Señora Fernandez erred in her judgment of Don Felipe, which was but
natural. She still regarded him as the impetuous, hot-headed youth of
former days, not what he really was--the mature man, sobered by years of
experience and suffering which had taught him the value of self-control.
He understood the nature, knew as never before the mettle of the woman
with whom he had to deal, and on no account would he foolishly
precipitate a quarrel with the Captain. He would bide his time and
strike only when the moment seemed propitious. The vague rumors which
were current concerning Chiquita must have some foundation, else why the
continual gossip on every tongue? He would investigate the matter for
himself, in his own time and way; meanwhile he would reinstate himself
in the good graces of the community by making himself as agreeable and
popular as possible, a thing not difficult for one of his wealth and
accomplishments.
He had doffed his Mexican costume for the more prosaic attire of the
modern man which became him equally well and which was more to his
liking. To the cosmopolitan that he had become, the place and the people
had shrunk terribly during his absence, and there seemed to be little
left in common between him and them. The presence of the Americans was
a godsend to him, while he in turn was like a fresh breeze from the
outer world to them.
He instinctively recognized a confederate in Blanch. They possessed a
common interest and spent much time together. Strange that the same fate
which had overtaken him was now threatening her! Those who deny a fixed
destiny and can therefore afford to ignore the laughter of the gods, may
answer with some assurance that the lives of most people, especially the
marked ones, are tragic--perhaps. But why had Colonel Van Ashton, the
bon-vivant and habitué of clubs, the adored of pretty young women and
confidant of duennas, taken the one road which led to the wilderness
when it is well known that all roads lead to Rome, especially when the
Colonel had about as much interest in his present surroundings as a
polar bear might reasonably expect to find on the equator? Possibly it
was for the same reason that the Colonel also watched with increasing
alarm the sudden and growing interest which his daughter began to take
in the man he detested most on earth.
Reveal the cause, the hidden well-spring of destiny, and the effect may
be predicted with comparative accuracy. Can the lamb lie down with the
lion? Were there ever substantial grounds for the assertion, or was it
only metaphor--mere poetical allusion? The world has been on the _qui
vive_ for the fulfillment of prophecy ever since the expulsion of our
common ancestry from Eden. The actual motives and reasons which underlie
the workings of destiny are usually about as clear as those which bereft
Samson of his locks or left the lone figure of Marius seated amid the
ruins of Carthage. And yet, even in the face of time-worn contradictions
apparent to the most superficial and credulously minded, pretty,
distracting Bessie Van Ashton had begun to cast her eyes in the
direction of Dick Yankton, the handsome, open-handed, devil-may-care son
of nature who regarded the world of fashion to which she belonged with
about as much concern as he did the dust on his boots.
Possibly _ennui_ prompted this willful bit of womanhood to make a
plaything of that picturesque child of nature, just as loneliness caused
him to open his eyes to the existence of that, which in the logical and
ordinary course of events, he would have entirely overlooked. But since
life is made up almost entirely of contraries, it is not so much with
reasons that we have to deal as with facts--things as they are. Clothe
human nature in whatever garb you like, at heart it remains the same.
Time and place and condition make little difference; the real man within
is sure to assert himself at some time or other by throwing off the
disguise.
Was Bessie, the spoilt, pampered child of fashion with her soft, white
body, any more fit for a life lived close to nature than Blanch who was
naturally strong, sinuous and supple, though so softened by luxury and
the overrefinements of civilization? To all appearances, no. And yet,
the very things which seemed to pass by Blanch unheeded, began
imperceptibly to impress themselves upon Bessie. Possibly because Blanch
was so strong and individualized that, having once given herself up
wholly to the present life, she was enslaved irrevocably by it--held
fast by it with a power that had grown with her strength day by day--so
that while a weaker woman might slip through the meshes and escape, she
was held irresistibly bound through her own force and strength of
character.
The spell and magic of the land seemed to hold like an unseen hand all
things as in the grip of a vice, and were no less potent in the present
than they were in the past. The plaintive notes of the wood-dove found a
response within Bessie's soul. The winds seemed laden with new voices
and unconsciously interrupted the train of her thoughts and caused her
to pause and listen and wonder. The wild, forbidding landscape from
which her stronger companion involuntarily shrank, for some unknown
reason attracted her. The broad expanse of heaven and earth, the far
horizon, the hazy, mysterious silhouetted peaks of distant mountains
aroused vague longings within her--emotions which she did not understand
and concerning which she failed in her attempts to analyze.
Had she been at home, she would have regarded these new sensations as
sentimental enthusiasm and laughed at them, denying them a permanent
place in her nature. But here, it was different. They seemed to have a
hold upon one and were as irresistible as those vague longings that come
with the awakening of spring. There was music everywhere in the world
about her. Flowers of the imagination sprang from the desert on every
hand. Voices and hands called and beckoned to her from out the unseen.
The quickening and awakening within her gave promise of a new life, and
her feet became light as sunbeams. The fact of being alive and the
increasing desire to live filled her with a new joy and vigor that
darted through her soul like tongues of flame, causing her blood to
surge and tingle as never before since the days of childhood.
A genuine interest in the new life and the lives of those about her,
took the place of the apathy and indifference with which she regarded
the sated pleasures of that jaded world from which she had departed so
recently. She had come to be bored--fully resigned for Blanch's sake to
endure the _ennui_ of mere vegetation until the prodigal Jack had been
safely gathered within the fold once more. After the rude shock of first
impressions had passed and she had found time to pause and breathe, she
began to cast her eyes about her for something more real and tangible
than the memories of the world she had left behind her, but had failed
to find anything of interest until the occurrence of that unfortunate
episode with Dick.
His arms still clung to her in spite of the persistent efforts she made
to shake them off. And stranger still, no amount of scrubbing seemed to
remove the sting of those burning kisses he had impressed upon her hand.
That unpardonable piece of impudence was unprecedented. Men had made
love to her, adored her, and completely lost their heads over her; and
one man in particular, as she well knew, was scouring the ends of the
earth in an effort to obtain news of her present whereabouts. Much to
her astonishment, however, and contrary to her preconceived notions
concerning men, she found that she had suddenly lost interest in this
particular man for another.
But why? What was the cause of this newly awakened interest in Dick? Was
it because he was so different from the men she had known, or was it
that strong touch of the feminine in him which certain sensitive
masculine natures possess; that rare, distinguishing characteristic
which is so attractive to men and women alike? Did any real affinity
exist between them? How could it, considering the different conditions
and environment in which they had been reared and the width of the gulf
that divided them? What then was the cause of this attraction which in
spite of her efforts to check it, was beginning to become a source of
vexation to a woman of the world who had always prided herself on being
able to keep herself well in hand?
That it might be love, or even the dawning of love, she refused to
admit. She shuddered at the mere thought of such a catastrophe. The
thing, however, was becoming annoying. Like any thought which we hold
too long in our minds, it was bound to absorb all others in time, and
she resolved to make an end of it. She would play with him. One could
not maintain a serious interest in that which one treated as a
jest--held up to ridicule. She would play with him like an expert angler
plays with a fish, and when landed, would walk over him
rough-shod--trample him back into the dust of that coarser clay from
which he sprang.
Ah, yes, the country was not so dull after all! It would be a royal
lark; a holiday long to be remembered. They were so far from the great
world that, when it was all over, not even the slightest rumor or
breath of scandal would remain to remind her of the flirtation upon
which she had decided to embark.
With these thoughts running through her mind, the fascinating,
violet-eyed daughter of Colonel Van Ashton lightly dipped the tips of
her dainty fingers into a rouge-pot, glanced into the mirror and drew
them across her lips, and then deliberately attired herself in one of
her smartest gowns preparatory to flinging the first bones of
condescension to the rustic Yankton; the preliminaries of a series of
expectations and hopes deferred that were intended to reduce him to a
state of submission suitable to receive the final kick which was to
leave Mr. Yankton a wiser but a sadder man.