Casa Grande held three jealous women. The situation had its comic
aspect, but was tragic enough to the actors.
In the evening the lingering guests of the house and the neighbors
of the town assembled as usual for the dance. Only Estenega absented
himself. Valencia stood her ground: she would not go while Estenega
remained. Chonita moved proudly among her guests, and never had been
more gracious. Valencia dared not meet her eyes nor mine, but, seeing
that Prudencia was watching her, avenged her own disquiet by enhancing
that of the bride. Never did she flirt so imperiously with Reinaldo
as she did that fateful night; and Reinaldo, who was man's vanity
collected and compounded, devoted himself to the dashing beauty. Her
cheeks burned with excitement, her eyes were restless and flashing.
The music stopped. The women were eating the dulces passed by the
Indian servants. The men had not yet gone into the dining-room.
Valencia dropped her handkerchief; Reinaldo, stooping to recover it,
kissed her hand behind its flimsy shelter.
Then Prudencia arose. She trailed her long gown down the room between
the two rows of people staring at her grim eyes and pressed lips; her
little head, with its high comb, stiffly erect. She walked straight up
to Reinaldo and boxed his ears before the assembled company.
"Thou wilt flirt no more with other women," she said, in a loud, clear
voice. "Thou art my husband, and thou wilt not forget it again. Come
with me."
And, amidst the silence of mountain-tops in a snow-storm, he stumbled
to his feet and followed her from the room.
I could not sleep that night. In spite of the amusement I had felt at
Prudencia's _coup-d'état_, I was oppressed by the chill and foreboding
which seemed to emanate from Chonita and pervade the house. I knew
that terrible calm was like the menacing stillness of the hours before
an earthquake. What would she do in the coming convulsion? I shuddered
and tormented myself with many imaginings.
I became so nervous that I rose and dressed and went out upon the
corridor and walked up and down. It was very late, and the moon was
risen, but the corners were dark. Figures seemed to start from them,
but my nerves were strong; I never had given way to fear.
My thoughts wandered to Estenega. Who shall judge the complex heart
of a man? the deep, intense, lasting devotion he may have for the one
woman he recognizes as his soul's own, and yet the strange wayward
wanderings of his fancy,--the nomadic assertion of the animal; the
passionate love he may feel for this woman of all women, yet the
reserve in which he always holds her, never knowing her quite as well
as he has known other women; the last test of highest love, passion
without sensuality? And yet the regret that she does not gratify every
side of his nature, even while he would not have her; regret for the
terrible incongruity of human nature, the mingling of the beast and
the divine, which cannot find satisfaction in the same woman; whatever
the fire in her, she cannot gratify the instincts which rage below
passion in man, without losing the purity of mind which he adores in
her. She, too, feels a vague regret that some portion of his nature
is a sealed book to her, forever beyond her ken. But her regret is
nothing to his: he knows, and she does not.
My meditations were interrupted suddenly. I heard a door stealthily
opened. I knew before turning that the door was that of Chonita's
room, the last at the end of the right wing. It opened, and she came
out. It was as if a face alone came out. She was shrouded from head to
foot in black, and her face was as white as the moon. Possessed by a
nameless but overwhelming fear, I turned the knob of the door nearest
me and almost fell into the room. I closed the door behind me, but
there was no key. By the strip of white light which entered through
the crevice between the half-open shutters I saw that I was in the
room of Valencia Menendez; but she slept soundly and had not heard me.
I stood still, listening, for many minutes. At first there was no
sound; I evidently had startled her, and she was waiting for the house
to be still again. At last I heard some one gliding down the corridor.
Then, suddenly, I knew that she was coming to this room, and,
possessed by a horrible curiosity and growing terror, I sank on my
knees in a corner.
The door opened noiselessly, and Chonita entered. Again I saw only
her white face, rigid as death, but the eyes flamed with the terrible
passions that her soul had flung up from its depths at last. Then I
saw another white object,--her hand. But there was no knife in it.
Had there been, I think I should have shaken off the spell which
controlled me: I never would see murder done. It was the awe of the
unknown that paralyzed my muscles. She bent over Valencia, who moved
uneasily and cast her arms above her head. I saw her touch her finger
to the sleeping woman's mouth, inserting it between the lips. Then she
moved backward and stood by the head of the bed, facing the
window. She raised herself to her full height and extended her arms
horizontally. The position gave her the form of a cross--a black
cross, topped and pointed with malevolent white; one hand was spread
above Valencia's face. She was the most awful sight I ever beheld. She
uttered no sound; she scarcely breathed. Suddenly, with the curve of a
panther, her figure glided above the unconscious woman, her open hand
describing a strange motion; then she melted from the room.
Valencia awoke, shrieking.
"Some one has cursed me!" she cried. "Mother of God! Some one has
cursed me!"