Final Proof

by Rodrigues Ottolengui

  “‘Why, I did not represent the Sphinx. I was dressed as Isis.’

  “A strange coincidence, was it not?”

  28 The Prussian baron Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859) traveled extensively in the Americas between 1799 and 1804 and published a massive set of his journals over more than twenty years. Vues des Cordillères et monumens des peuples indigènes de l’Amérique (1810) was translated into English as Researches, concerning the institutions & monuments of the ancient inhabitants of America (1814). An image of the statue appears on page 42 of volume I.

  29 “Discovered” is a euphemism for “stolen”—Dupé (Captain Guillermo Dupaix of the Mexican Army) took it for his personal collection.

  30 The capital city of the Aztec empire, sited on an island near the western shore of Lake Texcoco (Tezcuco) in present-day Mexico City. The city was destroyed in 1521 by the army of Cortez and subsequently built over.

  31 Tezcuco was the second-largest city of the Aztec era, with more than 140,000 houses, many built on the shores of Lake Texcoco, northeast of Tenochtitlan.

  32 Humboldt makes this assertion about hair-cutting on page 46 of volume I. However, he also bases his conclusion on “the ornament of the neck and the natural form of the head.”

  33 Such a theory was espoused by Augustus Le Plongeon (1826–1908), a French American archaeologist and photographer who documented the Maya civilization on the northern Yucatán Peninsula. His peers largely discounted his theories.

  34 Where Ottolengui got this idea is unknown. Many Aztec women were dedicated to the service of the temple in childhood, when their beauty was indeterminate.

  35 Literally, “face to face”—in this context, meaning “directly opposite” or “facing us.”

  IX: A Promissory Note

  Mr. Mitchel walked into the office of Mr. Barnes one afternoon as the clock struck two.

  “Here I am, Mr. Barnes,” said he. “Your note asked me to be here at two, sharp. If your clock is right, I have answered your summons to the second.”

  “You are punctuality itself, Mr. Mitchel. Sit down. I am in a good humor. I flatter myself that I have done a clever thing, and we are going to celebrate. See, there is a cold bottle, and a couple of glasses waiting your arrival.”

  “You have done something clever, you say? Some bright detective work, I suppose. And you did not honor me this time by consulting me?”

  “Oh, well,” said the detective, apologetically, “I should not be always bothering you with my affairs. It’s business with me, and only amusement with you. When I have a matter of grave importance I like to have your assistance, of course. But this case, though interesting, very interesting, in fact, was really quite simple.”

  “And you have solved it?”

  “Oh, yes; it is completed. Wound it up at noon to-day; ended happily, too. Let me fill your glass, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “We will drink to your success. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ you know, and this case you say is ended?”

  “Oh, yes; the tale is complete down to the word ‘finis.’ Let me see, where shall I begin?”

  “Why, at the beginning, of course. Where else?”

  “Sounds like a reasonable suggestion, yet it is not always so easy to tell just where a story does begin. I often wonder how the romance writers get their stories started. Does a love story, for example, begin with the birth of the lovers, with their meeting, with their love-making, or with their marriage?”

  “I am afraid that love stories too often end with the marriage. If yours is a love story, perhaps you may as well begin with the meeting of the lovers. We will take it for granted that they were born.”

  “So be it. I will transpose events slightly. Here is a document which was forwarded to me by mail, and evidently the sender expected me to receive it before the visit of a man who intended to consult me in a serious case. Oddly enough, the man called before the package reached me. Thus I had his story soonest; but perhaps it will be better for you to read this first, after which you will better comprehend the purpose of my client.”

  Mr. Mitchel took the type-written pages and read as follows:

  “MY DEAR MR. BARNES:—

  “Within a few hours after reading this statement you will receive a visit from a man who will introduce himself as William Odell, which is not his true name, a circumstance which, however, is of no consequence. He will ask you to interpose your reputed skill to save him from fate. I am ready to admit that you have great skill and experience, but it will be utterly useless for you to interfere in this matter, for, as I have said, the man is seeking to escape from a doom which is his fate. Who ever altered what was fated to be? We may philosophize a little and ask what it is that we mean, when we speak of ‘fate’? My view is that fate, so called by men, is naught but the logical and necessary effect of a cause. Thus if the cause exists, the effect must follow. So it is with this man, whom we will call Odell. The cause exists, has existed for a number of years. The time for the effect is now approaching; he knows this; he knows that it is fate,—that he cannot escape. Yet, with the hope of a hopeless man, in his last extremity he will ask you to turn aside, or at least to defer, this fate. This you cannot do, and that you may understand the utter futility of wasting your time, which I presume is valuable, I send you this statement of the facts. Thus comprehending the incidents precedent to the present situation, you will appreciate the inevitable nature of the occurrence which this miserable man seeks with your aid to set aside.”

  “I thought you said this was a simple case, Mr. Barnes,” said Mr. Mitchel, interrupting his reading.

  “I found it so,” replied Mr. Barnes, sipping his wine.

  “The writer says that the ‘occurrence’ was ‘inevitable,’ yet am I to understand that you prevented it?”

  “He thought it to be inevitable. I disagreed with him, and prevented it.”

  “I hope you have not been over-confident.”

  “There is no danger. Did I not tell you that the affair ended?”

  “So you did. I forgot that. This paper is entertaining. I will read on.”

  The statement went on as follows:

  “I was born and reared and spent all my life in Texas. In fact, you may consider me a cowboy, though it is long since I have thrown a lariat, and one would hardly count me a boy now. What a life do we lead down there on the Texas plains! Miles and miles of country stretching in easy undulations from the rising-place to the set of the sun. Day after day in the saddle, till one imagines himself a part of the animal which he bestrides. How often in play have I dropped a red bandana, and then picked it from the grass as I galloped my horse by at top speed!

  “One day I was riding along, free from all worldly care, happy, contented. My horse was going easily, though we had several miles yet to cover. Glancing carelessly ahead, neither seeking nor expecting adventure of any kind, I thought I saw, a hundred yards or more ahead of me, the bright red of a handkerchief in the grass. A bandana dropped by a cowboy perhaps. With nothing better to do, I touched my horse’s flank, and with instant response his head was down and we charged the spot. Leaning so low on one side that I could have touched the ground easily with my hand, we rapidly neared that bit of color, and I was almost upon it before I realized that it was something more than a lost handkerchief,—that it was really a bundle of some sort. Yet in time I noted this, and therefore exerted enough strength when I clutched it to lift it firmly from the ground, though the weight of it astonished me. Swinging myself back upon my horse, I brought him to a walk, that I might better examine my prize. Imagine my feelings when I found that the little bundle contained a thing of life—a baby girl!

  “There is no need to extend this part of my tale. How the child got there I never learned. Whether it was dropped from a wagon travelling along the trail, or deposited there purposely by one of those fiends who accept the pleasures
of life and shirk its responsibilities, I do not know. Indeed, at the time I took but a passing interest in the affair. I had picked up a baby on the plains. What of it? How could a cowboy like myself be expected to evince any great interest in a baby? My father was rich, and I had always been indulged in all things, though always held rigidly by what I was taught to consider the rules of honor. I had had a taste of the big world too, for I had been first at a military academy, and afterwards had graduated from Harvard. Then I had gone back to Texas, back to the life on horseback in the open air, the life that I loved best. So you can understand that women and babies had not yet come into my mind as necessary adjuncts to life.

  “The child was given into the care of the very negro mammy who had practically reared me, my mother having died when I was yet a boy. Thus it was not until Juanita—I forget how she got the name, but so she was called—was twelve, that I began to feel some personal responsibility in relation to her future. My father meantime had died, and I was master of the old home, the ranch and all the stock. Thus there was no lack of money to carry out whatever plan might seem best. I took counsel with some women of our town, and the end of it was that Juanita was sent as far north as Atlanta to boarding-school. Here she remained until she was sixteen, but she never really enjoyed herself. A child of the plains almost literally, one might say, living through her earlier girlhood with little if any restraint, the duties of the school-room were irksome to her, and she longed to be back in Texas. This yearning grew upon her so that at length she began to make references to her feelings in her letters. I had missed her from about the place more than I should have imagined possible, and the strong inclination was to grant her wishes and bring her back; but I knew the value of education, and felt in duty bound to urge her continuance of her studies. When first she went, it had been arranged that she should remain in Atlanta studying for eight years, but finally I offered as a compromise that she might come home at the end of six, at which time she would have been eighteen. You may guess my surprise when one morning on my return from a long ride after the cattle, I saw a horse dashing swiftly towards me, and when close enough, recognized Juanita on his back. Breathless she pulled up beside me, and before I could speak cried out:

  “‘Now don’t say you are going to send me back. Don’t say it! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! It would break my heart!’

  “What could I do? There she was, exuberant in her happiness, all the wild energy of her animal spirits aroused by the exhilaration of that liberty for which she had so long yearned. Of course I thought a good deal, but I said nothing.

  “‘Watch me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I haven’t forgotten how to ride. See!’

  “Like a flash she was off towards a clump of bushes fifty yards away. I called after her, fearing that four years of school life would have left her less of a horsewoman than she imagined. But she only laughed, and when near the hedge raised her horse with the skill of an adept and cleared it by a foot.

  “During the next two years the whole tenor of my life was changed. Juanita went with me everywhere. Like myself she lived in the saddle, and soon she could throw a lariat or round up a herd of cattle as well as almost any of my men.

  “What wonder that I learned to love the girl? Philosophers tell us that two may meet, exchange glances, and love. Madness! That is admiration, magnetic attraction, passionate desire,—what you please,—it is not love. Love may spring from such beginning, but not in an instant, a day, an hour. Too many have been wrecked by that delusion, wedding while intoxicated with this momentary delirium, and awaking later to a realization of a dread future. For what can be worse misery than to be married and not mated? No, love thrives on what it feeds on. Daily companionship, hourly contact breeds a habit in a man’s life, creates a need that can but be filled by the presence of the one who excites such heart longings. Thus we learn to love our horse or dog, and the possession of the animal satisfies us. So when we come to love a woman, to love her with that love which once born never dies, so, too, possession is the only salve, the only solution. After two years I realized this, and began to think of marrying my little one. ‘Why not?’ I asked myself. True, I was forty, while she was but eighteen. But I was young in heart, energy, and vitality. And who had a greater right to possess her than myself? None. Then a dreadful thought came to me. What if she did not love me in return? My heart turned cold, but I never dreamed of coercing her. I would tell her my wish, my hope, and as she should answer so should it be.

  “This was my determination. You will admit that I was honorable. Having formed my conclusion I sought a favorable moment for its execution. At this you may wonder. Were we not together daily, riding side by side, often alone with God and Nature for hours together? True! But I dreaded a mistake. Should I speak when her heart was not ready, the answer might blight my life.

  “So I waited day after day, no moment seeming more propitious than another. Yet when I did speak, it was all so simple, that I wondered at myself for my long anxiety. We had been riding together for three or four hours, when, reaching a shaded knoll in which I knew there was a cold spring where we might refresh ourselves and our horses, we stopped. As she jumped from her horse, Juanita stood a moment looking back and forth across the plains, and then, in full enjoyment of the scene, she exclaimed:

  “‘Isn’t it all grand! I could live here forever!’

  “My heart leaped, and my tongue moved unbidden:

  “‘With me?’ I cried. ‘With me, Juanita?’

  “‘Why, yes; with you, of course. With whom else?’

  “She turned and gazed into my eyes frankly, wondering at my question, and my hand burned as with a fever as I took hers in mine, and almost whispered:

  “‘But with me, little one, as my own? As my very own? As my little wife, I mean?’

  “A dainty blush beautified her cheek, but she did not turn away her eyes as she answered:

  “‘Why, yes. As your wife, of course. I have always thought you meant it should be. Always lately, I mean.’

  “So she had understood before I had known myself. She had been simply waiting, while I had been worrying. I had but to reach forth my hand and grasp my happiness. Well, I had been an ass not to know, but at last the joy was mine.

  “Be sure there was little further delay. The wedding was simple yet impressive. Cowboys came from miles around, and one and all they kissed the bride. We had a feast on the grass, the tables extending a quarter of a mile, and all were welcome. There were no cards of invitation; all within fifty miles were my neighbors, and all neighbors were expected at the cowboy’s wedding. The ceremony was held out in the open air, and five hundred men stood with bared heads as the worthy father gave me my treasure and declared her mine before God and them.

  “Thus Juanita came to be mine own. First given to me by that Providence who rules the Universe, when the unguided steps of my horse carried me to the tiny bundle lying on a boundless plain, and lastly given to me with her own consent by the worthy man who united us in the name of the Father of us all. Was she not mine then, and thenceforward forever? Could any man rightly take her from me? You shall hear.

  “A year passed. A year of happiness such as poets prate of and ardent men and maids hope for, but rarely realize. Then the serpent entered my Eden. The tempter came, in the form of this man who tells you that his name is Odell, but who lies when he tells you so. He was from the North, and he had a fine form and a fair face. Fair, I mean, in the sense that it was attractive to women. He soon had the few young women of our neighborhood dangling after him, like captured fish on a blade of palmetto. I saw all this, and, seeing, had no suspicion that with the chance to choose from so many who were still unclaimed, he would seek to win my own dear one.

  “I cannot dwell on this. Indeed, I never knew the details, only the finale. The blow came as unsuspected as might an earthquake in a land where tranquillity had reigned for centuries. I had been away all day, and for once
my wife had not ridden with me. I had myself bidden her remain at home, because of the intense heat of an August sun. She had begged to go with me, perhaps fearing to be left alone. But I knew nothing, suspected nothing of the ache and terror in her heart. When I got back, it was already dark, and having been away from Juanita all day, I called for her at once. The empty echoes of my voice coming back as the only answer to my cry struck my heart with a chill, and a nameless, hideous dread seized me. Had anything happened? Was she ill, or dead? Dead it must be, I thought, or she would have answered. I wandered through the house; I searched the whole place; I sprang back upon my horse and rode from house to house throughout that whole awful night. I discovered nothing. No one could tell me aught. At daybreak I returned fagged out, with a vague hope that perhaps I had made some blunder and that she was still at home. At last, in the room where I kept my accounts and transacted business, I found a note upon my desk which explained the horrible truth. Here is a copy of it. Note the hideous braggadocio. It read:

  “‘I. O. U. One wife. (Signed) L—R—.’

  “That you may fully appreciate how this taunt stung, I must remind you that, as I have said, my father had taught me to follow most rigidly the rules of honor. In transactions involving even very great sums of money, it was not uncommon amongst us cattlemen to acknowledge an indebtedness in this primitive, informal way,—simply writing upon a slip of paper, perhaps torn from the edge of a newspaper, ‘I. O. U.’, giving the amount, and adding the signature. No dates were really necessary, though sometimes added, because the possession of the paper proved the debt, the cancellation by payment always leading to the destruction of the I. O. U.

  “Thus this heartless young brute from the North had not only stolen from me my chief treasure, but he had left behind an acknowledgment of his debt in that form which was most binding among us.

  “Does it cause you surprise to have me say that I carefully preserved that bit of paper, and swore to make him meet the obligation when the day of reckoning might come? This explains to you that cause, which at the outset I said brings with it a result which now is, and always has been, inevitable. Of course it is certain that had I been able to find my betrayer while my anger still raged, and my anguish yet at its most acute point, I would simply have shot the man on sight, recklessly, thoughtlessly. But I could not get trace of him, and so had time to think.