Neither of them spoke again for a while, and by and by a man came out of the house bearing an envelope upon a tray. Jacinta tore it open, and Muriel saw the blood surge to her face as she spread out the telegraphic message. Then the swift colour faded, and there was only a little angry glint in her eyes.
"It's from my father, and good news for you," she said. "Tell Muriel Austin was here. Salvage operations difficult, but he left Jefferson, who expects to be successful, well. Forwarding letter."
"Ah!" said Muriel, with a little gasp, "you don't know what a relief that is to me. But you seem almost angry."
Jacinta laughed a trifle harshly. "I almost think I am. It isn't exactly pleasant to find one's self mistaken, and I had expected something better from Mr. Austin. The difficulties he mentions were evidently too much for him. You were quite right, my dear. There are not many men like Jefferson."
Now Muriel Gascoyne had no very keen perceptions, and was, moreover, wrapped up in her own and Jefferson's affairs, or she might have seen that anger was not all that Jacinta was feeling. As it was, overcome by the relief the message had brought her, she quite failed to notice the pain in her companion's face or the quivering of her hands. In a minute or two Jacinta, who waited until she fancied she could do so without it appearing significant, rose and left her.
She, however, stopped on the terrace, and once more looked down on the glittering sea, with one hand closed at her side. Then, as though remembering something, she turned hastily.
"I could never have believed you were a coward—and you went out for me!" she said, and moved towards the hotel with a little air of resolution, as one who had made a painful decision.
CHAPTER XIX
CONDEMNED UNHEARD
A full moon hung over the white city, and the drowsy murmur of the surf broke fitfully through the music of the artillery band when Austin sat listlessly on a bench in the plaza of Santa Cruz. It was about eight o'clock in the evening, and the plaza was crowded, as usual at that hour. Peon and officer, merchant and clerk, paced slowly up and down, enjoying the cool of the evening with their wives and daughters, or sat in clusters outside the lighted cafés. The band was an excellent one, the crowd gravely good-humoured, and picturesquely attired, for white linen, pale-tinted draperies, sombre cloth, and green uniform formed patches of kaleidoscopic colouring as the stream of humanity flowed by under the glaring lamplight and the soft radiance of the moon.