As Mrs. Tucker, erect, white, and rigid, drove away from the tienda,
it seemed to her to sink again into the monotonous plain, with all its
horrible realities. Except that there was now a new and heart-breaking
significance to the solitude and loneliness of the landscape, all that
had passed might have been a dream. But as the blood came back to her
cheek, and little by little her tingling consciousness returned, it
seemed as if her life had been the dream, and this last scene the
awakening reality. With eyes smarting with the moisture of shame, the
scarlet blood at times dyeing her very neck and temples, she muffled
her lowered crest in her shawl and bent over the reins. Bit by bit she
recalled, in Poindexter's mysterious caution and strange allusions, the
corroboration of her husband's shame and her own disgrace. This was why
she was brought hither--the deserted wife, and abandoned confederate!
The mocking glitter of the concave vault above her, scoured by the
incessant wind, the cold stare of the shining pools beyond, the hard
outlines of the Coast Range, and the jarring accompaniment of her
horse's hoofs and rattling buggy wheels alternately goaded and
distracted her. She found herself repeating “No! no! no!” with the
dogged reiteration of fever. She scarcely knew when or how she reached
the hacienda. She was only conscious that as she entered the patio the
dusty solitude that had before filled her with unrest now came to her
like balm. A benumbing peace seemed to fall from the crumbling walls;
the peace of utter seclusion, isolation, oblivion, death! Nevertheless,
an hour later, when the jingle of spurs and bridle were again heard in
the road, she started to her feet with bent brows and a kindling eye,
and confronted Captain Poindexter in the corridor.
“I would not have intruded upon you so soon again,” he said gravely,
“but I thought I might perhaps spare you a repetition of the scene
of this morning. Hear me out, please,” he added, with a gentle,
half-deprecating gesture, as she lifted the beautiful scorn of her eyes
to his. “I have just heard that your neighbor, Don Jose Santierra, of
Los Gatos, is on his way to this house. He once claimed this land, and
hated your husband, who bought of the rival claimant, whose grant was
confirmed. I tell you this,” he added, slightly flushing as Mrs. Tucker
turned impatiently away, “only to show you that legally he has no
rights, and you need not see him unless you choose. I could not stop his
coming without perhaps doing you more harm than good; but when he does
come, my presence under this roof as your legal counsel will enable you
to refer him to me.” He stopped. She was pacing the corridor with short,
impatient steps, her arms dropped, and her hands clasped rigidly before
her. “Have I your permission to stay?”
She suddenly stopped in her walk, approached him rapidly, and fixing her
eyes on his, said,--
“Do I know ALL, now--everything?”
He could only reply that she had not yet told him what she had heard.
“Well,” she said scornfully, “that my husband has been cruelly imposed
upon--imposed upon by some wretched woman, who has made him sacrifice
his property, his friends, his honor--everything but me?”
“Everything but whom?” gasped Poindexter.
“But ME!”
Poindexter gazed at the sky, the air, the deserted corridor, the stones
of the patio itself, and then at the inexplicable woman before him. Then
he said gravely, “I think you know everything.”
“Then if my husband has left me all he could--this property,” she went
on rapidly, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers, “I can do
with it what I like, can't I?”
“You certainly can.”
“Then sell it,” she said, with passionate vehemence. “Sell it--all!
everything! And sell these.” She darted into her bedroom, and returned
with the diamond rings she had torn from her fingers and ears when she
entered the house. “Sell them for anything they'll bring, only sell them
at once.”
“But for what?” asked Poindexter, with demure lips but twinkling eyes.
“To pay the debts that this--this--woman has led him into; to return the
money she has stolen!” she went on rapidly, “to keep him from sharing
her infamy! Can't you understand?”
“But, my dear madam,” began Poindexter, “even if this could be done--”
“Don't tell me 'if it could'--it MUST be done. Do you think I could
sleep under this roof, propped up by the timbers of that ruined tienda?
Do you think I could wear those diamonds again, while that termagant
shop-woman can say that her money bought them? No. If you are my
husband's friend you will do this--for--for his sake.” She stopped,
locked and interlocked her cold fingers before her, and said, hesitating
and mechanically, “You meant well, Captain Poindexter, in bringing me
here, I know! You must not think that I blame you for it, or for the
miserable result of it that you have just witnessed. But if I have
gained anything by it, for God's sake let me reap it quickly, that I may
give it to these people and go! I have a friend who can aid me to get to
my husband or to my home in Kentucky, where Spencer will yet find me,
I know. I want nothing more.” She stopped again. With another woman
the pause would have been one of tears. But she kept her head above the
flood that filled her heart, and the clear eyes fixed upon Poindexter,
albeit pained, were undimmed.
“But this would require time,” said Poindexter, with a smile of
compassionate explanation; “you could not sell now, nobody would buy.
You are safe to hold this property while you are in actual possession,
but you are not strong enough to guarantee it to another. There may
still be litigation; your husband has other creditors than these people
you have talked with. But while nobody could oust you--the wife who
would have the sympathies of judge and jury--it might be a different
case with any one who derived title from you. Any purchaser would know
that you could not sell, or if you did, it would be at a ridiculous
sacrifice.”
She listened to him abstractedly, walked to the end of the corridor,
returned, and without looking up, said,--
“I suppose you know her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This woman. You have seen her?”
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“And you are his friend! That's strange.” She raised her eyes to his.
“Well,” she continued impatiently, “who is she? and what is she? You
know that surely?”
“I know no more of her than what I have said,” said Poindexter. “She is
a notorious woman.”
The swift color came to Mrs. Tucker's face as if the epithet had been
applied to herself. “I suppose,” she said in a dry voice, as if she
were asking a business question, but with an eye that showed her rising
anger,--“I suppose there is some law by which creatures of this kind can
be followed and brought to justice--some law that would keep innocent
people from suffering for their crimes?”
“I am afraid,” said Poindexter, “that arresting her would hardly help
these people over in the tienda.”
“I am not speaking of them,” responded Mrs. Tucker, with a sudden
sublime contempt for the people whose cause she had espoused: “I am
talking of my husband.”
Poindexter bit his lip. “You'd hardly think of bringing back the
strongest witness against him,” he said bluntly.
Mrs. Tucker dropped her eyes and was silent. A sudden shame suffused
Poindexter's cheek; he felt as if he had struck that woman a blow. “I
beg your pardon,” he said hastily, “I am talking like a lawyer to a
lawyer.” He would have taken any other woman by the hand in the honest
fullness of his apology, but something restrained him here. He only
looked down gently on her lowered lashes, and repeated his question if
he should remain during the coming interview with Don Jose: “I must beg
you to determine quickly,” he added, “for I already hear him entering
the gate.”
“Stay,” said Mrs. Tucker, as the ringing of spurs and clatter of hoofs
came from the corral. “One moment.” She looked up suddenly, and said,
“How long had he known her?” But before he could reply there was a step
in the doorway, and the figure of Don Jose Santierra emerged from the
archway.
He was a man slightly past middle age, fair and well shaven, wearing a
black broadcloth serape, the deeply embroidered opening of which formed
a collar of silver rays around his neck, while a row of silver buttons
down the side seams of his riding trousers, and silver spurs, completed
his singular equipment. Mrs. Tucker's swift feminine glance took in
these details, as well as the deep salutation, more formal than the
exuberant frontier politeness she was accustomed to, with which he
greeted her. It was enough to arrest her first impulse to retreat. She
hesitated and stopped as Poindexter stepped forward, partly interposing
between them, acknowledging Don Jose's distant recognition of himself
with an ironical accession of his usual humorous tolerance. The Spaniard
did not seem to notice it, but remained gravely silent before Mrs.
Tucker, gazing at her with an expression of intent and unconscious
absorption.
“You are quite right, Don Jose,” said Poindexter, with ironical concern,
“it is Mrs. Tucker. Your eyes do NOT deceive you. She will be glad to do
the honors of her house,” he continued, with a simulation of appealing
to her, “unless you visit her on business, when I need not say I shall
be only too happy, to attend you, as before.”
Don Jose, with a slight lifting of the eyebrows, allowed himself to
become conscious of the lawyer's meaning. “It is not of business that
I come to kiss the Senora's hand to-day,” he replied, with a melancholy
softness; “it is as her neighbor, to put myself at her disposition. Ah!
the what have we here for a lady?” he continued, raising his eyes in
deprecation of the surroundings; “a house of nothing, a place of winds
and dry bones, without refreshments, or satisfaction, or delicacy. The
Senora will not refuse to make us proud this day to send her of that
which we have in our poor home at Los Gatos, to make her more complete.
Of what shall it be? Let her make choice. Or if she would commemorate
this day by accepting of our hospitality at Los Gatos, until she shall
arrange herself the more to receive us here, we shall have too much
honor.”
“The Senora would only find it the more difficult to return to this
humble roof again, after once leaving it for Don Jose's hospitality,”
said Poindexter, with a demure glance at Mrs. Tucker. But the innuendo
seemed to lapse equally unheeded by his fair client and the stranger.
Raising her eyes with a certain timid dignity which Don Jose's presence
seemed to have called out, she addressed herself to him.
“You are very kind and considerate, Mister Santierra, and I thank you. I
know that my husband”--she let the clear beauty of her translucent eyes
rest full on both men--“would thank you too. But I shall not be here
long enough to accept your kindness in this house or in your own. I have
but one desire and object now. It is to dispose of this property, and
indeed all I possess, to pay the debt of my husband. It is in your
power, perhaps, to help me. I am told that you wish to possess Los
Cuervos,” she went on, equally oblivious of the consciousness that
appeared in Don Jose's face, and a humorous perplexity on the brow of
Poindexter. “If you can arrange it with Mr. Poindexter, you will find
me a liberal vendor. That much you can do, and I know you will believe
I shall be grateful. You can do no more, unless it be to say to your
friends that Mrs. Belle Tucker remains here only for that purpose,
and to carry out what she knows to be the wishes of her husband.” She
paused, bent her pretty crest, dropped a quaint curtsey to the superior
age, the silver braid, and the gentlemanly bearing of Don Jose, and with
the passing sunshine of a smile disappeared from the corridor.
The two men remained silent for a moment, Don Jose gazing abstractedly
on the door through which she had vanished, until Poindexter, with a
return of his tolerant smile, said, “You have heard the views of Mrs.
Tucker. You know the situation as well as she does.”
“Ah, yes; possibly better.”
Poindexter darted a quick glance at the grave, sallow face of Don Jose,
but detecting no unusual significance in his manner, continued, “As you
see, she leaves this matter in my hands. Let us talk like business men.
Have you any idea of purchasing this property?”
“Of purchasing, ah, no.”
Poindexter bent his brows, but quickly relaxed them with a smile of
humorous forgiveness. “If you have any other idea, Don Jose, I ought to
warn you, as Mrs. Tucker's lawyer, that she is in legal possession here,
and that nothing but her own act can change that position.”
“Ah, so.”
Irritated at the shrug which accompanied this, Poindexter continued
haughtily, “If I am to understand, you have nothing to say--”
“To say, ah, yes, possibly. But”--he glanced toward the door of Mrs.
Tucker's room--“not here.” He stopped, appeared to recall himself,
and with an apologetic smile and a studied but graceful gesture of
invitation, he motioned to the gateway, and said, “Will you ride?”
“What can the fellow be up to?” muttered Poindexter, as with an
assenting nod he proceeded to remount his horse. “If he wasn't an old
hidalgo, I'd mistrust him. No matter! here goes!”
The Don also remounted his half-broken mustang; they proceeded in solemn
silence through the corral, and side by side emerged on the open plain.
Poindexter glanced around; no other being was in sight. It was not until
the lonely hacienda had also sunk behind them that Don Jose broke the
silence.
“You say just now we shall speak as business men. I say no, Don Marco; I
will not. I shall speak, we shall speak, as gentlemen.”
“Go on,” said Poindexter, who was beginning to be amused.
“I say just now I will not purchase the rancho from the Senora. And why?
Look you, Don Marco;” he reined in his horse, thrust his hand under his
serape, and drew out a folded document: “this is why.”
With a smile, Poindexter took the paper from his hand and opened it. But
the smile faded from his lips as he read. With blazing eyes he spurred
his horse beside the Spaniard, almost unseating him, and said sternly,
“What does this mean?”
“What does it mean?” repeated Don Jose, with equally flashing eyes,
“I'll tell you. It means that your client, this man Spencer Tucker, is
a Judas, a traitor! It means that he gave Los Cuervos to his mistress
a year ago, and that she sold it to me--to me, you hear!--ME, Jose
Santierra, the day before she left! It means that the coyote of a
Spencer, the thief, who bought these lands of a thief, and gave them
to a thief, has tricked you all. Look,” he said, rising in his saddle,
holding the paper like a baton, and defining with a sweep of his arm the
whole level plain, “all these lands were once mine, they are mine again
to-day. Do I want to purchase Los Cuervos? you ask, for you will speak
of the BUSINESS. Well, listen. I HAVE purchased Los Cuervos, and here is
the deed.”
“But it has never been recorded,” said Poindexter, with a carelessness
he was far from feeling.
“Of a verity, no. Do you wish that I should record it?” asked Don Jose,
with a return of his simple gravity.
Poindexter bit his lip. “You said we were to talk like gentlemen,” he
returned. “Do you think you have come into possession of this alleged
deed like a gentleman?”
Don Jose shrugged his shoulders. “I found it tossed in the lap of a
harlot. I bought it for a song. Eh, what would you?”
“Would you sell it again for a song?” asked Poindexter.
“Ah! what is this?” said Don Jose, lifting his iron-gray brows; “but a
moment ago we would sell everything, for any money. Now we would buy. Is
it so?”
“One moment, Don Jose,” said Poindexter, with a baleful light in his
dark eyes. “Do I understand that you are the ally of Spencer Tucker and
his mistress, that you intend to turn this doubly betrayed wife from the
only roof she has to cover her?”
“Ah, I comprehend not. You heard her say she wished to go. Perhaps it
may please ME to distribute largess to these cattle yonder, I do not say
no. More she does not ask. But YOU, Don Marco, of whom are you advocate?
You abandon your client's mistress for the wife, is it so?”
“What I may do you will learn hereafter,” said Poindexter, who had
regained his composure, suddenly reining up his horse. “As our paths
seem likely to diverge, they had better begin now. Good morning.”
“Patience, my friend, patience! Ah, blessed St. Anthony, what these
Americans are! Listen. For what YOU shall do, I do not inquire. The
question is to me what I”--he emphasized the pronoun by tapping himself
on the breast--“I, Jose Santierra, will do. Well, I shall tell you.
To-day, nothing. To-morrow, nothing. For a week, for a month, nothing!
After, we shall see.”
Poindexter paused thoughtfully. “Will you give your word, Don Jose, that
you will not press the claim for a month?”
“Truly, on one condition. Observe! I do not ask you for an equal
promise, that you will not take this time to defend yourself.” He
shrugged his shoulders. “No! It is only this. You shall promise that
during that time the Senora Tucker shall remain ignorant of this
document.”
Poindexter hesitated a moment. “I promise,” he said at last.
“Good. Adios, Don Marco.”
“Adios, Don Jose.”
The Spaniard put spurs to his mustang and galloped off in the direction
of Los Gatos. The lawyer remained for a moment gazing on his retreating
but victorious figure. For the first time the old look of humorous
toleration with which Mr. Poindexter was in the habit of regarding all
human infirmity gave way to something like bitterness. “I might have
guessed it,” he said, with a slight rise of color. “He's an old
fool; and she--well, perhaps it's all the better for her!” He glanced
backwards almost tenderly in the direction of Los Cuervos, and then
turned his head towards the embarcadero.
As the afternoon wore on, a creaking, antiquated ox-cart arrived at
Los Cuervos, bearing several articles of furniture, and some tasteful
ornaments from Los Gatos, at the same time that a young Mexican girl
mysteriously appeared in the kitchen, as a temporary assistant to the
decrepit Concha. These were both clearly attributable to Don Jose, whose
visit was not so remote but that these delicate attentions might have
been already projected before Mrs. Tucker had declined them, and she
could not, without marked discourtesy, return them now. She did not wish
to seem discourteous; she would like to have been more civil to this
old gentleman, who still retained the evidences of a picturesque
and decorous past, and a repose so different from the life that was
perplexing her. Reflecting that if he bought the estate these things
would be ready to his hand, and with a woman's instinct recognizing
their value in setting off the house to other purchasers' eyes, she
took a pleasure in tastefully arranging them, and even found herself
speculating how she might have enjoyed them herself had she been able
to keep possession of the property. After all, it would not have been
so lonely if refined and gentle neighbors, like this old man, would have
sympathized with her; she had an instinctive feeling that, in their own
hopeless decay and hereditary unfitness for this new civilization, they
would have been more tolerant of her husband's failure than his own
kind. She could not believe that Don Jose really hated her husband for
buying of the successful claimant, as there was no other legal title.
Allowing herself to become interested in the guileless gossip of the new
handmaiden, proud of her broken English, she was drawn into a sympathy
with the grave simplicity of Don Jose's character, a relic of that true
nobility which placed this descendant of the Castilians and the daughter
of a free people on the same level.
In this way the second day of her occupancy of Los Cuervos closed, with
dumb clouds along the gray horizon, and the paroxysms of hysterical
wind growing fainter and fainter outside the walls; with the moon rising
after nightfall, and losing itself in silent and mysterious confidences
with drifting scud. She went to bed early, but woke past midnight,
hearing, as she thought, her own name called. The impression was so
strong upon her that she rose, and, hastily enwrapping herself, went
to the dark embrasures of the oven-shaped windows, and looked out. The
dwarfed oak beside the window was still dropping from a past shower, but
the level waste of marsh and meadow beyond seemed to advance and recede
with the coming and going of the moon. Again she heard her name called,
and this time in accents so strangely familiar that with a slight cry
she ran into the corridor, crossed the patio, and reached the open gate.
The darkness that had, even in this brief interval, again fallen upon
the prospect she tried in vain to pierce with eye and voice. A blank
silence followed. Then the veil was suddenly withdrawn; the vast plain,
stretching from the mountain to the sea, shone as clearly as in the
light of day; the moving current of the channel glittered like black
pearls, the stagnant pools like molten lead; but not a sign of life nor
motion broke the monotony of the broad expanse. She must have surely
dreamed it. A chill wind drove her back to the house again; she entered
her bedroom, and in half an hour she was in a peaceful sleep.