← catalogue

The Curse of Pocahontas

by Wenona Gilman · English · Gutenberg #48885 · 375,971 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Curse of Pocahontas
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Curse of Pocahontas

Author: Wenona Gilman


        
Release date: May 5, 2015 [eBook #48885]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48885

Credits: Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy
        of the Digital Library@Villanova University
        (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURSE OF POCAHONTAS ***

  THE CURSE OF
  POCAHONTAS

  By WENONA GILMAN

  HART SERIES NO. 102

  Copyright 1895, by George Munro's Sons
  Copyright, 1912 by The Arthur Westbrook Co.

  Published by
  THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY,
  Cleveland Ohio, U. S. A.




THE CURSE OF POCAHONTAS




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I.
  CHAPTER II.
  CHAPTER III.
  CHAPTER IV.
  CHAPTER V.
  CHAPTER VI.
  CHAPTER VII.
  CHAPTER VIII.
  CHAPTER IX.
  CHAPTER X.
  CHAPTER XI.
  CHAPTER XII.
  CHAPTER XIII.
  CHAPTER XIV.
  CHAPTER XV.
  CHAPTER XVI.
  CHAPTER XVII.
  CHAPTER XVIII.
  CHAPTER XIX.
  CHAPTER XX.
  CHAPTER XXI.
  CHAPTER XXII.
  CHAPTER XXIII.
  CHAPTER XXIV.
  CHAPTER XXV.
  CHAPTER XXVI.
  CHAPTER XXVII.
  CHAPTER XXVIII.
  CHAPTER XXIX.
  CHAPTER XXX.
  CHAPTER XXXI.
  CHAPTER XXXII.
  CHAPTER XXXIII.
  CHAPTER XXXIV.
  CHAPTER XXXV.
  CHAPTER XXXVI.
  CHAPTER XXXVII.




CHAPTER I.


Mrs. de Barryos sat beside a window overlooking a dainty rose-garden,
the golden sunshine streaming over her, the balmly air lifting the soft
curls of dark hair that was artistically touched with gray. Her hands
were folded idly over a letter that lay in her lap--small hands that
looked as if they had never known the meaning of toil, they were pale
and thin, like the face of the woman to whom they belonged, for Mrs. de
Barryos was an invalid.

She had been pretty before her face acquired its present angles through
suffering; never beautiful, but pretty in a dainty, meaningless sort of
way; inoffensively pretty some people might have called her, for there
was no strength in it, nor character. Her eyes were innocent, wide-open
brown ones that were like those of an obedient child. Her chin was
decidedly weak, and about the mouth had grown with her age a sort of
querulous tremble, as if she felt that the world had used her unfairly,
and wanted all mankind to sympathize with and pet her because of it.

She was never known to miss an opportunity to tell people of all the
wretchedness that had been so bravely and uncomplainingly borne. She
had fancied for the past five years that death was imminent, that its
shadows lay across her threshold, and yet she was apparently as far
from it as she had been at the beginning of the five years.

There was another thing about Mrs. de Barryos' life of which she was
apparently as proud as of her illness and patience, and that was the
fact that she was a lineal descendant of the renowned Pocahontas, a
fact at which some people laughed; but it was an undisputed fact, all
the same, for the historical Indian maiden had given birth to one of
the grandfathers upon the maternal side, and the curling hair and
weakness of character had been inherited from the branch of the family
that should have imparted its strength.

And it was of that same ancestress that Mrs. de Barryos was thinking as
she sat there beside the window, her eyes mechanically following the
flitting movements of a graceful form in the garden that was bending
above the roses.

And surely the girl was beautiful enough to look upon.

It might have been easy enough to believe that there was the blood of
an Indian flowing through her veins, for the clear olive complexion,
the inky blackness of the hair, which still was not straight, the
touch of crimson in the cheeks, and the great velvet eyes might have
indicated it. There was a better explanation of it, however, in the
fact that her father was a Mexican.

After a little she came toward the window at which her mother sat, her
arms filled with the lovely crimson blossoms that fitted her dusky
beauty so royally, and seated herself upon the sill of the window,
dropping the roses about her in gorgeous profusion as she prepared to
bind them into a bouquet.

"Aren't they exquisite?" she asked, admiringly, her voice a full, rich
contralto that made music even of the most ordinary speech. "It seems
to me that I never saw them so fine before."

"I wish you would put them away!" exclaimed her mother, querulously.
"It seems to me, Carlita, that you are always working among the
flowers, and that I never get a moment in which to speak to you."

The girl threw one swift glance of blended astonishment and reproach
in her mother's direction, then rose quietly, gathered up her flowers,
entered the room, and placed them upon a table, then drew a stool to
her mother's feet and sat upon it.

"I am awfully sorry if I have neglected you, dearest," she said,
gently. "Was there anything special that you wanted to speak to me
about?"

"Yes, there is," returned the plaintive voice. "There is something I
want to tell you. I have just had a letter from--from Jessica."

"Well?"

"I--I wrote to her mother the other day. I know you don't like me to be
making preparations for my death, Carlita, but--"

"Oh, mother!"

"Well, what is a woman to do when she sees death staring her in the
face and no one will believe it?" cried the woman, fretfully. "I wanted
to make some provision for you, and--"

"My dear, my dear, if you knew how this pains me, I am sure--"

"If I don't know, it isn't because you haven't told me often enough,
Heaven knows!" exclaimed Mrs. de Barryos, with irritation. "You never
think of any one but yourself, Carlita."

For a moment it seemed as if the girl were about to utter a protest;
then she thought better of it, and contented herself with a little
gesture of deprecation and silence.

After a brief hesitation, her mother continued more quietly, soothed,
perhaps, by her daughter's submission:

"Your Aunt Erminie and I never agreed, and so I knew that you would not
desire to live there at my death, and so I have written to Jessica's
mother, who was my old school friend, asking if I might appoint her
your guardian. She has written today, through Jessica, to say that she
will be very happy to accept the trust. I have not seen Louise for a
very great many years; but I have always loved her, and I am quite sure
that she will be kind to my little motherless girl."

"Oh, mother! Why will you persist in saying such dreadful things?"

"Because I know the end is not far off, my dear, and--"

"You have said that same thing for five years."

"Then the end is five years nearer. I never can have any satisfaction
in talking to you, Carlita. You won't sit down and reason a thing out,
as other people do."

The girl leaned her exquisite face upon her hand and looked dreamily
through the window.

"I beg your pardon," she said, softly. "I will not interrupt again."

"I feel so satisfied," her mother continued, spreading out her hands
curiously; "now that Louise has undertaken your guardianship, I can die
quite contented. You will have Jessica for a companion, and--"

"I have never seen Jessica or her mother."

"There you go again! What difference can that possibly make? Louise
and I were the greatest friends as girls. I shall never forget how she
cried when I told her that I was going to marry your father.

"'My dear Dorindah,' she said, 'you will regret it to the last day of
your life. Jose de Barryos is a hot-tempered Mexican, and you know how
dreadful they are.'

"It was quite true, Carlita. I never knew a moment's happiness from
the time I married your father until the day he died."

The girl moved restlessly; there was intense pain depicted in her
countenance; but her mother continued as if she had not observed:

"He ruined my life, made me the wreck that I am--I, who was called one
of the greatest beauties of my day. I was never happy for a single
moment after I became his wife; but that is only what I might have
expected from the curse that rests upon me."

"The curse that rests upon you?" returned Carlita, looking at her
mother for the first time with a dawning interest. "Why, what curse
rests upon you?"

"It is that about which I wanted to talk to you, that about which I
wanted to tell you. My poor child, when you go into the world, at my
death, you will go with the same curse upon you that has spoiled my
life, and that must wreck yours."

"Mother, what do you mean?" asked Carlita.

"It is a curse of Pocahontas, child--the curse that falls, from
generation to generation, upon one girl child who shows the trace of
the Indian, and you are that one! I was the one of my generation, you
of yours."

"Mother, you are jesting."

"I am in most deadly earnest, Carlita. You know that we are descendants
of Pocahontas. She married a white man--John Rolf, if you remember--and
died a broken-hearted woman. She left one son, and upon her death-bed
she pronounced a curse--a curse that has never failed to fall. It was
that one girl descendant of each generation should suffer, through
her love, even as she had suffered. It was that she should know no
happiness; that if she dared to love, the most bitter misery should
fall upon her and the man of her choice. And the curse has never
failed, Carlita. It has never failed and it never can fail. Think!
You have heard the story of how, when your great-aunt and uncle were
coming from their wedding, the skiff in which they were crossing the
river capsized, and all within it were drowned--six of them! Your
great-grandmother went mad, and died a raving maniac, when her husband
was killed right before her eyes. Your grandmother died of a broken
heart when her husband wandered away, and no one ever knew whether
the Indians killed him, or he simply deserted her. He was never heard
of afterward. Your mother's pitiful history you know well enough; it
needs no repetition. I want you to know all this, and that the curse
has descended to you, in order that you may escape the misery and
heartache that has fallen upon the others of your race. If you would
save yourself from suffering and death, you must never love!"

The girl sprang to her feet, the crimson color passionately staining
her cheeks.

"Mother!" she cried, hotly, "what are you saying? Would you rob a
young life of all that makes it worth the living? Would you make of
me a hermit, shunning the whole world, and shunned in turn? Would you
deprive me of that sentiment for which God created me woman?"

The invalid stretched out her hands again deprecatingly.

"I have only told you the truth," she said, without the slightest
compassion for her daughter's suffering, because she could not
understand it. "I have warned you and done my duty. I shall not be
here to look after you and protect you, and all that I can do is to
warn you. The truth stands there, and you must recognize it. If you
love, if you wed, you will not only ruin your own life, but that of
the man who tempts you to marriage. You have that to keep before you
always--always. If I had done it I should not be the wreck I am today;
but I had no one to warn me against the fate I was preparing for
myself. Just keep these words ever fresh within your memory, and you
will be safe: 'The curse of Pocahontas rests upon me!'"




CHAPTER II.


Shortly after that, to the surprise of everybody, Mrs. de Barryos did
die.

People had expected that she was going to be one of those who lived
eternally, eternally complaining, and her death came in the nature of
a sort of shock to the community. Carlita was looked upon with general
favor, and there were those who, while they sighed, exclaimed to each
other consolingly:

"Well it is the first freedom of any sort the poor child ever had. She
will grieve, of course, but as soon as the first shock has worn off,
she'll be happier than she ever was in her life before."

But any kind of a mother is better than no mother at all, and there was
the sincerest sorrow in Carlita's heart. There was enough of the warm
Mexican blood in her veins to fill her with a passion that was beyond
the understanding of those colder, more northern folk, and she had
loved her mother very sincerely. She was frightened, too, at the time
of her mother's death by the remembrance of that curse which her mother
had impressed upon her many times before the end came, and felt that
shrinking sense of loneliness, of bitter oppression, of isolation from
all the world that is so hard to bear.

When Jose de Barryos died he left his fortune, and it was considerable,
equally to his wife and daughter, the daughter under her guardianship
and that of a brother who did not long survive him, so that at the
time of Mrs. de Barryos' death there was considerable interest felt as
to who she had appointed guardian of her daughter in her own place,
Carlita being still under legal age. Some said that she would appoint
her husband's sister, Mrs. Erminie Blanchard but there were others
who knew that there had not been sufficient friendship between the
two women for that, and there was a rustle of excitement felt when
two ladies in mourning arrived on the day of the funeral, two women
whom none of them had ever seen before, but who went at once to the
great de Barryos mansion, for it was nothing less in that country, and
established themselves in the house.

There was considerable talk among the neighbors, who stood off and
looked at them from a distance like frightened sheep, feeling somehow
an embarrassment that they were never known to exhibit before.

Both of them were large women, the elder inclined to be stout, with a
waist that was suspiciously small for the size of bust and hips. Her
hair was yellow--a brilliant, half-greenish yellow--that contrasted
oddly with her very dark eyebrows and black lashes. Her eyes were a
dark blue, and her complexion very white and very pink about the cheeks.

She was startlingly young-looking to confess to being the mother of the
young woman who accompanied her.

She--the daughter--was a curious contrast to her mother, while
following at the same time upon much the same lines. Her hair was
red--that glorious dark rich auburn--her eyes dark brown and rather
fine, her complexion singularly like that of her mother. She was not
beautiful--not even pretty--but there was a certain sort of dangerous
fascination about her that even inexperienced people recognized.

Carlita rather gasped when they bore down upon her suddenly the day
of her mother's funeral, their mourning was so heavy, so crisp, so
new, and they gushed over her in such a curious way, calling her "a
dear thing!" "darling!" and all the rest of it, which was quite new to
Carlita, and they took such absolute possession of everything. But she
explained it all to herself by remembering that letter which her mother
had received signed "Jessica," and tried to be satisfied.

When the will was read, the good people understood it all better.

Mrs. Louise Chalmers has been appointed guardian of the orphaned
heiress, and Mrs. Louise Chalmers was that rather large, rather showy,
rather overdressed, while yet in mourning, woman, and to her had been
left an income of eight thousand dollars a year so long as she remained
Carlita's guardian.

Her black-bordered handkerchief was pressed very closely to her eyes
during the reading of the will; but although an occasional sob was
heard by those who sat nearest to her, there wasn't an atom of moisture
on the handkerchief when it was removed. Her little, black King Charles
spaniel fidgeted and sneezed on her lap during the entire time, not
quite able to comprehend why he should be neglected for the first time
in all his absurdly spoiled life.

It did not seem quite appropriate to those plain Southern folks that
Mrs. Chalmers should hold a dog on her lap during the reading of her
old friend's will; but they rather forgave her when she went up to
Carlita, and, in a really very pretty way, put her arms about the young
orphan's neck, and said in her sweetest and most maternal voice:

"I can not take your mother's place, my darling, but I shall try to be
a second one to you. It is a very sacred trust that she has left me,
and I shall try with all my heart to be worthy of it."

And she immediately took the place of "second mother," taking the
direction of everything in her own hands with a clear sweep that rather
staggered Carlita. Her mother had been ill for five years before her
death, as has already been told, and the girl had been housekeeper
in entire charge, so that to be so completely swept aside in her own
domain was something which she had not calculated upon. Still, she
submitted, because there did not seem to be anything else to be done.

There were not many changes made in the house, because practically
there was no way of making them. The town was not full of
opportunities. The people were slow and inactive. Jose de Barryos had
owned a huge cotton plantation just outside the limits of the town, and
had been contented to have his dwelling-place there, though it must
be confessed that he had not spent much of his time at home. He and
his wife had not agreed sufficiently well to permit their living very
comfortably under the same roof for any length of time together. And
she had remained there after his death because she lacked the energy to
do anything else.

But it was not the sort of place in which Mrs. Chalmers could be long
content. She was not surprised, as she sat one evening upon the lawn
near the fountain, with the sweet southern air blowing lazily about
her, to receive a visit from her daughter.

The girl threw herself upon the grass and looked up indolently.

"I say," she exclaimed in a tone that was low, almost thrilling, "this
is dead slow! And I am tired of the whole thing. I don't think I could
stand it another week for all the fortune that black thing possesses!"

"Jessica!"

"Oh, bah! You are doing the delicately virtuous with a vengeance, and
it is that which adds to my ennui almost more than this enervating
atmosphere. Call a halt, can't you? One can't speak of that little
backwoods thing but you are up in arms!"

"She is beautiful!"

"Yes; but with about as much style as one of these buzzards that are
so disgustingly plentiful. Her big eyes are uncanny, and that chalky
complexion looks like the first indication of decay. She looks like one
of the mulatto girls that abound in these parts. I am seriously afraid
that some one will think that we've brought a negro home with us!"

"Jessica, for the love of Heaven, hush! If she should hear you, she
would never forgive you in the world!"

"And what an awful calamity that would be!" sneered the girl,
gracefully drawing a blade of long grass through her lips. "This place
will be good enough when this absurd time of mourning is passed and we
can fill it with guests; but until it is, for the Lord's sake, let's
cut it all and run. I can't stand it!"

"We can't leave her."

"Of course, we can't--worse luck--but surely you have not lost your
cunning in the development of romance. You can make her see the
absolute necessity for change of air and scene. You don't need a better
ally than that chalky complexion of hers. Get me out of it, or I shall
do something disgraceful."

"Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere. I suppose we've got to draw it mild on her pocket-book for
a while; but--well, the opera season has opened in New York, and there
will be something to live for. After that, we can go over the pond for
a while and--"

"Why don't you try to use a little less slang, Jessica?"

"Because slang is strictly in my line, Miss Virtuous. Look here! It is
quite sufficient to be on my p's and q's when our little mulatto is
around, without getting qualms and--and things. I say, when are you
going to propose the New York plan?"

"You really think it best?"

"Best or worst, it's going to be done. Great Scott! think of it! We've
been buried in this hole for three weeks now. Not a glass of champagne,
not the face of a man, not a single game of poker--nothing to relieve
the dread monotony. I'd be in a mad-house in three weeks more! Besides
all that, I'm dead tired of this black toggery."

"You mean to take it off when you get back to New York?"

"Take it off!" echoed the young lady, looking up in astonishment.
"Well, rather!"

"What will Carlita think?"

"What, in Heaven's name, do you suppose I care what she thinks? Did you
really believe that I intend to pass the rest of my life guarded from
evil by the fear of Carlita's displeasure? If such an idea has ever
disturbed you, put it away at once. She will very soon find her level
in my life, and in yours, if I mistake not. When will you speak to her
about our going?"

"Tomorrow, if you really wish it."

"You'd better make it tonight. There is no time like the present. I
shall sleep better if I know the matter is settled."

"And if she should refuse?"

The girl lifted herself upon her elbow and opened her eyes very wide.

"Refuse!" she exclaimed. "Heavens and earth! Whence did you acquire
this new-born submission? I'm positively afraid the mulatto is
affecting your brain. Is she your guardian, or are you hers? Go in
there and tell her that you are going, and that she is going with you.
It is quite enough. Just let that settle it. Don't begin with anything
like questioning her inclination, or you may have cause to regret it by
and by. Come, toddle along now, and I will wait for you here."

The girl lay indolently back upon the grass, and her mother arose,
albeit with a sigh.




CHAPTER III


"Thank Heaven for New York once again, to be free, to breathe without
the suffocation of those black things clinging about me, to get under
the bracing air of a Northern climate once more. I wonder if you could
command or persuade Carlita to leave off that dreadful placard of woe
and let us have a little music and laughter once again?"

Jessica Chalmers threw herself into an arm-chair, crossed her knees
upon each other, lifted her dainty foot to a graceful angle, and
glanced up at her mother with a smile upon her lips that was really
very pleasant to look at. She wore a negligee of pale blue and silver
that became her wonderfully well, and there was an expression of fond
admiration in the eyes of the mother that returned her smile.

"I don't think I would undertake it if I were you," she replied,
thoughtfully. "After all, it can make very little difference to you.
I am not anxious that Carlita should go much into society, as if she
marries before she reaches the age of twenty-one I shall be docked just
eight thousand a year. It isn't a fortune, I grant you, but it is a
tidy little sum for pin money. I think you have been rather blind to
the fact that Carlita is an exceptionally beautiful girl, and--and--"

She did not complete her sentence, and Jessica shrugged her shoulders
indifferently.

"She is welcome to it," she answered, indolently. "You know that is one
thing I never envied any one in my life. On the contrary, I think it
must be rather a bore to be continually thinking of it and fearing to
lose it. It is style that tells--chic--and Carlita hasn't an atom of
that. Don't fear; I shall not be in the least jealous of your pretty
protege. She and I are as far apart as the antipodes. She is the most
utterly namby-pamby little nonentity that I have ever met."

Mrs. Chalmers turned away and walked toward the window, looking down
into Fifth Avenue. She was silent for a moment, then, with her lips set
curiously, answered slowly:

"If she is, it will be the first half-breed Mexican and Indian that I
ever knew to be either a nonentity or namby-pambyish. You may be right,
my dear Jessica, but you will pardon me, I know, if I say that I don't
believe it."

A reply was prevented by the entrance of a maid bearing a card. She
did not take it to the mistress of the house, but straight to Jessica,
who looked at it, then sprang to her feet with a little exclamation of
delight.

"Leith Pierrepont, by all that's wonderful, and so soon!" she cried.
"Show him in, Marie!"

But almost before the order had been given a young man entered the
room. He was tall, singularly handsome, with the bearing of a West
Pointer. His eyes were a deep, luminous gray, shaded by lashes and
brows that were black. His hair was also black, with a suggestion of a
wave in it that was exceedingly attractive. It was brushed away from
a brow as fair and smooth as a girl's, but there was no weakness in
the face. Its strength was one of its greatest attractions, but it was
not in the least in harmony with the indolence of his movements, the
careless, nonchalant grace of his speech.

People said of him that he had never been in a hurry in his life, but
certainly no one ever accused him of being slow. He was as picturesque
as he was handsome, with a slow, rare smile that women loved.

He extended a large, white hand with artistic, tapering fingers, which
closed over Jessica's with a warmth of pressure that was infinitely
strength-giving, his eyes lighting with a pleasure he did not hesitate
to express.

"Halloo, Leith, old man!" cried Jessica, not loudly, not coarsely, but
with a fascinating slanginess of manner that no one under heaven could
ever imitate. "Thought you were in the jungles killing tigers. When
did you get back, and did you bring me that skin you promised? 'Pon my
soul, I'm glad to see you! Heard the news?"

"You always take my breath away, Jessica," he answered, with the
irresistible smile spreading over his face. "How do you do, Mrs.
Chalmers. What have you been doing to yourself? Time has been going
backward, the old traitor. I never saw you looking so well. It isn't
fair in the very least, robbing young girls of their rightful prey.
Is there any news, Jessica? I haven't heard any in so long that I can
scarcely believe it possible."

It was a long speech for him. He did not usually trouble himself to
such an extent, and when he had finished he threw himself into a chair
as if exhausted.

"News--well, I should say so!" exclaimed Jessica, her brown eyes aglow.
"When did you get back?"

"Yesterday."

"Then you haven't heard. We arrived this morning."

"Really? From where?"

"Louisiana. We've been having an addition to the family; but it's a
grown-up one. Mamma has another daughter."

"You don't mean it?"

"Yes, truly. What do you think of it?"

"How can I tell until I have seen her? You didn't take me for a
clairvoyant, did you? But really, for selfish reasons, I'm awfully
sorry. It will spoil the number and break up all our sport."

"Not much!" exclaimed Jessica, with conviction. "Rather than that I
should send her back to the savages that she came from. Did you bring
Olney Winthrop back with you?"

"Yes, poor old chap. He had rather a narrow shave with a panther, and
then was almost carried off with jungle fever. He will certainly not
remind you of the flesh-pots of Egypt when you see him. He is all
broken up, and insists that there is nothing that will restore him like
a little game. I have come to ask if you will have us this evening?"

"Well, rather!" exclaimed Jessica.

"My dear," said Mrs. Chalmers, dubiously, "do you think you had
better--so soon?"

"Rats!" cried her daughter, inelegantly, but without the slightest
indication of vulgarity. "Do you think I am going to be shut off from
the world because Carlita has come here? Come off! Come by all means,
Leith, and bring Olney Winthrop. We'll see if we can't bring a little
life back to his veins. And you might ask Redfield Ash, if you should
happen to run across him. Four is not a good number for poker, and
Redfield Ash is the most unlucky man alive. By the way, would you like
to see our savage?"

"I am always interested in anything or any one that concerns you."

Her eyes lighted pleasantly as she touched a bell and said to Marie:

"Ask Miss de Barryos to come here, Marie."

"What a very swell name. Is she a Mexican?" inquired Pierrepont.

"Her father was. Her mother was an old school friend of mamma's, and I
do believe mamma is afraid of this half-breed."

"Nonsense, Jessica."

"It is true, just the same. You never saw such a change in your life
since the savage came among us. I really think she expects to see the
scalping-knife in the girl's hand every time she comes--Oh, Carlita! I
sent for you to introduce one of our dearest friends, Mr. Pierrepont.
Miss de Barryos, Mr. Pierrepont."

Leith Pierrepont arose and looked into the girlish face. He knew from
the fire in the dark eyes and the crimson glow in the olive cheeks that
she had heard every word that had been spoken concerning her, and there
was an expression of sympathy in his eyes as he put out his hand.

Carlita did not take it. She stood there for a moment haughtily erect,
dumb with indignation, her fierce anger rising in bitter words to her
lips; but she repressed all sound, forbade herself the utterance of the
torrent of hot, wrathful words that arose to her lips, and bowed coldly.

Pierrepont withdrew his hand and placed it carelessly upon the back of
his chair, as if he had not observed the cut, and said quietly:

"It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, Miss de Barryos. Miss
Chalmers tells me that your father was a Mexican. I knew Juan de
Barryos. I met him in the City of Mexico a number of years ago. He was
the nephew of the Count of Regla, one of the old Spanish grandees, and
one of the most picturesque characters in Mexican history. Juan de
Barryos was an owner of mines of enormous extent, as was his uncle, the
more world-famous Count of Regla. Juan de Barryos was a relative of
your father?"

He asked the question curiously, half interrogation, half exclamation,
and she answered proudly:

"Juan de Barryos was my father's brother and my guardian until the time
of his death."

"Really! Then by my friendship for your uncle I ought to be allowed to
claim some sort of acquaintanceship with you, ought I not?"

"I never saw my uncle but twice," she returned, coldly. "His friends
were not mine."

Jessica crimsoned, half with anger, half amusement. She was not
anxious that Carlita should make a good impression upon this man, but
her reply was almost rude. Still Pierrepont was unruffled. He turned
indifferently to Jessica:

"I am afraid I have overstayed my time," he exclaimed. "May I call it
an engagement and bring poor Winthrop tonight?"

"Decidedly."

"Then good-afternoon. Miss de Barryos, I am very glad to meet Juan de
Barryos' niece, in spite of the fact that she knew him almost as little
as a stranger might. It was a great misfortune to you, for he was a
charming man. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Chalmers."

He shook hands with his hostess and was gone. But almost before he had
disappeared, Carlita had slipped away to her own room.

She stood there in the center of the room with her hands pressed
passionately upon her breast, allowing her fierce anger full play upon
her features.

"They hate me!" she cried, fiercely. "Hate me, because of that cursed
blood of the Indian that flows within my veins. They hate me! Oh, God,
if I could but open them and let it out drop by drop. If I could but
be like others are. They hate me and I have allowed them to see their
power to hurt me; but it shall not be so again. I will show them that I
am not the thing for which they have taken me. I will show this woman
and her daughter that I am not the weak, characterless thing that they
have thought. They shall regret their words. I swear that--I swear it!"

And in the meantime Leith Pierrepont walked indolently down the street,
musing dreamily.

"What a deuced pretty thing she is," he said to himself. "What eyes!
What a complexion! I don't believe I ever saw a woman in my life who
looked like her. My dear Jessica, I am afraid you have made a mistake
in allowing this addition to be made to your family. She is the very
most beautiful, wonderfully picturesque girl that an artist could
fancy. If she doesn't make a sensation, then I'm mistaken. Heigh-ho!
Leith, old fellow, if she plays such havoc with every man's heart as
she has with yours in this short time, I shall be sorry for the other
women. What a confounded shame it is that she has fallen in with the
Chalmers. I wonder how it happened? I believe for the first time in my
life I am curious. Carlita de Barryos! She's of a rattling good family,
if there is a trace of Indian in her--which I don't believe altogether,
and she's the most graceful person I ever met, and the highest-tempered
to have absolute self-control. God! wasn't she furious! Cursed little
vixen is Jessica, but fascinating. Carlita de Barryos! Upon my soul,
old fellow, I believe you've seen the first woman you ever saw in your
life that you'd like to make your wife! Funny, too, that I should meet
her there--there of all places. The longer a fellow lives the more
waggish the world grows for him."




CHAPTER IV.


To the surprise of both Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica, Carlita came into
the room before the arrival of their expected guests that same evening.

She was gowned in black, but it was black chiffon; the silk lining of
the waist cut low, her beautiful throat gleaming like marble under its
soft covering. Her hair was parted, and fell in great waves down to her
ear, from which it was drawn back to the nape of the neck, a few small
curls drooping upon the olive brow. The daintiest of bloom stained her
cheeks and lips, and there was an added light in the dusky eyes that
made her almost thrilling in her strange beauty.

For the first time Jessica looked upon her with a little start and
slight contraction of the brows. She had said quite truly that she
had never been jealous of the beauty of any woman, and yet she was
conscious of a distinctly unpleasant sensation as her mother's ward
stood before her. She had said that Carlita lacked style, and yet in
that moment she realized that there was something better than mere
style in the young girl's make-up; there was an individuality, a charm,
a wonderful grace, as if some exquisite conceit of one of the old
masters had suddenly stepped from its frame and stood there in flesh
and blood reality.

Jessica bit her lip. For the first time in her recollection she found
herself disconcerted. She could find nothing to say. She wanted to
invent some excuse to banish Carlita from the drawing-room, but could
make none. And before she could recover her accustomed aplomb, the
little maid Marie announced Mr. Pierrepont and Mr. Winthrop.

Carlita stepped aside and looked from one to the other of the two men.

She observed the magnificent proportions of the one whom she had met
in the afternoon, enhanced by a dress-suit which fitted him singularly
well, noted the slow grace of his perfect manner, and then turned to
the other one.

He was tall also, and slight almost to emaciation. His eyes were of
Saxon blue--honest eyes that were like those of a frank, generous boy
who loves life, loves the world, loves happiness, loves danger even,
but has never learned to dissemble.

He showed traces, even the presence, of a terrible illness; but there
was something that caught and held her interest and her sympathy in the
smile that he bent upon Carlita when Mrs. Chalmers had performed the
introduction.

"It is so delightful to meet you, Miss de Barryos," he said, genially.
"Leith told me that he had forestalled me this afternoon, and also
that you were something of a Mexican. I should have known it even if
he hadn't said so, and the inclination to call you senorita was almost
uncontrollable. I have been in Mexico frequently, and--oh, love it!"

"I don't know it at all," Carlita answered. "My mother was an invalid
for years, and we never traveled."

"Ah, you have so much in store," enthusiastically returned the musical
voice of the young man. "And there is no place under all God's sun
where the grass is so green, where the sunlight is so brilliant, where
the flowers are so gorgeous, and where the birds sing as they do in
Mexico. The brilliant, thrilling coloring is so magnificent that it
seems to fill one's veins to bursting with the very delight of living.
How you will love Mexico! You speak Spanish, of course?"

"My father taught me when I was a little child."

"And you have not forgotten?" he questioned, speaking the words to her
in Spanish as he smiled at her delightedly.

"I have not forgotten," she answered in the same tongue, the words
flowing in liquid beauty as English words never could flow.

"It is such a pleasure to be able to speak the language sometimes,"
he continued, still in Spanish. "And--will you pardon me if I say you
speak it exquisitely? Leith knows almost every other language under the
sun except Spanish, and it is really the only one I care a copper for.
Will you let me come sometimes and talk to you--some afternoon when
there will be no one else? You know I am an invalid now, and am doing
nothing but recuperate. I came near going off the other day with jungle
fever. It's a nasty thing, and leaves a fellow so infernally weak. It
would be a positive charity if you will let me come sometimes."

"I should be glad to have you," she answered, earnestly.

And then some one else was announced whose name she did not quite
catch--another man--and then she saw that Leith Pierrepont had taken
his friend's place.

She was conscious of a distinct shock that was almost anger. Her cheeks
grew hot. She was angry with herself, and lifted her eyes to his face
half in defiance, though of what she could not have told.

He was smiling down upon her with that rare smile that somehow she knew
already, though she had only seen him a moment that afternoon.

"Even if you do speak Spanish with Winthrop, you won't let him quite
monopolize you, will you?" he said to her in that dangerously low,
caressing tone he knew so well how to use. "I am afraid I didn't make
a good impression upon you this afternoon. I was unfortunate enough to
introduce some subject that did not meet with your approval altogether,
and--you don't like me. Is that true?"

She flushed again angrily, seeing the smile lurking behind his
magnificent eyes.

"I never presume to form opinions of strangers," she answered,
haughtily; and then could have bitten her tongue for making so childish
a reply.

She saw, however, at once that it had not ruffled him in the least, for
he replied, lightly:

"I am so glad you are not impulsive. Young ladies usually are. If you
had been, I should despair of ever winning your good-will; but as you
assure me it is not so, why, I shall hope to be one of your first
friends in your new home. Have you known Mrs. and Miss Chalmers long?
Are they related to you?"

"Oh, no! Mrs. Chalmers and my mother were school friends. They have not
met since then; but the old warm attachment was always maintained," she
replied, thankful to him for showing her a way to change the subject.

He looked over her head curiously, an expression of relief, she almost
thought, coming into his eyes.

"Oh," he returned, "I see."

"See what?" she asked.

He looked down quickly and straight into her eyes.

"Nothing," he said, slowly. "I only see as blind men do. Do you play
poker?"

"No. I have never seen it played; but I dare say I shall learn quickly
enough."

He leaned toward her, resting his elbow upon a convenient mantel-shelf.
His eyes were bent upon her, dark with meaning.

"Don't!" he said earnestly. "If you were an impulsive young lady who
had formed a swift friendship with me, I should entreat of you, by that
friendship, not to do it. It is a game which it would break my heart to
see--my sister play."

The words had barely been spoken, when Jessica touched him upon the arm
with her fan. There was an expression upon her face which no one had
ever seen there before. Her voice was light, and did not match it in
the least, as she exclaimed:

"Come! the table is waiting. Carlita, a novice at poker always wins.
Shall we lose all our money to you tonight? Will you take a hand?"

The words were meaningless to Carlita, but she hesitated. She wanted to
do that which would be in defiance of Pierrepont's wishes. She glanced
from Jessica to him; then, moved by an influence which she could not
combat, she answered:

"I will not play, thank you, Jessica."

Miss Chalmers bit her lip. With her fingers upon Pierrepont's arm, she
led him away, while Winthrop again took his place.

Mrs. Chalmers had seen the entire by-play, and a look of anxiety
crossed her brow.

"Great heavens!" she muttered, "Leith Pierrepont has fallen in love
with that girl, as sure as fate! Well, God help her when Jessica finds
it out beyond a doubt!"




CHAPTER V.


Redfield Ash came as they were about to sit down to the table, making
six for the game with Henry Fielding, who had arrived just before, and
with an eagerness which he rarely showed, Olney Winthrop turned to his
hostess.

"Will you excuse me, dear Mrs. Chalmers, if I beg off?" he exclaimed.
"Five is a much better number than six. Miss de Barryos and I will
utilize the time in rubbing up our Spanish together. It is such a
pleasure to meet some one who speaks it."

Jessica glanced swiftly toward Pierrepont, and noted all too clearly
the shadow of annoyance that crossed his brow. She even heard it in the
tone of his voice as he exclaimed rather suddenly for him:

"I thought this game was made especially for your benefit?"

At another time Jessica would not have allowed his withdrawal, but now
she cried with a sweetness of accent that attracted the attention of
her mother:

"By all means talk to Carlita, Mr. Winthrop. It is really very kind of
you. The next time you come I shall take special pains that she joins
our game."

She did not look at Pierrepont, but he glanced toward her coolly,
insouciantly, muttering mentally:

"The little fiend heard what I said. She is determined to ruin that
girl, but I swear she shall not! Let us see who is stronger, my dear
Jessica, you or I!"

But there was no man at the table apparently less interested than he.
He shuffled with a dexterity that baffled most men, talking lightly of
his stay in India and of Winthrop's narrow escape from the panther,
to all appearances oblivious of the fact that Winthrop and Carlita
had wandered from the room, she with her great dark eyes turned
interestedly upon Winthrop, in earnest conversation with the language
unintelligible to him.

"You are a stranger in New York, are you not?" Winthrop asked, as he
threw himself into a chair beside her in the library, leaning toward
her, a faint flush lifting the pallor of illness.

"Yes. We arrived this morning, and I have never been here before."

"Ah, there will be so much to see. The opera begins next week, and--"

"I am in mourning."

The voice was very soft, almost tremulous, and Winthrop started.

"I beg ten thousand pardons!" he exclaimed, gently. "And it is your
mother, too. It always seems to me the saddest thing under heaven when
a girl like you loses her mother. Mrs. Chalmers is your guardian, is
she not?"

"Yes."

"Of course I ought not to ask it, I who am a perfect stranger to you,
but somehow it does not seem to me that I am a stranger. There is
some sort of immediately established friendship that makes me feel an
interest that perhaps is not reciprocated, and you might resent it as
an impertinence."

There was something so frank and honest in the clear blue eyes that
Carlita felt herself insensibly warmed by the man's manner, and
answered cordially:

"I assure you I would not. I have not so many friends that I can afford
to decline an honestly offered friendship, such as I am sure yours is.
I am very grateful."

The words were simple enough, but there was something in her manner
that touched the young man deeply, and leaning forward, he lifted her
hand and pressed it ever so lightly to his lips.

"Thank you," he said, softly. "I shall appreciate the trust above
everything else in this world. Then I may ask if--if you--are
quite--quite happy here?"

She looked a little surprised for a moment, then the expression of the
blue eyes reassured her. She knew she could trust him, knew that he
meant her no harm. There was a curious feeling of perfect safety, of
implicit confidence in him that she had never felt toward any human
being in her life before. It affected her strangely, and there was just
a shadow of unshed tears in her eyes as she replied:

"I ought not to say that I am not happy, because I know Jessica and
her mother so little. I have been brought up in such a narrow circle.
My knowledge of the world is so limited. Papa died when I was a small
girl, and mamma was an invalid, as I told you. There were only the
neighbors, good people, but not much up in matters of the world, so
that it is all new and strange to me. I don't want to show that I am
ignorant; I want to do that which Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers tell me; I
don't want to appear a little Puritan idiot; but there are some things
that do not seem exactly right to me, and I have not learned yet to
reconcile myself to them. You see how I have trusted you."

She smiled a trifle wistfully, and he leaned a little further toward
her, as if protectingly, as he replied:

"And I shall try all my life long to show you how I appreciate the
trust. I understand so well how you feel. I would not alarm you for
all the world about your position here, but--but there are some things
that I--I would not have you learn. One of them is to play poker."

"And yet you came here to play with me?"

"I have never seen you. I did not know you. I would not sit down at a
poker-table with you now for--for my right arm."

He said it so earnestly, so sincerely that she started.

"Is it so wrong, then?" she asked, quickly. "Is it so great a sin?"

He appeared embarrassed.

"I hardly know how to answer you," he returned gently. "It is a sin
in a sense. It is gambling, and all gambling is sinful. I would not
have you understand me that Jessica or Mrs. Chalmers is doing anything
criminal, but--I should so much prefer that you would not join them."

"And yet you do it?"

He flushed crimson.

"My dear child, my little friend, you will learn that men are permitted
acts which the world does not allow to women. I am not going to argue
with you about the right or wrong of it. There is a law which is as
binding as the Christian oath, and that is the law of custom. The world
has a code of its own, and right or wrong, we must follow it. I will
promise you one thing, however, that is, that if you will never play
a game of poker, a game of anything that involves money, I never will
either. Will you do it?"

It never occurred to either of them that it was an extraordinary thing
for them to do upon the occasion of their first meeting. It is doubtful
if they remembered that it was their first meeting.

He extended his palm, and she placed hers in it with the confidence of
a little child.

"I promise!" she answered, earnestly. "It is not the slightest
sacrifice to me, but it will be a great one to you if you have learned
to like the game."

"Not if my giving it up will benefit you in the future," he answered,
softly. "I wish that you would remember our compact of friendship
tonight, and that if you ever need any one you will send for me."

"I am not liable to forget."

"And there will be so many evenings next week, next month even, when
Mrs. Chalmers and her daughter will be at the opera and you here of
necessity, perhaps alone. Will you let me come sometimes and keep you
company?"

"But you will be missing the opera yourself."

"That will be so little by comparison with gaining an evening with you.
May I come?"

"The promise means more to me than to you," she answered shyly. "I
am not overfond of my own society, but I am afraid you will not be
recompensed."

He smiled enigmatically.

"We will read together, if you will. I used to be called a good reader,
and I'm sure you are, from your voice. Do you sing?"

"A little. I have had no cultivation except what my mother gave me, and
that was not much."

"I'm sure your voice must be exquisite. It is contralto, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"That is charming. I am passionately fond of a good contralto. What
delightful evenings we shall have! I wish it were next week now.
What with our Spanish, our reading, and our music it will be simply
charming, quite as if we belonged together and were at home."

He looked at her curiously as he made the speech, and while she colored
slightly, she offered no objection.

"Are you fond of horses?" he continued.

"Very."

"Then perhaps you will let me come to take you to drive."

"If Mrs. Chalmers does not object."

"May I ask her?"

"If you like."

"It is so good of you. I don't think I ever felt so happy in all
my life as I do tonight. I have heard fellows speak of being drawn
irresistibly to one at a first meeting, but I could never quite
understand it before. I have been drawn to you by an impulse that I
have no more power to control than I have over the action of the heart.
I am egotistical enough to think you are not quite indifferent to me,
as you have accepted my friendship so generously. Isn't it true?"

"Quite true."

"I'm so grateful! I wonder if you know what it means to a lonely fellow
like me?"

"I ought. Am I not a lonely girl?"

"Yes; and it is so much harder for you than for me. I have knocked
about the country more or less for the last ten years, not knowing one
day what I should do the next. I've got an object in life now, and it
seems very sweet."

"What is it?"

He colored swiftly and laughed shyly.

"I wouldn't dare tell you now, for fear you might banish me; but some
day, when I have persuaded myself that I am more sure of attaining it,
I will tell you."




CHAPTER VI.


"Leith, what are you doing?"

Leith Pierrepont sat beside the window of the bachelor apartment which
he and Olney Winthrop had taken together. It was a handsome apartment,
fitted up with one reception-room, in which no one by chance was ever
received, a library the delight of a man's heart, two bedrooms, a
dining-room in which the breakfasts and dinners, if they wanted them,
were served by the caterer in the house, and a bath-room, perhaps the
most sumptuous and pretentious room in the apartment.

It was in the library that they were now, Winthrop stretched at full
length upon a huge couch, large enough for two to lie upon in comfort
without interference one with the other, a pile of pillows under his
head that might have satisfied a woman, and a meerschaum in his mouth
that was as black as ebony and quite as well polished. His hands were
clasped under his head, and his eyes were turned with great interest to
his chum, who, as has already been said, sat beside the window with a
cigar between his lips and a book in his hand.

Occasionally the cigar was rolled from side to side of the man's
handsome mouth, the eyes were thrown ceilingward, where they remained
for a moment or two, then returned with interest to the book.

It was after half a dozen of these performances that Olney Winthrop
put his question, which had to be repeated the second time before it
attracted the attention of the individual to whom it was addressed.

"Leith, what are you doing?"

"Studying."

The answer was given curtly enough, and for a moment Olney was silent;
but once again curiosity mastered him.

"Studying what?" he ventured to inquire.

"Spanish."

Another silence, this time much longer than the other. A change
had come over Olney suddenly. He took his hands out from under his
head, and looked toward the ceiling himself, as if he expected some
inspiration from that quarter. But evidently it did not come. He drew
on his beloved pipe for some moments thoughtfully, then arose to a
sitting posture and leaned his arms upon his knees.

"What the dickens are you studying Spanish for?" he demanded at last.

Leith Pierrepont turned his eyes in the direction of his friend and
looked at him absent-mindedly for a moment, then said, calmly:

"H'm?"

"I asked what the deuce you are doing that for?"

"Doing what?"

"Studying Spanish, of course."

"Why, to learn it, to be sure," returned Leith, indolently. "What did I
study French or German, or any of the rest of it, for?"

"You did that in French and German countries, and it was different. You
are doing this here in America, where no one speaks Spanish."

"It strikes me that you forget Miss de Barryos very readily."

Leith knocked the ashes from his cigar as he spoke, with the
nonchalance of a person absolutely indifferent to the subject upon
which he is speaking; but Olney happened to know him a little better
than to believe he felt as he appeared.

"She speaks English," he said, sententiously.

"I know, but she also speaks Spanish."

"And you are really learning it for that reason?"

"Certainly. What other?"

"Would you learn Chinese if Jessica were to happen to speak it?"

"Certainly not. The interest is not the same by any means."

Leith returned to his book, and Olney resumed his position upon the
couch. He did not look in the direction of his friend, but steadily
at the ceiling, or in a line with it, for there was such a cloud of
smoke between that he could not see it. He pulled at the pipe with
a steadiness and strength that argued well for the condition of his
lungs, then rose at last and laid it almost tenderly upon a table.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and walked once or
twice nervously up and down the room; but Leith only kept on diligently
with his study, never glancing away from his book, except toward the
ceiling.

Olney could bear the silence no longer, and broke it himself by and by.

"What do you mean by it, Leith?" he asked at last, forcing himself to
speak quietly, though he was far from feeling it.

"Mean by what?" asked his preoccupied companion.

"Studying Spanish."

"My dear fellow," drawled Leith, "you really appear to think there is
something criminal in the fact of my learning a language. What is there
extraordinary about it?"

"I never knew you to do it before for any girl."

"You never knew any girl before that I had determined to make my wife."

Olney did not stare. A crimson glow crept from throat to brow, but he
did not cease in his walk for some time. The desultory conversation
stopped again for a time; then he paused in his walk, at no great
distance from Leith, and leaned his elbow upon the mantel-shelf.

"Dear old boy, this is the first time in all our histories that it has
ever happened," he said, somberly.

Once more Leith looked up from his lesson, this time with a faint show
of annoyance.

"Why will you persist in breaking out in that fashion, as if you
expected me to know in what groove your mind has been wandering for the
last half hour?" he asked, irritably. "It is the first time that what
has ever happened?"

"That you and I have fallen in love with the same woman!"

Leith looked at his friend for a moment, then put his book upon the
table, face downward, and threw his cigar into the cuspidor.

"I was afraid of that," he said, slowly.

"Afraid of it!" echoed Olney. "You must have known it."

"How should I? A fellow isn't always in love with the girl to whom he
pays attention."

"He is when the girl is one of the same kind that Miss de Barryos is."

"Perhaps you are right. I'm awfully sorry, old fellow."

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that you are in love with her."

"Why?"

"Because she can't be wife to both of us, and I mean to have her."

"Oh!"

"You see, Olney, you and I have been good friends for ten years
now, and ten years is a long time, as years go. We've never had a
disagreement in our lives, except that you have perhaps had a little
more energy than was altogether comfortable, and I'm as fond of you as
I could possibly be of a brother. You believe that, don't you?"

"I know it; and it is that which hurts me."

"But you can't expect me to give up the woman I love for you, can you?"

"Has she consented to be your wife?"

"No; I've never asked her."

"Then, you confounded, conceited cad, how can you presume so upon her
consent?"

There was no ill-temper in the remark. They frequently used such tender
epithets with each other; and Pierrepont only smiled as he answered,
with perfect good nature:

"Did you ever know me to set my heart upon anything that I did not
accomplish?"

"No, confound you!" returned his friend. "But I'll be hanged if you
shall succeed with this!"

"Why?"

"You can't expect me to give up the woman I love for you," returned
Olney, repeating his friend's words with a sort of sneer; "now, can
you? Well I propose to marry Miss de Barryos myself."

"Has she consented?"

"I have not asked her."

Pierrepont laughed.

"Then, so far, apparently, we are on a perfectly equal footing. All
right, old fellow. It is rather hard lines that we should have gone
a-foul of each other in this, of all things; but since it is so, let us
treat each other with perfect fairness. I tell you frankly that I mean
to marry Miss de Barryos."

"And my intention is equally strong that she shall be my wife."

"So be it," returned Pierrepont with more earnestness than he usually
showed, though there was still a smile clinging to his lips. "At least,
one is not deceived in the intentions of the other. I want you to
clearly understand me that I intend to marry her. People have accused
me of making love to women every time I speak to one; but I swear to
you that I have never uttered to any woman the words that I shall
speak to her, never asked a woman in my life the question that I shall
put to her. I am thirty-four years old, Olney, have never been balked
in a desire in my life, and I don't intend to begin with this which
means so much to me. It's a fair warning, old fellow."

Olney smiled.

"And forewarned is forearmed," he said, gravely.




CHAPTER VII.


"Oh, what a wretched ending! I positively hate to read a book like
that. It gives me the blues for a week afterward. I don't see why
writers can not have some respect for the nerves of their readers and
not upset them with a jar that echoes through every fiber of the body."

Carlita flung the book from her, crossed her pretty feet, and leaning
back in her chair, folded her hands behind her head and looked at Olney
Winthrop, who was spending one of many evenings with her while the
others were at the opera.

He smiled rather gravely.

"I don't see how else it could have ended. She couldn't have married
the Disagreeable Man, you know."

"Why not?"

"Oh, who would want to? A sickly, treacherous-tempered beast like that."

"He wasn't anything of the kind. Do you think a 'sickly
treacherous-tempered beast' could ever have written that exquisite
letter which he tore up? He was only fretted into irascibility by the
idiocy of others who had not sense enough to appreciate him. No man
could have been as fond of his mother as he was and not be genuinely
good. I don't see why he could not have been happy as well as any one
else."

"He was treacherous-tempered or he wouldn't have torn up the letter,
you see," argued Olney, mildly. "I don't see how she could have cared
anyway for a great, gaunt, sickly fellow like that."

"That is like you men. You never seem to think a woman can like any
one but a Hercules. For my own part, I perfectly detest the conceited
creatures who think they are gods of creation, and let you see it in
every word they speak, in love with themselves and unrivaled by any
woman in the universe, men like--like--well, Leith Pierrepont for
example."

Winthrop flushed eagerly, never observing the curious break in her
voice, then a sort of generous remorse took possession of him that he
had found pleasure in that unjust criticism passed upon his friend.

"Oh, really, you mustn't say that!" he stammered, helplessly. "It isn't
true of Leith, not the least in the world. I don't know a fellow more
lacking in conceit than he. He is as generous and--"

"Pouf!" exclaimed Carlita, with the freedom of a privileged friend. "Do
you think you can make me believe that? He thinks that every woman who
looks at him is ready to fall into his arms if he would but say the
word. There are times when I positively detest him, and--"

Singularly enough, she did not complete her sentence. She suddenly
realized with a surprise that was intense that there were tears in her
eyes, hot, angry tears, though why she should be angry, she had not the
remotest idea. She hated herself for her absurd weakness, and sprang
up swiftly and went to the piano, and rattled off a waltz that came
more nearly being without time or melody than anything she had ever
attempted in her life before.

She excused herself to herself by mentally asserting that the book,
"Ships that Pass in the Night," had upset her, and then turned into a
song that trembled upon her lips with a sweetness and pathos that her
voice had never contained before.

It was only an old song, such an old one, with the music entirely
unworthy of the exquisite words, but she sang it with a depth of
feeling that made it sublime.

    "How tired we feel, my heart and I,
     We seem of no use in the world;
     Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
     About men's eyes indifferently;
     Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let
     You sleep; our tears are only wet;
     What do we here, my heart and I?"

But the last words were not spoken. They ended in a little sob, a
little sob that would not be drowned by the power of the will. She
would have risen and escaped from the room, but that Olney caught
her about the waist, his face white and wistful and filled with
apprehension.

"Carlita," he exclaimed, his voice low and soft with tenderness, "what
is it? What has distressed you? You trust me--"

"It is nothing," she cried, endeavoring gently to free herself. "I am
too stupid for anything. I really believe I am hysterical over that
absurd book, and it is something new to me, too. You mustn't mind me,
Mr. Winthrop, for--"

"But I do," he interrupted, huskily. "Anything that pains you is
exquisite torture to me. I love you Carlita, love you so that I can not
conceal it as the Disagreeable Man did. I must tell you. It is so much
better than that I should keep it to myself until too late, if there
should be any hope for me. I am not conceited enough to think there
is--you mustn't believe that--but if love really begets love, as they
tell us it does, mine ought to meet with some return, for Heaven knows
it is great enough. I feel as if I were the Disagreeable Man myself, so
gaunt and wasted through illness, so unworthy of your sweet trust and
affection, and yet--Oh, Carlita, I don't want to wait as he did, when
there might be hope. I know you don't love me. I know I am the most
presumptuous man alive, that I can even speak upon the subject to you,
but--but won't you say something--something kind?"

She was standing and he sitting, holding her by one hand, his other
arm about her waist. He was leaning toward her with his face lifted--a
face so true, so honest, so sincere, so wistfully pleading, she almost
imagined there was a moisture in the frank blue eyes.

She didn't say anything. She was surprised, and stood there staring
down at him, her tears dried suddenly. It seemed to her that she had
never felt so strangely in her life. He was the first man who had
ever whispered that magic word in her ear. It moved her--moved her
peculiarly. She felt the strongest inclination to bend down and kiss
him, kiss him upon those blue eyes as she would a little boy. He looked
so pale and wan, so haggard through the illness which he did not seem
able to shake off. Sympathy quivered in her heart like the flutter of a
dove's wings, but she could not frame words to save her life, and stood
there staring down at him dumbly.

A great anguish arose in his eyes under her silence. A cold dew
gathered upon his brow and stood upon his mouth. He dropped his arm
from about her waist and bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely. "I ought to have known, and not have
distressed you with a sentiment which I might have known you could
not reciprocate. I might have been satisfied with your generosity in
allowing me the privilege of your society without presuming upon that
generosity. I suppose now I am to be banished, but I deserve it for
my presumption. All the sweet, long evenings that have meant so much
to me must be at an end. I must go back to the old emptiness, the old
unrest."

"Why?"

The word escaped her unawares, but she was glad that she had spoken it
when she saw him fling up his head, saw the eager light that came to
his eyes, the flush that colored his pale cheeks.

"Carlita," he whispered, hoarsely, "that moment was like--hell!
Speak quickly! Can you be my wife? Could you find in your pure heart
toleration for a fellow such as I? I will worship you to the day I die!
Speak and relieve me of this awful suspense!"

"I have--have been very happy during these evenings that we have spent
together."

She never quite knew how she happened to say that either, whether it
was sympathy, whether it was that she loved him, or--Oh, yes, she was
quite sure she loved him when she saw that wild joy of expression. She
did not shrink from him in the very least when he arose suddenly to
his feet and drew her passionately to his breast. It was really very
comforting to think that she belonged to some one, and that some one
belonged to her, and--loved her.

It was even pleasant to be passionately, lovingly kissed, and as she
looked with a smile into his eager, craving eyes, she even lifted her
mouth to him of her own accord, and returned the caress while she
listened to the burning words that fell from his lips.

"My darling, my wife, I can scarcely believe in the reality of my own
happiness. I can scarcely believe it is true, that you love me, that
you are mine. It seems to me that I must be dreaming. My God! if it be,
let the dream last forever, forever!"

Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers returned before he left her, but there was no
announcement made to them that night. They said good-night formally
and separated, Carlita going to her room, and Olney returned to his
bachelor apartments.

He found Leith there before him, and went immediately to his old friend
and put out his hand.

"Congratulate me, old man," he said, with a grin which was half idiotic
in its happiness.

"Upon what?" inquired Leith, lazily.

"Miss de Barryos has promised to be my wife."

Leith did not even change color. He put out his hand and took that of
his friend cordially.

"Certainly I congratulate you, if you wish it," he said, with his
accustomed nonchalant indolence. "But what is the use? The marriage
will never take place."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say."

Olney laughed lightly, disbelievingly, but there was not the shadow of
a smile upon Leith's perfectly indifferent lips.

And Carlita had gone to her room, happy in the happiness she had given,
believing that she had answered to the dictates of her heart, and then
slowly the expression of content faded from her eyes, a white-lipped
horror drew the corners of her mouth. She looked into space dully,
hopelessly, stupidly.

She had suddenly remembered the curse of Pocahontas.




CHAPTER VIII.


There was something of a sensation created in the Chalmers household
when the announcement of Carlita's engagement was made.

Not that there was anything spoken in the presence of Olney Winthrop
but the sweetest words of congratulation; but when he had departed,
and mother and daughter were left alone, the latter stretched herself
out at a comfortable angle, with a cigarette between her lips, and
exclaimed, leisurely:

"It appears, to a man up a tree, that we are getting very little out of
this game that we have played. Do you propose to let Winthrop's pair
beat your full hand? It strikes me that you are losing your cunning
with a vengeance. Four weeks in that beastly hole in New Orleans; a
lot of sticky black garments clinging about one for the same length of
time, and making life a nightmare; a funeral to attend, and tears until
one could float a ship in them; acting a part from morning until night,
and even through the night, for what? The really good Samaritan work
of getting the little mulatto engaged and robbing us of eight thousand
a year, not to speak of the advantage of handling her money, and so
affording an abode 'fitted to her station in life,' as the idiotic
lawyers say. Rats! It isn't my line, I confess. What are you going to
do?"

Mrs. Chalmers pathetically fondled the ears of her ever-present dog.

"How should I know?" she answered, meekly. "I thought we were doing
the safest thing possible when we were keeping Leith Pierrepont away
from her. It never occurred to me that it could be possible that she
would fall in love with Olney Winthrop, though I knew he was head over
ears in love with her. I told you she was dangerous when we brought her
here, though you would not have it."

"What were we to do with her, pray? A school wasn't to be thought of at
her age, and an asylum wasn't possible, worse luck! But something must
be done. We can't commit highway robbery and deliberately pilfer her
estate. I confess it wouldn't go greatly against my conscience, for I
can see no earthly reason why she should have all and I nothing. But
there is that confounded hole Sing Sing to consider. Look here, the
blood in your veins has grown to milk and water recently. I wonder if
you would have the nerve to carry out an idea that has struck me?"

"What is it?"

Jessica threw away her cigarette and lighted a fresh one before
replying. When she spoke again, her voice had assumed a lower tone.

"You will agree, of course, that she is of a wildly, sentimental
nature, like all Mexican and half-breed Indians. She has proven that by
falling in love with Olney's white face. I don't think she cares the
snap of her finger for him, except that she pities him and--wants to be
loved. It is such a fine, beautiful thing. Pouf! Well, it is my belief
that if we could get him out of the way for awhile, she would discover
that fact, and jilt him."

"But how are we to get him out of the way?" inquired Mrs. Chalmers,
actually putting the dog aside once and lifting her suspiciously golden
head interestedly.

"I haven't quite prepared that side of my subject," answered Jessica,
calmly. "There has not been time to go into it in detail as yet. The
announcement is too new, and I confess it never occurred to me that she
could be such a fool. I am inclined to believe she might have made a
sensation if only she had been content to wait until she got rid of
that hideous mourning. Still, I have thought--"

"What?"

"Winthrop is largely interested in some Mexican mines."

"Yes, I know, I heard Leith Pierrepont speaking of it."

"He must be suddenly summoned there."

Mrs. Chalmers lifted her head and looked at her daughter admiringly.

"What a head you have, Jessica, to be sure! But how is it to be
accomplished?"

"That is the detail which I haven't quite mastered. Do you know where
your old friend Meriaz is located?"

Mrs. Chalmers colored. She hesitated a moment, then answered, slowly:

"Yes, I think so."

"That is good. Then we must utilize him. If he had had a little more
money, I should have urged your marrying him. As it is, he must think
you mean to recall him, and so be made to serve you."

"You forget--"

"No, I don't forget anything. I am peculiarly alive to the fact
to which you would have called my attention. We must insure the
co-operation of Meriaz."

"There will be no doubt of that. He will obey my instructions."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly."

"All right. You write to him at once, telling him where these mines are
and all the information which you remember Leith to have given. He can
arrange the details of the affair better than I can. If you wish, you
might tell him that I have fallen in love with the fellow, and that
you are anxious to get him out of the city on that account. Tell him
that Winthrop must be summoned at once, that time is valuable, and that
he must make the excuse for summoning him there a tremendously strong
one, else it will be of no avail. You understand just what I mean now?"

"Yes; and it strikes me as being a good one. It will give us a chance
to get abroad, if we see that there is no possibility of weaning her
from the attachment."

"Yes, and in the meantime give me an opportunity to look into her
finances, and see what is possible to be done. I haven't been down in
that God-forsaken country to be plucked of our game by Olney Winthrop,
I will tell you. Money doesn't grow on trees, and it rather strikes me
that men are getting rather shy of our poker-table. They don't seem
half as anxious to lose their precious ducats as they once did."

"Last night at the opera I heard a man in the next box ask Dudley
Maltby who you were and his answer was: 'The most inveterate little
gambler in New York, and the most unscrupulous.'"

"Dudley Maltby said that?"

"He did."

There was a dangerous expression in the brown eyes. For a moment the
lips were slightly compressed, then she arose and went to her desk
quite calmly.

"What are you going to do?" inquired her mother.

"Ask Dudley Maltby to dinner and to the opera Friday night. He shall
pay for that remark with every particle of his reputation."

"It strikes me that you are rather--rather neglecting Leith of late."

"Nonsense! That is something which I shall never do; but he is safe
enough. He is more in love with me than he ever was in his life
before."

Mrs. Chalmers looked a trifle uncomfortable. She hesitated a moment
while Jessica was selecting a pen, then said, forcing herself to speak
quietly:

"What makes you think so?"

"He told me tonight that I had neglected him cruelly, and that he felt
piqued and hurt. He said that there was no woman who had the power to
hurt him as I had."

"But--but he--he didn't tell you that he--he loved you, did he? He
didn't ask you to be his wife?"

"What do you mean?"

Jessica turned suddenly, her interest in the note abated.

"Nothing special," answered her mother, carelessly, "only--only that
he--well, he doesn't seem half so devoted to you as he did before he
went away."

"He called upon me almost within the hour of his return."

"Yes, I know he did, but--but he hasn't followed it up well, and--my
dear Jessica, I found a Spanish book in his overcoat pocket tonight."

It never occurred to Jessica to ask how she had found it in his
overcoat pocket, or what she was doing looking through the pocket. She
was accustomed to that, and thought nothing of it. It was the fact
which interested her. Her brows drew angrily.

"Do you mean to say that you think he is in love with Carlita?" she
asked, her voice tense and strange.

"Perhaps not exactly in love with her," answered her mother, uneasily,
"but very much interested in her."

"I would kill her first! I would kill them both!"

The words came through the set lips as if the speaker were perfectly
capable of carrying out her threat or any other dire calamity that
should suggest itself to her, and Mrs. Chalmers moved anxiously.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have said quite so much!" she exclaimed,
soothingly. "It may be only a desire to--to understand, but--but--"

"I shall watch! I shall see!" exclaimed Jessica, leaving her desk
and walking restlessly up and down the floor. "Do not fear but that
I should know how to revenge myself upon him as well as her. I have
rather suspected him. He has been so careful of all that he has said to
me since his return, so careful of who should see him in our box. He is
not too good to be there, but he doesn't want to be seen. I heard him
say to her upon the night of their first meeting, that it would break
his heart to see his sister play a game of poker."

"He said that?"

"He did! But I will teach him that he is playing with an edged tool
this time. I shall prove to him that I know how to take a revenge, and
it shall be a bitter one, if he dares to do this thing. Write your
letter to Meriaz. I am anxious to see this to the end."




CHAPTER IX.


"Aïda" was in progress at the Metropolitan, and Jessica never lost a
night at the opera. It was the first time in all her life that enough
money had found its way into her exchequer to purchase a season's box,
and she was making the very most of it that lay in her power.

Very many persons present had observed that no woman ever found her
way into that box, and that most of the men concealed themselves in
the rear, or even contented themselves with a visit to the anteroom.
But Jessica never troubled her head about that. She didn't like women,
didn't want women, and their absence affected her not at all.

Carlita was at home, as usual, beautiful as a dream in her soft chiffon
gown, the exquisite dark hair rippling from her forehead in great waves
that no hair-dresser's art could ever imitate.

She was standing before a huge soft-coal fire, looking down into it,
with a faint smile curving the corners of her mouth, as she waited for
Olney Winthrop--a smile which deepened as she heard the chime of the
door-bell.

There was not the faintest perceptible start at the sound, not an
increase of color at the knowledge of her lover's coming. She lifted
her head to welcome him, and started, quivering in every nerve in her
body, her face flushing crimson, as she saw who it was that had pushed
aside the heavy portière and stood there in her fiancé's place.

It was Leith Pierrepont.

He came forward with the easy, nonchalant grace that was peculiar to
him, the indolent smile upon his mouth, looking handsomer than he had
ever done in his life before, and a woman would of necessity have been
made of granite not to have seen it.

He put out his hand as he joined Carlita beside the fire, and because
she could not refuse, she put her fingers into it.

She noticed that his hand had closed over hers firmly, in spite of the
fact that she had only intended that he should touch it; and while he
did not retain it, he was in no hurry whatever to loosen his grasp of
the cold palm.

"Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers are not here," she stammered, angry with
herself that she could not keep her voice steady.

"I know it," he replied, indolently. "They are at the opera. Jessica
never misses 'Aïda.' It is a favorite of mine, too, and Nordica is
excellent in it."

"And yet you are not there?"

"There are some things that I prefer even to a well-rendered opera.
Olney will not be here this evening."

"Why?"

She flashed her great eyes up at him, as if he had given her a personal
affront. He smiled enigmatically, and she flushed with anger.

"He has a headache," Leith returned, leisurely. "You know he isn't
strong. That dose of jungle fever about knocked him out."

"I'm sorry he isn't feeling well. I'm--"

She strove to infuse the sentence with earnestness, but her voice had
never sounded colder in her own ears, and she found it impossible to
finish the speech. She paused uncomfortably, and after a moment Leith
said, with another smile that somehow made her feel that she hated him
more than ever:

"Won't you ask me to sit down? I never could stand with any degree of
comfort."

"Certainly, if you wish to sit," she answered. "I thought perhaps you
would be going to the opera."

"No; I told you I shouldn't," he answered, sitting down gracefully and
looking up at her carelessly. "I had much rather hear you sing."

"But I never sing."

"Oh, yes, you do. Olney has told me. He says that you have a singularly
lovely voice, and I have always considered Olney one of the few really
good judges of music."

"I am not a musician."

"You mean you don't play your own accompaniments. That makes no
difference. I will be very glad to do it for you. I am not in
particularly good practice, but I used to be called rather good at that
sort of thing."

She had seated herself, and as he spoke he rose as if he were going to
the piano; but, instead, leaned over the back of the chair and looked
down upon her. The look seemed to get into her veins and tingle through
her blood like living fire. His voice was low and musical as that of a
thrush, as he said, softly:

"Why will you, who are always so kind and gentle to others, be cruel to
me? What have I done to win your dislike? How have I sinned that you
withdraw your friendship from me alone of all the world?"

She bit her lip to keep the hot tears out of her eyes. She could not
understand her own emotion, and hated him that he had caused it.
She arose, not even glancing toward him, and threw out her hands
deprecatingly:

"You are making too much of the fact that I do not care to sing for
strangers," she replied haughtily. "If it will interest you, I will
try, but I assure you that I am the most inexperienced of amateurs.
What would you like me to sing?"

He did not reply to her. He was leaning against the piano, looking
at her, not impertinently, but curiously, as if he did not quite
understand her. She allowed her fingers to wander over the keys idly
for a moment, then played and sang an excerpt from "Gioconda," not with
her usual style and expression at all, but still with a sweetness and
depth of voice and a breadth of expression that was infinitely pleasing.

"You can't do a thing of that sort playing your own accompaniment,"
he said, when she had finished, not complimenting her at all upon her
beauty of voice or method. "Let me sit there, will you?"

She arose at once, a trifle nettled at his lack of praise, and he
took the stool she had vacated. His fingers touched the piano with
a tenderness that went to her soul. She loved music with a sort of
ravenous passion, if one may so express it, a wild longing that had
never been gratified, and she listened with an increased fascination
that held her speechless.

"Do you know 'Aïda'?" he inquired at last.

She nodded.

"Do you remember the duet in the tomb?"

"Yes."

His fingers wandered into it, then his glorious voice, sweet as the
lower tones of a harp, rang out full and rich. She joined him when her
time came, singing as she had never sung before, enthused by the genius
which she had never expected, enchanted by the magic of his touch.

When it was finished he turned to her.

"Who taught you?" he asked, quietly.

"My mother."

"Your method is faulty. I wish you would go to Arditi for a while. Your
voice is excellent, but you waste it deplorably. You have a warmth of
coloring and a breadth of expression rarely found, and would make a
superb singer if properly taught. Will you go to Arditi? Please do."

"Perhaps. I have never heard good singers, that is, none except my
mother, and she was not great. You have studied, of course?"

"Oh, yes; in Paris and Italy. Shall I sing something for you?"

"If you will."

He looked up at her. There was just the glimmer of a smile in his
eyes, such a curious smile, so wistful, almost beseeching, a pathetic
smile that made her heart tremble in spite of her hatred of him, that
extraordinary hatred which she had never been able to explain to
herself, and for which she could have found not the shadow of a cause
if she had dared to question herself upon the subject.

His hands continued to wander over the keys as if he were improvising,
and after a little time his voice, sweet, gentle, so low that it could
scarcely have been heard behind the portières that fell between them
and the hall, floated out:

    "'The solemn sea of silence lies between us;
        I know thou livest and thou lovest me;
      And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing
        Across the ocean, bearing word from thee.

    "'The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness,
        No anxious doubts of fears disturb my breast;
      I only ask some little wave of language
        To stir this vast infinitude of rest.

    "'Too deep the language which the spirit utters,
        Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred;
      Send some white ship across the sea of silence
        And interrupt its utterance with a word.'"

He had never removed his eyes from her while he was singing, but she
had dropped hers. The crimson glow which she could not command had
crept into her cheeks. His voice fell almost to a whisper, and as
the last word left his lips, he lifted his hands from the keys and
imprisoned both of hers together, leaning toward her with his splendid
face uplifted.

"Do you know what that sea of silence is, Carlita?" he asked, his low
voice thrilling through her like old wine. "It is that great gulf that
lies between you and me. Shall I tell you more?

    "'I am oppressed with this great sense of loving--
        So much I give, so much receive from thee;
      Like subtle incense rising from a censer,
        So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.'"

She lifted her eyes, startled, wide with horror and alarm, and would
have drawn back but that he held her, his beautiful eyes dull with
passion.

"Did you think I did not know? Did you think I should not comprehend?"
he continued in the same tone. "Did you really believe that I should
allow another to steal you from me? There have been times when I almost
thought you did not realize that you love me. There have been times
when I have believed you fancied your heart given to that other to
whom you have promised yourself, and then the knowledge of how absurd
it all was comforted me. The knowledge that some day you would turn
to me helped me to bear it all, but the sea of silence is killing me,
Carlita, drowning me in my own desire. I love you--ah! you know that,
and the words are so weak. You know that I would let the blood drain
from my body through the ends of my fingers, drop by drop, for you. I
don't believe you realized it all when you promised to be another man's
wife; but it could not be concealed from you always. Won't you send
the white ship across the sea, my darling? Won't you speak some word to
comfort my waiting?"

He had not spoken the words in the headlong, pell-mell fashion of
impassioned youth, but with a feeling that held her spell-bound until
the sound of his voice had ceased, and then things looked black and
swam before her eyes as if she were suddenly affected with vertigo.
She staggered, and would have fallen but that he arose, and, placing
his arm about her, held her closely. His warm breath aroused her, and
tearing herself from him, she sprang aside.

"False friend! Craven! Coward!" she panted. "How dare you? How dare
you speak the words to me that you have uttered? How dare you say
that I love you--you--you, the man who has played the friend to Olney
Winthrop, who has pretended to love him as a brother does? You come
here in his absence, like the coward that you are, to steal that which
belongs to him--only to him; but it is beyond you, thank God for that!
I hate you--hate you as I have never hated a human thing in my life
before--hate you for the cunning coward that you are! I shall tell
Olney Winthrop of this, and--"

Pierrepont was leaning against the piano, all his nonchalance, his
graceful indifference returned, listening to her as if she were
speaking to him only the pleasantries of the drawing-room. She burst
into tears before she could complete her sentence, and he moved for a
moment restlessly, but naturally and calmly as he usually spoke, said:

"There will be no necessity for you to take that trouble. I shall tell
him myself before I sleep tonight."

"I hope that Heaven will spare me the insult of ever looking upon your
face again!" she cried as she started from the room.

She was forced to pass him in order to reach the door, and as she would
have done so, he stepped before her almost indifferently. There was the
smile still upon his mouth, his eyes were brilliant now, and his voice
as slow and drawling as ever.

"I just want to say a word before you go," he said, quietly. "There
will come a time when you will wish to recall what you have said, when
you will yearn for the love which you disregard now. When it comes,
send for me. You need not fear that I shall harbor any resentment for
your cruelty. When you send, I shall be ready to respond, even if your
message should reach me at the other end of the earth. You are the only
woman whom I have ever loved, and some day you shall be my wife!"

He said the words with gentleness and perfect respect, but her face
crimsoned with anger.

"Never!" she cried, fiercely.

He smiled.

"I have never failed to keep my word, particularly when the promise was
made to myself," he answered, lightly. "Neither heaven nor earth, nor
life nor death, nor yet eternity itself, could stand between us!"

He stepped out of her way, not a particle of excitement visible in his
manner--on the contrary, he was calmer, more careless than usual--and
she looked into his face for one moment, then fled by him and up the
stairs to her own apartment.

Then she locked the door and threw herself upon the bed, in a passion
of tears--tears such as she had never shed, not even at the death of
her mother; but they were so different--hot, angry tears; and yet--yet
there was some grief in them, too, though she could not have told why.

It was almost daylight when Jessica and her mother returned, and yet
she was still lying there, never having removed her clothing.

She got up then, in a shamed sort of way, and undressed herself; but it
was of the man she hated that she dreamed, not the man she loved; it
was the gray eyes into which she looked, not the blue; and she rose in
the morning unrefreshed, and with eyes still swollen from weeping.




CHAPTER X.


Olney Winthrop was detained away for four days on account of illness,
but on the fifth he came again.

He was pale and haggard, and about the mouth there was a wistful
expression that touched Carlita in the old, fond way. She went up to
him and placed her hand upon his shoulder with a loving gesture.

"You have been ill," she said; "but I did not dream that it had been so
bad. Why did you not let me come to you?"

"You would have come?"

"Can you ask?"

She looked pathetically into his eyes and allowed him to kiss her. It
brought a flush to his pallid cheeks and a warm light to his worn eyes.

"I wonder if man was ever blessed with so sweet a love as I?" he asked,
more of himself than of her, his voice low with emotion. "Carlita,
if I should lose you, death, by any means whatever, would be a happy
release. You love me, darling? Say it once again. It is not that I
doubt, but only that I adore the sound of the words from your exquisite
lips."

She shivered slightly, some of the bright color fading from the olive
cheek.

"What is it?" he questioned, with tender solicitude.

"I have so often meant to tell you," she answered, her eyes not upon
his, but fixed absently upon a distant object which yet was unseen,
"but have not had the courage. It seems almost like stabbing a living
thing to the heart to speak of it to you; and yet--and yet--"

"Tell me, dear heart. Is there anything with which you would not trust
me?"

"It is only that I would not distress you. There is an old curse in the
family; such a foolish thing, you will think, for nineteenth century
people to believe in, and I don't--really I don't; and yet it makes my
blood freeze in my veins sometimes when I remember it. It is the curse
of Pocahontas, Olney. Have you heard what it is?"

"No."

"It descends to the dark girl child of each generation--the child that
shows the trace of the Indian in her unfortunate veins. It is a curse
put upon her love, that unhappiness, misery may follow the giving
of her heart, and--Olney, what a fool I am to alarm you with this
absurdity!"

He had started and grown a shade paler, then caught her hands in a grip
that would have hurt her had she been more alive to physical emotions.

"Why do you listen to such things?" she continued, laughing half
hysterically.

"It was so strange," he returned, huskily--"so strange that you should
have mentioned it at this, of all times."

"Why?"

"Because I have received a summons which takes me away from you for a
time--upon a perilous journey, perhaps."

"Where? Why?"

She was breathless, and returned the pressure of his hands with a
strength of which she was unaware.

"To Mexico. My whole fortune is involved, and it is necessary that I
should go."

She leaned toward him eagerly.

"Don't!" she whispered, hoarsely. "Something tells me that you will not
return. I have a presentiment of evil--a horrible presentiment! It is
the curse in reality. Don't go, Olney. My fortune will be enough for
both."

But he had recovered himself, and smiled reassuringly, though feebly.

"We are foolish, my darling, both of us. I could not be a dependent
upon the bounty of my wife. You must understand that, love. However
much one we may be, I could never consent to feel myself a burden.
Don't ask it of me, dearest. It would only make the temporary parting
all the harder to bear, and you must have strength to bolster up my
weakness."

"Oh, Olney!"

"If you had never heard of that foolish curse, you would think
nothing of it; and if I had not been ill and weak mentally as well as
physically, it would not have impressed me in the least. Remember that
you yourself called it an absurdity."

"But you are not well enough to go--not strong enough to stand the
test."

"The warmth of the climate will benefit me as nothing else could. I
shall not die, Carlita. The thought of your love will give me every
courage. Besides, I shall have one near who cares for me as a brother."

"You mean--"

"Leith."

She sat there for a moment, dumb, stunned, never raising her eyes, but
Olney was watching her narrowly; then she drew a trifle closer to him,
and with bowed head, whispered:

"There is--something that--I must tell you. It is about--about--"

"Leith?" he questioned, gently.

"Yes," she returned in a voice which he did not remember.

"I know," he said, softly.

"He told you?"

"Yes."

"And yet you--trust him?"

"As I would my brother," he returned, simply.

Her hand closed over his with a violence that made him wince.

"God help you!" she returned, heavily. "I loathe the man as I would a
coiling reptile. There can no good come of it. Remember that I have
told you this. God help you and help me, for the curse has fallen, as I
felt that it must when I dared to love!"




CHAPTER XI.


It was a very lonely time for Carlita, those weeks that followed.

Of course she had Olney's letters, letters filled with loving promises
and words of hope for the future; but letters are a poor substitute for
the presence of one we love. Still, they are infinitely better than
nothing. They came every day at first, filled with all those messages
so dear to a girlish heart; then when he had gotten further down into
Mexico, where the mail service is so deplorably bad, of course they
became fewer. She had understood that that must be so before he went.

He told her in many of them of the utterly uncivilized state of the
country, almost as uncivilized as if millions of miles existed between
it and our own United States, of the long-cloaked, dark-browed,
sombrero-crowned men who either walked or slunk through the streets
when there were any, or roads when there were not, of the strange,
wild, brilliant, many-hued country, that still had its inthralling
fascination for all its repulsiveness.

"I almost wish that I had persuaded you to come with me, to give me
your sweet companionship, for I am sure that in spite of all the
hardships, you would enjoy it all," he wrote in one of his many
letters. "Even granting its barbaric state, there is an unconscious
poetry in it all that I am sure would delight you, a tropical,
luxurious, brilliant beauty that gets into one's veins like wine, or
the seductive bewilderment of opium. I am not quite sure but that you
would never leave, but live on and on, content, like these people, with
only the joy of living, the mere halcyon pleasure of existence--a
lotus-eater. And yet there are parts of it so wild, so superbly
barbaric almost that the very danger enchants one. I am growing well
and strong under the excitement of it all and the desire to get back
to you--the craving to feel the touch of your dear lips, to feel the
warmth of your beautiful presence. Let us come here on our honeymoon,
will you? To the home of your own people. Ah, there is romance enough
in the very atmosphere, in the gorgeous color, the song of the birds,
the picturesque buildings and customs and country, to make one die from
excess of loving."

But after that, as has been said, the letters became less frequent, and
there was nothing to do but sit beside the window and watch for the
postman--the postman who went to others with his messages of happiness
or pain, as it might be, but passed her by. She continued to write,
though, every day, just as if she had received her daily effusion.

But never once had Leith Pierrepont's name been mentioned in it all.

It was very lonely. There were times when it seemed almost as if Mrs.
Chalmers and Jessica had forgotten her very existence.

They rarely breakfasted before one o'clock in the afternoon, and then
Carlita had had her luncheon and had gone out for a walk in the park or
downtown to amuse herself by looking in the shop windows--not a very
profitable pastime; but what was the poor child to do? By the time
she returned they had gone for their drive, an excursion upon which
she was never asked, although it was her money that paid for the new
luxury of a victoria and pair, not to speak of the sumptuous coachman
and footman; but she did not know it and therefore thought nothing of
the omission. Unless there was a dinner party, which she never thought
of attending, Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica sometimes condescended to
dine with her; but that was not often; and if there was no opera in
the evening there might be a theater party, with a dinner afterward--a
really superb little dinner served by their new French chef, which
was practically the greatest attraction the house offered since its
reputation for "extraordinary" poker had been established.

For every night, whether there had been an opera or no opera, there
was a poker game in progress, and always enough people willing to lose
their money to make it profitable as well as interesting.

A few women had joined their ranks, women who rouged their faces and
blackened their eyebrows and wore peroxide of hydrogen hair strangely
like Mrs. Chalmers' own.

Carlita had seen the party once when the noise was so great that she
could not sleep. She crept downstairs, concealed herself from sight,
of course, and watched them for a little while, but her disgust was so
great that she never did it again, but often covered up her head with
the bedclothes in order to keep the sound out.

It was more lonely often than if she had lived all alone, and so no
wonder she thought of Leith Pierrepont's words at last and of--Arditi.

She hated the very name of the man at first, because Leith had asked
her to study under him, and then by degrees the thought became less
repulsive to her, and she finally concluded that in sheer self-defense
she would go and see him anyway, just to satisfy herself as to whether
she had any voice or not, and to relieve the awful monotony of
existence.

She found him--the great artist--in his studio, and he listened
kindly to her words and then tried her voice. It was really a superb
voice, filled with color and feeling, and a breadth of tone that was
wonderful. He was delighted--as who would not have been?--and accepted
her as his pupil gladly, almost joyfully.

After that the work fascinated her, and she toiled faithfully, making
marvelous strides, assisted perhaps by the very ache in her heart, for
there is nothing under heaven that develops the soul like sorrow. I
doubt whether a person has any very great amount of soul cultivation
until grief has brought it there. And Carlita certainly suffered.

The letters had ceased altogether.

She was not particularly surprised at first, because Olney had told her
of the wretched condition of the railroads, and consequently of the
mail service; but it couldn't have been quite so bad as all that, to
give her no letter in five long, apparently endless weeks.

But she covered up the hurt in her devotion to her new art, and Mrs.
Chalmers and Jessica watched her curiously.

"Who could wish for anything better than this?" Jessica asked of her
mother one day, as they heard the strains of the piano from the room
which, at her request, had been set apart for her own particular use.

"No one--if it could only last," returned Mrs. Chalmers, with a little,
only half-suppressed sigh.

But of course it couldn't, and that was the horrible pity of it all.

The music lessons continued, and Arditi forgot the time in his devotion
to his new pupil.

"She is a genius!" he said, ecstatically; "the only one that I have
discovered in years. She sings because she can't help it. She is like
a bird in the forest, except that there is a note of sadness which the
bird never acquires, because it has no soul. Some day she will show the
world what an artiste is!"

And the full rich tones were floating out one day, glorious as the
minor strains of an organ, when suddenly the tone failed, the hands
fell upon the key-board with a crash, the lovely face, flushed with
devotion to its new master, whitened, and a little cry fell from the
drawn lips.

She did not speak--it seemed as if she could not--and after a moment of
silence the man who had caused her alarm went forward and put out his
hand.

She hesitated a moment, half drew back, then, impelled by some strange
power, placed her cold palm in his.

"I am afraid I startled you," he said, in that beautiful voice with
which no male voice that she had ever heard could remotely compare. "I
asked for Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers, but the servant said they were in
the park; then I heard you singing, and begged to be allowed to come
here. I see you have taken lessons of Arditi, as I asked you. It was
very good of you."

"How--how do you know that I have?" she stammered.

"Ah, who knows the method so well as I? There is not another teacher in
America that could do it, and you have put your whole heart and soul
into it. God! what a voice it is!"

She threw out her hands deprecatingly.

"What matters it?" she cried, huskily, breathlessly. "Tell me, when did
you come? And where is he--Olney? Why does he allow you to come first?"

There was the bitterest pain in her voice--pain, humiliation. Leith
half put out his hand, then withdrew it, as if he were not quite sure
of what it was that he would do. There was a new light in his eyes--a
curious light which she could not quite comprehend. There seemed to be
sorrow in it--sorrow for her--and yet it glowed with passion and--and
something else--she could not quite make out what, but it frightened
her. She drew back and pressed her hands upon her breast.

"Is Olney with you?" she asked, whispering her question in this new
fear that had come upon her.

He shook his head.

"You have--left him there," she stammered, helplessly--"left him in
that awful place he wrote me of--deserted him--when he needed you?"

The hollow tone of his voice as he replied was not like that with which
he had greeted her.

"There was nothing else to do," he answered, simply.

She stared at him for a moment in a silence that was uncanny, then
said, hoarsely:

"What is it--you mean? He--he is not--"

"Dead?--yes," he said, completing the sentence for her.

She stood there, just a moment, all the color gone from her
countenance, all the light from her eyes, and then she fell forward; it
would have been at his feet but that he caught her in his arms.

He turned the white face upward and gazed into it long, lingeringly,
lovingly. There was a wistful, yearning look about his mouth, a
twitching at the corners that spoke of a suffering to which he had
never given expression, and which was no longer to be endured, and
then--he couldn't help it, perhaps--he bent his head and pressed his
lips upon hers.

She would never know; she was unconscious, he told himself; but as he
lifted his head with the wild, passionate expression of self-loathing
burning in his eyes, he saw Jessica and her mother standing in the
door-way.




CHAPTER XII.


Perhaps of the three conscious ones, Jessica was the first to recover
herself.

A sort of fear that seemed to turn her cold from feet to brow oppressed
Mrs. Chalmers, and she stood there white-lipped, stunned, in presence
of that unnamed terror, while her daughter went forward, a smile that
was almost playful making her treacherous lips beautiful.

"Leith, really Leith!" she cried sweetly. "What man but you ever could
turn up in this most unexpected fashion, or this most welcome one? Was
it your sudden coming that has upset Carlita? These Southern women are
so easily affected. Mamma, can't you ring for Carlita's maid? Here is
poor Leith holding her in his arms as if she were a china doll, which
he feared to drop lest it should break. Has she really fainted, or
is it only one of her pretty affectations because of the picturesque
comfort of the position?"

"I am afraid I was a little abrupt in breaking some startling news to
her," answered Leith, quietly, thankful for once for the incessant flow
of Jessica's words. "Poor little girl! I am very sorry for her."

"Really? What was it?"

"Wait a moment."

Carlita had stirred ever so slightly in his embrace but he was
painfully alive to every movement. It seemed to him that it would be
impossible for him to look into her clear eyes then, eyes lighted with
hatred and loathing for his despicable act, and it was with a feeling
of absolute relief that he resigned his precious burden to her maid,
who, with the assistance of Mrs. Chalmers, took her from the room.

"Do tell me!" cried Jessica, making not the slightest pretense of
interest in her mother's ward. "I am consumed with curiosity. Is it
about Olney?"

"Yes."

"He is ill?"

"Worse than that."

"Worse! Not--dead?"

"Yes."

"Good heavens!"

There was a desperate sort of silence that lasted she could never quite
remember how long, but her mother's touch aroused her, her mother's
voice speaking in her ear in a low, strained tone, which seemed unreal
and ghastly to her.

"Olney is dead, Jessica. Do you hear me, child? Olney Winthrop is dead."

The girl shook off the hand and lifted her white face.

"Yes, I know," she answered, hoarsely, almost gruffly. "What is
the good of making a scene about it? Many of--of our friends have
died suddenly who appeared less like it than he. What was it,
Leith--typhoid? Mexico is such a beastly hole for typhoid."

Her mother heard and understood all the bravado in the tone, and a
shiver passed over her that added to her pallor under all the ghastly,
artificial red. But she forgot it in listening to Leith's reply.

"No," he said, heavily, "it was not fever."

"Then what?"

He glanced away from her, even shot a half-nervous glance in the
direction of the door, which was something he had never done before in
his life.

"What was it?" she repeated, unable to control her impatient
excitement. "Not--"

"Yes, murder!"

There was none of the old, graceful nonchalance in the voice as he
spoke that word. It was strained, husky, tense, like that of a man who
is putting the most violent restraint upon some wild passion.

Mrs. Chalmers uttered a little cry, a cry that could not be described
in its terror, suspense, she knew not what, of horrible presentiment;
but Jessica's head was flung up, her nostrils dilated, her eyes wild
and filled with a curious expression which her mother could not fathom,
even had she been in a mental condition to try.

And then Jessica repeated that awful word, repeated it in a voice which
contained a note of triumph--hideous triumph--that shot through her
mother's weaker soul with renewed terror:

"Murder!"

There were volumes in the mere utterance. She stood looking at him for
just a moment, then deliberately sat down and crossed her hands between
her knees, looking up at him curiously. Mrs. Chalmers leaned against
the mantel-shelf for needed support.

"How horrible!" exclaimed Jessica. "And that it should be some one we
all know--actually engaged to Carlita! It reads quite like a story
book, doesn't it? Do sit down and tell us all about it."

But Leith did not sit. He passed his hands across his brow as if his
head ached.

"I can't," he answered, heavily. "It is getting late, and I am worn
out. I haven't slept for--I can't remember just how long, but I
feel seedy and in need of rest. I think I'll go now, and come again
tomorrow, if you'll let me."

"But at least you'll tell us the main facts!" cried Jessica. "It won't
take a minute. Who murdered him?"

She seemed to delight in the mere utterance of the grewsome word, and
Leith shivered, though his answer was filled with passion:

"I wish to God I knew!"

"Then you don't?"

"No."

The words were uttered so peculiarly that even Jessica was silent for a
moment, then said, with sudden, swift meaning:

"Then you were not with him?"

"No."

"And there was no inquiry made, no effort to discover the murderer?"

Leith lifted his shoulders wearily.

"Oh, yes," he answered. "But what does inquiry amount to in a place
like that? There is no law, and a man's importance is measured by the
value of his hat and saddle, and the number of men he has slain."

"Then you have no suspicion?"

"None." But he stooped to pick up a handkerchief he had dropped as he
spoke the word. "I really must go now," he said when he had regained
it. "I am dead tired, and--"

"But you saw him after he was dead?" she persisted, observing that his
hand trembled, in spite of his efforts to prevent it.

"Yes, I saw him," he stammered.

"Was he shot?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Directly through the heart."

"Ah! then he did not suffer much. You should be glad he was killed at
once, and--"

But it seemed to Pierrepont that he could bear it no longer. His
accustomed indifference had already deserted him, and he felt that all
his courage was as rapidly following. He cried out passionately, more
passionately than she believed possible for him, even after the kiss
she had seen him press upon Carlita's lips:

"Glad! Glad, when it left not a moment for preparation to meet that God
whom he feared! when it left not a moment for a word of farewell to the
girl whom he loved! Glad! Good God! I had rather suffer a life-time of
anguish than to die like that--a rat in a trap!"

"And you buried him down there?" his pitiless interlocutor continued.

"Yes," he answered, half sullenly. "What else was there to do?"

"Why not bring him home to the girl he loved, and who loved him?"

"Like that! It were a thousand times, ten thousand times, better that
she never saw him again. Besides," managing by a superhuman effort
to control himself somewhat, "there was no way. It was awful getting
through, myself, and it would have been impossible with him. There
were miles and miles that had to be done on mule-back, and miles and
miles more, even after we reached the railroad, that had to be done on
a hand-car. Then there were land-slides that had to be walked over and
the car carried. Oh, it would have been impossible, quite impossible,
even if--if--"

"If what?"

"If I had desired to," he blurted out, hastily, hoarsely. "I will come
again tomorrow--tomorrow--when, I hope, Miss de Barryos will be better.
Good-night."

He bolted from the room, snatched up his hat and coat in the hall, and
rushed into the street.

Already the lamps were lighted, flickering brilliantly in the deadened
gray of the gloaming that was so rapidly fading into night. Pedestrians
were hurrying homeward, their faces cut to crimson by the sharp, frosty
air.

The sting of it was pleasant to Pierrepont. He opened his mouth and
drank it into his lungs with the same relish that a thirsty man drinks
water.

"God, what a relief!" he exclaimed, his step growing more elastic.
"She knew how she was torturing me, saw it in every word that I spoke;
and I, fool that I was, was betrayed into weakness and cowardice by
a woman whom I despise! I felt myself a criminal striving to avoid
the accusation of my crime. I think if she had cried out: 'You are
the guilty one! 'Twas your hand fired the shot that killed poor Olney
Winthrop!' I would have sunk upon my knees and begged for mercy.
Pouf! how all this cursed affair has upset me! I wonder if I shall
ever be myself again? I wonder if I shall ever be able to shake off
the influence of all these lies I have been forced to tell, and shall
be forced to tell from this time henceforth? God! it's the old story
retold of Adam and Eve, without the Garden of Eden. A woman's beautiful
face makes cowards of us all. And I, who so despise a liar, who never
told a lie in my life until--"

He did not complete the sentence, but flung up his head with a gesture
of repugnance and abhorrence.

A slow, pitiless, scornful, malignant laugh fell from Jessica's lips
as she heard the outer door close upon him. She got up, went to the
window, and watched him as he disappeared down the street; then, quite
as calmly as she had moved the day before, returned to the mantel and
laid one hand upon it, while with the other she lifted her dress and
placed her foot upon the fender before the fire. Then, after a pause:

"Why do you look at me in that uncanny sort of way?" she exclaimed,
half fretfully to her mother, without even glancing in her direction.
"You make me feel creepy all up and down my back. Why don't you say it
out and have done with it?"

"Say--what out?" stammered Mrs. Chalmers, her voice as stiff, as
heavy, as full of terror as her face.

"What you are thinking."

"I--I don't believe I--could. It seems to--me that I--must have
been asleep--and had a--horrible nightmare. I--think I must have
been--wondering--what you--thought."

Jessica lifted her head. In the mirror she saw leaning against the
door-jamb a figure clothed all in black, the white hands crossed upon
its breast as if to hush the wild throb of the passionate heart. The
beautiful face looked deathly in its pallor. It was Carlita.

Jessica turned her eyes upon her mother as if she had not seen, then
answered slowly, her voice vibrating with intense meaning:

"What I think of the murder of Olney Winthrop? You mean whom do I
believe to be the murderer? I am quite sure there can not be two ideas
upon that score. The ball that entered Olney Winthrop's heart was fired
by the hand of Leith Pierrepont, none other!"




CHAPTER XIII.


"The ball that entered Olney Winthrop's heart was fired by the hand of
Leith Pierrepont!"

Over and over again, like the insistent surge of the waves, or the
maddening repetition of some wild, fantastic melody, those words kept
repeating themselves in Carlita's reeling brain.

She had crept away noiselessly when she had heard them spoken, crept
away and almost crawled up the stairs to her own chamber, where the
gathering darkness lay in somber shadows. She closed the door and
turned the key, leaning against it in a weak, half-relieved sort of
way, like the criminal who has gained a moment of respite from his too
close pursuers.

But the haunting memory of those ghastly words aroused her again, and
she pressed her hands upon her breast, her great eyes peering into the
gloomy shadows, the words she had heard standing out before her in
letters of glaring fire.

"It can't be--it can't be!" she panted, leaning forward as if she were
speaking her passionate cry into some listening ear. "It can't be!
Olney Winthrop murdered, and--Leith Pierrepont his--No, no, no! It
can not be true! My God! I will not believe it! There is some awful
mistake! Some hideous blunder! But then--but then--"

She paused and moistened her stiff lips, her eyes opening and closing
curiously. She did not continue that monologue, but catching hold of
a chair, then the foot of the bed, a table, then another chair, she
dragged herself to the fireside, which had burned itself to little more
than dull gray ashes.

She knelt upon the white bear-skin rug, and taking the poker tried to
stir it into a blaze again; but the faint flicker made her shiver. She
dropped the poker from her cold fingers, and burying her white face
upon her knees crossed her arms around them.

Her grief for her betrothed seemed to be swallowed up in the awful
sense of horror that oppressed her. It was not so much of Olney
Winthrop murdered that she thought, as of Leith Pierrepont murderer.

And then the shadows lengthened and dusk faded into night. The poor
fire died entirely and lay gray and passionless upon the hearth. The
cold flash of an electric lamp shone through the window, over which the
shade had not been drawn, and lay in a line of light across the floor,
beyond which were ponderous caverns made of shadow.

It was ghoulish, eerie.

She would have thought it strange that her maid had not come to prepare
her bath and bed if she had been in a condition to consider ordinary
subjects, but matters of daily moment and time ceased to exist for her
during those hours.

Once or twice she moved uneasily, and a hoarse moan left her lips as if
some horrible thought, too heavy to be borne in silence, weighed upon
her heart.

And then at last she lifted her head. The eyes burned like living
coals, but the face was gray and passionless, like the dead ashes upon
the hearth. It was a curious, uncanny contrast.

Her neck was stiff and sore from its long continuance in one position,
but she did not seem to be conscious of it. Her fingers were still
interlaced about her knee. Her mental faculties seemed to return to her
suddenly.

"He told me that he loved me, that whether I desired or not, I should
be his wife," she said in a low, hoarse tone that fitted the scene
with curious horror, the "he" referring to Leith Pierrepont. "Knowing
that I was the betrothed wife of his friend, he came in that friend's
absence and made his dastardly proposal to me. Can it be that he has
done this thing for--that? For that? In order that he might carry out
this hideous desire? Good God! No human thing with the dim shadow of
blood in his veins could do a thing so vile. And yet--God of Heaven,
I will know! I must know! I will avenge you, Olney! I swear it! Do
you hear me, sleeping there in your lonely grave? I swear that I will
avenge you, and that I will bring your murderer to justice, let it cost
me what it will of womanliness, of self-respect, of life itself even.
My moment of weakness is passed, and the work shall commence at once."

She arose, feverishly stiff and cramped from her long, sorrowful vigil,
and walked with a step that was almost firm to the door.

It never occurred to her to consider the time, but turning the key in
the lock, she opened the door and went into the hall.

All was dark, the house strangely still.

"It is out of respect for--Olney," she whispered to herself, with a
little catch in her voice like a sob. "It was kind of Jessica! After
all--"

She didn't finish the sentence, but walked unsteadily up the hall. Her
weakness seemed to come again with her knowledge of the darkness.

She paused before Jessica's door and hesitated for a moment, then she
saw a faint gleam of light beneath the door. It gave her courage. She
did not knock, but turned the knob gently. It yielded, and the door
swung back.

The brilliant gleam of light blinded her for a moment, and then she
saw Jessica standing beneath the chandelier. She was clothed in a long
gown of shimmering greenish satin, the décolleté bodice finished with
a fall of lace that somehow made her look like a serpent which trails
his long, singularly graceful body in the moonlight. About her handsome
throat was a string of diamonds, and in the clustering coils of auburn
hair a crown of diamonds that scintillated and flashed with defiant
glitter.

And there was something in the cold look of the brown eyes that matched
them strangely--a look that hardened as it rested upon the girl at the
door.

She observed the expression of surprised contempt in Carlita's burning
eyes all too clearly, but it only served to intensify her hatred.

"I--I didn't know you had--been out," Carlita stammered. "I half feared
I should find you in bed. The house was still and dark. Is it late?"

"No, early--in the morning," Jessica answered, with a short laugh.
"Haven't you been to bed? It is almost three. There! the clock is
striking now."

"I had no idea--" returned Carlita, in an uncertain and indefinite sort
of way, as if she didn't quite know what she wanted to say. "May I come
in for a moment?"

"As well come in and close the door as stand there and have the draught
blow on one," answered Jessica. "It has been a very stupid evening,"
stifling a yawn. "Calve was not in voice, and Jean de Reske didn't sing
at all. It seems to me abominably like a swindle to announce at the
last moment that some one whom you especially went to hear 'has a cold,
and So-and-so has kindly consented to take his place.' Even the poker
game afterward was stupid--insufferably stupid. Carlita, what a fool
you are, that you don't cut all the Puritan idiocy of your bringing up,
and try the gaits with me! You'd have twice the friends, live twice as
long, and have a thousand times the fun."

Carlita shivered slightly, as her eyes traveled over the figure before
her.

"I suppose you are right," she said, half stupidly; "but somehow it
doesn't seem to be in my line."

"Pouf! You can do anything you like. What's the good of making a
sepulcher of one's life--of living for death, so to speak--when you
have so little of life and so much of death? You make a constant sermon
of yourself, and people hate sermons. That's why they go to sleep in
church. You never see any one go to sleep at a poker-table. There are
people who talk against it, I know--'wouldn't have their sisters play
for their right arms,' and all that rot--and then turn round and kill
their best friend!"

She laughed shortly, heavily, hatefully, and again Carlita shivered,
while she moved uneasily.

"It is inconsistent," she said, in a stony sort of way; "but so few
people are consistent. I wanted to ask you about--him. You know--the
man whom--"

"Leith Pierrepont?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

"What did he tell you about--Olney? I fainted, or--or something--and
after that he had gone."

She was suffering too acutely to observe the gleam in the red-brown
eyes, and there was nothing in the voice to attract attention.

"Olney is--dead. You know that?"

"Oh, yes; he said that. But how?"

"Shot through the heart."

Carlita moistened her lips, and then continued her grewsome questioning.

"And they buried him--?"

"Out there."

"Was there an effort made to--to discover the murderer?"

"Effort? Oh, yes; I suppose so. But, after all, what does 'effort'
amount to in a place like that? His murderer might have been standing
right beside the coffin, and no one would have made an 'effort' to
arrest him. Leith Pierrepont himself says that man's importance is
measured there by the number of men he has slain."

"Good heavens! He said that?"

"Yes."

"The dastard!"

"It is doubly pitiful for poor Olney," Jessica continued, volubly,
"because he was so alone in the world. There is no one to take his
case for him--no one to see that justice is done. The murder was
committed out of the country, and so the murderer will go scot-free,
deceiving other people, his polluted body in contact with that of
innocence--perhaps even marry a pure young girl."

"No!" cried Carlita, her voice tragic in its suppressed
passion--"never! Olney is not without an avenger. I have sworn before
Heaven a solemn vow that I will bring his murderer to punishment for
his cowardly crime; and I will keep that vow, let it cost me what it
will of happiness, of life, or even honor. All the world shall know
and scorn him for the thing he is, and God Himself shall put upon him
the brand of Cain. I have sworn an oath to Olney dead, and may I stand
accursed before Heaven if I fail to keep it!"

She went swiftly from the room, and Jessica closed the door behind her,
her low, strident laughter filling the room with unmusical sound.

"I shall have my revenge upon both," she said, with sardonic
triumph--"my sweet revenge!"




CHAPTER XIV.


It seemed to Carlita that the dawn of morning would never come. As well
have undertaken any other impossible feat as to sleep, and so she sat
beside the window watching eagerly, first for the cold, gray break of
light in the heavens, and next for some movement in the other world to
tell her that mankind was astir again.

She was up, had had her bath, and dressed herself when her maid
arrived, pale, but with a fierce burning in the dark eyes that made one
forget the circles round them.

"All dressed, Miss de Barryos!" exclaimed her maid in some surprise.
"You did not ring for me?"

"No, Ahbel," she returned, feverishly. "I couldn't sleep, and there was
no necessity of disturbing you."

"But it is nine, and I have been up since seven. You are too thoughtful
for others and too little so for yourself always, Miss de Barryos. And
you were ill last night? There was bad news?"

"Yes, from Mr. Winthrop."

"I know. Miss Chalmers' maid told me. We are all so sorry, Miss de
Barryos, sorry for you as well as that misfortune should have befallen
the young gentleman."

"It is very kind of you, Ahbel," returned Carlita, choking back a
tearless sob which the tone of sympathy in the voice evoked.

"And such a dreadful thing!" continued the girl. "You can bear those
things so much better when one dies of a fever, or of something in
one's bed. It is so much more natural like. But to be--murdered!"

The girl interrupted herself with a little shiver, but Carlita neither
shrank from the word nor moved. She stood stonily, gazing with those
burning eyes into the street.

"It was very dreadful!" she said, dully.

"And do they know who did it?" continued the girl.

"No."

"But there must be some way of finding out. I have heard such a lot of
those people, Mexicans, you know--worse than brigands. They don't want
to find out who did it; but a good smart Yankee detective would ferret
it all out quickly enough."

For the first time Carlita started.

"A detective!" she repeated.

"Yes'm. A good detective could go down there and get at the bottom of
facts in no time."

"Do you know a good detective, Ahbel?"

"Indeed I do, ma'am."

"You are quite sure he is a thoroughly reliable man?"

"Quite sure, ma'am. He is considered one of the very best in New York,
and his word goes further with the superintendent than any of them."

"Do you know where to find him?"

"Yes'm. He is my uncle. I was at his house last night to see his
daughter, my cousin. I came to ask your permission, but Miss Chalmers
said you were not to be disturbed, and that if you required anything,
her maid could attend you."

But Carlita seemed not to have heard the latter part of the speech.

"Would he be at home now?"

"Yes'm. He finished a case only yesterday, and said he would take a few
days' rest; but I know he would do this for you, Miss de Barryos. He is
like an old war-horse, anyway. The mention of a new mystery to solve is
like the sound of a trumpet to a horse. He gets restless in a moment."

"And you think he would be willing to risk the danger of that country?"

"A good detective don't know the meaning of danger, miss, any more than
a good soldier does. He won't stop to think of that."

"How soon can you fetch him here?"

"In an hour--perhaps less."

"Let it be less, if possible, and go at once."

"Yes'm."

"And you may bring him here upon your return. Unless it should be
necessary, you need say nothing to any one of his presence here."

"I understand, miss. Shall I wait to bring your breakfast?"

"No; tell Jawkins to serve it in the breakfast-room."

At least, it was something with which to occupy the time until Ahbel's
return. But a very poor occupation it proved. Mental excitement and a
sleepless night are not conducive to excellence of appetite, so that
she did poor justice to the delicious meal that was served her.

She returned to her own room when she could bear the over-decoration
of the breakfast-room no longer, and waited restlessly, counting the
apparently endless moments as they passed. And then, at last, she heard
a quick step in the hall, a light tap upon her door, and Ahbel stepped
inside, followed by a man, before Carlita had time to bid them enter.

It was such a curious sensation that oppressed her as she glanced from
her maid to her maid's uncle--a breathless excitement, subdued by a
sort of repulsion which was indefinable in her present mood.

Ahbel's cheeks were crimson, her eyes sparkling, under the excitement
and an unusually brisk walk; but it was toward the man that Carlita's
most inquiring glances were bent.

He was rather small of stature--small and wiry--with a smoothly shaved
face, through which the incipient black beard showed, making the
skin look blue. The hair was thick and very black, contrasting oddly
with the half-sunken cheeks. But it was the eyes that gave him his
extraordinary appearance. They were deep set and small, gray as to
color, but so piercing, so penetrating, as to make a comparatively
innocent man tremble as he looked into them.

He bowed profoundly as Ahbel introduced him to her mistress.

"Miss de Barryos, this is my uncle, Edmond Stolliker."

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Stolliker?" asked Carlita, pointing toward a
chair, and speaking to her maid's uncle as if he were "to the manner
born"--well, perhaps, because a something about him, unnamed but still
apparent, compelled it.

He bowed again and took the chair she indicated quietly and without any
apparent awkwardness.

She seated herself opposite him, a table between them, and nervously
handled some of the ivory and silver toilet articles that littered it.

"I have sent for you to--"

"Pardon me, Miss de Barryos," he interrupted, speaking for the first
time in a low voice which had a curiously distinctive carrying power.
"Is it your desire that your maid should be present during this
interview?"

Carlita started slightly; but after the faintest possible hesitation,
turned to Ahbel, of whom the detective had spoken as if she were the
most absolute stranger to him.

"You may go," she said, gently. "If I should need you I will ring."

"Yes, miss."

She left the room without even a backward glance, and when the door
closed, Carlita began again:

"I suppose your niece told you of why I have sent for you, and--"

"She said something of the death of your fiancé, which was thought to
be murder; but I never like to accept even the most apparently trifling
detail from one so little interested as a maid. If I am to be retained
in this case, Miss de Barryos, I must receive all my data from you
personally until I can discover for myself."

"You understand, then, that this case will necessitate a visit to
Mexico?"

"Your maid told me as much."

"To the wildest and most uncivilized parts?"

Edmond Stolliker smiled. It warmed and genialized his face wonderfully.

"Fortunately, I speak several patois of Spanish," he returned, by way
of reply.

"Then you are willing to undertake it?"

"Quite."

"Then I will tell you the story, though the details are meager
enough--merely bald facts, I am afraid. My fiancé, Mr. Olney
Winthrop, was summoned to Mexico concerning some mines in which he
was interested. He went, accompanied by a friend of his, Mr. Leith
Pierrepont. At first his letters to me were filled with courage and
hope; then suddenly they ceased. Five or six weeks later--yesterday, in
fact--Mr. Pierrepont returned and announced his death."

"From what?"

"Shot through the heart."

"Ah! Under what circumstances?"

"I don't know. I fainted when Mr. Pierrepont told me, and on my
recovery he had gone. The few facts I have learned were through Miss
Chalmers, daughter of my guardian."

"But there is some one whom you suspect of this murder?"

Carlita did not reply at once. Her dark eyes blazed, her lips were
scorched and parted, and through them her hot breath came in little
gasps; yet when she could control herself sufficiently to speak, she
cried out passionately:

"Have I the right to speak suspicion?"

The detective leaned forward, almost touching the small table between
them, holding her spell-bound by the strange gleam of his piercing
eyes, which seemed to be searching her very soul.

"Shall I tell you whom it is that you accuse in your own heart, Miss de
Barryos?" he asked, in a tense half-whisper. "It is Leith Pierrepont!
But why? That is the question which I am most anxious to have answered."

A crimson flush overspread her face from throat to brow. She shrank
backward in her seat, but the detective leaned even further forward,
touching the table now with his long, slender fingers.

"Miss de Barryos," he continued, after a brief pause, "if I am to
do anything for you, you must not begin by blindfolding me and then
telling me to see. A detective occupies much the same position toward
his client that a lawyer or doctor does. He must be trusted all in all,
or not at all. I am not here through curiosity, but at your desire."

"You are right, and I all wrong," she cried out; "but the subject is
so hateful a one that I must needs shrink from it. There is a reason
why I suspect--the man whom you have mentioned. He has dared to speak
to me of love, knowing that I was the betrothed wife of the friend
who trusted him as a brother. He swore in my presence that, let what
would happen, I should be his wife. He is a man whom I have never
trusted--whom I despise; and I believe he has done this cowardly thing
in order to carry out the vile oath that he swore."

The detective was watching her narrowly. She had arisen, her face grown
white again with passion, her fingers clinched, a fierce gleam in the
dark eyes, which even he, with all his long experience in the art of
reading men, could not fathom.

"And so--he loves you!" Edmond Stolliker said, musingly.

"If you would so desecrate the holy name."

"And when Mr. Winthrop was summoned to Mexico this man went with him?"

"Yes."

"Why? Were his mining interests also jeopardized?"

"He had none there."

"Ah! That is a significant fact, certainly. Did Mr. Winthrop write you
anything of the condition in which he found his affairs there?"

"His last letter stated that he had not yet discovered why he had
been summoned at all, as matters seemed to him in a more prosperous
condition than they had ever been."

"Umph! Will you let me see that letter?"

She hesitated a moment, unwilling to trust so sacred a thing to
other hands; then remembering her oath, she went feverishly to her
escritoire. As she was selecting it, a knock sounded upon the door, and
Ahbel entered.

"Mr. Pierrepont, Miss de Barryos," she exclaimed, striving to calm the
excitement of her tone.

Carlita turned like a tigress, the precious letters dropping from her
hands to the floor about her.

"Tell him," she cried, passionately, "that Miss de Barryos is not at
home to him, neither now nor ever!"

Edmond Stolliker was upon his feet in a moment.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, in command, to the maid; then crossed the room
suddenly and stood facing Miss de Barryos. "If we are to discover the
murderer of your fiancé, Miss de Barryos," he said, earnestly, "you
must be my unfailing ally. You must obey me absolutely. This man must
suspect nothing whatever of your intentions. He must suppose that you
believe every word that he speaks. He must even believe there might
come a time when you would not be unfavorable to his suit. You must see
him whenever he calls; keep him near you at whatever cost. If you would
discover the murderer of your fiancé, you must be an actress as strong
and subtle as Bernhardt herself, forgetting your own inclinations and
hatreds, and thinking only of Olney Winthrop dead, and needing an
avenger. You feel yourself capable of this?"

"Of anything that will insure justice to the dead and to the living!"

"Ahbel, say to Mr. Pierrepont that Miss de Barryos will be down at
once," the detective said, quietly. "Is there any convenient cover from
which I could hear a conversation between you?"

"Yes; the conservatory."

"Good! Let no detail escape. Ask him every question that you can put
with safety, without allowing him to suspect that it is for greater
cause than your natural interest. You can do this?"

"For Olney's sake."

Her eyes were lifted, her hands pressed upon her bosom as if she were
communing with her dead lover. Her lips moved for a moment, and then
she left the room.

Edmond Stolliker gathered up the letters she had dropped, thrust them
into his pocket, and followed.

In the hall he met Ahbel.

"Take me to the conservatory, quick!" he commanded, briefly.




CHAPTER XV.


Carlita had never in her life undertaken anything so difficult as her
entrance into that room. She was forced to stop outside the door in
order to gain some control over her trembling lips, that she might
speak the name and meet the eye of the man whom she felt she hated with
all the strength of her soul.

It gave Edmond Stolliker time to gain his position in the conservatory,
and enabled him to witness the greeting.

He could have desired nothing better.

She entered quietly, her long black robe trailing after her girlish
figure in fascinating contrast, and Stolliker observed all too clearly
the whitening and compression of Pierrepont's lips as he went toward
her in the old indolent, graceful fashion.

"I half feared you would not receive me, that you might be ill," he
said, putting out his large, beautifully shaped white hand to take her
cold fingers. "It was very good of you."

"I wanted--so much to know--all--you know--all that concerns--him,"
she faltered, in exactly the tone Stolliker would have had her use
had he been able to suggest it. "I don't believe I have been in bed
since--since you were here, and--"

"I was a brute," he interrupted, not looking at her--a fact which
Stolliker observed, "to tell you so abruptly. I wanted to ask your
forgiveness. There are times, you know, when a man forgets--everything,
and is almost pardonable."

He had placed a chair for her before the fire, and she had sat down,
her eyes fixed upon the blaze. She felt that a glance into his face
would have dispersed all her courage, and she dared not risk it. But
she knew that Stolliker would lose no point.

Leith did not sit. He stood with his elbow upon the mantel-shelf, his
head supported by his closed hand, looking into the fire also. Once he
glanced toward her, moved nervously, and allowed his eyes to return to
the fire again.

Stolliker grunted a curious "Umph!"

The silence grew unbearable at last.

"Won't you--go on?" Carlita asked, wistfully. "Won't you tell me
without--without questioning? It is so hard, so hard!"

"You loved him--so--then?"

"Yes, I loved him," she answered, with quivering passion.

He glanced toward her again, but Stolliker could not quite determine
what the expression in his quickly averted eyes could have been;
whether pity, sorrow, remorse, or all three blended, but he distinctly
saw the shiver that passed through the magnificent frame.

"I wish I could help you, but it is too late for that," he said,
heavily. "Poor little girl! After all, Olney is to be envied, for at
least you have loved him."

"You saw him--die?" she interrupted in a choking voice, utterly unable
to keep silent and listen longer.

"No; he was--dead when--when I reached his side."

He had drawn himself up, stiffened, so to speak, as if nerving himself
for a terrible trial.

"Then he left no message for me? Spoke no word?"

Pierrepont moved uneasily.

"He--he could not," he answered, hoarsely. "There was no time."

"He was shot--Jessica told me that."

"Yes."

"And through the heart?"

"Yes."

"I shall always hate them--my people--that they should have done so
vile a thing, committed so causeless a murder. And there was no reason,
was there?"

She lifted her eyes for the first time and saw the crimson flush that
glowed upon his cheeks, the flush of shame. He hesitated for a moment,
then answered heavily:

"None."

For a moment it seemed to her that she must cry out, that she must
brand him "murderer;" but she subdued the wild desire by a wilder
effort. She interlaced her fingers on her lap, and held herself closely
for strength, then she summoned all her histrionic powers, as Stolliker
had instructed her, and leaned slightly toward him.

"You have been--his friend--my friend, though I have been foolish
enough not to recognize it until now," she said, loathing herself for
the deception and yet continuing it. "But you will forgive me for all
that and help me, will you not? You will be my friend in future as you
were his in the past?"

He turned toward her eagerly, but controlled himself suddenly, and
answered quietly, but with deep emotion:

"It is greater happiness than--I deserve."

"And you do forgive me?"

"If there were anything to forgive, with all my heart; but it is I who
have always been the offender, not you."

"I am so alone, and--and he was all--I had!" she exclaimed, repressing
a sob, which was, nevertheless, very audible.

"Do you think I did not understand that?" he cried, passionately. "Do
you think there was a single word or act of yours that I did not
comprehend? Why--There! Forgive me. I don't quite know myself of late.
I am like some foolish, hot-headed boy, the yielding tool of every
emotion. I wish I could make you understand how I appreciate the sweet
trust of your generous friendship."

He took a step toward her, and placing his hand upon the back of her
chair, bent downward until his lips almost touched her hair--not quite.

A tremor passed throughout her body, but she did not move.

"You accept it?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"As I would a pardon from God."

She started ever so slightly, but controlled herself again.

"And you will help me?" she asked in the same low tone.

"In all things so far as in my power lies."

"Thank you! thank you!" she murmured, lifting her intertwined fingers
from her lap to her breast, and shrinking downward away from him just a
trifle. "You will understand how I feel. You do not wish, any more than
I, that he should sleep out there--in that lonely grave. You will help
me to bring--his body here, and--and to find his murderer?"

Stolliker caught his breath hard as he watched the man--watched the
cold, gray loam overspread his face--watched the stiffening of the
joints and the slow lifting of the graceful form to an upright position.

The gray eyes were bent upon the dark head with an expression of horror
which it was not necessary he should conceal, as she was not looking;
but Stolliker observed that he pressed his hand above his heart, as if
he feared she might hear its beating.

"I--I can't promise--that," he stammered helplessly. "It is
so--useless. Of course, I will do all I can; but you can't
understand the--the condition of the railroads there. It would be
impossible--simply impossible--now, at least."

"Then--then later, when the--the condition of the country--has
improved?" she gasped, hoarsely; and for a moment Stolliker feared she
was going to faint.

"Yes, later," he assented, huskily.

"But--but the other?" she cried, almost fiercely. "You will help me
with the other--you will help me to find his murderer?"

There was another silence, long and ominous. Somehow, Leith was leaning
upon the mantel-shelf again, though neither Stolliker nor Carlita could
have told how he got there.

"You don't know what you are asking," he said at last, in a dull, tense
voice. "The place is so wild, so unreal. Wait for awhile. Wait until
you have got over the first shock--the first horror of it all. Then, if
you wish it, I will help you."

And with that she was apparently content.

"I may come again?" he asked shortly afterward, as he was leaving; and,
mindful of Stolliker's words and her own oath, she answered:

"Yes, you may come again."

He pressed her hand and left her silently, passing out into the hall
and out of the house without seeing Jessica's mocking face at the
head of the stairs, though he might not have understood the scornful,
triumphant smile upon it, even if he had.

He wearily closed the hall door upon himself, and as he slowly
descended the stoop, he lifted his hat and pushed the damp hair back
from his forehead.

"God!" he muttered, half aloud, "if I had suspected half how hard it
would be, I should never have undertaken it even for her. Ay, verily,
'whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.'"

Stolliker watched him down the street, then joined Carlita upon the
hearth-rug.

"I have to congratulate you upon playing your part superbly!"

"You heard--"

"Everything."

"Bah!"--with a shiver of repulsion--"it was a hateful part, a
despicable part--"

"But one that is absolutely essential if you would discover and bring
to justice the murderer of your betrothed husband."

"Then you think--"

"Pardon me; detectives have no right to 'think.' They must know. You
have given me a clew, and it is worth working out; that is all. In the
meantime, your part in the drama is to keep this man beside you as much
as possible, night and day. Watch his most minute act, his lightest
word, and report them all to me--everything. Let nothing escape. Don't
trust your memory for a single day, but write everything down the
moment he has gone. Take care that no act or word of his shall betray
you into any exhibition of suspicion; and, above all, don't reject too
much his overtures of affection. That part you must play with great
care and finesse, neither being too quickly won nor too cold in your
demeanor. You think you can assist me so far?"

"I will do it--that, or anything that may be required of me to bring
this man to a punishment of his foul crime."

"Good!"

"And in the meantime, you--what will you be doing?"

"I? Oh, I shall start for Mexico by the first train that goes. These
letters will give me all the data for that that I shall require."

"You have them--Mr. Winthrop's letters?"

"Every one, I think."




CHAPTER XVI.


Before leaving for Mexico there was a long, detailed conversation
between Stolliker and Carlita, a conversation in which he fully
outlined to her the part it would be necessary for her to play--a line
of action to which she offered no word of objection, though her whole
soul rebelled against such duplicity.

There was also a telegraph code agreed upon, by which cipher telegrams
could be sent; a method used before, but always comparatively safe.
A book was mutually agreed upon, in this instance "The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes," by Conan Doyle. The word, counting from the bottom
of the page, was to be indicated by the first number, the page itself
by the second; so that to read it would be impossible, unless the
reader knew to what volume the numbers referred, as well as the edition
selected.

They understood each other perfectly when Stolliker left to catch his
train, and in his own mind there was not a doubt but that he should be
able to prove Pierrepont's guilt with almost greater ease than he had
ever settled a case before.

"It's too pretty a neck to be bound by a halter," he mused, as he took
his seat in the train. "Adam lost Eden because of a woman--a woman who
loved him; but this man will lose more than that, if I mistake not. He
will lose not alone his life, but his soul as well, and for a woman
who loves him not! It is a queer world, and man is the queerest animal
in it. Instead of conscience making cowards of us all, passion makes
brutes of us all, and we forget conscience and cowardice, too, under
the intoxicant of a woman's smile."

After Stolliker had gone, the excitement which had seemed to brace
Carlita for the emergency suddenly wore itself out, and for several
days she was confined to her room, with a nearer approach to fever than
she had ever had in her strong, healthy young life before.

It was during those few days that a strange change came over Jessica.

She developed a sudden affection for her mother's ward that touched
that poor, friendless young thing to the heart. She even refused to go
to the opera the night that Carlita was threatened with delirium, and
sat beside the bed, holding Carlita's hand while the physician was in
the room, and bending over the patient once or twice with tenderest
solicitude when there was a murmur of a name upon those rambling lips
which she did not wish the doctor to hear.

And Jessica learned much in those few days, much that it would have
been a thousand times better if she had never known; but Carlita was
unaware of that.

She lifted the girl's hand to her cooling lips, and pressed it there
passionately when she realized who it was that had nursed her so
carefully.

"How shall I thank you?" she murmured, faintly. "I don't think I have
ever appreciated before how good you are!"

"Perhaps we have never quite understood each other before," returned
Jessica, in that low, melodious voice which none knew better than she
how to assume.

"Ah, yes, it is that," answered Carlita, eagerly. "But now that I know
how tender your friendship can be, you will not withdraw it from me?
I am so alone, so pitifully alone in all the world! There is not one
creature that belongs to me, not one that cares whether I live or die,
not one to whom I could stretch out my hand for help, no matter what
my needs may be. It seems to me sometimes that my heart will break
from the heaviness of its loneliness and isolation. Let me love you,
Jessica! Let me love you!"

There was a peculiar smile upon the Judas lips, a smile filled with
fascination--a fascination which she was exerting upon that helpless
girl as she had upon so many men, luring them to eternal ruin, and then
she bent and pressed a Judas kiss upon Carlita's tremulous lips.

"You silly little sentimentalist!" she exclaimed, laughingly. "I should
always have been your friend if you had not repelled my advances
with such determination. There now"--moving the pillows into a more
comfortable position--"we won't talk about it any more. You are weak
and nervous. The first thing I know you will cry, then I shall cry, and
then I shall never forgive you as long as I live for making my nose
red. Did you ever read in a novel about how beautiful the heroine looks
when she cries? That is the baldest kind of rot! I never saw a girl
in my life who looked pretty when she cried. I am not presentable for
hours afterward."

It was a charity in its way, this new friendship, for in spite of its
odious treachery on one side, it kept Carlita from going mad in those
first days, and later gave her courage to play the part which Stolliker
had mapped out for her.

At the end of the fifth day Stolliker reached the City of Mexico. He
telegraphed from there, but there was nothing beyond the statement of
his arrival.

On the seventh Carlita was up and about again, very wan, very haggard,
but still on the road to recovery.

She felt that there was no longer any time to be lost in carrying out
Stolliker's injunctions; and so, when Leith Pierrepont's card was
brought to her two days later, she arose and went wearily downstairs.

"How you have suffered!" Leith exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon her.

Her own burned fiercely, and her lips trembled so that she could find
no words in which to answer him.

He pressed her hand in silence, and led her to the same chair she had
occupied that day when Stolliker was in the conservatory.

"It is so good of you to receive me," he continued, after a painful
pause. "In memory of our compact of friendship, I have called every day
to ask after you.'"

Her heart gave a great passionate bound, a mad bound of anger, at his
presumption, she told herself; but her tone was calm, even serene, as
she replied to him:

"Really? I was not told. Perhaps it was forgotten. It was very good of
you to take so much trouble. Every one has been singularly kind and
just, when I was fancying myself so cruelly alone, too."

"Never alone so long as you will consider me your friend."

"That is two I have now."

"Two? Who is the other?"

"Jessica."

"Oh!"

A shadow of disappointment crossed his brow, a disappointment which he
made no attempt to conceal.

She laughed nervously.

"Jessica tells me that I have been such a fool," she said, in a tone
that was quite new to her.

"Indeed? How?"

"She calls me 'little Puritan,' and says that my absurd morality has a
Plymouth Rock cast. She has told me the reason I have but two friends."

"Has she? What is it?"

"It is because I am too intense for this day and generation. People
don't like it. Frivolity and lightness of heart are much more to their
taste."

"But what of your nature? Does that count for nothing? Is that not to
be taken into consideration?"

"One's nature is a matter of education, nothing more. If that has been
faulty, it should be rectified as quickly as possible."

"May I ask how she proposes that you shall rectify these defects of
education?"

"Why, simply by imitating other people at first."

"Herself, for example?"

"Certainly."

"By playing poker after the opera, you mean?"

"Perhaps, though not necessarily. You do not approve?"

"I approve of a woman or man following the bent of her or his own
particular predilection," he answered, evasively. "If you approve of
playing poker, I have nothing to say."

"But--"

"But--I should be very sorry," he said, sadly.

"You would--withdraw from that compact of friendship?"

"No; I should feel that you needed me all the more, and I should be in
constant attendance, lest the moment should arrive in my absence when
you might want my services most."

She looked up at him with a faint smile, into which she would have
thrown more archness had the power to do so been given her, and
exclaimed, playfully:

"You offer inducement rather than opposition."

He flushed and drew back slightly, something in word, or tone, or
glance jarring upon his emotion. Somehow he preferred her coldest
disdain to the remark that she had made, and yet there was nothing in
it to give offense to any man.

He walked to the other side of the fire, behind her chair, and changed
the subject suddenly.

"When shall you be able to take up your music again?" he asked,
irrelevantly.

"Soon, I hope," she answered, but with a little shiver.

He saw it, and his conscience smote him. He believed that he had
wronged her.

"Carlita!" he cried, unconscious that in his pain he had used her first
name. "Carlita, don't allow a morose and morbid desire to conceal your
real emotions make you false to yourself and all those higher and
better attributes with which God has blessed you. You have sustained
a terrible shock. Don't let it turn the very beauties of your sweet
nature into a curse. You want something to turn to in your hour of
trouble. Let it be your music. God gave you a talent which He intended
as a comfort and sustaining power. Call upon it now. May I play to you?"

She did not reply, she could not; but already he had wandered toward
the piano. He sat down absent-mindedly and passed his hands over the
keys.

It reminded them both of that other evening when he had played for her,
and they sang together, that evening when he had told her of a love of
which he had no right to speak, which had no right to exist. A great,
wild, turbulent passion rose up in his heart against himself, numbing
his fingers.

For the first time within his remembrance the keys beneath his hands
gave forth a discordant sound.

He stood up suddenly and looked at her.

She too had arisen.

Her eyes were fierce, burning with raging passion. He thought he knew
what thoughts were at work in her brain, and cried out feverishly:

"God! How can a man live to curse himself for a momentary yielding to
madness! Do you believe there is any forgiveness for it? Do you believe
there is forgiveness for any sin, when the person against whom you have
sinned is dead, when he can no longer hear you cry out your passionate
remorse?"

She did not reply. She rose ghastly in her horrible pallor, and stood
there shaking and trembling as if an awful ague had fallen upon her.
She was striving to loosen her cleaving tongue when Jessica came into
the room suddenly, with a swish of skirts and a bound that startled her.

"Halloo, Leith!" she exclaimed, in the old slangy way. "Glad to see you
back again. The house has been like a funeral. Look at Carlita! Like
a ghost, isn't she? And you tiring her out by allowing her to stand
in this way. If you had been either a good physician or a good nurse,
you would have drawn up that couch and have her comfortably bolstered
up with pillows. Now, I'm going to send her upstairs, just because you
have been so thoughtless."

"I'm afraid I deserve the punishment," he answered, meekly. "But if I
promise not to do it in future you won't banish me, will you?"

"Not to any alarming extent," she returned, laughing. "Here you are,
Ahbel! Take our patient upstairs, see that she is nicely tucked up and
has a good rest. And now, sir, give an account of yourself. Where have
you been this last week?"

But Carlita did not hear his reply.

Ahbel had led her from the room to her own, where she suddenly sat down
beside the window.

"Leave me, Ahbel!" she cried, nervously. "I'll ring if I want you, but
I couldn't lie down now. I must think! I must think!"

She didn't even know when the girl left the room, but, with her hands
clinched in her lap, sat looking half frantically out of the window.

What was it, she was asking herself, that he would have told her when
Jessica entered? Could it have been a confession of his guilt? Would
a guilty man have so spoken? What was it he meant? Was he innocent or
guilty?

And, as if in answer to her unspoken question, a knock came upon
the door, quick, incisive, as if the seeker for permission to enter
realized the importance of her errand.

It was Ahbel.

"A telegram, miss!" she exclaimed, half breathlessly.

Carlita received it and tore it open hastily. It looked ordinary enough
as it trembled in her hand, and yet there was something sinister in the
array of figures as she flashed her eyes over them:

  "2, 75, 107, 29, 12, 35, 18, 134; 24, 23, 18, 11, 126, 29, 23, 22,
  55, 10, 324, 51, 23, 50, 135, 114, 45, 116, 19, 97, 17, 78, 4, 97."

Scarcely able to control her excitement, she sped across the floor
to her escritoire, and snatched up the volume of "Sherlock Holmes"
concealed there.

With trembling fingers she turned the pages and slowly counted out the
words, horrible, ghastly in their import:

  "The gentleman to whom you were engaged was not shot as you were told.

                                                               E. S."




CHAPTER XVII.


Breathless, with alternate flashes of heat and cold traveling over her
with such rapidity that unconsciousness was threatened, Carlita sat
there staring at the words represented by the numbers in that telegram,
understanding all the horrible import of it, yet unable to think
connectedly after the first shock, until finally she flung up her hands
and covered her wretched face passionately.

"Why should it affect me like this?" she cried, as if some awful hatred
of herself were at work in her heart. "Why should it affect me like
this? I knew that Leith Pierrepont was guilty of murder--knew it as
well before as I know it now--and yet--and yet hope must have been at
work within me, for this additional proof of his guilt is maddening.
Why should he lie, if it were not he that committed the crime? Why
should he wish to deceive me as to the manner of Olney's death? Good
God! it seems impossible that a human creature, one of Thine own
creation, could be so base; and yet it must be so--it must be so!"

And yet, for all her self-assurance, she snatched up the book again and
once more toiled through the numbers, counting them out more slowly,
more carefully, than she had done before, and feeling the hideous
depression creeping over her with renewed horror as she realized that
she had made no mistake.

And then, trembling so that she could scarcely hold the volume, she
compiled a telegram to Edmond Stolliker in reply:

  "I don't understand your message. Have you had body disinterred, and
  what does the knowledge imply? Answer at once if you have reason
  still to believe the man whom we suspect to be guilty."

She felt better when it had been dispatched by Ahbel, with the
injunction to the telegraph operator to be sure there should be no
mistake made in the numbers; still she could not rest, but walked up
and down the room, up and down, like the tigress that chafes against
confining bars.

Half an hour afterward Jessica entered, her smile more fascinating than
ever.

"Not lying down, as I commanded, you naughty girl!" exclaimed the
female Judas, playfully taking Carlita by the shoulders and forcing her
into a chair. "I actually feel inclined to dismiss your careless maid.
What's the matter? You look in a fever of excitement."

"I'm afraid I am," admitted Carlita, with a wan smile. "I wish you'd
let me go out for a little drive or--or--something. I feel as if the
house were suffocating me!"

"A drive? Why, certainly; and I'll go with you, if you'll have me. I'll
order the carriage at once," suiting the action to the word and ringing
the bell. "What has upset you like this? Some news since you left the
drawing-room? Ah, I see! a telegram. May I read it?"

She lifted the paper without waiting for permission, and made a little
wry face.

"Great Scott!" she exclaimed, laughing. "What's all this algebra about?
No, that's wrong; for, in algebra, letters stands for figures, and here
figures must stand for letters. What does it mean, dearie?"

Carlita had arisen and stood facing her, her great burning eyes fixed
upon the calm ones before her. Her cheeks were crimson with the
excitement that seemed consuming her, and, leaning forward, she placed
her hot fingers upon Jessica's cool wrist.

"I wonder if I dare trust you?" she whispered, feverishly. "I wonder if
I dare tell you what that telegram contains?"

Jessica smiled again. It was such a curious smile. It might have
startled, and would have certainly puzzled, Carlita had she been in an
analytical frame of mind; but she was too much upset mentally to think
of that.

"Trust me!" exclaimed Jessica in a tone that simulated offense
admirably. "If you have any doubts upon the subject, perhaps you had
better not."

"Oh, forgive me!" cried Carlita, regretfully. "I am in too great
distress to consider my words carefully, and I thought you would
understand. We have grown to be so much to each other in these last few
days--or weeks, is it? Let me tell you, will you not, dear Jessica? You
know the solemn oath that I have sworn, and you will help me?"

"You mean about Olney?"

"Yes."

Jessica did not reply. A knock came in answer to her ring just then,
and pushing Carlita back into her chair again, she answered the
summons, then drew another chair up in front of her mother's ward.

"You startle me," she said, gently.

"I, too, am startled--frightened," answered Carlita, shivering. "Here
is the translation of those figures--read it."

Jessica took the paper into her hand, and read aloud:

  "The gentleman to whom you were engaged was not shot as you were
  told."

The paper fluttered from her hand. She lifted her eyes and allowed
them to rest upon Carlita's, heavy, dull with apprehension. She was a
magnificent actress.

There was a long, dense silence between them, then Jessica's lips moved
slowly.

"What does it mean?" she gasped, hoarsely. "What under heaven could
have induced him to lie?"

Once again Carlita leaned forward, her scorching fingers touching
Jessica's wrist in an uncanny sort of way that made the latter shiver.

"The truth is not upon the lips of--a guilty man," she answered, in a
hollow, unnatural tone. "Forgive me, Jessica, but I heard your words
the night he came with his awful story of Olney's--death. I heard you
accuse--him to your mother. I know that you, too, believe him guilty."

She paused, but Jessica did not speak. She waited for her to continue,
and after a moment the hollow voice went on:

"I went down to see him, hoping to hear more, and I heard you instead,
accusing him to your mother. It has been a bond of sympathy between us.
I have loved you because I knew you must hate him as I do."

"And yet you continue to receive him!" exclaimed the arch-hypocrite,
half reproachfully.

She was scarcely prepared for the excitement her words provoked.
Carlita sprang to her feet and walked hastily up and down the room, her
hands clasping and unclasping, her cheeks crimson, her breath coming in
little gasps.

"I know that you will hate me even as I hate myself for the despicable
part that is forced upon me, but it is only to prove his guilt that
I have undertaken it. It is only to bring him to a punishment of his
dastardly crime; and, despise myself as I will--let the whole world
despise me if it must--I shall play the part to the bitter end!"

She was at the other end of the room and could not see the hateful,
cunning smile that lurked about the corners of Jessica's mouth as she
said, quietly:

"Then you know that he loves you?"

The beautiful, majestic head was bowed for a moment in shame, as the
quivering voice replied:

"Yes, I know it."

"He told you--"

"Before Olney left for Mexico."

"He asked you to--be his wife?"

"Yes."

There was the old gleam of the serpent in the brown eyes, the greenish
glare that Carlita must have understood had she been looking; but she
was not.

Neither of them spoke for some moments. Carlita had paused, and was
looking, in a distracted way, through the window, seeing nothing of the
world that was stretched out before her.

Jessica arose and stood beside her before she was conscious of her
approach. The curious tone of the hissing voice caused her to shrink
away in a sort of nameless terror as the words reached her:

"And you want to prove his guilt; is that it?"

She hesitated for a moment--it seemed so ghastly, so unreal, so
impossible--and then her voice came in a hoarse whisper:

"Yes, that is it."

"I will help you!" cried Jessica, in a voice filled with a desire for
revenge so strong that it could not be subdued. "I will help you! I
know a man down there, an old friend of the family. He will assist
us. You think you have not a friend. I can see more clearly than you,
because I--do not--suffer. You were right when you said that I believed
in his guilt, and we will punish him--you and I--as man was never
punished before. Meriaz will help us."

"How can I ever thank you!" cried Carlita, grasping the hand that was
not withdrawn from her.

Jessica smiled enigmatically.

"I do not care for thanks. Only let me help you," she answered in the
same tone, that somehow sent a chill to Carlita's heart.

Then she turned away to answer a knock at the door.

"The carriage is ready, Miss Chalmers," the servant announced, "and a
telegram for Miss de Barryos."

She had the telegram in her hand and the door closed almost before the
sentence had been completed.

Carlita flew across the room and seized it, her cheeks glowing more
crimson than ever, then fading to ashen white.

"Help me!" she gasped. "There is the book. Count the words from the
bottom of the page while I read the numbers aloud to you."

And placing both her weapons and ammunition in the hands of her
deadliest enemy, they translated together the words:

  "Body disinterred. Murder committed by suffocation. Everything points
  to person suspected. The necessity to play your part with consummate
  skill is greater than ever. Take care, and trust no one.     E. S."

But the warning had come too late.




CHAPTER XVIII.


The shock of the telegram seemed to impart to Carlita the strength she
required for action.

She felt a new vitality, new courage pouring through her like the
false, effervescent strength from wine, but she did not recognize its
falsity. She felt herself capable of anything to bring Leith Pierrepont
to justice, to bring to the gallows the craven coward that had robbed
Olney Winthrop of life.

"The carriage is here; let us go out!" she cried feverishly to Jessica.
"I can be ready in five minutes."

She arose and placed the two telegrams with their translations in her
desk, together with the volume of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,"
and locked it carefully, while Jessica went away to her own room.

To her surprise she found her mother standing there, her hands pressed
upon her breast, her haggard eyes wild with fear.

"What are you doing here?" cried Jessica, roughly, now that there was
no longer a necessity to oil her treacherous tongue. "You look like a
fright! Ever since that milk-sop, Olney, was reported murdered, you
have gone about like an uneasy ghost. You've even neglected your hair
until there is a black stripe as wide as my fingers down the middle of
your head. For the Lord's sake, pull yourself together, and stop acting
like a frightened school miss who has found a mouse nibbling at her
bread and butter. Go and color your hair!"

"Jessica, have you no heart at all? What is it that you intend to do?
Oh, I wish to God I had never consented to allow the child of another
woman to come into our household. I wish--"

"Oh, let up!" interrupted her respectful daughter, carelessly. "You've
done it, and there is no use in grieving over spilled milk. We've got
her money, and I'll have a darned sight more of it before I get through
with life, or I'll miss my reckoning."

"Jessica! Jessica, for the love of Heaven! what is it that you mean to
do?"

"Oh, rot! Don't stand there wringing your hands and whining like a
whipped cur. If you had any blood in your veins you would help me,
and not make difficulties the greater. What do I mean to do?"--her
face darkening cruelly--"I mean to have the deepest and most complete
revenge upon those two that woman ever planned. I have thought it all
out carefully and well, and the best of it is, that she shall execute
my every wish. I mean to ruin her body and soul. And as for him--well,
his punishment shall remain my secret. And now there is something that
I want you to do."

"Oh, Jessica, I can not! I--"

The girl turned swiftly and caught her mother by the wrist, her fingers
closing upon it like bands of steel. Her eyes, burning in their fierce
wrath, looked into those shrinking ones, and her voice came in a heavy,
hoarse whisper:

"You will obey me, do you hear? You will obey me, or--"

She did not complete the threat. It was not necessary. The haggard eyes
had dropped. A slow shiver had passed over the elder woman. She looked
suddenly bowed and broken, and, for the first time in her life, old.

Jessica dropped her wrist, and turned away, a low exclamation of
disgust dropping from her lips.

"I want to send for Meriaz!" she exclaimed, contemptuously.

"He is--here," stammered Mrs. Chalmers, helplessly.

"Here!" exclaimed Jessica, turning quickly, her interest returning.

"Yes."

"And you never told me?"

"I came to tell you now."

"And you beat about the bush in this whining way? Heavens! I sometimes
wonder how it is that you can be my mother! Where is he?"

"At the Holland."

"Send for him. Let him be here in my room at seven o'clock this
evening."

"He--wants--money," faltered Mrs. Chalmers.

"Money? I thought to have to pay a higher price for his services
than that. Certainly he can have money--Carlita's money," she added,
maliciously. "Give him all he wants, but have him here at seven. I am
going out to drive with your ward. Look here! There'll be a game of
poker here tonight. It'll be a rattler, too, and don't you forget it!
I want you to have your wits about you, and not go wool-gathering.
Carlita will play."

"Carlita!"

"You look as shocked as if I had told you I intended to murder her. She
must win. Win heavily, you understand?"

"She has consented to play?"

"No; but I mean that she shall before the evening is over. Take care
that the supper afterward is exceptionally nice, and make sure that
there is plenty of champagne."

"You mean that she shall drink that?"

"I do. I know her hot Southern temperament. There will be no half
measures with her when she has once learned her lesson. A useless waste
of time might be fatal to my plans, and I do not propose that there
shall be a moment lost. I don't want you to come down there tonight
looking as you do now. Clear up your lugubrious countenance, get that
black stripe out of your hair, and come down as your old smiling self.
If you fail me, you know well enough that there will be another added
in my list for vengeance."

"Is it possible that you are human, Jessica?"

"And your daughter, my lady!" she added, with a mocking bow. "Bah!
One would think that you were an angel! Don't forget that I know your
life. Posing is not becoming to you. You are detaining me from my sweet
friend. Au revoir!"

Ten minutes later she was tucking the robes around Carlita in the
victoria with as much tenderness as a loving sister could have shown,
and as they were driving through the park she carefully broached the
subject upon which she had spoken to her mother.

"Look here, Miss Priscilla," she began, half laughing, in her boyish,
fascinating way, "the time has come for you to get out of this Madonna
life you are leading. I am going to take the reins in my hands. Do you
know what I have done?"

"No! What?"

"I have made arrangements to have a great blowout at the house tonight,
and you are to be the principal attraction."

"I?"

"Yes. Did it ever really come home to you with great force, Carlita,
that you are a wonderfully beautiful girl?"

"Flatterer!"

"Not at all: it's the solemn truth. If you are really serious in
desiring to work out the end you have in view about Olney, you
must bring Leith Pierrepont to terms as quickly as you can. There
is absolutely nothing that will do it like feeling that you need a
protector. In spite of the crime that he has committed, he is really a
great prude himself, or poses as one, which is quite the same thing. He
will not like to have the woman whom he wishes to make his wife playing
poker, and it will bring him around more quickly than anything. Come,
now; will you join us tonight?"

It never occurred to Carlita to look into the logic of the speech. She
was restless, nervous. She wanted to do something that would help
her to forget for even such a short time, and Jessica's victory was
infinitely easier than she had any idea it would be.

"Yes, I will join you," she answered, feverishly, feeling a sudden
elation in knowing that she would be doing something to which he would
object. "But I don't know how to play."

"You know the cards?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then that will be quite sufficient. You'll learn the rules of poker
in five minutes, and that is about all of the game that two-thirds of
the people know who play it, particularly those who consider themselves
experts. I told mamma to have a supper prepared. We'll have a lark, and
don't you forget it. We shall accomplish your object sooner than you
anticipated."

"How shall I thank you for your help?"

"Wait until it is done, and your object is attained, then, perhaps, you
may see a way. What have you got to wear tonight? It must not be black."

"I have a white gown."

"We can make that answer with flowers. Suppose we drive to the
florist's, and then on home, to make sure that everything will be in
readiness?"

"I am willing."

A gleam of color had sprung already to Carlita's pale cheeks, in
anticipation of the evening. She had determined that the old reserve
should be thrown completely aside, and that she would be the gayest
of the gay. She was comforting her shrinking, sickening soul by the
reflection that it was for Olney's sake--to discover Olney's murderer.

And so they returned to prepare for the evening, both of them in a
whirl of excitement, though for far different reasons.




CHAPTER XIX.


It seemed to Carlita that it was impossible that so much could have
been accomplished in the few short hours that had been allotted to the
florist; and yet, when she descended to the drawing-room, the mantels
were banked with flowers and the rooms were decorated as if some grand
ball were in progress.

Her gown had been rearranged by the deft fingers of Jessica's own maid
until it seemed impossible that it could have been one of the last
year's fashioning. The bodice was décolleté and over the back and
across the shoulders a fall of magnificent old lace had been arranged,
falling in jabots from the front of the shoulders. A soft old piece of
"the cloth of silver" was laid in cross plaits over the front, after
the fashion of an old fichu, and fastened at the waist with superb
diamond buckles which had belonged to her paternal grandmother. On the
shoulders, fastening the lace, were diamond butterflies, their wings
raised as if they had but alighted for the moment, and were even then
ready to wing their way again. The broad, round belt was caught with a
diamond arrow in the back, while in the hair a beautiful bow knot of
the same gems caught the rolls of blue-black hair together.

Her throat and arms were bare save for a row of diamonds about the
wrists.

It was really a picture of superb beauty that she presented as she
stood there in the door of that artistically decorated apartment, and
one that no man could look upon unmoved.

There was a glitter in Jessica's eyes as she observed--a glitter of
malicious hatred--and for a moment the small teeth closed upon the
crimson underlip.

"Curse her!" she muttered, in voiceless hatred--"curse her! She shall
rue the day that she robbed me of Leith Pierrepont's love! There is
nothing so sweet in life as vengeance!"

But she went forward with a bewilderingly fascinating smile upon her
lips.

"Ah, chèrie, how lovely you are," she exclaimed, clasping her arms in
delight. "If I were a man, I should commit any folly, any madness to
win you. I even think I might emulate the young Lochinvar and steal you
away bodily. I can almost find it in my heart to forgive the man who
would commit a crime in order that he might possess you."

"Hush!" exclaimed Carlita, with a slight shiver. "I never felt such a
sneak in my life. My courage almost fails me at times. Have I the right
to do evil that good may come?"

Jessica shrugged her shoulders slightly.

"You must be the judge of that," she answered, lightly. "It is your
lover who has been murdered, not mine. It was the man who was to have
been your husband who lies out there, treacherously lured to his death,
given no chance for self-defense, suffocated like a rat in a hole, not
even given an opportunity for escape. It was your--"

"For the love of Heaven, hush!" cried Carlita, all her lovely
color forsaking her. "You are right--you are right. I should be a
coward--worse than that, an accomplice--did I fail to make him pay the
penalty of his crime."

"Take care. There is the bell."

She took Carlita by the arm and led her quickly into the conservatory,
in order that she might have time to recover herself, speaking to
her in the old, soothing voice, knowing her power as well as did the
treacherous sirens of old.

An hour later there were two tables for poker formed in the
drawing-room. At one of them Jessica and Carlita sat with Redfield Ash,
Dudley Maltby and Hugh Beresford. At the other there were six persons.

"We are to teach Carlita tonight!" exclaimed Jessica, gayly, to the men
at their table. "I assure you she will be an apt pupil, though it is
her first attempt. I spent a whole hour this evening giving her points
on the game. Don't be surprised if you all lose your good ducats, for
you well know the luck of a beginner. How many cards, Carlita?"

"Two, please."

"Three of a kind already? I shall be very careful, I assure you, how I
go up against your hands. There you are! Now, Dudley, open the ball and
make it lively."

"Not on a pair of deuces," he answered, with a short laugh, throwing
down his cards. "I'm afraid Miss de Barryos has robbed the pack."

The betting was really very small, the limit being one dollar, and no
one with a hand worth much except Carlita. The pot was finally awarded
to her without seeing her hand, and once more the cards were dealt.

This time she called for one, and a groan went around the table.

"What is it?" asked Jessica, laughing. "A flush or a straight?"

But Carlita only smiled and held her cards closely.

There were some rather good ones against her this time, and the betting
became lively; but as she raised the bet again and again one backed
down and then another, until she finally proved herself the victor once
more.

"Let me see what you had!" exclaimed Jessica. "Just as a matter of fun,
you understand, though it's not in accord with the rules of the game. A
bob-tail flush, as I live, and full a hundred to the good!"

There was a shout of laughter from the men at the wisdom of their new
opponent, and the capital manner in which she had won their money, and
as the noise continued, the name of the new arrival which the servant
announced was drowned:

"Mr. Pierrepont!"

It gave him an opportunity to pause at the door. For a moment he did
not recognize Carlita in her white gown, flashing as she was with
diamonds, the flush of excitement coloring her lovely cheeks to the hue
of the wild rose, and when he did an expression of such pain darkened
his eyes as must have attracted the attention of every one who observed
him. But no one did except Jessica, and he had had ample time to
recover himself before the laughter had subsided.

He went forward in the old debonair manner and stood behind Carlita's
chair.

"Who won a hundred with a bob-tail flush?" he asked, carelessly.

"Carlita!" answered Jessica, putting out her hand to welcome him. "And
she did it with the coolness of a man who had spent his life in the
business. I predict she will become one of the best players in New
York. Come and join us. Here is a chair for you."

"Thanks, no," he answered, after a slight hesitation. "I don't feel up
to it tonight. I'll watch you for a moment, and perhaps you'll let me
play something for you on the piano later. No, don't urge me, Maltby. I
really couldn't. Do you like the game, Miss de Barryos?"

There was something almost wistful in the question, but Carlita threw
up her head with a sort of defiance and answered in a tone that
contained a metallic ring:

"Very. It is fascinating. I really think I shall never want to do
anything else."

Leith sighed slightly.

He was silent, striving to account for the sudden and mysterious change
in her, and yet for some reason unfathomable he dared not ask her the
cause. He watched them for a few hands, and then wandered to the piano,
playing a few selections in which there was so little heart that it
wearied him.

Once or twice he got up to go, but some invisible power seemed to chain
him to the place. He could not leave.

It was not until eleven o'clock, when supper was announced, that he got
an opportunity of saying a word alone to Carlita.

"And so you are trying to unlearn Puritanism," he said to her, with
a little wistful smile upon his lips that made him so singularly
handsome. "Do you think you will like the change from saint to satyr?"

"I was never a saint, and there is no reason why I should be a satyr,"
she answered, forcing herself to smile in return. "Puritanism must be
an awfully trying thing to one's friends."

"Not to the friends who love you."

"Our friends never love us unless we are interesting to them."

"Friends who love you because you entertain and amuse them are not
worth having. They desecrate the name. And friends who would degrade
you are demons in disguise, who are tempting you to eternal ruin,
branding your soul with the crest of Satan in order that you may make
them laugh."

For a moment Carlita glanced up with a mocking smile upon her lips. Ah,
verily was this the "devil quoting scripture." A murderer--the murderer
of her lover, prating to her of her soul!

"You ought to go into the Salvation Army," she cried, compelling her
tongue to speak lightly. "Are you without sin that you are willing to
cast a stone?"

"God knows I am not; but is a future denied to man because of a
blackened past? Heaven knows I would give all the years to come if I
could cleanse my soul of sin and stand before you and my God for one
brief hour a pure man."

A wild light gleamed in her eyes. She bent forward away from him, not
daring to look at him. Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper, and
yet he heard the words:

"You have sinned so deeply, then?"

He paused, lifting the heavy hair from his white brow, as if its weight
oppressed him.

"Yes," he answered.

"How?" she panted.

Another pause, then slowly:

"I can not tell you now, but some day I will. Some day when--"

"When what?" she whispered, breathlessly.

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear:

"When I know that you love me, even as I love you!"




CHAPTER XX.


Carlita's heart was beating so that Pierrepont's words were almost
drowned in the sound. It seemed impossible for her to reply. She had
grown dizzy and blind suddenly, and it was with a relief that was
almost hysterical that she welcomed a young man who interrupted the
tete-a-tete.

She knew perfectly well that that was not what Stolliker would have had
her do, that she was losing an opportunity that she might never be able
to regain; but she could not help that, and when one of the men who had
played at the other table bent over her to inquire how she had enjoyed
the game, she looked into his face with an interest, an animation, that
caused Pierrepont to turn away with a weary sigh.

The supper was of the best; but when she left the table, it would
have been impossible for Carlita to have told one thing that had been
served. It seemed to her that she had passed the time in a state of
hypnotism, living, moving, acting while her senses were governed by
some other power than her own.

And yet she jested with a blithe merriment that brought again the
old expression of cynicism to Pierrepont's countenance. Jessica had
reserved the seat beside herself for him, and he slipped into it when
there was nothing else to do.

"Is not our little Puritan charming tonight?" she asked, with an
animated smile. "I never imagined that Carlita could be so bewitching.
I fancy that half the men in the room are in love with her. Did you
ever see her so beautiful?"

"Never so beautiful," he answered, with affected lightness; "but much
more charming many times."

"You approve of the Puritan type, then?"

"I am the strongest believer in individuality, and she has lost hers
tonight. She is as out of place as--as--you would be in the role of
Priscilla."

"I am not quite sure whether you intend that as a compliment or the
reverse," returned Jessica, laughing; "but analysis is such a stupid
thing. At all events she gives promise of being one of the best poker
players I have ever seen, and while that may not be altogether a
recommendation for a woman to the clerical class, it certainly is to
the persons whom Carlita is liable to meet. But let us talk about
yourself. Do you know, I fancy you are not looking well."

"It is all fancy, I assure you."

"No, it is not. You are pale, dark under the eyes, and disturbed
looking."

"Biliousness, I give you my word."

"No. I'm afraid you got a germ of some sort of disease in Mexico. You
have never been yourself since you returned from there."

He was eating a deviled kidney, sandwiched between two broiled
mushrooms, but pushed it away from him as she spoke. The faintest
perceptible frown gathered between his eyes.

"Imagination!" he answered, with a short laugh.

"You liked Mexico, then?"

"I loathe it!" he returned. "I wish to God I could never hear the name
mentioned again. I wish to God I had never seen the place!"

There had been a lull in the conversation, and the words, low as they
were spoken, were heard from one end of the table to the other. Carlita
glanced up. A ghastly whiteness overspread her countenance. For a
moment it seemed to Jessica that she was going to faint, but young
Beresford handed her a glass of champagne which she drained before
taking it from her lips.

Jessica's small teeth set angrily.

"If she believes him to be guilty," she muttered, mentally, "why does
this new evidence of his guilt upset her like this? Curse her! She
thinks she can deceive me; but she shall see--she shall see!"

But she only smiled above her wrath, and turned again to Pierrepont.

"How you are changing from the indifferent, nonchalant man you used to
be, whom nothing could arouse from the even tenor of his way. There are
absolutely traces of passion in your speech nowadays."

He bestowed a smile upon her which sent the blood tingling through her
veins, and said in the old drawling, indolent way:

"There have always been traces of passion in my nature."

It was just such a speech as in the old days had convinced her, without
further declaration from him, that he loved her; and as memory returned
of those times, she was forced to bite her lip to keep the angry,
bitter tears from her eyes. She saw now how little there had ever been
in it, saw how little he had ever really cared, and a fierce hatred of
him leaped to life in her breast, a hatred that was all the more savage
because its very essence and flame was the wild, passionate love for
him which she had not the least power to control.

"What frauds you men are!" she exclaimed, forcing herself to speak
lightly, though her heart still ached poignantly. "There is so little
in your words and so much in your manner of saying them. No wonder you
break our hearts, and then still your conscience by making yourselves
believe that you were not in fault, that you had said nothing by which
your honors were compromised."

"Do you believe that hearts break?" asked Leith, mockingly.

"Not the heart of the 'new woman,'" answered Jessica, laughing. "She is
too familiar with the genus homo."

"The 'new woman' has no heart. She is all brain."

"Then you acknowledge that woman has, until recently, had a 'corner on
heart,' so to speak, and that man for all time has been without one,
being a creature simply of brain?"

"Did I say so?"

"Practically, as the 'new woman' is only taking her place in the front
walks as man's intellectual companion."

"Perhaps you are right; I don't know. It seems to me sometimes as if
men, and women, too, would be better off without hearts. It has caused
more sin than it ever prevented a thousand times, and has created more
misery than happiness a million to one. For my own part, if I could
dispense with the very necessary organ, it would give me the greatest
relief possible."

"Does that mean that you are in love, Pierrepont?" questioned
Redfield Ash, with his mouth rather too full of food to be altogether
intelligible.

"Did there ever live a man worthy of the name who was not in love?"
returned Leith, gallantly. "I love all women."

"For the sake of one?" asked young Beresford, with a sentimental glance
toward Carlita.

Before Leith could reply, Jessica was on her feet.

"This is not a confessional!" she cried, lightly. "Now, we are going to
award you gentlemen just thirty minutes for your wine and cigars. At
the end of that time we shall expect you promptly in the drawing-room."

"It is too much!" exclaimed Beresford. "I for one am willing to forego
the cigar in this occasion."

Jessica hesitated a moment, then, with a half glance at Carlita,
exclaimed:

"If Miss de Barryos does not object, you may have the men in the
drawing-room. Does smoke nauseate you, Carlita?"

Carlita laughed.

"I used to light my old friend the gardener's pipe, and I am sure he
never had a new one oftener than once in five years."

The men followed at once, and Jessica paused only long enough to give
instructions to the butler. When she reached the drawing-room, Carlita
was already seated at the piano.

Her voice was a trifle weaker, from lack of practice, than it had been
the last time Leith heard her sing, but it was infinitely sweet, and
was greeted with a vociferous round of applause which neither one nor
two songs would still; and then, stepping to the piano, Leith asked her
if she would undertake the duet from "Aïda," which she had sung with
him on one occasion.

She hated him for the request, and yet nothing under heaven could have
caused her to decline. There was almost defiance in her eyes as she
arose and yielded her place upon the stool to him.

It was a magnificent thing, sung with wonderful depth of feeling and
power of expression, and was a vast surprise to those present. Carlita
wondered afterward how she had ever been able to complete it, but she
heard his words of praise above all the rest, though they were fewer
and spoken scarcely above his breath.

"What an artiste you will make--what an artiste you are! God! it is
enough to make a Christian of a man to listen to you. And how you have
improved since we sang that together the last time. I wish you would
let me sing with you often. It is like being permitted a glimpse into
paradise."

He had risen, and was standing with his back to the piano, looking down
at her. The others were all around them; but suddenly they seemed to
separate, no one knew how or why. They had heard no announcement of a
new arrival, but as they stepped apart they realized that Jessica was
standing there, her fingers touching the arm of a dark-visaged man
whose aspect certainly was not pleasant.

There was a tremulous smile upon her lips, half expectant, half
triumphant. She seemed to have forgotten them for the moment, but went
forward straight up to Leith, who was not looking toward her, but down
at Carlita.

"Mr. Pierrepont," she exclaimed, speaking rather louder than usual, "I
want to introduce you to a gentleman from Mexico. Senor Meriaz, Mr.
Pierrepont!"

Leith glanced up. There had been a flush upon his cheeks, brought there
by the pleasure of singing with Carlita, but as his eyes rested upon
the man before him, his color vanished, and from brow to throat a
ghastly pallor overspread his face, that the least observant could not
fail to marvel at.

He caught at the edge of the piano, then recovered himself almost as
suddenly as he had lost his self-control.

But it was Meriaz who replied to the introduction, Meriaz whose voice
alone was heard.

"Senor Pierrepont and I have met before!"

Then deliberately the dark-browed Mexican, who possessed not an element
of refinement or gentlemanliness in his entire make-up, turned his back
upon the elegant man of the world.




CHAPTER XXI.


There was a sensation in the drawing-room over which Mrs. Chalmers
presided.

They were not looking at that lady, or they might have seen her pallor
under all the artificial color of her complexion, and would certainly
have noticed the nervous interlacing of her long fingers as they twined
themselves about each other, and the little gasping breath that came
through her parted lips.

Carlita alone seemed to retain her absolute composure.

Not a detail of the situation had escaped her, not even the angry
compression of Leith Pierrepont's lips as Senor Meriaz turned his back
and calmly sauntered to the other side of the room.

Young Beresford laughed constrainedly, feeling that something must be
done to lighten the situation.

"'Pon my soul, Pierrepont," he said, in a stage whisper, "if looks were
poniards, you wouldn't be alive at this moment. Evidently you didn't
hit it off with your friend from Mexico. What was it? One of your
usual escapades with a beautiful senorita? His daughter, perhaps?"

Leith had never come so near having a downright affection for the
light-headed individual in his life.

"I never had the pleasure of an acquaintance with Senorita Meriaz,
though I have met her," he said, nonchalantly; "but I am not fond of
her father."

"It seemed almost as if your dislike extended to all things Mexican,"
said Carlita, lightly, marveling at her own coolness.

"Not to all things," he exclaimed, gallantly. "I believe you are partly
Mexican."

"We must all adore angels," said Redfield Ash, with a bow to Carlita,
"whether they be Mexican, Hindoo or heathen Chinee, and such you have
proven yourself tonight by the beauty of your exquisite voice, Miss de
Barryos. Won't you sing for us again? or are you weary?"

Carlita could never tell what impulse moved her, nor how she happened
to yield to it, but she looked up into Pierrepont's face wistfully, and
said, slowly:

"Will you accompany me? Your playing would convert a linnet to a
nightingale."

He smiled the pleasure he felt, and seated himself at once; but his
mind seemed preoccupied, for while he played the notes of the selection
she placed before him, there was not the spirit--the exquisite coloring
that usually characterized his playing, Carlita observed, watching with
ceaseless intent.

Suddenly she seemed to have forgotten to hate herself for the
despicable part she was playing--to have forgotten everything in the
interest that surrounded the central figures in her little drama. She
was like the detective who forgets he is a spy, under the excitement of
a human chase.

After the song was finished, there was another call to the tables for
the poker to begin again, but neither Pierrepont nor Meriaz joined
them. Leith retained his seat at the piano for a time, then suddenly
rose.

The game was progressing hilariously. No one seemed to observe the fact
that he had left the piano. Meriaz was seated a trifle back of Carlita,
watching her hand, and as she glanced up she saw Pierrepont look at
him. There was a slight uplifting of the eyebrows and the faintest
movement of the head toward the door, and then he turned and went out.

Five minutes afterward, Meriaz arose leisurely, and after walking about
the room quietly, looking at statuary and dainty objects of virtu, he
followed in the direction Leith had indicated.

Apparently Jessica had been oblivious of the by-play, but Carlita
looked toward her imploringly.

"I wonder if you could excuse me for a very few minutes?" she
questioned, her excitement making her voice low and strained.

"Why, certainly," answered Jessica, sweetly. "Is the heat of the room
too much for you?"

"I--I don't know; but I will not be long absent. You can play without
me?"

"Oh, yes!" answered Jessica, laughing. "Perhaps some of your luck will
flow over to my side. My chips are getting pitifully low."

She did not even glance up as Carlita left the room; but there was a
curious twitching at the corners of her mouth when she saw Carlita
leave by the same door by which Leith and Meriaz had made their exit.

Carlita did not pause to think. She was keeping her oath to the dead.
She did not remember that what she was about to do was dishonorable,
unwomanly. She had sworn that she would put all consideration of self
behind in this search for the murderer of her lover, and she was doing
it.

She was in time to see Meriaz walk calmly into the library, through the
open door of which she had seen Leith, and then the door was closed
upon them.

She hurried swiftly through the hall and lifted a portière at the back
end, through which she passed into the adjoining room, separated from
the library only by a Japanese portière. The light was out in the
room that screened her, and was burning brilliantly in the room that
contained them, so that she could see and hear everything without fear
of being seen.

"W

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/48885