He arose from the seat he had taken and staggered away half a dozen steps, his hands still clinched. Then, as if remembering, he turned about so that he faced the man who had talked to him. Beyond loomed the ancient church in which Sylvia had said it would seem possible to find God. Was He there in reality, and was this one of His angels, strayed a little distance from His side? It was not the world’s wisdom that this man spoke, and yet how eternally true his words had been! A flock of pigeons flew over the plaza and disappeared in the western glow where the sun was setting. “Even a pigeon will sit by its mate and mourn....”
Harboro gazed at the man on the bench. His face moved strangely, as a dark pool will stir from the action of an undercurrent. He could not speak for a moment, and then he called back in a voice like a cry: “I thank you.”
“You are welcome—brother!” was the response. The man on the bench was smiling. He coughed a little, and wondered if the open-air treatment the physician had prescribed might not prove a bit heroic. When he looked about him again his late companion was gone.
Harboro was hurrying down toward the Rio Grande bridge. He was trying to put a curb on his emotions, on his movements. It would never do for him to hurry through the streets of Eagle Pass like a madman. He must walk circumspectly.
He was planning for the future. He would take Sylvia away—anywhere. They would begin their married life anew. He would take her beyond the ordinary temptations. They would live in a tent, an igloo, in the face of a cliff. He would take her beyond the reach of the old evil influences, where he could guide her back to the paths she had lost. He would search out some place where there was never a dun horse with golden dapples, and a rider who carried himself like a crier of God, carrying glad tidings across the world.
Yet he was never conscious of the manner in which he made that trying journey. He was recalled to self when he reached his own door. He realized that he was somewhat out of breath. The night had fallen and the house revealed but little light from the front. Through the door he could see that the dining-room was lighted. He tried the door stealthily and entered with caution. It would not do to startle Sylvia.
Ah—that was her voice in the dining-room. The telephone bell had sounded, just as he opened the door, and she was responding to the call.
Her voice seemed cold at first: “I didn’t catch the name.” And then it turned to a caress: “Oh, Mendoza—I didn’t hear at first. Of course, I want to see you.” There was now a note of perplexity in her tone, and then: “No, don’t come here. It would be better for me to see you at my father’s. In the afternoon.”
Harboro found himself leaning against the wall, his head in his hands. Mendoza! The town’s notorious philanderer, who had regarded Sylvia with insolent eyes that night out at the Quemado! Yes, and she had danced with him the minute his back was turned; danced with him with unconcealed joy. Mendoza....
He climbed the stairs slowly. He heard Sylvia’s footsteps as she moved away; into the kitchen, probably. He climbed stealthily, like a thief. He mustn’t permit Sylvia to hear him. He couldn’t see her now.