and I gathered the jasmines you like, and waited, but you did not come. My Ruis, I thought you ill perhaps, yet everything was so fair and still I knew you could not be but well. And, Ruis, as I was leaving, a yellow-breast began to sing. He seemed to bring a message from you. I know it now, it was that you would come tonight. Ruis, forgive my foolish words, it is because my heart is full of love for you. But why do you not dismount? Come, we will stroll there beneath the stars. Do you know, Ruis, with you I am so happy there are moments when I could die of joy. But why do you not speak to me? Is it the night? My Ruis, your face seems changed.”
“Fausta, I have come to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye? Ruis, you jest.”
“No, Fausta, it is not jest. Don Jayme and I return to Spain.”
“To Spain! It cannot be! You said that when you went, we both should go; that I should be your wife.”
“Don Jayme has found another for me.”
“And what of your word, Don Ruis?”
“There, Fausta, it is painful enough. Were it not for Don Jayme, you know—naturally, you know—you know very well what I would do. But see, what would you? It is painful, indeed.”
“Painful? Painful to whom? Not to Don Jayme, nor seemingly to you.”
“Ah, but it is; and see, I have brought you this, and this too.” He took the bags from the holster and held them to her. Yet she made no motion to take them. She stepped back a little, and to the midnight of her eyes came a sudden flash. “How much is in them,” he continued, “I do not know, but it must be like St. Peter’s pence; you can see”—and he affected a little laugh—“they are not light to hold. Truly they must represent a pretty dower, for Don Jayme said—for pleasantry, no doubt—‘Ruis, you will do well to get an acknowledgment.’ ”
“Ruis! He called you Ruis! Your name is Judas.” The girl’s face was always white, but now it was whiter than the moon. The red had left her lips, and her voice, which had been melodious as the consonance of citherns and guitars, grew abruptly harsh and strident. She was trembling from head to foot.
“But will you not take them?” he asked, referring to the bags of money which, awkwardly enough, he still held out to her.
“Get back, Spaniard, into the night from which you came. I gave you love, you bring me gold. I gave my trust, you ask a receipt. You shall have it.” She had moved forward near to him again, and glared in his face.
“But if you refuse the gold, what,” he asked, almost piteously, “what can I give?”
“Nothing save this dirk.”
And before the intention could have been divined, she tore the dagger from his belt and sheathed it in his heart.
“There is my receipt,” she cried.
The bags fell heavily to the ground, and of one of them the canvas burst open and scattered the contents on the ground. Ruis would have fallen too, but with one steadying hand she held him on the saddle, and with the other unwound her scarlet sash. In a moment’s time she had tied him fast; then she gave the affrighted horse a blow and stepped aside. And as she did so the horse veered and rushed up the road, bearing the lifeless Ruis, bound as Mazeppa was, with the dagger still in his heart, to the father who waited his return.
For a little space she listened to the sound of retreating hoofs. She was trembling still.
On the porch the old woman had tottered out. “What was it?” she asked.
“Death.”
“Ave Maria purissima!” croned the hag.
And the girl, turning her back to the darkness in which the horse had vanished, answered, as is the custom, “Who conceived without sin.”
Fausta reentered the house, but her mother loitered on the porch. The next morning the gold had disappeared.
Part I
I
“I wish you a happy New Year, sir.”
It was the servant, green of livery, the yellow waistcoat slashed with black, bearing the coffee and fruit.
“Put it there, please,” Roland answered. And then, in recognition of the salutation, he added, “Thanks: the same to you.”
“H’m,” he mused, as the man withdrew, “I ought to have tipped him, I suppose.”
He leaned from the bed, poured some milk into a cup, and for a second nibbled at a slice of iced orange. Through the transom came a faint odor of homemade bread, and with it the rustle of a gown and a girl’s clear laugh. The room itself was small. It was furnished in a fashion which was unsuggestive of an hotel, and yet did not resemble that of a private house. The curtain had been already drawn. Beyond was a lake, very blue in the sunlight, bulwarked by undulant hills. Below, on the road, a dogcart fronted by a groom was awaiting somebody’s pleasure.
“It is late,” he reflected, and raised a napkin to his lips. As he did so he noticed a package of letters which the napkin must have concealed. He took up the topmost and eyed it. It had been addressed to the Athenaeum Club, Fifth Avenue; but the original direction was erased, and Tuxedo Park inserted in its stead. On the upper left-hand corner the impress of a firm of tailors shone in blue. Opposite was the engraving of a young woman supported by 2½d. He put it down again and glanced at the others. The superscriptions were characterless enough; each bore a foreign stamp, and to one as practised as was he, each bore the token of the dun.
“If they keep on bothering me like this,” he muttered, “I shall certainly place the matter in
