by Bret Harte
CHAPTER VI.
The astonishment of Preble Key on recognizing the gateway into whichthe mysterious lady had vanished was so great that he was at firstinclined to believe her entry THERE a mere trick of his fancy. Thatthe confederate of a gang of robbers should be admitted to the austererecesses of the convent, with a celerity that bespoke familiarity, wasincredible. He again glanced up and down the length of the shadowedbut still visible wall. There was no one there. The wall itselfcontained no break or recess in which one could hide, and this was theonly gateway. The opposite side of the street in the full moonlightstared emptily. No! Unless she were an illusion herself and his wholechase a dream, she MUST have entered here.
But the chase was not hopeless. He had at least tracked her to a placewhere she could be identified. It was not a hotel, which she couldleave at any moment unobserved. Though he could not follow her andpenetrate its seclusion now, he could later--thanks to his oldassociations with the padres of the contiguous college--gain anintroduction to the Lady Superior on some pretext. She was safe therethat night. He turned away with a feeling of relief. The incongruityof her retreat assumed a more favorable aspect to his hopes. He lookedat the hallowed walls and the slumbering peacefulness of the gnarledold trees that hid the convent, and a gentle reminiscence of his youthstole over him. It was not the first time that he had gazed wistfullyupon that chaste refuge where, perhaps, the bright eyes that he hadfollowed in the quaint school procession under the leafy Alameda in theafternoon, were at last closed in gentle slumber. There was the verygrille through which the wicked Conchita--or, was it Dolores?--had shother Parthian glance at the lingering student. And the man ofthirty-five, prematurely gray and settled in fortune, smiled as heturned away, and forgot the adventuress of thirty who had brought himthere.
The next morning he was up betimes and at the college of San Jose.Father Cipriano, a trifle more snuffy and aged, remembered with delighthis old pupil. Ah! it was true, then, that he had become a miningpresident, and that was why his hair was gray; but he trusted that DonPreble had not forgot that this was not all of life, and that fortunebrought great responsibilities and cares. But what was this, then? HeHAD thought of bringing out some of his relations from the States, andplacing a niece in the convent. That was good and wise. Ah, yes. Foreducation in this new country, one must turn to the church. And hewould see the Lady Superior? Ah! that was but the twist of one'sfinger and the lifting of a latch to a grave superintendent and a grayhead like that. Of course, he had not forgotten the convent and theyoung senoritas, nor the discipline and the suspended holidays. Ah! itwas a special grace of our Lady that he, Father Cipriano, had not beenworried into his grave by those foolish muchachos. Yet, when he hadextinguished a snuffy chuckle in his red bandana handkerchief, Key knewthat he would accompany him to the convent that noon.
It was with a slight stirring of shame over his elaborate pretext thathe passed the gate of the Sacred Heart with the good father. But it isto be feared that he speedily forgot that in the unexpected informationthat it elicited. The Lady Superior was gracious, and evenenthusiastic. Ah, yes, it was a growing custom of the Americancaballeros--who had no homes, nor yet time to create any--to bringtheir sisters, wards, and nieces here, and--with a dove-likeside-glance towards Key--even the young senoritas they wished to fitfor their Christian brides! Unlike the caballero, there were manybusiness men so immersed in their affairs that they could not find timefor a personal examination of the convent,--which was to beregretted,--but who, trusting to the reputation of the Sacred Heart andits good friends, simply sent the young lady there by some trustedfemale companion. Notably this was the case of the Senor Rivers,--didDon Preble ever know him?--a great capitalist in the Sierras, whosesweet young sister, a naive, ingenuous creature, was the pride of theconvent. Of course, it was better that it was so. Discipline andseclusion had to be maintained. The young girl should look upon thisas her home. The rules for visitors were necessarily severe. It wasrare indeed--except in a case of urgency, such as happened lastnight--that even a lady, unless the parent of a scholar, was admittedto the hospitality of the convent. And this lady was only the friendof that same sister of the American capitalist, although she was theone who had brought her there. No, she was not a relation. Perhaps DonPreble had heard of a Mrs. Barker,--the friend of Rivers of theSierras. It was a queer combination of names. But what will you? Thenames of Americanos mean nothing. And Don Preble knows them not. Ah!possibly?--good! The lady would be remembered, being tall, dark, andof fine presence, though sad. A few hours earlier and Don Preble couldhave judged for himself, for, as it were, she might have passed throughthis visitors' room. But she was gone--departed by the coach. It wasfrom a telegram--those heathen contrivances that blurt out things toyou, with never an excuse, nor a smile, nor a kiss of the hand! Forher part, she never let her scholars receive them, but opened themherself, and translated them in a Christian spirit, after duepreparation, at her leisure. And it was this telegram that made theSenora Barker go, or, without doubt, she would have of herself told tothe Don Preble, her compatriot of the Sierras, how good the convent wasfor his niece.
Stung by the thought that this woman had again evaded him, anddisconcerted and confused by the scarcely intelligible information hehad acquired, Key could with difficulty maintain his composure. "Thecaballero is tired of his long pasear," said the Lady Superior gently."We will have a glass of wine in the lodge waiting-room." She led theway from the reception room to the outer door, but stopped at the soundof approaching footsteps and rustling muslin along the gravel walk."The second class are going out," she said, as a gentle procession ofwhite frocks, led by two nuns, filed before the gateway. "We will waituntil they have passed. But the senor can see that my children do notlook unhappy."
They certainly looked very cheerful, although they had halted beforethe gateway with a little of the demureness of young people who knowthey are overlooked by authority, and had bumped against each otherwith affected gravity. Somewhat ashamed of his useless deception, andthe guileless simplicity of the good Lady Superior, Key hesitated andbegan: "I am afraid that I am really giving you too much trouble," andsuddenly stopped.
For as his voice broke the demure silence, one of the nearest--a younggirl of apparently seventeen--turned towards him with a quick and anapparently irresistible impulse, and as quickly turned away again. Butin that instant Key caught a glimpse of a face that might not only havethrilled him in its beauty, its freshness, but in some vaguesuggestiveness. Yet it was not that which set his pulses beating; itwas the look of joyous recognition set in the parted lips and sparklingeyes, the glow of childlike innocent pleasure that mantled the sweetyoung face, the frank confusion of suddenly realized expectancy andlonging. A great truth gripped his throbbing heart, and held it still.It was the face that he had seen in the hollow!
The movement of the young girl was too marked to escape the eye of theLady Superior, though she had translated it differently. "You must notbelieve our young ladies are all so rude, Don Preble," she said dryly;"though our dear child has still some of the mountain freedom. Andthis is the Senor Rivers's sister. But possibly--who knows?" she saidgently, yet with a sudden sharpness in her clear eyes,--"perhaps sherecognized in your voice a companion of her brother."
Luckily for Key, the shock had been so sudden and overpowering that heshowed none of the lesser symptoms of agitation or embarrassment. Inthis revelation of a secret, that he now instinctively felt was boundup with his own future happiness, he exhibited none of the signs of adiscovered intriguer or unmasked Lothario. He said quietly and coldly:"I am afraid I have not the pleasure of knowing the young lady, andcertainly have never before addressed her." Yet he scarcely heard hiscompanion's voice, and answered mechanically, seeing only before himthe vision of the girl's bewitching face, in its still more bewitchingconsciousness of his presence. With all that he now knew, or thoughthe knew, came a strange delicacy of asking further questions, a vaguefear of
compromising HER, a quick impatience of his present deception;even his whole quest of her seemed now to be a profanation, for whichhe must ask her forgiveness. He longed to be alone to recover himself.Even the temptation to linger on some pretext, and wait for her returnand another glance from her joyous eyes, was not as strong as hisconviction of the necessity of cooler thought and action. He had methis fate that morning, for good or ill; that was all he knew. As soonas he could decently retire, he thanked the Lady Superior, promised tocommunicate with her later, and taking leave of Father Cipriano, foundhimself again in the street.
Who was she, what was she, and what meant her joyous recognition ofhim? It is to be feared that it was the last question that affectedhim most, now that he felt that he must have really loved her from thefirst. Had she really seen him before, and had been as mysteriouslyimpressed as he was? It was not the reflection of a conceited man, forKey had not that kind of vanity, and he had already touched thehumility that is at the base of any genuine passion. But he would notthink of that now. He had established the identity of the other woman,as being her companion in the house in the hollow on that eventfulnight; but it was HER profile that he had seen at the window. Themysterious brother Rivers might have been one of the robbers,--perhapsthe one who accompanied Mrs. Barker to San Jose. But it was plain thatthe young girl had no complicity with the actions of the gang, whatevermight have been her companion's confederation. In the prescience of atrue lover, he knew that she must have been deceived and kept in utterignorance of it. There was no look of it in her lovely, guilelesseyes; her very impulsiveness and ingenuousness would have long sincebetrayed the secret. Was it left for him, at this very outset of hispassion, to be the one to tell her? Could he bear to see those frank,beautiful eyes dimmed with shame and sorrow? His own grew moist.Another idea began to haunt him. Would it not be wiser, even moremanly, for him--a man over twice her years--to leave her alone with hersecret, and so pass out of her innocent young life as chancefully as hehad entered it? But was it altogether chanceful? Was there not in herinnocent happiness in him a recognition of something in him better thanhe had dared to think himself? It was the last conceit of the humilityof love.
He reached his hotel at last, unresolved, perplexed, yet singularlyhappy. The clerk handed him, in passing, a business-looking letter,formally addressed. Without opening it, he took it to his room, andthrowing himself listlessly on a chair by the window again tried tothink. But the atmosphere of his room only recalled to him themysterious gift he had found the day before on his pillow. He felt nowwith a thrill that it must have been from HER. How did she convey itthere? She would not have intrusted it to Mrs. Barker. The ideastruck him now as distastefully as it seemed improbable. Perhaps shehad been here herself with her companion--the convent sometimes madethat concession to a relative or well-known friend. He recalled thefact that he had seen Mrs. Barker enter the hotel alone, after theincident of the opening door, while he was leaning over the balustrade.It was SHE who was alone THEN, and had recognized his voice; and he hadnot known it. She was out again to-day with the procession. A suddenidea struck him. He glanced quickly at the letter in his hand, andhurriedly opened it. It contained only three lines, in a large formalhand, but they sent the swift blood to his cheeks.
"I heard your voice to-day for the third time. I want to hear itagain. I will come at dusk. Do not go out until then."
He sat stupefied. Was it madness, audacity, or a trick? He summonedthe waiter. The letter had been left by a boy from the confectioner'sshop in the next block. He remembered it of old,--a resort for theyoung ladies of the convent. Nothing was easier than conveying aletter in that way. He remembered with a shock of disillusion anddisgust that it was a common device of silly but innocent assignation.Was he to be the ridiculous accomplice of a schoolgirl's extravagantescapade, or the deluded victim of some infamous plot of her infamouscompanion? He could not believe either; yet he could not check acertain revulsion of feeling towards her, which only a moment ago hewould have believed impossible.
Yet whatever was her purpose, he must prevent her coming there at anyhazard. Her visit would be the culmination of her folly, or thesuccess of any plot. Even while he was fully conscious of the materialeffect of any scandal and exposure to her, even while he was incensedand disillusionized at her unexpected audacity, he was unusuallystirred with the conviction that she was wronging herself, and thatmore than ever she demanded his help and his consideration. Still shemust not come. But how was he to prevent her? It wanted but an hourof dusk. Even if he could again penetrate the convent on some pretextat that inaccessible hour for visitors,--twilight,--how could hecommunicate with her? He might intercept her on the way, and persuadeher to return; but she must be kept from entering the hotel.
He seized his hat and rushed downstairs. But here another difficultybeset him. It was easy enough to take the ordinary road to theconvent, but would SHE follow that public one in what must be asurreptitious escape? And might she not have eluded the processionthat morning, and even now be concealed somewhere, waiting for thedarkness to make her visit. He concluded to patrol the block next tothe hotel, yet near enough to intercept her before she reached it,until the hour came. The time passed slowly. He loitered before shopwindows, or entered and made purchases, with his eye on the street.The figure of a pretty girl,--and there were many,--the flutteringribbons on a distant hat, or the flashing of a cambric skirt around thecorner sent a nervous thrill through him. The reflection of his grave,abstracted face against a shop window, or the announcement of theworkings of his own mine on a bulletin board, in its incongruity withhis present occupation, gave him an hysterical impulse to laugh. Theshadows were already gathering, when he saw a slender, graceful figuredisappear in the confectioner's shop on the block below. In hiselaborate precautions, he had overlooked that common trysting spot. Hehurried thither, and entered. The object of his search was not there,and he was compelled to make a shamefaced, awkward survey of the tablesin an inner refreshment saloon to satisfy himself. Any one of thepretty girls seated there might have been the one who had just entered,but none was the one he sought. He hurried into the street again,--hehad wasted a precious moment,--and resumed his watch. The sun hadsunk, the Angelus had rung out of a chapel belfry, and shadows weredarkening the vista of the Alameda. She had not come. Perhaps she hadthought better of it; perhaps she had been prevented; perhaps the wholeappointment had been only a trick of some day-scholars, who werelaughing at him behind some window. In proportion as he becameconvinced that she was not coming, he was conscious of a keen despairgrowing in his heart, and a sickening remorse that he had ever thoughtof preventing her. And when he at last reluctantly reentered thehotel, he was as miserable over the conviction that she was not comingas he had been at her expected arrival. The porter met him hurriedlyin the hall.
"Sister Seraphina of the Sacred Heart has been here, in a hurry to seeyou on a matter of importance," he said, eyeing Key somewhat curiously."She would not wait in the public parlor, as she said her business wasconfidential, so I have put her in a private sitting-room on yourfloor."
Key felt the blood leave his cheeks. The secret was out for all hisprecaution. The Lady Superior had discovered the girl's flight,--orher attempt. One of the governing sisterhood was here to arraign himfor it, or at least prevent an open scandal. Yet he was resolved; andseizing this last straw, he hurriedly mounted the stairs, determined todo battle at any risk for the girl's safety, and to perjure himself toany extent.
She was standing in the room by the window. The light fell upon thecoarse serge dress with its white facings, on the single girdle thatscarcely defined the formless waist, on the huge crucifix that dangledungracefully almost to her knees, on the hideous, white-winged coifthat, with the coarse but dense white veil, was itself a renunciationof all human vanity. It was a figure he remembered well as a boy, andeven in his excitement and half resentment touched him now, as when aboy, with a sense of i
ts pathetic isolation. His head bowed withboyish deference as she approached gently, passed him a slightsalutation, and closed the door that he had forgotten to shut behindhim.
Then, with a rapid movement, so quick that he could scarcely follow it,the coif, veil, rosary, and crucifix were swept off, and the youngpupil of the convent stood before him.
For all the sombre suggestiveness of her disguise and its ungracefulcontour, there was no mistaking the adorable little head, tumbled allover with silky tendrils of hair from the hasty withdrawal of her coif,or the blue eyes that sparkled with frank delight beneath them. Keythought her more beautiful than ever. Yet the very effect of herfrankness and beauty was to recall him to all the danger andincongruity of her position.
"This is madness," he said quickly. "You may be followed here anddiscovered in this costume at any moment!" Nevertheless, he caught thetwo little hands that had been extended to him, and held them tightly,and with a frank familiarity that he would have wondered at an instantbefore.
"But I won't," she said simply. "You see I'm doing a 'half-retreat';and I stay with Sister Seraphina in her room; and she always sleeps twohours after the Angelus; and I got out without anybody knowing me, inher clothes. I see what it is," she said, suddenly bending areproachful glance upon him, "you don't like me in them. I knowthey're just horrid; but it was the only way I could get out."
"You don't understand me," he said eagerly. "I don't like you to runthese dreadful risks and dangers for"--He would have said "for me," butadded with sudden humility--"for nothing. Had I dreamed that you caredto see me, I would have arranged it easily without this indiscretion,which might make others misjudge you. Every instant that you remainhere--worse, every moment that you are away from the convent in thatdisguise, is fraught with danger. I know you never thought of it."
"But I did," she said quietly; "I thought of it, and thought that ifSister Seraphina woke up, and they sent for me, you would take me awaywith you to that dear little hollow in the hills, where I first heardyour voice. You remember it, don't you? You were lost, I think, inthe darkness, and I used to say to myself afterwards that I found you.That was the first time. Then the second time I heard you, was here inthe hall. I was alone in the other room, for Mrs. Barker had gone out.I did not know you were here, but I knew your voice. And the thirdtime was before the convent gate, and then I knew you knew me. Andafter that I didn't think of anything but coming to you; for I knewthat if I was found out, you would take me back with you, and perhapssend word to my brother where we were, and then"-- She stoppedsuddenly, with her eyes fixed on Key's blank face. Her own grew blank,the joy faded out of her clear eyes, she gently withdrew her hand fromhis, and without a word began to resume her disguise.
"Listen to me," said Key passionately. "I am thinking only of YOU. Iwant to, and WILL, save you from any blame,--blame you do notunderstand even now. There is still time. I will go back to theconvent with you at once. You shall tell me everything; I will tellyou everything on the way."
She had already completely resumed her austere garb, and drew the veilacross her face. With the putting on her coif she seemed to haveextinguished all the joyous youthfulness of her spirit, and moved withthe deliberateness of renunciation towards the door. They descended thestaircase without a word. Those who saw them pass made way for themwith formal respect.
When they were in the street, she said quietly, "Don't give me yourarm--Sisters don't take it." When they had reached the street corner,she turned it, saying, "This is the shortest way."
It was Key who was now restrained, awkward, and embarrassed. The fireof his spirit, the passion he had felt a moment before, had gone out ofhim, as if she were really the character she had assumed. He said atlast desperately:--
"How long did you live in the hollow?"
"Only two days. My brother was bringing me here to school, but in thestage coach there was some one with whom he had quarreled, and hedidn't want to meet him with me. So we got out at Skinner's, and cameto the hollow, where his old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Barker, lived."
There was no hesitation nor affectation in her voice. Again he feltthat he would as soon have doubted the words of the Sister sherepresented as her own.
"And your brother--did you live with him?"
"No. I was at school at Marysville until he took me away. I sawlittle of him for the past two years, for he had business in themountains--very rough business, where he couldn't take me, for it kepthim away from the settlements for weeks. I think it had something todo with cattle, for he was always having a new horse. I was all alonebefore that, too; I had no other relations; I had no friends. We hadalways been moving about so much, my brother and I. I never saw anyone that I liked, except you, and until yesterday I had only HEARD you."
Her perfect naivete alternately thrilled him with pain and doubt. Inhis awkwardness and uneasiness he was brutal.
"Yes, but you must have met somebody--other men--here even, when youwere out with your schoolfellows, or perhaps on an adventure like this."
Her white coif turned towards him quickly. "I never wanted to knowanybody else. I never cared to see anybody else. I never would havegone out in this way but for you," she said hurriedly. After a pauseshe added in a frightened tone: "That didn't sound like your voicethen. It didn't sound like it a moment ago either."
"But you are sure that you know my voice," he said, with affectedgayety. "There were two others in the hollow with me that night."
"I know that, too. But I know even what you said. You reproved themfor throwing a lighted match in the dry grass. You were thinking of usthen. I know it."
"Of US?" said Key quickly.
"Of Mrs. Barker and myself. We were alone in the house, for my brotherand her husband were both away. What you said seemed to forewarn me,and I told her. So we were prepared when the fire came nearer, and weboth escaped on the same horse."
"And you dropped your shoes in your flight," said Key laughingly, "andI picked them up the next day, when I came to search for you. I havekept them still."
"They were HER shoes," said the girl quickly, "I couldn't find mine inour hurry, and hers were too large for me, and dropped off." Shestopped, and with a faint return of her old gladness said, "Then youDID come back? I KNEW you would."
"I should have stayed THEN, but we got no reply when we shouted. Whywas that?" he demanded suddenly.
"Oh, we were warned against speaking to any stranger, or even beingseen by any one while we were alone," returned the girl simply.
"But why?" persisted Key.
"Oh, because there were so many highwaymen and horse-stealers in thewoods. Why, they had stopped the coach only a few weeks before, andonly a day or two ago, when Mrs. Barker came down. SHE saw them!"
Key with difficulty suppressed a groan. They walked on in silence forsome moments, he scarcely daring to lift his eyes to the decorouslittle figure hastening by his side. Alternately touched by mistrustand pain, at last an infinite pity, not unmingled with a desperateresolution, took possession of him.
"I must make a confession to you, Miss Rivers," he began with thebashful haste of a very boy, "that is"--he stammered with a halfhysteric laugh,--"that is--a confession as if you were really a sisteror a priest, you know--a sort of confidence to you--to your dress. IHAVE seen you, or THOUGHT I saw you before. It was that which broughtme here, that which made me follow Mrs. Barker--my only clue to you--tothe door of that convent. That night, in the hollow, I saw a profileat the lighted window, which I thought was yours."
"I never was near the window," said the young girl quickly. "It musthave been Mrs. Barker."
"I know that now," returned Key. "But remember, it was my only clue toyou. I mean," he added awkwardly, "it was the means of my finding you."
"I don't see how it made you think of me, whom you never saw, to seeanother woman's profile," she retorted, with the faintest touch ofasperity in her childlike voice. "But," she added, more gently andwith a relapse
into her adorable naivete, "most people's profiles lookalike."
"It was not that," protested Key, still awkwardly, "it was only that Irealized something--only a dream, perhaps."
She did not reply, and they continued on in silence. The gray wall ofthe convent was already in sight. Key felt he had achieved nothing.Except for information that was hopeless, he had come to no nearerunderstanding of the beautiful girl beside him, and his future appearedas vague as before; and, above all, he was conscious of an inferiorityof character and purpose to this simple creature, who had obeyed him sosubmissively. Had he acted wisely? Would it not have been better if hehad followed her own frankness, and--
"Then it was Mrs. Barker's profile that brought you here?" resumed thevoice beneath the coif. "You know she has gone back. I suppose youwill follow?"
"You will not understand me," said Key desperately. "But," he added ina lower voice, "I shall remain here until you do."
He drew a little closer to her side.
"Then you must not begin by walking so close to me," she said, movingslightly away; "they may see you from the gate. And you must not gowith me beyond that corner. If I have been missed already they willsuspect you."
"But how shall I know?" he said, attempting to take her hand. "Let mewalk past the gate. I cannot leave you in this uncertainty."
"You will know soon enough," she said gravely, evading his hand. "Youmust not go further now. Good-night."
She had stopped at the corner of the wall. He again held out his hand.Her little fingers slid coldly between his.
"Good-night, Miss Rivers."
"Stop!" she said suddenly, withdrawing her veil and lifting her cleareyes to his in the moonlight. "You must not say THAT--it isn't thetruth. I can't bear to hear it from YOUR lips, in YOUR voice. My nameis NOT Rivers!"
"Not Rivers--why?" said Key, astounded.
"Oh, I don't know why," she said half despairingly; "only my brotherdidn't want me to use my name and his here, and I promised. My name is'Riggs'--there! It's a secret--you mustn't tell it; but I could notbear to hear YOU say a lie."
"Good-night, Miss Riggs," said Key sadly.
"No, nor that either," she said softly. "Say Alice."
"Good-night, Alice."
She moved on before him. She reached the gate. For a moment herfigure, in its austere, formless garments, seemed to him to even stoopand bend forward in the humility of age and self-renunciation, and shevanished within as into a living tomb.
Forgetting all precaution, he pressed eagerly forward, and stoppedbefore the gate. There was no sound from within; there had evidentlybeen no challenge nor interruption. She was safe.
