XXI

Dick Yankton had taken on a new lease of life. He no longer walked--he

flew. Like Hermes of old his feet seemed to have become suddenly endowed

with wings, with the result that his head was coming into dangerous

proximity to the clouds.

"_Dios!_ what had come over Señor Dick, who was on the best of terms

with every man, woman and child and dog in Santa Fé?" So potent was the

draught which he had imbibed, that he appeared to have been stricken

suddenly with blindness and the loss of memory at one and the same

instant. The salutations of his friends and acquaintances who greeted

him when he walked abroad were left unnoticed; his gaze fixed dreamily

on space before him. What had happened? Had he come into possession of a

new mine, or was he engaged in locating one through means of that

psychic sense or inner vision of the seer which he seemed to possess?

Had the real cause of his perturbation been guessed--that a woman's

smile had suddenly opened heaven's gates to him, a ripple of laughter

would have gone the rounds of Santa Fé. The mere suggestion that the

Señor Dick could be seriously in love was too absurd; his friends were

too well acquainted with the flirtatious side of his nature ever to

credit such a possibility. And yet, when Anita, his Indian housekeeper

and wife of his overseer and general factotum, Concho, saw the amazing

quantities of flowers, still wet with the morning's dew, that were daily

transported to the _Posada_, her suspicions became aroused. She began to

question Concho concerning them, and when he finally admitted that a

woman was the recipient of them, she raised her eyebrows with the

knowing look of a woman who has guessed the truth.

"I thought so," she answered quietly, a peculiar smile illumining her

dark countenance as she seated herself in the doorway of the refectory

which opened on the _patio_, and disposed herself comfortably,

preparatory to the interesting bit of gossip which she intended to screw

out of her husband.

She was of medium height, of the spare, slender type, and must have been

attractive in her youth, for even now, in spite of middle age, she was

comely to look upon. She wore a red rose in her black hair, while a

partially drooping eyelid gave a piquant, coquettish expression to her

face.

"Holy Virgin! but this is interesting!" she went on after a pause. "The

Señor in love, really in love!" and she laughed quietly to herself,

while she took a pinch of tobacco and a leaf of brown paper from the

pocket of her apron and began rolling a cigarette.

"Bah!" said Concho, accompanying the exclamation with a shrug of the

shoulders. "You women are always imagining things which do not exist.

Have we not often seen the Señor like this before? Has he not completely

spoiled the Señoritas of the town with his flowers? He's bored. He's

trying to amuse himself, that's all."

"And didst thou not say," continued Anita, without heeding his remarks,

regarding him out of the corners of her eyes while lighting her

cigarette, "that she is not quite so tall as the other one, but equally

beautiful in her way; that she is pink and white at one and the same

moment, just like a half-blown rose, and soft and satiny as the down on

a swan's neck?"

"It is all true, Anita _mia_, she is even that and more!" responded

Concho with warmth. "She is worth a journey to the _Posada_ to see, but

then, what is that--what are a few wisps of flowers?"

"Wisps? Armfuls, thou meanest, Concho! When did the Señor ever lavish so

many flowers upon one woman before? He told me they were for the

hospital," she chuckled, "but I have always been able to tell whether

the Señor was speaking the truth or not. Thou knowest the way he has of

saying the opposite to that which he means," and she blew a ring of

smoke into the still air and watched it as it floated upwards.

"Concho," she said after some moments' reflection, "thou art a fool! I

always said thou wert, and now I know it. The hospital--bah! How could

he have ever thought me so simple?" she exclaimed in a tone of mingled

sarcasm and disgust. "I tell thee, Concho, all women are the same either

on this side of the world or the other. The one thou hast just described

to me is the most dangerous of all women for a man like the Señor to

meet. That is, if she is clever," she added. "But have we not all heard

how clever and beautiful the _Americana_ Señoritas are?"

"Aye, there is nothing to compare with them in the whole land, with the

exception of the Chiquita, of course," replied Concho.

"Exactly; just what I have been saying, Concho _mio_," Anita went on,

surveying her spouse with a look of pitying superiority. "Why, only

yesterday, when he was here, I knew instantly by his air of distraction

that something unusual had happened. Never has he been so particular

before. He went all over the place, inspecting everything to the

minutest detail, just like a woman. Nothing pleased him; and when he

came to the flowers, which everybody knows are the finest in all

Chihuahua, he declared they were not fit for a dog to sniff at, and

rated the gardeners soundly for their negligence.

"Ah!" she sighed, the expression of her countenance softening, "the

place needs a mistress badly--it is the one thing it lacks. There was a

time when I hoped it might be the Chiquita, but since fate has ordained

that it should be otherwise, let us pray that it may be this one. In

fact," she exclaimed, looking up and emphasizing her words, "from what

thou hast told me of her, I know it will be she or none, and may heaven

grant that it please the Saints either to give her to him or protect him

from her, for the Señor is a man who can really love but once. Take a

woman's word for it, Concho, these are the true symptoms of love."

Having delivered herself thus forcibly, she tossed aside the end of her

cigarette and rose from the doorsill.

"Thou wert always a fool, Concho," she added, regarding him

compassionately with a smile and patting him on the cheek. Then turning,

she disappeared in the house, leaving Concho to marvel at her

astuteness, a thing he had never suspected.

Meanwhile, the subject under discussion was pacing the floor of his room

in the _Posada_ like a caged lion. For one whole week Bessie Van Ashton

had seemingly thrown wide the portals of her heart and bade him enter, a

privilege of which he was not slow to avail himself. Never had woman

flirted to better advantage or succeeded more effectually in turning a

man's head in so short a time as had this distracting, fair-haired

witch. The only regret experienced by Mr. Yankton during these hours of

unalloyed happiness, was the thought of the days he had lost--days which

might have been spent in her society had he only known. How blind he had

been not to have recognized her the instant he had set eyes on her,

instead of compelling the Almighty to remind him that she was the woman

that had been reserved for him by dropping her down out of a clear sky

into his arms! How stupid of him, and how patient Providence was with

some of us at times!

During the few short days which followed that happy accident--days that

seemed like so many swift, fleeting seconds, Dick floated on a summer

sea whose surface was unmarred by shadow or ripple. All the world had

changed. He felt as though he had only just begun to live, and he spun a

golden web of fancies out of the reality of things which, for one so

deeply versed in the game of life, was a marvel of beauty, fair as a

poet's dream, yet more substantial. And why not? Had not his life been

one replete with adventure and romance from the cradle? His meeting with

Bessie was no more remarkable than many other things that had occurred

during his lifetime. It was now perfectly clear to him why he had built

the _hacienda_ in the face of adverse judgment. It was for her, of

course. A place in which to enshrine and worship her during the years to

come; for what else could it be?

That insane notion of a white-haired patriarch enjoying the solitude of

the place was too absurd--a morbid fancy born of loneliness and

melancholy. The walk back to the _Posada_ on the day of their startling

encounter and the hours spent in Bessie's society since then--strolling

and chatting in the garden, or going for long rides over the plains

together, had convinced him it was not intended that man should live

alone. He had taken good care that she should learn nothing of the

existence of the _hacienda_ or of his wealth, and as little as possible

concerning himself, except that he was an agreeable young man with fair

prospects; and thus far, thanks to the Captain's silence and her

ignorance of Spanish, he had succeeded admirably.

Fair prospects! The secret was almost too good to keep, and he laughed

softly to himself as he mused upon it. It was truly an inspiration; just

the sort of thing to hand out to one of Newport's smart-set. Although he

had not yet proposed to her, he regarded their marriage as a foregone

conclusion; an event of the near future. She certainly had led him to

infer as much, and the plan he had conceived regarding it was highly

ingenious--one worthy of his fertile imagination. Directly they were

married, they would spend the first fortnight of their honeymoon camping

in the mountains in a style worthy of a grand Mogul, after which he

would suggest that they pass the night at a near-by _rancho_ belonging

to a friend, and in this wise introduce her to her future home.

The rapture of the picture fairly dazzled him, and he lay awake whole

nights contemplating it--the _patio_ palely illumined by the moonlight,

the murmur of the fountain in its center, the perfume of flowers, the

melodious voices of the dark-skinned Indian attendants, bearing flaming

torches, and chanting the time-honored welcome to their new mistress,

and her insistent demands to be introduced to their host; and then the

delightful dénouement, the surprise she must experience when the truth

finally dawned upon her. Truly poet never dreamed a fairer dream. It had

taken him a whole week to conceive the idea in detail, and on the

morning of the seventh day on which he had decided to ask her to become

his wife, he stood with the horses before the _Posada_ expectantly

awaiting her appearance to take the ride they had agreed upon the night

before. At the end of an hour, during which he fretted over the undue

delay with the same impatience as did the horses, Rosita appeared and

informed him that the Señorita Van Ashton would not ride that morning;

she was not feeling well. A wild alarm seized him. The thought that she

might have been stricken suddenly with some serious illness, quite

unnerved him for the moment. "_Caramba!_" he cried, quite forgetting his

English. "What has happened? Is it serious? Is anything being done?" But

all inquiries concerning the actual state of the Señorita's health

proving fruitless, he was left to pass the remainder of the day

wandering aimlessly about the garden in the vain hope of finding

something to divert his mind. Had he been in possession of his usual

calm, he might have noticed the amused expression on Rosita's face, but

the extent of one's concern being the measure of one's love for a

person, he saw only the vivid mental picture of his consuming passion,

Bessie, suffering Bessie!

It was the first jarring note in that state of uninterrupted bliss which

he had been enjoying, and as the day wore painfully on he began to

realize how much she had become to him. He was haunted by misgivings,

and finally, late in the afternoon, having convinced himself that he had

exhausted the resources of the garden, he decided to pass the time until

the dinner hour upon the veranda on the other side of the house. Thither

he repaired, but oddly enough and greatly to his astonishment, as he

stepped out upon the veranda, he came face to face with Miss Van Ashton

returning from a walk in the town. She was charmingly gowned in a soft,

clinging creation of pale lavender and white lace, with long white suède

gloves and low lavender shoes and silk stockings, an inch or so of which

she flashed before his eyes, proclaiming the society belle's

prerogative. She carried a parasol of the same color and material as her

dress, while her head was crowned with a sweeping, rakishly plumed

Rembrandtesque hat worn at a killing angle. The gold in her hair and the

exquisite pink and white of her throat and cheeks blended perfectly with

a color scheme, the attractiveness of which was greatly enhanced by her

natural charm and the delicate scent of lavender and rose leaves which

emanated from her person, the combined effects of which were not lost

upon an over-wrought imagination.

To use the current vernacular of the times, so familiar to the world in

which she moved, Miss Van Ashton's appearance was decidedly fetching,

and strongly suggestive of the things of which poets, in their madness,

are continually harping--flower gardens flooded with moonlight and the

song of nightingales. Although not modeled on heroic lines, she

nevertheless possessed the qualifications which most men seek in women

and therefore became quite as formidable as Delilah when she chose to

assert herself. To say that Mr. Yankton was dazzled but mildly expresses

his feelings; he was ravished, though in no mood for banter. Had their

meeting occurred under more auspicious circumstances, he undoubtedly

would have complimented her on her charming appearance; but for one who

had been eating his heart out during eight consecutive hours solely on

her account, it was hardly to be expected. The sight of her, though a

relief to his mind, gave rise to thoughts the nature of which he found

it difficult to conceal.

"What!" he cried, furious and aghast, scarcely believing his eyes as the

truth slowly began to dawn upon him. "They told me you were ill--that

you couldn't appear to-day!"

"Ill? How very strange!" she answered in feigned surprise, with a far

away, vacant look in her eyes, as though she had just met him for the

first time, rendering him quite speechless. "Really, Mr. Yankton," she

continued in the coldest, most distant manner she could command, "I

never felt better in my life!" And without allowing him time to catch

his breath, she passed by him and slammed the door in his face, from the

other side of which he fancied he heard her silvery, rippling laughter,

the nature of which sounded suspiciously like a titter.

Woman never delivered a more crushing blow. In that instant Mr. Yankton

saw more stars than the firmament contains. It was like being thrown

suddenly into a river on a cold morning. Miss Van Ashton's methods might

be regarded as somewhat harsh by certain persons, but realizing that

heroic measures were the only cure for the dangerous distemper that

threatened her peace of mind, she had acted without hesitancy. Besides,

was she not in a measure justified in wishing to even up their scores?

Oh, the fickleness of woman! How cleverly she had deceived him, and what

an ass he had been! She had been playing with him all the while, and as

he paced the floor, revolving what course to pursue, he wondered how he

could have been so simple. True, she was different from any woman he had

ever met, but dazed though he was by her sudden change of front, he was

not disheartened. On the contrary, she had become more attractive than

ever. His blood fairly boiled at the thought of his defeat, but he would

profit by the experience--change his tactics completely. The more she

avoided him, the more persistent he would become. If she did not see

him, she would be kept a prisoner in the house. He would give her no

peace, day or night. He would dog her footsteps, confront her at every

turn, pursue her with the most reckless and relentless ardor and utter

disregard of what the world might think; treat her as he would an

unbroken horse--give her no rest, but keep her on the jump until he had

worn her out, and then close with her.