Pale and trembling and humiliated, Blanch pulled herself together with
an effort and stood for some time as one dazed where the Captain had
left her. Then, she remembered, she had smiled and bowed absently to the
men and women in the _patio_ on the way back to her room, where she
flung herself down upon the couch in a frenzy, burying her face in the
cushions; her frame shaking with passionate, convulsive sobs as she
writhed in paroxysms of untold grief and pain.
He had refused her, dared to refuse her--her! She had failed! Was this,
then, the end, the reward for righteous ambition, conscientious
endeavor? For years she had worked and schemed for the realization of
her ideal, and this was the end. How proud she always had been of him,
and how perfectly her beauty and brilliancy would have crowned his
career--their lives! And now, when ambition's goal was attained, that
rare cup of earthly joys of which few men drink, had been rudely dashed
from her lips.
So this was the reward that had been reserved for her who had been
endowed with wealth and position, and who was the fairest and best this
civilization could produce? Fate had been kind to her merely in order
that she might realize to the utmost the bitterness and emptiness of
life.
Life--what did it mean, what did it hold for her now? She knew as well
as Captain Forest did that, strong though she was, she was nevertheless
too weak to share with him the life he had chosen. Civilization and
culture had prepared her for everything but that; the one vital
essential which nature alone can give to man was lacking. After all she
was but a poor, helpless creature, incapable of meeting and being
satisfied with the simple demands occasioned by the natural conditions
of man's surroundings. Neither could she return to the old life again,
now that it was shorn of its vital interest, and year after year cast
her bread upon the waters in the uncertain pursuit of happiness, only to
reap the harvest of dead-sea fruit that is ever borne in on the shallow
tides of worldliness.
She recognized in herself the victim of a system of lies and frauds, a
world of artificiality, deceit and tawdry tinsel, a life which, in spite
of the good it contains, makes weaklings of men. Thanks to her
bringing-up, the sunland of love, that valley of the earthly paradise,
was closed to her forever. She cursed this world of hypocrisy and
deception and all it contained--her friends and acquaintances and the
memory of her father and mother, who unabashed, had perverted the pure,
unsullied gaze of the child, directed its steps in the paths trodden by
its degenerate forefathers, taught it to regard falsehood in the light
of truth.
Let the world cry out in protest--say they did their best. The world
lies, and knows it lies. They did not do their best. They followed the
dictates of selfishness, despicable, inherent weakness. But why had
this come to her who had been a willing instrument, who had lent
herself to the dictates of this world and who, of all others, was the
most fit to grace it?
"I curse you--curse you!" she cried aloud, springing to her feet in a
fresh paroxysm and frenzy, flinging her clenched hands aloft, her
features livid with rage. But what did her mingled transports of grief
and pain and anger avail her? There was no redress, no appeal from the
decision of destiny. It was fate, and she had been singled out for the
sacrifice. Again she cried out in agony of heart and soul. Had she been
strong like the other woman, he must have loved her--his love never
could have died!
The thought of Chiquita brought her to herself in a measure, and as she
slowly began to pace the floor, Don Felipe's words came back to her. If
she did not possess Jack, no other woman should. Besides, she knew what
he did not know--that even if he wished to, he could not marry Chiquita.
A grim smile flitted across her countenance as the knowledge of this
fact flashed through her mind, the only ray of light in the chaos into
which she had been plunged by that misguided, luckless decision on her
part--her refusal to follow the Captain while he was still hers.
She knew it was purely revenge that had prompted Don Felipe to run her
rival's secret to earth, and she despised him for it. It was not so with
her--the thought of revenge had not entered into her calculations. But
neither Chiquita nor the Captain would escape. It was justice, nothing
more nor less; for they, too, like her, stood before the tribunal of
destiny and must bow to its decrees the same as she had been forced to
bow to them. Yes, she would give the signal to Don Felipe that night; it
was the only right thing to do.
She was calmer now, and when Rosita knocked lightly at her door and
entered the room to assist her in dressing for the evening, no one would
have suspected the ache at her heart or the storm-swept soul which her
calm exterior concealed.