by Talbot Mundy
“Senor Jack, what do you want?” Consuelo demanded angrily. She was afraid, but stood her ground, and he could not get past her to Jacqueline without knocking her over, a stage of violence that he had hardly yet reached.
“Word with Miss Jacqueline! Out of my way — quick!”
“No, Senor!” Consuelo glanced over her shoulder. “Run, Conchita!”
Jacqueline fled through the door, and Consuelo fought a rearguard action, retreating backward and actually wrestling with Jack Calhoun. Fear lent her strength. She blocked the door ahead of him, aware that Jacqueline was hugging the corner less than a yard away.
“Shall I call the servants, Senor Jack?”
“Dammit, Consuelo, I’ll get even with you for this! Let me speak to her! Just one word with her!”
“No, Senor!”
Jack Calhoun drew a bow at a venture, and the shot struck, but not as he intended.
“Donna Isabella said I might.”
“I don’t believe you, Senor! She must give me that order personally.” Then over her shoulder, “Run, Conchita! Run!”
So Jack Calhoun saw one exasperating glimpse of Jacqueline as she fled along the passageway; and even he knew better than to follow at that moment and create a scene inside the house.
“I’ll report you to Donna Isabella,” he said savagely, and turned his back.
So all that Wahl saw, as he came hurrying along the passage, was Consuelo, panting and as red-faced as a turkey-cock, but looking proud enough to face a hundred kings.
“Anything happened? Been an accident?” he asked sharply, using that voice of authority that cracks so many nut-shells for the press.
“Have you heard there’s to be a wedding?” she retorted.
“Where’s Mr. Calverly-Calhoun?”
“Smoking,” she answered meaningly, and sailed past him, leaving him to draw his own conclusions. Wahl went in search of Calhoun.
Consuelo found Jacqueline in her room, pale-faced and as nervous as a young bird in view of a hawk.
“What shall I do, Consuelo? You said he was in Cuba, and—”
“Do nothing, honey. I’ve attended to him. He has her permission, so—”
“I’ll tell Desmio.”
“No, no, honey! Don’t you give him another thing to worry over and strain that heart. We’ll manage this between us. You go to Don Andres now — he wants to talk to you — and I’ll find two or three gentlemen — Mr. Addison, and Mr. Mowblay, and Mr. Cartwright — they’ll do. They’ll fix Mr. Calverly-Calhoun so he’ll know where he belongs.”
“Don’t let them hurt him, Consuelo! He’s—”
“Yes, I know, Conchita — he’s in love. He needs cold water. The horse-pond—”
“They mustn’t, Consuelo! I won’t have it! Listen to me! He’s a gentleman, and—”
“The blue-blooded senor twisted my wrist till the skin nearly came off the flesh! I’ll show the wrist to Mr. Addison, and see what he says. Now listen, honey; pull yourself together, and then, when you’re all calm, run down to Don Andres. Don’t tell him a word of this, but be quick back. I’ll be waiting for you. You must hurry and get dressed, or you’ll be late for your own wedding!”
The old nurse’s fingers picked and pulled, setting Jacqueline’s frock to rights, and rearranging her hair, so that in a minute the traces of panic were beyond all discernment by masculine eyes. Any woman would still know she had been terrified, but even women would set that down to stage fright.
“Now, be quick, honey — and use those blue eyes! Smile at him!”
She crossed the patio under close guard, Consuelo elbowing her between the tables; and as usually happened, the moment she entered the library all nervousness left her and she smiled naturally. Don Andres rose to greet her with even more than his usual eagerness; but the outworn heart was being overworked, and he nearly collapsed against the armchair. “Pardon me, Conchita.”
Iron will now, and nothing else, was holding him together. He managed to master himself — to joke about his infirmity — to recover and sit upright on the arm of the chair, and even his eyes grew bright again; but he was burning up his last strength, and Jacqueline was aware of new anxiety, a thousand times more poignant than her recent dread of Jack Calhoun.
“What is it, Desmio! Are you keeping something from me?”
“Conchita, I keep nothing from you. My heart, my life, and my possessions are all yours! I invited you to come, that I might make you my final gift before the wedding.”
He put an ancient locket on a golden chain over her head.
“That chain and locket were a wedding gift to the wife of the first Miro in Louisiana. Every Miro’s wife since then has worn it, and the loveliest last!”
She opened the locket and looked inside it, not knowing what to say. It contained his portrait, done by hand on ivory.
“Desmio!”
“You are pleased with it?”
“It is the best of all gifts.”
He smiled, but he was least of all men prone to self-deception.
“But a day will come, Conchita, when you will wish to put some other lucky fellow’s portrait in there.”
“No, Desmio! Never!”
“When the day does come, remember that you have my leave — that I would wish it — that my one hope is that the fortunate man may be worthy of you!”
“There won’t be any one else!” His words and his gentle way of speaking made her want to cry, but she battled bravely with it. “I love this gift best, I’ll wear it always!”
“I would be grieved,” he answered, “if I thought your loyalty to me could spoil your future happiness or your love for some one else. In the years to come will you try to remember that?”
What did he mean? She nodded, because she could summon no words to answer him. Nor could she force herself to ask him what he meant. Thoughts came to her, that she dared not face — that she shut her mind against. And then came memory of Sister Michaela’s warning: “Trust your intuition, Jacqueline!”
How trust it, when it told her nothing? All she could feel was vague fears, and not on her own account but Desmio’s. What could be the use of trusting that? Should she believe then that he was dying? What then? Should she refuse at the very last minute to marry him? Would that help? Would it save his life?
“What troubles you, Conchita?”
“Nothing, Desmio — at least nothing that I understand — just thoughts.” She could not force herself to lie to him.
“Tell me them.”
“How ill are you, Desmio?”
He looked startled; she had caught him for once off guard.
“Not seriously ill, Conchita. I need rest, that is all. We Miros have iron constitutions.”
“I feel you are in danger, Desmio.”
He laughed — an old swordsman’s ringing laugh. What did he care about danger! He was safeguarding her and in less than an hour she would be mistress of the Miro fortune. Let happen after that what might!
“I am in love,” he answered mockingly. “They tell me love is always dangerous. But there — who is knocking?” He called, and Consuelo opened.
“Come, Conchita! Quickly, honey, or I’ll never get you into your dress in time.”
CHAPTER 11.
“By God! The devil’s own!”
Consuelo worked with nimble fingers, tying this, adjusting that, while Jacqueline did her best not to move too often at critical moments. But you can’t stand still before a looking-glass — not while a wedding frock is being hung on you that looks as if angels made it in a lacy paradise beyond the clouds. You absolutely must turn suddenly to see how it looks behind; and if you don’t jump excitedly, and sway your supple body to see how perfectly it fits about the waist and under the arms, you’re not human and seventeen.
It was all so exciting and wonderful that it drove Jack Calhoun out of mind, until Consuelo glanced at the clock and caught her breath.
“In seven minutes, Conchita! And I haven’t found Mr. Addi
son, or Mr. Mowblay, or Mr. Cartwright. Stay here, honey, while I run and look for them again. I’ll be back in a moment.”
So Jacqueline stood alone, not in love with her own reflection, because she could not make herself believe that the marvelous being in the mirror was not some one else altogether — a stranger whom she did not know: but in a rapture, nevertheless. It was all much too good to be true, and too wonderful to be real. So she went down on her knees and prayed, turning away from the glass that she might give full attention to the prayer. And so she did not see the door move open, and though she heard it, she supposed it was Consuelo coming back. It was when she rose, from her knees that she saw Jack Calhoun’s reflection in the mirror.
He was standing with his back to the door, and the door shut tight behind him. She was too afraid of him to scream. She could not speak. She could not ask him how he dared to be there. But intuition told her that the act of prayer had been her sanctuary — that he had not dared to approach her while she knelt. She turned toward the bed to throw herself on her knees again and bury her face in her hands, but he sprang between her and the bed and would not let her kneel.
“Jacqueline!”
That broke the dream-spell. It was real then! Besides, she could feel him — he had hold of her wrist, and it hurt — and her own heart was fluttering so wildly that it nearly choked her.
“Go away!” she cried suddenly, and tried to release her wrists; but his grip was like iron. His eyes burned in a way that terrified her, for they seemed not to see her dress at all, but to look through it and make her creepy and ashamed. His breath came in hot gasps through parted lips.
“I will go away, but I will take you with me, Jacqueline!”
She felt her knees weakening under her, but knew she was not going to faint; there was nothing merciful like that in sight. She opened her mouth to scream, but not a sound came, or if it did she never heard it, for Jack Calhoun began pouring forth excited words that dinned in her ears, and she felt like a bird in a trap, too paralyzed by fear to move or do anything.
“Jacqueline! I love you, and you love me! You know it!”
She shook her head.
“You can’t love old Andres Miro! He can’t make you marry him! He’s old enough to be your grandfather! I won’t permit it! I’m takin’ you out of this! Come on!”
He tugged at her wrist. All she could do was to shake her head violently and hang back.
“Come on, dear! Don’t be afraid!”
But he was frightening her horribly. She saw the humor of that. It was funny that he should terrify her so, and tell her not to feel fear. A smile flickered on her lips for half a second.
“There! That’s better! Once you’re out of the house he hasn’t a legal leg to stand on. I’ve a car outside, and when you’re in that and away he’ll have to sit down and cool off! I’ve a marriage license — look!”
He pulled it from his pocket, shaking it so violently before her eyes that it might have been blank paper for all she knew.
“Come on, Jacqueline!”
He shoved the license back into his pocket and made as if to pick her up and carry her. She felt his strong arm around her, and it was that that gave her power of speech; fear grew so acute that it broke its own spell.
“No! Go away, please! You mustn’t stay in here another second!”
“Not another second!” he answered, laughing like a maniac; and he threw the other arm around her and tried to kiss her. How she did it she never knew, but she escaped him, and part of her veil came away in his hand. There was a chair between him and her now, but she could not have answered how it got there.
Something in her face and attitude seemed to arrest him. She was gaining strength — mental strength, womanhood was dawning. Never in her whole life until now had she stood and faced danger alone. Her very innocence was coming to her aid.
“You are not behaving like a gentleman!” she said quietly. “Go out of here!”
He laughed more like a maniac than ever.
“Jacqueline! Do you love that old man? Are you crazy? Are you fool enough to throw away your young life, when you know I love you! God! It’s horrible! Tell me — do you think you love him!”
She was actually calm now. Dimly she was beginning to comprehend strange mysteries. She could pity him. “You don’t understand,” she answered. “I don’t love anybody in the way you mean. I love Desmio because he is noble, and generous, and good. I don’t love you at all.”
She had said too much. Jack Calhoun did not believe one word of it, and all the blood of all the Caverly-Calhouns rose boiling at opposition. He desired. She could see the madness in his eyes, and shrank away from it; but a wolf does not sheathe his fangs because the lamb is frightened. His hand went to his pocket, and she glimpsed the butt of a pistol.
“Jacqueline, I’ll kill you before I’ll let you marry that man! Come away with me now, or take the consequences!”
“Leave the room at once!” she answered, stamping her foot.
Now it was he who had made the wrong appeal. She was not afraid of that. She would rather be killed than submit. Her eyes met his gravely, but their challenge only stirred his passion to the point where he lost all self-control. He pointed the pistol straight at her heart.
“I’ll kill you, Jacqueline, if you don’t come with me!”
He hesitated, hoping she would yield, for he saw sudden fear in her eyes — and did not know the door was opening behind him. She saw Desmio. He only saw her sudden change of expression.
“I’ll love you forever if you come away with me. If not—”
“What does this mean, sir?”
The voice in the door was like the ring of tempered steel, and Jack Calhoun turned on his heel swiftly. One of Don Andres’ hands was behind his back — the other on the door-knob. It was true, Don Andres might have had a pistol in his right hand, but Jack Calhoun was long past the thinking stage. He acted on impulse — aimed — and fired.
Thereafter nightmare — all a wild dream, blurred — yet, burned into her memory. Don Andres, face forward dead — shot through the heart; and the first into the room was Clinton Wahl, cavernous-eyed, with a mouth that smiled like the satyr’s on the gargoyle fountain in the patio. He glanced down at Don Andres, not even stooping to see whether he still lived. Three strides, and he was face to face with Jacqueline.
“By God! The devil’s own!”
That was jack Calhoun’s voice. It was followed instantly by a second pistol-shot. Wahl scarcely turned his head. One swift glance showed him Jack Calhoun with a hole in his brain, lying bleeding on the rug beside the bed. His eyes on Jacqueline’s again, fascinated — froze her cold.
And because her heart felt dead, her very soul numb; terror and grief and amazement made her sick and weak; because all her universe had crumbled and was swept away in a moment — that little frown danced and trembled on her forehead over the clear pure eyes, and it seemed to Wahl that the eyes were mocking him.
Cherchez la femme!
He seized her wrist, as Jack Calhoun had done. “What happened?” he demanded. “Tell me all about it!” And she knew she hated him ten times worse than she had ever dreamed of hating Donna Isabella.
“Come on now — tell me!” he repeated. It was he who preserved her from actually fainting, for she hated him so that it gave her a connecting link with consciousness.
Pity? There was no more pity for her in Clinton Wahl’s mind than a vivisectionist has for the stray dog he tortures. This was the story that should get him transferred to the Tribune. News! Front-page headlines! Feed the public what it wants, and it will make you famous! He shook her.
“Now out with it! How did Calhoun get in here?”
Then Consuelo — hurrying in like a hen whose one beloved chick is in danger — hustling Wahl — boxing his ear with a stinging smack like another pistol-shot, that did nothing to soften Wahl’s asperity. Then Father Doutreleau. And then the crowd.
Memory grew vaguer after that. She
knew she flung herself on Desmio’s body — and there was blood on her hands and on the torn bridal veil, and in blotches on the lace of the Spanish dress. She knew she kissed his lips, but they were lifeless. Next, she was sobbing on Consuelo’s bosom, being petted, and drawing no comfort whatever from the words:
“Oh, Conchita! Oh, my poor child! Oh, my baby!”
She did not want to be comforted. There was nothing left she did want — no Desmio, nor anything in all the world except Wahl’s hateful eyes and leering lips, accusing her — accusing her — of what? And Desmio dead! Did he think she had killed him? That million-times worse brute than Jack Calhoun — did he — didn’t he know she would have torn her heart out with her own hands rather than let one least injury be done to Desmio!
Jack Calhoun had he shot himself, or had Wahl killed him? She was vague about that. She could only remember Jack Calhoun’s bitter laugh and his last words:
“By God! The devil’s own!”
Was Wahl the devil? He looked like it!
Then along the balcony and downstairs, Consuelo coaxing her, and across the patio between the loaded tables amid a murmur of voices, under the gaze of what felt like a thousand eyes, with her face all smothered in her veil on Consuelo’s shoulder; and once — only once she looked up. Why? What made her do it? Was there no hiding-place? Was she in hell? For there stood Donna Isabella blocking the way in front of her between two tables, glaring and pointing with a lean forefinger at the blood on her hands and dress.
“You wicked, wicked girl! Is that my brother Andres’ reward for caring for you?”
Suddenly a smash — of crockery she supposed — and a chorus of “Oh! Ah! Say! Did you see that?” Consuelo threw a plate, or a dish, or something at Donna Isabella, and upset the table, and everybody cried out. And what became of Donna Isabella she did not know, but the next she remembered she was burying her face in the pillow on the bed in Consuelo’s room, and Consuelo was trying to get her wedding dress off, sobbing, and crying.