Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Up again — voices — she must run. No path now, only a track that might lead anywhere, and was full of places where you fell, and things that stuck out and struck you, and strange noises. On — on — stockings torn, hands bruised, and Wahl’s face ever behind her, grinning out from the circle at the top of a page, or leering at her over Desmio’s body. She could not get away from him, and yet she must, or she would go mad.

  Black darkness — forward! A blind step — and nothing underfoot — down — down, forever it seemed — and then soft earth came up and hit her, and she lay for a minute squeezing mud between her fingers, moving herself carefully, to learn if anything was broken. But she was only bruised, and Wahl was there behind her. On again!

  Then light between chinks in a shutter straight ahead — house? — cabin? — it was something, anyhow — somewhere to hide. Perhaps they would let her stay there a little while, until she was able to go on again. She was dreadfully tired. They wouldn’t know who she was, and she would be gone before morning. She must think of something to say though. Well, she couldn’t think just then. She would do that later.

  What an awful time they were about opening the door! She could hear them — could hear them talking. Wouldn’t they ever come? She would fall down dead, if they didn’t open in a minute! Ah!

  Light flashed in her face, and a woman screamed.

  “Conchita!”

  She shut her eyes and fell forward into Consuelo’s arms, half-consciously aware of curious faces that peered over-shoulder at her — and of cigarette smoke — and of a fire that burned brightly in a grate. Then she was on the floor, with her head in Consuelo’s lap, and Consuelo sobbing over her, running fingers through her hair and crying to the Blessed Virgin. There was a child fast asleep in blankets before the fire, and some kind of animal coiled up beside the child. And she could see a man’s feet; he had bell-bottomed trousers, and was sitting in a chair that was tilted backward on two legs. She wondered how long the chair would balance that way without falling. The man was speaking to some one, and she could not see who the other person was, but after a while she caught a word or two. They were talking some foreign language. Funny: it sounded like Spanish, and yet she could not understand a word of it, although she knew Spanish rather well. The man had a pleasant voice; the other was a woman’s — not Consuelo’s, and not so pleasant. It jarred a little.

  Another funny thing: she knew that Consuelo understood what they were saying. Not that Consuelo joined in the conversation, or said anything, or made any sign. She just knew it, that was all, the way you know things in a dream. They were talking about herself, and Consuelo was listening without letting them know she understood. She was as sure about that as if Consuelo had told her so.

  Presently the man began to speak in English to Consuelo; and now it was Jacqueline’s turn to listen without anybody knowing it. She closed her eyes. The man spoke as if he were smiling, and she could almost see him flourishing a cigarette.

  “Senora, we have — my mother and I — have made — what is it? — a spic — no, speculation. We do ourselves the honor to propose — as a favor to you — and assuming to ourselves a certain risk — that if la bella senorita is consenting — you and she — she and you should favor us with your accompaniment to San Francisco.”

  “That’s a long way. We’ve no money,” Consuelo answered sternly, almost belligerently.

  “Gracias a Deus, Senora, we — I and my mother, that is — are — less unfavorably situated. At the moment we have a small sufficiency. We do ourselves the honor to propose to you — a small loan — in proportion to our no great affluence a trifle a mere bagatelle — in ordinary circumstances — doubtless — beneath your distinguished consideration — but sufficient for such pressing needs as billets de voyage. Repayable — to my mother and to me — at your honorable convenience.”

  “And on your terms, I suppose!” Consuelo almost snapped the words at him.

  “The Senora may justly be pardoned for speaking with — acerbity. But we are not — I and my mother are not — money-lenders. There does appear — nevertheless — Senora, the indication of a predicament, in which you — discover yourself — and out of the vast fortune that —

  “You think you can make money out of us! How?” snapped Consuelo.

  “It amuses the Senora to be sarcastic. Surely — does the Senora think—”

  “Never you mind what I think just at present, Senor Ramon. You’re not offering to lend me money for my good looks. What’s in your head? I’m listening.”

  The man hesitated. “You recall, doubtless, Senora, that my mother and I were privileged to—”

  “You were at the wedding, yes.”

  “La Conchita danced.”

  “So that’s it? You expect her to go on the stage? To dance at garden parties? To—”

  He laughed apologetically. “Pardon, Senora, one moment! There would have to be preliminaries before that could happen. It is true, La Conchita dances like a seraph, but the public does not pay to be entertained seraphically. There is lacking — what is the word? — what the French name diablerie.”

  “You’d like to make her devilish? The Lord forbid!”

  “Senora, it is the — assumption of diablerie that entertains. The article itself is of no value. Permit me to assure you that — the greater the appearance of diablerie — and the less there actually is of it — the more the public is eager to pay for admission. But surely there is no need to discuss that — my mother and I—”

  “You’ll have to show me!” snapped Consuelo.

  “Senora, why not? To one of your noted intelligence and serious concern for the beloved—”

  “She’s asleep now. When she wakes, we’ll hear what she says. But understand this, Senor Ramon: If she accepts any money from you, she’ll never be out of my sight for a minute!”

  “Senora, you fill me with admiration! The adorable Conchita is indeed fortunate! My compliments!”

  Consuelo seemed to care very little for his compliments.

  “Put your proposal into plain words,” she demanded.

  “A brief memorandum of agreement, Senora. We — my mother and I — advance expenses. You to repay—”

  “Suppose we can’t repay?”

  He laughed that ridiculous suggestion to the four winds.

  “Oh — in that case — hah! absurd — why build imaginary pictures? — still, in that case hah — conceive of it — then I would have to teach the pep-zip-snap! Could she not dance! Is she not beautiful! The world is full of money and if we please the public, some of the money becomes ours — why not?”

  Consuelo was merely sparring with him — inclined to clutch at straws, but thoroughly distrustful. These people knew who Jacqueline was, and understood perfectly that she was running away, and why, for they had seen the newspaper. Her only chance of getting them to hold their tongues would be to accept their proposal, otherwise they would almost certainly give information for the sake of possible reward.

  “Leave us alone. I will talk to her,” she demanded.

  “There is but the one room, Senora.”

  “There is outdoors, isn’t there?”

  The door was slammed as if one person, if not two, resented an imposition. Then Jacqueline opened her eyes — sat up — and looked around the cabin.

  “What place is this?”

  “It’s a foreman’s cabin, dear. Ramon paid him for the use of it, so as to get away from the refugees. Were you asleep, honey, or were you listening?”

  “I heard.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “I’m not thinking, Consuelo. I can’t. I want to run away forever!”

  “Honey child, you’re starving! Where have you been? What happened? No, don’t tell me now — there isn’t time. We must make up our minds about Ramon’s offer.”

  Jacqueline had no in intention of telling. She knew that, if nothing else. She would never tell any one in all the world about Sherry Mansfield. That was her
secret, to be hugged in her heart and remembered.

  “It makes no difference to me what happens, Consuelo, as long as we go where nobody can find us.”

  “Listen, honey. Ramon and his mother were talking Portuguese, and I understand it, although I can’t talk it much. They think you’ll have money by and by. Cervanez was saying to Ramon that you’re only running away from scandal, and that’s true, honey, you know that. Cervanez thinks that sooner or later the lawyers will have to advertise for you, and then they’ll get a big reward for having taken care of you. We must do something, honey. I’ve lost the bank-book, and the good Lord knows how long it’s going to take to get my three hundred dollars; and if I ever get it, it’ll be gone in no time. We’ve lost all your jewelry. We’ve simply nothing. They offer to pay our expenses to San Francisco. Shall we let them?”

  Jacqueline nodded. There was something about the word San Francisco that suggested vague forebodings; but her thoughts were hardly functioning. She did not consciously associate Sherry or Wahl with San Francisco — did not associate them, in fact, with any place. Wahl was the devil’s own — the absolute of evil — darkness. Sherry was heaven’s own — light.

  “We must run away. I saw Wahl,” she said quietly, and Consuelo shuddered. Reason may fail, when fear has become an obsession, and there was something ominous in Jacqueline’s lack of interest.

  “I will get you some food now, honey.”

  Jacqueline shook her head.

  Beyond a doubt Consuelo saved Jacqueline’s life, for the desire to live was lacking. Even seventeen was hopeless. Hope had to be supplied by some one else, and no hope could have reached her without love’s all-penetrating flux. Consuelo alternately prayed, coaxed, petted, scolded, stormed — came near to slapping her! — then hugged and babied her back to some semblance of animation.

  But the rest of that night, and all the next day, and the next were like a waking dream to Jacqueline. She remembered that at dawn they began to walk interminable miles, that a monkey sat on her shoulder part of the time, and that some one named Pepita cried a great deal and was scolded. But she had been in a train two days before she began to respond to Pepita’s sympathy; the child climbed on her lap and baby-talked in broken English until Jacqueline found herself responding — and awoke.

  It was not until then that she knew how her hands and knees hurt, where she had bruised them in falling; or that she was dressed in Cervanez’ second- best skirt; or that people in the train were curious about her. Life began to be interesting — as if she had died, and were beginning life all over once more somewhere else. Ramon came in from the smoking-car at intervals and made himself agreeable. He was very respectful — called her senorita — and seemed to be a handsome, care-free, amusing fellow. When the train waited in a station long enough, he took them all to the baggage car to visit with the monkey, who chattered and clung to Pepita every time, but seemed to like Jacqueline next best. And in the dining-car Ramon turned every meal into a great event, even making funny, little speeches in mispronounced English that caused roars of laughter. He was good-tempered even when his mother, Cervanez, scolded him for extravagance, and no matter how much Cervanez nudged him, or what pointed hints she let fall, he always ordered odds and ends of things, such as celery and olives, that made the fare appetizing.

  Although he was Brazilian, not Spanish, he had all the graceful Spanish manners, and the little, straight side-whiskers he wore gave him a picturesque appearance that went well with his laughing eyes and his romantic way of walking. He did everything gracefully, even when he gave the dining-car waiter about half the usual tip, and — although he smoked incessantly he never had to buy cigars or cigarettes because the men in the smoking-room forced theirs on him.

  “He is perfect — best of all men in the world, my son!” Cervanez confided in one of her more melting moods. “Nothing never happen too bad but he succeed always! Only always spending too much,” she added. “By and by he is spending too much money for you. I watch him!”

  Pepita, Jacqueline learned, was an adopted orphan whom Ramon hoped to educate into a great dancer one of these days.

  Little by little Jacqueline awoke to what was happening, feeling her way as it were into a new universe, with which the old had no connection. Being naturally strong and healthy, her body recovered first; so that Ramon, and others, began to admire her before her own intelligence made her aware of the fact. Consuelo said very little to her on the train, but watched as meticulously as Cervanez watched Ramon, not knowing whether to be alarmed or gratified by what she observed.

  For a strange process was going on. Life grows out of death in every phase of nature, and Jacqueline was no exception. Protection, seclusion, sheltered affluence all gone; the past dead; the future unrevealed; a new ability was dawning. There was being born in Jacqueline, as gradually yet as certainly as sap springs in trees at winter’s end, a power to adjoin herself to new conditions. It came as a shock to Consuelo to discover that the child had grown into a woman almost overnight, and that as her brain recovered from its dazed condition she accepted, as if they were natural, conditions against which the older woman’s habit-bound soul stubbornly revolted. It began to be Consuelo who was lonely and bewildered; Jacqueline who knew how to make the best of things.

  What made it worse for Consuelo was conviction that Jacqueline was keeping a secret from her; that in order to keep her secret she preferred Cervanez’ and Pepita’s company; and that the secret was not just a mood, but something definite that had taken place. For you can’t deceive an old nurse, though you can keep her in the dark.

  CHAPTER 20.

  “Not easy to trace.”

  Plunge hot metal into cold water, and you learn its nature. Steel takes on temper. Sherry Mansfield talked with Wahl, turned back to find Jacqueline — and did not lose his head for a fraction of a second. But he reacted. The Gods who forge men on the anvils of circumstance had chosen good steel — and the moment.

  “Where did she go?” he asked the militiaman.

  “Search me! Looked that a-way — seen somethin’ — an’ jes’ ran.”

  “Which way?”

  “Any of way, if you ast me! Me, I yells to her, but’ she’s crazy, I guess. Skeered out of her wits.”

  Wahl — slowly for the first ten strides, then swiftly, making no noise — approached from the direction of the tent, and Sherry was first aware of him when the militia-man moved his eyes. He faced about, conscious of a revolution in his own attitude. He suddenly mistrusted Wahl.

  “What’s wrong?” Wahl demanded, possessed of a new sharp air of authority since he had heard from Mansfield senior.

  “Nothing serious,” Sherry answered.

  Wahl disbelieved him. He had overheard a part of what the sentry said; but he also recognized the hint of something sealed in Sherry’s face. He decided to pump Sherry first, and the sentry later.

  “There’s your choice of bootleg, cocoa or coffee in the tent. Come and tell me where you’ve been.”

  Sherry went with him. Anything to throw Wahl off the scent. As clearly as that pin-point of light from the launch had shone on the hayloft door, and as suddenly it had dawned on Sherry that the subject of Wahl’s whole front page in the New Orleans Star, and the girl he knew he loved, might be one and the same. It was a shock, and he braced himself to meet it, falling back on silence which is the first and last resource of strength.

  She had not told him her real name, he remembered; or at least, she had not stated that her real name was Conchita Martinez. Was she Jacqueline Lanier? Maybe. Much nicer name! If so, was she what Wahl had said she was? Not if Sherry Mansfield knew anything! If she was Jacqueline Lanier, then she needed help; and if he was Sherry Mansfield, she should have it!

  “Cocoa? Coffee? Where were you all this time?” Wahl asked him, offering an empty box to sit on. “Where did you get that mongrel? You’ve been in the water, I can see that.”

  “Oh, I swam in after the dog and nearly got drowned, but rea
ched a floating roof, and lay on that a long time. Fellow rescued me in a launch finally.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “No.”

  “Thought I saw a girl get out of that launch when you did.”

  “Oh, he rescued her too.”

  “Before he found you, or afterward?”

  “She was in the launch when I got into it.”

  “Know her name?”

  “No.”

  “Good lord, man — and you a reporter!”

  “I was nearly drowned,” said Sherry.

  Wahl turned away, to look at him suddenly sidewise in the lantern-light. He was suspicious, and Sherry was perfectly aware of that. He could hardly sit still and drink coffee for anxiety to do two things: he must go at once in search of her; and he must find that levee-inspector, and persuade him to tell Wahl nothing. But his good sense warned him that it was more important at the moment to stay where he was and checkmate Wahl.

  “Have you a list of the refugees in the camp?” he asked.

  Wahl tossed him several sheets of paper, and Sherry glanced them over until he found the name of Consuelo Martinez.

  “What does it mean when you put three stars after a name?”

  “Taken care of by some one — no longer destitute.”

  There were three stars after Consuelo’s name.

  “Where can I find out who has taken care of whom?”

  “Maybe I can tell you. Who are you interested in?”

  “Nobody in particular. I asked a question.”

  “Well, there’s more or less confusion. Once they’re off the destitute list they’re not easy to trace.”

  Wahl was now more than suspicious; he was nearly positive that Sherry was concealing something. He decided to go out and question the sentry while the man’s memory was still fresh.

  “Will you stay here?” he asked. “I’ll be back in a minute.”