Part 45

"I must first send to La Jara for Joaquin and Manuelita Flores," she answered. "When they come, I shall be able to tell something definite concerning this child."

"You can spare yourself the trouble," broke in Don Felipe. "They are both dead."

"Dead?" she cried, starting violently. "Joaquin and Manuelita dead?"

"Their bodies, together with those of their horses and wagon, were discovered early this morning at the foot of the mesa which lies between here and La Jara, directly below the point where the road winds along the rim of the cliff. Doubtless their horses became frightened in the dark and jumped over the cliff before they could save themselves."

Chiquita uttered a low cry. "You've done your work well, Don Felipe Ramirez," she said at length, suddenly straightening and stiffening as she faced him, the expression on her face changing to one of hatred and contempt.

"It was no easy task to run you to earth, I'll admit," he retorted with the same sneering look of triumph on his countenance.

The only two persons upon whom she could rely, who could corroborate what she had to say concerning the child, were dead. No, there was one other, a man, but he too was gone--no one knew where. She saw the hopelessness of her plight. Nothing she could say or do could alter the opinion of the world toward her. She might continue to deny the charge, protest her innocence, accuse others, but to what avail? Without the actual proof, all must believe that which they were so ready and willing to believe. Had not the child recognized her, called her mother before the world? Even though the charge might never be actually proven, and Captain Forest refuse to believe it, there would always be this thing between them which she could never explain satisfactorily. It was not natural to suppose that he could possibly forget it or continue to believe in her protestations of innocence without the corroboration of others. The hour must surely come in which he would be assailed by doubts. She felt she had lost him, and with the knowledge of her failure, was seized with a sickening sensation and an acute pain at the heart. A misty veil rose between her and the world and she swayed unsteadily as though about to fall. She knew she must not faint. She drew her hand across her eyes, then, putting all her remaining strength into the effort, she slowly drew herself up.

Strange, that she and Don Felipe should have been created to become the nemesis of one another! The child, awed by the silence and grave faces of the bystanders, instinctively divined that there was something wrong between her and them, and clung mutely to Chiquita's skirt, a frightened look on her face.

Chiquita, meanwhile, stood gazing straight out before her, her head slightly inclined forwards, her face white and set, her heart burning with shame. It was not so much the question of guilt or innocence that affected her now, but the shame of it all. What must the Americans think of her? She felt the burning, searching gaze of those about her and the joy they experienced at her discomfiture. Never had she been at a loss to know which way to turn to extricate herself from a difficulty; but now, how helpless she was. She nervously tapped the palm of her left hand with her fan, vainly racking her brain in an effort to find a solution. Dick, who had been watching her narrowly the while, saw a strange light begin to play in her eyes in which he read Don Felipe's death as plainly as though it were written across the heavens in letters of flame.

"Chiquita, you must say something," said Captain Forest. "I tell you again, I don't believe it, but for your own sake--speak!"

"Yes, my child, speak!" entreated Padre Antonio, stepping before her. "Can't you see your silence is condemning you?" She looked up at him and saw that his face was ashen, colorless like the Captain's--that he seemed to have suddenly aged. Notwithstanding, there was the same kindly expression in his eyes she had always known, and she felt that, even though the world refused to believe in her, he might; he might even forgive her. She saw in her present humiliation and shame, a direct punishment for the betrayal of the Padre's confidence. Had she confided her secret to him, this could not have come upon her. Now, however, it was too late. She had no right to expect sympathy even from him.

"Chiquita, for the last time, I ask you to speak!" pleaded Captain Forest, racked between doubt and belief in the woman he loved. Just then, little Marieta began to cry.

"Madre, madre!" she gasped between her sobs. "I'm afraid of these people. Take me away--take me home again!"

"Be not afraid, my little one, they cannot harm you," she answered, drawing the child closer to her and laying one hand on its shoulder. Another embarrassing silence, broken only by the low sobs of Marieta, followed.

"Chiquita," demanded Padre Antonio at length, "has this child the right to call you mother?" There was a stern ring in his voice and she knew her last moment of grace had come; that it was useless to hesitate longer. She glanced at the Captain, then at the Padre and then down at the pretty, tear-stained face of the clinging child. Again she felt that peculiar pain at the heart and thought she was going to faint as she struggled with herself between honor, her love and respect for Captain Forest and Padre Antonio and her devotion to the child whose life, she knew, depended upon her answer. Up to that moment she had been completely at a loss to know what to say or how to act, but that invisible something which until then had deprived her of speech, now seemed to impel her to answer in the affirmative.

It was the supreme moment of her life. After all the years she could not abandon the child now; the woman in her forbade it. She must go on to the end. Again she glanced down at Marieta, and then raising her head and looking into Padre Antonio's eyes, said quietly: "Yes, she has that right."

"It's not true; I don't believe it!" cried Captain Forest in a tone in which was expressed all the shame and disgust he experienced on seeing the woman he loved dragged into the mire before his eyes.

"Captain Forest, you have heard the truth," answered Chiquita.

"Then there is nothing further to be said!" broke in Padre Antonio who was anxious to end a scene that was growing more painful each moment. Without a word, the Captain whirled on his heel and walked toward the garden. Clearly, the effects of the drop of poison instilled so adroitly into their lives by Don Felipe were beginning to be felt.

It is doubtful whether Blanch would have given Don Felipe the signal could she have foreseen the consequences. Her rival could have been exposed without being publicly humiliated. Nevertheless, an ineffable joy filled her soul. She knew now that Jack either must return to her, or he would never marry. His sensitive, overwrought mind frenzied and made desperate by despair might even drive him to kill himself in the end, but what did it really matter so long as no other woman possessed him?

Don Felipe fairly reveled in his revenge and took no pains to conceal it. It was the sweetest moment of his life. At last she too knew what it was to be struck to earth, to lie prone with one's face in the dust, the jeers of the world ringing in her ears. Of a truth, to quote Dick's words, "Had the devil raked hell with a fine-tooth comb, he could not have produced a more accomplished villain than Don Felipe Ramirez."

XXXII

As Chiquita and Padre Antonio left the patio, accompanied by Marieta and old Juana, the women drew back from her as though from some unclean thing. Gladly would they have spared Padre Antonio's feelings, but their hatred and jealousy were too intense and the opportunity to cast a stone at her too tempting for flesh and blood to resist.

Greatly to the astonishment of every one, it was noted that Padre Antonio carried his head quite as high while leaving, as when he entered the patio during the early part of the evening. They expected him to limp away, a crushed and broken old man; but they had yet to learn the unbending spirit of the Padre. Although humble in the sight of God, experience had taught him that the only way to command the respect of men was to hold one's head high while among them.

What must he think of her now, to be requited thus after all he had done for her? Chiquita asked herself as she, with Marieta and Juana, followed him homeward. The opinion of the world concerning her, and the loss of Captain Forest's love, seemed little in comparison to the thought that he should believe she had betrayed his confidence. She could endure anything but that. Had she but told him all in the beginning, he might have been spared the shame of this disgrace. Perhaps it was not yet too late; she would tell him all that night. True, she could not make amends for the pain she had caused him, but perhaps he would understand--forgive her.

She knew that a continuance of her residence in Santa Fé was no longer possible. Strange that it should have ended thus, and what was before her now? She knew the world only waited to shower wealth and distinction upon her should she choose the stage for a career; or, she might return to her people. But what would life be to her under any conditions without Padre Antonio's respect and the Captain's love?

Strong and versatile and capable though she was to cope with the world, her lot was not an enviable one. It was with Godspeed, not the maledictions of one's neighbors, that she had hoped to leave the place which had sheltered her so long. And Padre Antonio--how could she part from him thus?

Captain Forest's last words were her only solace; he had tried to believe in her to the end. Let come what might, they would remain with her always like a benediction, a tower of strength in some future hour of trial. And then there was Don Felipe. Ah, yes, Don Felipe! Her teeth came together with a snap, for she knew that, even after what had transpired, he would follow her.