AS Mrs. Darlington had anticipated, the trio of young Americans were
discovered in the cosy corner. Grace and Munson were engaged in a
tête-à -tête that was obviously very delightful to themselves, while
Merle at a discreet distance was busily engaged in watering the pot
plants and flowers. She was the first to sound a note of warning.
“Here comes mother, and Mr. Robles, also, I do declare.”
The young lovers started a little apart, and Grace in a moment was
demurely busy over a bit of sewing that had been resting undisturbed in
her lap during the previous half hour.
Merle advanced toward Mr. Robles.
“This is delightful,” she exclaimed, as she warmly shook hands. “You
will stay to luncheon, of course.”
“No, my dear. This is to be only a brief visit, I am sorry to say.”
Grace had also come forward, and he saluted her in his usual quiet,
kindly manner. But for Munson he had a word of sly banter.
“Better than drilling a squad or cataloguing musty old books,” he
remarked, bestowing a significant side glance in Grace’s direction.
“Infinitely better,” replied the ex-soldier and amateur librarian, with
frank and unabashed satisfaction.
Mr. Robles took a seat close to Merle.
“I came to bring you two pieces of news,” he said, taking her hand,
yet addressing his words to all the company. “First and foremost, by
tomorrow the charge against Dick Willoughby will be withdrawn, and he
will be a free man.”
“Oh, that is good news indeed,” cried Merle, fairly hugging its bearer.
“Then they have at last discovered the murderer of young Thurston?”
enquired Munson in a tone of eager satisfaction.
“Yes, or rather he has discovered himself, I believe. Oh, you need
not ask me for the name. It will only be made public when Willoughby
formally claims his liberty.”
“I am so thankful,” murmured Grace. “But of course Dick’s complete
exoneration was bound to come.”
“And I am the bearer of a special message to you, Mr. Munson. I have
not read it. But it was given to me as the one most likely to get it
promptly into your hands.”
Speaking thus, he passed over to Munson the hasty scrawl that Dick had
written in the cavern and entrusted to Pierre Luzon for delivery.
Munson ripped open the envelope, first scanned the contents, then read
aloud:
“On Tuesday night next, about six o’clock, meet me at Buck Ashley’s
old store. I shall want you to ride over to Bakersfield with me next
morning, where my acquittal is assured. Give Merle the glad news. Yours,
Dick.”
“That I have already been privileged to do,” said Mr. Robles, as he
smiled down on the young girl by his side. Their eyes met, and a look of
grave earnestness came into Merle’s.
“And the second item of news, Mr. Robles?” she asked, in a low tone. “I
hope it is also gladsome tidings.”
“Oh, it is of comparative unimportance,” he answered. “Simply that I am
going away on a long journey, and may not see all you happy young people
again for quite awhile.”
Merle’s face fell. “I am so sorry,” she murmured, a note of real feeling
in the softly-spoken words.
“As you grow older you will realize that the world is full of partings,
Merle,” he answered.
“But why should there be partings among us?” she protested. “Now that
Dick is free, there is not a shadow on all our happiness. And we do so
wish you to share it, Mr. Robles. It will not be just the same if you
are gone.”
“It is very kind of you to think like that.”
“That’s just how we all think,” interjected Grace. “But when duty calls,
one must needs answer,” replied Robles. “Right there is an end to all
argument.”
“And where are you going this time, Mr. Robles?” enquired Merle.
“On a long journey—as far as Europe, I hope. But my plans are not
quite certain, except that I start tonight. However, I shall be in
correspondence with Mrs. Darlington, and I trust that when you young
people come to make that contemplated foreign tour, your footsteps
will be turned in my direction. Meanwhile you have, all of you, as you
already know, my warmest congratulations and heartiest good wishes.”
As he spoke, Mr. Robles rose. His manner indicated that he wished no
further questioning. After a comprehensive glance around, he advanced,
first of all, to Munson and extended his hand.
“Mr. Munson, you will receive a letter tomorrow that contains an offer
for you to continue your work in my library, which I hope will prove
acceptable, at least for the present. Grace, my dear, I take the liberty
of an old friend.” And he kissed her brow. “With your mother I
already have had a good long talk,” he continued, as he pressed Mrs.
Darlington’s hand and looked into her eyes. “And now, Merle, dear, I am
going to ask you to gather me some roses in your garden. I want them for
a particular purpose, and, as you know, there are no roses like those of
La Siesta.”
Merle was standing eager and happy to do his bidding—privileged to have
the chance of conferring such a little service on her dear old friend,
her friend from the earliest childhood days of her remembrance. With
impulsive good-nature, Grace was ready to help as well. But a quiet look
from her mother restrained her, and Merle and Mr. Robles passed from the
verandah, hand in hand.
For nearly an hour they wandered among the rose bushes, picking the
choicest blooms, talking a little on many things, silent at times, but
both happy in each other’s companionship. At last Mr. Robles looked at
his watch. The hour of parting had come.
Merle had deftly tied the roses in a bunch, and now she placed them in
his hands.
“A bouquet from me—from your little friend Merle,” she murmured, with a
wistful attempt at a smile.
“From my dear little friend, Merle,” he replied, gravely repeating her
words as he looked down into her upraised face. It was a beautiful
face, in its fresh youthfulness, its eager joy of living, the sublime
unconsciousness of self that reveals the spotless soul. For an instant
their eyes met.
During that brief spell Robles’ whole being trembled. His arms moved as
if to enfold the sweet girl to his breast. But with a mighty effort he
controlled himself, and he simply kissed her on the brow, just as he had
done to Grace in the cosy corner.
“God bless you, Merle, my dear,” he murmured as he turned away with a
final wave of his hand.
In a moment he was gone from her view. But the girl’s gaze remained
fixed—still directed down the avenue of trees along which the figure
of her life-long friend had disappeared. There was a look of dazed
wonderment in her eyes.
“Oh, can it be so—could it be so?” she faltered, as she raised a hand to
hold back the tears.
An hour later Robles was in the little Mexican churchyard, scattering
the rose blooms gathered by his daughter Merle on the graves of the dead
relatives whose names she would never know as such. Already there were
the flowers that Tia Teresa had that morning brought—a garland of white
arum lilies around the cross that marked the sleeping place of Rosetta,
wreaths of rich red carnations on the tombstone inscribed with the
father’s and the mother’s names.
And now on the turf beneath the memorials Don Manuel, with lingering
fingers, dropped the roses here and there, as if to rest with their
beauty and their fragrance on the forms of his beloved dead. The last
bloom fluttered to the ground. Then, standing erect, hands upraised, no
words uttered, but with the unspoken words none the less reverberating
through his very soul, he vowed once again the vendetta which he had
sworn on the identical spot thirty long years before.
When he turned to leave the tiny hamlet of the dead, a wonderful
transformation had come over his countenance. The placid calm was gone;
the fierce fire of implacable hatred and unswervable resolve burned in
his eyes. He had bidden adieu to all the softer things in this life. His
sole concern now was with the enemy whom he had marked down for death
that night.