In the present instance, barring a sun-scorched nose, his delicately rouged cheeks like his exquisitely manicured finger tips blushed with rose of vermilion like those of the daughters of Judea of old, contrasting favorably with his dark eyes, wavy white hair, and mustache and eyebrows dyed a jet black. His regular features, long slender white hands, and tall erect figure betokened the born aristocrat of the spoiled, luxurious type.

In spite of his determination not to sleep a wink, this overindulged child and arch hypocrite, fell asleep almost the instant his tired head touched the pillow, and would have slept to a comparatively late hour had it not been for the ceaseless crowing of a cock in the barnyard, awakening him at daybreak.

What a land, where people were not even permitted to sleep! Vague apprehensions for the future went flitting through his mind, and, as he lay in bed moodily contemplating through the window the first sunrise he had witnessed in years, he cursed fate and his nephew, and secretly vowed that he would wring that infernal bird's neck at the first opportunity.

Mrs. Forest's mental attitude resembled that of her brother's, but with Blanch and Bessie it was different. The strangeness and novelty of the situation so different from anything they had hitherto experienced, began to interest them in spite of their previous determination to be bored. That evening they had visited the plaza with the Captain and Dick Yankton and had witnessed the dances beneath the great _alamos_ or poplar trees that surrounded the square, braving the risk of contamination which Mrs. Forest had vainly protested would be sure to ensue should they mingle with the populace--the Mexican-Indian rabble of which it was composed--a distinction which only she and the Colonel seemed able to divine, for had it been a garlic-tainted Egyptian or Neapolitan mob, little objection would have been raised to their going. The sights amused and interested them, and after an hour's mild dissipation, they returned to the _Posada_ in time to meet a few of the Señora's guests in the garden, among whom was Padre Antonio. The quaint, inborn courtesy of the well-bred Spaniard was a revelation to them; something they imagined did not exist outside of Spain.

The charm of the Padre's simple manner and ways proved no less irresistible to them than to the rest of the world, and they marveled that he spoke English so well. His intimate knowledge of the people and the customs of the country threw a new light on them, reconciling the girls to many things that had seemed incomprehensible.

The Señora, out of consideration for the ladies, by whose presence she was greatly honored, had relinquished her rooms to them; the best and most comfortably furnished which the _Posada_ afforded.

It was a late hour before the girls retired for the night. There was so much to talk over, and when they did finally lay themselves down to rest, it was with the conviction that Captain Forest was not quite so mad as they had supposed. He was at least a harmless lunatic and in no danger of running amuck.

As for Bessie, the gentle hand of sleep soon closed her eyes, and she slept the sleep of a tired child. With Blanch it was otherwise.

How could she sleep with the face of Chiquita constantly before her and the pangs of jealousy gnawing at her heart? How stupid to have imagined her to be one of those bovine women with large liquid eyes who, figuratively speaking, pass the major portion of their lives standing knee-deep in a pond, gazing stolidly out upon the world; a fat brown wench upon whose hip a man might confidently expect to hang his hat by the time she has attained the age of forty.