“POOR, WEAK, OLD PAPA.”
Hildegarde remained silent for a short time.
I knew she must be collecting her thoughts for the telling of a story
coherently, and such a story as she meant to narrate was no small
thing. Then she began.
There was something very like a tremor in her voice at times, which
I took to be a favorable sign; surely memories of the past could not
shake her like this if her affection had been wholly turned to hate.
“Perhaps there is nothing very new or novel in my story, Morgan; other
women have placed their faith in man and been deceived; but to me it
comes home with additional cruelty, because I had done so much for
him--few could have done more. In return he entered into a conspiracy
with the alcalde to force me into a total delivery of all I had left
of--of what you gave me.”
Now, I cared mighty little about the money part of the business; I had
found chances for investment during my wanderings that had already
doubled my fortune, with a promise of even greater things; for, strange
as it may seem, Fortune often showers golden favors upon those who are
so wretched, otherwise, that they scorn the favor.
But the base ingratitude of the thing made me grind my teeth.
“Then he is a contemptible villain, just as I always thought, and ought
to be tarred and feathered,” I said, impulsively.
She looked up at me quickly.
“I did not know that you ever said that.”
“Nonsense! I must have declared my instinctive dislike of the man a
dozen times or more; but let that pass. After all, you cared for him,
it seems, enough to--to give him a right to assume a protectorate,” for
I could not, had my life depended on it, say outright “to be his wife,”
I hated him so.
“Yes, because I was foolish enough to believe in him, and I felt so
very lonely. He never disclosed his real character until we made this
journey to Bolivar, where he had some interests in mines that needed
personal attention; then I found the claws under the velvet, and
realized that I had been terribly deceived.”
I knew now she was lost to me as the wife of another man, and steadied
my nerves to meet the situation manfully, since I must act the friendly
counselor to her.
If my ugly feeling toward Hilary Tempest now and again broke all
bounds, it was excusable under the circumstances; but, on the whole, I
think I controlled myself creditably.
“I don’t believe he ever owned a mine in Bolivar--he must have been
there before to know the rascally alcalde, and it was all a big scheme
to take you to a place where no law could intervene. Well, I’m very
glad fortune allowed me to have a hand in the game, which, I suppose,
is knocked into a cocked hat by your escape. It is a strange thing,
without a doubt, and I give you my word I shall have a bone to pick
with him if ever we chance to meet; I don’t care whether it is on
Broadway or Piccadilly, I’m going to knock that rascal down.”
She gave a low cry.
“No, you mustn’t do that, Morgan.”
“But he has abused you?”
“He never offered me personal violence--oh, believe that. It was my
money he was determined to have--he worships money.”
“Well, he kept you a prisoner against your will--he is the greatest
villain unhung; and I mean to have satisfaction out of his accursed
hide some day.”
Again she gave a cry--somehow it hurt me, as though a marlin spike had
been dropped upon my battered cranium.
“See here, do you mean to tell me you still care for that detestable
wretch?”
I demanded this in a hoarse whisper, at the same time bending forward
and placing a hand on the arm of her rattan chair.
Strange as it may appear, the possibility that she could still cling to
Tempest after he had acted the villain, aroused me more than anything
else--cling to him while she hated me, and yet when I left her I had
surrounded her with every luxury wealth could buy.
It only made me realize more than ever that womankind was a mystery
past the solving by a masculine mind. Her very silence confirmed my
fears.
This fellow had not only stolen the wife I had in my folly given
up, but, worse still, he appeared to have an influence upon her my
personality had never been able to affect.
“Tell me,” I said, firmly, “do you care for him still--is he,
contemptible as he has shown himself, an object of interest to you?”
My masterful manner forced her to answer.
“In a measure, yes. I cannot help it--he came when I was heartbroken;
he soothed me when I was wretched; he made himself indispensible; what
could I do with no one to advise me?”
That was a slap at me, and I winced under it. Of course, no matter what
a fool she had made of herself, I was to blame for it all--I, who had
gone away in hot temper and left her so much money that she must be a
bait to such an adventurer.
I cooled down--reproaches were useless, since the mischief had been
done, and laments never mended a broken pitcher.
“Yes, I can easily understand how very assiduous he must have been;
it was rare good picking for him, and what glorious revenge upon me.
How he must have gloated over it! Surely he laughs best who laughs
last--but the end is not yet.”
Again she looked at me steadily, as though my face could betray aught
in the semi-darkness that rested under the awning.
“I don’t quite understand what you say about revenge and all that,
Morgan. But you asked me to explain how I came to be away down in this
warm climate, and held against my will in the house of the alcalde,
and although I am a wretched story teller, I am trying to give you the
facts.”
“Yes, it is all plain enough to me now--you could not put it clearer if
you talked until dawn, or with the tongues of prophecy. I am glad it is
all over, and that your troubles are ended. I hope he will never show
up again to annoy you when I am at the other side of the world.”
“Are you--contemplating such a very extended cruise, then?”
“To the Mediterranean and the Holy Land. I never thoroughly did the
Nile, and it is a grand place for a winter’s cruise.”
She sat silent again.
I would have given much to have known what her thoughts were.
“Yes, Egypt is a very lovely country in the winter for those who have
the heart to enjoy it. I trust you will land me as soon as possible
at the first American port you draw near. I shall go back to my old
life--go back to Thornycroft.”
How that name thrilled me.
It was our home, the country seat I had purchased, and where we had
once been more or less happy--when I fled, I had left papers making it
over to her.
“Then you still own the old place?” I asked, with assumed carelessness,
not desiring to show the keen interest I felt.
“Why, certainly; you did not think I had sold that--that dear old
place?”
“Well, I didn’t know--associations are sometimes painful, even
distasteful, when one assumes new obligations.”
“But you--your tastes are the same--I have seen it in many things, even
the shade of color in the hangings you used to like.”
Could she guess it was my choice because she had always raved over old
gold and crushed strawberry, at one time all the fashion?
“I do not change,” I said, quite grandiloquently.
She sighed--doubtless she believed she had good reason to think
otherwise.
We remained for some little time silent, each engrossed in deep thought.
Following out the train of thought that was passing through my head, I
muttered, finally:
“It was very strange.”
“What is it you refer to, Morgan?” she asked, idly, her hands clasping
and unclasping as they lay in her lap.
I saw a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand--a wedding
ring, perhaps put there in place of mine.
“To think I should not have seen that fellow at the alcalde’s, or heard
his voice, which I could have told among a thousand.”
“Why, Morgan, how you astonish me--how can it be possible you remember
these things when----”
She had started up now, and we faced each other. Boiling with
indignation, I could restrain myself no longer--the pent-up volcano
broke beyond bound, and almost before I knew what I was doing I had
started in to vent my ill-humor on the dog that had stolen my bone.
“Remember! How can I ever forget? In those days long ago didn’t that
fellow with his mocking, handsome face always stir the green-eyed
monster in my heart? Haven’t I groaned many a time when afloat to think
with what ghoulish glee he said to me at my wedding, ‘Never mind, he
laughs best who laughs last;’ and how I’ve hated him all these months
God only knows. Don’t you think I could pick him out among ten thousand
and know his cold-blooded laugh if I heard it in the blackness of a
dungeon. I tell you hate has eyes and ears, where other senses might
be blind and deaf. So I say it was very strange I didn’t discover him
at the alcalde’s; we might have had it out then and there, instead of
putting it off for the future.”
“Morgan,” she exclaimed, jumping up with a flutter of garments, and an
eagerness that was not assumed, “tell me, who is it you think I have
been speaking about, this man you hate and mean to fight--tell me, sir,
at once.”
There was a touch of the old-time despotism in her manner, but I paid
little heed to that.
“There is but one man on earth who could cause me to make such a fool
of myself, and his name is--Hilary Tempest.”
There, I had uttered it now--hurled the bomb that was to create such
consternation.
It did produce remarkable results, although hardly of the nature I had
expected.
Hildegarde uttered a sound--really it was very like a little laugh.
She had drawn my teeth; she knew my weakness, knew that I still cared
for her--and she laughed at me, mocked me.
It was exasperatingly humiliating.
“Oh, Morgan, how could you believe that--that? Why, Hilary Tempest is
still paying attention to that Miller heiress. People say he is waiting
for her to get old enough to be married.”
I gasped for breath, but the relief was, after all, only momentary.
“Then--it’s some other man; even if I don’t know him, I hate him all
the same, and he shall answer to me for being a brute,” I declared,
savagely.
“No, no, you must not--I forbid it, Morgan. Let the past be
forgotten--I shall never see poor papa again, I solemnly promise you.”
“Who?” I almost shouted.
“Why, Morgan, you frighten me. It was papa--you know we thought him
dead--he ran away, oh, ever so many years ago with a bold, bad woman,
and mamma buried him--but he found me out, and I was so lonely I
forgave him and loved him. That is all--he deceived me, poor, weak old
papa.”