happy man with whom all is well. But old Antonia looked at him darkly. Her
old woman's sense told her that he was acting a part, and that he was
overacting it. From the depths of the kitchen she regarded him as he sat
at the table. She lifted her eyes like one who hears a signal-cry when he
said casually:
"Have you gone riding any more since that other time, Sylvia?"
Sylvia hesitated. "'That other time'" she repeated vaguely.... "Oh, yes,
once since then--once or twice. Why?"
"I believe you haven't mentioned going."
"Haven't I? It doesn't seem a very important thing. I suppose I've thought
you wouldn't be interested. I don't believe you and I look at a
horseback-ride alike. I think perhaps you regard it as quite an event."
He pondered that deliberately. "You're right," he said. "And ... about
paying for the horse. I'm afraid your allowance isn't liberal enough to
cover such things. I must increase it next month. Have you been paying out
of your own pocket?"
"Yes--yes, of course. It amounts to very little."
His sombre glance travelled across the table to her. She was looking at
her plate. She had the appearance of a child encountering a small obstacle
in the way of a coveted pleasure. There was neither guilt nor alarm in her
bearing, but only an irksome discomfort.
But old Antonia withdrew farther within the kitchen. She took her place
under a picture of the Virgin and murmured a little prayer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART VI
THE GUEST-CHAMBER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXV
It was remarked in the offices of the Mexican International Railroad about
this time that something had gone wrong with Harboro. He made mistakes in
his work. He answered questions at random--or he did not answer them at
all. He passed people in the office and on the street without seeing them.
But worse than all this, he was to be observed occasionally staring darkly
into the faces of his associates, as if he would read something that had
been concealed from him. He came into one room or another abruptly, as if
he expected to hear his name spoken.
His associates spoke of his strange behavior--being careful only to wait
until he had closed his desk for the day. They were men of different minds
from Harboro's. He considered their social positions matters which
concerned them only; but they had duly noted the fact that he had been
taken up in high places and then dropped without ceremony. They knew of
his marriage. Certain rumors touching it had reached them from the
American side.
They were rather thrilled at the prospect of a denouement to the story of
Harboro's eccentricity. They used no harsher word than that. They liked
him and they would have deplored anything in the nature of a misfortune
overtaking him. But human beings are all very much alike in one
respect--they find life a tedious thing as a rule and they derive a
stimulus from the tale of downfall, even of their friends. They are not
pleased that such things happen; they are merely interested, and they
welcome the break in the monotony of events.
As for Harboro, he was a far more deeply changed man than they suspected.
He was making a heroic effort in those days to maintain a normal bearing.
It was only the little interstices of forgetfulness which enabled any one
to read even a part of what was taking place in his thoughts.
He seemed unchanged to Sylvia, save that he admitted being tired or having
a headache, when she sought to enliven him, to draw him up to her own
plane of merriment. He was reminding himself every hour of the night and
day that he must make no irretrievable blunder, that he must do nothing to
injure his wife needlessly. Appearances were against her, but possibly
that was all.
Yet revelations were being made to him. Facts were arraying themselves and
marching before him for review. Suspicion was pounding at him like a body
blow that is repeated accurately and relentlessly in the same vulnerable
spot.
Why had Sylvia prevented him from knowing anything about her home life?
Why had she kept him and her father apart? Why had Eagle Pass ceased to
know him, immediately after his marriage? And Peterson, that day they had
gone across the river together--why had Peterson behaved so clownishly,
following his familiar greeting of Sylvia? Peterson hadn't behaved like
himself at all. And why had she been so reluctant to tell him about the
thing that had happened in her father's house? Was that the course an
innocent woman would have pursued?
What was the explanation of these things? Was the world cruel by choice to
a girl against whom nothing more serious could be charged than that she
was obscure and poor?
These reflections seemed to rob Harboro of the very marrow in his bones.
He would have fought uncomplainingly to the end against injustice. He
would cheerfully have watched the whole world depart from him, if he had
had the consciousness of righting in a good cause. He had thought
scornfully of the people who had betrayed their littleness by ignoring
him. But what if they had been right, and his had been the offense against
them?
He found it almost unbearably difficult to walk through the streets of
Eagle Pass and on across the river. What had been his strength was now his
weakness. His loyalty to a good woman had been his armor; but what would
right-thinking people say of his loyalty to a woman who had deceived him,
and who felt no shame in continuing to deceive him, despite his efforts to
surround her with protection and love?
And yet ... what did he know against Sylvia? She had gone riding--that was
all. That, and the fact that she had made a secret of the matter, and had
perhaps given him a false account of the manner in which she had paid for
her outings.
He must make sure of much more than he already knew. Again and again he
clinched his hands in the office and on the street. He would not wrong the
woman he loved. He would not accept the verdict of other people. He would
have positive knowledge of his own before he acted.
CHAPTER XXVI
Harboro had admitted a drop of poison to his veins and it was rapidly
spreading to every fibre of his being. He was losing the power to think
clearly where Sylvia was concerned. Even the most innocent acts of hers
assumed new aspects; and countless circumstances which in the past had
seemed merely puzzling to him arose before him now charged with deadly
significance.
His days became a torture to him. He could not lose himself in a crowd,
and draw something of recuperation from a sense of obscurity, a feeling
that he was not observed. He seemed now to be cruelly visible to every man
and woman on both sides of the river. Strangers who gave more than the
most indifferent glance to his massive strength and romantic, swarthy
face, with its fine dark eyes and strong lines and the luxuriant black
mustache, became to him furtive witnesses to his shame--secret
commentators upon his weakness. He recalled pictures of men held in
pillories for communities to gibe at--and he felt that his position was
not unlike theirs. He had at times a frantic realization that he had
unconquerable strength, but that by some ironic circumstance he could not
use it.
If his days were sapping his vigor and driving him to the verge of
madness, his nights were periods of a far more destructive torture. He had
resolved that Sylvia should see no change in him; he was trying to
persuade himself that there _was_ no change in him. Yet at every tenderly
inquiring glance of hers he felt that the blood must start forth on his
forehead, that body and skull must burst from the tumult going on within
them.
It was she who brought matters to a climax.
"Harboro, you're not well," she said one evening when her hand about his
neck had won no response beyond a heavy, despairing gesture of his arm.
His eyes were fixed on vacancy and were not to be won away from their
unseeing stare.
"You're right, Sylvia," he said, trying to arouse himself. "I've been
trying to fight against it, but I'm all out of sorts."
"You must go away for a while," she said. She climbed on his knee and
assumed a prettily tyrannical manner. "You've been working too hard. They
must give you a vacation, and you must go entirely away. For two weeks at
least."
The insidious poison that was destroying him spread still further with a
swift rush at that suggestion. She would be glad to have him out of the
way for a while. Were not unfaithful wives always eager to send their
husbands away? He closed his eyes resolutely and his hands gripped the
arms of his chair. Then a plan which he had been vaguely shaping took
definite form. She was really helping him to do the thing he felt he must
do.
He turned to her heavily like a man under the influence of a drug. "Yes,
I'll go away for a while," he agreed. "I'll make arrangements right
away--to-morrow."
"And I'll go with you," she said with decision, "and help to drive the
evil hours away." She had his face between her hands and was smiling
encouragingly.
The words were like a dagger thrust. Surely, they were proof of fidelity,
of affection, and in his heart he had condemned her.
"Would you like to go with me, Sylvia?" he asked. His voice had become
husky.
She drew back from him as if she were performing a little rite. Her eyes
filled with tears. "Harboro!" she cried, "do you need to ask me that?" Her
fingers sought his face and traveled with ineffable tenderness from line
to line. It was as if she were playing a little love-lyric of her own upon
a beautiful harp. And then she fell upon his breast and pressed her cheek
to his. "Harboro!" she cried again. She had seen only the suffering in his
eyes.
He held her in his arms and leaned back with closed eyes. A hymn of praise
was singing through all his being. She loved him! she loved him! And then
that hymn of praise sank to pianissimo notes and was transformed by some
sort of evil magic to something shockingly different. It was as if a
skillful yet unscrupulous musician were constructing a revolting medley,
placing the sacred song in juxtaposition with the obscene ditty. And the
words of the revolting thing were "Runyon and Sylvia! Runyon and Sylvia!"
He opened his eyes resolutely. "We're making too much over a little
matter," he said with an obvious briskness which hid the cunning in his
mind. "I suppose I've been sticking to things too close. I'll take a run
down the line and hunt up some of the old fellows--down as far as Torreon
at least. I'll rough it a little. I suspect things have been a little too
soft for me here. Maybe some of the old-timers will let me climb up into a
cab and run an engine again. That's the career for a man--with the
distance rushing upon you, and your engine swaying like a bird in the air!
That will fix me!"
He got up with an air of vigor, helping Sylvia to her feet. "It wouldn't
be the sort of experience a woman could share," he added. "You'll stay
here at home and get a little rest yourself. I must have been spoiling
things for you, too." He looked at her shrewdly.
"Oh, no," she said honestly. "I'm only sorry I didn't realize earlier that
you need to get away."
She went out of the room with something of the regal industry of the queen
bee, as if she were the natural source of those agencies which sustain and
heal. He heard her as she busied herself in their bedroom. He knew that
she was already making preparations for that journey of his. She was
singing a soft, wordless song in her throat as she worked.
And Harboro, with an effect of listening with his eyes, stood in his place
for a long interval, and then shook his head slowly.
He could not believe in her; he would not believe in her. At least he
would not believe in her until she had been put to the test and met the
test triumphantly. He could not believe in her; and yet it seemed equally
impossible for him to hold with assurance to his unbelief.
CHAPTER XXVII
Returning from the office the next forenoon, Harboro stopped at the head
of the short street on which the chief stable of Eagle Pass was situated.
He had had no difficulty in obtaining a leave of absence, which was to be
for one week with the privilege of having it extended to twice that time
if he felt he needed it. In truth, his immediate superior had heartily
approved of the plan of his going for an outing. He had noticed, he
admitted, that Harboro hadn't been altogether fit of late. He was glad he
had decided to go away for a few days. He good-naturedly insisted upon the
leave of absence taking effect immediately.
And Harboro had turned back toward Eagle Pass pondering darkly.
He scanned the street in the direction of the stable. A stable-boy was
exercising a young horse in the street, leading it back and forth, but
otherwise the thoroughfare seemed somnolently quiet.
He sauntered along until he came to the stable entrance. He had the
thought of entering into a casual conversation with the proprietor. He
would try to get at the actual facts touching that mistake the stable
people had made. He would not question them too pointedly. He would not
betray the fact that he believed something was wrong. He would put his
questions casually, innocently.
The boy was just turning in with the horse he had been exercising. He
regarded Harboro expectantly. He was the boy who had brought the horses on
the night of that ride to the Quemado.
"I didn't want anything," said Harboro; "that is, nothing in particular.
I'll be likely to need a horse in a day or two, that's all."
He walked leisurely into the shady, cool place of pungent odors. He had
just ascertained that the proprietor was out when his attention was
attracted by a dog which lay with perfect complacency under a rather
good-looking horse.
"A pretty dangerous place, isn't it?" he asked of the stable-boy.
"You _would_ think so, wouldn't you? But it isn't. They're friends. You'll
always find them together when they can get together. When Prince--that's
the horse--is out anywhere, we have to pen old Mose up to keep him from
following. Once when a fellow hired Prince to make a trip over to
Spofford, old Mose got out, two or three hours later, and followed him all
the way over. He came back with him the next day, grinning as if he'd done
something great. We never could figure out how old Mose knew where he had
gone. Might have smelled out his trail. Or he might have heard them
talking about going to Spofford, and understood. The more you know about
dogs the less you know about them--same as humans."
He went back farther into the stable and busied himself with a harness
that needed mending.
Harboro was looking after him with peculiar intensity. He looked at the
horse, which stood sentinel-like, above the drowsing dog. Then he engaged
the stable-boy in further conversation.
"A pretty good-looking horse, too," he said. And when the boy nodded
without enthusiasm, he added: "By the way, I suppose it's usually your job
to get horses ready when people want them?"
"Yes, mostly."
Harboro put a new note of purposefulness into his voice. "I believe you
send a horse around for Mrs. Harboro occasionally?"
"Oh, yes; every week or so, or oftener."
Harboro walked to the boy's side and drew his wallet from his pocket
deliberately. "I wish," he said, "that the next time Mrs. Harboro needs a
horse you'd send this fine animal to her. I have an idea it would please
her. Will you remember?" He produced a bank-note and placed it slowly in
the boy's hand.
The boy looked up at him dubiously, and then understood. "I'll remember,"
he said.
Harboro turned away, but at the entrance he stopped. "You'd understand, of
course, that the dog wouldn't be allowed to go along," he called back.
"Oh, yes. Old Mose would be penned up. I'd see to it."
"And I suppose," said Harboro finally, "that if I'd telephone to you any
day it wouldn't take you long to get a horse ready for me, would it? I've
been thinking of using a horse a little myself."
He was paying little attention to the boy's assurances as he went away.
His step had become a little firmer as he turned toward home. He seemed
more like himself when he entered the house and smiled into his wife's
alertly questioning eyes.
"It's all right, I'm to get away," he explained. "I'm away now, strictly
speaking. I want to pack up a few things some time to-day and get the
early morning train for Torreon."
She seemed quite gleeful over this cheerful information. She helped him
make selection of the things he would need, and she was ready with many
helpful suggestions. It seemed that his train left the Eagle Pass station
at five o'clock in the morning--a rather awkward hour; but he did not
mind, he said.
They spent the day together without any restraints, seemingly. There were
a good many things to do, and Sylvia was happy in the thought of serving
him. If he regarded her now and again with an expression of smouldering
fire in his eyes she was unaware of the fact. She sang as she worked,
interrupting her song at frequent intervals to admonish him against this
forgetfulness or that.
* * * * *
She seemed to be asleep when, an hour before daybreak, he stirred and left
her side. But she was awake immediately.
"Is it time to go?" she asked sleepily.
"I hoped I needn't disturb you," he said. "Yes, I ought to be getting on
my way to the station."
She lay as if she were under a spell while he dressed and made ready to go
out. Her eyes were wide open, though she seemed to see nothing. Perhaps
she was merely stupid as a result of being awakened; or it may be that
indefinable, foreboding thoughts filled her mind.
When he came to say good-by to her she put her arms around his neck. "Try
to have a good time," she said, "and come back to me your old self
again."
She felt fearfully alone as she heard him descend the stairs. She held her
head away from the pillow until she heard the sharp closing of the
street-door. "He's gone," she said. She shivered a little and drew the
covers more closely about her.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Runyon rode out past Harboro's house that afternoon.
Sylvia, in her place by the window, watched him come. In the distance he
assumed a new aspect in her eyes. She thought of him impersonally--as a
thrilling picture. She rejoiced in the sight of him as one may in the
spectacle of an army marching with banners and music.
And then he became to her a glorious troubadour, having no relationship
with prosaic affairs and common standards, but a care-free creature to be
loved and praised because of his song; to be heard gladly and sped on his
way with a sigh.
The golden notes of his songs out at the Quemado echoed in her ears like
the mournful sound of bells across lonely fields. Her heart ached again at
the beauty of the songs he had sung.
... She went down-stairs and stood by the gate, waiting for him.
They talked for a little while, Runyon bending down toward her. She
thought of him as an incomparably gay and happy creature. His musical
powers gave him a mystic quality to her. She caressed his horse's mane and
thrilled as she touched it, as if she were caressing the man--as if he
were some new and splendid type of centaur. And Runyon seemed to read her
mind. His face became more ruddy with delight. His flashing eyes suggested
sound rather than color--they were laughing.
Their conference ended and Runyon rode on up the hill. Sylvia carried
herself circumspectly enough as she went back into the house, but she was
almost giddy with joy over the final words of that conference. Runyon had
lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and had spoken with intensity as
one sometimes speaks to children.
She did not ride that afternoon. It appeared that all her interests for
the time being were indoors. She spent much of her time among the things
which reminded her most strongly of Harboro; she sought out little
services she could perform for him, to delight him when he returned. She
talked with more than common interest with Antonia, following the old
woman from kitchen to dining-room and back again. She seemed particularly
in need of human companionship, of sympathy. She trusted the old servant
without reserve. She knew that here was a woman who would neither see nor
speak nor hear evil where either she or Harboro was concerned. Not that
her fidelity to either of them was particular; it was the home itself that
was sacred. The flame that warmed the house and made the pot boil was the
thing to be guarded at any cost. Any winds that caused this flame to waver
were evil winds and must not be permitted to blow. The old woman was
covertly discerning; but she had the discretion common to those who know
that homes are built only by a slow and patient process--though they may
be destroyed easily.
When it came time to light the lamps Sylvia went up into her boudoir. She
liberated the imprisoned currents up in the little mediaeval lanterns. She
drew the blinds so that she should feel quite alone. She had put on one of
the dresses which made her look specially slim and soft and childlike. She
knew the garment became her, because it always brought a tender expression
to Harboro's eyes.
And then she sat down and waited.
At eight o'clock Runyon came. So faint was his summons at the door that it
might have been a lost bird fluttering in the dark. But Sylvia heard it.
She descended and opened the door for him. In the dimly lighted hall she
whispered: "Are you sure nobody saw you come?"
He took both her hands into his and replied: "Nobody!"
They mounted the steps like two children, playing a slightly hazardous
game. "The cat's away," she said, her eyes beaming with joy.
He did not respond in words but his eyes completed the old saying.
They went up into the boudoir, and he put away his coat and hat.
They tried to talk, each seeking to create the impression that what was
being said was quite important. But neither heard what the other said.
They were like people talking in a storm or in a house that is burning
down.
He took his place at the piano after a while. It seemed that he had
promised to sing for her--for her alone. He glanced apprehensively toward
the windows, as if to estimate the distance which separated him from the
highway. It was no part of their plan that he should be heard singing in
Sylvia's room by casual passers-by on the Quemado Road.
He touched the keys lightly and when he sang his voice seemed scarcely to
carry across the room. There was a rapid passage on the keyboard, like the
patter of a pony's hoofs in the distance, and then the words came:
"From the desert I come to thee
On my Arab shod with fire...."
It was a work of art in miniature. The crescendo passages were sung
relatively with that introductory golden whisper as a standard. For the
moment Sylvia forgot that the singer's shoulders were beautifully compact
and vigorous. She was visualizing the Bedouin who came on his horse to
declare his passion.
"And I faint in thy disdain!..."
She stood near him, spellbound by the animation of his face, the seeming
reality of his plea. He was not a singer; he was the Bedouin lover.
There was a fanatic ardor in the last phrase:
"Till the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!"
He turned lightly away from the piano. He was smiling radiantly. He threw
out his arms with an air of inviting approval; but the gesture was to her
an invitation, a call. She was instantly on her knees beside him, drawing
his face down to hers. His low laughter rippled against her face as he put
his arms around her and drew her closer to him.
They were rejoicing in an atmosphere of dusky gold. The light from the
mediaeval lanterns fell on her hair and on his laughing face which glowed
as with a kind of universal good-will. A cloud of delicate incense seemed
to envelop them as their lips met.
And then the shadow fell. It fell when the door opened quietly and Harboro
came into the room.
He closed the door behind him and regarded them strangely--as if his face
had died, but as if his eyes retained the power of seeing.
Sylvia drew away from Runyon, not spasmodically, but as if she were moving
in her sleep. She left one hand on Runyon's sleeve. She was regarding
Harboro with an expression of hopeless bewilderment. She seemed incapable
of speaking. You would not have said she was frightened. You would have
thought: "She has been slain."
Harboro's lips were moving, but he seemed unable to speak immediately.
It was Sylvia who broke the silence.
"You shouldn't have tricked me, Harboro!" she said. Her voice had the
mournful quality of a dove's.
He seemed bewildered anew by that. The monstrous inadequacy of it was too
much for him. He had tricked her, certainly, and that wasn't a manly thing
to do. He seemed to be trying to get his faculties adjusted. Yet the words
he uttered finally were pathetically irrelevant, it would have seemed. He
addressed Runyon.
"Are you the sort of man who would talk about--about this sort of thing?"
he asked.
Runyon had not ceased to regard him alertly with an expression which can
be described only as one of infinite distaste--with the acute discomfort
of an irrepressible creature who shrinks from serious things.
"I am not," he said, as if his integrity were being unwarrantably
questioned.
Harboro's voice had been strained like that of a man who is dying of
thirst. He went on with a disconcerting change of tone. He was trying to
speak more vigorously, more firmly; but the result was like some talking
mechanism uttering words without shading them properly. "I suppose you are
willing to marry her?" he asked.
It was Sylvia who answered this. "He does not wish to marry me," she
said.
Harboro seemed staggered again. "I want his answer to that," he insisted.
"Well, then, I don't want to marry him," continued Sylvia.
Harboro ignored her. "What do you say, Runyon?"
"In view of her unwillingness, and the fact that she is already
married----"
"Runyon!" The word was pronounced almost like a snarl. Runyon had adopted
a facetious tone which had stirred Harboro's fury.
Something of the resiliency of Runyon's being vanished at that tone in the
other man's voice. He looked at Harboro ponderingly, as a child may look
at an unreasoning parent. And then he became alert again as Harboro threw
at him contemptuously: "Go on; get out!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART VII
SYLVIA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXIX
Sylvia did not look at Runyon as he picked up his coat and hat and
vanished. She did not realize that he had achieved a perfect middle ground
between an undignified escape and a too deliberate going. She was
regarding Harboro wanly. "You shouldn't have come back," she said. She had
not moved.
"I didn't go away," said Harboro.
Her features went all awry. "You mean----"
"I've spent the day in the guest-chamber. I had to find out. I had to make
sure."
"Oh, Harboro!" she moaned; and then with an almost ludicrously swift
return to habitual, petty concerns: "You've had no food all day."
The bewildered expression returned to his eyes. "Food!" he cried. He
stared at her as if she had gone insane. "Food!" he repeated.
She groped about as if she were in the dark. When her fingers came into
contact with a chair she drew it toward her and sat down.
Harboro took a step forward. He meant to take a chair, too; but his eyes
were not removed from hers, and she shrank back with a soft cry of
terror.
"You needn't be afraid," he assured her. He sat down opposite her, slowly,
as very ill people sit down.
As if she were still holding to some thought that had been in her mind,
she asked: "What _do_ you mean to do, then?"
He was breathing heavily. "What does a man do in such a case?" he said--to
himself rather than to her, it might have seemed. "I shall go away," he
said at length. "I shall clear out." He brought his hands down upon the
arms of his chair heavily--not in wrath, but as if surrendering all hope
of seeing clearly. "Though it isn't a very simple thing to do," he added
slowly. "You see, you're a part of me. At least, that's what I've come to
feel. And how can a man go away from himself? How can a part of a man go
away and leave the other part?" He lifted his fists and smote his breast
until his whole body shook. And then he leaned forward, his elbows on the
arms of his chair, his hands clasped before him. He was staring into
vacancy. He aroused himself after a time. "Of course, I'll have to go," he
said. He seemed to have become clear on that one point. And then he flung
himself back in his chair and thrust his arms out before him. "What were
you driving at, Sylvia?" he asked.
"Driving at...?"
"I hadn't done you any harm. Why did you marry me, if you didn't love
me?"
"I do love you!" She spoke with an intensity which disturbed him.
"Ah, you mean--you did?"
"I mean I do!"
He arose dejectedly with the air of a man who finds it useless to make any
further effort. "We'll not talk about it, then," he said. He turned toward
the door.
"I do love you," she repeated. She arose and took a step toward him,
though her limbs were trembling so that they seemed unable to sustain her
weight. "Harboro!" she called as he laid his hand on the door. "Harboro! I
want you to listen to me." She sank back into her chair, and Harboro
turned and faced her again wonderingly.
"If you'd try to understand," she pleaded. "I'm not going to ask you to
stay. I only want you to understand." She would not permit her emotions to
escape bounds. Something that was courageous and honorable in her forbade
her to appeal to his pity alone; something that was shrewd in her warned
her that such a course would be of no avail.
"You see, I was what people call a bad woman when you first met me.
Perhaps you know that now?"
"Go on," he said.
"But that's such a silly phrase--_a bad woman_. Do you suppose I ever felt
like a _bad woman_--until now? Even now I can't realize that the words
belong to me, though I know that according to the rules I've done you a
bad turn, Harboro."
She rocked in silence while she gained control over her voice.
"What you don't know," she said finally, "is how things began for me, in
those days back in San Antonio, when I was growing up. It's been bad luck
with me always; or if you don't believe in luck, then everything has been
a kind of trick played on me from the beginning. Not by anybody--I don't
mean that. But by something bigger. There's the word Destiny...." She
began to wring her hands nervously. "It seems like telling an idle tale.
When you frame the sentences they seem to have existed in just that form
always. I mean, losing my mother when I was twelve; and the dreadful
poverty of our home and its dulness, and the way my father sat in the sun
and seemed unable to do anything. I don't believe he _was_ able to do
anything. There's the word Destiny again. We lived in what's called the
Mexican section, where everybody was poor. What's the meaning of it; there
being whole neighborhoods of people who are hungry half the time?
"I was still nothing but a child when I began to notice how others escaped
from poverty a little--the Mexican girls and women I lived among. It
seemed to be expected of them. They didn't think anything of it at all. It
didn't make any difference in their real selves, so far as you could see.
They went on going to church and doing what little tasks they could find
to do--just like other women. The only precaution they took when a man
came was to turn the picture of the Virgin to the wall...."
Harboro had sat down again and was regarding her darkly.
"I don't mean that I felt about it just as they did when I got older. You
see, they had their religion to help them. They had been taught to call
the thing they did a sin, and to believe that a sin was forgiven if they
went and confessed to the priest. It seemed to make it quite simple. But I
couldn't think of it as a sin. I couldn't clearly understand what sin
meant, but I thought it must be the thing the happy people were guilty of
who didn't give my father something to do, so that we could have a decent
place to live in. You must remember how young I was! And so what the other
girls called a sin seemed to me ... oh, something that was untidy--that
wasn't nice."
Harboro broke in upon her narrative when she paused.
"I'm afraid you've always been very fastidious."
She grasped at that straw gratefully. "Yes, I have been. There isn't one
man in a hundred who appeals to me, even now." And then something, as if
it were the atmosphere about her, clarified her vision for the moment, and
she looked at Harboro in alarm. She knew, then, that he had spoken
sarcastically, and that she had fallen into the trap he had set for her.
"Oh, Harboro! You!" she cried. She had not known that he could be unkind.
Her eyes swam in tears and she looked at him in agony. And in that moment
it seemed to him that his heart must break. It was as if he looked on
while Sylvia drowned, and could not put forth a hand to save her.
She conquered her emotion. She only hoped that Harboro would hear her to
the end. She resumed: "And when I began to see that people are expected to
shape their own lives, mine had already been shaped. I couldn't begin at a
beginning, really; I had to begin in the middle. I had to go on weaving
the threads that were already in my hands--the soiled threads. I met nice
women after a while--women from the San Antonio missions, I think they
were; and they were kind to me and gave me books to read. One of them took
me to the chapel--where the clock ticked. But they couldn't really help
me. I think they did influence me more than I realized, possibly; for my
father began to tell them I wasn't at home ... and he brought me out here
to Eagle Pass soon after they began to befriend me."
Harboro was staring at her with a vast incredulity. "And then--?" he
asked.
"And then it went on out here--though it seemed different out here. I had
the feeling of being shut out, here. In a little town people know. Life in
a little town is like just one checker-board, with a game going on; but
the big towns are like a lot of checkerboards, with the men on some of
them in disorder, and not being watched at all."
Harboro was shaking his head slowly, and she made an effort to wipe some
of the blackness from the picture. "You needn't believe I didn't have
standards that I kept to. Some women of my kind would have lied or stolen,
or they would have made mischief for people. And then there were the young
fellows, the mere boys.... It's a real injury to them to find that a girl
they like is--is not nice. They're so wonderfully ignorant. A woman is
either entirely good or entirely bad in their eyes. You couldn't really do
anything to destroy their faith, even when they pretended to be rather
rough and wicked. I wasn't that kind of a bad woman, at least."
Harboro's brow had become furrowed, with impatience, seemingly. "But your
marriage to me, Sylvia?" He put the question accusingly.
"I thought you knew--at first. I thought you _must_ know. There are men
who will marry the kind of woman I was. And it isn't just the little or
worthless men, either. Sometimes it is the big men, who can understand and
be generous. Up to the time of our marriage I thought you knew and that
you were forgiving everything. And at last I couldn't bear to tell you.
Not alone from fear of losing you, but I knew it would hurt you horribly,
and I hoped ... I had made up my mind ... I _was_ truly loyal to you,
Harboro, until they tricked me in my father's house."
Harboro continued to regard her, a judge unmoved. "And Runyon,
Sylvia--Runyon?" he asked accusingly.
"I know that's the thing you couldn't possibly forgive, and yet that seems
the slightest thing of all to me. You can't know what it is to be humbled,
and so many innocent pleasures taken away from you. When Fectnor came back
... oh, it seemed to me that life itself mocked me and warned me coldly
that I needn't expect to be any other than the old Sylvia, clear to the
end. I had begun to have a little pride, and to have foolish dreams. And
then I went back to my father's house. It wasn't my father; it wasn't even
Fectnor. It was Life itself whipping me back into my place again.
"... And then Runyon came. He meant pleasure to me--nothing more. He
seemed such a gay, shining creature!" She looked at him in the agony of
utter despair. "I know how it appears to you; but if you could only see
how it seemed to me!"
"I'm trying," said Harboro, unmoved.
"If I'd been a little field of grass for the sheep to graze on, do you
suppose I shouldn't have been happy if the birds passed by, or that I
shouldn't have been ready for the sheep when they came? If I'd been a
little pool in the desert, do you suppose I wouldn't have been happier for
the sunlight, and just as ready for the rains when they came?"
He frowned. "But you're neither grass nor water," he said.
"Ah, I think I am just that--grass and water. I think that is what we all
are--with something of mystery added."
He seized upon that one tangible thought. "There you have it, that
_something of mystery_," he said. "That's the thing that makes the world
move--that keeps people clean."
"Yes," she conceded dully, "or makes people set up standards of their own
and compel other people to accept them whether they understand them or
believe in them or not."
When he again regarded her with dark disapproval she went on:
"What I wanted to tell you, Harboro, is that my heart has been like a
brimming cup for you always. It was only that which ran over that I gave
to another. Runyon never could have robbed the cup--a thousand Runyons
couldn't. He was only like a flower to wear in my hair, a ribbon to put on
for an outing. But you ... you were the hearth for me to sit down before
at night, a wall to keep the wind away. What was it you said once about a
man and woman becoming one? You have been my very body to me, Harboro; and
any other could only have been a friendly wind to stir me for a moment and
then pass on."
Harboro's face darkened. "I was the favorite lover," he said.
"You won't understand," she said despairingly. And then as he arose and
turned toward the door again she went to him abjectly, appealingly.
"Harboro!" she cried, "I know I haven't explained it right, but I want you
to believe me! It is you I love, really; it is you I am grateful to and
proud of. You're everything to me that you've thought of being. I couldn't
live without you!" She sank to her knees and covered her eyes with one
hand while with the other she reached out to him: "Harboro!" Her face was
wet with tears, now; her body was shaken with sobs.
He looked down at her for an instant, his brows furrowed, his eyes filled
with horror. He drew farther away, so that she could not touch him. "Great
God!" he cried at last, and then she knew that he had gone, closing the
door sharply after him.
She did not try to call him back. Some stoic quality in her stayed her. It
would be useless to call him; it would only tear her own wounds wider
open, it would distress him without moving him otherwise. It would alarm
old Antonia.
If he willed to come back, he would come of his own accord. If he could
reconcile the things she had done with any hope of future happiness he
would come back to her again.
But she scarcely hoped for his return. She had always had a vague
comprehension of those pragmatic qualities in his nature which placed him
miles above her, or beneath her, or beyond her. She had drunk of the cup
which had been offered her, and she must not rebel because a bitter
sediment lay on her lips. She had always faintly realized that the hours
she spent with Runyon might some day have to be paid for in loneliness and
despair.
Yet now that Harboro was gone she stood at the closed door and stared at
it as if it could never open again save to permit her to pass out upon
ways of darkness. She leaned against it and laid her face against her arm
and wept softly. And then she turned away and knelt by the chair he had
occupied and hid her face in her hands.
She knew he would no longer be visible when she went to the window. She
had spared herself the sight of him on his way out of her life. But now
she took her place and began, with subconscious hope, the long vigil she
was to keep. She stared out on the road over which he had passed. If he
came back he would be visible from this place by the window.
Hours passed and her face became blank, as the desert became blank. The
light seemed to die everywhere. The little home beacons abroad in the
desert were blotted out one by one. Eagle Pass became a ghostly group of
houses from which the last vestiges of life vanished. She became stiff and
inert as she sat in her place with her eyes held dully on the road. Once
she dozed lightly, to awaken with an intensified sense of tragedy. Had
Harboro returned during that brief interval of unconsciousness? She knew
he had not. But until the dawn came she sat by her place, steadfastly
waiting.
CHAPTER XXX
When Harboro went down the stairs and out of the house he had a purposeful
air which vanished as soon as his feet were set on the highway. Where was
he going? Where _could_ he go? That beginning he had made usually ended in
the offices across the river. But he could not go to his office now. There
was nothing there for him to do. And even if he were able to get in, and
to find some unfinished task to which he could turn, his problem would not
be solved. He could not go on working always. A man must have some
interests other than his work.
He pulled himself together and set off down the road. He realized that his
appearance must be such that he would attract attention and occasion
comment. The foundations of his pride stiffened, as they had always done
when he was required to face extraordinary difficulties. He must not allow
casual passers-by to perceive that things were not right with him. They
would know that he and Sylvia were having difficulties. Doubtless they had
been expecting something of the sort from the beginning.
He seemed quite himself but for a marked self-concentration as he walked
through the town. Dunwoodie, emerging from the Maverick bar, hailed him as
he passed. He did not hear--or he was not immediately conscious of
hearing. But half a dozen steps farther on he checked himself. Some one
had spoken to him. He turned around. "Ah, Dunwoodie--good evening!" he
said. But he did not go back, and Dunwoodie looked after him meditatively
and then went back into the bar, shaking his head. He had always meant to
make a friend of Harboro, but the thing evidently was not to be done.
Harboro was scarcely conscious of the fact that he crossed the river. If
he encountered any one whom he knew--or any one at all--he passed without
noticing. And this realization troubled him. The customs guard, who was an
old acquaintance, must have been in his place on the bridge. He tried to
arouse himself anew. Surely his conduct must seem strange to those who
chanced to observe him.
With an air of briskness he went into the _Internacional_ dining-room. He
had had nothing to eat all day. He would order supper and then he would
feel more like himself. He did not realize what it was that made his
situation seem like a period of suspense, which kept in his mind the
subconscious thought that he would come out of the dark into a clearing if
he persevered.
The fact was that something of what Sylvia had said to him had touched his
conscience, if it had not affected his sense of logic. She really could
not be quite what she seemed to be--that was the unshaped thought in the
back of his brain. There were explanations to make which had not yet been
made. If he told himself that he had solved the problem by leaving the
house, he knew in reality that he had not done so. He was benumbed,
bewildered. He must get back his reasoning faculties, and then he would
see more clearly, both as to what had been done and what he must set about
doing.
He had an idea that he could now understand the sensations of people who
had indulged too freely in some sort of drug. He had temporarily lost the
power to feel. Here was Sylvia, a self-confessed wanton--and yet here was
Sylvia as deeply intrenched in his heart as ever. This was a monstrous
contradiction. One of these things must be a fact, the other a fantastic
hallucination.
The waiter brought food which he looked at with distaste. It was a typical
frontier meal--stereotyped, uninviting. There were meat and eggs and
coffee, and various heavy little dishes containing dabs of things which
were never eaten. He drank the coffee and realized that he had been almost
perishing from thirst. He called for a second cup; and then he tried to
eat the meat and eggs; but they were like dust--it seemed they might choke
him. He tried the grapes which had got hidden under the cruet, and the
acid of these pleased him for an instant, but the pulp was tasteless,
unpalatable.
He finished the second cup of coffee and sat listlessly regarding the
things he had not touched. He had hoped he might prolong the supper hour,
since he could think of nothing else to engage his attention. But he was
through, and he had consumed only a few minutes.
His glance wandered to a railroad poster in the dining-room, and this
interested him for an instant. Attractive names caught his eye: Torreon,
Tampico, Vera Cruz, the City, Durango. They were all waiting for him, the
old towns. There was the old work to be done, the old life to resume....
Yes, but there was Sylvia. Sylvia, who had said with the intentness of a
child, "I love you," and again, "I love you." She did not want Runyon. She
wanted him, Harboro. And he wanted her--good God, how he wanted her! Had
he been mad to wander away from her? His problem lay with her, not
elsewhere.
And then he jerked his head in denial of that conclusion. No, he did not
want her. She had laid a path of pitch for his feet, and the things he
might have grasped with his hands, to draw himself out of the path which
befouled his feet--they too were smeared with pitch. She did not love him,
certainly. He clung tenaciously to that one clear point. There lay the
whole situation, perfectly plain. She did not love him. She had betrayed
him, had turned the face of the whole community against him, had permitted
him to affront the gentle people who had unselfishly aided him and given
him their affection.
He wandered about the streets until nearly midnight, and then he engaged a
room in the _Internacional_ and assured himself that it was time to go to
bed. He needed a good rest. To-morrow he would know what to do.
But the sight of the room assigned to him surprised him in some odd
way--as if every article of furniture in it were mocking him. It was not a
room really to be used, he thought. At least, it was not a room for him to
use. He did not belong in that bed; he had a bed of his own, in the house
he had built on the Quemado Road. And then he remembered the time when he
had been able to hang his hat anywhere and consider himself at home, and
how he had always been grateful for a comfortable bed, no matter where.
That was the feeling which he must get back again. He must get used to the
strangeness of things, so that such a room as this would seem his natural
resting-place, and that other house which had been destroyed for him would
seem a place of shame, to be avoided and forgotten.
He slept fitfully. The movements of trains in the night comforted him in a
mournful fashion. They reminded him of that other life, which might be his
again. But even in his waking moments he reached out to the space beside
him to find Sylvia, and the returning full realization of all that had
happened brought a groan to his throat.
He dressed in the morning with a feeling of guilt, mingled with a sense of
relief. He had slept where he had had no business to sleep. He had been
idle at a time when he should have been active. He had done nothing, and
there was much to be done. He had not even rested.
He put on an air of briskness, as one will don a garment, as he ordered
coffee and rolls in the dining-room. There were things to be attended to.
He must go over to the offices and write out his resignation. He must see
the General Manager and ask him for work on the road elsewhere. He must
transfer his holdings--his house and bank-account--to Sylvia. He had no
need of house or money, and she would need them badly now. And then ...
then he must begin life anew.
It was all plain; yet his feet refused to bear him in the direction of the
railroad offices; his mind refused to grapple with the details of the task
of transferring to Sylvia the things he owned. Something constructive,
static, in the man's nature stayed him.
He wandered away from the town during the day, an aimless impulse carrying
him quite out into the desert. He paused to inspect little irrigated spots
where humble gardens grew. He paused at mean _adobe_ huts and talked to
old people and to children. Again and again he came into contact with
conditions which annoyed and bewildered him. People were all bearing their
crosses. Some were hopelessly ill, waiting for death to relieve them, or
they were old and quite useless. And all were horribly poor, casting about
for meagre food and simple clothing which seemed beyond their reach. They
were lonely, overburdened, despondent, darkly philosophical.
What was the meaning of human life, he wondered? Were men and women
created to suffer, to bear crosses which were not of their own making, to
suffer injustices which seemed pointless?...
Late in the afternoon he was back in Piedras Negras again. He had eaten
nothing save a handful of figs which an old woman had given him, together
with a bowl of goat's milk. He had wished to pay for them, but the old
woman had shaken her head and turned away.
He encountered a tourist in clerical garb--a thin-chested man with a
colorless face, but with sad, benevolent eyes--sitting in the plaza near
the sinister old _cuartel_. He sat down and asked abruptly in a voice
strangely high-pitched for his own:
"Is a man ever justified in leaving his wife?"
The tourist looked startled; but he was a man of tact and wisdom,
evidently, and he quickly adjusted himself to what was plainly a special
need, an extraordinary condition. "Ah, that's a very old question," he
replied gently. "It's been asked often, and there have been many
answers."
"But is he?" persisted Harboro.
"There are various conditions. If a man and a woman do not love each
other, wouldn't it seem wiser for them to rectify the mistake they had
made in marrying? But if they love each other ... it seems to me quite a
simple matter then. I should say that under no circumstances should they
part."
"But if the wife has sinned?"
"My dear man ... sinned; it's a difficult word. Let us try to define it.
Let us say that a sin is an act deliberately committed with the primary
intention of inflicting an injury upon some one. It becomes an ugly
matter. Very few people sin, if you accept my definition."
Harboro was regarding him with dark intentness.
"The trouble is," resumed the other man, "we often use the word sin when
we mean only a weakness. And a weakness in an individual should make us
cleave fast to him, so that he may not be wholly lost. I can't think of
anything so cruel as to desert one who has stumbled through weakness. The
desertion would be the real sin. Weaknesses are a sort of illness--and
even a pigeon will sit beside its mate and mourn, when its mate is ill. It
is a beautiful lesson in fidelity. A soldier doesn't desert his wounded
comrade in battle. He bears him to safety--or both perish together. And by
such deeds is the consciousness of God established in us."
"Wait!" commanded Harboro. He clinched his fists. A phrase had clung to
him: "He bears him to safety or both perish together!"
He arose from the seat he had taken and staggered away half a dozen steps,
his hands still clinched. Then, as if remembering, he turned about so that
he faced the man who had talked to him. Beyond loomed the ancient church
in which Sylvia had said it would seem possible to find God. Was He there
in reality, and was this one of His angels, strayed a little distance from
His side? It was not the world's wisdom that this man spoke, and yet how
eternally true his words had been! A flock of pigeons flew over the plaza
and disappeared in the western glow where the sun was setting. "Even a
pigeon will sit by its mate and mourn...."
Harboro gazed at the man on the bench. His face moved strangely, as a dark
pool will stir from the action of an undercurrent. He could not speak for
a moment, and then he called back in a voice like a cry: "I thank you."
"You are welcome--brother!" was the response. The man on the bench was
smiling. He coughed a little, and wondered if the open-air treatment the
physician had prescribed might not prove a bit heroic. When he looked
about him again his late companion was gone.
Harboro was hurrying down toward the Rio Grande bridge. He was trying to
put a curb on his emotions, on his movements. It would never do for him to
hurry through the streets of Eagle Pass like a madman. He must walk
circumspectly.
He was planning for the future. He would take Sylvia away--anywhere. They
would begin their married life anew. He would take her beyond the ordinary
temptations. They would live in a tent, an igloo, in the face of a cliff.
He would take her beyond the reach of the old evil influences, where he
could guide her back to the paths she had lost. He would search out some
place where there was never a dun horse with golden dapples, and a rider
who carried himself like a crier of God, carrying glad tidings across the
world.
Yet he was never conscious of the manner in which he made that trying
journey. He was recalled to self when he reached his own door. He realized
that he was somewhat out of breath. The night had fallen and the house
revealed but little light from the front. Through the door he could see
that the dining-room was lighted. He tried the door stealthily and entered
with caution. It would not do to startle Sylvia.
Ah--that was her voice in the dining-room. The telephone bell had sounded,
just as he opened the door, and she was responding to the call.
Her voice seemed cold at first: "I didn't catch the name." And then it
turned to a caress: "Oh, Mendoza--I didn't hear at first. Of course, I
want to see you." There was now a note of perplexity in her tone, and
then: "No, don't come here. It would be better for me to see you at my
father's. In the afternoon."
Harboro found himself leaning against the wall, his head in his hands.
Mendoza! The town's notorious philanderer, who had regarded Sylvia with
insolent eyes that night out at the Quemado! Yes, and she had danced with
him the minute his back was turned; danced with him with unconcealed joy.
Mendoza....
He climbed the stairs slowly. He heard Sylvia's footsteps as she moved
away; into the kitchen, probably. He climbed stealthily, like a thief. He
mustn't permit Sylvia to hear him. He couldn't see her now.
CHAPTER XXXI
Sylvia had spent the entire day by her window, looking down the road. She
had refused the food that old Antonia had brought, and the comforting
words that came with it. Something that was not a part of herself argued
with her that Harboro would come back, though all that she was by training
and experiences warned her that she must not look for him.
At nightfall she turned wearily when Antonia tapped at her door.
"_Nina!_" The troubled old woman held out a beseeching hand. "You must
have food. I have prepared it for you, again. There are very good eggs,
and a glass of milk, and coffee--coffee with a flavor! Come, there will be
another day, and another. Sorrows pass in the good God's time; and even a
blind sheep will find its blade of grass." Her hand was still extended.
Sylvia went to her and kissed her withered cheek. "I will try," she said
with docility.
And they went down the stairs as if they were four; the young woman
walking with Despair, the old woman moving side by side with Knowledge.
It was then that the telephone rang and Sylvia went to the instrument and
took down the receiver with trembling fingers. If it were only Harboro!...
But it was a woman's voice, and the hope within her died. She could
scarcely attend, after she realized that it was a woman who spoke to her.
The name "Mrs. Mendoza" meant nothing to her for an instant. And then she
aroused herself. She must not be ungracious. "Oh, Mendoza," she said; "I
didn't hear at first." She felt as if a breath of cold air had enveloped
her, but she shook off the conviction. From habit she spoke cordially;
with gratitude to the one woman in Eagle Pass who had befriended her she
spoke with tenderness. The wife of Jesus Mendoza wanted to call on her.
But Sylvia had planned the one great event of her life, and it occurred to
her that she ought not to permit this unfortunate woman to come to the
house on the morrow. It would be an unforgivable cruelty. And then she
thought of her father's house, and suggested that her visitor come to see
her there.
She hung up the receiver listlessly and went into the kitchen, where
Antonia was eagerly getting a meal ready for her. She looked at these
affectionate preparations indulgently, as she might have looked at a child
who assured her that a wholly imaginary thing was a real thing.
She ate dutifully, and then she took a bit of husk from Antonia's store
and made a cigarette. It was the first time she had smoked since her
marriage. "He's not coming back," she said in a voice like that of a
helpless old woman. She leaned her elbows on the table and smoked. Her
attitude did not suggest grief, but rather a leave-taking.
Then with returning briskness she got up and found street apparel and left
the house.
She went down into the town almost gayly--like the Sylvia of old. In the
drug-store she told an exciting little story to the clerk. There had been
a nest of scorpions ... would he believe it? In the kitchen! She had been
given such a start when the servant had found them. The servant had
screamed; quite naturally, too. She had been told that a weak solution,
sprinkled on the floor, would drive them away. What was it?... Yes, that
was it. She had forgotten.
She received the small phial and paid the price with fingers which were
perfectly firm. And then she started back up the hill.
Under a street light she became aware that she was being followed. She
turned with a start. It was only a dog--a forlorn little beast which
stopped when she stopped, and regarded her with soft, troubled eyes.
She stooped and smoothed the creature's head. "You mustn't follow," she
said in a voice like hidden water. "I haven't any place to take
you--nowhere at all!" She went on up the hill. Once she turned and
observed that the lost dog stood where she had left him, still imploring
her for friendship.
At her door she paused and turned. She leaned against the door-post in a
wistful attitude. A hundred lonely, isolated lights were burning across
the desert, as far as the eye could reach. They were little lights which
might have meant nothing at all to a happier observer; but to Sylvia they
told the story of men and women who had joined hands to fight the battle
of life; of the sweet, humble activities which keep the home intact--the
sweeping of the hearth, the mending of the fire, the expectant glance at
the clock, the sound of a foot-fall drawing near. There lay the desert,
stretching away to the Sierra Madre, a lonely waste; but it was a paradise
to those who tended their lights faithfully and waited with assurance for
those who were away.
... She turned and entered her house stealthily.
At the top of the stairs she paused in indecision. Antonia had not heard
her enter. (She did not know that the old woman was standing in the
kitchen under the picture of the Virgin, with her hands across her eyes
like a bandage.) The lovely boudoir called to her, but she would not enter
it.
"I will go into the guest-chamber," she said; "that is the room set apart
for strangers. I think I must always have been a stranger here."
She opened the door quietly.
A pungent odor of smoke filled her nostrils. She groped for the light and
turned it on.
Through little horizontal wisps of smoke she saw Harboro lying across the
bed, his great chest standing high, his muscular throat exposed to the
light, a glint of teeth showing under the sweeping black mustache. His
eyes, nearly closed, seemed to harbor an eager light--as if he had
travelled along a dark path and saw at last a beacon on a distant hilltop.
A pistol was still clasped in his dead hand.
The unopened phial Sylvia carried slipped to the floor. She clutched at
her lips with both hands, to suppress the scream that arose within her.
He had no right to lie so, in this room. That was her thought. He had
taken the place she had chosen for her own.
And then she thought of Harboro as a stranger, too. Had she ever known
him, really?
Her first thought recurred. It should have been her right to lie here in
the guest-chamber, not Harboro's.
And yet, and yet....
The End