He stole away and sat down, dropping his face in his hands. His brain, usually clear and precise, whirled disobediently. He felt helpless, his manhood worthless. Nothing but a jut of rock stood between himself and Nina Randolph, and it might have been the grave of one of them. Chaos was in him, a troop of hideous imaginings. He wondered vaguely if the mescal had affected him. It was cursed stuff, and the blood had been in his head ever since he had drunk it.

He knelt down, and dashed the cold sea-water over his face and head, not once, but several times. When he stood up, his brain was cool and steady.

"I must either go to her," he thought, "or despise myself. It is not an intrusion; I certainly have my rights."

He went rapidly round the bend, and lifted her from the stone before she was aware of his presence, then held her at arm's length, a hand on each shoulder.

The fixity left the muscles of her face. They relaxed in terror.

"What is your secret?" he demanded, peremptorily. "Have you had a lover--a child? Is that it?"

"No."

"On your word of honour?"

"Yes."

"Are your parents unmarried?"

"Not that I know of."

"Have you loved some man that is dead?"

"I have never loved any man but you."

"Have you committed a crime? Are you in constant terror of discovery?"

"I have never injured any one but myself."

"Is there insanity in the family, cancer, consumption?"

"No."

"Then, in G.o.d's name, what is it? I have the right to know, and I demand it; and the right to share your trouble and help you to bear it. I give you my word of honour that, no matter what it is, it shall make no difference to me."

She hung her head, and he felt her quiver from head to foot. Then she fell to weeping silently, without pa.s.sion, but shaking painfully. He took her in his arms, and did what he could to comfort her, and he could be very tender when he chose. Later, he coaxed and implored and threatened, but she would not speak. Once she made as if to cling to him, then put her arms behind her and clasped her hands together. The act was significant; but Thorpe took no notice of it. He knew now that it was going to be more difficult to marry her than he had antic.i.p.ated, that infinite tact and patience would be necessary. After a time, he dried her eyes and led her up the hill to the door of her tent. The others were still about the fire, and she went in unseen.

XII

Thorpe slept little that night. He wandered about the sand hills until nearly dawn. It seemed to him that he had exhausted the category of possible ills; he could think of nothing else. After all, it did not matter. The woman alone mattered. He knew that when he had persuaded her to marry him (he never used the word "if"), he could control her imagination and make her happy; and no other man alive could do it. In twenty different ways he could make her forget everything but the fact that she was his wife.

The next day Nina did not appear until the party was gathered about the table for luncheon. She explained that she had slept late in order to be in good trim for the party that night, and had spent the rest of the morning making an alteration in her evening frock.

She nodded gaily to Thorpe, and took a seat some distance from him. She looked very pretty. Her spirits, like her colour, were high, her eyes brilliant. Nevertheless, there was a change in her, indefinable at first; then Thorpe decided that she had acquired a shade of defiance, of hardness.

But he had no time for thought. Mrs. Earle's flashing eyes were challenging him on one side, Miss Hathaway's fathomless...o...b.. on the other. Opposite, Miss Shropshire, for the first time, displayed an almost feverish desire to engage his attention, and made herself uncommonly agreeable.

The afternoon was spent in packing and resting for the dance. The only woman to be seen without the tents was Miss Shropshire, who took Thorpe for a long walk and entertained him with many anecdotes of Nina's eccentricities.

"She is very mutable," said Thorpe, at length; "but I should not have called her eccentric."

"Should not you?" demanded Miss Shropshire. "Now, I should. But then you have seen so much of the world, so many varieties of women. Nina seems very original to us out here. I often wonder, well as I know her, what she will say and do next. Oh, Mr. Thorpe, does not that ship look beautiful?"

But Thorpe, who found a certain satisfaction in talking of the beloved object, gently led her back to her former theme, and learned much of Nina's childhood and school-girl pranks. There was no hint of the mystery, nor did he wish that there should be.

Shortly after supper they started on horseback for the Mission, the evening gear following in a wagon. Horses and conveyance had been sent by Don Tiburcio.

Nina rode between Mr. McLane and Captain Hastings, and kept them laughing heartily. The day had pa.s.sed and Thorpe had not had a word with her. He rode last, with Miss Hathaway, glad of her society; for she never expected a man to talk when he was not in the mood. Scarcely a word pa.s.sed between them; once or twice he had an uncomfortable impression that her large cold inscrutable eyes were watching him intently.

They rode through the heavy dusk of a Californian night, perfume and the odd abrupt sounds of the New World about them. The landscape took new form in the shadows. The stunted brush seemed to crouch and quiver, ready to spring. The owl hooted across the sandy waste; and coyotes yapped dismally. Many of the party were silent; but Nina's fresh spontaneous laugh rang out every few moments, striking an incongruous note. California itself was a mystery in that hour and did not consort with the lighter mood of woman.

Suddenly they looked down upon the Mission. The church was dark, but the long wing beside it flared with light. They rode rapidly down the hill and across the valley. As they approached, they saw Don Tiburcio standing on the corridor before one of the open doors. He wore black silk short clothes and a lace shirt, his hair tied back with a ribbon.

Diamonds blazed among his ruffles and on his long white hands.

As he was making one of his long and stately speeches, Miss Hathaway laid her hand on Thorpe's arm.

"Take my advice," she said, in her cool even tones. "Do not go near Nina to-night. Let her alone. I think she wishes it."

Thorpe made no reply. Miss Hathaway might as well have asked him to hold his breath until the entertainment was over.

The ladies went at once to a large room set aside for their use and donned their evening frocks. These frocks were very simple for the most part, organdie or swiss, and they were adjusted casually before the solitary mirror.

Nina's gown was of white nainsook ruffled to the waist with lace, and very full. The low cut bodice was gathered into the belt like a child's.

Sometime since a local goldsmith of much cunning had, out of a bar of native gold, fashioned for her three flexible serpents. She wore one through her hair, one on her left arm, and a heavier one about her waist.

"_Dios de mi alma_, Nina," exclaimed Mrs. Earle; "you look like an imp to-night. What is the matter with you? Your eyes look--look--I hardly know what you do look like."

"Are you well, Nina?" asked Miss Hathaway, turning and smiting the girl with her polaric stare. "Have not you a headache? Why not lie down and not bother with this ball?"

For a moment Nina did not reply. She brought her small teeth together, and looked into Miss Hathaway's eyes with pa.s.sionate resentment.

"Just mind your own business, will you?" she said, pitching her voice for the other woman's ear alone. "And you'd oblige me by transfixing some one else for the rest of the evening. I've had enough of your attentions for one day."

Then she shook out her skirts as only an angry woman can, and left the room.

"Nina is in one of her unpleasant moods to-night," said Mrs. McLane, attempting a glimpse of herself over Miss McDermott's shoulder, that she might adjust a hairpin. "I have not seen her like this for some time--seven weeks," and she smiled.

"She looks like a little devil," said Mrs. Earle. "I have not been here long enough to become intimate with her moods, and I must say I prefer her without them. What are you scowling about, 'Lupie? Is your sash crooked? Can I fix it? But I forgot: you are above such trifles--Holy Mary! Guadalupe Hathaway! what on earth is the matter with your back?"

"What?" asked Miss Hathaway, presenting her back squarely. There was a simultaneous chorus of shrieks.

"Guadalupe, for Heaven's sake, what have you been doing?" cried Mrs.

McLane. "Your back is striped--dark brown and white."

"Oh, is that all?" asked Miss Hathaway, gathering up her fan and gloves.