"What's this I hear about war?" Dolores inquired of her mistress, a few
days after their arrival at La Feria. "They tell me that Mexico is
invaded and that the American soldiers have already killed more than a
thousand women and children."
"Who tells you this?" Alaire asked.
"The men--everybody," Dolores waved a hand in the direction of the
other ranch buildings. "Our people are buzzing like bees with the news,
and, of course, no one cares to work when the Americans are coming."
"I shall have to put an end to such talk."
"This morning the word came that the revolution is ended and that the
soldiers of both parties are uniting to fight for their liberties. They
say the Gringos are killing all the old people--every one, in fact,
except the girls, whom they take with them. Already they have begun the
most horrible practices. Why, at Espinal"--Dolores's eyes were
round--"would you believe it?--those Yankee soldiers ate a baby! They
roasted the little dear like a cabrito and ate it! I tell you, it makes
wild talk among the peladors."
"Do you believe such stories?" Alaire inquired, with some amusement.
"Um-m--not altogether. But, all the same, I think it is time we were
going home."
"This is home, for me, Dolores."
"Yes, but now that war--"
"There isn't any war, and there won't be any. However, if you are
nervous I'll send you back to Las Palmas at once."
"Glory of God! It would be the end of me. These Mexicans would
recognize me instantly as an American, for I have the appearance and
the culture. You can imagine what would happen to me. They would tear
me from the train. It was nothing except General Longorio's soldiers
that brought us safely through from Nuevo Pueblo."
"Then I'm glad that he insisted upon sending them with us. Now tell the
ranch-hands to put no faith in these ridiculous stories. If they wish
the truth let them ask General Longorio; he will be here today and
quiet their fears."
"You think he intends to pay us for our cattle?"
"Yes."
Dolores pondered a moment. "Well, perhaps he does--it is not his money.
For that matter, he would give all Mexico if you asked it. Tse! His
love consumes him like a fever."
Alaire stirred uneasily; then she rose and went to an open window,
which looked out into the tiny patio with its trickling fountain and
its rank, untended plants. "Why do you insist that he loves me?" she
asked. "All Mexicans are gallant and pay absurd compliments. It's just
a way they have. He has never spoken a word that could give offense."
As Dolores said nothing, she went on, hesitatingly, "I can't very well
refuse to see him, for I don't possess even a receipt to show that he
took those cattle."
"Oh, you must not offend him," Dolores agreed, hastily, "or we'd never
leave Mexico alive." With which cheering announcement the housekeeper
heaved a deep sigh and went about her duties with a gloomy face.
Longorio arrived that afternoon, and Alaire received him in the great
naked living room of the hacienda, with her best attempt at formality.
But her coolness served not in the least to chill his fervor.
"Señora," he cried, eagerly, "I have a thousand things to tell you,
things of the greatest importance. They have been upon my tongue for
hours, but now that I behold you I grow drunk with delight and my lips
frame nothing but words of admiration for your beauty. So! I feast my
eyes." He retained his warm clasp of her fingers, seeming to envelop
her uncomfortably with his ardor.
"What is it you have to tell me?" she asked him, withdrawing her hand.
"Well, I hardly know where to begin--events have moved so swiftly, and
such incredible things have happened. Even now I am in a daze, for
history is being made every hour--history for Mexico, for you, and for
me. I bring you good news and bad news; something to startle you and
set your brain in a whirl. I planned to send a messenger ahead of me,
and then I said: 'No, this is a crisis; therefore no tongue but mine
shall apprise her, no hand but mine shall comfort her. Only a coward
shrinks from the unpleasant; I shall lighten her distress and awaken in
her breast new hope, new happiness'--"
"What do you mean?" Alaire inquired, sharply. "You say you bring bad
news?"
The general nodded. "In a way, terrible, shocking! And yet I look
beyond the immediate and see in it a blessing. So must you. To me it
spells the promise of my unspoken longings, my whispered prayers."
Noting his hearer's growing bewilderment, he laid a hand familiarly
upon her arm. "No matter how I tell you, it will be a blow, for death
is always sudden; it always finds us unprepared."
"Death? Who--is dead?"
"Restrain yourself. Allow for my clumsiness."
"Who? Please tell me?"
"Some one very close to you and very dear to you at one time. My
knowledge of your long unhappiness alone gives me courage to speak."
Alaire raised her fluttering fingers to her throat; her eyes were wide
as she said: "You don't mean--Mr. Austin?"
"Yes." Longorio scrutinized her closely, as if to measure the effect of
his disclosure. "Señora, you are free!"
Alaire uttered a breathless exclamation; then, feeling his gaze burning
into her, turned away, but not before he had noted her sudden pallor,
the blanching of her lips.
This unexpected announcement dazed her; it scattered her thoughts and
robbed her of words, but just what her dominant emotion was at the
moment she could not tell. Once her first giddiness had passed,
however, once the truth had borne in upon her, she found that she felt
no keen anguish, and certainly no impulse to weep. Rather she
experienced a vague horror, such as the death of an acquaintance or of
a familiar relative might evoke. Ed had been anything but a true
husband, and her feeling now was more for the memory of the man he had
been, for the boy she had known and loved, than for the man whose name
she bore. So he was gone and, as Longorio said, she was free. It meant
much. She realized dimly that in this one moment her whole life had
changed. She had never thought of this way out of her embarrassments;
she had been prepared, in fact, for anything except this. Dead! It was
deplorable, for Ed was young. Once the first shock had passed away, she
became conscious of a deep pity for the man, and a complete forgiveness
for the misery he had caused her. After a time she faced the
newsbearer, and in a strained voice inquired:
"How did it happen? Was it--because of me?"
"No, no! Rest your mind on that score. See! I understand your concern
and I share your intimate thoughts. No, it was an accident, ordained by
God. His end was the result of his own folly, a gunshot wound while he
was drunk, I believe. Now you will understand why I said that I bore
tidings both good and evil and why I, of all people, should be the one
to impart them."
Alaire turned questioning eyes upon him, as if to fathom his meaning,
and he answered her with his brilliant smile. Failing to evoke a
response, he went on:
"Ever since I heard of it I have repeated over and over again, 'It is a
miracle; it is the will of God.' Come, then, we know each other so well
that we may speak frankly. Let us be honest and pretend to no
counterfeit emotions. Let us recognize in this only your deliverance
and the certainty of that blessed happiness which Divine Providence
offers us both."
"Both?" she repeated, dully.
"Need I be plainer? You know my heart. You have read me. You understand
how I have throttled my longings and remained mute while all my being
called to you."
Alaire withdrew a step, and her cheeks colored with anger. "General!"
she exclaimed, with some difficulty, "I am amazed. This is no time--"
Her indignation rose with the sound of her own voice, causing her to
stammer.
Taking advantage of her loss of words, he hurried on: "You must pardon
my impetuosity, but I am a man of tremendous force, and my life moves
swiftly. I am not shackled by conventions--they are less than nothing
to me. If it seems to you that my eagerness carries me away, remember
that war is upon us and that affairs of moment press me so that I am
compelled to move like the lightning. With me, señora, a day is a year.
The past is gone, the present is here, the future rushes forward to
meet us."
"Indeed, you forget yourself," she said, warmly. Then, changing her
tone: "I too must act quickly. I must go back at once."
"Oh, but I have told you only a part of what I came to say."
"Surely the rest can wait." Her voice was vibrant with contempt. "I'm
in no condition to listen to anything else."