The astonishment of Preble Key on recognizing the gateway into which
the mysterious lady had vanished was so great that he was at first
inclined to believe her entry THERE a mere trick of his fancy. That
the confederate of a gang of robbers should be admitted to the austere
recesses of the convent, with a celerity that bespoke familiarity, was
incredible. He again glanced up and down the length of the shadowed
but still visible wall. There was no one there. The wall itself
contained no break or recess in which one could hide, and this was the
only gateway. The opposite side of the street in the full moonlight
stared emptily. No! Unless she were an illusion herself and his whole
chase a dream, she MUST have entered here.
But the chase was not hopeless. He had at least tracked her to a place
where she could be identified. It was not a hotel, which she could
leave at any moment unobserved. Though he could not follow her and
penetrate its seclusion now, he could later--thanks to his old
associations with the padres of the contiguous college--gain an
introduction to the Lady Superior on some pretext. She was safe there
that night. He turned away with a feeling of relief. The incongruity
of her retreat assumed a more favorable aspect to his hopes. He looked
at the hallowed walls and the slumbering peacefulness of the gnarled
old trees that hid the convent, and a gentle reminiscence of his youth
stole over him. It was not the first time that he had gazed wistfully
upon that chaste refuge where, perhaps, the bright eyes that he had
followed in the quaint school procession under the leafy Alameda in the
afternoon, were at last closed in gentle slumber. There was the very
grille through which the wicked Conchita--or, was it Dolores?--had shot
her Parthian glance at the lingering student. And the man of
thirty-five, prematurely gray and settled in fortune, smiled as he
turned away, and forgot the adventuress of thirty who had brought him
there.
The next morning he was up betimes and at the college of San Jose.
Father Cipriano, a trifle more snuffy and aged, remembered with delight
his old pupil. Ah! it was true, then, that he had become a mining
president, and that was why his hair was gray; but he trusted that Don
Preble had not forgot that this was not all of life, and that fortune
brought great responsibilities and cares. But what was this, then? He
HAD thought of bringing out some of his relations from the States, and
placing a niece in the convent. That was good and wise. Ah, yes. For
education in this new country, one must turn to the church. And he
would see the Lady Superior? Ah! that was but the twist of one's
finger and the lifting of a latch to a grave superintendent and a gray
head like that. Of course, he had not forgotten the convent and the
young senoritas, nor the discipline and the suspended holidays. Ah! it
was a special grace of our Lady that he, Father Cipriano, had not been
worried into his grave by those foolish muchachos. Yet, when he had
extinguished a snuffy chuckle in his red bandana handkerchief, Key knew
that he would accompany him to the convent that noon.
It was with a slight stirring of shame over his elaborate pretext that
he passed the gate of the Sacred Heart with the good father. But it is
to be feared that he speedily forgot that in the unexpected information
that it elicited. The Lady Superior was gracious, and even
enthusiastic. Ah, yes, it was a growing custom of the American
caballeros--who had no homes, nor yet time to create any--to bring
their sisters, wards, and nieces here, and--with a dove-like
side-glance towards Key--even the young senoritas they wished to fit
for their Christian brides! Unlike the caballero, there were many
business men so immersed in their affairs that they could not find time
for a personal examination of the convent,--which was to be
regretted,--but who, trusting to the reputation of the Sacred Heart and
its good friends, simply sent the young lady there by some trusted
female companion. Notably this was the case of the Senor Rivers,--did
Don Preble ever know him?--a great capitalist in the Sierras, whose
sweet young sister, a naive, ingenuous creature, was the pride of the
convent. Of course, it was better that it was so. Discipline and
seclusion had to be maintained. The young girl should look upon this
as her home. The rules for visitors were necessarily severe. It was
rare indeed--except in a case of urgency, such as happened last
night--that even a lady, unless the parent of a scholar, was admitted
to the hospitality of the convent. And this lady was only the friend
of that same sister of the American capitalist, although she was the
one who had brought her there. No, she was not a relation. Perhaps Don
Preble had heard of a Mrs. Barker,--the friend of Rivers of the
Sierras. It was a queer combination of names. But what will you? The
names of Americanos mean nothing. And Don Preble knows them not. Ah!
possibly?--good! The lady would be remembered, being tall, dark, and
of fine presence, though sad. A few hours earlier and Don Preble could
have judged for himself, for, as it were, she might have passed through
this visitors' room. But she was gone--departed by the coach. It was
from a telegram--those heathen contrivances that blurt out things to
you, with never an excuse, nor a smile, nor a kiss of the hand! For
her part, she never let her scholars receive them, but opened them
herself, and translated them in a Christian spirit, after due
preparation, at her leisure. And it was this telegram that made the
Senora Barker go, or, without doubt, she would have of herself told to
the Don Preble, her compatriot of the Sierras, how good the convent was
for his niece.
Stung by the thought that this woman had again evaded him, and
disconcerted and confused by the scarcely intelligible information he
had acquired, Key could with difficulty maintain his composure. "The
caballero is tired of his long pasear," said the Lady Superior gently.
"We will have a glass of wine in the lodge waiting-room." She led the
way from the reception room to the outer door, but stopped at the sound
of approaching footsteps and rustling muslin along the gravel walk.
"The second class are going out," she said, as a gentle procession of
white frocks, led by two nuns, filed before the gateway. "We will wait
until they have passed. But the senor can see that my children do not
look unhappy."
They certainly looked very cheerful, although they had halted before
the gateway with a little of the demureness of young people who know
they are overlooked by authority, and had bumped against each other
with affected gravity. Somewhat ashamed of his useless deception, and
the guileless simplicity of the good Lady Superior, Key hesitated and
began: "I am afraid that I am really giving you too much trouble," and
suddenly stopped.
For as his voice broke the demure silence, one of the nearest--a young
girl of apparently seventeen--turned towards him with a quick and an
apparently irresistible impulse, and as quickly turned away again. But
in that instant Key caught a glimpse of a face that might not only have
thrilled him in its beauty, its freshness, but in some vague
suggestiveness. Yet it was not that which set his pulses beating; it
was the look of joyous recognition set in the parted lips and sparkling
eyes, the glow of childlike innocent pleasure that mantled the sweet
young face, the frank confusion of suddenly realized expectancy and
longing. A great truth gripped his throbbing heart, and held it still.
It was the face that he had seen in the hollow!
The movement of the young girl was too marked to escape the eye of the
Lady Superior, though she had translated it differently. "You must not
believe our young ladies are all so rude, Don Preble," she said dryly;
"though our dear child has still some of the mountain freedom. And
this is the Senor Rivers's sister. But possibly--who knows?" she said
gently, yet with a sudden sharpness in her clear eyes,--"perhaps she
recognized in your voice a companion of her brother."
Luckily for Key, the shock had been so sudden and overpowering that he
showed none of the lesser symptoms of agitation or embarrassment. In
this revelation of a secret, that he now instinctively felt was bound
up with his own future happiness, he exhibited none of the signs of a
discovered intriguer or unmasked Lothario. He said quietly and coldly:
"I am afraid I have not the pleasure of knowing the young lady, and
certainly have never before addressed her." Yet he scarcely heard his
companion's voice, and answered mechanically, seeing only before him
the vision of the girl's bewitching face, in its still more bewitching
consciousness of his presence. With all that he now knew, or thought
he knew, came a strange delicacy of asking further questions, a vague
fear of compromising HER, a quick impatience of his present deception;
even his whole quest of her seemed now to be a profanation, for which
he must ask her forgiveness. He longed to be alone to recover himself.
Even the temptation to linger on some pretext, and wait for her return
and another glance from her joyous eyes, was not as strong as his
conviction of the necessity of cooler thought and action. He had met
his fate that morning, for good or ill; that was all he knew. As soon
as he could decently retire, he thanked the Lady Superior, promised to
communicate with her later, and taking leave of Father Cipriano, found
himself again in the street.
Who was she, what was she, and what meant her joyous recognition of
him? It is to be feared that it was the last question that affected
him most, now that he felt that he must have really loved her from the
first. Had she really seen him before, and had been as mysteriously
impressed as he was? It was not the reflection of a conceited man, for
Key had not that kind of vanity, and he had already touched the
humility that is at the base of any genuine passion. But he would not
think of that now. He had established the identity of the other woman,
as being her companion in the house in the hollow on that eventful
night; but it was HER profile that he had seen at the window. The
mysterious brother Rivers might have been one of the robbers,--perhaps
the one who accompanied Mrs. Barker to San Jose. But it was plain that
the young girl had no complicity with the actions of the gang, whatever
might have been her companion's confederation. In the prescience of a
true lover, he knew that she must have been deceived and kept in utter
ignorance of it. There was no look of it in her lovely, guileless
eyes; her very impulsiveness and ingenuousness would have long since
betrayed the secret. Was it left for him, at this very outset of his
passion, to be the one to tell her? Could he bear to see those frank,
beautiful eyes dimmed with shame and sorrow? His own grew moist.
Another idea began to haunt him. Would it not be wiser, even more
manly, for him--a man over twice her years--to leave her alone with her
secret, and so pass out of her innocent young life as chancefully as he
had entered it? But was it altogether chanceful? Was there not in her
innocent happiness in him a recognition of something in him better than
he had dared to think himself? It was the last conceit of the humility
of love.
He reached his hotel at last, unresolved, perplexed, yet singularly
happy. The clerk handed him, in passing, a business-looking letter,
formally addressed. Without opening it, he took it to his room, and
throwing himself listlessly on a chair by the window again tried to
think. But the atmosphere of his room only recalled to him the
mysterious gift he had found the day before on his pillow. He felt now
with a thrill that it must have been from HER. How did she convey it
there? She would not have intrusted it to Mrs. Barker. The idea
struck him now as distastefully as it seemed improbable. Perhaps she
had been here herself with her companion--the convent sometimes made
that concession to a relative or well-known friend. He recalled the
fact that he had seen Mrs. Barker enter the hotel alone, after the
incident of the opening door, while he was leaning over the balustrade.
It was SHE who was alone THEN, and had recognized his voice; and he had
not known it. She was out again to-day with the procession. A sudden
idea struck him. He glanced quickly at the letter in his hand, and
hurriedly opened it. It contained only three lines, in a large formal
hand, but they sent the swift blood to his cheeks.
"I heard your voice to-day for the third time. I want to hear it
again. I will come at dusk. Do not go out until then."
He sat stupefied. Was it madness, audacity, or a trick? He summoned
the waiter. The letter had been left by a boy from the confectioner's
shop in the next block. He remembered it of old,--a resort for the
young ladies of the convent. Nothing was easier than conveying a
letter in that way. He remembered with a shock of disillusion and
disgust that it was a common device of silly but innocent assignation.
Was he to be the ridiculous accomplice of a schoolgirl's extravagant
escapade, or the deluded victim of some infamous plot of her infamous
companion? He could not believe either; yet he could not check a
certain revulsion of feeling towards her, which only a moment ago he
would have believed impossible.
Yet whatever was her purpose, he must prevent her coming there at any
hazard. Her visit would be the culmination of her folly, or the
success of any plot. Even while he was fully conscious of the material
effect of any scandal and exposure to her, even while he was incensed
and disillusionized at her unexpected audacity, he was unusually
stirred with the conviction that she was wronging herself, and that
more than ever she demanded his help and his consideration. Still she
must not come. But how was he to prevent her? It wanted but an hour
of dusk. Even if he could again penetrate the convent on some pretext
at that inaccessible hour for visitors,--twilight,--how could he
communicate with her? He might intercept her on the way, and persuade
her to return; but she must be kept from entering the hotel.
He seized his hat and rushed downstairs. But here another difficulty
beset him. It was easy enough to take the ordinary road to the
convent, but would SHE follow that public one in what must be a
surreptitious escape? And might she not have eluded the procession
that morning, and even now be concealed somewhere, waiting for the
darkness to make her visit. He concluded to patrol the block next to
the hotel, yet near enough to intercept her before she reached it,
until the hour came. The time passed slowly. He loitered before shop
windows, or entered and made purchases, with his eye on the street.
The figure of a pretty girl,--and there were many,--the fluttering
ribbons on a distant hat, or the flashing of a cambric skirt around the
corner sent a nervous thrill through him. The reflection of his grave,
abstracted face against a shop window, or the announcement of the
workings of his own mine on a bulletin board, in its incongruity with
his present occupation, gave him an hysterical impulse to laugh. The
shadows were already gathering, when he saw a slender, graceful figure
disappear in the confectioner's shop on the block below. In his
elaborate precautions, he had overlooked that common trysting spot. He
hurried thither, and entered. The object of his search was not there,
and he was compelled to make a shamefaced, awkward survey of the tables
in an inner refreshment saloon to satisfy himself. Any one of the
pretty girls seated there might have been the one who had just entered,
but none was the one he sought. He hurried into the street again,--he
had wasted a precious moment,--and resumed his watch. The sun had
sunk, the Angelus had rung out of a chapel belfry, and shadows were
darkening the vista of the Alameda. She had not come. Perhaps she had
thought better of it; perhaps she had been prevented; perhaps the whole
appointment had been only a trick of some day-scholars, who were
laughing at him behind some window. In proportion as he became
convinced that she was not coming, he was conscious of a keen despair
growing in his heart, and a sickening remorse that he had ever thought
of preventing her. And when he at last reluctantly reentered the
hotel, he was as miserable over the conviction that she was not coming
as he had been at her expected arrival. The porter met him hurriedly
in the hall.
"Sister Seraphina of the Sacred Heart has been here, in a hurry to see
you on a matter of importance," he said, eyeing Key somewhat curiously.
"She would not wait in the public parlor, as she said her business was
confidential, so I have put her in a private sitting-room on your
floor."
Key felt the blood leave his cheeks. The secret was out for all his
precaution. The Lady Superior had discovered the girl's flight,--or
her attempt. One of the governing sisterhood was here to arraign him
for it, or at least prevent an open scandal. Yet he was resolved; and
seizing this last straw, he hurriedly mounted the stairs, determined to
do battle at any risk for the girl's safety, and to perjure himself to
any extent.
She was standing in the room by the window. The light fell upon the
coarse serge dress with its white facings, on the single girdle that
scarcely defined the formless waist, on the huge crucifix that dangled
ungracefully almost to her knees, on the hideous, white-winged coif
that, with the coarse but dense white veil, was itself a renunciation
of all human vanity. It was a figure he remembered well as a boy, and
even in his excitement and half resentment touched him now, as when a
boy, with a sense of its pathetic isolation. His head bowed with
boyish deference as she approached gently, passed him a slight
salutation, and closed the door that he had forgotten to shut behind
him.
Then, with a rapid movement, so quick that he could scarcely follow it,
the coif, veil, rosary, and crucifix were swept off, and the young
pupil of the convent stood before him.
For all the sombre suggestiveness of her disguise and its ungraceful
contour, there was no mistaking the adorable little head, tumbled all
over with silky tendrils of hair from the hasty withdrawal of her coif,
or the blue eyes that sparkled with frank delight beneath them. Key
thought her more beautiful than ever. Yet the very effect of her
frankness and beauty was to recall him to all the danger and
incongruity of her position.
"This is madness," he said quickly. "You may be followed here and
discovered in this costume at any moment!" Nevertheless, he caught the
two little hands that had been extended to him, and held them tightly,
and with a frank familiarity that he would have wondered at an instant
before.
"But I won't," she said simply. "You see I'm doing a 'half-retreat';
and I stay with Sister Seraphina in her room; and she always sleeps two
hours after the Angelus; and I got out without anybody knowing me, in
her clothes. I see what it is," she said, suddenly bending a
reproachful glance upon him, "you don't like me in them. I know
they're just horrid; but it was the only way I could get out."
"You don't understand me," he said eagerly. "I don't like you to run
these dreadful risks and dangers for"--He would have said "for me," but
added with sudden humility--"for nothing. Had I dreamed that you cared
to see me, I would have arranged it easily without this indiscretion,
which might make others misjudge you. Every instant that you remain
here--worse, every moment that you are away from the convent in that
disguise, is fraught with danger. I know you never thought of it."
"But I did," she said quietly; "I thought of it, and thought that if
Sister Seraphina woke up, and they sent for me, you would take me away
with you to that dear little hollow in the hills, where I first heard
your voice. You remember it, don't you? You were lost, I think, in
the darkness, and I used to say to myself afterwards that I found you.
That was the first time. Then the second time I heard you, was here in
the hall. I was alone in the other room, for Mrs. Barker had gone out.
I did not know you were here, but I knew your voice. And the third
time was before the convent gate, and then I knew you knew me. And
after that I didn't think of anything but coming to you; for I knew
that if I was found out, you would take me back with you, and perhaps
send word to my brother where we were, and then"-- She stopped
suddenly, with her eyes fixed on Key's blank face. Her own grew blank,
the joy faded out of her clear eyes, she gently withdrew her hand from
his, and without a word began to resume her disguise.
"Listen to me," said Key passionately. "I am thinking only of YOU. I
want to, and WILL, save you from any blame,--blame you do not
understand even now. There is still time. I will go back to the
convent with you at once. You shall tell me everything; I will tell
you everything on the way."
She had already completely resumed her austere garb, and drew the veil
across her face. With the putting on her coif she seemed to have
extinguished all the joyous youthfulness of her spirit, and moved with
the deliberateness of renunciation towards the door. They descended the
staircase without a word. Those who saw them pass made way for them
with formal respect.
When they were in the street, she said quietly, "Don't give me your
arm--Sisters don't take it." When they had reached the street corner,
she turned it, saying, "This is the shortest way."
It was Key who was now restrained, awkward, and embarrassed. The fire
of his spirit, the passion he had felt a moment before, had gone out of
him, as if she were really the character she had assumed. He said at
last desperately:--
"How long did you live in the hollow?"
"Only two days. My brother was bringing me here to school, but in the
stage coach there was some one with whom he had quarreled, and he
didn't want to meet him with me. So we got out at Skinner's, and came
to the hollow, where his old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Barker, lived."
There was no hesitation nor affectation in her voice. Again he felt
that he would as soon have doubted the words of the Sister she
represented as her own.
"And your brother--did you live with him?"
"No. I was at school at Marysville until he took me away. I saw
little of him for the past two years, for he had business in the
mountains--very rough business, where he couldn't take me, for it kept
him away from the settlements for weeks. I think it had something to
do with cattle, for he was always having a new horse. I was all alone
before that, too; I had no other relations; I had no friends. We had
always been moving about so much, my brother and I. I never saw any
one that I liked, except you, and until yesterday I had only HEARD you."
Her perfect naivete alternately thrilled him with pain and doubt. In
his awkwardness and uneasiness he was brutal.
"Yes, but you must have met somebody--other men--here even, when you
were out with your schoolfellows, or perhaps on an adventure like this."
Her white coif turned towards him quickly. "I never wanted to know
anybody else. I never cared to see anybody else. I never would have
gone out in this way but for you," she said hurriedly. After a pause
she added in a frightened tone: "That didn't sound like your voice
then. It didn't sound like it a moment ago either."
"But you are sure that you know my voice," he said, with affected
gayety. "There were two others in the hollow with me that night."
"I know that, too. But I know even what you said. You reproved them
for throwing a lighted match in the dry grass. You were thinking of us
then. I know it."
"Of US?" said Key quickly.
"Of Mrs. Barker and myself. We were alone in the house, for my brother
and her husband were both away. What you said seemed to forewarn me,
and I told her. So we were prepared when the fire came nearer, and we
both escaped on the same horse."
"And you dropped your shoes in your flight," said Key laughingly, "and
I picked them up the next day, when I came to search for you. I have
kept them still."
"They were HER shoes," said the girl quickly, "I couldn't find mine in
our hurry, and hers were too large for me, and dropped off." She
stopped, and with a faint return of her old gladness said, "Then you
DID come back? I KNEW you would."
"I should have stayed THEN, but we got no reply when we shouted. Why
was that?" he demanded suddenly.
"Oh, we were warned against speaking to any stranger, or even being
seen by any one while we were alone," returned the girl simply.
"But why?" persisted Key.
"Oh, because there were so many highwaymen and horse-stealers in the
woods. Why, they had stopped the coach only a few weeks before, and
only a day or two ago, when Mrs. Barker came down. SHE saw them!"
Key with difficulty suppressed a groan. They walked on in silence for
some moments, he scarcely daring to lift his eyes to the decorous
little figure hastening by his side. Alternately touched by mistrust
and pain, at last an infinite pity, not unmingled with a desperate
resolution, took possession of him.
"I must make a confession to you, Miss Rivers," he began with the
bashful haste of a very boy, "that is"--he stammered with a half
hysteric laugh,--"that is--a confession as if you were really a sister
or a priest, you know--a sort of confidence to you--to your dress. I
HAVE seen you, or THOUGHT I saw you before. It was that which brought
me here, that which made me follow Mrs. Barker--my only clue to you--to
the door of that convent. That night, in the hollow, I saw a profile
at the lighted window, which I thought was yours."
"I never was near the window," said the young girl quickly. "It must
have been Mrs. Barker."
"I know that now," returned Key. "But remember, it was my only clue to
you. I mean," he added awkwardly, "it was the means of my finding you."
"I don't see how it made you think of me, whom you never saw, to see
another woman's profile," she retorted, with the faintest touch of
asperity in her childlike voice. "But," she added, more gently and
with a relapse into her adorable naivete, "most people's profiles look
alike."
"It was not that," protested Key, still awkwardly, "it was only that I
realized something--only a dream, perhaps."
She did not reply, and they continued on in silence. The gray wall of
the convent was already in sight. Key felt he had achieved nothing.
Except for information that was hopeless, he had come to no nearer
understanding of the beautiful girl beside him, and his future appeared
as vague as before; and, above all, he was conscious of an inferiority
of character and purpose to this simple creature, who had obeyed him so
submissively. Had he acted wisely? Would it not have been better if he
had followed her own frankness, and--
"Then it was Mrs. Barker's profile that brought you here?" resumed the
voice beneath the coif. "You know she has gone back. I suppose you
will follow?"
"You will not understand me," said Key desperately. "But," he added in
a lower voice, "I shall remain here until you do."
He drew a little closer to her side.
"Then you must not begin by walking so close to me," she said, moving
slightly away; "they may see you from the gate. And you must not go
with me beyond that corner. If I have been missed already they will
suspect you."
"But how shall I know?" he said, attempting to take her hand. "Let me
walk past the gate. I cannot leave you in this uncertainty."
"You will know soon enough," she said gravely, evading his hand. "You
must not go further now. Good-night."
She had stopped at the corner of the wall. He again held out his hand.
Her little fingers slid coldly between his.
"Good-night, Miss Rivers."
"Stop!" she said suddenly, withdrawing her veil and lifting her clear
eyes to his in the moonlight. "You must not say THAT--it isn't the
truth. I can't bear to hear it from YOUR lips, in YOUR voice. My name
is NOT Rivers!"
"Not Rivers--why?" said Key, astounded.
"Oh, I don't know why," she said half despairingly; "only my brother
didn't want me to use my name and his here, and I promised. My name is
'Riggs'--there! It's a secret--you mustn't tell it; but I could not
bear to hear YOU say a lie."
"Good-night, Miss Riggs," said Key sadly.
"No, nor that either," she said softly. "Say Alice."
"Good-night, Alice."
She moved on before him. She reached the gate. For a moment her
figure, in its austere, formless garments, seemed to him to even stoop
and bend forward in the humility of age and self-renunciation, and she
vanished within as into a living tomb.
Forgetting all precaution, he pressed eagerly forward, and stopped
before the gate. There was no sound from within; there had evidently
been no challenge nor interruption. She was safe.