“What fools men are? Such small vanity guides them. To think that William should fling away happiness at the instigation of a reptile like Gasbang! And you, my sweet boy, my darling Clarence, how will this affect your happiness?” This thought gave her the keenest pain.
While Mrs. Darrell was thus sadly meditating, her angry lord was nearly choking with smothered rage—intensified a hundred fold by his disappointment at being left alone without his adored, worshipped Mary. Mrs. Darrell knew that her husband loved her, but she had never guessed that torrent of passion and devotion which rushed through that rugged nature like a river plunging from Yosemite hights into unknown abysmal depths.
Why would he not yield to her sweet entreaties to bathe and take his comfort? Was it all perverse obstinacy? Partly, yes. He had refused a warm bath and her sweet society, for the very reason that those two were the things he most desired on earth—he felt as if even his bones clamored for them. But there was yet another equally strong motive in that very complex nature—a motive stronger than obstinacy—compelling him in spite of himself, and this was his bashfulness. He feared that his wife might see the bruises on his arms and the heavy welt that he knew there must be around his body, made by the coil of the reata. He felt very sore, and his bruises became more painful, but he would rather die than let any one see his pitiful plight. And thus he sat up all night and would not undress, or go to bed, or be comforted.
Towards morning he walked to the window and looked into the valley, then his gaze wandered towards the Alamar house. All the windows had the shutters closed and no light was seen from them excepting one. He did not know what room that was or who occupied it, but unconsciously he watched it—watched the light he could see through the lace curtains. The light became intercepted at regular intervals; so he concluded that some one must be going and coming before that light. He smiled, hoping that the Don might be as miserable as he was—unable to sleep.
But the Don was sleeping. She who was awake, walking in her solitary vigil, was Mercedes. Those beautiful blue eyes had never closed in sleep all night.
She had been embroidering a mouchoir case for Clarence that unfortunate afternoon of Darrell's performance, when she heard loud talking in the piazza. At first she paid no attention to it and went on with her work, hoping that Clarence would return early, because her dream troubled her. The talking becoming louder, and more voices being heard, she felt alarmed, imagining that Clarence's horses had run away and he had been hurt. She went out to inquire.
The entire Alamar family, as well as Mrs. Mechlin, George and Lizzie, were in the veranda. All had seen Darrell's attempt and subsequent steeple-chase. Now Gabriel and Victoriano had returned and related what had passed in the hollow. Victoriano was again overcome with laughter, which, being so hearty and uncontrollable, became contagious. Even Gabriel and Mr. Mechlin, who were less disposed to indulge in hilarity, laughed a little. Mercedes was the only one who not even smiled. She did not understand a word of what was said. Gradually she began to comprehend, and she stood motionless, listening, her pale lips firmly compressed, her eyes only showing her agitation and how grieved she was; their dark-blue was almost black, and they glowed like stars.
“Cheer up, little pussy. When Clarence comes he will undeceive the old man, and all will be right,” said Don Mariano, putting his arms around her yielding form and drawing her to his heart.
“Palabra suelta, no tiene vuelta,” Doña Josefa said. “Darrell can never recall his insulting words.”
“But he can apologize for them,” Don Mariano said.