TREASURE TROVE
Doña Gertrudis sat before a great log fire, drawing the threads in a new
altar cloth. The work was to be like lace and gossamer and would be
weighted with silver thread. Tilted back against the wall in his chair,
Manuel strummed a _guitarro_, lightly, oh, very lightly, and essayed his
new _copleta_--two such pretty stanzas. Was Consuelo going to object to
this?
He darted an eye in her direction, but she sat quietly on her bench,
slowly sipping her chocolate; in fact, she was even tapping slightly
with her toe in time to the tinka-tink, atink-atink. Relieved, Manuel
threw back his head, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to the soul
of music that burned within him. Ah, it was delightful to sing of love.
Especially now that Consuelo did not interrupt him all the time. Really,
he was becoming quite fond of his cousin, and coming to enjoy being with
her. Whereas before, when he loved her, _Dios_, what torment; and no
musical expression at all.
As for Consuelo, she was glad to be allowed to concentrate upon her own
thoughts. In reality life was not at all the simple and boring thing she
had once thought it. Safe and sheltered this valley had always been in
their lifetime. Tales of Indian massacre beyond the mountains, or over
the deserts lying between them and far Chihuahua--they had never touched
her. Like wars far away. She had thrilled with horror to hear of them,
but they did not touch her life. Yet tragedies were going on all around
them all the time.
What was Ess-tevan suffering now? Lightly she had sent would-be suitors
off on the long march to Chihuahua through which a lover proved his
mettle, and although Steven had not been lightly sent, she had not
realized to the full what such a journey might mean. Now she could
picture all the hardships and tortures of which she had heard. Perhaps
he would never come back and they would never again have word of him or
know what had been his end. This thought was too much for her and she
wept into her chocolate, so that the spoonful which she took to cover
her emotion was very salty. This made her smile. Even upon the verge of
one’s seventeenth birthday one cannot be forever repenting, forever
gloomy. There are moments in between remorse and an aching heart when
coral earrings, a new shawl, the gossip of one’s girl friends, no longer
torture, but give relief.
So, although her cheeks were flushed and her eyes unusually bright, both
were dry when Consuelo jumped up to welcome Anita de Guevara. She
greeted her warmly with a kiss on either cheek. Had Consuelo heard,
Anita began at once, of the magnificent new establishment that Don
Tiburcio had built on the Rio Grande for the Americana he had married?
No? They said it was to be furnished with naught but carved woods from
Spain, and every bit of the table silver was to be made in Salamanca and
imported!
“Oof! I do not believe that!” protested Doña Gertrudis.
Anita leaned closer to Consuelo. “Is it true what they are telling of
Luis?” she whispered.
“What are they telling?” demanded Consuelo, hotly, a trifle faintly.
“That he has turned Penitente. That he no longer games or diverts
himself.”
Consuelo was saved from making any reply to this question by the
entrance at that moment of Don Anabel, who came in, as always, with a
manner of distinction and ceremony, bowing carefully to each of the
ladies, maintaining the traditions of that chivalry of the land of
Cervantes brought to New Spain by his forefathers.
“What have you learned of the painting?” asked Anita of Don Anabel, the
business of saluting all the company in the room being concluded. Anita
always asked the most unfortunate questions. Don Anabel became obsessed
whenever the painting was mentioned. “Nothing that can give me hope for
its recovery,” he replied. “Rather to the contrary. You may remember,”
he turned to Doña Gertrudis, “that of the suspects among those who had
left Santa Fe during the week when Murillo disappeared (he always
referred to the picture as the Murillo), suspicion pointed to the
Americano who accompanied the last caravan and who remained here after
it returned (as though everyone present did not know Steven perfectly
without such careful identification).
“Today I learned that this young man departed the Villa at night. And
furthermore that he was seen to vault the wall of our lower garden
earlier on that same night, to remain inside the space of twenty minutes
or so.” A clatter of amazement and discussion pro and con broke forth.
Presently Consuelo made herself heard, almost timidly. (“What a change
has come over _la gattita_,” thought Anita, “the little cat who was
always throwing out sparks.”)
“But papa, the Americano was seen by Don Tiburcio way south _en route_
to Chihuahua. It was he who saved Doren, the Yanqui’s boy. He would not
be likely to be guilty of stealing then, would he?” Consuelo looked
about the room for confirmation.
“That is another matter,” Don Anabel decided. “Of course he would succor
his countryman. But to take a valuable painting is another thing. Yes, I
think he might well do both.” As Don Anabel finished speaking, old Angel
appeared in the door with a letter for _el padron_. He brought it to Don
Anabel and there was a moment’s silence while it was read. Don Anabel
rose to his feet, his lean brown cheeks alternately flushing and paling,
and informed the startled company, “Quite apropos of our conversation
comes this letter, from the gentleman himself--Señor Ess-tevan Mercer.”
(Don Anabel almost hissed the name.) “He has at this moment returned to
Santa Fe, brought by his conscience or his need, who can say, and he
brings me back my canvas.”
“Tst, tst, tst! _figure-se_; imagine,” clucked Doña Gertrudis. “What
does he say, then?”
“This.” Don Anabel opened the sheet which he still held in his hand and
read aloud: “My Very Dear Sir: I have but just returned to Santa Fe, and
bear with me your lost painting. At least, if I mistake not, it belongs
to you,” (“The impudence of the rascal! Belongs to me indeed!”) “I am
changing my clothes and refreshing myself somewhat from the fatigue and
dust of the journey, but immediately thereafter I shall personally
restore the picture to your house, if that is your wish.”
“_Por los santos!_” Don Anabel exclaimed, “but this fellow has
assurance. I’ll go fetch it myself, if this is not but a ruse. He is at
Doña Katarina’s house.” Don Anabel threw on his black cloak, and
stopping for a moment in his office, went forth from the front door.
Consuelo was trembling; her hands and feet were like ice, her face
flaming. She could scarcely maintain her composure. In the general
chatter and excitement which followed Don Anabel’s astounding message
she slipped unnoticed to her room, where Felicita was building up her
mistress’s fire.
“Felicita, he has returned! Ess-tevan. And he brings my father’s
picture. How he found it I do not know. But here he is, and my father is
again accusing him of the theft of it. He has gone off in haste to get
his painting, his treasure. I should have told him at once, but I could
not there before them all. That would have been worse for my father than
never to have regained the picture. I must go tell him now. Quick; come
with me. Perhaps we can overtake him.” She threw a black reboso over her
head, and with Felicita close upon her heels fled through the garden and
out the side gate.
But it was already too late. By the time she reached Doña Katarina’s
house, on foot, she saw her father emerging from the door. Felicita
pulled her back. Instinctively they drew out of sight. She would have to
tell Don Anabel when he returned home. Alas, poor Steven! what had her
father said? Then a new thought struck her with cold terror. “Alas!
_pobre de mi_, what will Ess-tevan think of me that I did not at least
defend him? Does he know?” They crept back through the little lanes.
* * * * *
Steven had just stepped from the vast copper kettle which the good Doña
Katarina supplied him for the bath and was joyously rubbing himself dry
after his first hot scrub in a month, when there came a knock upon his
door. The _criada_, a slovenly girl, called through the door that it was
Don Anabel and his attendant without. If they would please sit down,
Steven called back. With glad anticipation he hurried into his clothes.
The painting was then as valuable as he had thought it might be, and
here was Don Anabel himself come to thank him! Good.
Shortly the door of Steven’s chamber opened and Don Anabel was
confronted with a stalwart young man, ruddy with health, his skin golden
with the varnish of sun and desert, his hair still damp and wavy. He was
smiling with assurance, the unconscionable rogue, apologizing for his
lack of jacket or coat, and bowing as though in anticipation of warm
greetings. Don Anabel arose and stood stiffly erect, his hand on his
hip.
“Do I understand you rightly that you have with you my Murillo, my
sacred painting?” His nostrils dilated with nervous tension as he hung
on Steven’s affirmation.
“Yes, señor, I have it.”
Don Anabel glared coldly at the baffled young man. “What, may I ask, is
your price for the safe restoral of the painting?”
“What do you mean? I do not understand you,” Steven stammered.
“Your price?” the Don repeated. “Whatever it is I shall deliver it in
consideration of the safe restoral.” The young man made no answer and
Don Anabel continued, coldly and deliberately, “If the canvas is
returned unharmed you will be permitted to leave Santa Fe without
question or arrest. On the condition that you never attempt to return
here,” quoth Don Anabel.
With a lofty disregard that matched the New Mexican’s own, Steven
ignored the imputation carried by the words--though indeed he had been
actually arrested before on suspicion of espionage--and faced the wily
older man with wits sharpened by his struggle with the desert these last
months.
“Señor”--he looked squarely at Don Anabel--“I expect to be returning to
Santa Fe every year, perhaps twice a year, with a caravan of goods. I do
not intend to be bullied out of a business field that is extended to
others. Is it possible that you are afraid of the advent of Americans?
“In my country gentlemen do not ask requital for the return of property.
But as that seems to be the custom here I shall make my demands, too. I
must exact the right of unmolested commerce here or I shall not answer
for the safe delivery of the painting.” Steven’s voice trembled with
anger. Only rage at the treatment he had received from the autocrat
before him, overlord of lands that were equal to a kingdom, spurred him
to use the painting as a club over Don Anabel’s head. The threat was
effective.
Don Anabel would take no chances with the loss or mutilation of his
treasure. He credited Steven with a faculty for plotting that he did not
possess. If it were himself, he would have arranged that the painting be
out of reach of its owner; he could not have believed that it lay on a
chest in the adjoining room. He inclined his head in consent.
“_Muy bien_, since you put it that way. I myself will not oppose your
trade here further, and I fancy the _jefe politico_ will not of his own
accord. The painting?”
Steven called the _criada_, who brought in from his bedchamber a roll of
deerskin. Don Anabel seized it, unfastened the wrappings with trembling
fingers, and unrolled the canvas, stretching it out before the candles
that burned on the mantle.
“The Murillo. Unharmed. _Gracias a Dios!_” Without another word Don
Anabel, gesturing to his servant, rolled up the picture again, thrust it
beneath his arm, and pulling his cloak tight about him, turned his back
upon Steven and strode toward the door. The _moso_ threw upon the floor
at Steven’s feet a sack that struck the boards with the unmistakable
clink of _moneda_, Spanish duros, sesterces, and reales.
Then Steven’s gorge rose and he shouted, “Stop!” with such suddenness
and passion that Don Anabel paused in his tracks. Steven kicked the sack
with a rage that shot it straight after the servant and hit him
amidships in the rear with such violence that he staggered and plunged
forward against the wall.
“Hold!” yelled Steven. “Take your filthy silver out of here, Señor Don
Anabel Lopez! I turned back on my way to Chihuahua, retracing my steps
over mountain passes and through deserts, to return to you this
painting, which I recognized as having seen in your house. I found the
canvas on the dead body of a prelate, late of Albuquerque, where, señor,
he told me, a night or so before his demise, he had acquired the canvas.
“Believe this tale or not, as you like, but, by the saints, you shall
make apology for the accusation of theft. Look nearer home for your
crime. If you do not take back your words, I shall spread a tale in
Santa Fe that will somewhat tarnish the luster of your honored name.”
Steven stopped abruptly. He had not intended to say that. He had no
proof that Luis was responsible for Bragdon’s death, though it was
tacitly understood between Juan and himself that it was he who had
dispatched the murderers on the Yankee’s trail. He had no proof that it
was Luis who had stolen his father’s painting and gambled it away. A
terrible silence had fallen upon the room. Don Anabel’s face grew old
and drawn. He looked gaunt and thin and sick, as he stood there in his
dark cloak, the candlelight throwing a heroic black silhouette against
the whitewashed wall. Terrible suspicions had entered his mind. To what
did the American refer? He was not sure.
Then the face of the boy before him broke into a disarming smile.
“Señor, I am sorry. I did not mean that. Here, shall we not both retract
what we have said? Surely you owe me something for having restored your
treasure to you? And, after all, why should I have come back if theft
were my purpose?”
But Don Anabel was already convinced--forced, in spite of himself, to
recognize the _caballero_ in another. A younger man of a hated race, he
could not let the youth outdo him in courtesy. He capitulated with the
grace of which he was master. “Señor Mercer,” he replied with an
inclination of his head, “it is as you say. I have the honor, señor, to
request that you will give us the pleasure of dining with us tomorrow
night? It is too late for our kitchen this evening, I fear.”
That would be a great pleasure, Steven replied with an imperturbability
that belied the excitement he felt. He accepted the long-coveted
invitation not with the unalloyed pleasure which he had thought would be
his, but with a burning desire to see Consuelo and to find out for
himself whether she, too, had suspected him--whether she had had faith
in him. Don Anabel took his departure and Steven sat down to his supper
and to thoughts of Consuelo. When he saw her again it would be with a
knowledge that he had not had before, if what Hope had told him was
still true. He burned to make sure that Consuelo had trusted him, for,
after all, he told himself, she knew very little of him.
Doña Katarina knocked and entered, bearing a fowl still sizzling from
the spit. Steven had been much pleased to find his good landlady
returned from Taos, and they chatted now of all that happened during
Steven’s absence. Steven told Doña Katarina what had passed between
himself and Don Anabel, inquiring if there had been talk in Santa Fe of
the loss of the painting. “But yes”--she spread her hands--“of course.
What would you? Don Anabel has been near frantic, and all Santa Fe has
been busy with the mystery of the theft of the holy painting. Some think
that it served the don right for not having presented the painting to
the Church long since.
“After you left--the latest massacre would have been as nothing. They
talked of nothing but the Madonna and the news that the Yankees had
packed their wagon wheels with the silver they gained in trading in
Santa Fe. Think of that, to escape the _impuestas_, the duties!” Doña
Katarina threw back her head and laughed the rich husky laugh of the
full-throated Mexican matron.
Steven grinned unabashedly with her. “But how was it found out? I am
curious to know. It was well done. I know, for I helped them do it!”
“Hu!” Doña Katarina laughed till she must hold her sides, and the tears
streamed down her cheeks. “Hu-hu! They were held up by Santa Feans, just
beyond Raton Pass.” Between her gusts of mirth he learned that as the
wagons went bounding over the ruts the axle of one of them broke, and
the rim of a wheel came off, disclosing cavities within rim and hub that
were filled with silver. No! the Santa Feans did not get it. The Yankees
got away, after all.
Steve heaved a sigh of satisfaction and returned to his own matters.
“But about the painting? And my departure? Did they, did anyone----?”
“But yes, I tell you.” Doña Katarina nodded vigorously. “It was the talk
of the town. Of course I knew, and Consuelo without a doubt knew, that
you had nothing to do with its disappearance.”
Steven sat thoughtfully before the fire that night, too tired to go out
in search of company, and gave himself over to thought. It was more than
a year since the tall, hatchet-faced refugee from Mexico’s perilous
presidential chair had walked into his father’s office and commissioned
him with an errand which had started him on a twelvemonth of perilous
adventuring. What was it, he mused, that should make him stray from the
great business in New Orleans that was his by inheritance, to set his
heart upon a pioneer undertaking so far from his people? What held
Pierre Lafitte and brought him back to his trapping after a lifetime,
almost, of solitude, and labor for which he was illy repaid? All the
pioneers who dared the desert, the enmity of the Indians, the freezing
passage of the Rockies in winter, were not landless and penniless when
they started forth.
“One might as well ask the buffalo why they migrate, or the birds of
passage,” St. Vrain had said. “It’s instinct. Mankind has it almost as
strong as the four-footed or the birds. They want land, room to breathe.
It’s only the daring and the brave who blaze trails, who strike out for
new business where there’s room and they won’t be crowded out. Only the
red-blooded can survive against the odds on the frontier.”
These words came back to Steven with force as he thought about the
agreement he had made with Don Tiburcio de Garcia. Well, he felt fit to
tackle the Trail and survive, and he would not be forced from the
territory as long as others could hold their own in this New World, held
by a handful of haughty Spanish and a horde of red men.
No, he would stay, and--and marry, and bring up a family in this land.
Mexico? What line across the mountain said that here the
English-speaking should stop and forever keep to the other side? The
land should belong to those who would build it. And so Steven fell
asleep, dreaming of empire and of a piquante face peering over a tipsy
balcony in the moonlight.
* * * * *
At that precise moment Consuelo was facing her father in his study. Don
Anabel’s voice was shaken. “You mean, Consuelo, that you actually saw
Luis hand a long object like this”--he held up the rolled canvas which
he had not yet had time to restore to its frame--“out the window to some
other waiting there?”
“Precisely, papa. I would swear it was that. I have told you exactly. In
justice to Señor Estevan. I think Luis has been protected long enough.”
“It is as I feared,” Don Anabel muttered. “But I did not think, I really
did not think, that Luis would have stooped to such an act; that he
could be led to this. _Ingrato!_ It is fortunate indeed that no word of
this has gotten through Santa Fe.” He felt peculiarly humbled, and at
the mercy of this young American who might so easily put his son to
public shame. Don Anabel lashed himself into a proud fury. Consuelo drew
herself up on tiptoe with her hands on his shoulders and kissed him
tenderly. “See, papa, you have the Murillo back again now. And it is
Ess-tevan who has thus served you, even after he had been thrown in the
_carcel_ and attacked. It is done and over. Let us forget. Luis will
have learned his lesson.”
“I could never forget.” Don Anabel shook his head angrily. “My son!”
* * * * *
Supper had been brilliant. Lupe had done herself proud with the dishes.
Everyone was in sparkling humor. Don Anabel because the Murillo once
more glowed richly from its frame against the whitewashed wall, Doña
Gertrudis because Don Anabel was pleased. It was Sunday, a feast day,
and the Lenten fast was therefore broken for the week with several kinds
of meat and game, with sweets, fresh water cress, and coffee that caused
Doña Gertrudis to sigh in ecstasy.
Consuelo was _echando rayos_, (throwing out sparks), as the saying went.
Steven was likewise in glowing humor. He was the lion of the occasion.
He had been pressed until he had told and retold the adventures of his
trip south and what befell him on the road back. But of the fraile and
his story of the painting not a word was said; Don Anabel had heard all
that the evening before, and had told his family, presumably, for the
subject was tacitly and widely avoided by all. Luis alone was not one
with the merry company about the table. He was quite different from his
old, teasing, swaggering self. Preoccupied, self-centered still, he
nevertheless hung nervously upon his father’s words. He gave a grave
attention to Steven’s talk, was courteously, cooly attentive. He ate
little, and drank not at all. Consuelo herself wondered what had come
over Luis.
Could it be true what Anita de Guevara had whispered to her yesterday
afternoon? Had Luis reformed and turned Penitente? She shuddered at the
thought of that stern brotherhood, unrecognized child of the Church,
whose members inflicted torturous penance upon themselves in imitation
of the sufferings of Christ and the martyrs. She searched Luis’s face
earnestly; but behind his unlined youthful features she could read
nothing. He had been away a great deal of late, but he would tell her
nothing. She had yearned over Luis, prayed for his salvation, worried
over his comings and goings.
But tonight Ess-tevan commanded her full attention. Here he was seated
at her father’s table, a thing she had thought would never come to pass.
She would tell him afterwards how she repented her proud and hasty words
that night in the garden. How wicked she had been to have kept silence
about the painting all the time he was away. Surely Ess-tevan would
understand how terrible it would have been to have had her father know
all the time that it was Luis who had stolen his picture. Especially
while it was still missing. What he would have done with Luis she did
not know. And had she not given her solemn word to Luis not to betray
him? At the time it had seemed the only thing to do.
Whenever Steven could do so without anyone else observing, his eyes
questioned Consuelo. She became nervous. Thereafter the meal passed as
in a haze. She could scarcely wait until it was over and she might have
the opportunity to talk with Señor Ess-tevan. At length Don Anabel
arose. He passed around the table to assist his wife, a deference he
always practiced when company of any distinction was present. As he
waited behind her chair he rested his hand upon his son’s shoulder, as
though in a return to his old affection. Luis winced involuntarily, but
so slight was the movement that none but an expectant eye would have
noted it. As Don Anabel’s hand was withdrawn from his son’s shoulder a
crimson stain showed faintly where it had rested. The stain spread ever
so slightly on his cloth bolero and a tiny vivid streak appeared on the
white linen shirt showing beneath.
Consuelo, sitting opposite Luis and next to Steven, watched the spot,
fascinated, unconscious horror in her face. She recovered as Don Anabel
drew out his wife’s chair and followed her from the room. Had he noticed
Luis’s shirt? Had anyone else noticed? Luis rose and, throwing his
poncho over his shoulder, followed the guest of the evening out of the
dining room. He did not join the family in the sala, excusing himself at
the doorway. After taking coffee with the others before the fire, Don
Anabel had retired to his _despacho_, where the business of the
haciendas was attended to, and still sipping another cup of the coffee,
Doña Gertrudis, who had long since passed the point of stimulation with
the cup, dozed off into a comfortably drugged state.
Consuelo sat opposite Steven, alone; chaperoned, but not too well. She
looked timidly at the big fellow standing astride the buffalo rug before
the fire. He had grown taller since she last saw him and had filled out
with muscle. Consuelo felt no longer that sense of power which always
had made her mistress of a situation. She was trembling.
Steven came over to her bench and stood beside it, looking down upon
her. “May I sit beside you, señorita?”
She made room for him and they looked into the fire for a space.
“I have come, as you know, from Don Tiburcio and the Señora Garcia,” he
began at length, awkwardly. “My countrywoman told me how kind you were
to her while she was ill.”
“We did very little,” Consuelo murmured. “We owed her a great deal
more.”
Neither of them spoke, embarrassment tying their tongues, then Consuelo
echoed softly, “And we owe you still more.”
They both looked up to where above the mantel Don Anabel’s prized
painting hung. The old master stood forth with great beauty against the
austere whiteness of the wall. This brought Steven to the point.
“Señorita”--he looked directly at her--“you did not think, after I left,
that I had anything to do with the disappearance of your father’s
painting?”
“No, no, Señor, Ess-tevan. How could I? Had I not known you in the least
I could not have thought such a thing, when you were going off so
magnificently to save the Americans.”
“Nor when I came back with the painting and your father thought I had
surely got possession of it somehow and taken it away?” He leaned toward
her, his eyes eager, his whole attitude one of waiting to hear her
defense of him. He laid a hand over hers. Happiness swam before him.
Dared he take her in his arms, here?
“No, no, if you had not taken it you had not. Because you brought it
back proved nothing but your generous service. I would never have
believed such a thing. Besides, I _knew_, Ess-tevan, that _you_ could
not have taken it, for I saw another do that, though at the time I did
not know what was being taken.”
“You saw--another?” Steven faltered, in surprise. “But you did not tell
your father, when there was all this talk, after I left, that I was the
thief?”
The words fell in complete silence. Consuelo looked away, her face
burning. No words came to her, now that the fearful moment had come.
This was not going as she had dreamed, this meeting. For months she had
prayed just to have the chance to ask forgiveness of Steven for her
proud manner on the night that she had sent Steven off on his journey.
And not a word of his love had he mentioned. Did he not care any more
whether or no she loved him? He was looking at her now with hurt
surprise.
“You saw some one else take the picture,” he was repeating,
incredulously; a dull red mantled his forehead, his boyish face was
stubborn and hurt. “You knew who did it, and yet you let your father and
all this town, where I expected to build up a business in trade, you let
them believe that I was a common thief?”
Consuelo looked wildly at him. Tears started in her eyes, but her tongue
clove to the roof of her mouth as he stammered mercilessly on: “And I
can say nothing. I can imagine who took your painting. The fraile told
me how he got it. And you, señorita, on the very night that you sent me
to risk my life in the desert, not because of the poor little lad or a
hated Yank, nor for the sake of the girl, but to save your brother’s
soul--after that you kept silence about why I entered your garden. You
did not tell who took the painting?”
All the pent up thoughts of his months alone on horse, riding with only
thoughts for company, came out in the deluge of unaccustomed speech.
“Oh, Ess-tevan, I could not tell,” Consuelo implored, forcing her words
as he stopped talking. “It would have broken my father’s heart. I--I had
promised not to tell. I--I did not know you would come back this way,
even. I prayed, I thought, something would happen meanwhile.”
“It has,” Steven answered, coldly, bowing and reaching for his hat.
“Señorita, I have the honor to bid you good night. Will you extend my
thanks and farewell to your so generous parents?” He found himself
walking out through the door into the chill of the night air. His
emotions were at a white heat of rage, or was it that he was stone cold?
He did not seem to know exactly what he was doing. Only he felt an alien
chill against all that had drawn him back to the Villa. He strode down
the dark narrow street, feeling his way by familiar walls and posts,
till he came to Doña Katarina’s house.
“Juan,” he called, for the man had returned to him the night before,
“get the horses and the mules, ready to leave for Taos the first thing
in the morning.” He went into his room and proceeded to pack everything
he owned. When all was strapped and ready he laid out his buckskin
clothes and went to bed. Strangely he slept. His body and his emotions
were tired, and he was young. But he had shut his mind in a coldly
determined way.
Consuelo did not sleep till toward dawn. When Steven had seized his hat
and stalked out of the room she could scarcely credit it. She stood
before the fireplace, clenching and unclenching her hands, raging after
her old fashion. Gradually she quieted and utter misery engulfed her.
Doña Gertrudis awakened. With forced calm Consuelo delivered Steven’s
message and then bade her mother good night.
When she reached her room a storm of tears broke and she wept for hours.
Felicita stayed with her, and at length, when she had spent her
strength, she sent the tired woman to bed, but Felicita lay down upon
the floor at her side and would not leave her. Reason began to function
in the early hours of the morning and Consuelo realized that the
Americano, too, had his pride.
“Because he was always so amiable I did not realize how it would hurt
and anger him to be suspected and to know that I could have stopped it,”
she told herself, finding her only consolation in justifying him. “I
will go to him myself in the morning,” she decided at last, as light was
beginning to break in the east, and fell asleep.
The sun was already well up when Consuelo awoke. She dressed hurriedly
and, leaving her chocolate untasted, hastened out through garden and
toward the cathedral, which she would pass on her way to Doña Katarina’s
house. She entered the church for a moment’s prayer, and as her black
reboso disappeared within the door a horseman stopped outside the
cathedral, hesitated for a moment at the foot of the steps. Then, with a
quick gesture of determination he slapped his mare’s flank and rode on
through the town, followed by his Indian attendant.
When Consuelo came out a few minutes later there was no one to be seen
on the street, and when she arrived at Doña Katarina’s she learned that
it was too late.