REVELATIONS OF GUILT.
Don Juan Moraquitos was one of the first to hear of the escape of Paul
Lisimon. The reader must remember that the Spaniard knew nothing of the
infamous plot devised by Silas Craig at the instigation of Augustus
Horton. He believed his protege to be guilty of the crime imputed to
him.
He had a secret reason for rejoicing in the disgrace of the young
Mexican, and he had a still stronger motive in seeking the destruction
of Paul, since he had begun to suspect the attachment between Lisimon
and Camillia.
He hurried to his daughter's apartments, in order to inform her of
Paul's escape from prison.
"Now, Camillia, what think you of this haughty youth who so proudly
declared his innocence?" said Don Juan, after relating the account he
had just heard of Lisimon's escape.
"I think as I have ever thought," answered Camillia.
"That he is innocent?"
"Yes!" replied the Spanish girl.
"Strange, then, that he should have fled," said Don Juan; "the innocent
man generally awaits to meet the issue of his trial; it is only the
guilty wretch who flies to hide himself from the avenging power of the
law he has outraged."
Pauline Corsi had been present during this brief dialogue, but she had
remained silent, with her fingers busy with the rainbow silks of her
embroidery, and her eyes bent over her work. She raised them, however,
as the Spaniard uttered those words and looked him full in the face.
"The guilty do not always fly, Don Juan Moraquitos," she said quietly.
The Spaniard started and looked at Mademoiselle Corsi with a rapid, but
furtive glance.
"They sometimes remain for years upon the scene of their guilt.
They defy the laws which they have outraged, and triumph in their
undiscovered and successful villainy."
Don Juan laughed mockingly, but a close observer might have detected an
uneasy quiver of his mustachio-shaded lip.
"Mademoiselle Corsi appears to speak from experience," he said. "She
has perhaps known such people?"
"I have known such people," answered the Frenchwoman in the same quiet
tone in which she had first addressed Don Juan.
"They could scarcely be desirable acquaintances for the instructress
of--"
"The daughter of so honorable a man as yourself, Don Juan," said
Pauline, as if interpreting the thoughts of her employer.
While this conversation was going forward between Mademoiselle Corsi
and the Spaniard, Camillia Moraquitos had strolled out onto the
balcony, to escape the watchful eyes of her father, and to conceal
the relief she felt in her lover's escape. Pauline and Don Juan were,
therefore, alone. Their eyes met. There was something in the glance of
the Frenchwoman which told plainly that her words had no common meaning.
For some moments the gaze of Don Juan was rooted upon that fair
face and those clear and radiant blue eyes--a face which was almost
childlike in its delicacy and freshness, and which yet, to the
experienced eye of the physiognomist, revealed a nature rarely matched
for intelligence and cunning.
Don Juan crossed the apartment to the curtained recess in which Pauline
Corsi was seated, and, placing himself in the chair opposite to her,
grasped her slender wrist in his muscular hand.
"There is a hidden significance in your words," he said.
"Can you not read their meaning, Don Juan?"
"No."
"You cannot?"
"I cannot," he answered defiantly.
"Say rather that you will not," replied the Frenchwoman, scornfully.
"You fear to commit yourself by an avowal which may seem like a
confession of guilt. Shall I tell you the meaning of those words?"
"Yes."
"You are a brave man, Don Juan Moraquitos, you do not fear to hear the
truth?"
"I do not."
"Then listen to me. Those words have relation to an event which
occurred thirteen years ago!"
"My memory is no longer that of a young man," answered Don Juan; "I
cannot remember all the events which happened at that date."
"Perhaps not; but you can remember the death of your kinsman, Don
Tomaso Crivelli?"
This time the Spaniard started as if an adder had stung him. The cold
perspiration broke out upon his bronzed forehead, and every vestige of
color fled alike from cheek and lips.
"I see you do remember," said Pauline Corsi. "You remember that will
which was made on that night. The will which was witnessed by two
men; one of them a seafaring man whose name I know not as yet; the
other, William Bowen, then captain of a slaver. You remember the sick
man's confession. You remember his dying prayer, that those dear to
him should be protected by you; and lastly, Don Juan Moraquitos, you
remember the draught mixed by Silas Craig, and which your wife's
brother, Tomaso Crivelli, took from your hand, two hours before his
death!"
"How could you have learned all this?" gasped the Spaniard.
"I know more than this!" replied Pauline Corsi. "When the faint gray of
the wintry dawn was stealing through the half-open shutters of the sick
chamber, Tomaso Crivelli lifted himself from his pillow in the last
agonies of death, and uttered an accusation--"
"Hold! hold, woman, I entreat!" cried the Spaniard, "you know all!
How you have acquired that knowledge, save through some diabolical
agency, I know not; for the door of the chamber was secured by a lock
not easily tampered with, and those within were not the men to betray
secrets. But, no matter, you know all! Why have you kept silence for
thirteen years?"
"We women are tacticians, Don Juan. I had a motive for my silence!"
"And you speak now--?"
"Because I think it is time to speak."
Don Juan paced the apartment backward and forward with folded arms, and
his head bent upon his breast. Presently pausing before Pauline Corsi's
embroidery frame, he said in a hoarse whisper:
"Do you mean to betray me?"
"No!"
"Why, then, tell me all this?"
"Because I would ask the reward of thirteen years' silence."
"And that reward--?"
"Is easy for you to grant. I am tired of dependence, even on your
goodness. Make me your wife, and let me share the wealth acquired by
the guilt of whose secrets I know."