A week later Ramon was driving across the _mesa_ west of town, bound for
the state capital. He was following the same route that Diego Delcasar had
followed on the day of his death, and he passed within a few miles of
Archulera’s ranch; but no thought either of his uncle or of Archulera
entered his mind. For in his pocket was a letter consisting of a single
sentence hastily scrawled in a large round upright hand on
lavender-scented note paper. The sentence was:
“Meet you at the southwest corner of the Plaza Tuesday at seven thirty.
“Love,
“J. R.”
A great deal of trouble and anxiety had preceded the receipt of that
message. First he had written her a letter that was unusually long and
exuberant for him, telling her of his success and that now he was ready to
come and get her in accordance with their agreement, suggesting a time and
place. Three days of cumulative doubt and agony had gone by without a
reply. Then he had tried to reach her by long distance telephone, but
without success. Finally he had wired, although he knew that a telegram is
a risky vehicle for confidential business. Now he had her answer, the
answer that he wanted. His spirit was released and leapt forward, leaving
resentments and doubts far behind.
It was eighty miles to the state capital, the road was good all the way,
the day bright and cool. His route lead across the _mesa_, through the
Scissors Pass, and then north and east along the foot of the mountains.
Immense and empty the country stretched before him—a land of far-flung
levels and even farther mountains; a land which makes even the sea, with
its near horizons, seem little; a land which has always produced men of
daring because it inspires a sense of freedom without any limit save what
daring sets.
He had dared and won. He was going to take the sweet price of his daring.
The engine of his big car sang to him a song of victory and desire. He
rejoiced in the sense of power under his hand. He opened the throttle
wider and the car answered with more speed, licking up the road like a
hungry monster. How easily he mastered time and distance for his purpose!
He was to have her, she would be his. So sang the humming motor and the
wind in his ears. Her white arms and her red mouth, her splendid eyes that
feared and yielded! She was waiting for him! More speed. He conquered the
hills with a roar of strength to spare, topped the crests, and sped down
the long slopes like a bird coming to earth.
He was to have her, she would be his. Could it be true? The great machine
that carried him to their tryst roared an affirmative, the wind sang of
it, his blood quickened with anticipation incredibly keen. And always the
distance that lay between them was falling behind in long, grey passive
miles.
He had reached his destination a little after six. As he drove slowly
through the streets of the little dusty town, the mood of exaltation that
had possessed him during the trip died down. He was intent, worried
practical. Having registered at the hotel, he got a handful of time tables
and made his plans with care. They would drive to a town twenty-five miles
away, be married, and catch the California Limited. There would just be
time. Once he had her in his car, nothing could stop them.
The _plaza_ or public square about which the old town was built, and which
had been its market place in the old days, was now occupied by a neat
little park with a band stand. Retail stores and banks fronted on three
sides of it, but the fourth was occupied by a long low _adobe_ building
which was very old and had been converted into a museum of local
antiquities. It was dark and lifeless at night, and in its shadow-filled
verandah he was to meet her.
He had his car parked beside the spot ten minutes ahead of time. It was
slightly cold now, with a gusty wind whispering about the streets and
tearing big papery leaves from the cottonwood trees in the park. The
_plaza_ was empty save for an occasional passer-by whose quick footfalls
rang sharply in the silence. Here and there was an illuminated shop
window. The drug store on the opposite corner showed a bright interior,
where two small boys devoured ice cream sodas with solemn rapture.
Somewhere up a side street a choir was practising a hymn, making a noise
infinitely doleful.
He had a bear-skin to wrap her in, and he arranged this on the seat beside
him and then tried to wait patiently. He sat very tense and motionless,
except for an occasional glance at his watch, until it showed exactly
seven-thirty. Then he got out of his car and began walking first to one
side of the corner and then to the other, for he did not know from which
direction she would come. At twenty-five minutes of eight he was angry,
but in another ten minutes anger had given way to a dull heavy
disappointment that seemed to hold him by the throat and make it difficult
to swallow. None-the-less he waited a full hour before he started up his
car and drove slowly back to the hotel.
On the way he debated with himself whether he should try to communicate
with her tonight or wait until the next day. He knew that the wisest thing
would be to wait until the next day and send her a note, but he also knew
that he could not wait. He would find out where she lived, call her on the
telephone, and learn what had prevented her from keeping the appointment.
He had desperate need to know that something besides her own will had kept
her away.
When he went to the hotel desk, a clerk handed him a letter.
“This was here when you registered, I think,” he said. “But I didn’t know
it. I’m sorry.”
When he saw the handwriting of the address he was filled with commotion.
Here, then, was her explanation. This would tell him why she had failed
him. This, in all probability, would make all right.
He went to his room to read it, sat down on the edge of the bed and ripped
the envelope open with an impatient finger. The letter was dated two days
earlier—the day after she had received his telegram.
“I don’t know what to say,” she wrote, “but it doesn’t matter much. You
will despise me anyway, and I despise myself. But I can’t help it—honestly
I can’t. I meant to keep my promise and I would have kept it, but they
found your telegram and mother read it—by mistake, of course. I ought to
have had sense enough to burn it. You can’t imagine how awful it has been.
Mother said the most terrible things about you, things she had heard. And
she said that I would be ruining my life and hers. I said I didn’t care,
because I loved you. I can’t tell you what an awful quarrel we had! And I
wouldn’t have given in, but she told Gordon and he was so terribly angry.
He said it was a disgrace to the family, and he began to cough and had a
hemorrhage and we thought he was going to die. Mother said he probably
would die unless I gave you up.
“That finished me. I couldn’t do anything after that—I just couldn’t.
There was nothing but misery in sight either way, so what was the use?
I’ve lost all my courage and all my doubts have come back. I do love
you—terribly. But you are so strange, so different. And I don’t think we
would have gotten along or anything. I try to comfort myself by thinking
it’s all for the best, but it doesn’t really comfort me at all. I never
knew people could be as miserable as I am now. I don’t think its fair.
“When you get this I will be on my way to New York and nearly there. We
are going to sail for Europe immediately. I will never see you again. I
will always love you.
“Julia.”
Rage possessed him at first—the rage of defeated desire, of injured pride,
of a passionate, undisciplined nature crossed and beaten. He flung the
letter on the floor, and strode up and down the room, looking about for
something to smash or tear. So she was that kind of a creature—a
miserable, whimpering fool that would let an old woman and a sick man rule
her! She was afraid her brother might die. What an excuse! And he had
killed, or at least sanctioned killing, for her sake. He had poured out
his blood for her. There was nothing he would not have dared or done to
have her. And here she had the soul of a sheep!
But no—perhaps that was not it. Perhaps she had been playing with him all
along, had never had any idea of marrying him—because he was a Mexican!
Bitter was this thought, but it died as his anger died. Something that sat
steady and clear inside of him told him that he was a fool. He was reading
the letter again, and he knew it was all truth. “There was nothing but
misery in sight either way,” she had written.
Suddenly he understood; suffering and an awakened imagination had given
him insight. For the first time in his life, he realized the feelings of
another. He realized how much he had asked of this girl, who had all her
life been ruled, who had never tasted freedom nor practised self-reliance.
He saw now that she had rebelled and had fought against the forces and
fears that oppress youth, as had he, and that she had been bewildered and
overcome.
His anger was gone. All hot emotion was gone. In its place was a great
loneliness, tinged with pity. He looked at the letter again. Its
handwriting showed signs of disturbance in the writer, but she had not
forgotten to scent it with that faint delightful perfume which was forever
associated in his mind with her. It summoned the image of her with a
vividness he could not bear.
But courage and pride are not killed at a blow. He threw the letter aside
and shook himself sharply, like a man just awake trying to shake off the
memory of a nightmare. She was gone, she was lost. Well, what of it? There
were many other women in the world, many beautiful women. And he was
strong now, successful. One woman could not hurt him by her refusal. He
tried resolutely to put her out of his mind, and to think of his business,
of his plans. But these things which had glowed so brightly in his
imagination just a few hours before were suddenly as dead as cinders. He
knew that he cared little for dollars and lands in themselves. His nature
demanded a romantic object, and this love had given it to him. Love had
found him a wretch and a weakling, and had made him suddenly strong and
ruthless, bringing out all the colours of his being, dark and bright,
making life suddenly intense and purposeful.
And she had meant so much to him besides love. To have won her would have
been to win a great victory over the gringos—over that civilization, alien
to him in race and temper, which antagonized and yet fascinated him, with
which he was forced to grapple for his life.
She was gone, he had lost her. Perhaps it was just as well, after all, he
told himself, speaking out of his pride and his courage. But in his heart
was a great bitterness. In his heart he felt that the gringos had beaten
one more Delcasar.