Conviction is one thing, decision another. Any one who has been taught
from earliest childhood to regard black as white could hardly be
expected to distinguish in a moment the virtue of the latter.
Daily Bessie resolved to follow the promptings of her heart; usually at
the close of the day when the cool of the evening set in, when the stars
again took up their procession across the heavens and she walked and
chatted with Dick in the garden. But when morning dawned and she thought
of her father's awful prognostications and the dire consequences which
must inevitably ensue should she take the step, her ardor cooled and she
as often changed her mind. Her father spent hours arguing with her,
trying to impress her with the importance of the duty she owed society
which consisted in obeying to the letter the behests of the set in which
she had always moved.
Greatly to the Colonel's astonishment and disgust, his daughter seemed
strangely lacking in this particular moral quality. How had her insight
become so obtuse? He could not understand it, especially as he had taken
particular pains while bringing her up to steel her heart against the
insidious longings of maudlin sentiment and to teach her to despise
everything outside of her particular world. He and his wife had not
regarded love the chief essential to marriage, so why should his
daughter? That she, under the circumstances, should hesitate between
happiness and a life of regret, was a thing unique, almost
incomprehensible to him. That she should question his authority, his
right to choose for her, and his superior knowledge of the world, was
still more surprising. Her disaffection was strongly suggestive of
disrespect, a lack of faith in his infallibility in which he, the
Colonel, firmly believed, if nobody else did.
The thought that the efforts of years might come to naught was bitter as
wormwood to him. It was bad enough that his nephew should besmirch the
family escutcheon, but that his daughter should deliberately contract a
mesalliance in the face of his objections, was too much. It was the last
straw. The country was going to the dogs. He argued, pleaded, stormed
and swore and beat his head against the wall of indifference and
obstinacy which his daughter reared between them with the unremitting
fury of a wasp that finds itself on the wrong side of a windowpane. This
new turn in affairs rendered Mrs. Forest so furious that she snapped
right and left regardless of persons like a dog possessed of the rabies,
rendering herself the most disagreeable person in the house.
The alarming rapidity with which event succeeded event, whirling them
onward to some unseen end, was more than sufficient to convince them all
that life was fast becoming a very uncertain quantity. No one knew what
the morrow might bring forth; and all, with the exception of the
Captain, were wrought up to a pitch of nervous tension that threatened
the breaking point. Don Felipe shadowed Chiquita and the
Captain--Chiquita and Blanch regarded one another with increasing
suspicion--Dick pressed his suit with the ardor of desperation; while
the Colonel and Mrs. Forest nagged on all sides. Even Señora wore an
anxious, worried look. It was evident to all that things, as they were,
could not continue much longer. Only the Captain seemed capable of
keeping his head above water; for him the future held no terrors. The
more complicated matters became, the more serene he grew; for had he not
vowed that he would see things through to the end? They would all have
an opportunity of judging who it would be that would laugh last.
The _fandango_ would relieve the tension. Blanch's inspiration was truly
a stroke of genius, for anything was better than a continuance of the
present state of affairs. Ever since Dick's declaration of love, Bessie
had fought and struggled against the tide of events which was
overwhelming her by making herself as disagreeable as possible in his
eyes. But what could she do to thwart the machinations of a man who
laughed at her moods, who encouraged her with each fresh outburst?
Scarcely an hour elapsed after parting from him, than a note was slipped
into her hand by some one of the many Mexican attendants, telling her
how he adored her moods. That a frown from her was sweeter than the
perpetual smile of another woman; that he loved a woman of spirit; that
she would find him on the morrow in the dust at her feet as usual; that
the sensation he experienced while being trampled upon could only be
likened unto that of being borne aloft on wings, etc. She grew hot and
cold by turns as she read these missives, and sulked and softened and
flew into fits of passion, and tore them into bits, thoroughly disgusted
with her weakness and her inability to remedy matters, and invariably
ended by wishing to see him again. Clearly, her only hope of delivery
lay in the alternatives of instant flight, or of ridding herself of his
importunities by marrying him; either of which she found equally
difficult and impossible to execute. She did not know that Dick was
putting on a bold front; that his attitude was assumed; that, like her,
he was at his wits' end; that, if she suffered, he suffered tenfold. Her
annoyance was insignificant in comparison to the cyclonic outbursts that
swept over him.
Ah, yes, Anita, Concho's wife, had predicted events with fair accuracy.
When he sought to take her, she was not there, but somewhere
else--everywhere. Just like a kitten that frisks among the leaves in
autumn when they are whirled about by the wind; now here, now there, now
up a tree. Though each had taken the measure of the other with fair
accuracy, each had misjudged the other's strength; and it was becoming
problematical just how much longer he would be able to hold out. Nothing
had ever daunted him. All his life long he had never failed to
accomplish the things of real importance. No undertaking had ever proved
too great. Colonel Yankton, his foster-father, had taught him the value
of perseverance, and he had learned his lesson well. He instinctively
felt that the great crisis of his life was at hand; that all his
efforts, his successes in life must count for naught so far as he
personally was concerned, should he fail to win her. He knew that his
fate hung in the balance, that the morrow would practically decide
whether the one thing his life lacked would be added unto it, or that he
would go on to the end alone.
He had gone for a stroll in the town after the customary gathering in
the _patio_ in the evening. The others had long since retired for the
night when he returned to the _Posada_. Feeling no inclination to sleep,
he seated himself on the veranda in front of the house, and lighting a
fresh cigar, smoked and mused; his gaze fixed on the tall moonlit hedge
which separated the _Posada_ from the highroad; his thoughts reverting
to the days of his boyhood. Again he saw the Colonel, tall and erect,
the personification of manhood, indomitable will and courage, seated
upon his horse at the head of his regiment, and heard the ringing,
clarion notes of the bugle--the signal for the charge. Yes, he would
make one more supreme effort, and if that failed, well.... His cigar had
burned low. He tossed it over the veranda rail and rose with the
intention of retiring, when his attention was arrested by the faint
sound of a horse's hoofs on the highroad in the distance. Something
seemed to tell him to wait, and acting on the impulse, he paused and
listened. The sounds drew nearer, increasing in volume as the animal
approached, until a horseman finally turned in from the road at an easy
canter and drew rein before the _Posada_. Both man and horse were
covered with dust which shone white as snow in the moonlight; a proof
that they had traveled far during the day.
"_Buenas noches_, Señor," said the rider, a Mexican, swinging himself
from the saddle and ascending the steps to where Dick stood.
"Good evening," replied the latter in Spanish, eyeing the man curiously.
"I wish," continued the stranger, "to speak with one Señor Yankton who,
I was told, lives in Santa Fé. Perhaps, Señor, you can tell me where I
may find him?"
"I am Señor Yankton. What do you want?"
"Ah!" exclaimed the man, stepping back a pace and regarding Dick
critically. "Your appearance answers the description well, Señor, but
that is not enough--I must have proof." Just then a _vaquero_ on night
duty who had been lounging in the deep shadow at the far end of the
veranda came forward on hearing the sounds of voices.
"Diego," said Dick, addressing the latter, "tell this gentleman whether
I be Señor Yankton or not. He says he wishes to see him."
"Of a truth, Señor, here is the man you seek," answered Diego,
addressing the stranger.
"_Bueno_--good!" ejaculated the Mexican, pulling a sealed packet from
the inner pocket of his jacket. "I come from the Rio Plata, six days'
journey toward the west. I have been commissioned to deliver this to
you, Señor," and he handed the packet to Dick who, taking it, gave
instructions to Diego that the man and his horse be properly housed for
the night. Then, with an "_hasta la vista_," and "God be with you until
the morrow, Señor," he retired to his room. There, by the dim light of a
candle, he carefully scrutinized the address on the packet, but did not
recognize the writing. Nevertheless, he instinctively felt as he turned
it over in his hands before breaking the seal, that, in some manner or
other, it was intimately concerned with his fate.