Part 36

Fair prospects! The secret was almost too good to keep, and he laughed softly to himself as he mused upon it. It was truly an inspiration; just the sort of thing to hand out to one of Newport's smart-set. Although he had not yet proposed to her, he regarded their marriage as a foregone conclusion; an event of the near future. She certainly had led him to infer as much, and the plan he had conceived regarding it was highly ingenious--one worthy of his fertile imagination. Directly they were married, they would spend the first fortnight of their honeymoon camping in the mountains in a style worthy of a grand Mogul, after which he would suggest that they pass the night at a near-by rancho belonging to a friend, and in this wise introduce her to her future home.

The rapture of the picture fairly dazzled him, and he lay awake whole nights contemplating it--the patio palely illumined by the moonlight, the murmur of the fountain in its center, the perfume of flowers, the melodious voices of the dark-skinned Indian attendants, bearing flaming torches, and chanting the time-honored welcome to their new mistress, and her insistent demands to be introduced to their host; and then the delightful dénouement, the surprise she must experience when the truth finally dawned upon her. Truly poet never dreamed a fairer dream. It had taken him a whole week to conceive the idea in detail, and on the morning of the seventh day on which he had decided to ask her to become his wife, he stood with the horses before the Posada expectantly awaiting her appearance to take the ride they had agreed upon the night before. At the end of an hour, during which he fretted over the undue delay with the same impatience as did the horses, Rosita appeared and informed him that the Señorita Van Ashton would not ride that morning; she was not feeling well. A wild alarm seized him. The thought that she might have been stricken suddenly with some serious illness, quite unnerved him for the moment. "Caramba!" he cried, quite forgetting his English. "What has happened? Is it serious? Is anything being done?" But all inquiries concerning the actual state of the Señorita's health proving fruitless, he was left to pass the remainder of the day wandering aimlessly about the garden in the vain hope of finding something to divert his mind. Had he been in possession of his usual calm, he might have noticed the amused expression on Rosita's face, but the extent of one's concern being the measure of one's love for a person, he saw only the vivid mental picture of his consuming passion, Bessie, suffering Bessie!

It was the first jarring note in that state of uninterrupted bliss which he had been enjoying, and as the day wore painfully on he began to realize how much she had become to him. He was haunted by misgivings, and finally, late in the afternoon, having convinced himself that he had exhausted the resources of the garden, he decided to pass the time until the dinner hour upon the veranda on the other side of the house. Thither he repaired, but oddly enough and greatly to his astonishment, as he stepped out upon the veranda, he came face to face with Miss Van Ashton returning from a walk in the town. She was charmingly gowned in a soft, clinging creation of pale lavender and white lace, with long white suède gloves and low lavender shoes and silk stockings, an inch or so of which she flashed before his eyes, proclaiming the society belle's prerogative. She carried a parasol of the same color and material as her dress, while her head was crowned with a sweeping, rakishly plumed Rembrandtesque hat worn at a killing angle. The gold in her hair and the exquisite pink and white of her throat and cheeks blended perfectly with a color scheme, the attractiveness of which was greatly enhanced by her natural charm and the delicate scent of lavender and rose leaves which emanated from her person, the combined effects of which were not lost upon an over-wrought imagination.

To use the current vernacular of the times, so familiar to the world in which she moved, Miss Van Ashton's appearance was decidedly fetching, and strongly suggestive of the things of which poets, in their madness, are continually harping--flower gardens flooded with moonlight and the song of nightingales. Although not modeled on heroic lines, she nevertheless possessed the qualifications which most men seek in women and therefore became quite as formidable as Delilah when she chose to assert herself. To say that Mr. Yankton was dazzled but mildly expresses his feelings; he was ravished, though in no mood for banter. Had their meeting occurred under more auspicious circumstances, he undoubtedly would have complimented her on her charming appearance; but for one who had been eating his heart out during eight consecutive hours solely on her account, it was hardly to be expected. The sight of her, though a relief to his mind, gave rise to thoughts the nature of which he found it difficult to conceal.

"What!" he cried, furious and aghast, scarcely believing his eyes as the truth slowly began to dawn upon him. "They told me you were ill--that you couldn't appear to-day!"

"Ill? How very strange!" she answered in feigned surprise, with a far away, vacant look in her eyes, as though she had just met him for the first time, rendering him quite speechless. "Really, Mr. Yankton," she continued in the coldest, most distant manner she could command, "I never felt better in my life!" And without allowing him time to catch his breath, she passed by him and slammed the door in his face, from the other side of which he fancied he heard her silvery, rippling laughter, the nature of which sounded suspiciously like a titter.

Woman never delivered a more crushing blow. In that instant Mr. Yankton saw more stars than the firmament contains. It was like being thrown suddenly into a river on a cold morning. Miss Van Ashton's methods might be regarded as somewhat harsh by certain persons, but realizing that heroic measures were the only cure for the dangerous distemper that threatened her peace of mind, she had acted without hesitancy. Besides, was she not in a measure justified in wishing to even up their scores?

Oh, the fickleness of woman! How cleverly she had deceived him, and what an ass he had been! She had been playing with him all the while, and as he paced the floor, revolving what course to pursue, he wondered how he could have been so simple. True, she was different from any woman he had ever met, but dazed though he was by her sudden change of front, he was not disheartened. On the contrary, she had become more attractive than ever. His blood fairly boiled at the thought of his defeat, but he would profit by the experience--change his tactics completely. The more she avoided him, the more persistent he would become. If she did not see him, she would be kept a prisoner in the house. He would give her no peace, day or night. He would dog her footsteps, confront her at every turn, pursue her with the most reckless and relentless ardor and utter disregard of what the world might think; treat her as he would an unbroken horse--give her no rest, but keep her on the jump until he had worn her out, and then close with her.

XXII

The situation was becoming intolerable. Something must be done and done at once to clear the atmosphere. Captain Forest's apparent indifference to all things, including herself, aroused Blanch to a pitch of exasperation which might best be likened to that of a high-strung, thoroughbred horse that has been ignominiously hitched to a plow and compelled to drag it. At the end of a week he either drops dead in the furrow or becomes a broken-spirited hack for the rest of his days.

Nothing short of love or hatred could satisfy her. It was a new experience. Never had she suffered such ignominy. It was like being coerced. One could respect an enemy, but this exasperating indifference was unendurable. The more she thought of it, the more convinced she became, that it was just such an antagonistic attitude which had prompted the beautiful, though wicked Borgia, to administer certain love potions to numerous unappreciative gallants. Deliberate, cold-blooded murder committed under such extenuating circumstances began to appear more in the light of justice than of crime.

Captain Forest offered an entirely new front. Not that he had changed so much, she knew better than that, but she marveled at his self-control. The dash and spirit of the soldier, which every one admired so much in him, had given way to the most insulting, good-humored complacency; the frame of mind one looks for in an aged sinner whose terror of an uncertain future has driven him to prepare for heaven. She knew well enough that his attitude was assumed for a purpose only, until he had made up his mind what to do; waiting to make up his mind as to which of them, she or Chiquita, was preferable. This, of course, was merely a jealous supposition on her part.

She had hoped to arouse his jealousy, or, failing in that, at least his enthusiasm. Thus far she had failed to accomplish either and she could not understand it. Surely he was flesh and blood like other men, yet nothing seemed to move him. He appeared like one at peace with all the world, calm and serene as a summer's day, and smoked incessantly. She could endure it no longer. The depression from which she suffered was crushing her slowly and irresistibly to earth. She was at her wits' end to know what to do to relieve the tension, until she finally hit upon the idea of giving an old-fashioned Spanish fandango--a fiesta.

The thought was a happy one. It was not only one of those things she had always wanted to see, but it would be a break--something to relieve the strain of her daily existence; she pursuing, he avoiding her. The novelty of the scene--the bright, gay costumes of the Mexicans, music and twinkling lights, dancing and wine and laughter and song, and the stars overhead, mellowed by the light of the full moon, must infuse new life into them all--recall memories of other days to him. With such a setting, a woman of her beauty, refinement and attraction, and an adept at the game of flattery and intrigue, must shine with new luster--become doubly dangerous and irresistible to a man. Though this was her chief motive for giving the fiesta, she had still another in view.

The fame of Chiquita's dancing had naturally aroused her curiosity. She would ask her to dance; not that she believed the half of what she heard concerning it, but it would be a satisfaction to see it. Besides, she had a certain motive of her own for so doing which she imparted to no one; the subtlest of a woman's thoughts which only the intuition of a woman could have prompted. She laughed to herself at the thought which invariably aroused within her a feeling akin to triumph. Why had she not thought of it before? She knew the Captain had already seen her dance, but then that was before he knew who she was. It had been in a theater, and his enthusiasm must have been prompted in a measure by that of the audience about him. The emotion of a large assembly was always contagious--sweeping the individual along with it. Whereas, in private, her dancing, lacking the glamour and artificiality of the stage, would be a very different thing. It would appear in a more realistic, commonplace light. Any faults which the atmosphere of the stage might have concealed would immediately become apparent in the light of natural surroundings and her performance sink to the level of the commonplace.

Her dancing could only be amateurish at its best, for where could she possibly have learned to dance? What instruction could she, living in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, have received in the art? As for local enthusiasm, it counted for little--amateurs were always so popular at home. And after all was said, what did the achievements of the great dancers really amount to? Their creations were not ranked with those of other artistic achievements. In fact, dancing could scarcely be ranked with the legitimate branches of art at all. At its best, it was only a pastime; something to amuse. This, of course, was the light in which she viewed one of the greatest arts which few ever succeed in mastering. Possibly because the world has really seen no dancing to speak of since the days of the great Taglioni, until the Pavlowa appeared. Even parts of the latter's art were questionable, but then, she was the Pavlowa!

Chiquita's dancing differed from anything Captain Forest had ever seen. As a matter of fact, much of it would not have been called dancing at all by many people, so different has the modern conception of the art become since the days of the ancients. But where had she received her instruction? The ability to dance, like any other talent, is born in one, not acquired. True, it must be developed through constant practice just like any other talent, if ever it is to amount to anything; but even then, great dancers are born just as great painters, poets and musicians are born.

The Indian's greatest pastime and amusement is dancing, and Chiquita had danced almost daily from earliest childhood to her sixteenth year when fate had led her to Padre Antonio's door. Then she went to the City of Mexico and also had visited Europe. In both places she had had the opportunity of seeing some of the greatest dancers of the day and was able to draw comparisons between their conceptions of the art and hers. But when she began the study of ancient history her attention was called to the Greeks' conception of the art, and she soon discovered that modern dancing was a direct violation of that which was most plastic in art, and consisted chiefly of contortions, high kicking and pirouetting on the toes. She also discovered that the conceptions of her own people regarding the art stood nearer that of the ancients than did modern man's. To her it was an interesting discovery. It was as natural for her to dance as to breathe, and from that hour she began to study and practice the art with renewed interest.

Shortly after her admittance to the convent, it was also discovered that she possessed a voice of unusual quality and range; and, as Padre Antonio had instructed the Sisters to do their utmost to develop any natural talent she might possess to a marked degree, the best teacher in voice culture which the city afforded was procured for her. These were Padre Antonio's wishes and they had been obeyed conscientiously by the Sisters who recognized Chiquita's strong dramatic ability.

The years passed, and, as the day finally arrived on which she was to leave school, the performances which marked the closing exercises were given as usual by the pupils. The last number on the programme represented an ancient Greek festival arranged by Padre Alesandro, the instructor in classic literature, in which Chiquita took the leading part, and in which, at her request, she was permitted to introduce a dance of her own creation. Among the many guests that had been invited to attend the closing ceremonies was one Signor Tosti, a ballet-master, who at the time was visiting the Capitol with an Italian opera company. A friend whose daughter took part in the exercises had persuaded him, much against his will, to attend; for what possible interest could a veteran of the ballet take in such amateurish exhibitions?

Touring the world with a troup of quarrelsome artists was arduous work for a tired old gentleman at its best. So, like the sensible man that he was, he promptly went to sleep at the opening of the performance and probably would have slept through the entire evening, had he not been aroused from his slumbers in the midst of the last number on the programme by the sound of a glorious voice--a deep mezzo-soprano of the richest contralto quality. Opening his eyes, he saw an assembly of beautifully clad, flower-bedecked Grecian youths and maidens drawn up across the back of the stage, chanting the chorus, and in their midst, in the foreground, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He drew himself up with a start and rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he was really awake. And then, considering the occasion and the time and the place, he witnessed a performance that fairly took his breath away.

His Southern temperament became thoroughly aroused, and at the conclusion of the dance, he suddenly rose from his seat and without waiting for an introduction, rushed to the stage and springing upon it, bowed low before Chiquita and seizing her hand, kissed it in view of the audience. No one knew better than he did that, in his profession, a new star had just fallen from heaven to earth. The following day he and the director of his company waited upon Chiquita and offered her any sum she might choose to name if she would consent to join the company and return to Europe with them. But they did not know what Chiquita's past had been--that she was still the Amazon as of old--that the woman who had been trained to battle in her early youth the same as the men of her people had been trained, regarded as mere pastime that which they considered one of the heights of earthly attainment. The woman who at sunrise had listened daily to the song of the Memnon, who had experienced the shock of battle, whose life lived close to nature had taught her the meaning of the ethics of the dust and instilled into her veins the rippling laughter of water and sunshine and the song of the winds, and whose every breath had been the rapturous breath of freedom, viewed life from a different standpoint than that of men debased by centuries of servitude. The world of their creation was trifling in comparison to that of God's which to her was all sufficing and enabled her to look upon their doings with the same equanimity and indulgence as that with which the parent regards the frolicsome gambols of the child.

Twenty years of almost uninterrupted practice had kept her body and limbs supple and pliant, but this Blanch did not know.

XXIII

True to his resolve, Dick rose to the exigency of the occasion by laying stubborn siege to Miss Van Ashton's heart. During the day he bombarded her with flowers and books and bonbons, and gentle but passionate missives; all of which the fair recipient as promptly hurled back into his face. At night relays of musicians serenaded her uninterruptedly until the glowing cast announced the coming of a new day. He took the whole household into his confidence, rendering it impossible for her to set foot outside her door without meeting him.

The first day she laughed at his eccentricities; on the second, she grew furious, and on the third, not having closed her eyes for two whole days and nights, she felt herself on the verge of a nervous collapse. There being no rest for any one, Colonel Van Ashton suddenly appeared before his daughter on the morning of the fourth day and gave her to understand that if the infernal nuisance did not cease instantly he would shoot the first person who entered the garden that evening after he had retired. And to back his threat, he displayed a new automatic pistol which he had purchased in the town the day before; the shopkeeper having assured him that, for a running fire, it was the most convenient and effective weapon on the market. The Colonel was in a reckless mood and seemed in imminent danger of losing in a moment the self-control which years of civilization had instilled within him. Having been literally goaded to madness, little wonder that he too was on the verge of succumbing to the customs of the land, and was beginning to feel a secret longing to shoot and swear and swagger and destroy. Knowing her father to be as good as his word, and to possess the courage of a lion when aroused, Bessie found herself forced to capitulate a day earlier than she otherwise would have, for, incensed though she was, not even a woman of her grit and spirit could possibly have held out much longer under conditions that turned night into day.

It was galling in the extreme to be compelled to surrender so soon, but there being no alternative, she was obliged to accept the humiliation with the best grace possible. Accordingly, she appeared in the garden late on the afternoon of the fourth day where she espied the object of her wrath and annoyance seated comfortably on the grass at the foot of a pear tree, and as usual--smoking. The sight of him was hardly conducive to soothe the feelings of one who inwardly was a seething volcano, and she vowed that she would pay him out to the full before she was done with him.

He seemed greatly surprised by her appearance, and hastily throwing away his cigar, rose to his feet with the intention of speaking to her, but without noticing him, she made her way to the farthest corner of the garden and seated herself in a large rustic chair that stood in the shadow of the high wall which surrounded the garden. She knew he would not be long in renewing his persecutions. And angry though she was, she could not help wondering at the novelty of the situation. She, Bessie Van Ashton, placed at the mercy of an obscure person, a rustic nobody! Like every other woman, she had dreamed of such a man as this, one that would seize and carry her off; but then the time and place were other than the present, and he resembled more closely the type of man with which she had been familiar all her life. The spirit of antagonism which he aroused was due rather to pique than to dislike, for in spite of his audacity she could not help admiring his spirit.