IX

Considering an all-night ride over a rough road in a lumbering old

Spanish stagecoach, and the thrilling, harrowing events that succeeded

their arrival at the _Posada_, it is little wonder that Mrs. Forest took

to her bed early in the day on the verge of a nervous collapse, or that

Colonel Van Ashton, contrary to his habit, retired early in the evening

firmly convinced that his nephew was suffering from an acute attack of

lunacy which took the form of a mania for everything that was wild and

bizarre; everything in fact that was contrary to the Colonel's views of

life.

How unfortunate that his nephew had not shown signs of madness earlier!

It would have been so easy with the assistance of the family physician

and lawyer to have confined him in a private sanitarium. And the Colonel

fondly pictured his nephew wandering distractedly through a long suite

of padded cells--but, alas! the bird had flown. Such things were always

expedited with such felicitous despatch in those parts of the earth

inhabited by civilized men, but here where everybody was equally mad,

where chaos reigned, and nobody either recognized or respected beings of

a superior order, what could be done to check the headlong career of his

nephew who with twenty millions was rushing straight to destruction?

No wonder God had long since abandoned this land to his majesty, the

devil who, as in the days of Scripture, roamed and roared at will. No

one having passed twenty-four hours in the country could possibly doubt

that his cup of joy was running over. Where his nephew had concealed his

fortune was also a source of mystery to him. He certainly had displayed

the diabolical cunning that is characteristic of the mentally deranged.

Possibly he had concealed it in Mexico, but to combat the institutions

of that land was like attempting to stem the tides.

The thought of those twenty millions tortured the Colonel's mind almost

beyond endurance, and he groaned aloud as his imagination pictured them

rolling in a bright, glittering stream of gold and silver coins into the

gutter for the swine that waited to devour them.

Such were the Colonel's reflections as he sat on the edge of his bed in

his shirt sleeves and wearily removed his tight fitting, dust-begrimed,

patent-leather shoes with the assistance of his valet.

How his feet and back ached! He wanted sympathy, but got none, the

others being too much occupied with their own woes to think of his

comfort. On the walls of the room were hung numerous cheap biblical

prints--the very things he abominated most. Among them, just over the

foot of the bed, on the very spot where first his gaze would alight on

opening his eyes in the morning, hung a small colored print of the

Madonna. No wonder the people of this land spent so much time crossing

themselves and calling upon her for protection--they certainly had cause

to. The room, in his opinion, was a veritable rat-hole; the place

little better than what one might expect to find in a suburb of hell.

The exertions of the last two days had been more than mortal could

endure. Never had he felt so completely fagged, and it was with no

little concern that he contemplated the reflection of his face in the

small oval mirror which hung on the rough gray plaster wall opposite,

just over the small, cheap, brown-stained wooden bureau. The sight of

his countenance, as is the case with most of us who have not yet entered

the limbo of senile decrepitude and still dare look ourselves in the

face, was always a source of extreme satisfaction to him. He held it in

the highest esteem as though it were the head of some beautiful antique

Apollo, and in his, the Colonel's estimation, was the handsomest face on

earth.

Indeed it was a handsome face, and like many others both in and outside

of his particular set, he devoted hours to its preservation.

What was John, his valet, for? To press his clothes and run errands? Not

at all. He was there to massage that precious face and drive away all

harassing signs of care and age by means of a liberal use of cold cream

and enamel. In the present instance, barring a sun-scorched nose, his

delicately rouged cheeks like his exquisitely manicured finger tips

blushed with rose of vermilion like those of the daughters of Judea of

old, contrasting favorably with his dark eyes, wavy white hair, and

mustache and eyebrows dyed a jet black. His regular features, long

slender white hands, and tall erect figure betokened the born aristocrat

of the spoiled, luxurious type.

In spite of his determination not to sleep a wink, this overindulged

child and arch hypocrite, fell asleep almost the instant his tired head

touched the pillow, and would have slept to a comparatively late hour

had it not been for the ceaseless crowing of a cock in the barnyard,

awakening him at daybreak.

What a land, where people were not even permitted to sleep! Vague

apprehensions for the future went flitting through his mind, and, as he

lay in bed moodily contemplating through the window the first sunrise he

had witnessed in years, he cursed fate and his nephew, and secretly

vowed that he would wring that infernal bird's neck at the first

opportunity.

Mrs. Forest's mental attitude resembled that of her brother's, but with

Blanch and Bessie it was different. The strangeness and novelty of the

situation so different from anything they had hitherto experienced,

began to interest them in spite of their previous determination to be

bored. That evening they had visited the plaza with the Captain and Dick

Yankton and had witnessed the dances beneath the great _alamos_ or

poplar trees that surrounded the square, braving the risk of

contamination which Mrs. Forest had vainly protested would be sure to

ensue should they mingle with the populace--the Mexican-Indian rabble of

which it was composed--a distinction which only she and the Colonel

seemed able to divine, for had it been a garlic-tainted Egyptian or

Neapolitan mob, little objection would have been raised to their going.

The sights amused and interested them, and after an hour's mild

dissipation, they returned to the _Posada_ in time to meet a few of the

Señora's guests in the garden, among whom was Padre Antonio. The quaint,

inborn courtesy of the well-bred Spaniard was a revelation to them;

something they imagined did not exist outside of Spain.

The charm of the Padre's simple manner and ways proved no less

irresistible to them than to the rest of the world, and they marveled

that he spoke English so well. His intimate knowledge of the people and

the customs of the country threw a new light on them, reconciling the

girls to many things that had seemed incomprehensible.

The Señora, out of consideration for the ladies, by whose presence she

was greatly honored, had relinquished her rooms to them; the best and

most comfortably furnished which the _Posada_ afforded.

It was a late hour before the girls retired for the night. There was so

much to talk over, and when they did finally lay themselves down to

rest, it was with the conviction that Captain Forest was not quite so

mad as they had supposed. He was at least a harmless lunatic and in no

danger of running amuck.

As for Bessie, the gentle hand of sleep soon closed her eyes, and she

slept the sleep of a tired child. With Blanch it was otherwise.

How could she sleep with the face of Chiquita constantly before her and

the pangs of jealousy gnawing at her heart? How stupid to have imagined

her to be one of those bovine women with large liquid eyes who,

figuratively speaking, pass the major portion of their lives standing

knee-deep in a pond, gazing stolidly out upon the world; a fat brown

wench upon whose hip a man might confidently expect to hang his hat by

the time she has attained the age of forty.

Nothing could have been farther from the mark. She might have known that

Jack could not have been caught with so thin a bait. All night long she

tossed on her pillow, or silently rose to gaze at the stars from the

window.

"Oh, if she only were not so beautiful!" she moaned as the first pale

streaks of light in the east told her that day had finally dawned, and

she crept stealthily back to bed again. Of course Jack, the wretch, was

sleeping peacefully--that was the irony of fate! What did he know of

suffering? But he would pay for this!

Their rooms overlooked the _patio_, and from behind an angle of a screen

she could look straight across it into the garden beyond as she lay in

bed. The bright shafts of the morning sun sifted down through the

branches of the trees and lay in patches of gold on the grass and

flowers beneath and flooded the _patio_ with light. Above the tops of

the trees and one corner of the low roof, the clear, pale blue skyline

was just visible. Butterflies and humming-birds darted in and out among

the fragrant white clematis and honeysuckle and passion vines that hung

from the arcades surrounding the court, or hovered over the fountain and

basin of gold fish in its center, edged with grasses and ferns. The

notes of the golden oriole and cooing of pigeons and wood-doves mingling

with the silvery jingle of an occasional _vaquero's_ spurs, came from

the garden beyond.

How peaceful it was! After all, why was the place so unusual, so

different from the rest of the world? But forget where one was, and the

scene might have been one in Algiers or Egypt, or in a town in Spain or

Northern Italy. And why, she asked herself, as her thoughts reverted to

Chiquita, was this Indian woman so very different from themselves?

Dress her as they were dressed, and place her in the proper

surroundings, and she would easily pass for a Gypsy or a Spaniard. Was

there any reason to believe that the queens of Sheba and Semiramis with

their tawny skins were any less fair than she, Blanch Lennox, with her

rosy, soft white complexion? Or Chiquita a shade darker than Cleopatra,

the witch of the Nile, whose beauty caused the downfall of Antony and

with it the waning power and splendor of ancient Egypt?

Was her lineage superior to Chiquita's, the descendant of a long line of

rulers whose ancestry stretched back into the dim, remote past as

ancient as the hills, the record of whose lives and deeds stood

inscribed on the ruined temples and palaces scattered throughout the

land where they once dwelt at a time when her European ancestors roamed

the wilderness half naked and clad in the skins of wild beasts?

White men of eminence had married Indians and their descendants were

proud of their lineage. True, Chiquita was an exception just as she

towered above most women of her race. And who were they, that they

should criticize--vaunt their superiority in the face of the universal

scheme of things? Were they really any better? The same passions,

longings and aspirations that swayed them, swayed the Red man as well.

Their daily lives were different--their aspirations were directed in

different channels, that was all. What was true civilization and

culture, any way? Who had ever succeeded in defining them? The so-called

civilized world might prattle of culture. Its ideas compared with those

of mankind as a whole were purely relative and of a local origin and

color, and could not be gauged by a uniform standard of ethics. What

pleases the one fails to attract the other. The man in power who talks

of culture may be taken seriously by those of his own race who stand by

and applaud his words, but remove him from his home surroundings and

place him on a footing of equality with those of a different race and

environment and his arguments fail to convince.

Did the harangues of Louis the Sixteenth's tormentors convince him of

the ethical standards of universal justice, or John Brown's sacrifice

the representatives of a slave-holding population?

Which is the most convincing--the example set by the early Spartans, or

that of the man who surrounds himself with every luxury and convenience

of modern life; the man who reads books and lives in a house and travels

by train and automobile, or he who dwells in a tent, who is ignorant of

letters, and prefers the slower locomotion of horse and foot? Who is the

arbiter of fashion? The sun shines alike on the just and the unjust, the

great world still continues to laugh and goes on its way in spite of

men's philosophies, but tear up the map, as the French say, and where

are our standards and codes?

Prove it if you can, that the wild flower in the meadow is less

beautiful than the one reared beneath the hand of the gardener. Argue

and theorize as we will, our sophistries count for little when we are

brought face to face with the realities of life. The law of compensation

and certainty of facts still hold the balance when the bed-rock of human

existence is reached. One might as well expect the mountains to slip

into the sea, or the stars to pause in their courses to hearken to the

voice of a modern Joshua as a man in love with a vision of beauty, to

listen to ethics.

It was quite evident that somebody had lied. In fact, all men of her

race had been lying from the beginning of time, for what, after all, did

civilization amount to if it were not convincing? Did it ever soothe a

wounded heart, stifle the pangs of jealousy, or was it ample

compensation for the loss of the great prize of life--happiness?

Civilization and blindness were fast becoming synonymous terms, and

there were even moments when one almost fancied one heard the laughter

of the gods. Let the dull brute civilized herd sweep by, all its

moralizing and sophistries could not arouse so much as a single

heart-beat where sentiment was concerned.

The truth of these convictions surged in upon her with overwhelming

force. Had Jack also noted them, she asked herself.

Possibly, but not, perhaps, with the keener intuition of the woman. She

breathed hard. Hot tears of rage, jealousy and disappointment surged to

her eyes. She could endure it no longer--she felt as though she would

stifle. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in bed and then sprang to the

floor, noticing for the first time the pretty little Mexican girl,

Rosita, who at Bessie's summons, had entered and deposited a tray

containing oranges, chocolate and _tortillas_ on the table in the center

of the room.

The dark circles beneath Blanch's eyes and her general appearance of a

disheveled Eve told Bessie how little she had slept.

"I knew you were thinking of her," she said, throwing herself back in

the pillows and stretching her arms. Her eyelids drooped for a moment

over her great violet eyes and she laughed lightly with the contentment

of one whose heart is free.

"Of course I am," returned Blanch, coloring and biting her lip. "What

else should I be thinking of?"

"Do you know, I rather like her," continued Bessie, raising on one elbow

and stretching herself again with the delicious satisfaction of one who

has slept soundly and well.

"And I hate her!" cried Blanch. And seizing Chiquita's dagger which lay

on the table beside the tray, she plunged it viciously into an orange.

X

Things began to assume a more favorable aspect. Even Mrs. Forest had

plucked up enough courage to venture beyond the confines of the

_Posada's_ garden.

Late one afternoon as she with Blanch and Bessie descended the veranda

steps, preparatory to a stroll through the town, a horseman, dressed in

the height of Mexican fashion, shot suddenly round the curve in the road

at full gallop and drew rein before them, tossing the dust raised by his

animal's hoofs into their faces.

Dust and a horse's nose thrust suddenly into Mrs. Forest's face could

hardly improve a temper already strained to the breaking point.

"Are people beasts--mere cattle of the fields to be trampled upon by a

horse?" she gasped, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently from her

surprise.

"A thousand pardons--I did not see you!" replied the horseman, his

English colored with a slight accent.

"What are people's eyes for?" returned Mrs. Forest, making no attempt to

conceal her irritation.

"Mrs. Forest, I see you do not recognize me," answered the horseman,

smiling and raising his broad-brimmed _sombrero_ which partially

concealed his features.

"Don Felipe Ramirez!" cried Blanch and Bessie in the same breath.

"How," exclaimed Blanch, "could you expect us to recognize you in that

costume? Why are you masquerading in such a disguise?" Don Felipe

laughed as he swung himself lightly from the saddle.

"It's the costume of our people," he answered, shaking them cordially by

the hand. "It's the one they prefer, without which one cannot always

command their respect. They detest modern innovations and cling to the

customs of their ancestors. It's a bit of old Mexico, that's all. But

what brings you here?" he asked, changing the topic of conversation.

"Did you drop from the clouds? I would as soon have thought of finding

oranges growing on the cactus as seeing you here."

"Only a pleasure trip combined with a little exploration on our own

account," answered Blanch indifferently. "We hope," she continued, "to

emulate the example of the old Spanish _Conquistadores_--some of your

ancestors perhaps?"

"Then may your wanderings lead you southward. My _hacienda_ lies but

twenty miles from here, and from this moment, it is placed at your

disposition. Not in the polite terms of the proverbial Spanish etiquette

which presents the visitor with everything and yet nothing at all, but

actually. Indeed, I shall expect to see you there soon. The life will

interest you, I know."

"We certainly shall avail ourselves of the rare privilege, Don Felipe,"

said Bessie. "Do you intend stopping here?" she asked.

"For a few days, yes. A room is always waiting for me here."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Blanch. "We shall expect to see a great deal

of you. In the meantime, we shall visit the town and shall see you this

evening. Until then, _á Dios_, as you Spaniards say. You observe, we are

making rapid progress in the language," she added, smiling and glancing

back at him over her shoulder as they moved away in the direction of the

highroad.

"What a strange costume for a man like Don Felipe to wear! It's as gay

and extravagant as a woman's!" said Bessie as soon as they were out of

hearing.

"It's becoming though," answered Blanch. "This is truly the land of

surprises. I wonder what will happen next?"

"What can have brought them here, to this out-of-the-way place?" mused

Don Felipe, throwing one arm lightly over the neck of his horse as he

leaned gently against the animal.

Don Felipe Ramirez was young and handsome--the handsomest and wealthiest

man in all Chihuahua. One who measured his lands not by acres, but by

hundreds of square miles, over which roamed vast herds of horses, cattle

and sheep, and of which Chiquita might have been mistress had she so

chosen. Within this vast domain were situated numerous villages of

Mexican and Indian populations, subject in a measure to his command. His

word, where it did not conflict with the central Government, was law;

but Don Felipe, selfish and unprincipled though he was by nature, was

too easy going ever to think of making unscrupulous use of such power.

So long as things went smoothly, he was the last man to exercise his

almost unlimited authority for the mere pleasure of dominating others as

many men might were they placed in his position.

His leniency in governing, his lavish manner of living, and a way he had

of fraternizing with his people on occasions--the latter prompted not

from motives of generosity, but purely from those of vanity and a love

of popularity--made him fairly popular among his subjects. It was when

Don Felipe wanted something in particular that he became dangerous,

especially if that something lay within his jurisdiction. Then indeed,

was he one to be feared.

His appearance was striking; a swarthy complexion, thick, shiny, black

curly hair and mustache, lustrous black eyes and delicate features, and

a lithe sinewy body, every movement of which was cat-like and expressive

of treachery.

His high-crowned, broad-brimmed _sombrero_ of gray felt was richly

embroidered with gold and silver. A slender, pale yellow satin tie

adorned his soft white, heavily frilled shirt front. His soft gray

jacket and leggins of goat skin, also ornamented with gold and silver

buttons and embroidery, were slashed at the sleeves below the elbow and

knee and interlaced with filmy gold cords from beneath which shone a

pale yellow satin facing embroidered with tiny red flowers. A gay

scarlet silken _banda_ from beneath which peeped the silver hilt of a

knife, encircled his slender waist, while his feet were encased in

russet tanned boots adorned with spurs inlaid with gold and silver and

which tinkled like fairy bells with every step he took. The trappings of

his horse were also heavily inlaid with silver. Theatrical though his

costume was, it became him well and harmonized perfectly with his

surroundings, completing the picture of a Spanish Don, the

representative of a past era. A costume that was only to be seen in the

remoter parts of the country--one which was becoming rarer each day.

Four years had elapsed since he had last looked upon the familiar scenes

about him. Nothing appeared to have changed during that time as his gaze

wandered from the old _Posada_ to the garden beyond. He sighed, and a

momentary expression of pain and weariness passed across his countenance

as he silently surveyed the scene which recalled memories whose

bitterness was enough to overwhelm a man of maturer character and years.

In the Indian _pueblo_, La Jara, had lived the beautiful _mestiza_ girl,

Pepita Delaguerra, with whom he had fallen in love in early youth.

The gentle, confiding nature of Pepita was ill suited to that of the

passionate, impulsive Felipe, and proved her undoing. For, when old Don

Juan, Felipe's father, heard of his son's infatuation, he immediately

packed him off to the City of Mexico with the injunction not to return

under a year. An obscure half-caste for a daughter-in-law! Holy Maria!

the thought was enough to cause his hair to stand on end. No, the old

Don had other plans for his son. Maria Dolores, Felipe's cousin, was the

woman he had picked out for his wife, and marry her he should if he

wished to inherit his father's vast estates. In case he disregarded the

latter's wish and married Pepita, the estates were to go to the Church,

so it was stipulated in Don Juan's will. But neither the Church nor old

Don Juan, as it afterwards proved, were a match for the clever Felipe.

The handsome scapegrace had already secretly married Pepita.

The strangest of all things is perhaps the irony of fate. Before the

year was up during which Felipe was charged to remain in the City of

Mexico, both his father, Don Juan, and the priest who had performed the

marriage ceremony for Felipe and Pepita, died. During his absence from

home, the observant and quick-witted Felipe had learned not only many

new things, but had made the acquaintance of other women as well. At its

best, the love of the passionate, hot-blooded Felipe and the gentle

Pepita could have endured only for a time. The attractions and

fascinations of the Capitol opened his eyes to many things which he had

hitherto overlooked, especially, that there are many beautiful women in

the world, and always one who is just a little more beautiful than the

others if one took the trouble to look for her. And so it happened that

he forgot not only his honor, but his obligations to Pepita, and

destroying the record of their marriage which he managed to secure with

the assistance of a confederate, he turned a deaf ear to her pleadings

and went his way.

What had he, Don Felipe Ramirez, who lived and ruled like a prince on

his vast estates, to fear from a pretty little half-caste Indian girl?

But Don Felipe was young and still had much to learn in the world. The

avenging angel that inevitably awaits us all at some turn or other in

the lane, stood nearer to him than he realized, and the vengeance which

followed was swift and complete.

Pepita took poison and died, but she died not alone--she died in the

arms of Chiquita who had but recently returned from the convent.

The latter frequently accompanied Padre Antonio on his charitable

missions and thus it chanced that she made Pepita's acquaintance and

learned her story. Time passed and all went well with Felipe until the

day he chanced to meet Chiquita.

We may deaden our souls to the voice of conscience, disavow a belief in

destiny and shut our eyes to those forces of the Invisible which, in

spite of ourselves, we know to exist, but how is it, that no man ever

succeeds in escaping his fate?

When Don Felipe Ramirez looked for the first time into the two dark

lustrous worlds of Chiquita's eyes, he beheld the height and depth of

his existence. From that moment he fell at her feet and worshiped her

with a passion that consumed and mastered him. Waking and dreaming she

was ever in his thoughts--he could not live without her. But not until

he was mad, ravished with desire, did she consent to become his wife. A

smile, or a gentle pressure of the hand were the only caresses she

deigned to bestow upon him; not until they were married would he be

permitted to embrace and kiss her, give rein to his passion. A strange

attitude for one of her nature to assume, and, as he looked back upon

it, he wondered how he had endured it--that he had not suspected

something.

At length the day set for the wedding arrived, and Chiquita with Señora

Fernandez drove in state to the old Mission church where Padre Antonio

awaited them to perform the marriage ceremony.

Don Felipe, in a state of exultation that lifted his soul to the clouds,

stood waiting for her on the steps of the church as had been agreed

between them; but as the two advanced, Chiquita suddenly paused before

the door, and turning, tore the bridal-veil and wreath of orange

blossoms from her brow and flung them into his face, crying: "Pepita

Delaguerra is avenged!" Then turning, she deliberately descended the

church steps and reëntering her carriage, drove home, leaving Don Felipe

dazed and speechless before the crowd of spectators that had gathered to

witness the passing of the bride and groom.

Later she confessed the reason for her motives to Padre Antonio, but one

circumstance she withheld even from him, the nature of which Don Felipe

did not suspect, but which he would have given worlds to know.

Chiquita's conduct became the scandal of the country for miles around,

and as is invariably the case, the majority of the women sided with

Felipe. In more refined circles of society, her act would have been

considered highly reprehensible and Felipe overwhelmed with sympathy.

His base ingratitude would have been lightly censured in the familiar,

sugared terms of the most approved fashion. He would have been forgiven,

and petted, and even lauded as a martyr--and then, the world would have

forgotten. With the Indian woman, however, it was different.

On the altars of her people was still written, "blood for blood," the

same as in the ancient days.

Crushed, humiliated, his pride humbled to the dust, Don Felipe left the

country and for four years sought to forget his shame and the taunts of

his enemies in the distractions of the world. He traveled everywhere,

was presented at the different Courts of Europe, and it was in

Washington where his uncle was the Mexican Minister to the United

States, that he met Blanch and Mrs. Forest and her niece. In vain did he

try to forget. In vain did he search for another woman to supplant his

love for Chiquita. He plunged into the wildest dissipation, but to no

effect. The beautiful face of the dark woman followed him everywhere,

stood between him and the world, lured him, fascinated him still as

nothing else could, tortured him day and night and he knew no rest.

A thousand times he resolved to return and kill her, and a thousand

times he relented, for he loved her as madly as ever and could not carry

out his resolve. A prey to alternate fits of remorse and hatred, and

tortured constantly by the knowledge of an unrequited love, the soul of

Don Felipe Ramirez suffered the torments of the damned. His

unconquerable love for Chiquita devoured him, gnawed constantly at his

heart, and he cursed her--cursed her as only one of his temperament who

had suffered as he suffered, could curse.

What could he do? Anguish succeeded anguish until he was at length

drawn back again as irresistibly as the magnet is drawn to the north, to

the woman he both loved and hated. He would throw himself at her feet.

He, the proud, arrogant Don Felipe of former years, and bowed in the

dust, implore forgiveness. Nothing was too hard. Any sacrifice she might

demand of him, he would make. Surely, when she saw his remorse, his

contrite humbled spirit, understood his suffering and realized that he

could not forget her, could not live without her, that he loved her

still through all the years of suffering, that his life was irrevocably

linked to hers, she would relent, forgive him--become his wife.

His wife! The thought electrified, elated his being to an extent that it

was lifted for the moment from out the black depths of his despondency.

If not, well then, there would be time for the fulfillment of that which

must inevitably follow--either his death or hers.