Of all the horrible tortures that the human mind is capable of conjuring up with which to torment itself, none was greater to William Darrell than the consciousness of being ridiculous—the conviction that people were laughing at him. He had seen Victoriano and his own Everett so convulsed with laughter, laughing at him, laughing in his presence, laughing so heartily that they could scarcely stand up. This laughter of the two boys was the most vivid picture in the panorama of living scenes which he himself had evoked. Surely if his own son laughed so heartily, everybody else would do the same. And when on his return home, Clementine had said to him most unceremoniously:
“Why, papa, what made you sit on your horse so stiff? Why did you want to keep that rope? You looked so funny.” And Clementine laughed heartily.
“Get out of my way,” said he, and went to the “colony” straight and banged the door; which meant that he wanted no one else within the precincts of that asylum. “So I looked funny and stiff; they were all laughing at me,” he said, and with a groan of mental and physical pain, flung himself on the lounge.
Presently, Tisha came to say that supper was on the table. “I don’t want any supper,” said he in the gruff tones he used when he was angry, or pretended to be. Tisha retired, but in about ten minutes she returned, carrying a tray, which she deposited on a table, saying:
“Missus says that mayhap when you rested awhile you might feel a little hungry.”
“Give me a cup of tea; I want nothing else,” he said, and Tisha fixed his tea just as she knew he liked it with plenty of rich cream and four lumps of sugar, for Darrell’s teacup held a pint; she placed the tea on a little table by the lounge and retired.
The tea seemed to refresh him in spite of himself, and he accepted the improvement with an inward protest as if setting down an exception (as lawyers call it) by which he renounced all obligation to be grateful.
Early the settlers began to arrive at the “colony” through the side door of the back hall. Everett joined the meeting, as Romeo came to request his company. Darrell gave his son a withering look, but did not speak to him. He kept his reclining position on the lounge and his satellites sat in a semi-circle around him. He soon told them he had nothing satisfactory to say, as the Don had refused to make any explanation, alleging that he had promised Clarence to say nothing. When Clarence returned he would clear the mystery. The settlers again recommenced their conjectures, and discussed the motives which must have actuated the Don to make a false entry, to record having received money which he never got. Land was the discussion, but there seemed no dissenting voice as to the Don’s culpability, and the sinister motives which actuated him in acting in that underhand manner. When the altercation was at the highest, and could be heard all over the house, Mrs. Darrell walked in and, bowing to the astonished squatters, came slowly forward and stood about the middle of the semicircle, though outside of it. Darrell sat up and all the others stood on their feet and stared as if they had seen some Banquo spectre1 or other terrible ghostly apparition.
“Be seated, gentlemen, I beg of you. I have but a few words to say. Please sit down,” she reiterated, seeing that every one remained standing.
Slowly all one by one dropped into their seats and all the faces were turned towards her. No one thought of offering her a chair, and she did not want one either. When all had resumed their seats, she said:
“All those amongst you, gentlemen, who think that Don Mariano Alamar induced my son Clarence to purchase land from him are much mistaken; and all those who think Don Mariano made a false entry of a land sale, do him an injustice.”
“Who made the entry then?” Darrell asked, sharply.
“That is what I came to say. The land was bought and paid for at my request. If there is any blame, or crime, or guilt in the matter, I am the criminal—I am the guilty one. I told my son, Clarence Darrell, that if he did not pay for the land which his father had located, I would never, never come to live upon it. Moreover, I told my son not to mention the fact of having paid for the land, because his father would think we were interfering in his business, and I did not wish him to know that the land was paid for until the question of the Don’s title was settled. Then we would have avoided painful discussions, and the eloquence of facts (I trusted) would clearly show to my husband that his wife and son had acted right, when we had paid the legitimate owner for his property.
“And now, gentlemen, let me add this, only this, that I do not mean to criticise anybody’s actions or opinions, but, from my point of view, I say, those laws which authorize you to locate homesteads upon lands claimed as Mexican grants, those laws are wrong, and good, just, moral citizens should not be guided by them. Settlers should wait until the titles are finally approved or rejected. See! look back and see all the miseries that so many innocent families have suffered by locating in good faith, their humble homes upon lands that they were forced to abandon. Our law-givers doubtless mean well, but they have—through lack of matured reflection, I think, or lack of unbiased thought—legislated curses upon this land of God’s blessings. I love my country, as every true-hearted American woman should, but, with shame and sorrow, I acknowledge that we have treated the conquered Spaniards most cruelly, and our law-givers have been most unjust to them. Those poor, defenseless ones whom our Government pledged its faith to protect, have been sadly despoiled and reduced to poverty.
“I have only expressed my opinion, gentlemen; I mean no slur upon yours. I hope you see now that I alone, I am the one to blame for the purchase of the land which has given so much offence. Good night, gentlemen.”
So profound was the silence following Mrs. Darrell’s exit, that a pin could have been heard drop. Romeo Hancock was the first to find utterance to his amazement.
“By George,” he said, “but ain’t she superb! I see now where Clarence gets his good sense and correct ideas.”
At any other time, Darrell would have been proud of this tribute paid to the wife he adored, with passionate, secret, unrevealed tenderness, but now he was too angry. He even felt angry at the longing to take to his heart that darling so resolute and yet so gentle. This longing, when his pride clamored that she was wrong and should be reproved, was an additional torture to him. He remained silent.
“Well, I suppose that—in the language of the poets—‘this settles our hash,’ ”2 Gasbang said, and laughed at his witticism, as it was his habit to do.
Hughes and Miller laughed with him, but no one else. All were deeply impressed with Mrs. Darrell’s words.
“I wish she had told me this before,” Darrell said, and resumed his recumbent position.
“Yes, why didn’t she?” Gasbang asked.
“Because women are bound to do mischief,” Mathews replied.
“She stated her reasons very clearly,” Romeo said.
“What were they?” Mathews asked.
“Can your memory be failing you already, Mr. Mathews, that you forget what you just heard, or are you getting hard of hearing?” Romeo answered.
Mathews snorted and turned his back on Romeo. Everett answered him, saying:
“My mother said that she wished the purchase to be kept quiet until the Don should have his title. Then the fact of the land being his, would prove the correctness of having paid for what we took, and thus all discussions would have been avoided. Unfortunately some busybody went to see the entry, and came to herald his glorious discovery.”
“How did she know that the Don’s title would not be rejected?” Mathews inquired.
“Her good sense told her,” Romeo answered.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Mathews retorted, making all laugh—and even Darrell smiled—but he looked very pale, and Everett began to feel anxious, to see his pallor.
The conversation had now drifted to the subject of the coming survey of the rancho.
“I heard that the surveyor will be on the ground by the first of October,” Miller said.
“All right; that will give us plenty of time,” Gasbang observed.
Everett said something to Romeo, who then went and whispered to his father, whereupon Old Hancock nodded an assent and in a few moments said:
“Well, my friends, let us go home. For the present I don’t see that anything can be done. Mr. Darrell looks fatigued, and I don’t wonder at it, for we have bored him nearly to death. Let him go to bed and rest.”
Evidently Mathews, Gasbang and others had no idea of going home so early, but as Darrell said nothing, they reluctantly arose and took their departure.
If Darrell had obeyed the impulse of his heart when he went up-stairs to his bed-chamber, he would have taken his wife in his arms and, with a kiss, made his peace with her; for he knew her to be true, and always acting from the best motives. But there was that streak of perversity within, which impelled him to do or say the wrong thing, when at the same time an inner voice was admonishing him to do the opposite.
“I am sorry, William, that I kept that matter of the land purchase from you. Believe me, my husband, I did so out of a desire to avoid discussions always painful to me. You seemed so happy here, that I hated to bring up for argument any disagreeable subject. It was a mistake; I regret it.”
“Yes, wise women generally put their foot in it,” said he, turning his back on her.
‘‘Can you forgive me? I am very sorry. And now I want you to take a nice warm bath; after so much excitement it will soothe you, and you will sleep sweetly. After all, it is better that you know the whole thing now.”
“No thanks to you, though.”
“That is true, but you know my maxim.”
“Which one? Wise women have so many.”
“To accept blessings thankfully, even when they come in disguise,” she replied, taking no notice of his sarcasm.
“I have yet to see the blessing in this.”
“You will to-morrow if you will only take care now of your physical comfort—your health. Come, take a bath; it will prevent your having a fever.”
“I don’t want a bath; I feel badly.”
“That is why you should have it. I know your constitution well—nothing would be better for you than warm bathing. Be reasonable, please. I feel tired, too; I would like to go to bed.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“Because I wanted first to see you resting for the night.”
“I don’t know that I’ll go to bed. I think I’ll sleep in this chair.”
“Very well, then, I shall go into Clarence’s room and sleep there! It would keep me awake to know that you were sitting up.”
“Do as you please.”
“Can it be possible, William, that you refuse to go to bed because you are too angry with me to have me lie by your side?”
He said nothing, but looked very pale. She waited; he never said a word.
“Very well, William, I am dismissed I suppose. If you are sick or require anything, knock at Clarence’s door. I shall be there. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She went quietly into Clarence’s room and lit a lamp. She went to a hall closet and took a soft merino wrapper, came back, locked her door, undressed herself, put the wrapper on, and sat by the window to think.
“What fools men are? Such small vanity guides them. To think that William should fling away happiness at the instigation of a reptile like Gasbang! And you, my sweet boy, my darling Clarence, how will this affect your happiness?” This thought gave her the keenest pain.
While Mrs. Darrell was thus sadly meditating, her angry lord was nearly choking with smothered rage—intensified a hundred fold by his disappointment at being left alone without his adored, worshipped Mary. Mrs. Darrell knew that her husband loved her, but she had never guessed that torrent of passion and devotion which rushed through that rugged nature like a river plunging from Yosemite heights into unknown abysmal depths.
Why would he not yield to her sweet entreaties to bathe and take his comfort? Was it all perverse obstinacy? Partly, yes. He had refused a warm bath and her sweet society, for the very reason that those two were the things he most desired on earth—he felt as if even his bones clamored for them. But there was yet another equally strong motive in that very complex nature—a motive stronger than obstinacy—compelling him in spite of himself, and this was his bashfulness. He feared that his wife might see the bruises on his arms and the heavy welt that he knew there must be around his body, made by the coil of the reata. He felt very sore, and his bruises became more painful, but he would rather die than let any one see his pitiful plight. And thus he sat up all night and would not undress, or go to bed, or be comforted.
Towards morning he walked to the window and looked into the valley, then his gaze wandered towards the Alamar house. All the windows had the shutters closed and no light was seen from them excepting one. He did not know what room that was or who occupied it, but unconsciously he watched it—watched the light he could see through the lace curtains. The light became intercepted at regular intervals; so he concluded that some one must be going and coming before that light. He smiled, hoping that the Don might be as miserable as he was—unable to sleep.
But the Don was sleeping. She who was awake, walking in her solitary vigil, was Mercedes. Those beautiful blue eyes had never closed in sleep all night.
She had been embroidering a mouchoir3 case for Clarence that unfortunate afternoon of Darrell’s performance, when she heard loud talking in the piazza. At first she paid no attention to it and went on with her work, hoping that Clarence would return early, because her dream troubled her. The talking becoming louder, and more voices being heard, she felt alarmed, imagining that Clarence’s horses had run away and he had been hurt. She went out to inquire.
The entire Alamar family, as well as Mrs. Mechlin, George and Lizzie, were in the veranda. All had seen Darrell’s attempt and subsequent steeple-chase. Now Gabriel and Victoriano had returned and related what had passed in the hollow. Victoriano was again overcome with laughter, which, being so hearty and uncontrollable, became contagious. Even Gabriel and Mr. Mechlin, who were less disposed to indulge in hilarity, laughed a little. Mercedes was the only one who not even smiled. She did not understand a word of what was said. Gradually she began to comprehend, and she stood motionless, listening, her pale lips firmly compressed, her eyes only showing her agitation and how grieved she was; their dark-blue was almost black, and they glowed like stars.
“Cheer up, little pussy. When Clarence comes he will undeceive the old man, and all will be right,” said Don Mariano, putting his arms around her yielding form and drawing her to his heart.
“Palabra suelta, no tiene vuelta,”4 Doña Josefa said. “Darrell can never recall his insulting words.”
“But he can apologize for them,” Don Mariano said.
“And would that satisfy you?” Carlota asked.
“It would have to,” was the Don’s answer.
“Oh! papa!” Rosario exclaimed.
“What then? Shall I go and shoot the old fool?”
“I believe he would enjoy that, he is so full of fight,” Victoriano said, recommencing his laughing.
“I fear his anger will not abate as long as the bruises of the reata remain painful,” Gabriel said, thoughtfully.
“Did you draw the lazo very tight?” Don Mariano asked.
“Not intentionally, but he himself did so by stooping forward as his horse galloped. Every time he did so the noose became more closely drawn until he could scarcely breathe.”
“This is a bad business, George,” the Don said to his son-in-law, who had remained a silent listener to all.
“Yes, sir; but let us hope that between Clarence and Mrs. Darrell they will pacify the old man. The thing now is to give him time to cool off his anger,” George replied.
“If those squatters could be kept away, Darrell would come to his senses much sooner,” Mr. Mechlin said.
“That’s it exactly,” Gabriel added; “they make the mischief.”
“But why does he allow it?” Doña Josefa said.
“Because he loves the smell of gunpowder, and they are full of it,” Tano explained.
“I think Mrs. Darrell ought to prevent those horrible creatures from invading her house,” Carlota said.
“They only go to the ‘colony.’ The old buster5 wants them there. He would smash the furniture if his pets were not allowed to come to lick his boots,” Victoriano asserted, positively.
“You don’t speak very respectfully of your future father-in-law,” George said to Victoriano, laughing.
“Not at present. Not when I have just seen him running away like a chicken thief, just caught with a turkey under each arm,” Tano replied, lapsing into another fit of laughter.
“Oh, Tano! if you care for Alice, how can you so ridicule her father?” Mercedes exclaimed, speaking for the first time. And without waiting for a reply, she turned away and went to her room.
There she remained inconsolable, her lovely face often bathed in tears. She did not go to bed; she hoped that Clarence might possibly have finished his business in town and hurried back. She watched for the faintest sound all night.
In the morning Madame Halier came to see her, and immediately went to report to Doña Josefa the state of Mercedes’ eyes. Don Mariano came in at once and took his pet in his arms.
“Papa, you said you were going to-day. Please don’t go,” she begged.
“Why not, my pet? I shall go only a little ways with those stupid Indians who keep letting the cattle turn back. I shall return before dark,” he said, smoothing her golden hair.
“Papa, please don’t go. I want you to be here when Clarence returns. Let the cattle be. I want you here. You may never see Clarence again in this world if you go.” And she put her pale cheek against her father’s and sobbed convulsively.
“What an idea! Why shouldn’t I see Clarence again if I ride one or two miles? My baby darling, you are too nervous. You have cried all night, and now your mind is in a whirl of sad visions. Do not exaggerate the mischief that Darrell might do. He will probably say very insulting things to Clarence, but Clarence is as true as steel, and has a very clear head.”
“I know that. I am sure of him. He is so true. But, papa, can I marry him after what his father said to you, and when he tried to strike you? Can I marry him after that, papa?”
“Why not, pray? What he said is an infamous lie, and because Darrell chooses to indulge in mean thoughts and atrocious language, is that a reason why you and Clarence should be made wretched for life? If Darrell did not permit men like Gasbang, and others influenced by Peter Roper, to come near him, his ears would not hear such low, vulgar suggestions. As long as we know that Clarence is a gentleman, and he behaves as such, I shall not permit that you two be separated by anything that Darrell may do or say.”
“But, papa, you will keep out of Mr. Darrell’s way.”
“Certainly, my poor little darling. Don’t be afraid; Darrell will not attack me again.”
The Don talked in this consoling and reassuring way to his favorite child until he saw that he had quieted her. She promised to eat breakfast and then try to sleep.
“It won’t do to look at Clarence through such swollen orbs. You had better let Tano give you one of his graphic accounts of the battle of Alamar, as he calls Darrell’s performance, and make you laugh.”
“No, I couldn’t laugh. I wouldn’t if I could.”
“Very well. To sleep is the best for you.”
He kissed her and soon after he and Gabriel went on their way. They quickly overtook the herders, who were driving the lot of cattle which had started at daylight. The Don was confident of returning at sundown, and glad to leave Mercedes more contented and hopeful, he rode away cheerfully.