Part 53 (1/2)
Forgetful of every other consideration, the old gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, and left us together.
I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess to recall. A detestable jealousy took possession of me. I meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne's conversion) for yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful woman who had fascinated him, though he might be afraid to own it. She protested against my unworthy insinuation--but she failed to make me ashamed of myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises over a man? I went on, like the miserable creature that I was, from bad to worse.
”Excuse me,” I said, ”if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought to have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation.”
She turned away from me--sadly, not angrily--intending, as it appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she altered her mind, and came back.
”Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,” she said, very gently. ”_I_ once wronged _you_--I have no right to complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it.”
She held out her hand. She raised her eyes--and looked at me.
It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in my arms. I held her to my breast--I felt the quick beating of her heart on me--I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my love--I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh. ”Be merciful to my weakness,” she whispered. ”We must meet no more.”
She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.
I have broken my resolution not to write about myself--but there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me, when I record this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonement--I must at once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has been.
Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil. No answer was required.
The few lines were in Stella's handwriting: ”You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother's suspicions. Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your departure.--S.”
I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.
September 14.--The letters from England have arrived. One of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made. My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.
The newspaper arrived with the letters. My antic.i.p.ations have been realized. Yesterday's paragraph has produced another volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the _Times._ He publishes his name and address--and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive priests.
The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite--the well-known traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called ”the Moonstone,” set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol. He writes to the editor as follows:
”Sir--I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors of the ma.s.sacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since.
”I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and gunpowder, and by the promise of more when our a.s.sociation came to an end.
”About twelve miles northward of the little silver-mining town of Tubac we came upon an Apache encampment. I at once discovered two white men among the Indians. These were the captive priests.
”One of them was a Frenchman, named L'Herbier. The other was an Englishman, named Penrose. They owed their lives to the influence of two powerful considerations among the Indians. Unhappy L'Herbier lost his senses under the horror of the night ma.s.sacre. Insanity, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The other priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicine-chest, and had successfully treated cases of illness among the Apaches. As a 'great medicine-man,' he too is a privileged person--under the strong protection of their interest in their own health. The lives of the prisoners are in no danger, provided they can endure the hards.h.i.+p of their wandering existence among the Indians. Penrose spoke to me with the resignation of a true hero. 'I am in the hands of G.o.d,' he said; 'and if I die, I die in G.o.d's service.'
”I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming the missionaries--and nothing that I could say, or that I could promise, had the smallest effect on the savages. But for severe and tedious illness, I should long since have been on my way back to Arizona with the necessary ransom. As it is, I am barely strong enough to write this letter. But I can head a subscription to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person who is willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests.”
So the letter ended.
Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or what to do, when I leave St. Germain. I am now at no loss. I have found an object in life, and a means of making atonement to Stella for my own ungracious and unworthy words. Already I have communicated by telegraph with Mr. Murthwaite and with my sailing-master. The first is informed that I hope to be with him, in London, to-morrow morning. The second is instructed to have the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage.
If I can save these men--especially Penrose--I shall not have lived in vain.
London, September 15.--No. I have resolution enough to go to Arizona, but I have no courage to record the parting scene when it was time to say good-by.
I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to sail. But, after reading the letter to the _Times,_ Stella saw something in my face (as I suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it's over now. I do my best to keep myself from thinking of it--and, for this reason, I abstain from dwelling on the subject here.
Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions--he has provided me with letters of introduction to persons in office, and to the _padres_ (or priests) in Mexico, which will be of incalculable use in such an expedition as mine. In the present disturbed condition of the United States, he recommends me to sail for a port on the eastern coast of Mexico, and then to travel northward overland, and make my first inquiries in Arizona at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance, in his opinion, that he suggests making inquiries in London and Liverpool for a merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera Cruz or Tampico. The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished, I find, in less than a fortnight or three weeks. I have therefore taken Mr. Murthwaite's advice.