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diff --git a/26550-h/26550-h.htm b/26550-h/26550-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f81f6a --- /dev/null +++ b/26550-h/26550-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8198 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> +<title> +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Children of the Desert, by Louis Dodge. +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + body {margin-left: 11%; margin-right: 10%;} + a {text-decoration: none;} + h3 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal; font-size: 1.2em;} + .pncolor {color: silver;} + div.ce p {text-align: center; margin: auto 0;} + .caption {font-size:.8em;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + hr.tb {width: 35%; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; clear:both;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; position: absolute; right: 2%; padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; background-color: inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + hr.minor {width: 35%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; clear:both;} + hr.silver {width: 100%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver;} + h2 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal; font-size: 1.4em;} +// --> +/* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> + +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Children of the Desert, by Louis Dodge + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Children of the Desert + +Author: Louis Dodge + +Release Date: September 7, 2008 [EBook #26550] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN OF THE DESERT *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.4em;'> +<p>CHILDREN OF THE DESERT</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce'> +<p>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</p> +</div> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>BONNIE MAY. Illustrated by Reginald Birch.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47em;'>12mo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . <i>net</i> $1.35</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style='font-size:2.2em;'>CHILDREN</p> +<p style='font-size:2.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>OF THE DESERT</p> +<p>BY</p> +<p style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:5em;'>LOUIS DODGE</p> +<p>NEW YORK</p> +<p style='font-size:1.2em;'>CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> +<p>1917</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce' style='font-size:0.8em;'> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Copyright, 1917, by</span></p> +<p>CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p>Published March, 1917</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce'> +<p>TO</p> +<p>THE FRIENDS OF EAGLE PASS AND</p> +<p>PIEDRAS NEGRAS—IN THE</p> +<p>GOOD OLD DAYS</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style='font-size:1.4em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CONTENTS</p> +</div> + +<table border='0' width='500' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'> +<tr> + <td align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'><span style='font-size:small;'>PART</span></td> + <td></td> + <td align='right'><span style='font-size:small;'>PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Harboro and Sylvia</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#I_HARBORO_AND_SYLVIA'>1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>The Time Of Flame</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#II_THE_TIME_OF_FLAME'>65</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Fectnor, The People’s Advocate</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#III_FECTNOR_THE_PEOPLE_S_ADVOCATE'>99</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>The Horse With The Golden Dapples</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#IV_THE_HORSE_WITH_THE_GOLDEN_DAPPLES'>177</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>A Wind From The North</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#V_A_WIND_FROM_THE_NORTH'>211</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>The Guest-chamber</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VI_THE_GUESTCHAMBER'>243</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Sylvia</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VII_SYLVIA'>273</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='I_HARBORO_AND_SYLVIA' id='I_HARBORO_AND_SYLVIA'></a> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1' name='page_1'></a>1</span> +<h2><i>PART I</i></h2> +<h3>HARBORO AND SYLVIA</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<p style='line-height: 3'> </p> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style='font-size:1.4em;'>Children of the Desert</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style='font-size:1.2em;'>CHAPTER I</p> +</div> + +<p style='line-height: 1'> </p> + +<p>They were married in the little Episcopal +church in Eagle Pass on a September day in +the late eighties. The fact may be verified, +I have no doubt, by any who will take the +trouble to examine the records, for the toy-like +place of worship still stands.</p> +<p>The church structure is not, perhaps, so +small as my imagination presents it to me; +but I cannot see it save with the desert as +a background—the desert austere and illimitable. +You reach the prim little front door +by climbing a street which runs parallel with +the Rio Grande, and the church is almost the +last structure you will pass before you set +forth into a No-Man’s land of sage and cactus +and yucca and mesquite lying under the blazing +sun.</p> +<p>Harboro his name was. Of course, there +was a Christian name, but he was known simply +as Harboro from Piedras Negras to the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2' name='page_2'></a>2</span> +City. She was Sylvia Little. Sylvia, people +called her, both before and after her marriage. +The Little might as well never have belonged +to her.</p> +<p>Although neither Harboro nor Sylvia really +belonged to Eagle Pass, the wedding was an +event. Both had become familiar figures in +the life of the town and were pretty well +known. Their wedding drew a large and interested +audience. (I think the theatrical +phrase is justified, as perhaps will be seen.) +Weddings were not common in the little border +town, unless you counted the mating of +young Mexicans, who were always made one +by the priest in the <i>adobe</i> church closer to +the river. Entertainment of any kind was +scarce. But there were other and more significant +reasons why people wanted to see +the bride and the bridegroom, when Harboro +gave his name to the woman of his choice.</p> +<p>The young people belonging to some sort +of church guild had decorated the church, +and special music had been prepared. And +indeed when Harboro and Sylvia marched +up the aisle to the strains of the <i>Lohengrin</i> +march (the bridegroom characteristically trying +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3' name='page_3'></a>3</span> +to keep step, and Sylvia ignoring the music +entirely), it was not much to be wondered at +that people craned their necks to get the +best possible view. For both Harboro and +the woman were in a way extraordinary individuals.</p> +<p>Harboro was forty, and seemed in certain +aspects older than that. He was a big man, +well built, and handsome after a fashion. He +was swarthy, with dark eyes which seemed +to meditate, if not to dream. His hair was +raven-black, and he wore a heavy mustache +which stopped just short of being unduly conspicuous. +It was said of him that he talked +little, but that he listened keenly. By trade +he was a railroad man.</p> +<p>He had been heard to remark on one occasion +that he had begun as a brakeman, but +there were rumors of adventurous days before +he became a member of a train crew. +It was said that he had gone prospecting into +Mexico as a youth, and that he had spent +years working at ends and odds of jobs about +mines and smelters. Probably he had hoped +to get into something in a big way.</p> +<p>However, he had finally turned to railroading, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4' name='page_4'></a>4</span> +and in the course of uncertain events had +become an engineer. It was a year or two +after he had attained this position that he +had been required to haul a special train from +Torreon to Piedras Negras. The General +Manager of the Mexican International Railroad +was on that train, and he took occasion +to talk to the engineer. The result pleased +him mightily. In his engine clothes Harboro +looked every inch a man. There was something +clean and level about his personality +which couldn’t have been hid under a <i>sarape</i>. +He stood shoulder to shoulder with the General +Manager, making the latter look like a +manikin, and talked about his work and the +condition of the road and the rolling stock. +He talked easily and listened intelligently. +He was grave in an easy fashion. He took +no liberties, cracked no jokes.</p> +<p>The General Manager got the idea that the +big fellow would be a good man to stand +shoulder to shoulder with in larger events +than a special trip.</p> +<p>When he got back to headquarters he made +a casual inquiry or two, and discovered that +Harboro wrote an exceptionally good hand, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span> +and that he spelled correctly. He assumed +that he was an educated man—though this +impression may have been largely due to the +fact that Harboro was keenly interested in +a great variety of things, and had a good +memory.</p> +<p>The General Manager waited for certain +wheels to turn, and then he sent for Harboro +and offered him a position as chief clerk in +one of the headquarter departments.</p> +<p>Harboro accepted the position, and said +“Thank you,” and proved to be uncommonly +competent.</p> +<p>The people of Piedras Negras took a liking +to him; the women wanted to get acquainted +with him. He was invited to places, and he +accepted the invitations without either belittling +or magnifying their importance. He +got on rather well from the beginning.</p> +<p>The social affairs of Piedras Negras were +sometimes on a fairly large scale. The General +Manager had his winter residence there—a +meticulously cultivated demain which lay +like a blue spot in a cloudy sky. There were +grass and palms and, immediately beyond, the +vast desert. At night (on occasion) there +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span> +were Chinese lanterns to add their cheerful +note to pretty revelries, while the stars lay +low and big over all the desert expanse. +The General Manager’s wife had prominent +social affiliations, and she used to bring winter +guests from the north and east—from Chicago +and New York and Boston. There were balls +and musicales, and a fine place for conversation +out on the lawn, with Mexican servants +to bring cigars and punch, and with Mexican +fiddlers to play the national airs under a fig-covered +band-stand.</p> +<p>The young people from Eagle Pass used to +go over when the General Manager’s wife +was giving one of her less formal affairs. +They were rather refreshing types: the Texas +type, with a good deal of freedom of action +and speech, once they were drawn out, and +with plenty of vigor. On these occasions +Eagle Pass merged itself into the Mexican +town, and went home late at night over the +Rio Grande bridge, and regarded life as a +romance.</p> +<p>These affairs and this variety of people +interested Harboro. He was not to be drawn +out, people soon discovered; but he liked to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span> +sit on the lawn and listen and take observations. +He was not backward, but his tastes +were simple. He was seemingly quite as much +at ease in the presence of a Chicago poetess +with a practised—a somewhat too practised—laugh +or a fellow employee risen, like himself, +to a point where society could see him.</p> +<p>In due course Eagle Pass gave an entertainment +(at the Mesquite Club) and invited certain +railroad officials and employees from the +other side of the river. Harboro was included +among those invited, and he put on correct +evening dress, and rode over in a coach, and +became a favorite in Eagle Pass. He seemed +rather big and serious for complete assimilation, +but he looked well with the club settings +as a background, and his name appeared later +in the week in the Eagle Pass <i>Guide</i>, in the +list headed “among those present.”</p> +<p>All of which he accepted without agitation, +or without ceasing to be Harboro himself all +over.</p> +<p>He did not meet Sylvia Little at the Mesquite +Club. If you had known Sylvia and +the Mesquite Club, you would laugh at so +superfluous a statement. Eagle Pass was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span> +pleasantly democratic, socially, but it could +not have been expected to stand for Sylvia.</p> +<p>People didn’t know much about her (to her +credit, at least) except that she was pretty. +She was wonderfully pretty, and in a way +which was all the more arresting when you +came to consider her desert surroundings.</p> +<p>She had come, with her father, from San +Antonio. They had taken a low, homely little +house, standing under its mesquite-tree, close +to the government reservation, where the +flagstaff stood, and the cannon boomed at +sundown, and the soldiers walked their posts. +Back of the house there was a thicket of mesquites, +and through this a path ran down to +the river.</p> +<p>The first thing people mistrusted about +Sylvia was her father. He had no visible +means of support; and if his manner was +amiable, his ways were furtive. He had a +bias in favor of Mexican associates, and +much of his time was spent down under +the river bank, where a few small wine-shops +and gambling establishments still existed in +those days. There were also rumors of drinking +and gambling orgies in the house under +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span> +the mesquite-tree, and people said that many +strange customers traversed that path through +the mesquite, and entered Little’s back door. +They were soldiers and railroad men, and +others of a type whose account in the bank +of society nobody ever undertakes to balance. +Sylvia was thought to be the torch which +attracted them, and it was agreed that Sylvia’s +father knew how to persuade them to drink +copiously of beverages which they paid for +themselves, and to manipulate the cards to +his own advantage in the games which were +introduced after a sufficient number of drinks +had been served.</p> +<p>Possibly a good deal of this was rumor +rather than fact: an uncharitable interpretation +of pleasures which were inelegant, certainly, +but possibly not quite vicious. Still, +it seemed to be pretty well established that +up to the time of Sylvia’s marriage her father +never worked, and that he always had money—and +this condition, on any frontier, is always +regarded with mistrust.</p> +<p>Sylvia’s prettiness was of a kind to make +your heart bleed, everything considered. She +was of a wistful type, with eager blue eyes, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span> +and lips which were habitually parted slightly—lips +of a delicate fulness and color. Her +hair was soft and brown, and her cheeks were +of a faint, pearly rosiness. You would never +have thought of her as what people of strictly +categorical minds would call a bad woman. I +think a wholly normal man must have looked +upon her as a child looks at a heather-bell—gladly +and gratefully, and with a pleased amazement. +She was small and slight. Women of +the majordomo type must have regarded her +as still a child. Her breasts were little, her +neck and shoulders delicate, and she had a +trick of lifting her left hand to her heart when +she was startled or regarded too shrewdly, as +if she had some prescient consciousness of +coming evil.</p> +<p>She was standing by her front gate when +Harboro first saw her—and when she first saw +Harboro. The front gate commanded an unobstructed +view of the desert. It was near sundown, +and far across the earth’s floor, which +looked somewhat like a wonderful mosaic of +opals and jade at this hour, a Mexican goatherd +was driving his flock. That was the only +sign of life to be seen or felt, if you except +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span> +the noise of locusts in the mesquite near by +and the spasmodic progress of a horned toad +in the sand outside Sylvia’s gate.</p> +<p>Yet she was looking away to the vibrating +horizon, still as hot as an oven, as yearningly +as if at any moment a knight might ride over +the rim of the desert to rescue her, or as if a +brother were coming to put an end to the +existence of a Bluebeard who, obviously, did +not exist.</p> +<p>And then Harboro appeared—not in the +distance, but close at hand. He was passing +Sylvia’s gate. He had a natural taste for +geology, it seemed, and he had chosen this +hour to walk out beyond Eagle Pass to examine +the rock formations which had been cast +up to the surface of the desert by prehistoric +cataclysms.</p> +<p>He was close enough to Sylvia to touch her +when her presence broke down his abstraction +and drew his eyes away from whatever +object they had been observing away on the +horizon.</p> +<p>He stopped as if he had been startled. That +was a natural result of Sylvia’s appearance +here in this withered place. She was so delicately, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span> +fragilely abloom. Her setting should +have been some region south of the Caucasus. +Her period should have been during the +foundations of mythology. She would have +made you think of Eve.</p> +<p>And because her hand went to her heart, +and her lips parted tremulously, Harboro +stopped. It was as if he felt he must make +amends. Yet his words were the inevitable +banalities.</p> +<p>“You have a fine view here,” he said.</p> +<p>“A fine view!” she echoed, a little incredulously. +It was plain that she did not agree +with him. “There is plenty of sun and air,” +she conceded after a pause.</p> +<p>He rested a heavy hand on the fence. +When Harboro stopped you never had the +feeling that some of his interests had gone +on ahead and were beckoning to him. He +was always all there, as if permanently.</p> +<p>He regarded her intently. Her voice had +something of the quality of the <i>Träumerei</i> in +it, and it had affected him like a violin’s +<i>vibrato</i>, accompanying a death scene—or as a +litany might have done, had he been a religious +man. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span></p> +<p>“I suppose you find it too much the same, +one day after another,” he suggested, in response +to that mournful quality in her voice. +“You live here, then?”</p> +<p>She was looking across the desert. Where +had the goatherd hidden himself? She nodded +without bringing her glance to meet Harboro’s.</p> +<p>“I know a good many of the Eagle Pass +people. I’ve never seen you before.”</p> +<p>“I thought you must be a stranger,” she +replied. She brought her glance to his face +now and seemed to explore it affectionately, +as one does a new book by a favorite author. +“I’ve never seen you before, either.”</p> +<p>“I’ve been to several entertainments at the +Mesquite Club.”</p> +<p>“Oh! ... the Mesquite Club. I’ve never +been there.”</p> +<p>He looked at her in his steadfast fashion +for a moment, and then changed the subject. +“You have rather more than your share of +shade here. I had no idea there was such a +pretty place in Eagle Pass.” He glanced at +the old mesquite-tree in the yard. It was +really quite a tree. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span></p> +<p>“Yes,” she assented. She added, somewhat +falteringly: “But it seems dreadfully +lonesome sometimes.”</p> +<p>(I do not forget that path which led from +Sylvia’s back door down to the Rio Grande, +nor the men who traversed it; yet I believe +that she spoke from her heart, and that her +words were essentially true.)</p> +<p>“Perhaps you’re not altogether at home in +Eagle Pass: I mean, this isn’t really your +home?”</p> +<p>“No. We came from San Antonio a year +ago, my father and I.”</p> +<p>His glance wandered up the brick walk +to the cottage door, but if Sylvia perceived +this and knew it for a hint, she did not respond.</p> +<p>Harboro thought of other possibilities. He +turned toward the desert. “There, the sun’s +dipping down beyond that red ridge,” he said. +“It will be cooler now. Won’t you walk with +me?—I’m not going far.”</p> +<p>She smiled happily. “I’d like to,” she admitted.</p> +<p>And so Sylvia and Harboro walked together +out toward the desert. It was, in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span> +fact, the beginning of a series of walks, all +taken quite as informally and at about the +same hour each day. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER II</p> +</div> + +<p>Some of the cruder minds of Eagle Pass +made a sorry jest over the fact that nobody +“gave the bride away” when she went to +the altar—either then or during the brief +period of courtship. Her father went to the +wedding, of course; but he was not the kind +of person you would expect to participate +conspicuously in a ceremony of that sort. +He was so decidedly of the black-sheep type +that the people who assumed management of +the affair considered it only fair to Sylvia +(and to Harboro) to keep him in the background. +Sylvia had never permitted Harboro +to come to the house to see her. She +had drawn a somewhat imaginary figure in +lieu of a father to present to Harboro’s mind’s +eye. Her father (she said) was not very well +and was inclined to be disagreeable. He did +not like the idea of his daughter getting married. +She was all he had, and he was fearfully +lonesome at times.</p> +<p>Harboro had accepted all this readily. He +had asked no questions. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span></p> +<p>And so Little went to the wedding. He +went early so that he could get a seat over +against the wall, where he wouldn’t be too +conspicuous. He looked decidedly like an +outsider, and, as a matter of fact, a good many +people did not recognize him as Sylvia’s father. +He was probably regarded as a stranger who +had drifted into the church to enjoy the familiar +yet interesting spectacle of a man and +a maid bound together by a rite which was +the more interesting because it seemed so +ephemeral, yet meant so much.</p> +<p>Several of the young women of Eagle Pass +had aided Sylvia in getting ready to meet her +husband-to-be at the altar. They were well-known +girls, acting with the aid (and in the +company) of their mothers. They did not +admit even to one another what it was that +separated Sylvia from their world. Perhaps +they did not fully understand. They did +know that Sylvia was not one of them; but +they felt sorry for her, and they enjoyed the +experience of arraying her as a bride and of +constituting, for the moment, a pretty and +irreproachable setting for her wistful person. +They were somewhat excited, too. They had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span> +the feeling that they were helping to set a +mouse-trap to catch a lion—or something like +that.</p> +<p>And after the wedding Mr. and Mrs. Harboro +emerged from the church into the clear +night, under the stars, and went afoot in the +direction of their new home—an attractive +structure which Harboro had had erected on +what was called the Quemado Road.</p> +<p>A good many of the guests looked after +them, and then at each other, but of definite +comment there was mighty little.</p> +<p>Sylvia’s father went back to his house alone. +He was not seen in the Maverick Bar that +night, nor for quite a number of succeeding +nights. He had never had any experiences +in Eagle Pass which proved him to be a courageous +man—or to lack courage; but in all +probability a sensation akin to fear bothered +him more or less during those first days and +nights after his daughter had got married.</p> +<p>Perhaps it would have been better for +Sylvia if he had brazened it out just at that +time, for on the very night of the wedding +there was talk in the Maverick Bar. Not +open or general comment, certainly. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span> +border folk were not loose of speech. But +two young fellows whose social versatility included +membership in the Mesquite Club, on +the one side, and a free and easy acquaintance +with habitués of the Maverick Bar on +the other, sat over against the wall behind a +card-table and spoke in lowered tones. They +pretended to be interested in the usual movements +of the place. Two or three cowboys +from Thompson’s ranch were “spending” and +pressing their hospitality upon all and sundry. +A group of soldiers from the post were present, +and Jesus Mendoza, a Mexican who had +accumulated a competency by corralling his +inebriated fellow countrymen at election times, +and knowing far more about the ticket they +voted than they could ever have learned, was +resting a spurred boot on the bar railing, and +looking through dreamy eyes and his own +cloud of cigarette smoke at the front door. +Mendoza always created the impression of +being interested in something that was about +to happen, or somebody who was about to +appear—but never in his immediate surroundings.</p> +<p>“It’s too bad somebody couldn’t have told +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span> +him,” Blanchard, of the Eagle Pass bank, was +saying to the other man behind the card-table. +The conversation had begun by each +asking the other why he wasn’t up at the +wedding.</p> +<p>“Yes,” assented Dunwoodie, the other man. +He was a young lawyer whose father had recently +died in Belfast, leaving him money +enough to quench a thirst which always +flourished, but which never resulted in even +partial disqualification, either for business or +pleasure. “Yes, but Harboro is.... Say, +Blanchard, did you ever know another chap +like Harboro?”</p> +<p>“I can’t say I know him very well.”</p> +<p>“Of course—that’s it. Nobody does. He +won’t let you.”</p> +<p>“I don’t see that, quite. I have an idea +there just isn’t much to know. His size and +good looks mislead you. He doesn’t say +much, probably because he hasn’t much to +say. I’ve never thought of there being any +mystery. His behavior in this affair proves +that there isn’t much of the right kind of +stuff in him. He’s had every chance. The +railroad people pushed him right along into +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span> +a good thing, and the women across the river—the +best of them—were nice to him. I have +an idea the—er—new Mrs. Harboro will recall +some of us to a realization of a truth +which we’re rather proud of ignoring, down +here on the river: I mean, that we’ve no business +asking people about their antecedents.”</p> +<p>Dunwoodie shook his head. “I figure it +out differently. I think he’s really a big +chap. He won all the fellows over in the +railroad offices—and he was pushed over the +heads of some of them when he was given +that chief clerkship. And then the way he’s +got of standing up to the General Manager +and the other magnates. And you’ll notice +that if you ever ask him a question he’ll give +you an answer that sets you to thinking. He +seems to work things out for himself. His +mind doesn’t just run along the channel of +traditions. I like him all the better because +he’s not given to small talk. If there was +anything worth while to talk about, I’ll bet +you’d always find him saying something worth +while.”</p> +<p>“You’re right about his not being strong +about traditions. There’s the matter of his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span> +marriage. Maybe he knows all about Sylvia—and +doesn’t care. He <i>must</i> know about +her.”</p> +<p>“Don’t make a mistake on that score. I’ve +seen them together. He reveres her. You +can imagine his wanting to spread a cloak +for her at every step—as if she were too pure +to come into contact with the earth.”</p> +<p>“But good God, man! There’s a path to +her back door, worn there by fellows who +would tremble like a colt in the presence of a +lady.”</p> +<p>Dunwoodie frowned whimsically. “Don’t +say a path. It must be just a trail—a more +or less indistinct trail.”</p> +<p>Blanchard looked almost excited. “It’s a +<i>path</i>, I tell you!”</p> +<p>And then both men laughed suddenly—though +in Dunwoodie’s laughter there was a +note of deprecation and regret. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER III</p> +</div> + +<p>And so Harboro and Sylvia went home to +the house on the Quemado Road without +knowing that the town had washed its hands +of them.</p> +<p>Harboro had made certain arrangements +which were characteristic of him, perhaps, +and which nobody knew anything about. +For example, he had employed the most presentable +Mexican woman he could find, to +make the house homelike. He had taken a +little sheaf of corn-husks away from her so +that she could not make any cigarettes for a +day or two, and he had read her a patient +lecture upon ways and means of making a lot +of furniture look as if it had some direct relationship +with human needs and pleasures. +And he had advised and aided her in the preparation +of a wedding supper for two. He had +ordered grapes from Parras, and figs—black +figs, a little withered, and candied <i>tunas.</i> +And there was a roast of beef with herbs and +chili sauce, and <i>enchalades.</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span></p> +<p>The electric lights were turned on up-stairs +and down when they entered the house, +and Sylvia had an alarmed moment when she +pictured a lot of guests waiting for them. +But there proved to be nobody in the house +but just they two and the old Mexican +woman. Antonia, her name was.</p> +<p>Harboro took her by the hand and led her +up-stairs to the door of her room. It didn’t +occur to him that Antonia might better have +attended to this part of the welcoming. Antonia +was busy, and she was not the sort of +person to mother a bride, Harboro thought. +She wouldn’t have been asked to perform this +task in any case. You would have thought +that Harboro was dealing with a child rather +than a woman—his wife. It seemed the +most natural thing in the world for him to +take complete charge of her from the beginning.</p> +<p>She uttered a little cry when she entered +the bedroom. There by the bed was her +trunk, which she had left at home. She +hadn’t known anything about its having been +transferred from one house to the other.</p> +<p>“Who brought it?” she asked, startled. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span></p> +<p>“I sent for it,” explained Harboro. “I +knew you’d want it the first thing.”</p> +<p>“You didn’t go to the house?”</p> +<p>“Oh, no. I sent the expressman to the +house and instructed him to ask for your +things. I suppose he met your father. It’s +all right.”</p> +<p>She looked at him curiously. There was a +little furrow in her forehead. “Do you always +do things—that way?” she asked.</p> +<p>He didn’t appear to understand what she +meant. He had other things on his mind. +He stood away from her, by the door. “If I +were you I’d take off that—harness,” he said. +“It makes you look like a picture—or a sacrifice. +Do you know the old Aztec legends? +It would be nicer for you to look just like a +little woman now. Put on one of the dresses +you wore when we walked together. How +does that strike you?”</p> +<p>“Well, I will.” She looked after him as if +she were a little bewildered as he turned away, +and closed the door. She heard him call +back: “I’ll see if there’s anything I can do +for Antonia. Supper will be ready when you +come down.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span></p> +<p>It seemed to her that his conduct was very +strange for a lover. He was so entirely +matter-of-fact. Yet everything about him +seemed to be made up of kindness—to radiate +comfort. She had never known any other +man like this, she reflected. And then an unfamiliar +light dawned upon her. She had had +lovers before, certainly; but she realized now, +with a deep and strange sensation, that she +had never really been loved until Harboro +came.</p> +<p>She had some difficulty in getting out of +her wedding-finery. There was a momentary +temptation to call for help. But she thought +better of this, and in the end she came down-stairs +like a girl, in a light, clinging dress of +Chinese silk, with a girdle and tassel at the +waist, and a red ribbon woven into the throat. +You might have thought she was seventeen +or eighteen. As a matter of fact, she was +only twenty-two.</p> +<p>Harboro met her and kissed her, and led +her to the table. He had a forceful manner. +He was hungry, and it seemed that his efficiency +extended to a knowledge of how a +dinner should be served. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span></p> +<p>He took his seat at the end of the table +where the roast was, and the carving implements. +At Sylvia’s place there was a percolator, +and the coffee-cups, and the sugar +and cream.</p> +<p>Antonia, wizened and dark, came and went +silently. To the people of her race a wedding +means a <i>fiesta</i>, a village hubbub, a dance, and +varying degrees of drunkenness. She was not +herself in this house of a wedding supper for +two, and a prosaic attitude toward the one +event in life when money ought to be spent +freely, even in the face of impending bankruptcy.</p> +<p>But Harboro speedily set her at ease. They +were there to eat their supper—that was all +there was to it. He wasn’t drinking toasts, +or making love. He seemed thoroughly contented; +and it didn’t occur to him, clearly, +that there was any occasion for making a +noise or simulating an excitement which he +did not feel.</p> +<p>Antonia regarded him furtively, from over +his shoulder, as she waited for Sylvia’s plate +with its portion of the roast. He was a +strange <i>hombre.</i> Well, she had known big, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span> +quiet men before. They were like rocks. It +was all very well for a woman if she stood +behind such a man for protection as long as +she remained quiet; but Heaven help her if +she ever undertook to beat him with her fists. +She would only break her hands and accomplish +nothing else whatever.</p> +<p>Sylvia was not in a mood, seemingly, to eat +very heartily; but Harboro thought he understood +that, and he made allowances. He did +not urge her, unless reassuring tones and +comfortable topics may be said to consist of +urging.</p> +<p>He regarded her with bright eyes when she +poured the coffee; and when her hands trembled +he busied himself with trifles so that he +would not seem to notice. He produced a +cigar and cut the end off with his penknife, +and lit it deliberately.</p> +<p>Only once—just before they got up from +the table—did he assume the rôle of lover. +He turned to Antonia, and with an air of +pride and contentment, asked the old woman, +in her own language:</p> +<p>“Isn’t she a beautiful child?”</p> +<p>Sylvia was startled by his manner of speaking +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span> +Spanish. Everybody along the border +spoke the language a little; but Harboro’s +wasn’t the canteen Spanish of most border +Americans. Accent and enunciation were +singularly nice and distinct. His mustache +bristled rather fiercely over one or two of +the words.</p> +<p>Antonia thought very highly of the “child,” +she admitted. She was <i>bonisima</i>, and other +superlatives.</p> +<p>And then Harboro’s manner became rather +brisk again. “Come, I want to show you +the house,” he said, addressing his wife.</p> +<p>He had taken a great deal of pride in the +planning and construction of the house. +There was a young Englishman in one of the +shops—a draftsman—who had studied architecture +in a London office, and who might +have been a successful architect but for a +downfall which had converted him, overnight, +into a remittance-man and a fairly competent +employee of the Mexican International. And +this man and Harboro had put their heads +together and considered the local needs and +difficulties, and had finally planned a house +which would withstand northers and lesser +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span> +sand-storms, and the long afternoons’ blazing +sun, to the best advantage. A little garden +had been planned, too. There was hydrant +water in the yard. And there was a balcony, +looking to the west, over the garden.</p> +<p>She preceded him up-stairs.</p> +<p>“First I want to show you your own room,” +said Harboro. “What do you call it? I +mean the room in which the lady of the house +sits and is contented.”</p> +<p>I can’t imagine what there was in this description +which gave Sylvia a hint as to his +meaning, but she said:</p> +<p>“A boudoir?”</p> +<p>And Harboro answered promptly: “That’s +it!”</p> +<p>The boudoir was at the front of the house, +up-stairs, overlooking the Quemado Road. It +made Sylvia’s eyes glisten. It contained a +piano, and a rather tiny divan in russet +leather, and maple-wood furniture, and electric +fixtures which made you think of little +mediæval lanterns. But the bride looked at +these things somewhat as if she were inspecting +a picture, painted in bold strokes: as if +they would become obscure if she went too +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span> +close—as if they couldn’t possibly be hers +to be at home among.</p> +<p>It did not appear that Harboro was beginning +to feel the absence of a spontaneous +acceptance on the part of his wife. Perhaps he +was rather full of his own pleasure just then.</p> +<p>They closed the door of the boudoir behind +them after they had completed their inspection, +and at another door Harboro paused +impressively.</p> +<p>“This,” he said, pushing the door open +wide, “is the guest-chamber.”</p> +<p>It would have been small wonder if Sylvia +had felt suddenly cold as she crossed that +threshold. Certainly she seemed a little +strange as she stood with her back to Harboro +and aimlessly took in the capacious bed +and the few other simple articles.</p> +<p>“The guest-chamber?” she echoed presently, +turning toward him.</p> +<p>“We’ll have guests occasionally—after a +while. Friends of yours from San Antonio, +perhaps, or fellows I’ve known all the way +from here to the City. We shouldn’t want +them to go to a hotel, should we? I mean, if +they were people we really cared for?” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span></p> +<p>“I hadn’t thought,” she answered.</p> +<p>She went to the window and looked out; +but the gray sands, pallid under the night sky, +did not afford a soothing picture. She turned +to Harboro almost as if she were a stranger +to him. “Have you many friends?” she +asked.</p> +<p>“Oh, no!—not enough to get in my way, +you know. I’ve never had much of a chance +for friendships—not for a good many years. +But I ought to have a better chance now. +I’ve thought you’d be able to help me in that +way.”</p> +<p>She did not linger in the room, and Harboro +got the idea that she did not like to think of +their sharing their home with outsiders. He +understood that, too. “Of course we’re going +to be by ourselves for a long time to come. +There shall not be any guests until you feel +you’d like to have them.” Then, as her eyes +still harbored a shadow, he exclaimed gaily: +“We’ll pretend that we haven’t any guest-chamber +at all!” And taking a bunch of +keys from his pocket he locked the door with +a decisive movement.</p> +<p>On the way down the hall they passed their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span> +bedroom. “This room you’ve seen,” he said, +“our room. But you have not seen the balcony +yet.”</p> +<p>He was plainly confident that the balcony +would make a pleasant impression upon her. +He opened yet another door, and they stepped +out under the night sky.</p> +<p>The thing had been planned with certain +poetic or romantic values in mind. Standing +on the balcony you were looking toward the +Rio Grande—and Mexico. And you seemed +pretty high. There was the dull silver of the +river, and the line of lights along the bridge, +and beyond the huddled, dark structures of +Piedras Negras. You might have imagined +yourself on the deck of a Mediterranean +steamer, looking at a town in Algeria or Tunis. +And beyond, under the low-hanging stars, +was the Mexican desert—a blank page, with +only here and there the obscurity of a garden, +or a <i>hacienda</i>, or a mere speck which would +be a lonely casa built of earth.</p> +<p>“Do you like it?” he asked. He had +seated himself with a sigh of contentment. +His outstretched arms lay along the back of +the settee, and he was looking at her eagerly. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span></p> +<p>Yes, she said, it was nice.... “It is +strange that he should be thinking of the +view just now,” she was saying to herself. +A painful turmoil raged within her; but outwardly +she was so calm that Harboro was +puzzled. To him, too, that view became a +negative thing for the moment. “I suspect +that house down under the mesquite-tree was +a bit shabby,” he was thinking. “She’s oppressed +by so many new things.” He gave +her time to find her bearings. That was a +thing she would do better by being left +alone.</p> +<p>And out of the chaos in Sylvia’s mind there +came the clear realization that Harboro was +not living for the moment, but that he was +looking forward, planning for a lifetime, and +not for a swift, passing storm of passion. +There was something static in his nature; +there was a stability in the house he had provided +and furnished. Her experiences with +him were not to be like a flame: sanctioned, +yet in all other respects like other experiences +she had had in the past.</p> +<p>The silence between them had become uncomfortable—inappropriate; +and Harboro put +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span> +a gentle arm about her and drew her closer +to him. “Sit down by me,” he said.</p> +<p>He was dismayed by the result of that persuasive +movement. The hand he had taken +into his trembled, and she would not yield to +the pressure of his arm. She hung her head +as if desolate memories were crowding between +him and her, and he saw that moisture +glistened in her eyes.</p> +<p>“Eh?” he inquired huskily, “you’re not +afraid of me?”</p> +<p>She allowed him to draw her closer, and he +felt the negative movement of her head as it +lay on his shoulder; but he knew that she +<i>was</i> afraid, though he did not gauge the +quality of her fear. “You mustn’t be afraid, +you know.” He continued the pressure of +his arm until she seemed to relax wholly +against him. He felt a delicious sense of +conquest over her by sympathy and gentleness. +He was eager for that moment to +pass, though he held it precious and knew +that it would never return again. Then he +felt her body tremble as it lay against his.</p> +<p>“That won’t do!” he chided gently. +“Look!” He stood her on her feet before +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span> +him, and took her arms at the elbows, pinioning +them carefully to her sides. Then he +slowly lifted her above him, so that he had +to raise his face to look into hers. The act +was performed as if it were a rite.</p> +<p>“You mean ... I am helpless?” She +checked the manifestation of grief as abruptly +as a child does when its mind has been swiftly +diverted.</p> +<p>“God bless me, no! I mean anything but +that. That’s just what I <i>don’t</i> mean. I +mean that you’re to have all the help you +want—that you’re to look to me for your +strength, that you are to put your burdens +on me.” He placed her on the seat beside +him and took one of her hands in both his. +“There, now, we’ll talk. You see, we’re one, +you and I. That isn’t just a saying of the +preachers. It’s a fact. I couldn’t harm you +without harming myself. Don’t you see that? +Nobody could harm you without harming me, +too.”</p> +<p>He did not notice that her hand stiffened +in his at those words.</p> +<p>“When we’ve been together awhile we’ll +both realize in wonderful ways what it means +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span> +really to be united. When you’ve laid your +head on my shoulder a great many times, or +against my heart, the very blood in my veins +will be the blood in your veins. I can’t explain +it. It goes beyond physiology. We’ll +belong to each other so completely that +wherever you go I shall be with you, and when +I go to work I shall have only to put my +hand on my breast to touch you. I’ll get +my strength from you, and it shall be yours +again in return. There, those are things +which will come to us little by little. But +you must never be afraid.”</p> +<p>I would rather not even try to surmise +what was in Sylvia’s mind when, following +those words of his, she swiftly took his face +in her hands with unsuspected strength and +hungrily kissed him. But Harboro read no +dark meaning into the caress. It seemed to +him the natural thing for her to do. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER IV</p> +</div> + +<p>Harboro adopted the plan, immediately +after his marriage, of walking to his work in +the morning and back to his home in the +evening. It was only a matter of a mile or +so, and if you kept out of the sun of midday, +it was a pleasant enough form of exercise. +Indeed, in the morning it was the sort of +thing a man of varied experiences might have +been expected to enjoy: the walk through +Eagle Pass, with a glimpse of the Dolch hotel +bus going to meet the early train from Spofford +Junction, and a friendly greeting from +an occasional merchant, and then the breezy +passage across the Rio Grande bridge, spanning +the meandering waters which never +bore vessels of any sort to the far-off sea, +and finally the negotiation of the narrow +street in Piedras Negras, past the plaza and +the bull-ring, and countless little wine-shops, +and the market, with its attractively displayed +fruits and vegetables from nobody +knew where. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span></p> +<p>But it is not to be denied that his practice +of making this journey to and fro afoot was +not without its prejudicial result. The people +of quality of either side of the river rarely +ever set foot on the bridge, or on those malodorous +streets of Piedras Negras which lay +near the river. Such people employed a +<i>cochero</i> and drove, quite in the European +style, when business or pleasure drew them +from their homes. There was an almost +continuous stream of <i>peones</i> on the bridge +in the mornings and evenings: silent, furtive +people, watched closely by the customs guard, +whose duties required him on occasion to examine +a suspicious-appearing Mexican with +decidedly indelicate thoroughness. And all +this did not tend to make the bridge a popular +promenade.</p> +<p>But Harboro was not squeamish, nor did +he entertain slavish thoughts of how people +would feel over a disregarded custom. He +liked simplicity, and moreover he felt the +need of exercise now that his work kept him +inactive most of the time. He was at an +age when men take on flesh easily.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, people weren’t favorably impressed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span> +when they looked down from their +old-fashioned equipages on their ride between +the two republics, and caught a glimpse of +the chief clerk marching along the bridge +railing—often, as likely as not, in company +with some chance laborer or wanderer, whose +garb clearly indicated his lowly estate.</p> +<p>And when, finally, Harboro persuaded Sylvia +to accompany him on one of these walks of +his, the limits of his eccentricity were thought +to have been reached. Indeed, not a few +people, who might have been induced to +forget that his marriage had been a scandalous +one, were inclined for the first time to +condemn him utterly when he required the +two towns to contemplate him in company +with the woman he had married, both of +them running counter to all the conventions.</p> +<p>The reason for this trip of Harboro’s and +Sylvia’s was that Harboro wanted Sylvia to +have a new dress for a special occasion.</p> +<p>It happened that two or three weeks after +his marriage Harboro came upon an interesting +bit of intelligence in the Eagle Pass +<i>Guide</i>, the town’s weekly newspaper. It was +a Saturday afternoon (the day of the paper’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span> +publication), and Harboro had gone up to +the balcony overlooking the garden. He had +carried the newspaper with him. He did +not expect to find anything in the chronicles +of local happenings, past or prospective, that +would interest him. But there was always +a department of railroad news—consisting +mainly of personal items—which had for him +the quality of a letter from home.</p> +<p>Sylvia was down-stairs at work in the +dining-room, directing the efforts of old Antonia. +Perhaps I should say that she was +extraordinarily happy. I doubt very much +if she had come to contemplate the married +state through Harboro’s eyes; but she seemed +to have feared that an avalanche would fall—and +none had fallen. Harboro had manifested +an unswerving gentleness toward her, +and she had begun to “let down,” as swimmers +say, with confidence in her ability to +find bottom and attain the shore.</p> +<p>When at length she went up to the balcony +to tell Harboro that supper was ready, she +stood arrested by the pleasantly purposeful +expression in his eyes. She had learned, +rather creditably, to anticipate him. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span></p> +<p>“You are to have a new dress,” he announced.</p> +<p>“Yes.... Why?”</p> +<p>“I see here”—he tapped the paper on his +knee—“that they’re getting ready for their +first dance of the winter at the Mesquite +Club.”</p> +<p>She forgot herself. “But <i>we’re</i> not invited!” +she said, frankly incredulous.</p> +<p>“Why no, not yet. But we shall be. Why +shouldn’t we be?”</p> +<p>Her hand went to her heart in the old wistful +way. “I don’t know ... I just thought +we shouldn’t be. Those affairs are for ... +I’ve never thought they would invite me to +one of their dances.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense! They’ve invited me. Now +they’ll invite <i>us</i>. I suppose the best milliners +are across the river, aren’t they?”</p> +<p>She seemed unwilling to meet his eyes. “I +believe some women get their dresses made +over there, and wear them back to this side—so +they needn’t pay any duty. That is, if +they’re to be handsome dresses.”</p> +<p>“Well, this is going to be a handsome dress.”</p> +<p>She seemed pleased, undeniably; yet she +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span> +changed the subject with evident relief. “Antonia +will be cross if we don’t go right down. +And you must remember to praise the <i>enchalades</i>. +She’s tried with them ever so +hard.” This wasn’t an affectation on Sylvia’s +part. She was a good-hearted girl.</p> +<p>“It’s to be a handsome dress,” repeated +Harboro an hour later, when they had returned +to the balcony. It was dusk now, +and little tapers of light were beginning to +burn here and there in the desert: small, +open fires where Mexican women were cooking +their suppers of dried goat’s meat and +<i>frijoles</i>.</p> +<p>Said Sylvia: “If only.... Does it matter +so much to you that they should invite us?”</p> +<p>“It matters to me on your account. Such +things are yours by right. You wouldn’t be +happy always with me alone. We must think +of the future.”</p> +<p>Sylvia took his hand and stroked it thoughtfully. +There <i>were</i> moments when she hungered +for a bit of the comedy of life: laughter +and other youthful noises. The Mexican +<i>bailes</i> and their humble feasts were delightful; +and the song of the violins, and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span> +odor of smoke, and the innocent rivalries, +and the night air. But the Mesquite +Club....</p> +<p>“If only we could go on the way we are,” +she said finally, with a sigh of contentment—and +regret. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER V</p> +</div> + +<p>Harboro insisted upon her going across +the river with him the next day, a Sunday. +It was now late in October, but you wouldn’t +have realized it unless you had looked at the +calendar. The sun was warm—rather too +warm. The air was extraordinarily clear. +It was an election year and the town had been +somewhat disorderly the night before. Harboro +and Sylvia had heard the noises from +their balcony: singing, first, and then shouting. +And later drunken Mexicans had ridden +past the house and on out the Quemado Road. +A Mexican who is the embodiment of taciturnity +when afoot, will become a howling +organism when he is mounted.</p> +<p>Harboro had telephoned to see if an appointment +could be made—to a madame somebody +whose professional card he had found +in the <i>Guide</i>. And he had been assured that +monsieur would be very welcome on a Sunday.</p> +<p>Sylvia was glad that it was not on a weekday, +and that it was in the forenoon, when +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span> +she would be required to make her first public +appearance with her husband. The town +would be practically deserted, save by a few +better-class young men who might be idling +about the drug-store. They wouldn’t know +her, and if they did, they would behave circumspectly. +Strangely enough, it was Sylvia’s +conviction that men are nearly all good +creatures.</p> +<p>As it fell out it was Harboro and not Sylvia +who was destined to be humiliated that day—a +fact which may not seem strange to the +discerning.</p> +<p>They had got as far as the middle of the +Rio Grande bridge without experiencing anything +which marred the general effect of a +stage set for a Passion Play—but with the +actors missing; and then they saw a carriage +approaching from the Mexican side.</p> +<p>Harboro knew the horses. They were the +General Manager’s. And presently he recognized +the coachman. The horses were moving +at a walk, very slowly; but at length +Harboro recognized the General Manager’s +wife, reclining under a white silk sunshade and +listening to the vivacious chatter of a young +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span> +woman by her side. They would be coming +over to attend the services in the Episcopal +church in Eagle Pass, Harboro realized. +Then he recognized the young woman, too. +He had met her at one of the affairs to which +he had been invited. He recalled her as a +girl whose voice was too high-pitched for a +reposeful effect, and who created the impression +that she looked upon the social life of +the border as a rather amusing adventure.</p> +<p>You might have supposed that they considered +themselves the sole occupants of the +world as they advanced, perched on their +high seat; and this, Harboro realized, was +the true fashionable air. It was an instinct +rather than a pose, he believed, and he was +pondering that problem in psychology which +has to do with the fact that when people ride +or drive they appear to have a different mental +organism from those who walk.</p> +<p>Then something happened. The carriage +was now almost at hand, and Harboro saw +the coachman turn his head slightly, as if to +hear better. Then he leaned forward and +rattled the whip in its place, and the horses +set off at a sharp trot. There was a rule +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span> +against trotting on the bridge, but there are +people everywhere who are not required to +observe rules.</p> +<p>Harboro paused, ready to lift his hat. He +liked the General Manager’s wife. But the +occupants of the carriage passed without seeing +him. And Harboro got the impression +that there was something determined in the +casual air with which the two women looked +straight before them. He got an odd feeling +that the most finely tempered steel of all lies +underneath the delicate golden filigree of social +custom and laws.</p> +<p>He was rather pleased at a conclusion which +came to him: people of that kind really <i>did</i> +see, then. They only pretended not to see. +And then he felt the blood pumping through +the veins in his neck.</p> +<p>“What is it?” asked Sylvia, with that +directness which Harboro comprehended and +respected.</p> +<p>“Why, those ladies ... they didn’t seem +quite the type you’d expect to see here, did +they?”</p> +<p>“Oh, there’s every type here,” she replied +lightly. She turned her eyes away from Harboro. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span> +There was something in his face which +troubled her. She could not bear to see him +with that expression of wounded sensibilities +and rebellious pride in his eyes. And she had +understood everything.</p> +<p>She did not break in upon his thoughts +soon. She would have liked to divert his +mind, but she felt like a culprit who realizes +that words are often betrayers.</p> +<p>And so they walked in silence up that narrow +bit of street which connects the bridge +with Piedras Negras, and leads you under +the balcony of what used to be the American +Consul’s house, and on past the <i>cuartel</i>, where +the imprisoned soldiers are kept. Here, of +course, the street broadens and skirts the +plaza where the band plays of an evening, +and where the town promenades round and +round the little square of palms and fountains, +under the stars. You may remember that a +little farther on, on one side of the plaza, +there is the immense church which has been +building for a century, more or less, and +which is still incomplete.</p> +<p>There were a few miserable-looking soldiers, +with shapeless, colorless uniforms, loitering +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span> +in front of the <i>cuartel</i> as Harboro and Sylvia +passed.</p> +<p>The indefinably sinister character of the +building affected Sylvia. “What is it?” she +asked.</p> +<p>“It’s where the republic keeps a body of +its soldiers,” explained Harboro. “They’re +inside—locked up.”</p> +<p>They were both glad to sit down on one of +the plaza benches for a few minutes; they did +so by a common impulse, without speaking.</p> +<p>“It’s the first time I ever thought of prisoners +having what you’d call an honorable +profession,” Sylvia said slowly. She gazed +at the immense, low structure with troubled +eyes. Flags fluttered from the ramparts at +intervals, but they seemed oddly lacking in +gallantry or vitality.</p> +<p>“It’s a barbarous custom,” said Harboro +shortly. He was still thinking of that incident +on the bridge.</p> +<p>“And yet ... you might think of them as +happy, living that way.”</p> +<p>“Good gracious! Happy?”</p> +<p>“They needn’t care about how they are to +be provided for—and they have their duties.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span></p> +<p>“But they’re <i>prisoners</i>, Sylvia!”</p> +<p>“Yes, prisoners.... Aren’t we all prisoners, +somehow? I’ve sometimes thought +that none of us can do just what we’d like +to do, or come or go freely. We think we’re +free, as oxen in a treadmill think of themselves +as being free, I suppose. We think we’re +climbing a long hill, and that we’ll get to the +top after a while. But at sundown the gate +is opened and the oxen are released. They’ve +never really gotten anywhere.”</p> +<p>He turned to her with the stanch optimism +she had grown accustomed to in him. “A +pagan doctrine, that,” he said spiritedly.</p> +<p>“A pagan doctrine.... I wonder what +that means.”</p> +<p>“Pagans are people who don’t believe in +God. I am not speaking of the God of the +churches, exactly. I mean a good influence.”</p> +<p>“Don’t they believe in their own gods?”</p> +<p>“No doubt. But you might call their own +gods bad influences, as often as not.”</p> +<p>“Ah—perhaps they’re just simple folk who +believe in their own experiences.”</p> +<p>He had the troubled feeling that her intuitions, +her fatalistic leanings, were giving her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span> +a surer grasp of the subject than his, which +was based upon a rather nebulous, logical +process that often brought him to confusion.</p> +<p>“I only know that I am free,” he declared +doggedly.</p> +<p>The sun had warmed her to an almost +vagrant mood. Her smile was delicate +enough, yet her eyes held a gentle taunt as +she responded: “Not a bit of it; you have a +wife.”</p> +<p>“A wife—yes; and that gives me ten times +the freedom I ever had before. A man is +like a bird with only one wing—before he +finds a wife. His wife becomes his other +wing. There isn’t any height beyond him, +when he has a wife.”</p> +<p>She placed her hands on her cheeks. “Two +wings!” she mused.... “What’s between +the wings?”</p> +<p>“A heart, you may say, if you will. Or a +soul. A capacity. Words are fashioned by +scholars—dull fellows. But you know what +I mean.”</p> +<p>From the hidden depths of the <i>cuartel</i> a +silver bugle-note sounded, and Sylvia looked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span> +to see if the soldiers sitting out in front would +go away; but they did not do so. She arose. +“Would you mind going into the church a +minute?” she asked.</p> +<p>“No; but why?”</p> +<p>“Oh, anybody can go into those churches,” +she responded.</p> +<p>“Anybody can go into <i>any</i> church.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I suppose so. What I mean is that +these old Catholic churches seem different. +In our own churches you have a feeling of +being—what do you say?—personally conducted. +As if you were a visitor being shown +children’s trinkets. There is something impersonal—something boundless—in churches +like this one here. The silence makes you +think that there is nobody in them—or that +perhaps ... God isn’t far away.”</p> +<p>He frowned. “But this is just where the +trinkets are—in these churches: the images, +the painted figures, the robes, the whole mysterious +paraphernalia.”</p> +<p>“Yes ... but when there isn’t anything +going on. You feel an influence. I remember +going into a church in San Antonio once—a Protestant chapel, and the only thing I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span> +could recall afterward was a Yankee clock +that ticked too fast and too loud. I never +heard of anything so horribly inappropriate. +Time was what you thought of. Not eternity. +You felt that the people would be afraid of +wasting a minute too much—as if their real +concerns were elsewhere.”</p> +<p>Harboro was instinctively combating the +thought that was in her mind, so far as there +was a definite thought, and as far as he understood +it. “But why shouldn’t there be a +clock?” he asked. “If people feel that they +ought to give a certain length of time to worship, +and then go back to their work again, +why shouldn’t they have a clock?”</p> +<p>“I suppose it’s all right,” she conceded; +and then, with a faint smile: “Yes, if it +didn’t tick too loud.”</p> +<p>She lowered her voice abruptly on the last +word. They had passed across the doorless +portal and were in the presence of a group of +silent, kneeling figures: wretched women +whose heads were covered with black cotton +<i>rebozos</i>, who knelt and faced the distant altar. +They weren’t in rows. They had settled +down just anywhere. And there were men: +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span> +swarthy, ill-shapen, dejected. Their lips +moved noiselessly.</p> +<p>Harboro observed her a little uneasily. +Her sympathy for this sort of thing was new +to him. But she made none of the customary +signs of fellowship, and after a brief interval +she turned and led the way back into +the sunshine.</p> +<p>He was still regarding her strangely when +she paused, just outside the door, and opened +a little hand-bag which depended from her +arm. She was quite intently devoted to a +search for something. Presently she produced +a coin, and then Harboro observed for +the first time that the tortured figure of a +beggar sat in the sun outside the church door.</p> +<p>Sylvia leaned over with an impassive face +and dropped the coin into the beggar’s cup.</p> +<p>She chanced to glance at Harboro’s face +an instant later, and she was dismayed a +little by its expression: that of an almost +violent distaste. What did it mean? Was +it because she had given a coin to the beggar? +There could have been no other reason. But +why should he look as if her action had contaminated +her in some fashion—as if there +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span> +had been communication between her and +the unfortunate <i>anciano</i>? As if there had +been actual contact?</p> +<p>“You wouldn’t have done that?” she said.</p> +<p>“No, I shouldn’t have done it,” he replied.</p> +<p>“I can’t think why. The wretched creature—I +should have felt troubled if I’d ignored +him.”</p> +<p>“But it’s a profession. It’s as much a part +of the national customs as dancing and drinking.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I know. A profession ... but isn’t +that all the more reason why we should give +him a little help?”</p> +<p>“A reason why you should permit yourself +to be imposed upon?”</p> +<p>“I can’t help thinking further than that. +After all, it’s he and his kind that must have +been imposed upon in the beginning. It’s +being a profession makes me believe that all +the people who might have helped him, who +might have given him a chance to be happy +and respectable, really conspired against him +in some way. You have to believe that it’s +the rule that some must be comfortable and +some wretched.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span></p> +<p>“A beggar is a beggar,” said Harboro. +“And he was filthy.”</p> +<p>“But don’t you suppose he’d rather be the +proprietor of a wine-shop, or something of +that sort, if he had had any choice?”</p> +<p>“Well.... It’s not a simple matter, of +course. I’m glad you did what you felt you +ought to do.” It occurred to Harboro that +he was setting up too much opposition to her +whims—whims which seemed rooted in her +principles as well as her impulses. It was as +if their minds were of different shapes: hers +circular, his square; so that there could be +only one point of contact between them—that +one point being their love for each other. +There would be a fuller conformity after +a while, he was sure. He must try to understand +her, to get at her odd point of view. +She might be right occasionally, when they +were in disagreement.</p> +<p>He touched her lightly on the shoulder. +“I’m afraid we ought to be getting on to the +madame’s,” he said. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER VI</p> +</div> + +<p>Harboro would have made you think of +a bear in a toy-shop when he sat down in +the tiny front room of Madame Boucher’s +millinery establishment. He was uncomfortably, +if vaguely, conscious of the presence +of many hats, displayed on affairs which were +like unfinished music-racks.</p> +<p>He had given Madame Boucher certain +instructions—or perhaps liberties would be a +better word. Mrs. Harboro was to be shown +only the best fabrics, he told her; and no +pains were to be spared to make a dress which +would be a credit to madame’s establishment. +Madame had considered this, and him, and +had smiled. Madame’s smile had impressed +him curiously. There had been no co-operation +between lips and eyes. The eyes had +opened a little wider, as if with a stimulated +rapaciousness. The lips had opened to the +extent of a nicely achieved, symmetrical crescent +of teeth. It made Harboro think of a +carefully constructed Jack-o’-Lantern. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span></p> +<p>Sylvia had asked him if he wouldn’t help +in making a choice, but he had looked slightly +alarmed, and had resolutely taken a seat +which afforded a view of the big <i>Casa Blanca</i> +across the way: an emporium conducted on +a big scale by Germans. He even became +oblivious to the discussion on the other side +of the partition, where Sylvia and madame +presently entered upon the preliminaries of +the business in hand.</p> +<p>The street was quite familiar to him. +There had been a year or so, long ago, when +he had “made” Piedras Negras, as railroaders +say, twice a week. He hadn’t liked the +town very well. He saw its vice rather than +its romance. He had attended one bullfight, +and had left his seat in disgust when +he saw a lot of men and women of seeming +gentility applauding a silly fellow whose sole +stock in trade was an unblushing vanity.</p> +<p>His imagination travelled on beyond the +bull-pen, to the shabby dance-halls along the +river. It was a custom for Americans to +visit the dance-halls at least once. He had +gone into them repeatedly. Other railroaders +who were his associates enjoyed going into +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span> +these places, and Harboro, rather than be +alone in the town, had followed disinterestedly +in their wake, and had looked on with cold, +contemplative eyes at the disorderly picture +they presented: unfortunate Mexican girls +dancing with cowboys and railroaders and +soldiers and nondescripts. Three Mexicans, +with harp, violin, and ’cello had supplied +the music: the everlasting national airs. It +seemed to Harboro that the whole republic +spent half its time within hearing of <i>Sobre +las Olas</i>, and <i>La Paloma</i>, and <i>La Golondrina</i>. +He had heard so much of the emotional noises +vibrating across the land that when he got +away from the throb of his engine, into some +silent place, it seemed to him that his ears +reverberated with flutes and strings, rather +than the song of steam, which he understood +and respected. He had got the impression +that music smelled bad—like stale wine and +burning corn-husks and scented tobacco and +easily perishable fruits.</p> +<p>He remembered the only woman who had +ever made an impression upon him down in +those dance-halls: an overmature creature, unusually +fair for a Mexican, who spoke a little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span> +English, manipulating her lips quaintly, like +a child. He recalled her favorite expression: +“My class is very fine!” She had told him +this repeatedly, enunciating the words with +delicacy. She had once said to him, commiseratingly: +“You work very hard?” And +when he had confessed that his duties were +onerous, she had brightened. “Much work, +much money,” she had said, with the avidity +of a boy who has caught a rabbit in a trap. +And Harboro had wondered where she had +got such a monstrously erroneous conception +of the law of industrialism.</p> +<p>The picture of the whirling figures came +back to him: the vapor of dust in the room, +the loud voices of men at the bar, trying to +be heard above the din of the music and the +dancing. There came back to him the memory +of a drunken cowboy, nudging the violinist’s +elbow as he played, and shouting: +“Give us <i>Dixie</i>—give us a white man’s tune”—and +the look of veiled hatred in the slumbrous +eyes of the Mexican musician, who +had inferred the insult without comprehending +the words.</p> +<p>He recalled other pictures of those nights: +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span> +the Indian girls who might be expected to +yell in the midst of a dance if they had succeeded +in attracting the attention of a man +who usually danced with some one else. And +there were other girls with a Spanish strain +in them—girls with a drop of blood that +might have been traced back a hundred years +to Madrid or Seville or Barcelona. Small +wonder if such girls felt like shrieking too, +sometimes. Not over petty victories, and +with joy; but when their hearts broke because +the bells of memory called to them from +away in the barred windows of Spain, or in +walled gardens, or with the shepherd lovers +of Andalusia.</p> +<p>If you danced with one of them you paid +thirty cents at the bar and got a drink, while +the girl was given a check good for fifteen +cents in the trade of the place. The girls +used to cash in their checks at the end of a +night’s work at fifty cents a dozen. It wasn’t +quite fair; but then the proprietor was a +business man.</p> +<p>“My class is very fine!” The words came +back to Harboro’s mind. Good God!—what +had become of her? There had been a railroad +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span> +man, a fellow named Peterson, who was +just gross enough to fancy her—a good chap, +too, in his way. Courageous, energetic, loyal—at +least to other men. He had occasionally +thought that Peterson meant to take the +poor, pretentious creature away from the +dance-halls and establish her somewhere. He +had not seen Peterson for years now.</p> +<p>... Sylvia emerged from behind the thin +partition, sighing and smiling. “Did it seem +very long?” she asked. “It’s hard to make +up your mind. It’s like taking one color out +of the rainbow and expecting it to look as +pretty as the whole rainbow. But I’m ready +now.”</p> +<p>“Remember, a week from Wednesday,” +called Madame Boucher, as Harboro and Sylvia +moved toward the door.</p> +<p>Harboro looked at Sylvia inquiringly.</p> +<p>“For the try-on,” she explained. “Yes, +I’ll be here.” She went out, Harboro holding +the door open for her.</p> +<p>Out on the sidewalk she almost collided +with a heavy man, an American—a gross, +blond, good-natured creature who suddenly +smiled with extreme gratification. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span> +“Hello!—<i>Sylvia!</i>” he cried. He seized her by the hand +and drew her close.</p> +<p>Harboro stood on the door-step and looked +down—and recognized Peterson. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span></p> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='II_THE_TIME_OF_FLAME' id='II_THE_TIME_OF_FLAME'></a> +<h2><i>PART II</i></h2> +<h3>THE TIME OF FLAME</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span></div> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER VII</p> +</div> + +<p>Peterson felt the dark shadow of Harboro +immediately. He looked up into the gravely +inquiring face above him, and then he gave +voice to a new delight. “Hello!—<span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Harboro</span>!” +He dropped Sylvia’s hand as if she no longer +existed. An almost indefinable change of expression +occurred in his ruddy, radiant face. +It was as if his joy at seeing Sylvia had been +that which we experience in the face of a +beautiful illusion; and now, seeing Harboro, +it was as if he stood in the presence of a +cherished reality. He grasped Harboro’s +hand and dragged him down from the step. +“Old Harboro!” he exclaimed.</p> +<p>“You two appear to have met before,” +remarked Harboro, looking with quiet inquiry +from Sylvia to Peterson, and back to +Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Yes, in San Antonio,” she explained. It +had been in Eagle Pass, really, but she did not +want Harboro to know.</p> +<p>The smile on Peterson’s face had become +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span> +curiously fixed. “Yes, in San Antonio,” he +echoed.</p> +<p>“He knew my father,” added Sylvia.</p> +<p>“A particular friend,” said Peterson. And +then, the lines of mirth on his face becoming +a little less rigid and the color a little less +ruddy, he added to Sylvia: “Doesn’t your +father occasionally talk about his old friend +<i>Peterson?</i>”</p> +<p>Harboro interrupted. “At any rate, you +probably don’t know that she is Mrs. Harboro +now.”</p> +<p>Peterson appeared to be living entirely +within himself for the moment. He might +have made you think of the Trojan Horse—innocuous +without, but teeming with belligerent +activity within. He seemed to be +laughing maliciously, though without movement +or noise. Then he was all frank joyousness +again. “Good!” he exclaimed. He +smote Harboro on the shoulder. “Good!” +He stood apart, vigorously erect, childishly +pleased. “Enjoying a holiday?” he asked.</p> +<p>And when Harboro nodded he became animated +again. “You’re both going to take +dinner with me—over at the <i>Internacional</i>. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span> +We’ll celebrate. I’ve got to take my train +out in an hour—I’ve got a train now, Harboro.” +(Harboro had noted his conductor’s +uniform.) “We’ll just have time. We can +have a talk.”</p> +<p>Harboro recalled a score of fellows he had +known up and down the line, with most of +whom he had gotten out of touch. Peterson +would know about some of them. He realized +how far he had been removed from the spontaneous +joys of the railroad career since he +had been in the office. And Peterson had +always been a friendly chap, with lots of good +points.</p> +<p>“Should you like it, Sylvia?” he asked.</p> +<p>She had liked Peterson, too. He had always +been good-natured and generous. He +had seemed often almost to understand.... +“I think it would be nice,” she replied. She +was afraid there was a note of guilt in her +voice. She wished Harboro had refused to +go, without referring the matter to her.</p> +<p>“I could telephone to Antonia,” he said +slowly. It seemed impossible to quicken his +pulses in any way. “She needn’t get anything +ready.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span></p> +<p>“I could do it,” suggested Sylvia. She felt +she’d rather not be left alone with Peterson. +“I could use Madame Boucher’s telephone.”</p> +<p>But Harboro had already laid his hand on +the door. “Better let me,” he said. “I +can do it quicker.” He knew that Antonia +would want to remonstrate, to ask questions, +and he wanted Sylvia to enjoy the occasion +whole-heartedly. He went back into the +milliner’s shop.</p> +<p>“<i>Peterson</i>,” said the man who remained +on the sidewalk with Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I remember,” she replied, her lips scarcely +moving, her eyes avoiding his burning glance. +“And ... in San Antonio.”</p> +<p>They were rather early for the midday +meal when they reached the <i>Internacional</i>; +indeed, they were the first to enter the dining-room. +Nevertheless the attitudes of the +Mexican waiters were sufficient assurance that +they might expect to be served immediately.</p> +<p>Peterson looked at his watch and compared +it with the clock in the dining-room. “The +train from Spofford is late,” he said. “It’s +due now.” He pitched his head up like a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span> +dog. “There she is!” he exclaimed. There +was the rumble of a train crossing the bridge. +“They’ll be coming in right away.” He indicated +the empty tables by a glance.</p> +<p>Harboro knew all about the train schedules +and such matters. He knew that American +tourists bound for Mexico would be coming +over on that train, and that they would have +an hour for dinner while their baggage was +passing through the hands of the customs +officials.</p> +<p>They had given their orders and were still +waiting when the train pulled in at the station, +close at hand, and in a moment the +dining-room became noisy.</p> +<p>“Travel seems pretty light,” commented +Peterson. He appeared to be trying to make +conversation; he was obviously under some +sort of constraint. Still, he had the genuine +interest of the railroader in the subjects he +mentioned.</p> +<p>Harboro had not observed that there was +not even one woman among the travellers +who entered; but Peterson noted the fact, +mentioning it in the tone of one who has +been deprived of a natural right. And Harboro +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span> +wondered what was the matter with a +man who saw the whole world, always, solely +in relation to women. He sensed the fact +that Peterson was not entirely comfortable. +“He’s probably never grown accustomed to +being in the company of a decent woman,” +he concluded. He tried to launch the subject +of old associates. It seemed that Peterson +had been out in Durango for some time, +but he had kept in touch with most of the +fellows on the line to the City. He began to +talk easily, and Harboro was enjoying the +meeting even before the waiter came back +with their food.</p> +<p>Sylvia was ill at ease. She was glad that +Harboro and Peterson had found something +to talk about. She began to eat the amber-colored +grapes the waiter had placed before +her. She seemed absent-minded, absorbed in +her own thoughts. And then she forgot self +in the contemplation of a man and a child +who had come in and taken a table at the +other end of the dining-room. The man wore +a band of crape around his arm. The child, +a little girl of five or six, had plainly sobbed +herself into a condition verging upon stupor. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span> +She was not eating the dinner which had +been brought to her, though she occasionally +glanced with miserable eyes at one dish or +another. She seemed unable to help herself, +and at intervals a dry sob shook her tiny +body.</p> +<p>Sylvia forgot the grapes beside her plate; +she was looking with womanly pity at that +little girl, and at the man, who seemed sunk +into the depths of despair.</p> +<p>Peterson followed her compassionate glance. +“Ah,” he explained, “it’s a chap who came +up from Paila a little while back. He had +his wife with him. She was dying, and she +wanted to be buried in Texas. I believe he’s +in some sort of business down in Paila.”</p> +<p>The spirit of compassion surrounded Sylvia +like a halo. She had just noted that the +little girl was making a stupendous effort to +conquer her sobs, to “be good,” as children +say. With a heroic resolve which would have +been creditable to a Joan of Arc, the little +thing suddenly began to try to eat from one +of the dishes, but her hands trembled so that +she was quite helpless. Her efforts seemed +about to suffer a final collapse. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span></p> +<p>And then Sylvia pushed her chair back and +arose. There was a tremulous smile on her +lips as she crossed the room. She paused by +that man with crape on his sleeve. “I wonder +if you won’t let me help,” she said. Her +voice would have made you think of rue, or +of April rain. She knelt beside the child’s +chair and possessed herself of a tiny hand +with a persuasive gentleness that would have +worked miracles. Her face was uplifted, soft, +beaming, bright. She was scarcely prepared +for the passionate outburst of the child, who +suddenly flung forth eager hands with a cry +of surrender. Sylvia held the convulsed body +against her breast, tucking the distorted face +up under her chin. “There!” she soothed, +“there!” She carried her charge out of the +room without wasting words. She had observed +that when the child came to her the +man had seemed on the point of surrender, +too. With an effort he had kept himself inert, +with a wan face. He had the dubious, <i>sounding</i> +expression of one who stands at a door +with his back to the light and looks out into +the dark.</p> +<p>Before she had brought the child back, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span> +washed and comforted, to help her with her +food, Peterson had forgotten the interruption +entirely. Taking advantage of Sylvia’s absence +(as if she had been an interfering factor +in the meeting, but scarcely a third person), +he turned keen eyes upon Harboro. “Old +Harboro!” he said affectionately and musingly. +Then he seemed to be swelling up, +as if he were a mobile vessel filled with water +that had begun to boil. He became as red +as a victim of apoplexy. His eyes filled with +an unholy mirth, his teeth glistened. His +voice was a mere wheeze, issuing from a +cataclysm of agonized mirth.</p> +<p>“<i>And so you’ve come to it at last!</i>” he managed +to articulate.</p> +<p>“Come to what?” inquired Harboro. His +level glance was disconcerting.</p> +<p>Peterson was on the defensive immediately. +“You used not to care for women—or you +claimed you didn’t.”</p> +<p>“Oh! I didn’t understand. I used not to +care for—a certain class of women. I don’t +yet.”</p> +<p>The threatened boiling-over process was +abruptly checked, as if a lid had been lifted. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span> +“Oh!” said Peterson weakly. He gazed at +a fragment of roast beef on his plate. It +might have been some sort of strange insect. +He frowned at it. And then his eyes +blazed steadily and brightly. He did not +look at Harboro again for a long time.</p> +<p>Sylvia came back, moving a little shyly, +and pushing a strand of hair back into its +place. She looked across the dining-room to +where the child was talking with old-fashioned +sedateness to her father. She had forgotten +her tragedy—for the moment. The man appeared +to have forgotten, too.</p> +<p>But Peterson’s dinner turned out to be a +failure, after all. Conversation became desultory, +listless.</p> +<p>They arose from their places at last and +left the room. On the street they stood for +a moment, but nothing was said about another +meeting. Harboro thought of inviting +Peterson over to the house; but he fancied +Sylvia wouldn’t like it; and besides, the +man’s grossness was there, more patent than +ever, and it stood between them.</p> +<p>“Well, good-by,” said Peterson. He shook +hands with Harboro and with Sylvia. But +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span> +while he shook hands with Sylvia he was +looking at Harboro. All that was substantial +in the man’s nature was educed by men, +not by women; and he was fond of Harboro. +To him Sylvia was an incident, while Harboro +was an episode. Harboro typified work and +planning and the rebuffs of the day. Sylvia +meant to him only a passing pleasure and the +relaxation of the night or of a holiday.</p> +<p>As he went away he seemed eager to get +around a corner somewhere. He seemed to +be swelling up again. You might have supposed +he was about to explode. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER VIII</p> +</div> + +<p>Sylvia’s dress made its appearance in due +course in the house on the Quemado Road.</p> +<p>Sylvia could not understand why Harboro +should have arranged to have it delivered according +to routine, paying the duty on it. It +seemed to her a waste of money, a willingness +to be a victim of extortion. Why should the +fact that the river was there make any difference? +It was some scheme of the merchants +of Eagle Pass, probably, the purpose of which +was to compel you to buy from them, and +pay higher prices, and take what you didn’t +want.</p> +<p>The dress was a wonderful affair: a triumph +of artful simplicity. It was white, +with a suggestion of warmth: an effect produced +by a second fabric underlying the visible +silk. It made Sylvia look like a gentle +queen of marionettes. A set of jewelry of +silver filigree had been bought to go with it: +circles of butterflies of infinite delicacy for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span> +bracelets, and a necklace. You would have +said there was only wanting a star to bind in +her hair and a wand for her to carry.</p> +<p>But the Mesquite Club ball came and +went, and the Harboros were not invited.</p> +<p>Harboro was stunned. The ball was on a +Friday night: and on Saturday he went up +to the balcony of his house with a copy of +the <i>Guide</i> clutched in his hand. He did not +turn to the railroad news. He was interested +only in the full-column, first-page account of +the ball at the Mesquite Club. There was +the customary amount of fine writing, including +a patent straining for new adjectives to +apply to familiar decorations. And then +there was a list of the names of the guests. +Possibly Piedras Negras hadn’t been included—and +possibly he was still regarded as belonging +to the railroad offices, and the people +across the river.</p> +<p>But no, there were the names: heads of +departments and the usual presentable clerks—young +Englishmen with an air. The General +Manager, as Harboro knew, was on a +trip to Torreon; but otherwise the list of +names was sufficient evidence that this first +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span> +ball of the season had been a particularly +ambitious affair.</p> +<p>Sylvia was standing alone in the dining-room +while Harboro frowned darkly over the +list of names before him. The physical Sylvia +was in the dining-room; but her mind +was up on the balcony with Harboro. She +was watching him as he scowled at the first +page of the <i>Guide</i>. But if chagrin was the +essence of the thing that bothered Harboro, +something far deeper caused Sylvia to stand +like a slim, slumbering tree. She was frightened. +Harboro would begin to ask why? +And he was a man. He would guess the +reason. He would begin to realize that mere +obscurity on the part of his wife was not +enough to explain the fact that the town +refused to recognize her existence. And +then...?</p> +<p>Antonia spoke to her once and again without +being heard. Would the señora have the +roast put on the table now, or would she wait +until the señor came down-stairs? She decided +for herself, bringing in the roast with an +entirely erroneous belief that she was moving +briskly. An ancient Mexican woman +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span> +knows very well what the early months of +marriage are. There is a flame, and then +there are ashes. Then the ashes must be +removed by mutual effort and embers are +discovered. Then life is good and may run +along without any annoyances.</p> +<p>When the señor went up-stairs with scarcely +a word to the señora, Antonia looked within, +seeming to notice nothing. But to herself +she was saying: “The time of ashes.” The +bustle of the domestic life was good at such +a time. She brought in the roast.</p> +<p>Harboro, with the keen senses of a healthy +man who is hungry, knew that the roast had +been placed on the table, but he did not stir. +The <i>Guide</i> had slipped from his knee to the +floor, and he was looking away to the darkening +tide of the Rio Grande. He had looked +at his problem from every angle, and now he +was coming to a conclusion which did him +credit.</p> +<p>... They had not been invited to the +ball. Well, what had he done that people +who formerly had gone out of their way to +be kind to him should ignore him? (It did +not occur to him for an instant that the cause +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span> +lay with Sylvia.) He was not a conceited +man, but ... an eligible bachelor must, certainly, +be regarded more interestedly than a +man with a wife, particularly in a community +where the young women were blooming and +eligible men were scarce. They had drawn +him into their circle because they had regarded +him as a desirable husband for one +of their young women. He remembered now +how the processes of the social mill had +brought him up before this young woman and +that until he had met them all: how, often, +he had found himself having a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with +some kindly disposed girl whom he never +would have thought of singling out for special +attention. He hadn’t played their game. +He might have remained a bachelor and all +would have been well. There would always +have been the chance of something happening. +But he had found a wife outside their circle. +He had, in effect, snubbed them before they +had snubbed him. He remembered now how +entirely absorbed he had been in his affair +with Sylvia, and how the entire community +had become a mere indistinct background +during those days when he walked with her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span> +and planned their future. There wasn’t any +occasion for him to feel offended. He had ignored +the town—and the town had paid him +back in his own coin.</p> +<p>He had conquered his black mood entirely +when Sylvia came up to him. She regarded +him a moment timidly, and then she put her +hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her +with the alert kindliness which she had learned +to prize.</p> +<p>“I’m afraid you’re fearfully disappointed,” +she said.</p> +<p>“I was. But I’m not now.” He told her +what his theory was, putting it into a few +detached words. But she understood and +brightened immediately.</p> +<p>“Do you suppose that’s it?” she asked.</p> +<p>“What else could it be?” He arose. +“Isn’t Antonia ready?”</p> +<p>“I think so. And there are so many ways +for us to be happy without going to their silly +affairs. Imagine getting any pleasure out of +sitting around watching a girl trying to get +a man! That’s all they amount to, those +things. We’ll get horses and ride. It’s ever +so much more sensible.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span></p> +<p>She felt like a culprit let out of prison as +she followed him down into the dining-room. +For the moment she was no longer the fatalist, +foreseeing inevitable exposure and punishment. +Nothing had come of their meeting +with Peterson—an incident which had taken +her wholly by surprise, and which had threatened +for an instant to result disastrously. +She had spent wakeful hours as a result of +that meeting; but the cloud of apprehension +had passed, leaving her sky serene again. +And now Harboro had put aside the incident +of the Mesquite Club ball as if it did not involve +anything more than a question of pique.</p> +<p>She took her place at the end of the table, +and propped her face up in her hands while +Harboro carved the roast. Why shouldn’t +she hope that the future was hers, to do with +as she would—or, at least, as she could? +That her fate now lay in her own hands, and +not in every passing wind of circumstance, +seemed possible, even probable. If only....</p> +<p>A name came into her mind suddenly; a +name carved in jagged, sinister characters. +If only Fectnor would stay away off there in +the City. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span></p> +<p>She did not know why that name should +have occurred to her just now to plague her. +Fectnor was an evil bird of passage who had +come and gone. Such creatures had no fixed +course. He had once told her that only a +fool ever came back the way he had gone. +He belonged to the States, somewhere, but +he would come back by way of El Paso, if +he ever came back; or he would drift over +toward Vera Cruz or Tampico.</p> +<p>Fectnor was one of those who had trod +that path through the mesquite to Sylvia’s +back door in the days which were ended. +But he was different from the others. He +was a man who was lavish with money—but +he expected you to pick it up out of the dust. +He was of violent moods; and he had that +audacity—that taint of insanity, perhaps—which +enables some men to maintain the +reputation of bad men, of “killers,” in every +frontier. When Fectnor had come he had +seemed to assume the right of prior possession, +and others had yielded to him without question. +Indeed, it was usually known when the +man was in town, and during these periods +none came to Sylvia’s door save one. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span> +even created the impression that all others +were poachers, and that they had better be +wary of him. She had been afraid of him +from the first; and it had seemed to her that +her only cross was removed when she heard +that Fectnor had got a contract down in the +interior and had gone away. That had happened +a good many months ago; and Sylvia +remembered now, with a feeling as of an icy +hand on her heart, that if her relationships +with many of the others in those old days +were innocent enough—or at best marred only +by a kindly folly—there had been that in her +encounters with Fectnor which would forever +damn her in Harboro’s eyes, if the truth ever +reached him. He would have the right to +call her a bad woman; and if the word seemed +fantastic and unreal to her, she knew that it +would not seem so to Harboro.</p> +<p>If only Fectnor....</p> +<p>She winked quickly two or three times, as +if she had been dreaming. Antonia had set +her plate before her, and the aroma of the +roast was in her nostrils. Harboro was regarding +her serenely, affectionately. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER IX</p> +</div> + +<p>They were happier than ever, following +that adjusting episode.</p> +<p>Harboro felt that his place had been assigned +to him, and he was satisfied. He +would have to think of ways of affording +diversion for Sylvia, of course; but that could +be managed, and in the meantime she seemed +disposed to prolong the rapturous and sufficient +joys of their honeymoon. He would be +on the lookout, and when the moment of reaction +came he would be ready with suggestions. +She had spoken of riding. There +would be places to go. The <i>bailes</i> out at the +Quemado; weddings far out in the chaparral. +Many Americans attended these affairs in a +spirit of adventure, and the ride was always +delightful. There was a seduction in the +desert winds, in the low-vaulted skies with +their decorative schemes of constellations.</p> +<p>He was rather at a loss as to how to meet +the people who had made a fellow of him. +There was Dunwoodie, for example. He ran +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span> +into Dunwoodie one morning on his way to +work, and the good fellow had stopped him +with an almost too patent friendliness.</p> +<p>“Come, stop long enough to have a drink,” +said Dunwoodie, blushing without apparent +cause and shaking Harboro awkwardly by +the hand. And then, as if this blunt invitation +might prove too transparent, he added: +“I was in a game last night, and I’m needing +one.”</p> +<p>There was no need for Dunwoodie to explain +his desire for a drink—or his disinclination +to drink alone. Harboro saw nothing +out of the ordinary in the invitation; but +unfortunately he responded before he had +quite taken the situation into account.</p> +<p>“It’s pretty early for me,” he said. “Another +time—if you’ll excuse me.”</p> +<p>It was to be regretted that Harboro’s manner +seemed a trifle stiff; and Dunwoodie read +uncomfortable meanings into that refusal. +He never repeated the invitation; and others, +hearing of the incident, concluded that Harboro +was too deeply offended by what the +town had done to him to care for anybody’s +friendship any more. The thing that the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span> +town had done to Harboro was like an open +page to everybody. Indeed, the people of +Eagle Pass knew that Harboro had been +counted out of eligible circles considerably +before Harboro knew it himself.</p> +<p>As for Sylvia, contentment overspread her +like incense. She was to have Harboro all +to herself, and she was not to be required to +run the gantlet of the town’s too-knowing +eyes. She felt safe in that house on the +Quemado Road, and she hoped that she now +need not emerge from it until old menaces +were passed, and people had come and gone, +and she could begin a new chapter.</p> +<p>She was somewhat annoyed by her father +during those days. He sent messages by +Antonia. Why didn’t she come to see him? +She was happy, yes. But could she forget +her old father? Was she that kind of a +daughter? Such was the substance of the +messages which reached her.</p> +<p>She would not go to see him. She could +not bear to think of entering his house. She +had been homesick occasionally—that she +could not deny. There had been moments +when the new home oppressed her by its orderliness, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span> +by its strangeness. And she was +fond of her father. She supposed she ought +not to be fond of him; he had always been a +worthless creature. But such matters have +little to do with the law of cause and effect. +She loved him—there was the truth, and it +could not be ignored. But with every passing +day the house under the mesquite-tree +assumed a more terrible aspect in her eyes, +and the house on the Quemado Road became +more familiar, dearer.</p> +<p>Unknown to Harboro, she sent money to +her father. He had intimated that if she +could not come there were certain needs ... +there was no work to be obtained, seemingly.... +And so the money which she might +have used for her own pleasure went to her +father. She was not unscrupulous in this +matter. She did not deceive Harboro. She +merely gave to her father the money which +Harboro gave her, and which she was expected +to use without explaining how it was +spent.</p> +<p>With the passing of days she ceased to +worry about those messages of her father—she +ceased to regard them as reminders that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span> +the tie between her old life and the new was +not entirely broken. And following the increased +assurances of her safety in Harboro’s +house and heart, she began to give rein to +some of the coquetries of her nature.</p> +<p>She became an innocent siren, studying +ways of bewitchment, of endearment. She +became a bewildering revelation to him, +amazing him, delighting him. After he had +begun to conclude that he knew her she became +not one woman, but a score of women: +demure, elfin, pensive, childlike, sedate, aloof, +laughing—but always with her delight in him +unconcealed: the mask she wore always +slipping from its place to reveal her eagerness +to draw closer to him, and always closer.</p> +<p>The evenings were beginning to be cool, +and occasionally she enticed him after nightfall +into the room he had called her boudoir. +She drew the blinds and played the infinitely +varied game of love with him. She asked +him to name some splendid lover, some famous +courtier. Ingomar? Very well, he should be +Ingomar. What sort of lover was he?... +And forthwith her words, her gestures and +touches became as chains of flowers to lead +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span> +him to do her bidding. Napoleon? She saluted +him, and marched prettily before him—and +halted to claim her reward in kisses. +He was Antony and Leander.</p> +<p>When she climbed on his knees with kisses +for Leander he pretended to be surprised. +“More kisses?” he asked.</p> +<p>“But these are the first.”</p> +<p>“And those other kisses?”</p> +<p>“They? Oh, they were for Antony.”</p> +<p>“Ah, but if you have kissed Antony, Leander +does not want your kisses.”</p> +<p>Her face seemed to fade slightly, as if certain +lights had been extinguished. She withdrew +a little from him and did not look at +him. “Why?” she asked presently. The +gladness had gone out of her voice.</p> +<p>“Well ... kisses should be for one lover; +not for two.”</p> +<p>She pondered, and turned to him with an +air of triumph. “But you see, these are +new kisses for Leander. They are entirely +different. They’ve never been given before. +They’ve got nothing to do with the +others.”</p> +<p>He pretended to be convinced. But the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span> +kisses she gave to Leander were less rapturous. +She was thinking.</p> +<p>“I’m afraid you don’t think so highly +of ... Leander,” he suggested. “Suppose +I be ... Samson?”</p> +<p>She leaned her head on his shoulder as if +she had grown tired.</p> +<p>“Samson was a very strong man,” he explained. +“He could push a house down.”</p> +<p>That interested her.</p> +<p>“Would you like to be Samson?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I think it might be nice ... but no—the +woman who kissed Samson betrayed him. +I think I won’t be Samson, after all.”</p> +<p>She had been nervously fingering the necklace +of gold beads at her throat; and suddenly +she uttered a distressed cry. The string had +broken, and the beads fell in a yellow shower +to the rug.</p> +<p>She climbed down on her knees beside him +and picked up the beads, one by one.</p> +<p>“Let them go,” he urged cheerfully, noting +her distress. “Come back. I’ll be anybody +you choose. Even Samson.”</p> +<p>That extinguished light seemed to have +been turned on again. She looked up at him +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94' name='page_94'></a>94</span> +smiling. “No, I don’t want you to be Samson,” +she said. “And I don’t want to lose +my beads.”</p> +<p>He regarded her happily. She looked very +little and soft there on the rug. “You look +like a kitten,” he declared.</p> +<p>She picked up the last bead and looked at +the unstable baubles in her pink left palm. +She tilted her hand so that they rolled back +and forth. “Could a kitten look at a king?” +she asked with mock earnestness.</p> +<p>“I should think it could, if there happened +to be any king about.”</p> +<p>She continued to make the beads roll about +on her hand. “I’m going to be a kitten,” +she declared with decision. “Would you like +me to be a kitten?” She raised herself on +her knees and propped her right hand behind +her on the rug for support. She was looking +earnestly into his eyes.</p> +<p>“If you’d like to be,” he replied.</p> +<p>“Hold your hand,” she commanded. She +poured the beads into his immense, hard +palm. “Don’t spill them.” She turned +about on the rug on hands and knees, and +crept away to the middle of the floor. She +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95' name='page_95'></a>95</span> +turned and arose to her knees, and rested both +hands before her on the floor. She held her +head high and <i>meowed</i> twice so realistically +that Harboro leaned forward, regarding her +with wonder. She lowered herself and turned +and crept to the window. There she lifted +herself a little and patted the tassel which +hung from the blind. She continued this with +a certain sedateness and concentration until +the tassel went beyond her reach and caught +in the curtain. Then she let herself down +again, and crawled to the middle of the floor. +Now she was on her knees, her hands on the +floor before her, her body as erect as she could +hold it. Again she <i>meowed</i>—this time with +a certain ennui; and finally she raised one +arm and rubbed it slowly to and fro behind +her ear.... She quickly assumed a defensive +attitude, crouching fiercely. An imaginary +dog had crossed her path. She made +an explosive sound with her lips. She regained +her tranquillity, staring with slowly +returning complacency and contempt while +the imaginary dog disappeared.</p> +<p>Harboro did not speak. He looked on in +amazed silence to see what she would do next. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96' name='page_96'></a>96</span> +His swarthy face was too sphinx-like to express +pleasure, yet he was not displeased. +He was thinking: She is a child—but what +an extraordinary child!</p> +<p>She crawled toward him and leaned against +his leg. <i>She was purring!</i></p> +<p>Harboro stooped low to see how she did it, +but her hair hid her lips from him.</p> +<p>He seized her beneath the arms and lifted +her until her face was on a level with his. +He regarded her almost uncomfortably.</p> +<p>“Don’t you like me to be a kitten?” She +adjusted her knees on his lap and rested her +hands on his shoulders. She regarded him +gravely.</p> +<p>“Well ... a kitten gets to be a cat,” he +suggested.</p> +<p>She pulled one end of his long mustache, +regarding him intently. “Oh, a cat. But +this is a different kind of a kitten entirely. +It’s got nothing to do with cats.” She held +her head on one side and pulled his mustache +slowly through her fingers. “It won’t curl,” +she said.</p> +<p>“No, I’m not the curly sort of man.”</p> +<p>She considered that. It seemed to present +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97' name='page_97'></a>97</span> +an idea that was new to her. “Anyway, I’m +glad you’re a big fellow.”</p> +<p>As he did not respond to this, she went on: +“Those little shrimps—you couldn’t be a +kitten with them. They would have to be +puppies. That’s the only fun you could +have.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia!” he remonstrated. He adjusted +her so that she sat on his lap, with her face +against his throat. He was recalling that +other Sylvia: the Sylvia of the dining-room, +of the balcony; the circumspect, sensible, +comprehending Sylvia. But the discoveries +he was making were not unwelcome. Folly +wore for him a face of ecstasy, of beauty.</p> +<p>As she nestled against him, he whispered: +“Is the sandman coming?”</p> +<p>And she responded, with her lips against +his throat: “Yes—if you’ll carry me.”</p> +<p>Antonia was wrong. This was not the +time of ashes. It was the time of flame. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span></p> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='III_FECTNOR_THE_PEOPLE_S_ADVOCATE' id='III_FECTNOR_THE_PEOPLE_S_ADVOCATE'></a> +<h2><i>PART III</i></h2> +<h3>FECTNOR, THE PEOPLE’S ADVOCATE</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span></div> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER X</p> +</div> + +<p>And then Fectnor came.</p> +<p>The date of the election was drawing near, +and a new sheriff was to be jockeyed into +office by the traditional practice of corralling +all the male adult Mexicans who could be +reached, and making them vote just so. The +voice of the people was about to be heard in +the land.</p> +<p>It was a game which enjoyed the greatest +popularity along the border in those years. +Two played at it: the opposing candidates. +And each built him a corral and began capturing +Mexicans two or three days before +the election.</p> +<p>The Mexicans were supposed to have their +abodes (of a sort) in Maverick County; but +there was nothing conservative in the rules +under which the game was played. If you +could get a consignment of voters from +Mexico you might do so, resting assured that +your opponent would not hesitate to fill his +corral with citizens from the other side of the +river. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span></p> +<p>The corrals were amazing places. Dispensers +of creature comforts were engaged. +Barbecued meat and double rations of <i>mezcal</i> +were provided. Your Mexican voters, held +rigorously as prisoners, were in a state of collapse +before the day of the election. They +were conveyed in carryalls to the polls, and +heads were counted, and the candidate got +credit for the full number of constituents he +had dumped out into the sunshine.</p> +<p>And then your voter disappeared back into +the chaparral, or over the Rio Grande bridge, +and pondered over the insanity of the <i>gringos</i>.</p> +<p>It will be seen that the process touched +upon was less pleasant than simple. Among +the constituents in the corrals there was often +a tendency to fight, and occasionally a stubborn +fellow had a clear idea that he wanted +to be in a different corral from the one in +which he found himself. There was needed +a strong-handed henchman in these cases. +Jesus Mendoza was the henchman for one +faction, but the other faction needed a henchman, +too.</p> +<p>And so Fectnor came.</p> +<p>He had the reputation of knowing every +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span> +Mexican in Maverick County and in the +territory immediately contiguous thereto. +Many of them had been members of his +gangs when he had contracts in the neighborhood +of Eagle Pass. He knew precisely which +of them could be depended upon to remain +docile under all manner of indignity, and +which of them had a bad habit of placing a +sudden check on their laughter and lunging +forward with a knife. They knew him, too. +They feared him. They knew he could be +coldly brutal—an art which no Mexican has +ever mastered. The politicians knew that +getting Fectnor was almost equivalent to getting +the office. It was more economical to +pay him his price than to employ uncertain +aids who would have sold their services much +more cheaply.</p> +<p>Harboro and Sylvia were sitting on their +balcony the second night before the election. +A warm wind had been blowing and it was +quite pleasant out of doors.</p> +<p>One of the corrals lay not far from the +house on the Quemado Road. Mounted Mexicans +had been riding past the house and on +into the town all day, and, contrary to usual +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span> +custom, they were not to be seen later in the +day returning to the chaparral. They were +being prepared to exercise their suffrage privileges.</p> +<p>As Harboro and Sylvia listened it was to +be noted that over in the corral the several +noises were beginning to be blended in one +note. The barbecue fires were burning down; +the evening meal had been served, with reserved +supplies for late comers. <i>Mezcal</i> and +cheap whiskey were being dispensed. A low +hum of voices arose, with the occasional uplifting +of a drunken song or a shout of anger.</p> +<p>Suddenly Harboro sat more erect. A shout +had arisen over in the corral, and a murmur +higher and more sinister than the dominant +note of the place grew steadily in intensity. +It came to a full stop when a pistol-shot arose +above the lesser noises like a sky-rocket.</p> +<p>“He’s getting his work in,” commented +Harboro. He spoke to himself. He had forgotten +Sylvia for the moment.</p> +<p>“He? Who?” inquired Sylvia.</p> +<p>He turned toward her in the dusk and replied—with +indifference in his tone now—“Fectnor.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span></p> +<p>She shrank back so that her face would be +out of his line of vision. “Fectnor!” she +echoed.</p> +<p>“A fellow they’ve brought up from the interior +to help with the election. A famous +bad man, I believe.”</p> +<p>There was silence for a long interval. Harboro +supposed the matter did not interest +her; but she asked at length: “You know +him, then?”</p> +<p>“Only by reputation. A fellow with a lot +of bluff, I think. I don’t believe very much +in bad men. He’s managed to terrify the +Mexicans somehow or other.” He had not +noticed that her voice had become dull and +low.</p> +<p>“Fectnor!” she breathed to herself. She +rocked to and fro, and after a long interval, +“Fectnor!” she repeated.</p> +<p>He hitched his chair so that he could look +at her. Her prolonged silence was unusual. +“Are you getting chilly?” he asked solicitously.</p> +<p>“It does seem chilly, doesn’t it?” she responded.</p> +<p>They arose and went into the house. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XI</p> +</div> + +<p>Antonia went marketing the next morning, +and when she came back Sylvia met her +with fearful, inquiring eyes. She was terribly +uneasy, and she was one of those creatures +who must go more than half-way to +meet impending danger. She was not at all +surprised when Antonia handed her a sealed +envelope.</p> +<p>The old servant did not linger to witness +the reading of that written message. She +possessed the discretion of her race, of her +age. The señora had been married quite +a time now. Doubtless there were old +friends....</p> +<p>And Sylvia stood alone, reading the sprawling +lines which her father had written:</p> +<p>“<i>Fectnor’s here. He wants to see you. Better +come down to the house. You know he’s likely +to make trouble if he doesn’t have his way.</i>”</p> +<p>She spelled out the words with contracted +brows; and then for the moment she became +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span> +still another Sylvia. She tore the missive +into bits. She was pale with rage—rage +which was none the less obsessing because it +had in it the element of terror. Her father +dared to suggest such a thing! It would +have been bad enough if Fectnor had sent +the summons himself; but for her father to +unite with him against her in such an affair!</p> +<p>She tried to calm herself, succeeding but +illy. “Antonia!” she called. “Antonia!” +For once her voice was unlovely, her expression +was harsh.</p> +<p>The startled old woman came with quite +unprecedented alacrity.</p> +<p>“Antonia, where did you see my father?”</p> +<p>“On the street. He seemed to have waited +for me.”</p> +<p>“Very well. You must find him again. +It doesn’t matter how long you search. I +want you to find him.”</p> +<p>She hurriedly framed a response to that +note of her father’s:</p> +<p>“<i>I will not come. Tell Fectnor I never will +see him again. He will not dare to harm me.</i>”</p> +<p>As she placed this cry of defiance into an +envelope and sealed and addressed it certain +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span> +words of Harboro’s came back to her. That +night of their wedding he had lifted her in +his powerful arms and had given her a man’s +assurance: “I mean that you’re to have all +the help you want—that you’re to look to +me for your strength.”</p> +<p>She reasoned shrewdly: Harboro wasn’t +the sort of man people would tell things to—about +her. They would know what to expect: +intense passion, swift punishment.</p> +<p>And yet as she watched Antonia go away +down the road, suggesting supine submission +rather than a friend in need, her heart failed +her. Had she done wisely? Fectnor had +never stepped aside for any man. He seemed +actually to believe that none must deny him +the things he wanted. He seemed an insane +creature when you thwarted him. There was +something terrible about his rages.</p> +<p>She imagined seemingly impossible things: +that Fectnor would come to the house—perhaps +while Harboro was there. He might kill +Harboro.</p> +<p>Alas, the evil she had done in those other +days loomed before her now in its true light: +not merely as evil deeds, definitely ended +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span> +with their commission, but as fearful forces +that went on existing, to visit her again and +destroy her.</p> +<p>She began to hope that Fectnor would +actually come to her—now, before Harboro +came home. At the worst she might save +Harboro, and there was even a chance that +she could make Fectnor see her position as +she saw it—that she could persuade him to +be merciful to her. Surely for the sake of +security and peace in all the years that lay +before her.... A definite purpose dawned +in her eyes. She went to her room and began +deliberately to choose her most becoming +street costume.</p> +<p>She was ready to go out when Antonia returned.</p> +<p>“Did you find him?” she asked.</p> +<p>Yes, the old woman had found him and delivered +the message. He had sent no word +in return; he had only glared at the bearer of +the message and had cursed her.</p> +<p>“Well, never mind,” said Sylvia soothingly. +It occurred to her that it must be a sad thing +to be an old woman, and a Mexican, and to +have to serve as the wire over which the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span> +electric current flowed—and to feel only the +violence of the current without comprehending +the words it carried.</p> +<p>And now to find Fectnor—for this was what +she meant to do.</p> +<p>She would see him on the street, where +publicity would protect her, even if there +were no friends to take her part. She would +see him on the street and explain why she +could not meet him any more, why he must +not ask it. Certainly it would not look very +well for her to be seen talking to him; but +she could not help that. She would be going +out to do a little shopping, ostensibly, and +she would hope to encounter him on the street, +either coming or going.</p> +<p>However, her earnest planning proved to +be of no avail. Fectnor was nowhere to be +seen.</p> +<p>She walked rather leisurely through the +town—moving barely fast enough to avoid +the appearance of loitering. She walked circumspectly +enough, seemingly taking little +interest in events or individuals. That she +was keenly on the alert for one familiar face +no one would have guessed. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span></p> +<p>She got quite to the end of the main street, +and then she halted in painful uncertainty. +If she turned back now she would have to +go on steadily back to her home, save for a +brief stop at one of the stores, or else betray +the fact to any who might be curiously observing +her that she was on the street on +some secret mission.</p> +<p>She stood for a space, trying to decide what +to do. Often before she had stood on that +very spot to view the picture which men and +the desert had painted on a vast canvas down +toward the river. She occupied a point of +vantage at the top of a long flight of stone +steps, broken and ancient, leading down to +the Rio Grande and its basin. Along the +water’s edge in the distance, down in the +depths below her, ancient Mexican women +were washing garments by a process which +must have been old in Pharaoh’s time: by +spreading them on clean rocks and kneading +them or applying brushes. The river flowed +placidly; the sunlight enveloped water and +rock and shore and the patient women bending +over their tasks. Nineveh or Tyre might +have presented just such a picture of burdened +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span> +women, concealing no one might say what +passions and fires under an exterior which +suggested docility or the unkind pressure of +tradition’s hand or even hopelessness.</p> +<p>But Sylvia scarcely saw the picture now. +She was recalling the words she had written +in that message to her father. If only she +had not defied Fectnor; if only she had made +a plea for pity, or suggested a fear of her +husband—or if she hadn’t sent any answer +at all!</p> +<p>It occurred to her that the exposure which +menaced her was as nothing to the perils to +which she had subjected Harboro. She knew +instinctively that Harboro was not a man to +submit to deliberate injury from any source. +He would defend himself in the face of any +danger; he would defend that which belonged +to him. And Fectnor was cruel and unscrupulous +and cunning. He knew how to provoke +quarrels and to gain advantages.</p> +<p>She grew cold at the thought of losing Harboro. +The inevitable consequences of such a +loss occurred to her. She would have to submit +always to Fectnor as long as he willed it. +And afterward.... Ah, she must find Fectnor! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span></p> +<p>She retraced her steps. At a shop where +silks were sold she entered. She asked for a +piece of ribbon. A particular shade of blue; +she could not describe it. She sat on a stool +at the counter and kept an eye on the street.... +No, something darker than that, something +less lustrous. She examined bolt after +bolt, and when at length it appeared that she +was quite unwilling to be pleased she made +a choice. And always she watched the street, +hoping that Fectnor would pass.</p> +<p>At last she went up the Quemado Road, +walking disconsolately. The withered immensity +of the world broke her spirit. The +vast stricken spaces were but a material manifestation +of those cruelties of nature which +had broken her long ago, and which could not +be expected to withdraw their spell now that +the time had come for her destruction.</p> +<p>She looked far before her and saw where +the Quemado Road attained its highest point +and disappeared on the other side of a ridge. +A house stood there, lonely and serene. She +had known it was a convent; but now she +observed it with eyes which really saw it for +the first time. It had looked cool even during +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span> +the period of midsummer. There was +shade—a friendly garden. She had seen the +Mother Superior once or twice: a large, elderly +woman who wore but lightly the sedate mien +which concealed a gentle humanity.</p> +<p>What if she, Sylvia, were to go on past +her own house, on up to the ridge, and appeal +to that unworldly woman for succor? +Was there a refuge there for such as she?</p> +<p>But this was the merest passing fancy. +Where the tides of life ran high she had been +moulded; here in the open she would meet +her end, whatever the end might be.</p> +<p>She sat inside her house throughout that +long day. Beside an open window she kept +her place, staring toward Eagle Pass, her eyes +widening whenever a figure appeared on the +highway.</p> +<p>But the individual she feared—Fectnor, +her father, a furtive messenger—did not appear.</p> +<p>Harboro came at last: Harboro, bringing +power and placidity.</p> +<p>She ran out to the gate to meet him. Inside +the house she flung herself into his arms.</p> +<p>He marvelled at her intensity. He held +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span> +her a long moment in his embrace. Then he +gazed into her eyes searchingly. “Everything +is all right,” he said—the words being +an affirmation rather than a question. He +had read an expression of dread in her eyes.</p> +<p>“Yes, everything is all right,” she echoed. +Everything <i>was</i> right now. She seemed to +awaken from a horrible nightmare. Harboro’s +presence put to flight an army of fears. +She could scarcely understand why she had +been so greatly disturbed. No harm could +come to him, or to her. He was too strong, +too self-contained, to be menaced by little +creatures. The bigness of him, the penetrating, +kindly candor of his eyes, would paralyze +base minds and violent hands seeking +to do him an injury. The law had sanctioned +their union, too—and the law was powerful.</p> +<p>She held to that supporting thought, and +during the rest of the evening she was untroubled +by the instinctive knowledge that +even the law cannot make right what the individual +has made wrong.</p> +<p>She was as light-hearted as a child that +night, and Harboro, after the irksome restraints +of the day, rejoiced in her. They +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span> +played at the game of love again; and old +Antonia, in her place down-stairs, thought of +that exchange of letters and darkly pondered. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XII</p> +</div> + +<p>The election came and went; the voice of +the people had been heard, and Maverick +County had a new sheriff. In the house on +the Quemado Road Fectnor’s name was heard +no more.</p> +<p>On the Saturday night following the election +Harboro came home and found a letter +waiting for him on the table in the hall. He +found also a disquieted Sylvia, who looked at +him with brooding and a question in her eyes.</p> +<p>He stopped where he stood and read the +letter, and Sylvia watched with parted lips—for +she had recognized the handwriting on the +envelope.</p> +<p>Harboro’s brows lowered into a frown. +“It’s from your father,” he said finally, lifting +his eyes from the letter and regarding +Sylvia.</p> +<p>She tried to achieve an effect of only mild +interest. “What can he have to write to +you about?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Poor fellow—it seems he’s been ill. Sylvia, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span> +how long has it been since you visited +your father?”</p> +<p>“Does he want me to come to see him?”</p> +<p>“He hints at that pretty strongly. Yes, +that’s really the substance of his letter.”</p> +<p>“I’ve never been back since we were married.”</p> +<p>She led the way into the dining-room. Her +manner was not quite responsive. She made +Harboro feel that this was a matter which +did not concern him.</p> +<p>“But isn’t that—doesn’t that seem rather +neglectful?”</p> +<p>She drew a chair away from the table and +sat down facing him. “Yes, it does seem so. +I think I’ve hinted that I wasn’t happy in +my old home life; but I’ve never talked very +much about it. I ought to tell you, I think, +that I want to forget all about it. I want the +old relationship broken off completely.”</p> +<p>Harboro shook his head with decision. +“That won’t do,” he declared. “Believe me, +you’re making a mistake. You’re a good deal +younger than I, Sylvia, and it’s the way of +the young to believe that for every old tie +broken a new one can be formed. At your +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span> +age life seems to have an abundance of everything. +But you’ll be dismayed, in a few +years, to discover that most things come to +us but once, and that nearly all the best +things come to us in our youth.”</p> +<p>He stood before her with an air of such +quiet conviction, of such tranquil certainty +of the truth of what he said that she could not +meet his glance. She had placed an elbow +on the table, and was supporting her face in +her hand. Her expression was strangely inscrutable +to the man who looked down at +her.</p> +<p>“Your father must be getting old. If you +shouldn’t see him for a year or so, you’d be +fearfully grieved to note the evidences of +failure: a slight stoop, perhaps; a slower +gait; a more troubled look in his eyes. I +want to help you to see this thing clearly. +And some day you’ll get word that he is dead—and +then you’ll remember, too late, how +you might have carried little joys to him, +how you might have been a better daughter....”</p> +<p>She sprang up, shaking the tears from her +eyes. “I’ll go,” she said. She startled Harboro +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span> +by that note of despair in her voice. +“When does he wish me to come?”</p> +<p>“He says he is ill and alone. I think he +would be glad if I could persuade you to go +this evening. Why not this evening?”</p> +<p>Unfortunately, Harboro concealed a part of +the truth in this. Her father had quite definitely +asked to have her come this evening. +But Harboro wished her to feel that she was +acting voluntarily, that she was choosing for +herself, both as to the deed and as to the +time of its doing.</p> +<p>And Sylvia felt a wave of relief at the assurance +that her father had not set a definite +time. Oh, surely the letter was just what it +purported to be—a cry of loneliness and an +honest desire to see her. And Sylvia really +loved her father. There was that in her nature +which made it impossible for her to +judge him.</p> +<p>“I could go with you,” ventured Harboro, +“though he doesn’t say anything about my +coming. I’ve felt we must both go soon. +Of course, I need not wait for an invitation.”</p> +<p>But Sylvia opposed this. “If he’s ill,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span> +she said, “I think I ought to go alone this +time.” She added to herself: “I don’t want +him ever to go. I must make him believe +that enough has been done if I go myself. +I must convince him that my father doesn’t +care to have him come.”</p> +<p>Nevertheless, she was quite resigned to the +arrangement that had been made for her. +She helped Antonia make the final preparations +for supper, and she set off down the road +quite cheerfully after they arose from the +table. Harboro watched her with a new depth +of tenderness. This sweet submission, the +quick recognition of a filial duty once it was +pointed out to her—here were qualities which +were of the essence of that childlike beauty +which is the highest charm in women.</p> +<p>And Sylvia felt a strange eagerness of body +and mind as she went on her way. She had +put all thought of the house under the mesquite-tree +out of mind, as far as possible. +Becoming a closed book to her, the place and +certain things which had been dear to her +had become indistinct in her memory. Now +that she was about to reopen the book various +little familiar things came back to her and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span> +filled her mind with eagerness. The tiny +canary in its cage—it would remember her. +It would wish to take a bath, to win her +praise. There had been a few potted plants, +too; and there would be the familiar pictures—even +the furniture she had known from +childhood would have eloquent messages for +her.</p> +<p>This was the frame of mind she was in as +she opened her father’s gate, and paused for +an instant to recall the fact that here she +had stood when Harboro appeared before her +for the first time. It was near sundown now, +just as it had been then; and—yes, the goatherd +was there away out on the trail, driving +his flock home.</p> +<p>She turned toward the house; she opened +the door eagerly. Her eyes were beaming +with happiness.</p> +<p>But she was chilled a little by the sight of +her father. Something Harboro had said +about her father changing came back to her. +He <i>had</i> changed—just in the little while that +had elapsed since her marriage. But the +realization of what that change was hurt her +cruelly. He looked mean and base as he had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span> +never looked before. The old amiable submission +to adversities had given place to an +expression of petulance, of resentment, of +cunning, of cowardice. Or was it that Sylvia +was looking at him with new eyes?</p> +<p>He sat just inside the door, by a window. +He was in a rocking-chair, and his hands lay +heavily against the back of it. He had a +blanket about him, as if he were cold. He +looked at her with a strange lack of responsiveness +when she entered the room.</p> +<p>“I got your message,” she said affectionately. +“I am glad you let me know you +weren’t feeling very well.” She touched his +cheeks with her hands and kissed him. “You +<i>are</i> cold,” she added, as if she were answering +the question that had occurred to her at sight +of the blanket.</p> +<p>She sat down near him, waiting for him to +speak. He would have a great many things +to say to her, she thought. But he regarded +her almost stolidly.</p> +<p>“Your marriage seems to have changed +you,” he said finally.</p> +<p>“For the better, I hope!”</p> +<p>“Well, that’s according to the way you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span> +look at it. Cutting your old father cold isn’t +for the better, as far as I can see.”</p> +<p>She did not resent the ungenerous use of +that phrase, “old father,” though she could +not help remembering that he was still under +fifty, and that he looked young for his years. +It was just one of his mannerisms in speaking.</p> +<p>“I didn’t do that, you know,” she said. +“Being married seems a wonderful adventure. +There is so much that is strange for you to +get used to. But I didn’t forget you. You’ve +seen Antonia—occasionally...?”</p> +<p>The man moved his head so that it lay on +one side against the chair-back. “I thought +you’d throw that up to me,” he complained.</p> +<p>“Father!” she remonstrated. She was +deeply wounded. It had not been her father’s +way to make baseless, unjust charges against +her. Shiftless and blind he had been; but +there had been a geniality about him which +had softened his faults to one who loved him.</p> +<p>“Well, never mind,” he said, in a less bitter +tone. And she waited, hoping he would think +of friendlier words to speak, now that his resentment +had been voiced.</p> +<p>But he seemed ill at ease in her presence +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span> +now. She might have been a stranger to +him. She looked about her with a certain +fond expression which speedily faded. Somehow +the old things reminded her only of unhappiness. +They were meaner than she had +supposed them to be. Their influence over +her was gone.</p> +<p>She brought her gaze back to her father. +He had closed his eyes as if he were weary; +yet she discerned in the lines of his face a +hard fixity which troubled her, alarmed her. +Though his eyes were closed he did not present +a reposeful aspect. There was something +really sinister about that alert face with +its closed eyes—as there is about a house with +its blinds drawn to hide evil enterprises.</p> +<p>So she sat for interminable minutes, and it +seemed to Sylvia that she was not surprised +when she heard the sound of tapping at the +back door.</p> +<p>She was not surprised, yet a feeling of engulfing +horror came over her at the sound.</p> +<p>Her father opened his eyes now; and it +seemed really that he had been resting. “The +boy from the drug-store,” he said. “They +were to send me some medicine.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span></p> +<p>He seemed to be gathering his energies to +get up and admit the boy from the drug-store, +but Sylvia sprang to her feet and placed a restraining +hand on his shoulder. “Let me go,” +she said.</p> +<p>There was an expression of pity and concern +for her father in her eyes when she got +to the door and laid her hand on the latch. +She was too absent-minded to observe at +first that the bolt had been moved into its +place, and that the door was locked. Her +hand had become strange to the mechanism +before her, and she was a little awkward in +getting the bolt out of the way. But the expression +of pity and concern was still in her +eyes when she finally pulled the door toward +her.</p> +<p>And then she seemed to have known all the +time that it was Fectnor who stood there. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XIII</p> +</div> + +<p>He slipped past her into the room, and when +she uttered a forlorn cry of defeat and shrank +back he gripped her by the wrist. Holding +her so, he turned where he stood and locked +the door again. Then he crossed the room, +and closed and bolted that other door which +opened into the room where Sylvia’s father sat.</p> +<p>Then he released her and stood his ground +stolidly while she shrank away from him, +regarding him with incredulous questioning, +with black terror. She got the impression +that he believed himself to have achieved a +victory; that there was no further occasion +for him to feel anxious or wary. It was as if +the disagreeable beginning to a profitable enterprise +had been gotten over with. And that +look of callous complacence was scarcely more +terrifying than his silence, for as yet he had +not uttered a word.</p> +<p>And yet Sylvia could not regard herself as +being really helpless. That door into her +father’s room: while it held, her father could +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span> +not come to her, but she could go to her father. +She had only to wait until Fectnor was off his +guard, and touch the bolt and make her +escape. Yet she perceived now, that for all +Fectnor’s seeming complacence, he remained +between her and that door.</p> +<p>She looked about for other means of escape; +but she knew immediately that there was +none. Her own bedroom opened off the room +in which she was now trapped; but it was a +mere cubby-hole without an outer door or +even a window. On the other side of the +room there was a window looking out toward +the desert; but even as her glance sought +relief in that direction she remembered that +this window, of only half-sash dimensions, +was nailed into its place and was immovable. +Against the dusty panes a bird-cage hung, +and she realized with an oddly ill-timed pang +of sorrow that it was empty. It was plain +that the canary had died during her absence; +and she wondered if anything in all the world +could seem so empty as a bird-cage which had +once had an occupant and had lost it. The +sunset sky beyond that empty cage and the +uncleaned window-panes caught her glance: +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span> +an infinitely far-off drift of saffron with never +a moving figure between it and the window +through which she looked.</p> +<p>Then all her terrors were renewed by Fectnor’s +voice. He had sauntered to a small +table near the middle of the room and sat +down on the end of it, after shoving a chair +in Sylvia’s direction.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with you, Sylvia?” he +demanded. He scarcely seemed angry: impatient +would be the word, perhaps.</p> +<p>Something in his manner, rather than his +words, wiped out that chasm of time that +had been placed between them. It was as +if she had talked with him yesterday. She +felt hideously familiar with him—on the same +mental and moral plane with him.</p> +<p>“I am married,” she said shortly. If she +had thought she would resort to parleying +and evasions, she now had no intention of +doing so. It seemed inevitable that she +should talk to Fectnor in his own language.</p> +<p>“I don’t care anything about your marriage,” +he said. “A bit of church flummery. +Use your brains, Sylvia. You know that +couldn’t make any difference.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span></p> +<p>“I’m not thinking about the flummery. +That isn’t it. It’s the fact that I love the +man I married.”</p> +<p>“All very well and good. But you know +you used to love me.”</p> +<p>“No, I never did.”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes you did. You just forget. At +any rate, you was as much to me as you could +ever be to a husband. You know you can’t +drop me just because it’s convenient for you +to take up with somebody else. You know +that’s not the way I’m built.”</p> +<p>She had refused to use the chair he had +shoved toward her. She stood beside it a +little defiantly. Now she looked into his +eyes with a kind of imperious reasonableness. +“Whatever I was to you, Fectnor,” she said, +“I became because I was forced into it.”</p> +<p>“I never forced you,” he responded stoutly.</p> +<p>“In one way, you didn’t; but just the +same ... you had both hands reached out +to seize me when I fell. You never tried to +help me; you were always digging the pitfall +under my feet. You were forever holding +out your hand with money in it; and there +was you on one side of me with your money, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span> +and my father on the other with his never-ending +talk about poverty and debts and his +fear of you—and you know you took pains to +make him fear you—and his saying always +that it wouldn’t make any difference in what +people thought of me, whether I stood out +against you or....” Her glance shifted and +fell. There were some things she could not +put into words.</p> +<p>“That’s book talk, Sylvia. Come out into +the open. I know what the female nature is. +You’re all alike. You all know when to +lower your eyes and lift your fan and back +into a corner. That’s the female’s job, just +as it’s the male’s job to be bold and rough. +But you all know to a hair how far to carry +that sort of thing. You always stop in plenty +of time to get caught.”</p> +<p>She looked at him curiously. “I suppose,” +she said after a pause, “that roughly describes +certain love-making processes. But it really +wasn’t love-making between you and me, +Fectnor. It was a kind of barter.”</p> +<p>His eyes seemed to snare hers relentlessly. +“You’re not doing yourself justice, Sylvia,” +he said. “You’re not one of the bartering +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span> +kind. You’d have killed me—you’d have +killed yourself—before you’d have let me +touch you, if you hadn’t liked me. You +know that’s a fact.”</p> +<p>The shadow of a frown darkened her brow. +“There was a time when you had a kind of +fascination for me. The way you had of +making other men seem little and dumb, +when you came in and spoke. You seemed +so much alive. I noticed once that you +didn’t count your change when you’d paid +for some drinks. That was the way in everything +you did. You seemed lavish with +everything that was in you; you let the big +things go and didn’t worry about the change. +You were a big man in some ways, Fectnor. +A girl needn’t have been ashamed of admiring +you. But Fectnor ... I’ve come to +see what a low life it was I was leading. In +cases like that, what the woman yields is ... is +of every possible importance to her, +while the man parts only with his money.”</p> +<p>He smote the table with his fist. “I’m +glad you said that,” he cried triumphantly. +“There’s a lie in that, and I want to nail it. +The man gives only his money, you say. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span> +Do you understand what that means where +a hard-working devil is concerned? What +has he got besides the few pennies he earns? +When he gives his money, isn’t he giving his +strength and his youth? Isn’t he giving his +manhood? Isn’t he giving the things that +are his for only a few years, and that he +can’t get back again? I’m not talking about +the dandies who have a lot of money they +never earned. I should think a woman with +as much as one bone in her body would take +a shotgun to that sort whenever they came +around. I’m talking about the fellows that +sweat for what they get. A lot of mollycoddles +and virtuous damn fools have built +up that Sunday-school junk about the woman +giving everything, and the man giving nothing. +But I want to tell you it’s nip and +tuck as to who gives the most. A woman +takes a man’s money as if it grew on bushes. +Go and watch him earn it, if you want to +know what his part of the bargain is.”</p> +<p>She felt as if she were being crowded +against a wall. She could not look at him. +She groped for a weapon—for any weapon—with +which to fight him. “That would +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span> +sound a little more impressive, Fectnor,” she +said, “if I didn’t know what brought you to +Eagle Pass just now, and how you sweat for +the pay you got.”</p> +<p>This was unfortunately said, for there was +malice in it, and a measure of injustice. He +heard her calmly.</p> +<p>“This election business is only a side-line +of mine,” he replied. “I enjoy it. There’s +nothing like knowing you can make a lot +of so-called men roll over and play dead. +If a man wants to find out where he stands, +let him get out and try to make a crowd do +something. Let him try to pull any prunes-and-prism +stuff, either with his pocketbook or +his opinions, and see where he gets off at. +No, Sylvia, you played the wrong card. +Eleven months out of the year I work like +a nigger, and if you don’t know it, you’d +better not say anything more about it.”</p> +<p>He clasped his hands about his knee and +regarded her darkly, yet with a kind of joyousness. +There was no end of admiration in +his glance, but of kindness there was never +a suggestion.</p> +<p>She gathered new energy from that look +in his eyes. After all, they had been arguing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span> +about things which did not matter now. +“Fectnor,” she said, “I’m sure there must +be a good deal of justice in what you say. +But I know you’re forgetting that when the +man and the woman are through with youth +there is a reckoning which gives the man all +the best of it. His wrong-doing isn’t stamped +upon him. He is respected. He may be +poor, but he isn’t shunned.”</p> +<p>“That’s more of the same lie. Did you +ever see a poor man—a really poor man—who +was respected? There may be two or +three of the people who know him best who +will give him credit for certain things—if +he denies himself to pay a debt, or forfeits +his rest to sit up with a sick neighbor. But +take the world as a whole, doesn’t it ride +over the man who’s got nothing? Isn’t he +dreaded like a plague? Isn’t he a kill-joy? +I don’t care what a woman’s been, she’s as +well off. A few people will give her credit +for the good she does, and that’s all a man +can hope for, if he’s been generous enough +or enough alive to let his money go. No, +you can’t build up any fences, Sylvia. We’re +all in the same herd.”</p> +<p>She felt oppressed by the hardness, the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span> +relentlessness, of his words, his manner. She +could not respond to him. But she knew that +everything this man said, and everything he +was, left out of the account all those qualities +which make for hope and aspirations and +faith.</p> +<p>Her glance, resting upon him as from a +great distance, seemed to irritate him. “After +all, Sylvia,” he said, “you’re putting on an +awful lot of silk that don’t belong to you. +Suppose we say that you’d have kept away +from me if you hadn’t been too much +influenced. There are other things to be +remembered. Peterson, for example. Remember +Peterson? I watched you and him +together a good bit. You’ll never tell me +you wasn’t loose with him.”</p> +<p>Much of her strength and pride returned +to her at this. Whatever the truth was, she +knew that Fectnor had no right to bring +such a charge against her. “Your language +is very quaint at times,” she said. A curve +of disdain hovered about her lips. “I’m not +aware of being, or of ever having been, loose +in any way. I can’t think where such a +word originated.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span></p> +<p>“You know what I mean well enough. +And some of those young fellows—the soldiers +and railroaders—I don’t suppose any of them +have got anything on you, either?”</p> +<p>“They haven’t, Fectnor!” she exclaimed +hotly. She resolved to have nothing more +to say to him. She felt that his brutality +gave her the right to have done with him. +And then her glance was arrested by his +powerful hand, where it lay on the table +beside him. It was blunt-fingered and broad +and red, with the back covered by yellow +hairs which extended down to the dabs of +finger-nails.</p> +<p>He seemed to read her mind, and in answer +he took up a heavy pewter cup and held +it toward her. For an instant he permitted +her to scrutinize the cup, and then his fingers +closed. He opened his hand and the shapeless +mass of pewter fell to the floor. He +threw his head back with the ecstasy of +perfect physical fitness. His laughter arose, +almost hysterically.</p> +<p>“Fectnor!” she cried, standing tense and +white before him, “I think you’re all brute—just +common, hopeless brute.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span></p> +<p>He became perfectly serious; but presently +he regarded her with a flicker of humor +in his eyes, she thought. “You didn’t say +that as if you meant it, Sylvia,” he declared. +“You didn’t say it as if you quite believed +it. But I’m going to show you that you’re +right. What we’ve been together, Sylvia, +you and I, we’re going to continue to be +until we both agree to quit. That’s what +you may call justice. And so far I’m not +agreeing to quit.”</p> +<p>He came toward her then, and she perceived +that his bearing had altered completely. +He seemed moved by some impulse +stronger than himself—as if it were quite +outside himself.</p> +<p>She felt that her heart had suddenly +ceased to beat. A leopard crouching before +her on a limb could not have seemed more +pitiless, more terrible. She had sprung to +the door opening into her father’s room before +he could reach her. Her fingers shot +the bolt and the door was open. And then +she knew she had made a fatal mistake in +holding that long and quiet parley with the +beast that had trapped her. She had led +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span> +her father, doubtless, to believe that it was +an amicable talk that had been going on +behind the closed door. She knew now that +at the first instant of Fectnor’s appearance +she should have given battle and cried for +help.</p> +<p>Now, looking into the adjoining room, +while Fectnor’s grip closed upon her wrist, +she saw the front door quietly close. Her +father had gone out. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XIV</p> +</div> + +<p>Sylvia climbed the hill in the dusk.</p> +<p>A casual observer would have remarked +that all was not right with her. Beneath a +calm exterior something brooded. You might +have supposed that some of the trivial things +of existence had gone wrong: that a favorite +servant had left her, or that the dressmaker +had failed to keep an appointment. Sylvia +was not an unschooled creature who would +let down the scroll of her life’s story to be +read by every idle eye.</p> +<p>But the gods of the desert, if any such +there be—the spirit of the yucca and the cactus +and the sage—must have known by the +lines of that immobile face, by the unseeing +stare in those weary eyes, that some fundamental +change had come over the woman +who passed along that road. Sylvia had +seemed almost like a happy child when she +descended the hill an hour before. It was a +woman who fashioned a new philosophy of +life who now returned. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span></p> +<p>It was her own father who had bade her +come; it was the man she loved—for whom +she had meant to create her life anew—who +had bade her go; and it was one to whom she +had never told an untruth, for whose pleasure +she had been beautiful and gay, who had destroyed +her.</p> +<p>She had not fully realized how beautiful a +thing her new security had been; how deeply +in her nature the roots of a new hope, of a +decent orderliness had taken hold. But the +transplanted blossom which had seemed to +thrive naturally under the fostering care of +Harboro—as if it had never bloomed elsewhere +than in his heart—had been ruthlessly +torn up again. The seeming gain had been +turned into a hideous loss.</p> +<p>And so over that road where a woman with +illusions had passed, a philosopher who no +longer dreamed returned.</p> +<p>Harboro, from his seat on the balcony, +saw her coming. And something which surrounded +her like an aura of evil startled him. +He dropped his newspaper to the floor and +leaned forward, his pulse disturbed, his muscles +tense. As she drew nearer he arose with +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span> +the thought of hurrying down-stairs to meet +her; and then it occurred to him that she +would wish to see him alone, away from the +averted eyes of old Antonia, which saw everything.</p> +<p>A little later he heard her coming up the +stairs with heavy, measured steps. And in +that moment he warned himself to be calm, +to discount the nameless fears—surely baseless +fears—which assailed him.</p> +<p>She appeared in the doorway and stood, +inert, looking at him as from a great distance.</p> +<p>“Well, Sylvia?” he said gently. He was +seated now, and one arm was stretched out +over the arm of his chair invitingly. He tried +to smile calmly.</p> +<p>She did not draw any nearer to him. Her +face was almost expressionless, save that her +eyes seemed slowly to darken as she regarded +him. And then he saw that certain muscles +in her face twitched, and that this tendency +swiftly strengthened.</p> +<p>“Sylvia!” he exclaimed, alarmed. He +arose and took a step toward her.</p> +<p>She staggered toward him and rested her +hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span> +averted, and Harboro realized with a pang +that she did not touch him with the familiar +touch which seemed to call to something +within him to respond, to make itself manifest. +She was merely seeking for support +such as a wall or a gate might afford to one +who is faint.</p> +<p>He touched her face with his hand and +brought it about so that he could read her +eyes; but this movement she resisted—not +irritably, but hopelessly. He slipped an arm +around her yearningly, and then the storm +within her broke.</p> +<p>He thought she must be suffocating. She +gasped for breath, lifting her chin high. She +was shaken with sobs. She clasped his head +in her hands and placed her face against it—but +the movement was despairing, not loving.</p> +<p>He tried again to look into her eyes; and +presently he discovered that they were quite +dry. It seemed she had lost the power to +weep; yet her sobs became rhythmic, even—like +those of any woman who grieves deeply +and is still uncomforted.</p> +<p>He held her tenderly and spoke her name +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span> +over and over. The tears would come soon, +and when she had wept he could ask her to +tell him what it was that had wounded her. +He was suffering cruelly; he was in despair. +But he admonished himself firmly to bear +with her, to comfort her, to wait.</p> +<p>And at last, as if indeed she had been leaning +against a wall for support until she could +recover herself, she drew away from him. +She was almost calm again; but Harboro +realized that she was no nearer to him than +she had been when first she had climbed the +stairs and stood before him.</p> +<p>He placed a firm hand on her shoulder +and guided her to a chair. He sat down +and pulled her gently down to him. “Now, +Sylvia!” he said with firmness.</p> +<p>She was kneeling beside him, her elbows +on his knees, her face in her hands. But the +strange remoteness was still there. She would +not look at him.</p> +<p>“Come!” he admonished. “I am waiting.”</p> +<p>She looked at him then; but she wore the +expression of one who does not understand.</p> +<p>“Something has gone wrong,” he said. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span> +“You see, I’ve not been impatient with you. +But you ought to tell me now.”</p> +<p>“You mean I ought to tell you what’s gone +wrong?”</p> +<p>He was startled by the even, lifeless quality +of her voice. “Of course!”</p> +<p>“In just a word or two, I suppose?”</p> +<p>“If you can.”</p> +<p>She knelt where she could look away +toward the west—toward Mexico; and she +noted, with mild surprise, that a new moon +hung low in the sky, sinking slowly into the +desert. It seemed to her that years had +passed since she had seen the moon—a full +moon, swinging, at this hour of the evening, +in the eastern sky.</p> +<p>“Come, Sylvia!” It was Harboro’s urgent +voice again.</p> +<p>“If I only could!” she said, moving a little +in token of her discomfort.</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“I mean, if any of us could ever say what +it is that has gone wrong. Everything has +gone wrong. From the very beginning. And +now you ask me: ‘What’s gone wrong?’ just +as you might ask, ‘What time is it, Sylvia?’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span> +or, ‘Who is it coming up the road?’ I can’t +tell you what’s gone wrong. If I talked to +you a week—a month—I couldn’t tell you +half of it. I don’t believe I ever could. I +don’t believe I know.”</p> +<p>These vagaries might have touched Harboro +at another time; they might have +alarmed him. But for the moment wrath +stirred in him. He arose almost roughly. +“Very well,” he said, “I shall go to your +father. I shall have the facts.”</p> +<p>This angry reference to her father—or +perhaps it was the roughness of his withdrawal +from her—affected her in a new way.</p> +<p>“No, you must not do that!” she cried +despairingly, and then the tears came suddenly—the +tears which had stubbornly refused +to flow.</p> +<p>“There,” he said, instantly tender again, +“you’ll feel better soon. I won’t be impatient +with you.”</p> +<p>But Sylvia’s tears were only incidental to +some lesser fear or grief. They did not spring +from the wrong she had suffered, or from the +depths of her nature, which had been dwarfed +and darkened. She listlessly pulled a chair +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span> +into a better position and sat down where +she need not look at Harboro. “Give me a +little time,” she said. “You know women +have moods, don’t you?” She tried to speak +lightly. “If there is anything I can tell you, +I will—if you’ll give me time.”</p> +<p>She had no intention of telling Harboro +what had happened. The very thought of +such a course was monstrous. Nothing could +be undone. She could only make conditions +just a little worse by talking. She realized +heavily that the thing which had happened +was not a complete episode in itself; it was +only one chapter in a long story which had +its beginnings in the first days in Eagle Pass, +and even further away. Back in the San +Antonio days. She could not give Harboro +an intelligent statement of one chapter without +detailing a long, complicated synopsis of +the chapters that went before.</p> +<p>To be sure, she did not yet know the man +she was dealing with—Harboro. She was +entirely misled by the passive manner in +which he permitted her to withdraw from +him.</p> +<p>“Yes, you shall have time,” he said. “I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span> +only want you to know that I am here to +help you in any way I can.”</p> +<p>She remained silent so long that he became +impatient again. “Did you find your +father very ill?” he hazarded.</p> +<p>“My father? Oh! No ... I can hardly +say. He seemed changed. Or perhaps I only +imagined that. Perhaps he really is very +ill.”</p> +<p>Another long silence ensued. Harboro +was searching in a thousand dark places for +the cause of her abnormal condition. There +were no guide-posts. He did not know Sylvia’s +father. He knew nothing about the +life she had led with him. He might be a +cruel monster who had abused her—or he +might be an unfortunate, unhappy creature, +the very sight of whom would wound the +heart of a sensitive woman.</p> +<p>He leaned forward and took her arm and +drew her hand into his. “I’m waiting, Sylvia,” +he said.</p> +<p>She turned toward him with a sudden passion +of sorrow. “It was you who required +me to go!” she cried. “If only you hadn’t +asked me to go!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span></p> +<p>“I thought we were both doing what was +right and kind. I’m sorry if it has proved +that we were mistaken. But surely you do +not blame me?”</p> +<p>“Blame you? No ... the word hadn’t +occurred to me. I’m afraid I don’t understand +our language very well. Who could +ever have thought of such a meaningless +word as ‘blame’? You might think little +creatures—ants, or the silly locusts that sing +in the heat—might have need of such a word. +You wouldn’t <i>blame</i> an apple for being deformed, +would you?—or the hawk for killing +the dove? We are what we are—that’s +all. I don’t blame any one.”</p> +<p>The bewildered Harboro leaned forward, +his hands on his knees. “We are what we +make ourselves, Sylvia. We do what we permit +ourselves to do. Don’t lose sight of that +fact. Don’t lose sight of the fact, either, that +we are here, man and wife, to help each other. +I’m waiting, Sylvia, for you to tell me what +has gone wrong.”</p> +<p>All that she grasped of what he said she +would have denied passionately; but the +iron in his nature, now manifesting itself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span> +again, she did not understand and she stood +in awe of it.</p> +<p>“Give me until to-morrow,” she pleaded. +“I think perhaps I’m ill to-night. You know +how you imagine things sometimes? Give +me until to-morrow, until I can see more +clearly. Perhaps it won’t seem anything at +all by to-morrow.”</p> +<p>And Harboro, pondering darkly, consented +to question her no more that night.</p> +<p>Later he lay by her side, a host of indefinable +fears keeping him company. He could +not sleep. He did not even remotely guess +the nature of her trouble, but he knew instinctively +that the very foundations of her +being had been disturbed.</p> +<p>Once, toward morning, she began to cry +piteously. “No, oh no!” The words were +repeated in anguish until Harboro, in despair, +seized her in his arms. “What is it, +Sylvia?” he cried. “No one shall harm +you!”</p> +<p>He held her on his breast and soothed her, +his own face harrowed with pain. And he +noticed that she withdrew into herself again, +and seemed remote, a stranger to him. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span></p> +<p>Then she fell into a sound sleep and +breathed evenly for hours. The dawn broke +and a wan light filled the room. Harboro +saw that her face was the face of Sylvia again—the +face of a happy child, as it seemed to +him. In her sleep she reached out for him +contentedly and found his throat, and her +fingers rested upon it with little, intermittent, +loving pressures.</p> +<p>Finally she awoke. She awoke, but Harboro’s +crowning torture came when he saw +the expression in her eyes. The horror of +one who tumbles into a bottomless abyss +was in them. But now—thank God!—she +drew herself to him passionately and wept +in his arms. The day had brought back to +her the capacity to think, to compare the +fine edifice she and Harboro had built with +the wreck which a cruel beast had wrought. +She sobbed her strength away on Harboro’s +breast.</p> +<p>And when the sun arose she looked into +her husband’s gravely steadfast eyes, and +knew that she must tell the truth. She knew +that there was nothing else for her to do. +She spared her father, inventing little falsehoods +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span> +on his behalf; herself she spared, confessing +no fault of her own. But the truth, +as to how on the night before Fectnor had +trapped her and wronged her in her father’s +house, she told. She knew that Harboro +would never have permitted her to rest if +she had not told him; she knew that she must +have gone mad if she had not unbosomed herself +to this man who was as the only tree in +the desert of her life. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XV</p> +</div> + +<p>She was puzzled by the manner in which +he heard her to the end. She expected an +outburst; and she found only that after one +moment, during which his body became rigid +and a look of incredulous horror settled in +his eyes, a deadly quiet enveloped him. He +did not try to comfort her—and certainly +there was no evidence that he blamed her. +He asked her a few questions when she had +finished. He was not seeking to implicate +her—she felt certain of that. He merely +wanted to be quite sure of his ground.</p> +<p>Then he got up and began dressing, deliberately +and quietly. It did not occur to +her that he was not putting on the clothes +he usually wore on Sunday, but this deviation +from a rule would not have seemed significant +to her even if she had noticed it. +She closed her eyes and pondered. In Sylvia’s +world men did not calmly ignore injury. +They became violent, even when violence +could not possibly mend matters. Had Harboro +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span> +decided to accept the inevitable, the +irremediable, without a word? Her first +thought, last night, had been that she would +probably lose Harboro, too, together with +her peace of mind. He would rush madly +at Fectnor, and he would be killed. Was he +the sort of man who would place discretion +first and pocket an insult?</p> +<p>Oddly, the fear that he would attack Fectnor +changed to a fear that he did not intend +to do so. She could not bear to think of the +man she loved as the sort of man who will +not fight, given such provocation as Harboro +had.</p> +<p>She opened her eyes to look at him, to +measure him anew. But he was no longer in +the room.</p> +<p>Then her fear for him returned with redoubled +force. Quiet men were sometimes +the most desperate, the most unswerving, +she realized. Perhaps he had gone even now +to find Fectnor.</p> +<p>The thought terrified her. She sprang +from the bed and began dressing with feverish +haste. She would overtake him and plead +with him not to go. If necessary, she would +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span> +tell him other things about herself—about +the reasons she had given Fectnor, long ago, +to believe that she was not a woman to be +respected. Harboro would not forgive her, +in that event. He would leave her. But he +would not go to his death. It seemed to her +quite clear that the only unforgivable sin +she could commit would be to permit Harboro +to die for her sake.</p> +<p>She hurried down into the dining-room. +Ah, Harboro was there! And again she was +puzzled by his placidity. He was standing +at a window, with his back to her, his hands +clasped behind him. He turned when he +heard her. “It promises to be another warm +day,” he said pleasantly. Then he turned +and looked out through the kitchen door as +if hinting to Antonia that breakfast might +now be served.</p> +<p>He ate his grapes and poached eggs and +drank his coffee in silence. He seemed unaware +that Sylvia was regarding him with +troubled eyes.</p> +<p>When he arose from the table he turned +toward the hall. As if by an afterthought, +he called back, “I’m going to be busy for a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span> +little while, Sylvia,” and she heard him going +up the stairs.</p> +<p>His tone had conveyed a hint that he did +not wish to be disturbed, she thought, but +she could not help being uncomfortably curious. +What was there to be done on a Sunday +morning that could compare in importance +with the obviously necessary task of +helping her to forget the injuries she had suffered? +It was not his way to turn away +from her when she needed him.</p> +<p>She could not understand his conduct at +all. She was wounded; and then she began +to think more directly, more clearly. Harboro +was not putting this thing away from +him. In his way he was facing it. But how?</p> +<p>She noiselessly climbed the stairs and +opened the door of their bedroom.</p> +<p>With great exactitude of movement he +was cleaning a pistol. He had taken it apart +and just now a cylinder of burnished steel +was in his hand.</p> +<p>He frowned when he heard her. “I am +sorry you came up, Sylvia,” he said. “I had +an idea I’d given you to understand....”</p> +<p>She hurriedly withdrew, closing the door +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span> +behind her. She felt an inexplicable elation +as she went down the stairs; yet she felt +that she stood face to face with calamity, +too. Her man was a fighting man, then—only +he was not a madman. He was the sort +of fighter who did not lose his head. But she +could not picture him as a man skilled in the +brutal work of killing. He was too deliberate, +too scrupulous, for that sort of work. +And Fectnor was neither deliberate nor +scrupulous. He was the kind of man who +would be intently watchful for an advantage, +and who would be elated as he seized that +advantage.</p> +<p>... She would persuade Harboro not to +go, after all. The thing was not known. It +would never be known. Her searching woman’s +logic brought to her the realization that +the only way to publish the facts broadcast +was for Harboro to seek a quarrel with Fectnor. +He would have to give his reasons.</p> +<p>But when Harboro came down the stairs +she knew instantly that she could not stop +him from going. That quiet look was not +unreadable now. It meant unswerving determination. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span></p> +<p>He called to her, his hand outstretched; +and when she went to him he kissed her. His +voice was gentle and unshaken, in quite the +habitual way, when he said: “<i>I shall be back +in a little while</i>.”</p> +<p>She clasped her hands and looked at him +imploringly. “Don’t go,” she pleaded.</p> +<p>“Ah, but I must go.”</p> +<p>She touched his cheeks with her hands. +“Don’t go!” she repeated. “Nothing can +be undone.”</p> +<p>“But a man’s job isn’t to undo things—it’s +to do them.”</p> +<p>She held her face high as if the waters were +engulfing her. “Don’t go!” she said again; +and her eyes were swimming, so that at the +last she did not see him go, and did not know +that he had kept that look of placid courage +to the end.</p> +<p>It was a little early for the usual Sunday +morning loiterers to be about as Harboro +entered the town. For a moment he believed +there was no one about at all. The little +town, with its main street and its secondary +thoroughfares bordered by low structures, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span> +might have been regarded as the habitation +of lesser creatures than human beings, as it +stood there musing after the departed night, +in the midst of limitless wastes of sand. +That group of houses might have been likened +to some kind of larger birds, hugging the +earth in trepidation, ready to take flight at +any moment.</p> +<p>Yet Harboro had been mistaken in supposing +that no one was as yet astir. Two +men stood out in the street, at the entrance +to the Maverick bar, near a hitching-post to +which a small horse carrying a big saddle was +tethered. One of the men was about to +mount. As Harboro approached he untied +his horse and lifted one foot to its stirrup, +and stood an instant longer to finish what he +was saying, or perhaps to hear the other out.</p> +<p>The other man was in his shirt-sleeves. He +carried a blue-serge sack-coat over his arm. +He stood facing Harboro as the latter approached; +and the expression in his eyes +seemed to change in a peculiar way at sight +of the big, swarthy man who stepped off the +sidewalk, down into the street, and seemed to +be headed directly toward him. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span></p> +<p>The two men had never met before; but +Harboro, taking in that compact, muscular +figure, found himself musing with assurance: +“That is Fectnor.”</p> +<p>Nothing in his face or carriage betrayed +his purpose, and the man with the blue-serge +garment on his arm kept his ground complacently. +The man with the horse mounted +and rode away.</p> +<p>Harboro advanced easily until he was +within arm’s length of the other man in the +street. “You’re Fectnor, aren’t you?” he +asked.</p> +<p>“I am,” replied the other crisply.</p> +<p>Harboro regarded him searchingly. At +length he remarked: “Fectnor, I see you’ve +got a gun on you.”</p> +<p>“I have,” was the steely response. Fectnor’s +narrow blue eyes became, suddenly, the +most alert thing about a body which was all +alertness.</p> +<p>“So have I,” said Harboro.</p> +<p>The other’s narrow eyes seemed to twinkle. +His response sounded like: “The L you +say!”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Harboro. He added: “My +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span> +wife was the woman you trapped in Little’s +house last night.”</p> +<p>Fectnor’s mind went swiftly to the weapon +in his holster; and something more than his +mind, surely, since Harboro knew. Yet the +man’s hand had barely moved. However, +he casually threw the coat he carried over +his left arm, leaving his right hand free. If +he had thought of reaching for his weapon he +had probably realized that he must first get +out of reach of Harboro’s arm. “You might +put that a little different,” he said lightly. +“You might say—the woman I met in Little’s +house.”</p> +<p>Harboro took in the insinuated insult. He +remained unmoved. He could see that Fectnor +was not a coward, no matter what else +he was; and he realized that this man would +seek to enrage him further, so that his eyes +would be blinded, so that his hands would +tremble.</p> +<p>“I’m going to kill you, Fectnor,” Harboro +continued. “But I’m going to give you a +chance for your life. I want you to turn and +walk down the street twelve paces. Then +turn and draw. I’ll not draw until you turn +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span> +unless you try to play a trick on me. Your +best chance lies in your doing just as I tell +you to.”</p> +<p>Fectnor regarded him shrewdly with his +peering, merry eyes. He rather liked Harboro, +so far as first impressions went. Yet +his lips were set in a straight line. “All +right,” he drawled amiably. His voice was +pitched high—almost to a falsetto.</p> +<p>“Remember, you’d better not draw until +you’ve turned around,” advised Harboro. +“You’ll be more likely to get your bearings +right that way. You see, I want to give you +an even break. If I’d wanted to murder you +I could have slipped up from behind. You +see that, of course.”</p> +<p>“Clear as a whistle,” said Fectnor. He +gave Harboro a final searching look and +then turned about unflinchingly. He proceeded +a few steps, his hands held before him +as if he were practising a crude cake-walk. +The serge garment depended from one arm. +He was thinking with lightning-like rapidity. +Harboro had courage enough—that he could +tell—but he didn’t behave like a man who +knew very many tricks with a gun. Nevertheless +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span> +he, Fectnor, would be under a disadvantage +in this test of skill which was being +forced upon him. When he turned he would +need just a second to get a perfect balance, +to be quite sure of his footing, to get his bearings. +And that one second might make all +the difference in the outcome of the affair. +Moreover, there was one other point in Harboro’s +favor, Fectnor realized. His was the +stronger determination of the two. Fectnor had +not flinched, but he knew that his heart was +not in this fight. He could see that Harboro +was a good deal of a man. A fool, perhaps, +but still a decent fellow.</p> +<p>These were conclusions which had come +in flashes, while Fectnor took less than half +a dozen steps. Then he turned his head +partly, and flung back almost amiably: “Wait +until I get rid of my coat!”</p> +<p>“Drop it!” cried Harboro sharply.</p> +<p>But Fectnor plainly had another idea. He +turned a little out of his course, still with his +hands well in front of him. It was evident, +then, that he meant to fling his coat on the +sidewalk.</p> +<p>Harboro held him with eyes which were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span> +keen as knives, yet still a little dubious. He +was puzzled by the man’s good humor; he +was watchful for sudden stratagems. His +own hands were at his sides, the right within +a few inches of his hip.</p> +<p>Yet, after all, he was unprepared for what +happened. Fectnor leaned forward as if to +deposit his coat on the sidewalk. Then he +seemed to stumble, and in two swift leaps he +had gained the inner side of the walk and had +darted into the inset of the saloon. He was +out of sight in a flash.</p> +<p>As if by some feat in legerdemain Harboro’s +weapon was in his hand; but it was +a hand that trembled slightly. He had allowed +Fectnor to gain an advantage.</p> +<p>He stared fixedly at that place where Fectnor +had disappeared. His right hand was +held in the position of a runner’s, and the +burnished steel of the weapon in it caught +the light of the sun. He had acquired the +trick of firing while his weapon was being +elevated—not as he lowered it; with a movement +like the pointing of a finger. He was +ready for Fectnor, who would doubtless try +to take him by surprise. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span></p> +<p>Then he realized that the level rays of the +sun made the whole entrance to the saloon, +with its several facets of glass, a thing of +dazzling opaqueness. He could not see Fectnor +until the latter stepped forth from his +ambush; yet it seemed probable that Fectnor +might be able to see him easily enough +through the glass barricade behind which he +had taken refuge. He might expect to hear +the report of a weapon and the crash of glass +at any instant.</p> +<p>At this realization he had an ugly sensation +at the roots of his hair—as if his scalp +had gone to sleep. Yet he could only stand +and wait. It would be madness to advance.</p> +<p>So he stood, almost single-mindedly. He +had a disagreeable duty to perform, and he +must perform it. Yet the lesser cells of his +brain spoke to him, too, and he realized that +he must present a shocking sight to law-abiding, +happy people, if any should appear. +He was glad that the street was still deserted, +and that he might reasonably hope +to be unseen.</p> +<p>Then his hand shot forward with the +fierceness of a tiger’s claw: there had been a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span> +movement in the saloon entrance. Only by +the fraction of a second was the finger on +the trigger stayed.</p> +<p>It was not Fectnor who appeared. Dunwoodie +stepped into sight casually and looked +in Harboro’s direction. The expression of +amused curiosity in his eyes swiftly gave +place to almost comical amazement when +he took in that spasmodic movement of Harboro’s.</p> +<p>“What’s up?” he inquired. He approached +Harboro leisurely.</p> +<p>“Stand aside, Dunwoodie,” commanded +Harboro harshly.</p> +<p>“Well, wait a minute,” insisted Dunwoodie. +“Calm yourself, man. I want to +talk to you. Fectnor’s not in the saloon. +He went on through and out the back way.”</p> +<p>Harboro wheeled with an almost despairing +expression in his eyes. He seemed to +look at nothing, now—like a bird-dog that +senses the nearness of the invisible quarry. +The thought came to him: “Fectnor may +appear at any point, behind me!” The man +might have run back along the line of buildings, +seeking his own place to emerge again. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span></p> +<p>But Dunwoodie went on reassuringly. He +had guessed the thought in Harboro’s mind. +“No, he’s quite gone. I watched him go. +He’s probably in Mexico by this time—or +well on his way, at least.”</p> +<p>Harboro drew a deep breath. “You +watched him go?”</p> +<p>“When he came into the saloon, like a +rock out of a sling, he stopped just long +enough to grin, and fling out this—to me—‘If +you want to see a funny sight, go out +front.’ Fectnor never did like me, anyway. +Then he scuttled back and out. I followed +to see what was the matter. He made +straight for the bridge road. He was sprinting. +He’s gone.”</p> +<p>Harboro’s gun had disappeared. He was +frowning; and then he realized that Dunwoodie +was looking at him with a quizzical +expression.</p> +<p>He made no explanation, however.</p> +<p>“I must be getting along home,” he said +shortly. He was thinking of Sylvia. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XVI</p> +</div> + +<p>Dunwoodie was not given to talkativeness; +moreover, he was a considerate man, +and he respected Harboro. Therefore it +may be doubted if he ever said anything +about that unexplained drama which occurred +on the main street of Eagle Pass on +a Sunday morning, before the town was +astir. But there was the bartender at the +Maverick—and besides, it would scarcely +have been possible for any man to do what +Harboro had done without being seen by +numbers of persons looking out upon the +street through discreetly closed windows.</p> +<p>At any rate, there was talk in the town. +By sundown everybody knew there had been +trouble between Harboro and Fectnor, and +men who dropped into the Maverick for a +game of high-five or poker had their attention +called to an unclaimed blue-serge coat +hanging from the ice-box.</p> +<p>“He got away with his skin,” was the way +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span> +the bartender put the case, “but he left his +coat.”</p> +<p>There was a voice from one of the card-tables: +“Well, any man that gets Fectnor’s +coat is no slouch.”</p> +<p>There were a good many expressions of +undisguised wonder at Fectnor’s behavior; +and nobody could have guessed that perhaps +some sediment of manhood which had remained +after all the other decent standards +had disappeared had convinced Fectnor that +he did not want to kill a man whom he had +injured so greatly. And from the popular +attitude toward Fectnor’s conduct there grew +a greatly increased respect for Harboro.</p> +<p>That, indeed, was the main outcome of +the episode, so far as the town as a whole +was concerned. Harboro became a somewhat +looming figure. But with Sylvia ... well, +with Sylvia it was different.</p> +<p>Of course Sylvia was connected with the +affair, and in only one way. She was the +sort of woman who might be expected to +get her husband into trouble, and Fectnor +was the kind of man who might easily appeal +to her imagination. This was the common +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span> +verdict; and the town concluded that it was +an interesting affair—the more so because +nearly all the details had to be left to the +imagination.</p> +<p>As for Sylvia, the first direct result of her +husband’s gun-play was that a week or two +after the affair happened, she had a caller—the +wife of Jesus Mendoza.</p> +<p>She had not had any callers since her marriage. +Socially she had been entirely unrecognized. +The social stratum represented +by the Mesquite Club, and that lower stratum +identified with church “socials” and +similar affairs, did not know of Sylvia’s existence—had +decided definitely never to know +of her existence after she had walked down +the aisle of the church to the strains of the +Lohengrin march. Nevertheless, there had +been that trip to the church, and the playing +of the march; and this fact placed Sylvia +considerably above certain obscure women +in the town who were not under public condemnation, +but whose status was even more +hopeless—who were regarded as entirely negligible.</p> +<p>The wife of Jesus Mendoza was one of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span> +these. She was an American woman, married +to a renegade Mexican who was +notoriously evil. I have referred to Mendoza +as a man who went about partly +concealed in his own cloud of cigarette smoke, +who looked at nothing in particular and +who was an active politician of a sort. He +had his place in the male activities of the +town; but you wouldn’t have known he had +a wife from anything there was in his conversation +or in his public appearances. Nobody +remembered ever to have seen the two +together. She remained indoors in all sorts +of weather save when she had marketing to +do, and then she looked neither to left nor +right. Her face was like a mask. She had +been an unfortunate creature when Mendoza +married her; and she was perhaps +thankful to have even a low-caste Mexican +for a husband, and a shelter, and money +enough to pay the household expenses.</p> +<p>That her life could not have been entirely +complete, even from her own way of thinking, +was evidenced by the fact that at last +she came to call on Sylvia in the house on +the Quemado Road.</p> +<p>Sylvia received her with reticence and with +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span> +a knowing look. She was not pleased that +Mrs. Mendoza had decided to call. She +realized just what her own status was in +the eyes of this woman, who had assumed +that she might be a welcome visitor.</p> +<p>But Sylvia’s outlook upon life, as has been +seen, was distorted in many ways; and she +was destined to realize that she must form +new conclusions as to this woman who had +come to see her in her loneliness.</p> +<p>Mrs. Mendoza was tactful and kind. She +assumed nothing, save that Sylvia was not +very thoroughly acquainted in the town, and +that as she had had her own house now for +a month or two, she would expect people to +be neighborly. She discussed the difficulties +of housekeeping so far from the source of +supplies. She was able, incidentally, to give +Sylvia a number of valuable hints touching +these difficulties. She discussed the subject +of Mexican help without self-consciousness. +During her call it developed that she was +fond of music—that in fact she was (or had +been) a musician. And for the first time since +Sylvia’s marriage there was music on the +piano up in the boudoir. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span></p> +<p>Mrs. Mendoza played with a passionateness +which was quite out of keeping with +her mask-like expression. It was like finding +a pearl in an oyster, hearing her at the +piano. She played certain airs from <i>Fra +Diavolo</i> so skilfully that she seemed to be +letting bandits into the house; and when +she saw that Sylvia was following with deep +appreciation she passed on to the <i>Tower +Scene</i>, giving to the minor chords a quality +of massiveness. Her expression changed +oddly. There was color in her cheeks and a +stancher adjustment of the lines of her face. +She suggested a good woman struggling +through flames to achieve safety. When she +played from <i>Il Trovatore</i> you did not think +of a conservatory, but of a prison.</p> +<p>She stopped after a time and the color +swiftly receded from her cheeks. “I’m afraid +I’ve been rather in earnest,” she said apologetically. +“I haven’t played on a good +piano for quite a long time.” She added, as +if her remark might seem an appeal for pity, +“the climate here injures a piano in a year +or so. The fine sand, you know.”</p> +<p>“You must come and use mine whenever +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span> +you will,” said Sylvia heartily. “I love it, +though I’ve never cared to play myself.”</p> +<p>“I wonder why?”</p> +<p>“Ah, I could scarcely explain. I’ve been +too busy living. It has always seemed to +me that music and pictures and books were +for people who had been caught in an eddy +and couldn’t go on with the stream.” She +realized the tactlessness of this immediately, +and added: “That’s just a silly fancy. +What I should have said, of course, is that +I haven’t the talent.”</p> +<p>“Don’t spoil it,” remonstrated the other +woman thoughtfully. “But you must remember +that few of us can always go on +with the stream.”</p> +<p>“Sometimes you get caught in the whirlpools,” +said Sylvia, as they were going down +the stairs, “and then you can’t stop, even +if you’d like to.”</p> +<p>I doubt if either woman derived a great +deal of benefit from this visit. They might +have become helpful friends under happier +conditions; but neither had anything to +offer the other save the white logic of untoward +circumstances and defeat. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span></p> +<p>The wife of Jesus Mendoza did not know +Sylvia well enough to perceive that a certain +blitheness and faith had abandoned her, +never to return. Nevertheless, the fact of her +visit has its place in this chronicle, since it +had a cruel bearing upon a day which still lay +in Sylvia’s future.</p> +<p>Sylvia’s caller went home; and, as it +chanced, she never called again at the house +on the Quemado Road. As for Sylvia, she did +not speak to Harboro of her visitor. From +his point of view, she thought, there would +be nothing to be proud of in the fact that +Mrs. Mendoza had called. And so Harboro +was destined to go on to the end without +knowing that there was any such person as +the wife of Jesus Mendoza. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span></p> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='IV_THE_HORSE_WITH_THE_GOLDEN_DAPPLES' id='IV_THE_HORSE_WITH_THE_GOLDEN_DAPPLES'></a> +<h2><i>PART IV</i></h2> +<h3>THE HORSE WITH THE GOLDEN DAPPLES</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span></div> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XVII</p> +</div> + +<p>Two events which had a bearing upon +Sylvia’s destiny occurred at about this time. +I am not sure which came first: the invitation +to a celebration out at the Quemado +settlement, or the arrival on the border of +Runyon, the mounted inspector.</p> +<p>The coming of Runyon caused a distinct +ripple in the social circles of the two border +towns. He was well connected, it was known: +he was a cousin to a congressman in the San +Angelo district, and he had a brother in the +army.</p> +<p>He was a sort of frontier Apollo; a man in +his prime, of striking build—a dashing fellow. +He had the physical strength, combined +with neatness of lines, which characterized +Buffalo Bill in his younger days. He +was a blond of the desert type, with a shapely +mustache the color of flax, with a ruddy +skin finely tanned by sun and wind, and +with deep blue eyes which flashed and sparkled +under his flaxen brows. He was a manly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span> +appearing fellow, though there was a glamour +about him which made prosaic folk suspicious.</p> +<p>He rode a dun horse with golden dapples—a +slim, proud thing which suited Runyon in +every detail. When you saw him mounted +you thought of a parade; you wondered +where the rest of it was—the supernumerary +complement.</p> +<p>The man was also characterized by the +male contingent of the border as a “dresser.” +He was always immaculately clad, despite +the exposure to which his work subjected +him. He seemed to have an artist’s sense of +color effects. Everything he put on was not +only faultless in itself, but it seemed specially +designed and made for him. In the set of +his sombrero and the style of his spurs he +knew how to suggest rakishness without +quite achieving it; and when he permitted +his spirited horse to give way to its wayward +or playful moods there was something just +a little sinister in his mirth. He looked as +much at home in conventional clothes as in +his inspector’s outfit, and he immediately +became a social favorite on both sides of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span> +river. It developed that he could sing quite +amazingly. His voice was high-pitched, but +there was power and fire in it. He sang +easily and he loved to sing. His songs were +the light-opera favorites, the fame of which +reached the border from New York and +London, and even Vienna. And when there +was difficulty about getting the accompaniments +played he took his place unaffectedly +at the piano and played them himself.</p> +<p>His name began to appear regularly in +the Eagle Pass <i>Guide</i> in connection with +social events; and he was not merely mentioned +as “among those present,” but there +was always something about his skill as a +musician.</p> +<p>Of course Sylvia was destined to see him +sooner or later, though she stayed at home +with almost morbid fidelity to a resolution +she had made. He rode out the Quemado +Road one matchless December day when +the very air would have seemed sufficient +to produce flowers without calling the ungracious +desert into service. Sylvia sat in +her boudoir by an open window and watched +him approach. She immediately guessed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span> +that it was Runyon. The remarkable manner +in which he had conquered the town +had made him an occasional subject for +comment between Sylvia and Harboro, and +he had described the man to her.</p> +<p>Sylvia thought that the rider and his +horse, with the sun on the man’s flashing +blue eyes and the horse’s golden dapples, +constituted the prettiest picture she had +ever seen. Never before had she observed +a man who sat his horse with such an air of +gallantry.</p> +<p>And as she regarded him appraisingly he +glanced up at her, and there was the slightest +indication of pleased surprise in his +glance. She withdrew from the window; but +when she reckoned that he was well past the +house she looked after him. He was looking +back, and their eyes met again.</p> +<p>It is decidedly contrary to my conviction +that either Sylvia or Runyon consciously +paved the way for future mischief when they +indulged in that second glance at each other. +He was the sort of man who might have attracted +a second glance anywhere, and he +would have been a poor fellow if he had not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span> +considered Sylvia a sight worth turning his +head for.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, Sylvia regretted that second +glance. It had an effect upon her heart +which was far from soothing; and when she +realized that her heart seemed suddenly to +hurt her, her conscience followed suit and +hurt her too. She closed the window righteously; +though she was careful not to do so +until she felt sure that Runyon was beyond +sight and hearing.</p> +<p>And then there came to Harboro the invitation +out to the Quemado. The belle of +the settlement, a Mexican girl famed for +her goodness and beauty, was to be married +to one of the Wayne brothers, ranchers on +an immense scale. The older of the two +brothers was a conventional fellow enough, +with an American wife and a large family; +but the younger brother was known far and +wide as a good-natured, pleasure-pursuing +man who counted every individual in Maverick +County, Mexican and American alike, +his friend. It seemed that he was planning to +settle down now, and he had won the heart +of a girl who seemed destined to make an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span> +admirable mate for one of his nature-loving +type, though his brother had mildly opposed +the idea of a Mexican girl as a member of +the family.</p> +<p>The wedding was to be in the fashion of +the bride’s race. It was to be an affair of +some twenty-four hours’ duration, counting +the dancing and feasting, and it was to take +place in a sort of stockade which served the +Quemado settlement in lieu of a town hall +or a public building of any kind.</p> +<p>Invitations had been practically unlimited +in number. There was to be accommodation +for hundreds. Many musicians had +been engaged, and there was to be a mountain +of viands, a flood of beverages. It was +to be the sort of affair—democratic and +broadly hospitable—which any honest man +might have enjoyed for an hour or so, at +least; and it was in that category of events +which drew sightseers from a considerable +distance. Doubtless there would be casual +guests from Spofford (the nearest railroad +point on the Southern Pacific) and from +Piedras Negras, as well as from Eagle Pass +and the remote corners of Maverick County. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span></p> +<p>Harboro’s invitation had come to him +through one of his fellow employees in the +railroad offices—a Mexican who had spent +four years in an American university, and +who was universally respected for his urbane +manner and kind heart. Valdez, his name +was. He had heartily invited Harboro to +go to the wedding with him as his guest; +and when he saw traces of some sort of difficulty +in Harboro’s manner, he suggested, +with the ready <i>simpatía</i> of his race, that +doubtless there was a Mrs. Harboro also, +and that he hoped Mrs. Harboro, too, would +honor him by accepting his invitation. He +promised that the affair would be enjoyable; +that it would afford an interesting study of +a people whose social customs still included +certain pleasures which dated back to the +Cortez invasion, as well as many of the +latest American diversions.</p> +<p>Harboro tactfully sought for more definite +details; and when he gathered that the +affair would be too immense to be at all +formal—that there would be introductions +only so far as separate groups of persons +were concerned, and that guests would be +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span> +expected to come and go with perfect freedom, +he accepted the invitation gratefully. +He had not forgotten the slight which the +two towns had put upon him and Sylvia, and +he was not willing to subject himself to +snubs from people who had behaved badly. +But he realized that it was necessary for +Sylvia to see people, to get away from the +house occasionally, to know other society +than his own.</p> +<p>In truth, Harboro had been very carefully +taking account of Sylvia’s needs. It seemed +to him that she had not been really herself +since that Sunday morning when he had had +to place his life in jeopardy. In a way, she +seemed to love him more passionately than +ever before; but not so light-heartedly, so +gladly. Some elfin quality in her nature +was gone, and Harboro would gladly have +brought it back again. She had listless +moods; and sometimes as they sat together +he surprised a strange look in her eyes. She +seemed to be very far away from him; and +he had on these occasions the dark thought +that even the substance of her body was +gone, too—that if he should touch her she +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span> +would vanish in a cloud of dust, like that +woman in <i>Archibald Malmaison</i>, after she +had remained behind the secret panel, undiscovered, +for a generation.</p> +<p>And so Harboro decided that he and Sylvia +would go to the big affair at the Quemado. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XVIII</p> +</div> + +<p>There was an atmosphere of happiness +and bustle in the house when the night of +the outing came. Harboro easily managed a +half-holiday (it was a Saturday), and he +had ample time to make careful selection of +horses for Sylvia and himself at an Eagle +Pass stable. He would have preferred a carriage, +but Sylvia had assumed that they +would ride, and she plainly preferred that +mode of travel. She had been an excellent +horsewoman in the old San Antonio days.</p> +<p>Old Antonia was drawn out of her almost +trance-like introspection. The young señora +was excited, as a child might have been, at +the prospect of a long ride through the +chaparral, and she must not be disappointed. +She had fashioned a riding-habit and a very +charming little jacket, and to these the old +woman made an addition of her own—a +wonderful <i>rebozo</i>. She brought it forth from +among her own possessions and offered it +affectionately. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span></p> +<p>“But shall I need it?” asked Sylvia.</p> +<p>Very surely she might, she was assured. +She would not wish to dance in her riding +costume, certainly. And it might turn chilly +after nightfall. She would find that other +young women had such garments to protect +them. And this particular <i>rebozo</i> was quite +wonderful. She pointed out its wonderful +qualities. It was of so delicate a weave that +it might have been thrust into a man’s +pocket; yet, unfolded, it proved to be of +the dimensions of a blanket. And there was +warmth in it. She folded it neatly and explained +how it might be tied to the pommel +of the saddle. It would not be in the way.</p> +<p>Sylvia affected much gratitude for such +kindness and foresight, though she thought +it unlikely that she would need a wrap of +any sort.</p> +<p>There was an early supper, Antonia contributing +a quite unprecedented alacrity; +and then there was a cheerful call from the +road. The horses had been brought.</p> +<p>Sylvia ran out to inspect them; and Harboro, +following, was not a little amazed to +perceive how important a matter she considered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span> +the sort of horses he had engaged. +Horses were not a mere medium of travel +to Sylvia; they were persons in the drama, +and it was highly important that they should +fit into the various romantic demands of the +occasion. Harboro had stipulated that they +should be safe horses, of good appearance; +and the boy from the stable, who had brought +them, regarded them with beaming eyes +when Harboro examined them. The boy evidently +looked at the affair much as Sylvia +did—as if the selection of the horse was far +more important than the determining of a +destination.</p> +<p>“They seem to be all right,” ventured +Harboro.</p> +<p>“Yes, they are very good horses,” agreed +Sylvia; but she sighed a little.</p> +<p>Then there was the clatter of hoofs down +the road, and Valdez appeared. He, too, +bestrode a decidedly prosaic-appearing animal; +but when Harboro exclaimed: “Ah, +it’s Valdez!” Sylvia became more interested +in the man than in the horse. It would be +a pity to have as companion on a long ride +a man without merits. She was not very +favorably impressed by Valdez. The man +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span> +acknowledged his introduction to her too +casually. There were no swift, confidential +messages in his eyes. He seemed to be there +for the purpose of devoting himself to Harboro, +not to her.</p> +<p>Antonia came out to be sure that the +cherished <i>rebozo</i> was tied to the pommel of +Sylvia’s saddle, and then Harboro and Sylvia +went back into the house to get into their +riding things. When they returned Harboro +lifted her to her saddle with a lack of +skill which brought a frown to her brows. +But if she regretted the absence of certain +established formalities in this performance, +she yielded herself immediately to the ecstasy +of being in the saddle. She easily assumed +a pretty and natural attitude which +made Harboro marvel at her.</p> +<p>She watched when it came time for him +to mount. The horse moved uneasily, as +horses have done since the beginning of time +beneath the touch of unpractised riders. Harboro +gathered the reins in too firm a grip, +and the animal tried to pull away from him.</p> +<p>The boy from the stable sprang forward. +“Let me hold his head,” he said, with a too +obvious intimation that Harboro needed help. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span></p> +<p>“Never mind,” said Harboro crisply; and +he achieved his place in the saddle by sheer +force rather than by skill. Neither did he +fall into an easy position; though under +ordinary circumstances this fact would not +have been noted. But Sylvia swiftly recalled +the picture of a dun horse with golden dapples, +and of a rider whose very attitude in +the saddle was like a hymn of praise. And +again she sighed.</p> +<p>She had seen Runyon often since the +afternoon on which he had made his first +appearance on the Quemado Road. Seemingly, +his duties took him out that way often; +and he never passed without glancing toward +Sylvia’s window—and looking back again +after he had passed. Nor had he often found +that place by the window vacant. In truth, +it was one of Sylvia’s pleasures in those days +to watch Runyon ride by; and the afternoon +seemed unduly filled with tedium when +he failed to appear.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>The little picture in front of Harboro’s +house dissolved. The three riders turned +their horses’ heads to the north and rode +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span> +away. Antonia stood at the gate an instant +and looked after them; but she did not derive +any pleasure from the sight. It was not +a very gallant-appearing group. Sylvia was +riding between the two men, and all three +were moving away in silence, as if under +constraint. The stable-boy went somewhat +dispiritedly back along the way he had come.</p> +<p>Sylvia was the first of the three riders +to find herself. There were certain things +which made the springs of gladness within +her stir. The road was perfect. It stretched, +smooth and white, away into the dusk. The +air was clear as on a mountain top, with +just enough crispness to create energy. Of +wind there was scarcely a breath.</p> +<p>She was not pleased at all with Harboro’s +friend. He had assumed the attitude of a +deferential guide, and his remarks were almost +entirely addressed to Harboro. But she +was not to be put out by so small a part +of the night’s programme. After all, Valdez +was not planning to return with them, and +they were likely to have the ride back by +themselves. Valdez, she had been informed, +was to be a sort of best friend to the family +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span> +of the bride, and it would be his duty to remain +for the next day’s ceremonies—the +feasting and the marriage itself.</p> +<p>The dusk deepened, and a new light began +to glow over the desert. A waxing moon, +half-full, rode near the zenith; and as the +light of day receded it took on a surprising +brilliance. The road seemed in some strange +way to be more clearly defined than under +the light of day. It became a winding path +to happiness. It began to beckon; to whisper +of the delights of swift races, of coquetries. +It bade the riders laugh aloud and +fling their cares away. Occasionally it rose +or dipped; and then through little valleys +between sand-dunes, or from low summits, +the waters of the Rio Grande were visible +away to the left. A mist was clinging to the +river, making more mysterious its undisturbed +progress through the desert.</p> +<p>After a long time the silence of the road +was broken by the tinkle of a small bell, +and Valdez pulled his horse in and looked +sharply away into a mesquite-clad depression. +Of old the road had been haunted by night-riders +who were willing enough to ride away +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span> +with a traveller’s possessions, leaving the +traveller staring sightlessly toward the sky. +But Valdez thought of no menaces in connection +with the border folk. He was a kind-hearted +fellow, to whom all men were friends.</p> +<p>“Travellers, or a party camped for the +night,” he said interestedly, as if the presence +of other human beings must be welcomed +gladly. He rode out toward the +sound of that tinkling bell, and in a moment +he was guided more certainly by the +blaze of a camp-fire.</p> +<p>Harboro and Sylvia followed, and presently +they were quite near to two quaint +old carts, heaped high with mesquite fagots +destined for the humbler hearths of Eagle +Pass. Donkeys were tethered near by, and +two Mexicans, quite old and docile in appearance, +came forward to greet the intruders.</p> +<p>Valdez exchanged greetings with them. +He knew something of the loneliness of these +people’s lives, and the only religion he had +was a belief that one must be friendly to +travellers. He produced a flask and invited +the old men to drink; and each did so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span> +with much nice formality and thoroughly +comprehensive toasts to Harboro and Sylvia.</p> +<p>Then Valdez replaced his flask in his +pocket.</p> +<p>“God go with you!” he called as he went +away, and “God go with you!” came back +the placid, kindly echo.</p> +<p>And Sylvia realized suddenly that it was +a very good thing indeed to be riding along +that golden road through the desert. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XIX</p> +</div> + +<p>Harboro became aware that some one +was staring almost insolently at Sylvia.</p> +<p>They were seated on one of the benches +disposed around the side of the stockade, +and there was a great deal of noise all about +them. In the open space of the stockade +a score or more of young men and women +were dancing to the music of violins and +flutes and ’cellos. Nearly all who were not +dancing were talking or laughing. People +who did not see one another for months at +a time were meeting and expressing their +pleasure in staccato showers of words.</p> +<p>There were other noises in the near-by +corral, in which Valdez had put their horses +away with the other horses; and in still +another place the work of barbecuing large +quantities of meat had begun. A pleasant +odor from the fire and the meat floated fitfully +over the stockade. There was still +an almost singular absence of wind, and the +night was warm for a midwinter night. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span></p> +<p>Valdez was remaining for the time being +with his guests, and he was making friendly +comments upon the scene.</p> +<p>“It’s chiefly the young people who are +dancing now,” he observed. “But you’ll +notice men and women of all ages around +in the seats. They will become intoxicated +with the joy of it all—and maybe with other +things—later in the night, and then the +dancing will begin in earnest.”</p> +<p>For the moment an old type of fandango +was being danced—a dance not wholly unlike +a quadrille, in that it admitted a number +of persons to the set and afforded opportunity +for certain individual exhibitions of +skill.</p> +<p>And then Harboro, glancing beyond Valdez, +observed that a man of mature years—a +Mexican—was regarding Sylvia fixedly. +He could not help believing that there was +something of insolence, too, in the man’s +gaze.</p> +<p>He lowered his voice and spoke to Valdez: +“That man sitting by himself over there, +the fourth—the fifth—from us. Do you +know him?” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span></p> +<p>Valdez turned casually and seemed to +be taking in the general scene. He brought +his glance back to Harboro without seeming +to have noticed anything in particular.</p> +<p>“That’s one of your most—er—conspicuous +citizens,” he said with a smile. “His +name is Mendoza—Jesus Mendoza. I’m surprised +you’ve never met him.”</p> +<p>“I never have,” replied Harboro. He got +up and took a new position so that he sat +between Sylvia and Mendoza, cutting off +the view of her.</p> +<p>She had caught the name. She glanced +interestedly at the man called Jesus Mendoza. +She could not remember ever to have +seen him before; but she was curious to +know something about the man whose wife +had been kind to her, and whose life seemed +somehow tragically lonely.</p> +<p>Mendoza made no sign of recognition of +Harboro’s displeasure. He arose with a +purposeless air and went farther along the +stockade wall. Sylvia’s glance followed him. +She had not taken in the fact that the man’s +presence, or anything that he had done, had +annoyed Harboro. She was wondering what +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span> +kind of man it was who had captivated and +held the woman who had filled her boudoir +with passionate music, and who knew how +to keep an expressionless mask in place so +skilfully that no one on the border really +knew her.</p> +<p>The fandango came to an end, and the +smooth earth which constituted the floor +of the enclosure was vacated for an instant. +Then the musicians began a favorite Mexican +waltz, and there was a scurrying of young +men and women for places. There was an +eager movement along the rows of seats by +young fellows who sought partners for the +waltz. Custom permitted any man to seek +any disengaged woman and invite her to +dance with him.</p> +<p>“We ought to find Wayne and pay our +respects,” suggested Valdez. “He will want +to meet Mrs. Harboro, too, of course. Shall +we look for him?”</p> +<p>They skirted the dancing space, leaving +Sylvia with the assurance that they would +soon return. Harboro was noting, with a +relief which he could scarcely understand, +that he was among strangers. The people +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span> +of Eagle Pass were almost wholly unrepresented +as yet. The few Americans present +seemed to be casual sightseers or ranchmen +neighbors of the bridegroom.</p> +<p>Left alone, Sylvia looked eagerly and a +little wistfully toward the dancers. Her +muscles were yielding to the call of the +violins. She was being caught by the spirit +of the occasion. Here she would have been +wholly in her element but for a vague fear +that Harboro would not like her to yield +unrestrainedly to the prevailing mood. She +wished some one would ask her to dance. +The waltz was wonderful, and there was +plenty of room.</p> +<p>And then she looked up as a figure paused +before her, and felt a thrill of interest as +she met the steady, inquiring gaze of Jesus +Mendoza.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Harboro, I believe?” he asked. +The voice was musical and the English was +perfect. He shrewdly read the glance she +gave him and then held out his hand.</p> +<p>“I heard you spoken of as Mr. Mendoza,” +she replied. “Your wife has been very kind +to me.” She did not offer to make room +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span> +for him on the seat beside her. She had +been relieved of her riding-habit, and she +held Antonia’s <i>rebozo</i> across her knees. She +had decided not to use it just yet. The +night was still comfortably warm and she +did not like to cover up the pretty Chinese +silk frock she was wearing. But as Mendoza +glanced down at her she placed the +<i>rebozo</i> over one arm as if she expected to +rise.</p> +<p>Mendoza must have noted the movement. +A gleam of satisfaction shone in his +inscrutable eyes—as when a current of air +removes some of the ash from above a live +coal. “Will you dance with me?” he asked. +“When the young fellows overlook so charming +a partner, surely an old man may become +bold.”</p> +<p>She arose with warm responsiveness, yet +with undefined misgivings. He had an arm +about her firmly in an instant, and when +they had caught step with the music he held +her close to him. He was an excellent dancer. +Sylvia was instantly transported away from +the world of petty discretions into a realm +of faultless harmony, of singing rhythm. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span></p> +<p>Her color was heightened, her eyes were +sparking, when they returned to their place. +“It was nice,” she said, releasing her partner’s +arm and drawing apart. A purple-and-gold +Chinese lantern glowed just above her head. +And then she realized that Harboro and +Valdez had returned. There was a stranger +with them.</p> +<p>Harboro regarded her with unmistakable +disapproval; but only for an instant. When +something of the childlike glory of her face +departed under the severe expression of his +eyes, he relented immediately. “Are you enjoying +yourself, Sylvia?” he inquired gently, +and then: “I want you to meet our host.”</p> +<p>Wayne shook hands with her heartily. +“You’re a very kind lady to get right into +our merrymaking,” he said, “though I hope +you’ll save a dance for me a little later.”</p> +<p>They all went to see the bride-to-be then. +She was hidden away in one of the <i>adobe</i> +houses of the settlement near by, receiving +congratulations from friends. She was a +dark little creature, nicely demure and almost +boisterously joyous by turns.</p> +<p>But later Sylvia danced with Wayne, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span> +and he thought of a dozen, a score, of young +fellows who would wish to meet her. He +brought them singly and in groups, and +they all asked to dance with her. She was +immediately popular. Happiness radiated +from her, and she added to the warmth of +every heart that came within her influence.</p> +<p>Harboro watched her with wonder. She +was like a flame; but he saw her as a sacred +flame. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XX</p> +</div> + +<p>Sylvia was resting. She had not danced +to her heart’s content, but she had become +weary, and she threw Antonia’s <i>rebozo</i> over +her shoulders and leaned back in her seat. +For the moment Harboro and Valdez and +Wayne were grouped near her, standing. +The girl Wayne was to marry the next day +had made her formal appearance now and +was the centre of attention. She was dancing +with one after another, equally gracious +toward all.</p> +<p>Then Sylvia heard Valdez and Wayne cry +out simultaneously:</p> +<p>“Runyon!”</p> +<p>And then both men hurried away toward +the entrance to the stockade.</p> +<p>Sylvia drew her wrap more snugly about +her. “Runyon!” she repeated to herself. +She closed her eyes as if she were pondering—or +recuperating. And she knew that from +the beginning she had hoped that Runyon +would appear. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span></p> +<p>“It’s that inspector fellow,” explained Harboro, +without looking at her. His tone was +not at all contemptuous, though there was +a note of amusement in it. “He seems a +sort of Prince Charming that everybody +takes a liking to.” Wayne and Valdez were +already returning, with Runyon between +them. They pretended to lead him captive +and his face radiated merriment and good +nature. He walked with the elasticity of +a feline creature; he carried his body as if +it were the depository of precious jewels. +Never was there a man to whom nature had +been kinder—nor any man who was more +graciously proud of what nature had done +for him. For the occasion he was dressed +in a suit of fawn-colored corduroy which +fitted him as the rind fits the apple.</p> +<p>“Just a little too much so,” Harboro was +thinking, ambiguously enough, certainly, as +Runyon was brought before him and Sylvia. +Runyon acknowledged the introduction with +a cheerful urbanity which was quite without +discrimination as between Harboro and +Sylvia. Quite impartially he bestowed a +flashing smile upon both the man and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span> +woman. And Harboro began vaguely to +understand. Runyon was popular, not because +he was a particularly good fellow, but +because he was so supremely cheerful. And +he seemed entirely harmless, despite the +glamour of him. After all, he was not a +mere male coquette. He was in love with +the world, with life.</p> +<p>Wayne was reproaching him for not having +come sooner. He should have been +there for the beginning, he said.</p> +<p>And Runyon’s response was characteristic +enough, perhaps: “Everything is always beginning.”</p> +<p>There was gay laughter at this, though +the meaning of it must have been obscure +to all save Sylvia. The words sounded like +a song to her. It was a song she had wished +to sing herself. But she was reflecting, +despite her joy in the saying: “No, everything +is always ending.”</p> +<p>Runyon was borne away like a conqueror. +He mingled with this group and that. His +presence was like a stimulant. His musical +voice penetrated everywhere; his laughter +arose now and again. He did not look back +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span> +toward Sylvia. She had the strange feeling +that even yet they had not met—they had +not met, yet had known each other always. +He ignored her, she felt, as one ignores the +best friend, the oldest associate, on the ground +that no explanations are necessary, no misunderstanding +possible.</p> +<p>Harboro sat down beside Sylvia. When he +spoke there was a note of easy raillery in +his voice. “They’re getting him to sing,” +he said, and Sylvia, bringing her thoughts +back from immeasurable distances, realized +that the dancing space had been cleared, +and that the musicians had stopped playing +and were engaged in a low-spoken conference +with Runyon. He nodded toward them +approvingly and then stepped out into the +open, a little distance from them.</p> +<p>The very sky listened; the desert became +dumb. The orchestra played a prelude and +then Runyon began to sing. The words +came clear and resonant:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“By the blue Alsatian mountains</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Dwelt a maiden young and fair....”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Runyon sang marvellously. Although he +was accustomed to the confines of drawing-rooms +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span> +with low ceilings, he seemed quite +at home on this earthen floor of the desert, +with the moon sinking regretfully beyond +the top of the stockade. He was perfectly +at ease. His hands hung so naturally by +his sides that they seemed invisible.</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“But the blue Alsatian mountains</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Seem to watch and wait alway.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>The song of a woman alone, and then +another, “A Warrior Bold,” and then “Alice, +Where Art Thou?” And finally “Juanita.” +They were songs his audience would appreciate. +And all those four songs of tragedy +he sang without banishing the beaming smile +from his eyes. He might have been relating +the woes of marionettes.</p> +<p>He passed from the scene to the sound of +clapping hands, and when he returned almost +immediately after that agreeable theatrical +exit, he began to dance. He danced +with the bride-to-be, and then with the +bridesmaids. He found obscure girls who +seemed to have been forgotten—who might be +said to have had no existence before he found +them—and danced with them with natural +gallantry. He came finally to Sylvia, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span> +she drifted away with him, her hand resting +on his shoulder like a kiss.</p> +<p>“I thought you would never come to me,” +she said in a lifeless voice.</p> +<p>“You knew I would,” was the response.</p> +<p>Her lips said nothing more. But her heart +was beating against him; it was speaking to +him with clarity, with eloquence. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span></p> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='V_A_WIND_FROM_THE_NORTH' id='V_A_WIND_FROM_THE_NORTH'></a> +<h2><i>PART V</i></h2> +<h3>A WIND FROM THE NORTH</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span></div> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXI</p> +</div> + +<p>Harboro and Sylvia were taking leave of +Wayne and Valdez. Their horses had been +brought and they were in their saddles, their +horses’ heads already in the direction of +Eagle Pass. Valdez was adding final instructions +touching the road.</p> +<p>“If you’re not quite sure of the way I’ll +get some one to ride in with you,” said +Wayne; but Harboro would not listen to +this.</p> +<p>“I’ll not lose the way,” he declared; +though there remained in his mind a slight +dubiousness on this point. The moon would +be down before the ride was finished, and +there were not a few roads leading away +from the main thoroughfare.</p> +<p>Then, much to Harboro’s surprise, Runyon +appeared, riding away from the corral +on his beautiful dun horse. He overheard +the conference between Harboro and the +others, and he made himself one of the +group with pleasant familiarity. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214' name='page_214'></a>214</span></p> +<p>“Ah, Harboro, must you be going, too?” +he inquired genially; and then: “If you +don’t mind, I’ll ride with you. It’s rather +a lonely road at this hour, and I’ve an idea +I know the way better than you.”</p> +<p>Harboro’s eyes certainly brightened with +relief. “It’s good of you to offer,” he declared +heartily. “By all means, ride with +us.” He turned toward Sylvia, plainly expecting +her to second the invitation.</p> +<p>“It will be much pleasanter,” she said; +though it seemed to Harboro that her words +lacked heartiness. She was busying herself +with the little package at her pommel—old +Antonia’s <i>rebozo</i>.</p> +<p>“And you must all remember that there’s +one more latch-string out here at the Quemado,” +said Wayne, “whenever you feel +inclined to ride this way.”</p> +<p>They were off then. The sound of violins +and the shuffle of feet became faint, and the +last gay voice died in the distance. Only +now and then, when the horses’ feet fell in +unison, there drifted after them the note +of a violin—like a wind at night in an old +casement. And then the three riders were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215' name='page_215'></a>215</span> +presently aware of being quite alone on a +windless waste, with a sentinel yucca standing +on a distant height here and there between +them and the descending moon, and +distant groups of mesquite wreathing themselves +in the silver mist of early morning. +It had been a little past midnight when they +left the Quemado.</p> +<p>Sylvia, riding between the two men, was +so obviously under some sort of constraint +that Harboro sought to arouse her. “I’m +afraid you overtaxed yourself, Sylvia,” he +suggested. “It’s all been pleasant, but rather—heroic.” +It was an effort for him to speak +lightly and cheerfully. The long ride out to +the Quemado was a thing to which he was +not accustomed, and the merrymaking had +seemed to him quite monotonous after an +hour or two. Even the midnight supper +had not seemed a particularly gay thing to +him. He was not quite a youth any more, +and he had never been young, it seemed to +him, in the way in which these desert folk +were young. Joy seemed to them a kind of +intoxication—as if it were not to be indulged +in save at long intervals. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216' name='page_216'></a>216</span></p> +<p>“I didn’t overtax myself,” replied Sylvia. +“The ending of things is never very cheerful. +I suppose that’s what I feel just now—as +if, at the end, things don’t seem quite +worth while, after all.”</p> +<p>Harboro held to his point. “You <i>are</i> +tired,” he insisted.</p> +<p>Runyon interposed cheerfully. “And there +are always the beginnings,” he said. “We’re +just beginning a new day and a fine ride.” +He looked at Harboro as if inviting support +and added, in a lower tone: “And I’d like +to think we were beginning a pleasant acquaintance.”</p> +<p>Harboro nodded and his dark eyes beamed +with pleasure. It had seemed to him that +this final clause was the obvious thing for +Runyon to say, and he had waited to see +if he would say it. He did not suppose that +he and Sylvia would see a great deal of +Runyon in Eagle Pass, where they were not +invited to entertainments of any kind, but +there might be occasional excursions into +the country, and Runyon seemed to be invited +everywhere.</p> +<p>But Sylvia refused to respond to this. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217' name='page_217'></a>217</span> +The pagan in her nature reasserted itself, +and she felt resentful of Runyon’s affable +attitude toward Harboro. The attraction +which she and Runyon exerted toward each +other was not a thing to be brought within +the scope of a conventionally friendly relationship. +Its essence was of the things +furtive and forbidden. It should be fought +savagely and kept within bounds, even if it +could never be conquered, or it should be +acknowledged and given way to in secret. +Two were company and three a crowd in +this case. She might have derived a great +deal of tumultuous joy from Runyon’s friendship +for her if it could have been manifested +in secret, but she could feel only a sense of +duplicity and shame if his friendship included +Harboro, too. The wolf does not curry favor +with the sheep-dog when it hungers for a +lamb. Such was her creed. In brief, Sylvia +had received her training in none of the +social schools. She was a daughter of the +desert—a bit of that jetsam which the Rio +Grande leaves upon its arid banks as it +journeys stealthily to the sea.</p> +<p>They were riding along in silence half an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218' name='page_218'></a>218</span> +hour later, their horses at a walk, when the +stillness of the night was rudely shattered +by the sound of iron wheels grinding on +stone, and in an instant a carriage could be +seen ascending a branch road which arose +out of a near-by <i>arroyo</i>.</p> +<p>The riders checked their horses and waited: +not from curiosity, but in response to the +prompting of a neighborly instinct. Travellers +in the desert are never strangers to +one another.</p> +<p>The approaching carriage proved to be +an impressively elegant affair, the locality +considered, drawn by two horses which were +clearly not of the range variety. And then +further things were revealed: a coachman +sat on the front seat, and a man who wore +an air of authority about him like a kingly +robe sat alone on the back seat. Then to +Harboro, sitting high with the last rays of +the moon touching his face, came the hearty +hail: “Harboro! How are you, Harboro?”</p> +<p>It was the voice of the General Manager.</p> +<p>Harboro turned his horse so that he stood +alongside the open carriage. He leaned +over the wheel and shook hands with the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span> +General Manager. The encounter seemed +to him to add the one desirable touch of +familiarity to the night ride. He explained +his presence away out on the Quemado +Road; and the General Manager also explained. +He had been spending the evening +with friends on a near-by ranch. His +family were remaining for the night, but it +had been necessary for him to return to +Piedras Negras.</p> +<p>Harboro looked about for his companions, +intending to introduce them. But they were +a little too far away to be included comfortably +in such a ceremony. For some reason +Runyon had chosen to ride on a few steps.</p> +<p>“How many are you?” inquired the General +Manager, with a note of purposefulness +in his voice. “Three? That’s good. You +get in with me. Tie your horse behind. Two +can ride abreast more comfortably than +three, and you and I can talk. I’ve never +felt so lonesome in my life.” He moved +over to one side of the seat, and looked back +as if he expected to help in getting Harboro’s +horse tied behind the carriage. His +invitation did not seem at all like a command, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span> +but it did seem to imply that a refusal +would be out of the question.</p> +<p>The arrangement seemed quite simple and +desirable to Harboro. He was not a practised +horseman, and he was beginning to +feel the effect of saddle strain. Moreover, +he had realized a dozen times during the +past hour that two could ride easily side by +side on the desert road, while a third rider +was continually getting in the way.</p> +<p>He called to Runyon cheerfully: “You two +go on ahead—I’m going to ride the rest of +the way in.”</p> +<p>“Fine!” called back Runyon. To Runyon +everything always seemed precisely ideal—or +at least such was the impression he created.</p> +<p>It became a little cavalcade now, the +riders leading the way. Riders and carriage +kept close together for a time. Sylvia +remained silent, but she felt the presence of +her companion as a deliciously palpable thing. +Harboro and the General Manager were talking, +Harboro’s heavy tones alternating at unequal +intervals with the crisp, penetrating +voice of the General Manager—a voice dry +with years, but vital nevertheless. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span></p> +<p>After a time the horses in the carriage +broke into a rhythmic trot. In the darkness +Runyon’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. +“We’ll have to have a little canter, or we’ll +get run over,” he said gayly, and he and +Sylvia gave rein to their horses.</p> +<p>In a very few minutes they had put a +distance of more than a hundred yards between +them and the occupants of the carriage.</p> +<p>“This is more like it!” exclaimed Runyon +exultantly. Tone and words alike implied +all too strongly his satisfaction at being rid +of Harboro—and Sylvia perversely resented +the disloyalty of it, the implication of intrigue +carried on behind a mask.</p> +<p>And then she forgot her scruples. The +boy who had chosen her horse for her had +known what he was doing, after all. The +animal galloped with a dashing yet easy +movement which was delightful. She became +exhilarated by a number of things. +The freedom of movement, the occasional +touch of her knee against Runyon’s, the +mysterious vagueness of the road, now that +the moon had gone down. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span></p> +<p>Perhaps they both forgot themselves for +a time, and then Sylvia checked her horse +with a laugh in which there was a sound of +dismay. “We ought to wait for them to +catch up,” she said.</p> +<p>Runyon was all solicitude immediately. +“We seem to have outdistanced them completely,” +he said. They turned their horses +about so that they faced the north. “I +can’t even hear them,” he added. Then, +with the irrepressible optimism which was +his outstanding quality, he added laughingly: +“They’ll be along in a few minutes. But +wasn’t it a fine ride?”</p> +<p>She had not framed an answer to this +question when her mind was diverted swiftly +into another channel. She held her head +high and her body became slightly rigid. +She glanced apprehensively at Runyon and +realized that he, too, was listening intently.</p> +<p>A faint roar which seemed to come from +nowhere fell on their ears. The darkness +swiftly deepened, so that the man and the +woman were almost invisible to each other. +That sinister roaring sound came closer, as +if mighty waters were rolling toward them +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span> +far away. The northern sky became black, +as if a sable curtain had been let down.</p> +<p>And then upon Sylvia’s startled senses +the first breath of the norther broke. The +little winds, running ahead as an advance-guard +of the tempest, flung themselves upon +her and caught at her hair and her riding-habit. +They chilled her.</p> +<p>“A norther!” she exclaimed, and Runyon +called back through the whistle of the winds: +“It’s coming!”</p> +<p>His voice had the quality of a battle-cry, +joined to the shouts of the descending storm. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224' name='page_224'></a>224</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXII</p> +</div> + +<p>Fortunately, Runyon knew what to do +in that hour of earth’s desolation and his +own and Sylvia’s peril.</p> +<p>He sprang from his horse and drew his +bridle-rein over his arm; and then he laid +a firm hand on the bridle of Sylvia’s horse. +His own animal he could trust in such an +emergency; but the other had seemed to +lose in height and he knew that it was trembling. +It might make a bolt for it at any +moment.</p> +<p>“Keep your seat,” he shouted to Sylvia, +and she realized that he was leading both +horses away from the road. She caught +glimpses of his wraith-like figure as the +whirling dust-cloud that enveloped them +thinned occasionally.</p> +<p>She knew that he had found a clump of +mesquite after a faltering progress of perhaps +fifty yards. Their progress was checked, +then, and she knew he was at the hitching +straps, and that he was tethering the animals +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225' name='page_225'></a>225</span> +to the trees. The powdered dust and sand +were stinging her face, and the cold wind was +chilling her; yet she felt a strange elation +as she realized that she was here alone with +Runyon, and that he was managing the +situation with deftness and assurance.</p> +<p>She felt his hand groping for her then, +and, leaning forward, she was borne to the +ground. He guided her to a little depression +and made her understand that she was to +sit down. He had removed his saddle-blanket +and spread it on the earth, forming +a rug for her. “The <i>rebozo</i>?” he cried in +her ear.</p> +<p>“It’s fastened to the pommel,” she called +back.</p> +<p>She could neither see nor hear him; but +soon he was touching her on the shoulders. +The <i>rebozo</i> was flung out on the wind so that +it unfolded, and he was spreading it about her.</p> +<p>She caught his hand and drew him close +so that she could make herself heard. +“There’s room under it for two,” she said. +She did not release his hand until he had +sat down by her. Together they drew the +<i>rebozo</i> about them like a little tent. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226' name='page_226'></a>226</span></p> +<p>Immediately they were transformed into +two sheltered and undismayed Arabs. The +<i>rebozo</i> was pinioned behind them and under +their feet. The finest dust could not penetrate +its warp and woof. The wind was as +a mighty hand, intent upon bearing them to +earth, but it could not harm them.</p> +<p>Sylvia heard Runyon’s musical laugh. He +bent his head close to hers. “We’re all right +now,” he said.</p> +<p>He had his arm across her shoulder and +was drawing her close. “It’s going to be +cold,” he said, as if in explanation. He +seemed as joyous as a boy—as innocent as +a boy. She inclined her head until it rested +on his shoulder, so that both occupied little +more than the space of one. The storm +made this intimacy seem almost natural; +it made it advantageous, too.</p> +<p>And so the infinite sands swarmed over +them, and the norther shrieked in their +ears, and the earth’s blackness swallowed +them up until they seemed alone as a man +and a woman never had been alone before.</p> +<p>The <i>rebozo</i> sagged about them at intervals, +weighted down with the dust; but +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227' name='page_227'></a>227</span> +again it rippled like a sail when an eccentric +gust swept away the accumulated sediment.</p> +<p>The desert was a thing of blank darkness. +A protected torch would have been invisible +to one staring toward it a dozen steps away. +A temporary death had invaded the world. +There was neither movement nor sound save +the frenzied dance of dust and the whistle +of winds which seemed shunted southward +from the north star.</p> +<p>Runyon’s hand travelled soothingly from +Sylvia’s shoulder to her cheek. He held +her to him with a tender, eloquent pressure. +He was the man, whose duty it was to protect; +and she was the woman, in need of +protection.</p> +<p>And Sylvia thought darkly of the ingenuities +of Destiny which set at naught +the petty steps which the proprieties have +taken—as if the gods were never so diverted +as when they were setting the stage for +tragedy, or as if the struggles and defeats +of all humankind were to them but a proper +comedy.</p> +<p>But Runyon was thinking how rare a +thing it is for a man and a woman to be +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228' name='page_228'></a>228</span> +quite alone in the world; how the walls +of houses listen, and windows are as eyes +which look in as well as out; how highways +forever hold their malicious gossips to note +the movements of every pair who do not +walk sedately; how you may mount the +stairway of a strange house—and encounter +one who knows you at the top, and who +laughs in his sleeve; how you may emerge +from the house in which you have felt safe +from espionage—only to encounter a familiar +talebearer at the door.</p> +<p>But here indeed were he and Sylvia alone. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229' name='page_229'></a>229</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXIII</p> +</div> + +<p>Before the next spring came two entirely +irreconcilable discoveries were made in Eagle +Pass.</p> +<p>The first of these was made by certain +cronies of the town who found their beer +flat if there was not a bit of gossip to go +with it, and it was to the effect that the +affair between Sylvia and Runyon was sure +to end disastrously if it did not immediately +end otherwise.</p> +<p>The other discovery was made by Harboro, +and it was to the effect that Sylvia +had at last blossomed out as a perfectly +ideal wife.</p> +<p>A certain listlessness had fallen from her +like a shadow. Late in the winter—it was +about the time of the ride to the Quemado, +Harboro thought it must have been—a +change had come over her. There was a +glad tranquillity about her now which was +as a tonic to him. She was no longer given +to dark utterances which he could not understand. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230' name='page_230'></a>230</span> +She was devoted to him in a gentle, +almost maternal fashion—studying his needs +and moods alertly and affectionately. Something +of the old tempestuous ardor was +gone, but that, of course, was natural. Harboro +did not know the phrases of old Antonia +or he would have said: “It is the time +of embers.” She was softly solicitous for +him; still a little wistful at times, to be +sure; but then that was the natural Sylvia. +It was the quality which made her more +wonderful than any other woman in the +world.</p> +<p>And Sylvia? Sylvia had found a new +avenue of escape from that tedium which +the Sylvias of the world have never been +able to endure.</p> +<p>Not long after that ride to the Quemado a +horse had been brought to her front gate during +a forenoon when Harboro was over the +river at work. Unassisted she had mounted +it and ridden away out the Quemado Road. +A mile out she had turned toward the Rio +Grande, and had kept to an indistinct trail +until she came to a hidden <i>adobe</i> hut, presided +over by an ancient Mexican. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231' name='page_231'></a>231</span></p> +<p>To this isolated place had come, too, +Runyon—Runyon, whose dappled horse had +been left hidden in the mesquite down by +the river, where the man’s duties lay.</p> +<p>And here, in undisturbed seclusion, they +had continued that intimacy which had +begun on the night of the norther. They +were like two children, forbidden the companionship +of each other, who find something +particularly delicious in an unguessed rendezvous. +All that is delightful in a temporary +escape from the sense of responsibility was +theirs. Their encounters were as gay and +light as that of two poppies in the sun, +flung together by a friendly breeze. They +were not conscious of wronging any one—not +more than a little, at least—though the +ancient genius of the place, a Mexican who +had lost an eye in a jealous fight in his youth, +used to shake his head sombrely when he +went away from his hut, leaving them alone; +and there was anxiety in the glance of that +one remaining eye as he kept a lookout over +the trail, that his two guests might not be +taken by surprise.</p> +<p>Sometimes they remained in the hut +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232' name='page_232'></a>232</span> +throughout the entire noon-hour, and on these +occasions their finely discreet and taciturn +old host placed food before them. Goat’s +milk was brought from an earthenware vessel +having its place on a wooden hook under the +eaves of the house; and there was a delicious +stew of dried goat’s flesh, served with a +sauce which contained just a faint flavor of +peppers and garlic and herbs. And there +was <i>pan</i>, as delicate as wafers, and coffee.</p> +<p>Time and again, throughout the winter, +the same horse made its appearance at +Sylvia’s gate at the same hour, and Sylvia +mounted and rode away out the Quemado +Road and disappeared, returning early in +the afternoon.</p> +<p>If you had asked old Antonia about these +movements of her mistress she would have +said: “Does not the señora need the air?” +And she would have added: “She is young.” +And finally she would have said: “I know +nothing.”</p> +<p>It is a matter of knowledge that occasionally +Sylvia would meet the boy from +the stable when he arrived at the gate and +instruct him gently to take the horse away, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233' name='page_233'></a>233</span> +as she would not require it that day; and I +am not sure she was not trying still to fight +the battle which she had already lost; but +this, of course, is mere surmise.</p> +<p>And then a little cog in the machine +slipped.</p> +<p>A ranchman who lived out on the north +road happened to be in Eagle Pass one evening +as Harboro was passing through the +town on his way home from work. The +ranchman’s remark was entirely innocent, +but rather unfortunate. “A very excellent +horsewoman, Mrs. Harboro,” he remarked, +among other things.</p> +<p>Harboro did not understand.</p> +<p>“I met her riding out the road this forenoon,” +explained the ranchman.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes!” said Harboro. “Yes, she +enjoys riding. I’m sorry, on her account, that +I haven’t more liking for it myself.”</p> +<p>He went on up the hill, pondering. It +was strange that Sylvia had not told him +that she meant to go for a ride. She usually +went into minute details touching her outings.</p> +<p>He expected her to mention the matter +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234' name='page_234'></a>234</span> +when he got home, but she did not do so. +She seemed disposed not to confide in him +throughout the entire evening, and finally +he remarked with an air of suddenly remembering: +“And so you went riding to-day?”</p> +<p>She frowned and lowered her eyes. She +seemed to be trying to remember. “Why, +yes,” she said, after a moment’s silence. +“Yes, I felt rather dull this morning. You +know I enjoy riding.”</p> +<p>“I know you do,” he responded cordially. +“I’d like you to go often, if you’ll be careful +not to take any chances.” He smiled at +the recollection of the outcome of that ride +of theirs to the Quemado, and of the excitement +with which they compared experiences +when they got back home. Sylvia and +Runyon had made a run for it and had got +home before the worst of it came, she had +said. But Harboro and the General Manager +had waited until the storm had spent itself, +both sitting in the carriage with their handkerchiefs +pressed to their nostrils, and their +coats drawn up about their heads. He remembered, +too, how the dust-fog had lingered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235' name='page_235'></a>235</span> +in the air until well into the next day, +like a ghost which could not be laid.</p> +<p>He brought himself back from the recollection +of that night. “If you like, I’ll have +the horse sent every day—or, better still, +you shall have a horse of your own.”</p> +<p>“No,” replied Sylvia, “I might not care +to go often.” She had let her hair down +and was brushing it thoughtfully. “The +things which are ordered for you in advance +are always half spoiled,” she added. “It’s +better to think of things all of a sudden, +and do them.”</p> +<p>He looked at her in perplexity. That +wasn’t his way, certainly; but then she was +still occasionally something of an enigma to +him. He tried to dismiss the matter from his +mind. He was provoked that it came back +again and again, as if there were something +extraordinary about it, something mysterious. +“She only went for a ride,” he said to +himself late at night, as if he were defending +her. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236' name='page_236'></a>236</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXIV</p> +</div> + +<p>A month later Harboro came home one +afternoon to find an envelope addressed to +him on the table in the front hall.</p> +<p>He was glad afterward that Sylvia was +engaged with Antonia in the dining-room, +and did not have a chance to observe him as +he examined the thing which that envelope +contained.</p> +<p>It was a statement from one of the stables +of the town, and it set forth the fact that +Harboro was indebted to the stable for +horse-hire. There were items, showing that +on seven occasions during the past month +a horse had been placed at the disposal of +Mrs. Harboro.</p> +<p>Harboro was almost foolishly bewildered. +Sylvia had gone riding seven times during +the month, and she had not even mentioned +the matter to him! Clearly here was a mystery. +Her days were not sufficiently full of +events to make seven outings a matter of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237' name='page_237'></a>237</span> +little consequence to her. She was not +given to reticence, even touching very little +things. She had some reason for not wishing +him to know of these movements of +hers.</p> +<p>But this conclusion was absurd, of course. +She would understand that the bill for services +rendered would eventually come to +him. He was relieved when that conclusion +came to him. No, she was not seeking +to make a mystery out of the matter. Still, +the question recurred: Why had she avoided +even the most casual mention of these outings?</p> +<p>He replaced the statement in the envelope +thoughtfully and put it away in his pocket. +He was trying to banish the look of dark +introspection from his eyes when Sylvia +came in from the kitchen and gave a little +cry of joy at sight of him. She <i>was</i> happy +at the sight of him—Harboro knew it. Yet +the cloud did not lift from his brow as he +drew her to him and kissed her slowly. She +was keeping a secret from him. The conclusion +was inescapable.</p> +<p>His impulse was to face the thing frankly, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238' name='page_238'></a>238</span> +affectionately. He had only to ask her to +explain and the thing would be cleared up. +But for the first time he found it difficult +to be frank with her. If the thing he felt +was not a sense of injury, it was at least a +sense of mystery: of resentment, too. He +could not deny that he felt resentful. At +the foundation of his consciousness there +was, perhaps, the belief and the hope that +she would explain voluntarily. He felt that +something precious would be saved to him +if she confided in him without prompting, +without urging. If he waited, perhaps she +would do so. His sense of delicacy forbade +him to inquire needlessly into her personal +affairs. Surely she was being actuated by +some good reason. That she was committed +to an evil course was a suspicion which he +would have rejected as monstrous. Such a +suspicion did not occur to him.</p> +<p>It did not occur to him until the next +day, when a bolt fell.</p> +<p>He received another communication from +the stable. It was an apology for an error +that had been made. The stableman found +that he had no account against Mr. Harboro, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239' name='page_239'></a>239</span> +but that one which should have been +made out against Mr. Runyon had been +sent to him by mistake.</p> +<p>Quite illogically, perhaps, Harboro jumped +to the conclusion that the service had really +been rendered to Sylvia, as the original +statement had said, and that for some obscure +reason it was to be charged against +Runyon. But even now it was not a light +that he saw. Rather, he was enveloped in +darkness. He heard the envelope crackle +in his clinched hand. He turned and climbed +the stairs heavily, so that he need not encounter +Sylvia until he had had time to +think, until he could understand.</p> +<p>Sylvia was taking rides, and Runyon was +paying for them. That was to say, Runyon +was the moving factor in the arrangement. +Therefore, Runyon was deriving a pleasure +from these rides of Sylvia’s. How? Why, +he must be riding with her. They must be +meeting by secret appointment.</p> +<p>Harboro shook his head fiercely, like a +bull that is being tortured and bewildered +by the matadors. No, no! That wasn’t the +way the matter was to be explained. That +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240' name='page_240'></a>240</span> +could indicate only one thing—a thing that +was impossible.</p> +<p>He began at the beginning again. The +whole thing had been an error. Sylvia had +been rendered no services at all. Runyon +had engaged a horse for his own use, and the +bill had simply been sent to the wrong place. +That was the rational explanation. It was +a clear and sufficient explanation.</p> +<p>Harboro held his head high, as if his problem +had been solved. He held himself erect, +as if a burden had been removed. He had +been almost at the point of making a fool +of himself, he reflected. Reason asserted +itself victoriously. But something which +speaks in a softer, more insistent voice than +reason kept whispering to him: “Runyon +and Sylvia! Runyon and Sylvia!”</p> +<p>He faced her almost gayly at supper. He +had resolved to play the rôle of a happy man +with whom all is well. But old Antonia +looked at him darkly. Her old woman’s +sense told her that he was acting a part, +and that he was overacting it. From the +depths of the kitchen she regarded him as +he sat at the table. She lifted her eyes like +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241' name='page_241'></a>241</span> +one who hears a signal-cry when he said +casually:</p> +<p>“Have you gone riding any more since +that other time, Sylvia?”</p> +<p>Sylvia hesitated. “‘That other time’” she +repeated vaguely.... “Oh, yes, once since +then—once or twice. Why?”</p> +<p>“I believe you haven’t mentioned going.”</p> +<p>“Haven’t I? It doesn’t seem a very important +thing. I suppose I’ve thought you +wouldn’t be interested. I don’t believe you +and I look at a horseback-ride alike. I think +perhaps you regard it as quite an event.”</p> +<p>He pondered that deliberately. “You’re +right,” he said. “And ... about paying +for the horse. I’m afraid your allowance +isn’t liberal enough to cover such things. +I must increase it next month. Have you +been paying out of your own pocket?”</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, of course. It amounts to very +little.”</p> +<p>His sombre glance travelled across the +table to her. She was looking at her plate. +She had the appearance of a child encountering +a small obstacle in the way of a coveted +pleasure. There was neither guilt nor +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242' name='page_242'></a>242</span> +alarm in her bearing, but only an irksome +discomfort.</p> +<p>But old Antonia withdrew farther within +the kitchen. She took her place under a +picture of the Virgin and murmured a little +prayer. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243' name='page_243'></a>243</span></p> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='VI_THE_GUESTCHAMBER' id='VI_THE_GUESTCHAMBER'></a> +<h2><i>PART VI</i></h2> +<h3>THE GUEST-CHAMBER</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245' name='page_245'></a>245</span></div> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXV</p> +</div> + +<p>It was remarked in the offices of the Mexican +International Railroad about this time +that something had gone wrong with Harboro. +He made mistakes in his work. He +answered questions at random—or he did +not answer them at all. He passed people +in the office and on the street without seeing +them. But worse than all this, he was to +be observed occasionally staring darkly into +the faces of his associates, as if he would +read something that had been concealed +from him. He came into one room or another +abruptly, as if he expected to hear +his name spoken.</p> +<p>His associates spoke of his strange behavior—being +careful only to wait until he +had closed his desk for the day. They were +men of different minds from Harboro’s. He +considered their social positions matters which +concerned them only; but they had duly +noted the fact that he had been taken up +in high places and then dropped without +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246' name='page_246'></a>246</span> +ceremony. They knew of his marriage. +Certain rumors touching it had reached them +from the American side.</p> +<p>They were rather thrilled at the prospect +of a dénouement to the story of Harboro’s +eccentricity. They used no harsher word +than that. They liked him and they would +have deplored anything in the nature of +a misfortune overtaking him. But human +beings are all very much alike in one respect—they +find life a tedious thing as a rule and +they derive a stimulus from the tale of downfall, +even of their friends. They are not +pleased that such things happen; they are +merely interested, and they welcome the +break in the monotony of events.</p> +<p>As for Harboro, he was a far more deeply +changed man than they suspected. He was +making a heroic effort in those days to maintain +a normal bearing. It was only the +little interstices of forgetfulness which enabled +any one to read even a part of what +was taking place in his thoughts.</p> +<p>He seemed unchanged to Sylvia, save that +he admitted being tired or having a headache, +when she sought to enliven him, to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247' name='page_247'></a>247</span> +draw him up to her own plane of merriment. +He was reminding himself every hour of +the night and day that he must make no +irretrievable blunder, that he must do nothing +to injure his wife needlessly. Appearances +were against her, but possibly that was all.</p> +<p>Yet revelations were being made to him. +Facts were arraying themselves and marching +before him for review. Suspicion was +pounding at him like a body blow that is +repeated accurately and relentlessly in the +same vulnerable spot.</p> +<p>Why had Sylvia prevented him from knowing +anything about her home life? Why +had she kept him and her father apart? +Why had Eagle Pass ceased to know him, +immediately after his marriage? And Peterson, +that day they had gone across the river +together—why had Peterson behaved so +clownishly, following his familiar greeting +of Sylvia? Peterson hadn’t behaved like +himself at all. And why had she been so +reluctant to tell him about the thing that +had happened in her father’s house? Was +that the course an innocent woman would +have pursued? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248' name='page_248'></a>248</span></p> +<p>What was the explanation of these things? +Was the world cruel by choice to a girl against +whom nothing more serious could be charged +than that she was obscure and poor?</p> +<p>These reflections seemed to rob Harboro +of the very marrow in his bones. He would +have fought uncomplainingly to the end +against injustice. He would cheerfully have +watched the whole world depart from him, +if he had had the consciousness of righting in +a good cause. He had thought scornfully of +the people who had betrayed their littleness +by ignoring him. But what if they had +been right, and his had been the offense +against them?</p> +<p>He found it almost unbearably difficult +to walk through the streets of Eagle Pass +and on across the river. What had been +his strength was now his weakness. His +loyalty to a good woman had been his armor; +but what would right-thinking people say of +his loyalty to a woman who had deceived +him, and who felt no shame in continuing +to deceive him, despite his efforts to surround +her with protection and love?</p> +<p>And yet ... what did he know against +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249' name='page_249'></a>249</span> +Sylvia? She had gone riding—that was +all. That, and the fact that she had made +a secret of the matter, and had perhaps +given him a false account of the manner in +which she had paid for her outings.</p> +<p>He must make sure of much more than he +already knew. Again and again he clinched +his hands in the office and on the street. +He would not wrong the woman he loved. +He would not accept the verdict of other +people. He would have positive knowledge +of his own before he acted. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250' name='page_250'></a>250</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXVI</p> +</div> + +<p>Harboro had admitted a drop of poison +to his veins and it was rapidly spreading to +every fibre of his being. He was losing the +power to think clearly where Sylvia was +concerned. Even the most innocent acts +of hers assumed new aspects; and countless +circumstances which in the past had seemed +merely puzzling to him arose before him now +charged with deadly significance.</p> +<p>His days became a torture to him. He +could not lose himself in a crowd, and draw +something of recuperation from a sense of +obscurity, a feeling that he was not observed. +He seemed now to be cruelly visible to every +man and woman on both sides of the river. +Strangers who gave more than the most +indifferent glance to his massive strength +and romantic, swarthy face, with its fine +dark eyes and strong lines and the luxuriant +black mustache, became to him furtive witnesses +to his shame—secret commentators +upon his weakness. He recalled pictures +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251' name='page_251'></a>251</span> +of men held in pillories for communities to +gibe at—and he felt that his position was +not unlike theirs. He had at times a frantic +realization that he had unconquerable +strength, but that by some ironic circumstance +he could not use it.</p> +<p>If his days were sapping his vigor and +driving him to the verge of madness, his +nights were periods of a far more destructive +torture. He had resolved that Sylvia should +see no change in him; he was trying to persuade +himself that there <i>was</i> no change in +him. Yet at every tenderly inquiring glance +of hers he felt that the blood must start +forth on his forehead, that body and skull +must burst from the tumult going on within +them.</p> +<p>It was she who brought matters to a climax.</p> +<p>“Harboro, you’re not well,” she said one +evening when her hand about his neck had +won no response beyond a heavy, despairing +gesture of his arm. His eyes were fixed +on vacancy and were not to be won away +from their unseeing stare.</p> +<p>“You’re right, Sylvia,” he said, trying to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252' name='page_252'></a>252</span> +arouse himself. “I’ve been trying to fight +against it, but I’m all out of sorts.”</p> +<p>“You must go away for a while,” she said. +She climbed on his knee and assumed a +prettily tyrannical manner. “You’ve been +working too hard. They must give you a +vacation, and you must go entirely away. +For two weeks at least.”</p> +<p>The insidious poison that was destroying +him spread still further with a swift rush +at that suggestion. She would be glad to +have him out of the way for a while. Were +not unfaithful wives always eager to send +their husbands away? He closed his eyes +resolutely and his hands gripped the arms +of his chair. Then a plan which he had +been vaguely shaping took definite form. +She was really helping him to do the thing +he felt he must do.</p> +<p>He turned to her heavily like a man under +the influence of a drug. “Yes, I’ll go away +for a while,” he agreed. “I’ll make arrangements +right away—to-morrow.”</p> +<p>“And I’ll go with you,” she said with decision, +“and help to drive the evil hours +away.” She had his face between her hands +and was smiling encouragingly. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253' name='page_253'></a>253</span></p> +<p>The words were like a dagger thrust. +Surely, they were proof of fidelity, of affection, +and in his heart he had condemned her.</p> +<p>“Would you like to go with me, Sylvia?” +he asked. His voice had become husky.</p> +<p>She drew back from him as if she were +performing a little rite. Her eyes filled with +tears. “Harboro!” she cried, “do you need +to ask me that?” Her fingers sought his +face and traveled with ineffable tenderness +from line to line. It was as if she were playing +a little love-lyric of her own upon a +beautiful harp. And then she fell upon his +breast and pressed her cheek to his. “Harboro!” +she cried again. She had seen only +the suffering in his eyes.</p> +<p>He held her in his arms and leaned back +with closed eyes. A hymn of praise was +singing through all his being. She loved +him! she loved him! And then that hymn +of praise sank to pianissimo notes and was +transformed by some sort of evil magic +to something shockingly different. It was +as if a skillful yet unscrupulous musician +were constructing a revolting medley, placing +the sacred song in juxtaposition with +the obscene ditty. And the words of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254' name='page_254'></a>254</span> +revolting thing were “Runyon and Sylvia! +Runyon and Sylvia!”</p> +<p>He opened his eyes resolutely. “We’re +making too much over a little matter,” he +said with an obvious briskness which hid +the cunning in his mind. “I suppose I’ve +been sticking to things too close. I’ll take a +run down the line and hunt up some of the +old fellows—down as far as Torreon at least. +I’ll rough it a little. I suspect things have +been a little too soft for me here. Maybe +some of the old-timers will let me climb up +into a cab and run an engine again. That’s +the career for a man—with the distance rushing +upon you, and your engine swaying like +a bird in the air! That will fix me!”</p> +<p>He got up with an air of vigor, helping +Sylvia to her feet. “It wouldn’t be the +sort of experience a woman could share,” +he added. “You’ll stay here at home and +get a little rest yourself. I must have been +spoiling things for you, too.” He looked at +her shrewdly.</p> +<p>“Oh, no,” she said honestly. “I’m only +sorry I didn’t realize earlier that you need +to get away.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255' name='page_255'></a>255</span></p> +<p>She went out of the room with something +of the regal industry of the queen bee, as if +she were the natural source of those agencies +which sustain and heal. He heard her as +she busied herself in their bedroom. He +knew that she was already making preparations +for that journey of his. She was singing +a soft, wordless song in her throat as she +worked.</p> +<p>And Harboro, with an effect of listening +with his eyes, stood in his place for a long +interval, and then shook his head slowly.</p> +<p>He could not believe in her; he would +not believe in her. At least he would not +believe in her until she had been put to the +test and met the test triumphantly. He could +not believe in her; and yet it seemed equally +impossible for him to hold with assurance +to his unbelief. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256' name='page_256'></a>256</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXVII</p> +</div> + +<p>Returning from the office the next forenoon, +Harboro stopped at the head of the +short street on which the chief stable of +Eagle Pass was situated.</p> +<p>He had had no difficulty in obtaining a +leave of absence, which was to be for one +week with the privilege of having it extended +to twice that time if he felt he needed it. +In truth, his immediate superior had heartily +approved of the plan of his going for an +outing. He had noticed, he admitted, that +Harboro hadn’t been altogether fit of late. +He was glad he had decided to go away for +a few days. He good-naturedly insisted +upon the leave of absence taking effect immediately.</p> +<p>And Harboro had turned back toward +Eagle Pass pondering darkly.</p> +<p>He scanned the street in the direction of +the stable. A stable-boy was exercising a +young horse in the street, leading it back +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257' name='page_257'></a>257</span> +and forth, but otherwise the thoroughfare +seemed somnolently quiet.</p> +<p>He sauntered along until he came to the +stable entrance. He had the thought of +entering into a casual conversation with the +proprietor. He would try to get at the actual +facts touching that mistake the stable +people had made. He would not question +them too pointedly. He would not betray +the fact that he believed something was +wrong. He would put his questions casually, +innocently.</p> +<p>The boy was just turning in with the +horse he had been exercising. He regarded +Harboro expectantly. He was the boy who +had brought the horses on the night of that +ride to the Quemado.</p> +<p>“I didn’t want anything,” said Harboro; +“that is, nothing in particular. I’ll be likely +to need a horse in a day or two, that’s all.”</p> +<p>He walked leisurely into the shady, cool +place of pungent odors. He had just ascertained +that the proprietor was out when his +attention was attracted by a dog which lay +with perfect complacency under a rather +good-looking horse. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258' name='page_258'></a>258</span></p> +<p>“A pretty dangerous place, isn’t it?” he +asked of the stable-boy.</p> +<p>“You <i>would</i> think so, wouldn’t you? But +it isn’t. They’re friends. You’ll always +find them together when they can get together. +When Prince—that’s the horse—is +out anywhere, we have to pen old Mose up +to keep him from following. Once when a +fellow hired Prince to make a trip over to +Spofford, old Mose got out, two or three +hours later, and followed him all the way +over. He came back with him the next +day, grinning as if he’d done something +great. We never could figure out how old +Mose knew where he had gone. Might +have smelled out his trail. Or he might have +heard them talking about going to Spofford, +and understood. The more you know about +dogs the less you know about them—same +as humans.”</p> +<p>He went back farther into the stable and +busied himself with a harness that needed +mending.</p> +<p>Harboro was looking after him with peculiar +intensity. He looked at the horse, +which stood sentinel-like, above the drowsing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259' name='page_259'></a>259</span> +dog. Then he engaged the stable-boy in +further conversation.</p> +<p>“A pretty good-looking horse, too,” he +said. And when the boy nodded without +enthusiasm, he added: “By the way, I suppose +it’s usually your job to get horses ready +when people want them?”</p> +<p>“Yes, mostly.”</p> +<p>Harboro put a new note of purposefulness +into his voice. “I believe you send a horse +around for Mrs. Harboro occasionally?”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes; every week or so, or oftener.”</p> +<p>Harboro walked to the boy’s side and +drew his wallet from his pocket deliberately. +“I wish,” he said, “that the next time Mrs. +Harboro needs a horse you’d send this fine +animal to her. I have an idea it would +please her. Will you remember?” He produced +a bank-note and placed it slowly in +the boy’s hand.</p> +<p>The boy looked up at him dubiously, and +then understood. “I’ll remember,” he said.</p> +<p>Harboro turned away, but at the entrance +he stopped. “You’d understand, of course, +that the dog wouldn’t be allowed to go along,” +he called back. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260' name='page_260'></a>260</span></p> +<p>“Oh, yes. Old Mose would be penned up. +I’d see to it.”</p> +<p>“And I suppose,” said Harboro finally, +“that if I’d telephone to you any day it +wouldn’t take you long to get a horse ready +for me, would it? I’ve been thinking of +using a horse a little myself.”</p> +<p>He was paying little attention to the +boy’s assurances as he went away. His +step had become a little firmer as he turned +toward home. He seemed more like himself +when he entered the house and smiled into +his wife’s alertly questioning eyes.</p> +<p>“It’s all right, I’m to get away,” he explained. +“I’m away now, strictly speaking. +I want to pack up a few things some time +to-day and get the early morning train for +Torreon.”</p> +<p>She seemed quite gleeful over this cheerful +information. She helped him make selection +of the things he would need, and she +was ready with many helpful suggestions. +It seemed that his train left the Eagle Pass +station at five o’clock in the morning—a +rather awkward hour; but he did not mind, +he said. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261' name='page_261'></a>261</span></p> +<p>They spent the day together without any +restraints, seemingly. There were a good +many things to do, and Sylvia was happy +in the thought of serving him. If he regarded +her now and again with an expression of +smouldering fire in his eyes she was unaware +of the fact. She sang as she worked, +interrupting her song at frequent intervals +to admonish him against this forgetfulness +or that.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>She seemed to be asleep when, an hour +before daybreak, he stirred and left her side. +But she was awake immediately.</p> +<p>“Is it time to go?” she asked sleepily.</p> +<p>“I hoped I needn’t disturb you,” he said. +“Yes, I ought to be getting on my way to +the station.”</p> +<p>She lay as if she were under a spell while +he dressed and made ready to go out. Her +eyes were wide open, though she seemed to +see nothing. Perhaps she was merely stupid +as a result of being awakened; or it may be +that indefinable, foreboding thoughts filled +her mind.</p> +<p>When he came to say good-by to her she +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262' name='page_262'></a>262</span> +put her arms around his neck. “Try to have +a good time,” she said, “and come back to +me your old self again.”</p> +<p>She felt fearfully alone as she heard him +descend the stairs. She held her head away +from the pillow until she heard the sharp +closing of the street-door. “He’s gone,” she +said. She shivered a little and drew the +covers more closely about her. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263' name='page_263'></a>263</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXVIII</p> +</div> + +<p>Runyon rode out past Harboro’s house +that afternoon.</p> +<p>Sylvia, in her place by the window, watched +him come. In the distance he assumed a +new aspect in her eyes. She thought of him +impersonally—as a thrilling picture. She rejoiced +in the sight of him as one may in the +spectacle of an army marching with banners +and music.</p> +<p>And then he became to her a glorious +troubadour, having no relationship with +prosaic affairs and common standards, but +a care-free creature to be loved and praised +because of his song; to be heard gladly and +sped on his way with a sigh.</p> +<p>The golden notes of his songs out at the +Quemado echoed in her ears like the mournful +sound of bells across lonely fields. Her +heart ached again at the beauty of the songs +he had sung.</p> +<p>... She went down-stairs and stood by +the gate, waiting for him. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264' name='page_264'></a>264</span></p> +<p>They talked for a little while, Runyon +bending down toward her. She thought of +him as an incomparably gay and happy +creature. His musical powers gave him a +mystic quality to her. She caressed his +horse’s mane and thrilled as she touched it, +as if she were caressing the man—as if he +were some new and splendid type of centaur. +And Runyon seemed to read her +mind. His face became more ruddy with +delight. His flashing eyes suggested sound +rather than color—they were laughing.</p> +<p>Their conference ended and Runyon rode +on up the hill. Sylvia carried herself circumspectly +enough as she went back into the +house, but she was almost giddy with joy +over the final words of that conference. +Runyon had lowered his voice almost to +a whisper, and had spoken with intensity +as one sometimes speaks to children.</p> +<p>She did not ride that afternoon. It appeared +that all her interests for the time +being were indoors. She spent much of her +time among the things which reminded her +most strongly of Harboro; she sought out +little services she could perform for him, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265' name='page_265'></a>265</span> +to delight him when he returned. She talked +with more than common interest with Antonia, +following the old woman from kitchen +to dining-room and back again. She seemed +particularly in need of human companionship, +of sympathy. She trusted the old +servant without reserve. She knew that +here was a woman who would neither see +nor speak nor hear evil where either she or +Harboro was concerned. Not that her fidelity +to either of them was particular; it was +the home itself that was sacred. The flame +that warmed the house and made the pot +boil was the thing to be guarded at any +cost. Any winds that caused this flame +to waver were evil winds and must not be +permitted to blow. The old woman was +covertly discerning; but she had the discretion +common to those who know that +homes are built only by a slow and patient +process—though they may be destroyed +easily.</p> +<p>When it came time to light the lamps +Sylvia went up into her boudoir. She liberated +the imprisoned currents up in the +little mediæval lanterns. She drew the blinds +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266' name='page_266'></a>266</span> +so that she should feel quite alone. She had +put on one of the dresses which made her +look specially slim and soft and childlike. +She knew the garment became her, because +it always brought a tender expression to +Harboro’s eyes.</p> +<p>And then she sat down and waited.</p> +<p>At eight o’clock Runyon came. So faint +was his summons at the door that it might +have been a lost bird fluttering in the dark. +But Sylvia heard it. She descended and +opened the door for him. In the dimly +lighted hall she whispered: “Are you sure +nobody saw you come?”</p> +<p>He took both her hands into his and replied: +“Nobody!”</p> +<p>They mounted the steps like two children, +playing a slightly hazardous game. +“The cat’s away,” she said, her eyes beaming +with joy.</p> +<p>He did not respond in words but his eyes +completed the old saying.</p> +<p>They went up into the boudoir, and he +put away his coat and hat.</p> +<p>They tried to talk, each seeking to create +the impression that what was being said +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267' name='page_267'></a>267</span> +was quite important. But neither heard +what the other said. They were like people +talking in a storm or in a house that is burning +down.</p> +<p>He took his place at the piano after a while. +It seemed that he had promised to sing for +her—for her alone. He glanced apprehensively +toward the windows, as if to estimate +the distance which separated him from the +highway. It was no part of their plan that +he should be heard singing in Sylvia’s room +by casual passers-by on the Quemado Road.</p> +<p>He touched the keys lightly and when +he sang his voice seemed scarcely to carry +across the room. There was a rapid passage +on the keyboard, like the patter of a pony’s +hoofs in the distance, and then the words +came:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“From the desert I come to thee</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>On my Arab shod with fire....”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>It was a work of art in miniature. The +crescendo passages were sung relatively with +that introductory golden whisper as a standard. +For the moment Sylvia forgot that the +singer’s shoulders were beautifully compact +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268' name='page_268'></a>268</span> +and vigorous. She was visualizing the Bedouin +who came on his horse to declare his +passion.</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“And I faint in thy disdain!...”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>She stood near him, spellbound by the +animation of his face, the seeming reality +of his plea. He was not a singer; he was +the Bedouin lover.</p> +<p>There was a fanatic ardor in the last +phrase:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“Till the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>He turned lightly away from the piano. +He was smiling radiantly. He threw out his +arms with an air of inviting approval; but +the gesture was to her an invitation, a call. +She was instantly on her knees beside him, +drawing his face down to hers. His low +laughter rippled against her face as he put +his arms around her and drew her closer to +him.</p> +<p>They were rejoicing in an atmosphere of +dusky gold. The light from the mediæval +lanterns fell on her hair and on his laughing +face which glowed as with a kind of universal +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269' name='page_269'></a>269</span> +good-will. A cloud of delicate incense seemed +to envelop them as their lips met.</p> +<p>And then the shadow fell. It fell when +the door opened quietly and Harboro came +into the room.</p> +<p>He closed the door behind him and regarded +them strangely—as if his face had +died, but as if his eyes retained the power +of seeing.</p> +<p>Sylvia drew away from Runyon, not spasmodically, +but as if she were moving in her +sleep. She left one hand on Runyon’s sleeve. +She was regarding Harboro with an expression +of hopeless bewilderment. She +seemed incapable of speaking. You would +not have said she was frightened. You +would have thought: “She has been slain.”</p> +<p>Harboro’s lips were moving, but he seemed +unable to speak immediately.</p> +<p>It was Sylvia who broke the silence.</p> +<p>“You shouldn’t have tricked me, Harboro!” +she said. Her voice had the mournful +quality of a dove’s.</p> +<p>He seemed bewildered anew by that. The +monstrous inadequacy of it was too much +for him. He had tricked her, certainly, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270' name='page_270'></a>270</span> +and that wasn’t a manly thing to do. He +seemed to be trying to get his faculties adjusted. +Yet the words he uttered finally +were pathetically irrelevant, it would have +seemed. He addressed Runyon.</p> +<p>“Are you the sort of man who would talk +about—about this sort of thing?” he asked.</p> +<p>Runyon had not ceased to regard him +alertly with an expression which can be described +only as one of infinite distaste—with +the acute discomfort of an irrepressible +creature who shrinks from serious things.</p> +<p>“I am not,” he said, as if his integrity +were being unwarrantably questioned.</p> +<p>Harboro’s voice had been strained like +that of a man who is dying of thirst. He +went on with a disconcerting change of tone. +He was trying to speak more vigorously, +more firmly; but the result was like some +talking mechanism uttering words without +shading them properly. “I suppose you are +willing to marry her?” he asked.</p> +<p>It was Sylvia who answered this. “He +does not wish to marry me,” she said.</p> +<p>Harboro seemed staggered again. “I want +his answer to that,” he insisted. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271' name='page_271'></a>271</span></p> +<p>“Well, then, I don’t want to marry him,” +continued Sylvia.</p> +<p>Harboro ignored her. “What do you say, +Runyon?”</p> +<p>“In view of her unwillingness, and the +fact that she is already married——”</p> +<p>“Runyon!” The word was pronounced +almost like a snarl. Runyon had adopted +a facetious tone which had stirred Harboro’s +fury.</p> +<p>Something of the resiliency of Runyon’s +being vanished at that tone in the other +man’s voice. He looked at Harboro ponderingly, +as a child may look at an unreasoning +parent. And then he became alert again +as Harboro threw at him contemptuously: +“Go on; get out!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273' name='page_273'></a>273</span></p> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='VII_SYLVIA' id='VII_SYLVIA'></a> +<h2><i>PART VII</i></h2> +<h3>SYLVIA</h3> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275' name='page_275'></a>275</span></div> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXIX</p> +</div> + +<p>Sylvia did not look at Runyon as he +picked up his coat and hat and vanished. +She did not realize that he had achieved a +perfect middle ground between an undignified +escape and a too deliberate going. +She was regarding Harboro wanly. “You +shouldn’t have come back,” she said. She +had not moved.</p> +<p>“I didn’t go away,” said Harboro.</p> +<p>Her features went all awry. “You +mean——”</p> +<p>“I’ve spent the day in the guest-chamber. +I had to find out. I had to make sure.”</p> +<p>“Oh, Harboro!” she moaned; and then +with an almost ludicrously swift return to +habitual, petty concerns: “You’ve had no +food all day.”</p> +<p>The bewildered expression returned to his +eyes. “Food!” he cried. He stared at her +as if she had gone insane. “Food!” he +repeated. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276' name='page_276'></a>276</span></p> +<p>She groped about as if she were in the +dark. When her fingers came into contact +with a chair she drew it toward her and sat +down.</p> +<p>Harboro took a step forward. He meant +to take a chair, too; but his eyes were not +removed from hers, and she shrank back +with a soft cry of terror.</p> +<p>“You needn’t be afraid,” he assured her. +He sat down opposite her, slowly, as very +ill people sit down.</p> +<p>As if she were still holding to some thought +that had been in her mind, she asked: “What +<i>do</i> you mean to do, then?”</p> +<p>He was breathing heavily. “What does a +man do in such a case?” he said—to himself +rather than to her, it might have seemed. +“I shall go away,” he said at length. “I +shall clear out.” He brought his hands +down upon the arms of his chair heavily—not +in wrath, but as if surrendering all hope +of seeing clearly. “Though it isn’t a very +simple thing to do,” he added slowly. “You +see, you’re a part of me. At least, that’s +what I’ve come to feel. And how can a +man go away from himself? How can a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277' name='page_277'></a>277</span> +part of a man go away and leave the other +part?” He lifted his fists and smote his +breast until his whole body shook. And +then he leaned forward, his elbows on the +arms of his chair, his hands clasped before +him. He was staring into vacancy. He +aroused himself after a time. “Of course, +I’ll have to go,” he said. He seemed to have +become clear on that one point. And then +he flung himself back in his chair and thrust +his arms out before him. “What were you +driving at, Sylvia?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Driving at...?”</p> +<p>“I hadn’t done you any harm. Why did +you marry me, if you didn’t love me?”</p> +<p>“I do love you!” She spoke with an +intensity which disturbed him.</p> +<p>“Ah, you mean—you did?”</p> +<p>“I mean I do!”</p> +<p>He arose dejectedly with the air of a man +who finds it useless to make any further +effort. “We’ll not talk about it, then,” he +said. He turned toward the door.</p> +<p>“I do love you,” she repeated. She arose +and took a step toward him, though her +limbs were trembling so that they seemed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278' name='page_278'></a>278</span> +unable to sustain her weight. “Harboro!” +she called as he laid his hand on the door. +“Harboro! I want you to listen to me.” +She sank back into her chair, and Harboro +turned and faced her again wonderingly.</p> +<p>“If you’d try to understand,” she pleaded. +“I’m not going to ask you to stay. I only +want you to understand.” She would not +permit her emotions to escape bounds. Something +that was courageous and honorable +in her forbade her to appeal to his pity +alone; something that was shrewd in her +warned her that such a course would be of +no avail.</p> +<p>“You see, I was what people call a bad +woman when you first met me. Perhaps +you know that now?”</p> +<p>“Go on,” he said.</p> +<p>“But that’s such a silly phrase—<i>a bad +woman</i>. Do you suppose I ever felt like a +<i>bad woman</i>—until now? Even now I can’t +realize that the words belong to me, though +I know that according to the rules I’ve done +you a bad turn, Harboro.”</p> +<p>She rocked in silence while she gained +control over her voice. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279' name='page_279'></a>279</span></p> +<p>“What you don’t know,” she said finally, +“is how things began for me, in those days +back in San Antonio, when I was growing +up. It’s been bad luck with me always; +or if you don’t believe in luck, then everything +has been a kind of trick played on me +from the beginning. Not by anybody—I +don’t mean that. But by something bigger. +There’s the word Destiny....” She began +to wring her hands nervously. “It +seems like telling an idle tale. When you +frame the sentences they seem to have existed +in just that form always. I mean, +losing my mother when I was twelve; and +the dreadful poverty of our home and its +dulness, and the way my father sat in the +sun and seemed unable to do anything. I +don’t believe he <i>was</i> able to do anything. +There’s the word Destiny again. We lived +in what’s called the Mexican section, where +everybody was poor. What’s the meaning +of it; there being whole neighborhoods of +people who are hungry half the time?</p> +<p>“I was still nothing but a child when I +began to notice how others escaped from poverty +a little—the Mexican girls and women +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280' name='page_280'></a>280</span> +I lived among. It seemed to be expected of +them. They didn’t think anything of it at +all. It didn’t make any difference in their +real selves, so far as you could see. They +went on going to church and doing what +little tasks they could find to do—just like +other women. The only precaution they +took when a man came was to turn the picture +of the Virgin to the wall....”</p> +<p>Harboro had sat down again and was +regarding her darkly.</p> +<p>“I don’t mean that I felt about it just +as they did when I got older. You see, they +had their religion to help them. They had +been taught to call the thing they did a sin, +and to believe that a sin was forgiven if +they went and confessed to the priest. It +seemed to make it quite simple. But I +couldn’t think of it as a sin. I couldn’t +clearly understand what sin meant, but I +thought it must be the thing the happy +people were guilty of who didn’t give my +father something to do, so that we could +have a decent place to live in. You must +remember how young I was! And so what +the other girls called a sin seemed to me ... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281' name='page_281'></a>281</span> +oh, something that was untidy—that wasn’t +nice.”</p> +<p>Harboro broke in upon her narrative when +she paused.</p> +<p>“I’m afraid you’ve always been very fastidious.”</p> +<p>She grasped at that straw gratefully. +“Yes, I have been. There isn’t one man in +a hundred who appeals to me, even now.” +And then something, as if it were the atmosphere +about her, clarified her vision for the +moment, and she looked at Harboro in alarm. +She knew, then, that he had spoken sarcastically, +and that she had fallen into the trap +he had set for her. “Oh, Harboro! You!” +she cried. She had not known that he could +be unkind. Her eyes swam in tears and she +looked at him in agony. And in that moment +it seemed to him that his heart must +break. It was as if he looked on while Sylvia +drowned, and could not put forth a hand +to save her.</p> +<p>She conquered her emotion. She only +hoped that Harboro would hear her to the +end. She resumed: “And when I began +to see that people are expected to shape +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282' name='page_282'></a>282</span> +their own lives, mine had already been +shaped. I couldn’t begin at a beginning, +really; I had to begin in the middle. I had +to go on weaving the threads that were +already in my hands—the soiled threads. I +met nice women after a while—women from +the San Antonio missions, I think they +were; and they were kind to me and gave +me books to read. One of them took me to +the chapel—where the clock ticked. But +they couldn’t really help me. I think they +did influence me more than I realized, possibly; +for my father began to tell them I +wasn’t at home ... and he brought me +out here to Eagle Pass soon after they began +to befriend me.”</p> +<p>Harboro was staring at her with a vast +incredulity. “And then—?” he asked.</p> +<p>“And then it went on out here—though +it seemed different out here. I had the feeling +of being shut out, here. In a little town +people know. Life in a little town is like +just one checker-board, with a game going +on; but the big towns are like a lot of checkerboards, +with the men on some of them in +disorder, and not being watched at all.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283' name='page_283'></a>283</span></p> +<p>Harboro was shaking his head slowly, and +she made an effort to wipe some of the blackness +from the picture. “You needn’t believe +I didn’t have standards that I kept to. Some +women of my kind would have lied or stolen, +or they would have made mischief for people. +And then there were the young fellows, the +mere boys.... It’s a real injury to them +to find that a girl they like is—is not nice. +They’re so wonderfully ignorant. A woman +is either entirely good or entirely bad in +their eyes. You couldn’t really do anything +to destroy their faith, even when they +pretended to be rather rough and wicked. +I wasn’t that kind of a bad woman, at +least.”</p> +<p>Harboro’s brow had become furrowed, +with impatience, seemingly. “But your marriage +to me, Sylvia?” He put the question +accusingly.</p> +<p>“I thought you knew—at first. I thought +you <i>must</i> know. There are men who will +marry the kind of woman I was. And it +isn’t just the little or worthless men, either. +Sometimes it is the big men, who can understand +and be generous. Up to the time of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284' name='page_284'></a>284</span> +our marriage I thought you knew and that +you were forgiving everything. And at +last I couldn’t bear to tell you. Not alone +from fear of losing you, but I knew it would +hurt you horribly, and I hoped ... I had +made up my mind ... I <i>was</i> truly loyal to +you, Harboro, until they tricked me in my +father’s house.”</p> +<p>Harboro continued to regard her, a judge +unmoved. “And Runyon, Sylvia—Runyon?” +he asked accusingly.</p> +<p>“I know that’s the thing you couldn’t +possibly forgive, and yet that seems the +slightest thing of all to me. You can’t know +what it is to be humbled, and so many innocent +pleasures taken away from you. When +Fectnor came back ... oh, it seemed to me +that life itself mocked me and warned me +coldly that I needn’t expect to be any other +than the old Sylvia, clear to the end. I had +begun to have a little pride, and to have +foolish dreams. And then I went back to +my father’s house. It wasn’t my father; +it wasn’t even Fectnor. It was Life itself +whipping me back into my place again.</p> +<p>“... And then Runyon came. He meant +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285' name='page_285'></a>285</span> +pleasure to me—nothing more. He seemed +such a gay, shining creature!” She looked +at him in the agony of utter despair. “I +know how it appears to you; but if you +could only see how it seemed to me!”</p> +<p>“I’m trying,” said Harboro, unmoved.</p> +<p>“If I’d been a little field of grass for the +sheep to graze on, do you suppose I shouldn’t +have been happy if the birds passed by, or +that I shouldn’t have been ready for the +sheep when they came? If I’d been a little +pool in the desert, do you suppose I wouldn’t +have been happier for the sunlight, and just +as ready for the rains when they came?”</p> +<p>He frowned. “But you’re neither grass +nor water,” he said.</p> +<p>“Ah, I think I am just that—grass and +water. I think that is what we all are—with +something of mystery added.”</p> +<p>He seized upon that one tangible thought. +“There you have it, that <i>something of mystery</i>,” +he said. “That’s the thing that makes +the world move—that keeps people clean.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” she conceded dully, “or makes +people set up standards of their own and +compel other people to accept them whether +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286' name='page_286'></a>286</span> +they understand them or believe in them +or not.”</p> +<p>When he again regarded her with dark +disapproval she went on:</p> +<p>“What I wanted to tell you, Harboro, is +that my heart has been like a brimming +cup for you always. It was only that which +ran over that I gave to another. Runyon +never could have robbed the cup—a thousand +Runyons couldn’t. He was only like +a flower to wear in my hair, a ribbon to put +on for an outing. But you ... you were +the hearth for me to sit down before at night, +a wall to keep the wind away. What was it +you said once about a man and woman becoming +one? You have been my very body +to me, Harboro; and any other could only +have been a friendly wind to stir me for a +moment and then pass on.”</p> +<p>Harboro’s face darkened. “I was the +favorite lover,” he said.</p> +<p>“You won’t understand,” she said despairingly. +And then as he arose and turned +toward the door again she went to him abjectly, +appealingly. “Harboro!” she cried, +“I know I haven’t explained it right, but I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287' name='page_287'></a>287</span> +want you to believe me! It is you I love, +really; it is you I am grateful to and proud +of. You’re everything to me that you’ve +thought of being. I couldn’t live without +you!” She sank to her knees and covered +her eyes with one hand while with the other +she reached out to him: “Harboro!” Her +face was wet with tears, now; her body was +shaken with sobs.</p> +<p>He looked down at her for an instant, his +brows furrowed, his eyes filled with horror. +He drew farther away, so that she could +not touch him. “Great God!” he cried at +last, and then she knew that he had gone, +closing the door sharply after him.</p> +<p>She did not try to call him back. Some +stoic quality in her stayed her. It would +be useless to call him; it would only tear +her own wounds wider open, it would distress +him without moving him otherwise. +It would alarm old Antonia.</p> +<p>If he willed to come back, he would come +of his own accord. If he could reconcile +the things she had done with any hope of +future happiness he would come back to her +again. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288' name='page_288'></a>288</span></p> +<p>But she scarcely hoped for his return. +She had always had a vague comprehension +of those pragmatic qualities in his nature +which placed him miles above her, or beneath +her, or beyond her. She had drunk of +the cup which had been offered her, and she +must not rebel because a bitter sediment +lay on her lips. She had always faintly +realized that the hours she spent with Runyon +might some day have to be paid for in +loneliness and despair.</p> +<p>Yet now that Harboro was gone she stood +at the closed door and stared at it as if it +could never open again save to permit her +to pass out upon ways of darkness. She +leaned against it and laid her face against +her arm and wept softly. And then she +turned away and knelt by the chair he had +occupied and hid her face in her hands.</p> +<p>She knew he would no longer be visible +when she went to the window. She had +spared herself the sight of him on his way +out of her life. But now she took her place +and began, with subconscious hope, the long +vigil she was to keep. She stared out on the +road over which he had passed. If he came +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289' name='page_289'></a>289</span> +back he would be visible from this place by +the window.</p> +<p>Hours passed and her face became blank, +as the desert became blank. The light +seemed to die everywhere. The little home +beacons abroad in the desert were blotted +out one by one. Eagle Pass became a ghostly +group of houses from which the last vestiges +of life vanished. She became stiff and inert +as she sat in her place with her eyes held +dully on the road. Once she dozed lightly, +to awaken with an intensified sense of tragedy. +Had Harboro returned during that brief interval +of unconsciousness? She knew he +had not. But until the dawn came she sat +by her place, steadfastly waiting. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290' name='page_290'></a>290</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXX</p> +</div> + +<p>When Harboro went down the stairs and +out of the house he had a purposeful air +which vanished as soon as his feet were set +on the highway. Where was he going? +Where <i>could</i> he go? That beginning he had +made usually ended in the offices across the +river. But he could not go to his office now. +There was nothing there for him to do. +And even if he were able to get in, and to +find some unfinished task to which he could +turn, his problem would not be solved. He +could not go on working always. A man +must have some interests other than his +work.</p> +<p>He pulled himself together and set off down +the road. He realized that his appearance +must be such that he would attract attention +and occasion comment. The foundations +of his pride stiffened, as they had always +done when he was required to face +extraordinary difficulties. He must not allow +casual passers-by to perceive that things +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291' name='page_291'></a>291</span> +were not right with him. They would know +that he and Sylvia were having difficulties. +Doubtless they had been expecting something +of the sort from the beginning.</p> +<p>He seemed quite himself but for a marked +self-concentration as he walked through the +town. Dunwoodie, emerging from the Maverick +bar, hailed him as he passed. He did +not hear—or he was not immediately conscious +of hearing. But half a dozen steps +farther on he checked himself. Some one +had spoken to him. He turned around. +“Ah, Dunwoodie—good evening!” he said. +But he did not go back, and Dunwoodie +looked after him meditatively and then went +back into the bar, shaking his head. He +had always meant to make a friend of Harboro, +but the thing evidently was not to be +done.</p> +<p>Harboro was scarcely conscious of the +fact that he crossed the river. If he encountered +any one whom he knew—or any +one at all—he passed without noticing. And +this realization troubled him. The customs +guard, who was an old acquaintance, must +have been in his place on the bridge. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292' name='page_292'></a>292</span> +tried to arouse himself anew. Surely his conduct +must seem strange to those who chanced +to observe him.</p> +<p>With an air of briskness he went into the +<i>Internacional</i> dining-room. He had had +nothing to eat all day. He would order +supper and then he would feel more like +himself. He did not realize what it was that +made his situation seem like a period of +suspense, which kept in his mind the subconscious +thought that he would come out +of the dark into a clearing if he persevered.</p> +<p>The fact was that something of what +Sylvia had said to him had touched his conscience, +if it had not affected his sense of +logic. She really could not be quite what +she seemed to be—that was the unshaped +thought in the back of his brain. There +were explanations to make which had not yet +been made. If he told himself that he had +solved the problem by leaving the house, +he knew in reality that he had not done so. +He was benumbed, bewildered. He must +get back his reasoning faculties, and then he +would see more clearly, both as to what had +been done and what he must set about doing. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293' name='page_293'></a>293</span></p> +<p>He had an idea that he could now understand +the sensations of people who had indulged +too freely in some sort of drug. He +had temporarily lost the power to feel. Here +was Sylvia, a self-confessed wanton—and +yet here was Sylvia as deeply intrenched in +his heart as ever. This was a monstrous +contradiction. One of these things must +be a fact, the other a fantastic hallucination.</p> +<p>The waiter brought food which he looked +at with distaste. It was a typical frontier +meal—stereotyped, uninviting. There were +meat and eggs and coffee, and various heavy +little dishes containing dabs of things which +were never eaten. He drank the coffee and +realized that he had been almost perishing +from thirst. He called for a second cup; +and then he tried to eat the meat and eggs; +but they were like dust—it seemed they +might choke him. He tried the grapes which +had got hidden under the cruet, and the +acid of these pleased him for an instant, +but the pulp was tasteless, unpalatable.</p> +<p>He finished the second cup of coffee and +sat listlessly regarding the things he had not +touched. He had hoped he might prolong +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294' name='page_294'></a>294</span> +the supper hour, since he could think of +nothing else to engage his attention. But +he was through, and he had consumed only +a few minutes.</p> +<p>His glance wandered to a railroad poster +in the dining-room, and this interested him +for an instant. Attractive names caught +his eye: Torreon, Tampico, Vera Cruz, the +City, Durango. They were all waiting for +him, the old towns. There was the old work +to be done, the old life to resume.... Yes, +but there was Sylvia. Sylvia, who had said +with the intentness of a child, “I love you,” +and again, “I love you.” She did not want +Runyon. She wanted him, Harboro. And +he wanted her—good God, how he wanted +her! Had he been mad to wander away +from her? His problem lay with her, not +elsewhere.</p> +<p>And then he jerked his head in denial of +that conclusion. No, he did not want her. +She had laid a path of pitch for his feet, +and the things he might have grasped with +his hands, to draw himself out of the path +which befouled his feet—they too were +smeared with pitch. She did not love him, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295' name='page_295'></a>295</span> +certainly. He clung tenaciously to that +one clear point. There lay the whole situation, +perfectly plain. She did not love him. +She had betrayed him, had turned the face +of the whole community against him, had +permitted him to affront the gentle people +who had unselfishly aided him and given +him their affection.</p> +<p>He wandered about the streets until nearly +midnight, and then he engaged a room in +the <i>Internacional</i> and assured himself that +it was time to go to bed. He needed a good +rest. To-morrow he would know what to do.</p> +<p>But the sight of the room assigned to him +surprised him in some odd way—as if every +article of furniture in it were mocking him. It +was not a room really to be used, he thought. +At least, it was not a room for him to use. +He did not belong in that bed; he had a +bed of his own, in the house he had built +on the Quemado Road. And then he remembered +the time when he had been able +to hang his hat anywhere and consider himself +at home, and how he had always been +grateful for a comfortable bed, no matter +where. That was the feeling which he must +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296' name='page_296'></a>296</span> +get back again. He must get used to the +strangeness of things, so that such a room +as this would seem his natural resting-place, +and that other house which had been destroyed +for him would seem a place of shame, +to be avoided and forgotten.</p> +<p>He slept fitfully. The movements of trains +in the night comforted him in a mournful +fashion. They reminded him of that other +life, which might be his again. But even in +his waking moments he reached out to the +space beside him to find Sylvia, and the returning +full realization of all that had happened +brought a groan to his throat.</p> +<p>He dressed in the morning with a feeling +of guilt, mingled with a sense of relief. He +had slept where he had had no business to +sleep. He had been idle at a time when he +should have been active. He had done +nothing, and there was much to be done. +He had not even rested.</p> +<p>He put on an air of briskness, as one will +don a garment, as he ordered coffee and rolls +in the dining-room. There were things to +be attended to. He must go over to the +offices and write out his resignation. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297' name='page_297'></a>297</span> +must see the General Manager and ask +him for work on the road elsewhere. He +must transfer his holdings—his house and +bank-account—to Sylvia. He had no need +of house or money, and she would need them +badly now. And then ... then he must +begin life anew.</p> +<p>It was all plain; yet his feet refused to +bear him in the direction of the railroad +offices; his mind refused to grapple with +the details of the task of transferring to +Sylvia the things he owned. Something constructive, +static, in the man’s nature stayed +him.</p> +<p>He wandered away from the town during +the day, an aimless impulse carrying him +quite out into the desert. He paused to inspect +little irrigated spots where humble +gardens grew. He paused at mean <i>adobe</i> +huts and talked to old people and to children. +Again and again he came into contact +with conditions which annoyed and bewildered +him. People were all bearing their +crosses. Some were hopelessly ill, waiting +for death to relieve them, or they were old +and quite useless. And all were horribly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298' name='page_298'></a>298</span> +poor, casting about for meagre food and +simple clothing which seemed beyond their +reach. They were lonely, overburdened, despondent, +darkly philosophical.</p> +<p>What was the meaning of human life, he +wondered? Were men and women created +to suffer, to bear crosses which were not of +their own making, to suffer injustices which +seemed pointless?...</p> +<p>Late in the afternoon he was back in +Piedras Negras again. He had eaten nothing +save a handful of figs which an old woman +had given him, together with a bowl of goat’s +milk. He had wished to pay for them, but +the old woman had shaken her head and +turned away.</p> +<p>He encountered a tourist in clerical garb—a +thin-chested man with a colorless face, +but with sad, benevolent eyes—sitting in the +plaza near the sinister old <i>cuartel</i>. He sat +down and asked abruptly in a voice strangely +high-pitched for his own:</p> +<p>“Is a man ever justified in leaving his +wife?”</p> +<p>The tourist looked startled; but he was +a man of tact and wisdom, evidently, and he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299' name='page_299'></a>299</span> +quickly adjusted himself to what was plainly +a special need, an extraordinary condition. +“Ah, that’s a very old question,” he replied +gently. “It’s been asked often, and there +have been many answers.”</p> +<p>“But is he?” persisted Harboro.</p> +<p>“There are various conditions. If a man +and a woman do not love each other, wouldn’t +it seem wiser for them to rectify the mistake +they had made in marrying? But if they +love each other ... it seems to me quite a +simple matter then. I should say that under +no circumstances should they part.”</p> +<p>“But if the wife has sinned?”</p> +<p>“My dear man ... sinned; it’s a difficult +word. Let us try to define it. Let us +say that a sin is an act deliberately committed +with the primary intention of inflicting +an injury upon some one. It becomes an +ugly matter. Very few people sin, if you +accept my definition.”</p> +<p>Harboro was regarding him with dark +intentness.</p> +<p>“The trouble is,” resumed the other man, +“we often use the word sin when we mean +only a weakness. And a weakness in an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300' name='page_300'></a>300</span> +individual should make us cleave fast to +him, so that he may not be wholly lost. I +can’t think of anything so cruel as to desert +one who has stumbled through weakness. +The desertion would be the real sin. Weaknesses +are a sort of illness—and even a pigeon +will sit beside its mate and mourn, when its +mate is ill. It is a beautiful lesson in fidelity. +A soldier doesn’t desert his wounded comrade +in battle. He bears him to safety—or +both perish together. And by such deeds is +the consciousness of God established in us.”</p> +<p>“Wait!” commanded Harboro. He +clinched his fists. A phrase had clung to +him: “He bears him to safety or both perish +together!”</p> +<p>He arose from the seat he had taken and +staggered away half a dozen steps, his hands +still clinched. Then, as if remembering, he +turned about so that he faced the man who +had talked to him. Beyond loomed the +ancient church in which Sylvia had said it +would seem possible to find God. Was He +there in reality, and was this one of His angels, +strayed a little distance from His side? +It was not the world’s wisdom that this man +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301' name='page_301'></a>301</span> +spoke, and yet how eternally true his words +had been! A flock of pigeons flew over the +plaza and disappeared in the western glow +where the sun was setting. “Even a pigeon +will sit by its mate and mourn....”</p> +<p>Harboro gazed at the man on the bench. +His face moved strangely, as a dark pool +will stir from the action of an undercurrent. +He could not speak for a moment, and then +he called back in a voice like a cry: “I thank +you.”</p> +<p>“You are welcome—brother!” was the response. +The man on the bench was smiling. +He coughed a little, and wondered if the +open-air treatment the physician had prescribed +might not prove a bit heroic. When +he looked about him again his late companion +was gone.</p> +<p>Harboro was hurrying down toward the +Rio Grande bridge. He was trying to put +a curb on his emotions, on his movements. +It would never do for him to hurry through +the streets of Eagle Pass like a madman. +He must walk circumspectly.</p> +<p>He was planning for the future. He would +take Sylvia away—anywhere. They would +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302' name='page_302'></a>302</span> +begin their married life anew. He would +take her beyond the ordinary temptations. +They would live in a tent, an igloo, in the +face of a cliff. He would take her beyond +the reach of the old evil influences, where +he could guide her back to the paths she had +lost. He would search out some place where +there was never a dun horse with golden +dapples, and a rider who carried himself +like a crier of God, carrying glad tidings +across the world.</p> +<p>Yet he was never conscious of the manner +in which he made that trying journey. He +was recalled to self when he reached his +own door. He realized that he was somewhat +out of breath. The night had fallen +and the house revealed but little light from +the front. Through the door he could see +that the dining-room was lighted. He tried +the door stealthily and entered with caution. +It would not do to startle Sylvia.</p> +<p>Ah—that was her voice in the dining-room. +The telephone bell had sounded, +just as he opened the door, and she was +responding to the call.</p> +<p>Her voice seemed cold at first: “I didn’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303' name='page_303'></a>303</span> +catch the name.” And then it turned to +a caress: “Oh, Mendoza—I didn’t hear at +first. Of course, I want to see you.” There +was now a note of perplexity in her tone, +and then: “No, don’t come here. It would +be better for me to see you at my father’s. +In the afternoon.”</p> +<p>Harboro found himself leaning against the +wall, his head in his hands. Mendoza! The +town’s notorious philanderer, who had regarded +Sylvia with insolent eyes that night +out at the Quemado! Yes, and she had +danced with him the minute his back was +turned; danced with him with unconcealed +joy. Mendoza....</p> +<p>He climbed the stairs slowly. He heard +Sylvia’s footsteps as she moved away; into +the kitchen, probably. He climbed stealthily, +like a thief. He mustn’t permit Sylvia to +hear him. He couldn’t see her now. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304' name='page_304'></a>304</span></p> +<div class='ce' style='font-size:1.2em; margin-top:1.5em;'> +<p>CHAPTER XXXI</p> +</div> + +<p>Sylvia had spent the entire day by her +window, looking down the road. She had refused +the food that old Antonia had brought, +and the comforting words that came with it. +Something that was not a part of herself +argued with her that Harboro would come +back, though all that she was by training +and experiences warned her that she must +not look for him.</p> +<p>At nightfall she turned wearily when Antonia +tapped at her door.</p> +<p>“<i>Niña!</i>” The troubled old woman held +out a beseeching hand. “You must have +food. I have prepared it for you, again. +There are very good eggs, and a glass of +milk, and coffee—coffee with a flavor! Come, +there will be another day, and another. +Sorrows pass in the good God’s time; and +even a blind sheep will find its blade of +grass.” Her hand was still extended.</p> +<p>Sylvia went to her and kissed her withered +cheek. “I will try,” she said with docility. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305' name='page_305'></a>305</span></p> +<p>And they went down the stairs as if they +were four; the young woman walking with +Despair, the old woman moving side by side +with Knowledge.</p> +<p>It was then that the telephone rang and +Sylvia went to the instrument and took +down the receiver with trembling fingers. +If it were only Harboro!... But it was +a woman’s voice, and the hope within her +died. She could scarcely attend, after she +realized that it was a woman who spoke to +her. The name “Mrs. Mendoza” meant +nothing to her for an instant. And then +she aroused herself. She must not be ungracious. +“Oh, Mendoza,” she said; “I +didn’t hear at first.” She felt as if a breath +of cold air had enveloped her, but she shook +off the conviction. From habit she spoke +cordially; with gratitude to the one woman +in Eagle Pass who had befriended her she +spoke with tenderness. The wife of Jesus +Mendoza wanted to call on her.</p> +<p>But Sylvia had planned the one great +event of her life, and it occurred to her that +she ought not to permit this unfortunate +woman to come to the house on the morrow. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306' name='page_306'></a>306</span> +It would be an unforgivable cruelty. And +then she thought of her father’s house, and +suggested that her visitor come to see her +there.</p> +<p>She hung up the receiver listlessly and +went into the kitchen, where Antonia was +eagerly getting a meal ready for her. She +looked at these affectionate preparations indulgently, +as she might have looked at a +child who assured her that a wholly imaginary +thing was a real thing.</p> +<p>She ate dutifully, and then she took a +bit of husk from Antonia’s store and made +a cigarette. It was the first time she had +smoked since her marriage. “He’s not coming +back,” she said in a voice like that of +a helpless old woman. She leaned her elbows +on the table and smoked. Her attitude did +not suggest grief, but rather a leave-taking.</p> +<p>Then with returning briskness she got up +and found street apparel and left the house.</p> +<p>She went down into the town almost +gayly—like the Sylvia of old. In the drug-store +she told an exciting little story to the +clerk. There had been a nest of scorpions +... would he believe it? In the kitchen! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307' name='page_307'></a>307</span> +She had been given such a start when the +servant had found them. The servant had +screamed; quite naturally, too. She had +been told that a weak solution, sprinkled +on the floor, would drive them away. What +was it?... Yes, that was it. She had +forgotten.</p> +<p>She received the small phial and paid the +price with fingers which were perfectly firm. +And then she started back up the hill.</p> +<p>Under a street light she became aware +that she was being followed. She turned +with a start. It was only a dog—a forlorn +little beast which stopped when she stopped, +and regarded her with soft, troubled eyes.</p> +<p>She stooped and smoothed the creature’s +head. “You mustn’t follow,” she said in +a voice like hidden water. “I haven’t any +place to take you—nowhere at all!” She +went on up the hill. Once she turned and +observed that the lost dog stood where she +had left him, still imploring her for friendship.</p> +<p>At her door she paused and turned. She +leaned against the door-post in a wistful +attitude. A hundred lonely, isolated lights +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308' name='page_308'></a>308</span> +were burning across the desert, as far as +the eye could reach. They were little lights +which might have meant nothing at all to +a happier observer; but to Sylvia they told +the story of men and women who had joined +hands to fight the battle of life; of the sweet, +humble activities which keep the home intact—the +sweeping of the hearth, the mending +of the fire, the expectant glance at the +clock, the sound of a foot-fall drawing near. +There lay the desert, stretching away to the +Sierra Madre, a lonely waste; but it was a +paradise to those who tended their lights +faithfully and waited with assurance for +those who were away.</p> +<p>... She turned and entered her house +stealthily.</p> +<p>At the top of the stairs she paused in +indecision. Antonia had not heard her enter. +(She did not know that the old woman was +standing in the kitchen under the picture of +the Virgin, with her hands across her eyes +like a bandage.) The lovely boudoir called +to her, but she would not enter it.</p> +<p>“I will go into the guest-chamber,” she +said; “that is the room set apart for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309' name='page_309'></a>309</span> +strangers. I think I must always have been +a stranger here.”</p> +<p>She opened the door quietly.</p> +<p>A pungent odor of smoke filled her nostrils. +She groped for the light and turned +it on.</p> +<p>Through little horizontal wisps of smoke +she saw Harboro lying across the bed, his +great chest standing high, his muscular throat +exposed to the light, a glint of teeth showing +under the sweeping black mustache. His +eyes, nearly closed, seemed to harbor an +eager light—as if he had travelled along a +dark path and saw at last a beacon on a +distant hilltop. A pistol was still clasped +in his dead hand.</p> +<p>The unopened phial Sylvia carried slipped +to the floor. She clutched at her lips with +both hands, to suppress the scream that +arose within her.</p> +<p>He had no right to lie so, in this room. +That was her thought. He had taken the +place she had chosen for her own.</p> +<p>And then she thought of Harboro as a +stranger, too. Had she ever known him, +really? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310' name='page_310'></a>310</span></p> +<p>Her first thought recurred. It should +have been her right to lie here in the guest-chamber, +not Harboro’s.</p> +<p>And yet, and yet....</p> +<div class='ce'> +<p>The End</p> +</div> + +<!-- generated by ppgen.rb version: 2.26 --> +<!-- timestamp: Sat Sep 06 18:12:18 -0400 2008 --> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Children of the Desert, by Louis Dodge + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN OF THE DESERT *** + +***** This file should be named 26550-h.htm or 26550-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/5/5/26550/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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