Dunwoodie was not given to talkativeness; moreover, he was a considerate
man, and he respected Harboro. Therefore it may be doubted if he ever said
anything about that unexplained drama which occurred on the main street of
Eagle Pass on a Sunday morning, before the town was astir. But there was
the bartender at the Maverick--and besides, it would scarcely have been
possible for any man to do what Harboro had done without being seen by
numbers of persons looking out upon the street through discreetly closed
windows.
At any rate, there was talk in the town. By sundown everybody knew there
had been trouble between Harboro and Fectnor, and men who dropped into the
Maverick for a game of high-five or poker had their attention called to an
unclaimed blue-serge coat hanging from the ice-box.
"He got away with his skin," was the way the bartender put the case, "but
he left his coat."
There was a voice from one of the card-tables: "Well, any man that gets
Fectnor's coat is no slouch."
There were a good many expressions of undisguised wonder at Fectnor's
behavior; and nobody could have guessed that perhaps some sediment of
manhood which had remained after all the other decent standards had
disappeared had convinced Fectnor that he did not want to kill a man whom
he had injured so greatly. And from the popular attitude toward Fectnor's
conduct there grew a greatly increased respect for Harboro.
That, indeed, was the main outcome of the episode, so far as the town as a
whole was concerned. Harboro became a somewhat looming figure. But with
Sylvia ... well, with Sylvia it was different.
Of course Sylvia was connected with the affair, and in only one way. She
was the sort of woman who might be expected to get her husband into
trouble, and Fectnor was the kind of man who might easily appeal to her
imagination. This was the common verdict; and the town concluded that it
was an interesting affair--the more so because nearly all the details had
to be left to the imagination.
As for Sylvia, the first direct result of her husband's gun-play was that
a week or two after the affair happened, she had a caller--the wife of
Jesus Mendoza.
She had not had any callers since her marriage. Socially she had been
entirely unrecognized. The social stratum represented by the Mesquite
Club, and that lower stratum identified with church "socials" and similar
affairs, did not know of Sylvia's existence--had decided definitely never
to know of her existence after she had walked down the aisle of the church
to the strains of the Lohengrin march. Nevertheless, there had been that
trip to the church, and the playing of the march; and this fact placed
Sylvia considerably above certain obscure women in the town who were not
under public condemnation, but whose status was even more hopeless--who
were regarded as entirely negligible.
The wife of Jesus Mendoza was one of these. She was an American woman,
married to a renegade Mexican who was notoriously evil. I have referred to
Mendoza as a man who went about partly concealed in his own cloud of
cigarette smoke, who looked at nothing in particular and who was an active
politician of a sort. He had his place in the male activities of the town;
but you wouldn't have known he had a wife from anything there was in his
conversation or in his public appearances. Nobody remembered ever to have
seen the two together. She remained indoors in all sorts of weather save
when she had marketing to do, and then she looked neither to left nor
right. Her face was like a mask. She had been an unfortunate creature when
Mendoza married her; and she was perhaps thankful to have even a low-caste
Mexican for a husband, and a shelter, and money enough to pay the
household expenses.
That her life could not have been entirely complete, even from her own way
of thinking, was evidenced by the fact that at last she came to call on
Sylvia in the house on the Quemado Road.
Sylvia received her with reticence and with a knowing look. She was not
pleased that Mrs. Mendoza had decided to call. She realized just what her
own status was in the eyes of this woman, who had assumed that she might
be a welcome visitor.
But Sylvia's outlook upon life, as has been seen, was distorted in many
ways; and she was destined to realize that she must form new conclusions
as to this woman who had come to see her in her loneliness.
Mrs. Mendoza was tactful and kind. She assumed nothing, save that Sylvia
was not very thoroughly acquainted in the town, and that as she had had
her own house now for a month or two, she would expect people to be
neighborly. She discussed the difficulties of housekeeping so far from the
source of supplies. She was able, incidentally, to give Sylvia a number of
valuable hints touching these difficulties. She discussed the subject of
Mexican help without self-consciousness. During her call it developed that
she was fond of music--that in fact she was (or had been) a musician. And
for the first time since Sylvia's marriage there was music on the piano up
in the boudoir.
Mrs. Mendoza played with a passionateness which was quite out of keeping
with her mask-like expression. It was like finding a pearl in an oyster,
hearing her at the piano. She played certain airs from _Fra Diavolo_ so
skilfully that she seemed to be letting bandits into the house; and when
she saw that Sylvia was following with deep appreciation she passed on to
the _Tower Scene_, giving to the minor chords a quality of massiveness.
Her expression changed oddly. There was color in her cheeks and a stancher
adjustment of the lines of her face. She suggested a good woman struggling
through flames to achieve safety. When she played from _Il Trovatore_ you
did not think of a conservatory, but of a prison.
She stopped after a time and the color swiftly receded from her cheeks.
"I'm afraid I've been rather in earnest," she said apologetically. "I
haven't played on a good piano for quite a long time." She added, as if
her remark might seem an appeal for pity, "the climate here injures a
piano in a year or so. The fine sand, you know."
"You must come and use mine whenever you will," said Sylvia heartily. "I
love it, though I've never cared to play myself."
"I wonder why?"
"Ah, I could scarcely explain. I've been too busy living. It has always
seemed to me that music and pictures and books were for people who had
been caught in an eddy and couldn't go on with the stream." She realized
the tactlessness of this immediately, and added: "That's just a silly
fancy. What I should have said, of course, is that I haven't the talent."
"Don't spoil it," remonstrated the other woman thoughtfully. "But you must
remember that few of us can always go on with the stream."
"Sometimes you get caught in the whirlpools," said Sylvia, as they were
going down the stairs, "and then you can't stop, even if you'd like to."
I doubt if either woman derived a great deal of benefit from this visit.
They might have become helpful friends under happier conditions; but
neither had anything to offer the other save the white logic of untoward
circumstances and defeat.
The wife of Jesus Mendoza did not know Sylvia well enough to perceive that
a certain blitheness and faith had abandoned her, never to return.
Nevertheless, the fact of her visit has its place in this chronicle, since
it had a cruel bearing upon a day which still lay in Sylvia's future.
Sylvia's caller went home; and, as it chanced, she never called again at
the house on the Quemado Road. As for Sylvia, she did not speak to Harboro
of her visitor. From his point of view, she thought, there would be
nothing to be proud of in the fact that Mrs. Mendoza had called. And so
Harboro was destined to go on to the end without knowing that there was
any such person as the wife of Jesus Mendoza.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART IV
THE HORSE WITH THE GOLDEN DAPPLES
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XVII
Two events which had a bearing upon Sylvia's destiny occurred at about
this time. I am not sure which came first: the invitation to a celebration
out at the Quemado settlement, or the arrival on the border of Runyon, the
mounted inspector.
The coming of Runyon caused a distinct ripple in the social circles of the
two border towns. He was well connected, it was known: he was a cousin to
a congressman in the San Angelo district, and he had a brother in the
army.
He was a sort of frontier Apollo; a man in his prime, of striking build--a
dashing fellow. He had the physical strength, combined with neatness of
lines, which characterized Buffalo Bill in his younger days. He was a
blond of the desert type, with a shapely mustache the color of flax, with
a ruddy skin finely tanned by sun and wind, and with deep blue eyes which
flashed and sparkled under his flaxen brows. He was a manly appearing
fellow, though there was a glamour about him which made prosaic folk
suspicious.
He rode a dun horse with golden dapples--a slim, proud thing which suited
Runyon in every detail. When you saw him mounted you thought of a parade;
you wondered where the rest of it was--the supernumerary complement.
The man was also characterized by the male contingent of the border as a
"dresser." He was always immaculately clad, despite the exposure to which
his work subjected him. He seemed to have an artist's sense of color
effects. Everything he put on was not only faultless in itself, but it
seemed specially designed and made for him. In the set of his sombrero and
the style of his spurs he knew how to suggest rakishness without quite
achieving it; and when he permitted his spirited horse to give way to its
wayward or playful moods there was something just a little sinister in his
mirth. He looked as much at home in conventional clothes as in his
inspector's outfit, and he immediately became a social favorite on both
sides of the river. It developed that he could sing quite amazingly. His
voice was high-pitched, but there was power and fire in it. He sang easily
and he loved to sing. His songs were the light-opera favorites, the fame
of which reached the border from New York and London, and even Vienna. And
when there was difficulty about getting the accompaniments played he took
his place unaffectedly at the piano and played them himself.
His name began to appear regularly in the Eagle Pass _Guide_ in connection
with social events; and he was not merely mentioned as "among those
present," but there was always something about his skill as a musician.
Of course Sylvia was destined to see him sooner or later, though she
stayed at home with almost morbid fidelity to a resolution she had made.
He rode out the Quemado Road one matchless December day when the very air
would have seemed sufficient to produce flowers without calling the
ungracious desert into service. Sylvia sat in her boudoir by an open
window and watched him approach. She immediately guessed that it was
Runyon. The remarkable manner in which he had conquered the town had made
him an occasional subject for comment between Sylvia and Harboro, and he
had described the man to her.
Sylvia thought that the rider and his horse, with the sun on the man's
flashing blue eyes and the horse's golden dapples, constituted the
prettiest picture she had ever seen. Never before had she observed a man
who sat his horse with such an air of gallantry.
And as she regarded him appraisingly he glanced up at her, and there was
the slightest indication of pleased surprise in his glance. She withdrew
from the window; but when she reckoned that he was well past the house she
looked after him. He was looking back, and their eyes met again.
It is decidedly contrary to my conviction that either Sylvia or Runyon
consciously paved the way for future mischief when they indulged in that
second glance at each other. He was the sort of man who might have
attracted a second glance anywhere, and he would have been a poor fellow
if he had not considered Sylvia a sight worth turning his head for.
Nevertheless, Sylvia regretted that second glance. It had an effect upon
her heart which was far from soothing; and when she realized that her
heart seemed suddenly to hurt her, her conscience followed suit and hurt
her too. She closed the window righteously; though she was careful not to
do so until she felt sure that Runyon was beyond sight and hearing.
And then there came to Harboro the invitation out to the Quemado. The
belle of the settlement, a Mexican girl famed for her goodness and beauty,
was to be married to one of the Wayne brothers, ranchers on an immense
scale. The older of the two brothers was a conventional fellow enough,
with an American wife and a large family; but the younger brother was
known far and wide as a good-natured, pleasure-pursuing man who counted
every individual in Maverick County, Mexican and American alike, his
friend. It seemed that he was planning to settle down now, and he had won
the heart of a girl who seemed destined to make an admirable mate for one
of his nature-loving type, though his brother had mildly opposed the idea
of a Mexican girl as a member of the family.
The wedding was to be in the fashion of the bride's race. It was to be an
affair of some twenty-four hours' duration, counting the dancing and
feasting, and it was to take place in a sort of stockade which served the
Quemado settlement in lieu of a town hall or a public building of any
kind.
Invitations had been practically unlimited in number. There was to be
accommodation for hundreds. Many musicians had been engaged, and there was
to be a mountain of viands, a flood of beverages. It was to be the sort of
affair--democratic and broadly hospitable--which any honest man might have
enjoyed for an hour or so, at least; and it was in that category of events
which drew sightseers from a considerable distance. Doubtless there would
be casual guests from Spofford (the nearest railroad point on the Southern
Pacific) and from Piedras Negras, as well as from Eagle Pass and the
remote corners of Maverick County.
Harboro's invitation had come to him through one of his fellow employees
in the railroad offices--a Mexican who had spent four years in an American
university, and who was universally respected for his urbane manner and
kind heart. Valdez, his name was. He had heartily invited Harboro to go to
the wedding with him as his guest; and when he saw traces of some sort of
difficulty in Harboro's manner, he suggested, with the ready _simpatia_ of
his race, that doubtless there was a Mrs. Harboro also, and that he hoped
Mrs. Harboro, too, would honor him by accepting his invitation. He
promised that the affair would be enjoyable; that it would afford an
interesting study of a people whose social customs still included certain
pleasures which dated back to the Cortez invasion, as well as many of the
latest American diversions.
Harboro tactfully sought for more definite details; and when he gathered
that the affair would be too immense to be at all formal--that there would
be introductions only so far as separate groups of persons were concerned,
and that guests would be expected to come and go with perfect freedom, he
accepted the invitation gratefully. He had not forgotten the slight which
the two towns had put upon him and Sylvia, and he was not willing to
subject himself to snubs from people who had behaved badly. But he
realized that it was necessary for Sylvia to see people, to get away from
the house occasionally, to know other society than his own.
In truth, Harboro had been very carefully taking account of Sylvia's
needs. It seemed to him that she had not been really herself since that
Sunday morning when he had had to place his life in jeopardy. In a way,
she seemed to love him more passionately than ever before; but not so
light-heartedly, so gladly. Some elfin quality in her nature was gone, and
Harboro would gladly have brought it back again. She had listless moods;
and sometimes as they sat together he surprised a strange look in her
eyes. She seemed to be very far away from him; and he had on these
occasions the dark thought that even the substance of her body was gone,
too--that if he should touch her she would vanish in a cloud of dust, like
that woman in _Archibald Malmaison_, after she had remained behind the
secret panel, undiscovered, for a generation.
And so Harboro decided that he and Sylvia would go to the big affair at
the Quemado.
CHAPTER XVIII
There was an atmosphere of happiness and bustle in the house when the
night of the outing came. Harboro easily managed a half-holiday (it was a
Saturday), and he had ample time to make careful selection of horses for
Sylvia and himself at an Eagle Pass stable. He would have preferred a
carriage, but Sylvia had assumed that they would ride, and she plainly
preferred that mode of travel. She had been an excellent horsewoman in the
old San Antonio days.
Old Antonia was drawn out of her almost trance-like introspection. The
young senora was excited, as a child might have been, at the prospect of a
long ride through the chaparral, and she must not be disappointed. She had
fashioned a riding-habit and a very charming little jacket, and to these
the old woman made an addition of her own--a wonderful _rebozo_. She
brought it forth from among her own possessions and offered it
affectionately.
"But shall I need it?" asked Sylvia.
Very surely she might, she was assured. She would not wish to dance in her
riding costume, certainly. And it might turn chilly after nightfall. She
would find that other young women had such garments to protect them. And
this particular _rebozo_ was quite wonderful. She pointed out its
wonderful qualities. It was of so delicate a weave that it might have been
thrust into a man's pocket; yet, unfolded, it proved to be of the
dimensions of a blanket. And there was warmth in it. She folded it neatly
and explained how it might be tied to the pommel of the saddle. It would
not be in the way.
Sylvia affected much gratitude for such kindness and foresight, though she
thought it unlikely that she would need a wrap of any sort.
There was an early supper, Antonia contributing a quite unprecedented
alacrity; and then there was a cheerful call from the road. The horses had
been brought.
Sylvia ran out to inspect them; and Harboro, following, was not a little
amazed to perceive how important a matter she considered the sort of
horses he had engaged. Horses were not a mere medium of travel to Sylvia;
they were persons in the drama, and it was highly important that they
should fit into the various romantic demands of the occasion. Harboro had
stipulated that they should be safe horses, of good appearance; and the
boy from the stable, who had brought them, regarded them with beaming eyes
when Harboro examined them. The boy evidently looked at the affair much as
Sylvia did--as if the selection of the horse was far more important than
the determining of a destination.
"They seem to be all right," ventured Harboro.
"Yes, they are very good horses," agreed Sylvia; but she sighed a little.
Then there was the clatter of hoofs down the road, and Valdez appeared.
He, too, bestrode a decidedly prosaic-appearing animal; but when Harboro
exclaimed: "Ah, it's Valdez!" Sylvia became more interested in the man
than in the horse. It would be a pity to have as companion on a long ride
a man without merits. She was not very favorably impressed by Valdez. The
man acknowledged his introduction to her too casually. There were no
swift, confidential messages in his eyes. He seemed to be there for the
purpose of devoting himself to Harboro, not to her.
Antonia came out to be sure that the cherished _rebozo_ was tied to the
pommel of Sylvia's saddle, and then Harboro and Sylvia went back into the
house to get into their riding things. When they returned Harboro lifted
her to her saddle with a lack of skill which brought a frown to her brows.
But if she regretted the absence of certain established formalities in
this performance, she yielded herself immediately to the ecstasy of being
in the saddle. She easily assumed a pretty and natural attitude which made
Harboro marvel at her.
She watched when it came time for him to mount. The horse moved uneasily,
as horses have done since the beginning of time beneath the touch of
unpractised riders. Harboro gathered the reins in too firm a grip, and the
animal tried to pull away from him.
The boy from the stable sprang forward. "Let me hold his head," he said,
with a too obvious intimation that Harboro needed help.
"Never mind," said Harboro crisply; and he achieved his place in the
saddle by sheer force rather than by skill. Neither did he fall into an
easy position; though under ordinary circumstances this fact would not
have been noted. But Sylvia swiftly recalled the picture of a dun horse
with golden dapples, and of a rider whose very attitude in the saddle was
like a hymn of praise. And again she sighed.
She had seen Runyon often since the afternoon on which he had made his
first appearance on the Quemado Road. Seemingly, his duties took him out
that way often; and he never passed without glancing toward Sylvia's
window--and looking back again after he had passed. Nor had he often found
that place by the window vacant. In truth, it was one of Sylvia's
pleasures in those days to watch Runyon ride by; and the afternoon seemed
unduly filled with tedium when he failed to appear.
* * * * *
The little picture in front of Harboro's house dissolved. The three riders
turned their horses' heads to the north and rode away. Antonia stood at
the gate an instant and looked after them; but she did not derive any
pleasure from the sight. It was not a very gallant-appearing group. Sylvia
was riding between the two men, and all three were moving away in silence,
as if under constraint. The stable-boy went somewhat dispiritedly back
along the way he had come.
Sylvia was the first of the three riders to find herself. There were
certain things which made the springs of gladness within her stir. The
road was perfect. It stretched, smooth and white, away into the dusk. The
air was clear as on a mountain top, with just enough crispness to create
energy. Of wind there was scarcely a breath.
She was not pleased at all with Harboro's friend. He had assumed the
attitude of a deferential guide, and his remarks were almost entirely
addressed to Harboro. But she was not to be put out by so small a part of
the night's programme. After all, Valdez was not planning to return with
them, and they were likely to have the ride back by themselves. Valdez,
she had been informed, was to be a sort of best friend to the family of
the bride, and it would be his duty to remain for the next day's
ceremonies--the feasting and the marriage itself.
The dusk deepened, and a new light began to glow over the desert. A waxing
moon, half-full, rode near the zenith; and as the light of day receded it
took on a surprising brilliance. The road seemed in some strange way to be
more clearly defined than under the light of day. It became a winding path
to happiness. It began to beckon; to whisper of the delights of swift
races, of coquetries. It bade the riders laugh aloud and fling their cares
away. Occasionally it rose or dipped; and then through little valleys
between sand-dunes, or from low summits, the waters of the Rio Grande were
visible away to the left. A mist was clinging to the river, making more
mysterious its undisturbed progress through the desert.
After a long time the silence of the road was broken by the tinkle of a
small bell, and Valdez pulled his horse in and looked sharply away into a
mesquite-clad depression. Of old the road had been haunted by night-riders
who were willing enough to ride away with a traveller's possessions,
leaving the traveller staring sightlessly toward the sky. But Valdez
thought of no menaces in connection with the border folk. He was a
kind-hearted fellow, to whom all men were friends.
"Travellers, or a party camped for the night," he said interestedly, as if
the presence of other human beings must be welcomed gladly. He rode out
toward the sound of that tinkling bell, and in a moment he was guided more
certainly by the blaze of a camp-fire.
Harboro and Sylvia followed, and presently they were quite near to two
quaint old carts, heaped high with mesquite fagots destined for the
humbler hearths of Eagle Pass. Donkeys were tethered near by, and two
Mexicans, quite old and docile in appearance, came forward to greet the
intruders.
Valdez exchanged greetings with them. He knew something of the loneliness
of these people's lives, and the only religion he had was a belief that
one must be friendly to travellers. He produced a flask and invited the
old men to drink; and each did so with much nice formality and thoroughly
comprehensive toasts to Harboro and Sylvia.
Then Valdez replaced his flask in his pocket.
"God go with you!" he called as he went away, and "God go with you!" came
back the placid, kindly echo.
And Sylvia realized suddenly that it was a very good thing indeed to be
riding along that golden road through the desert.
CHAPTER XIX
Harboro became aware that some one was staring almost insolently at
Sylvia.
They were seated on one of the benches disposed around the side of the
stockade, and there was a great deal of noise all about them. In the open
space of the stockade a score or more of young men and women were dancing
to the music of violins and flutes and 'cellos. Nearly all who were not
dancing were talking or laughing. People who did not see one another for
months at a time were meeting and expressing their pleasure in staccato
showers of words.
There were other noises in the near-by corral, in which Valdez had put
their horses away with the other horses; and in still another place the
work of barbecuing large quantities of meat had begun. A pleasant odor
from the fire and the meat floated fitfully over the stockade. There was
still an almost singular absence of wind, and the night was warm for a
midwinter night.
Valdez was remaining for the time being with his guests, and he was making
friendly comments upon the scene.
"It's chiefly the young people who are dancing now," he observed. "But
you'll notice men and women of all ages around in the seats. They will
become intoxicated with the joy of it all--and maybe with other
things--later in the night, and then the dancing will begin in earnest."
For the moment an old type of fandango was being danced--a dance not
wholly unlike a quadrille, in that it admitted a number of persons to the
set and afforded opportunity for certain individual exhibitions of skill.
And then Harboro, glancing beyond Valdez, observed that a man of mature
years--a Mexican--was regarding Sylvia fixedly. He could not help
believing that there was something of insolence, too, in the man's gaze.
He lowered his voice and spoke to Valdez: "That man sitting by himself
over there, the fourth--the fifth--from us. Do you know him?"
Valdez turned casually and seemed to be taking in the general scene. He
brought his glance back to Harboro without seeming to have noticed
anything in particular.
"That's one of your most--er--conspicuous citizens," he said with a smile.
"His name is Mendoza--Jesus Mendoza. I'm surprised you've never met him."
"I never have," replied Harboro. He got up and took a new position so that
he sat between Sylvia and Mendoza, cutting off the view of her.
She had caught the name. She glanced interestedly at the man called Jesus
Mendoza. She could not remember ever to have seen him before; but she was
curious to know something about the man whose wife had been kind to her,
and whose life seemed somehow tragically lonely.
Mendoza made no sign of recognition of Harboro's displeasure. He arose
with a purposeless air and went farther along the stockade wall. Sylvia's
glance followed him. She had not taken in the fact that the man's
presence, or anything that he had done, had annoyed Harboro. She was
wondering what kind of man it was who had captivated and held the woman
who had filled her boudoir with passionate music, and who knew how to keep
an expressionless mask in place so skilfully that no one on the border
really knew her.
The fandango came to an end, and the smooth earth which constituted the
floor of the enclosure was vacated for an instant. Then the musicians
began a favorite Mexican waltz, and there was a scurrying of young men and
women for places. There was an eager movement along the rows of seats by
young fellows who sought partners for the waltz. Custom permitted any man
to seek any disengaged woman and invite her to dance with him.
"We ought to find Wayne and pay our respects," suggested Valdez. "He will
want to meet Mrs. Harboro, too, of course. Shall we look for him?"
They skirted the dancing space, leaving Sylvia with the assurance that
they would soon return. Harboro was noting, with a relief which he could
scarcely understand, that he was among strangers. The people of Eagle Pass
were almost wholly unrepresented as yet. The few Americans present seemed
to be casual sightseers or ranchmen neighbors of the bridegroom.
Left alone, Sylvia looked eagerly and a little wistfully toward the
dancers. Her muscles were yielding to the call of the violins. She was
being caught by the spirit of the occasion. Here she would have been
wholly in her element but for a vague fear that Harboro would not like her
to yield unrestrainedly to the prevailing mood. She wished some one would
ask her to dance. The waltz was wonderful, and there was plenty of room.
And then she looked up as a figure paused before her, and felt a thrill of
interest as she met the steady, inquiring gaze of Jesus Mendoza.
"Mrs. Harboro, I believe?" he asked. The voice was musical and the English
was perfect. He shrewdly read the glance she gave him and then held out
his hand.
"I heard you spoken of as Mr. Mendoza," she replied. "Your wife has been
very kind to me." She did not offer to make room for him on the seat
beside her. She had been relieved of her riding-habit, and she held
Antonia's _rebozo_ across her knees. She had decided not to use it just
yet. The night was still comfortably warm and she did not like to cover up
the pretty Chinese silk frock she was wearing. But as Mendoza glanced down
at her she placed the _rebozo_ over one arm as if she expected to rise.
Mendoza must have noted the movement. A gleam of satisfaction shone in his
inscrutable eyes--as when a current of air removes some of the ash from
above a live coal. "Will you dance with me?" he asked. "When the young
fellows overlook so charming a partner, surely an old man may become
bold."
She arose with warm responsiveness, yet with undefined misgivings. He had
an arm about her firmly in an instant, and when they had caught step with
the music he held her close to him. He was an excellent dancer. Sylvia was
instantly transported away from the world of petty discretions into a
realm of faultless harmony, of singing rhythm.
Her color was heightened, her eyes were sparking, when they returned to
their place. "It was nice," she said, releasing her partner's arm and
drawing apart. A purple-and-gold Chinese lantern glowed just above her
head. And then she realized that Harboro and Valdez had returned. There
was a stranger with them.
Harboro regarded her with unmistakable disapproval; but only for an
instant. When something of the childlike glory of her face departed under
the severe expression of his eyes, he relented immediately. "Are you
enjoying yourself, Sylvia?" he inquired gently, and then: "I want you to
meet our host."
Wayne shook hands with her heartily. "You're a very kind lady to get right
into our merrymaking," he said, "though I hope you'll save a dance for me
a little later."
They all went to see the bride-to-be then. She was hidden away in one of
the _adobe_ houses of the settlement near by, receiving congratulations
from friends. She was a dark little creature, nicely demure and almost
boisterously joyous by turns.
But later Sylvia danced with Wayne, and he thought of a dozen, a score, of
young fellows who would wish to meet her. He brought them singly and in
groups, and they all asked to dance with her. She was immediately popular.
Happiness radiated from her, and she added to the warmth of every heart
that came within her influence.
Harboro watched her with wonder. She was like a flame; but he saw her as a
sacred flame.
CHAPTER XX
Sylvia was resting. She had not danced to her heart's content, but she had
become weary, and she threw Antonia's _rebozo_ over her shoulders and
leaned back in her seat. For the moment Harboro and Valdez and Wayne were
grouped near her, standing. The girl Wayne was to marry the next day had
made her formal appearance now and was the centre of attention. She was
dancing with one after another, equally gracious toward all.
Then Sylvia heard Valdez and Wayne cry out simultaneously:
"Runyon!"
And then both men hurried away toward the entrance to the stockade.
Sylvia drew her wrap more snugly about her. "Runyon!" she repeated to
herself. She closed her eyes as if she were pondering--or recuperating.
And she knew that from the beginning she had hoped that Runyon would
appear.
"It's that inspector fellow," explained Harboro, without looking at her.
His tone was not at all contemptuous, though there was a note of amusement
in it. "He seems a sort of Prince Charming that everybody takes a liking
to." Wayne and Valdez were already returning, with Runyon between them.
They pretended to lead him captive and his face radiated merriment and
good nature. He walked with the elasticity of a feline creature; he
carried his body as if it were the depository of precious jewels. Never
was there a man to whom nature had been kinder--nor any man who was more
graciously proud of what nature had done for him. For the occasion he was
dressed in a suit of fawn-colored corduroy which fitted him as the rind
fits the apple.
"Just a little too much so," Harboro was thinking, ambiguously enough,
certainly, as Runyon was brought before him and Sylvia. Runyon
acknowledged the introduction with a cheerful urbanity which was quite
without discrimination as between Harboro and Sylvia. Quite impartially he
bestowed a flashing smile upon both the man and the woman. And Harboro
began vaguely to understand. Runyon was popular, not because he was a
particularly good fellow, but because he was so supremely cheerful. And he
seemed entirely harmless, despite the glamour of him. After all, he was
not a mere male coquette. He was in love with the world, with life.
Wayne was reproaching him for not having come sooner. He should have been
there for the beginning, he said.
And Runyon's response was characteristic enough, perhaps: "Everything is
always beginning."
There was gay laughter at this, though the meaning of it must have been
obscure to all save Sylvia. The words sounded like a song to her. It was a
song she had wished to sing herself. But she was reflecting, despite her
joy in the saying: "No, everything is always ending."
Runyon was borne away like a conqueror. He mingled with this group and
that. His presence was like a stimulant. His musical voice penetrated
everywhere; his laughter arose now and again. He did not look back toward
Sylvia. She had the strange feeling that even yet they had not met--they
had not met, yet had known each other always. He ignored her, she felt, as
one ignores the best friend, the oldest associate, on the ground that no
explanations are necessary, no misunderstanding possible.
Harboro sat down beside Sylvia. When he spoke there was a note of easy
raillery in his voice. "They're getting him to sing," he said, and Sylvia,
bringing her thoughts back from immeasurable distances, realized that the
dancing space had been cleared, and that the musicians had stopped playing
and were engaged in a low-spoken conference with Runyon. He nodded toward
them approvingly and then stepped out into the open, a little distance
from them.
The very sky listened; the desert became dumb. The orchestra played a
prelude and then Runyon began to sing. The words came clear and resonant:
"By the blue Alsatian mountains
Dwelt a maiden young and fair...."
Runyon sang marvellously. Although he was accustomed to the confines of
drawing-rooms with low ceilings, he seemed quite at home on this earthen
floor of the desert, with the moon sinking regretfully beyond the top of
the stockade. He was perfectly at ease. His hands hung so naturally by his
sides that they seemed invisible.
"But the blue Alsatian mountains
Seem to watch and wait alway."
The song of a woman alone, and then another, "A Warrior Bold," and then
"Alice, Where Art Thou?" And finally "Juanita." They were songs his
audience would appreciate. And all those four songs of tragedy he sang
without banishing the beaming smile from his eyes. He might have been
relating the woes of marionettes.
He passed from the scene to the sound of clapping hands, and when he
returned almost immediately after that agreeable theatrical exit, he began
to dance. He danced with the bride-to-be, and then with the bridesmaids.
He found obscure girls who seemed to have been forgotten--who might be
said to have had no existence before he found them--and danced with them
with natural gallantry. He came finally to Sylvia, and she drifted away
with him, her hand resting on his shoulder like a kiss.
"I thought you would never come to me," she said in a lifeless voice.
"You knew I would," was the response.
Her lips said nothing more. But her heart was beating against him; it was
speaking to him with clarity, with eloquence.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART V
A WIND FROM THE NORTH
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXI
Harboro and Sylvia were taking leave of Wayne and Valdez. Their horses had
been brought and they were in their saddles, their horses' heads already
in the direction of Eagle Pass. Valdez was adding final instructions
touching the road.
"If you're not quite sure of the way I'll get some one to ride in with
you," said Wayne; but Harboro would not listen to this.
"I'll not lose the way," he declared; though there remained in his mind a
slight dubiousness on this point. The moon would be down before the ride
was finished, and there were not a few roads leading away from the main
thoroughfare.
Then, much to Harboro's surprise, Runyon appeared, riding away from the
corral on his beautiful dun horse. He overheard the conference between
Harboro and the others, and he made himself one of the group with pleasant
familiarity.
"Ah, Harboro, must you be going, too?" he inquired genially; and then: "If
you don't mind, I'll ride with you. It's rather a lonely road at this
hour, and I've an idea I know the way better than you."
Harboro's eyes certainly brightened with relief. "It's good of you to
offer," he declared heartily. "By all means, ride with us." He turned
toward Sylvia, plainly expecting her to second the invitation.
"It will be much pleasanter," she said; though it seemed to Harboro that
her words lacked heartiness. She was busying herself with the little
package at her pommel--old Antonia's _rebozo_.
"And you must all remember that there's one more latch-string out here at
the Quemado," said Wayne, "whenever you feel inclined to ride this way."
They were off then. The sound of violins and the shuffle of feet became
faint, and the last gay voice died in the distance. Only now and then,
when the horses' feet fell in unison, there drifted after them the note of
a violin--like a wind at night in an old casement. And then the three
riders were presently aware of being quite alone on a windless waste, with
a sentinel yucca standing on a distant height here and there between them
and the descending moon, and distant groups of mesquite wreathing
themselves in the silver mist of early morning. It had been a little past
midnight when they left the Quemado.
Sylvia, riding between the two men, was so obviously under some sort of
constraint that Harboro sought to arouse her. "I'm afraid you overtaxed
yourself, Sylvia," he suggested. "It's all been pleasant, but
rather--heroic." It was an effort for him to speak lightly and cheerfully.
The long ride out to the Quemado was a thing to which he was not
accustomed, and the merrymaking had seemed to him quite monotonous after
an hour or two. Even the midnight supper had not seemed a particularly gay
thing to him. He was not quite a youth any more, and he had never been
young, it seemed to him, in the way in which these desert folk were young.
Joy seemed to them a kind of intoxication--as if it were not to be
indulged in save at long intervals.
"I didn't overtax myself," replied Sylvia. "The ending of things is never
very cheerful. I suppose that's what I feel just now--as if, at the end,
things don't seem quite worth while, after all."
Harboro held to his point. "You _are_ tired," he insisted.
Runyon interposed cheerfully. "And there are always the beginnings," he
said. "We're just beginning a new day and a fine ride." He looked at
Harboro as if inviting support and added, in a lower tone: "And I'd like
to think we were beginning a pleasant acquaintance."
Harboro nodded and his dark eyes beamed with pleasure. It had seemed to
him that this final clause was the obvious thing for Runyon to say, and he
had waited to see if he would say it. He did not suppose that he and
Sylvia would see a great deal of Runyon in Eagle Pass, where they were not
invited to entertainments of any kind, but there might be occasional
excursions into the country, and Runyon seemed to be invited everywhere.
But Sylvia refused to respond to this. The pagan in her nature reasserted
itself, and she felt resentful of Runyon's affable attitude toward
Harboro. The attraction which she and Runyon exerted toward each other was
not a thing to be brought within the scope of a conventionally friendly
relationship. Its essence was of the things furtive and forbidden. It
should be fought savagely and kept within bounds, even if it could never
be conquered, or it should be acknowledged and given way to in secret. Two
were company and three a crowd in this case. She might have derived a
great deal of tumultuous joy from Runyon's friendship for her if it could
have been manifested in secret, but she could feel only a sense of
duplicity and shame if his friendship included Harboro, too. The wolf does
not curry favor with the sheep-dog when it hungers for a lamb. Such was
her creed. In brief, Sylvia had received her training in none of the
social schools. She was a daughter of the desert--a bit of that jetsam
which the Rio Grande leaves upon its arid banks as it journeys stealthily
to the sea.
They were riding along in silence half an hour later, their horses at a
walk, when the stillness of the night was rudely shattered by the sound of
iron wheels grinding on stone, and in an instant a carriage could be seen
ascending a branch road which arose out of a near-by _arroyo_.
The riders checked their horses and waited: not from curiosity, but in
response to the prompting of a neighborly instinct. Travellers in the
desert are never strangers to one another.
The approaching carriage proved to be an impressively elegant affair, the
locality considered, drawn by two horses which were clearly not of the
range variety. And then further things were revealed: a coachman sat on
the front seat, and a man who wore an air of authority about him like a
kingly robe sat alone on the back seat. Then to Harboro, sitting high with
the last rays of the moon touching his face, came the hearty hail:
"Harboro! How are you, Harboro?"
It was the voice of the General Manager.
Harboro turned his horse so that he stood alongside the open carriage. He
leaned over the wheel and shook hands with the General Manager. The
encounter seemed to him to add the one desirable touch of familiarity to
the night ride. He explained his presence away out on the Quemado Road;
and the General Manager also explained. He had been spending the evening
with friends on a near-by ranch. His family were remaining for the night,
but it had been necessary for him to return to Piedras Negras.
Harboro looked about for his companions, intending to introduce them. But
they were a little too far away to be included comfortably in such a
ceremony. For some reason Runyon had chosen to ride on a few steps.
"How many are you?" inquired the General Manager, with a note of
purposefulness in his voice. "Three? That's good. You get in with me. Tie
your horse behind. Two can ride abreast more comfortably than three, and
you and I can talk. I've never felt so lonesome in my life." He moved over
to one side of the seat, and looked back as if he expected to help in
getting Harboro's horse tied behind the carriage. His invitation did not
seem at all like a command, but it did seem to imply that a refusal would
be out of the question.
The arrangement seemed quite simple and desirable to Harboro. He was not a
practised horseman, and he was beginning to feel the effect of saddle
strain. Moreover, he had realized a dozen times during the past hour that
two could ride easily side by side on the desert road, while a third rider
was continually getting in the way.
He called to Runyon cheerfully: "You two go on ahead--I'm going to ride
the rest of the way in."
"Fine!" called back Runyon. To Runyon everything always seemed precisely
ideal--or at least such was the impression he created.
It became a little cavalcade now, the riders leading the way. Riders and
carriage kept close together for a time. Sylvia remained silent, but she
felt the presence of her companion as a deliciously palpable thing.
Harboro and the General Manager were talking, Harboro's heavy tones
alternating at unequal intervals with the crisp, penetrating voice of the
General Manager--a voice dry with years, but vital nevertheless.
After a time the horses in the carriage broke into a rhythmic trot. In the
darkness Runyon's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "We'll have to have a
little canter, or we'll get run over," he said gayly, and he and Sylvia
gave rein to their horses.
In a very few minutes they had put a distance of more than a hundred yards
between them and the occupants of the carriage.
"This is more like it!" exclaimed Runyon exultantly. Tone and words alike
implied all too strongly his satisfaction at being rid of Harboro--and
Sylvia perversely resented the disloyalty of it, the implication of
intrigue carried on behind a mask.
And then she forgot her scruples. The boy who had chosen her horse for her
had known what he was doing, after all. The animal galloped with a dashing
yet easy movement which was delightful. She became exhilarated by a number
of things. The freedom of movement, the occasional touch of her knee
against Runyon's, the mysterious vagueness of the road, now that the moon
had gone down.
Perhaps they both forgot themselves for a time, and then Sylvia checked
her horse with a laugh in which there was a sound of dismay. "We ought to
wait for them to catch up," she said.
Runyon was all solicitude immediately. "We seem to have outdistanced them
completely," he said. They turned their horses about so that they faced
the north. "I can't even hear them," he added. Then, with the
irrepressible optimism which was his outstanding quality, he added
laughingly: "They'll be along in a few minutes. But wasn't it a fine
ride?"
She had not framed an answer to this question when her mind was diverted
swiftly into another channel. She held her head high and her body became
slightly rigid. She glanced apprehensively at Runyon and realized that he,
too, was listening intently.
A faint roar which seemed to come from nowhere fell on their ears. The
darkness swiftly deepened, so that the man and the woman were almost
invisible to each other. That sinister roaring sound came closer, as if
mighty waters were rolling toward them far away. The northern sky became
black, as if a sable curtain had been let down.
And then upon Sylvia's startled senses the first breath of the norther
broke. The little winds, running ahead as an advance-guard of the tempest,
flung themselves upon her and caught at her hair and her riding-habit.
They chilled her.
"A norther!" she exclaimed, and Runyon called back through the whistle of
the winds: "It's coming!"
His voice had the quality of a battle-cry, joined to the shouts of the
descending storm.
CHAPTER XXII
Fortunately, Runyon knew what to do in that hour of earth's desolation and
his own and Sylvia's peril.
He sprang from his horse and drew his bridle-rein over his arm; and then
he laid a firm hand on the bridle of Sylvia's horse. His own animal he
could trust in such an emergency; but the other had seemed to lose in
height and he knew that it was trembling. It might make a bolt for it at
any moment.
"Keep your seat," he shouted to Sylvia, and she realized that he was
leading both horses away from the road. She caught glimpses of his
wraith-like figure as the whirling dust-cloud that enveloped them thinned
occasionally.
She knew that he had found a clump of mesquite after a faltering progress
of perhaps fifty yards. Their progress was checked, then, and she knew he
was at the hitching straps, and that he was tethering the animals to the
trees. The powdered dust and sand were stinging her face, and the cold
wind was chilling her; yet she felt a strange elation as she realized that
she was here alone with Runyon, and that he was managing the situation
with deftness and assurance.
She felt his hand groping for her then, and, leaning forward, she was
borne to the ground. He guided her to a little depression and made her
understand that she was to sit down. He had removed his saddle-blanket and
spread it on the earth, forming a rug for her. "The _rebozo_?" he cried in
her ear.
"It's fastened to the pommel," she called back.
She could neither see nor hear him; but soon he was touching her on the
shoulders. The _rebozo_ was flung out on the wind so that it unfolded, and
he was spreading it about her.
She caught his hand and drew him close so that she could make herself
heard. "There's room under it for two," she said. She did not release his
hand until he had sat down by her. Together they drew the _rebozo_ about
them like a little tent.
Immediately they were transformed into two sheltered and undismayed Arabs.
The _rebozo_ was pinioned behind them and under their feet. The finest
dust could not penetrate its warp and woof. The wind was as a mighty hand,
intent upon bearing them to earth, but it could not harm them.
Sylvia heard Runyon's musical laugh. He bent his head close to hers.
"We're all right now," he said.
He had his arm across her shoulder and was drawing her close. "It's going
to be cold," he said, as if in explanation. He seemed as joyous as a
boy--as innocent as a boy. She inclined her head until it rested on his
shoulder, so that both occupied little more than the space of one. The
storm made this intimacy seem almost natural; it made it advantageous,
too.
And so the infinite sands swarmed over them, and the norther shrieked in
their ears, and the earth's blackness swallowed them up until they seemed
alone as a man and a woman never had been alone before.
The _rebozo_ sagged about them at intervals, weighted down with the dust;
but again it rippled like a sail when an eccentric gust swept away the
accumulated sediment.
The desert was a thing of blank darkness. A protected torch would have
been invisible to one staring toward it a dozen steps away. A temporary
death had invaded the world. There was neither movement nor sound save the
frenzied dance of dust and the whistle of winds which seemed shunted
southward from the north star.
Runyon's hand travelled soothingly from Sylvia's shoulder to her cheek. He
held her to him with a tender, eloquent pressure. He was the man, whose
duty it was to protect; and she was the woman, in need of protection.
And Sylvia thought darkly of the ingenuities of Destiny which set at
naught the petty steps which the proprieties have taken--as if the gods
were never so diverted as when they were setting the stage for tragedy, or
as if the struggles and defeats of all humankind were to them but a proper
comedy.
But Runyon was thinking how rare a thing it is for a man and a woman to be
quite alone in the world; how the walls of houses listen, and windows are
as eyes which look in as well as out; how highways forever hold their
malicious gossips to note the movements of every pair who do not walk
sedately; how you may mount the stairway of a strange house--and encounter
one who knows you at the top, and who laughs in his sleeve; how you may
emerge from the house in which you have felt safe from espionage--only to
encounter a familiar talebearer at the door.
But here indeed were he and Sylvia alone.
CHAPTER XXIII
Before the next spring came two entirely irreconcilable discoveries were
made in Eagle Pass.
The first of these was made by certain cronies of the town who found their
beer flat if there was not a bit of gossip to go with it, and it was to
the effect that the affair between Sylvia and Runyon was sure to end
disastrously if it did not immediately end otherwise.
The other discovery was made by Harboro, and it was to the effect that
Sylvia had at last blossomed out as a perfectly ideal wife.
A certain listlessness had fallen from her like a shadow. Late in the
winter--it was about the time of the ride to the Quemado, Harboro thought
it must have been--a change had come over her. There was a glad
tranquillity about her now which was as a tonic to him. She was no longer
given to dark utterances which he could not understand. She was devoted to
him in a gentle, almost maternal fashion--studying his needs and moods
alertly and affectionately. Something of the old tempestuous ardor was
gone, but that, of course, was natural. Harboro did not know the phrases
of old Antonia or he would have said: "It is the time of embers." She was
softly solicitous for him; still a little wistful at times, to be sure;
but then that was the natural Sylvia. It was the quality which made her
more wonderful than any other woman in the world.
And Sylvia? Sylvia had found a new avenue of escape from that tedium which
the Sylvias of the world have never been able to endure.
Not long after that ride to the Quemado a horse had been brought to her
front gate during a forenoon when Harboro was over the river at work.
Unassisted she had mounted it and ridden away out the Quemado Road. A mile
out she had turned toward the Rio Grande, and had kept to an indistinct
trail until she came to a hidden _adobe_ hut, presided over by an ancient
Mexican.
To this isolated place had come, too, Runyon--Runyon, whose dappled horse
had been left hidden in the mesquite down by the river, where the man's
duties lay.
And here, in undisturbed seclusion, they had continued that intimacy which
had begun on the night of the norther. They were like two children,
forbidden the companionship of each other, who find something particularly
delicious in an unguessed rendezvous. All that is delightful in a
temporary escape from the sense of responsibility was theirs. Their
encounters were as gay and light as that of two poppies in the sun, flung
together by a friendly breeze. They were not conscious of wronging any
one--not more than a little, at least--though the ancient genius of the
place, a Mexican who had lost an eye in a jealous fight in his youth, used
to shake his head sombrely when he went away from his hut, leaving them
alone; and there was anxiety in the glance of that one remaining eye as he
kept a lookout over the trail, that his two guests might not be taken by
surprise.
Sometimes they remained in the hut throughout the entire noon-hour, and on
these occasions their finely discreet and taciturn old host placed food
before them. Goat's milk was brought from an earthenware vessel having its
place on a wooden hook under the eaves of the house; and there was a
delicious stew of dried goat's flesh, served with a sauce which contained
just a faint flavor of peppers and garlic and herbs. And there was _pan_,
as delicate as wafers, and coffee.
Time and again, throughout the winter, the same horse made its appearance
at Sylvia's gate at the same hour, and Sylvia mounted and rode away out
the Quemado Road and disappeared, returning early in the afternoon.
If you had asked old Antonia about these movements of her mistress she
would have said: "Does not the senora need the air?" And she would have
added: "She is young." And finally she would have said: "I know nothing."
It is a matter of knowledge that occasionally Sylvia would meet the boy
from the stable when he arrived at the gate and instruct him gently to
take the horse away, as she would not require it that day; and I am not
sure she was not trying still to fight the battle which she had already
lost; but this, of course, is mere surmise.
And then a little cog in the machine slipped.
A ranchman who lived out on the north road happened to be in Eagle Pass
one evening as Harboro was passing through the town on his way home from
work. The ranchman's remark was entirely innocent, but rather unfortunate.
"A very excellent horsewoman, Mrs. Harboro," he remarked, among other
things.
Harboro did not understand.
"I met her riding out the road this forenoon," explained the ranchman.
"Oh, yes!" said Harboro. "Yes, she enjoys riding. I'm sorry, on her
account, that I haven't more liking for it myself."
He went on up the hill, pondering. It was strange that Sylvia had not told
him that she meant to go for a ride. She usually went into minute details
touching her outings.
He expected her to mention the matter when he got home, but she did not do
so. She seemed disposed not to confide in him throughout the entire
evening, and finally he remarked with an air of suddenly remembering: "And
so you went riding to-day?"
She frowned and lowered her eyes. She seemed to be trying to remember.
"Why, yes," she said, after a moment's silence. "Yes, I felt rather dull
this morning. You know I enjoy riding."
"I know you do," he responded cordially. "I'd like you to go often, if
you'll be careful not to take any chances." He smiled at the recollection
of the outcome of that ride of theirs to the Quemado, and of the
excitement with which they compared experiences when they got back home.
Sylvia and Runyon had made a run for it and had got home before the worst
of it came, she had said. But Harboro and the General Manager had waited
until the storm had spent itself, both sitting in the carriage with their
handkerchiefs pressed to their nostrils, and their coats drawn up about
their heads. He remembered, too, how the dust-fog had lingered in the air
until well into the next day, like a ghost which could not be laid.
He brought himself back from the recollection of that night. "If you like,
I'll have the horse sent every day--or, better still, you shall have a
horse of your own."
"No," replied Sylvia, "I might not care to go often." She had let her hair
down and was brushing it thoughtfully. "The things which are ordered for
you in advance are always half spoiled," she added. "It's better to think
of things all of a sudden, and do them."
He looked at her in perplexity. That wasn't his way, certainly; but then
she was still occasionally something of an enigma to him. He tried to
dismiss the matter from his mind. He was provoked that it came back again
and again, as if there were something extraordinary about it, something
mysterious. "She only went for a ride," he said to himself late at night,
as if he were defending her.
CHAPTER XXIV
A month later Harboro came home one afternoon to find an envelope
addressed to him on the table in the front hall.
He was glad afterward that Sylvia was engaged with Antonia in the
dining-room, and did not have a chance to observe him as he examined the
thing which that envelope contained.
It was a statement from one of the stables of the town, and it set forth
the fact that Harboro was indebted to the stable for horse-hire. There
were items, showing that on seven occasions during the past month a horse
had been placed at the disposal of Mrs. Harboro.
Harboro was almost foolishly bewildered. Sylvia had gone riding seven
times during the month, and she had not even mentioned the matter to him!
Clearly here was a mystery. Her days were not sufficiently full of events
to make seven outings a matter of little consequence to her. She was not
given to reticence, even touching very little things. She had some reason
for not wishing him to know of these movements of hers.
But this conclusion was absurd, of course. She would understand that the
bill for services rendered would eventually come to him. He was relieved
when that conclusion came to him. No, she was not seeking to make a
mystery out of the matter. Still, the question recurred: Why had she
avoided even the most casual mention of these outings?
He replaced the statement in the envelope thoughtfully and put it away in
his pocket. He was trying to banish the look of dark introspection from
his eyes when Sylvia came in from the kitchen and gave a little cry of joy
at sight of him. She _was_ happy at the sight of him--Harboro knew it. Yet
the cloud did not lift from his brow as he drew her to him and kissed her
slowly. She was keeping a secret from him. The conclusion was
inescapable.
His impulse was to face the thing frankly, affectionately. He had only to
ask her to explain and the thing would be cleared up. But for the first
time he found it difficult to be frank with her. If the thing he felt was
not a sense of injury, it was at least a sense of mystery: of resentment,
too. He could not deny that he felt resentful. At the foundation of his
consciousness there was, perhaps, the belief and the hope that she would
explain voluntarily. He felt that something precious would be saved to him
if she confided in him without prompting, without urging. If he waited,
perhaps she would do so. His sense of delicacy forbade him to inquire
needlessly into her personal affairs. Surely she was being actuated by
some good reason. That she was committed to an evil course was a suspicion
which he would have rejected as monstrous. Such a suspicion did not occur
to him.
It did not occur to him until the next day, when a bolt fell.
He received another communication from the stable. It was an apology for
an error that had been made. The stableman found that he had no account
against Mr. Harboro, but that one which should have been made out against
Mr. Runyon had been sent to him by mistake.
Quite illogically, perhaps, Harboro jumped to the conclusion that the
service had really been rendered to Sylvia, as the original statement had
said, and that for some obscure reason it was to be charged against
Runyon. But even now it was not a light that he saw. Rather, he was
enveloped in darkness. He heard the envelope crackle in his clinched hand.
He turned and climbed the stairs heavily, so that he need not encounter
Sylvia until he had had time to think, until he could understand.
Sylvia was taking rides, and Runyon was paying for them. That was to say,
Runyon was the moving factor in the arrangement. Therefore, Runyon was
deriving a pleasure from these rides of Sylvia's. How? Why, he must be
riding with her. They must be meeting by secret appointment.
Harboro shook his head fiercely, like a bull that is being tortured and
bewildered by the matadors. No, no! That wasn't the way the matter was to
be explained. That could indicate only one thing--a thing that was
impossible.
He began at the beginning again. The whole thing had been an error. Sylvia
had been rendered no services at all. Runyon had engaged a horse for his
own use, and the bill had simply been sent to the wrong place. That was
the rational explanation. It was a clear and sufficient explanation.
Harboro held his head high, as if his problem had been solved. He held
himself erect, as if a burden had been removed. He had been almost at the
point of making a fool of himself, he reflected. Reason asserted itself
victoriously. But something which speaks in a softer, more insistent voice
than reason kept whispering to him: "Runyon and Sylvia! Runyon and
Sylvia!"