A Vendetta of the Hills

CHAPTER XXXI – Shadows of the Past

IN a little summer-house at the edge of the rose garden of La Siesta, Tia Teresa was seated all alone. She was awaiting the coming of Mr. Robles to a rendezvous which he had arranged by a confidential message sent on the previous evening. It wanted some time yet of the appointed hour, but in her state of deep emotion and repressed excitement she had gladly sought the solitude of this secluded corner. Deep in thought, her mind was divided between the faraway past and the near-impending future.

Each recurring year this day to her had always been a sad and tragic anniversary. In the early hours of the morning she had been to the old Mexican cemetery on the hillside, and had bedecked with flowers the grave marked by the marble cross bearing the single word “Hermana,” also the graves close by of the parents of Don Manuel and Rosetta, the children she had nursed and tended and fondled from infancy to early manhood and womanhood, through twenty years of unalloyed happiness until the gringo had come, the ancestral acres had been filched away, and dishonor and death been brought to the slumbrously peaceful home.

And from that slumbrous peace what a sudden and terrible change! On this day thirty years ago poor little Rosetta had been found done to death beneath the precipice at Comanche Point. No less done to death by the shock and shame of the pitiful story thus revealed, the aged parents of the beautiful young girl were, within a few days, sleeping their long last sleep by her side in the churchyard on the hill. A whole family blighted and withered as by the blast of some death-laden sirocco.

Then had followed the years of terror during which Don Manuel, the White Wolf, the dreaded outlaw, had wreaked his vengeance on the whole race of gringos. She had never seen him all through that time, although at intervals money had reached her by Pierre Luzon’s trusted hand, enabling her to maintain herself in the little Mexican village near the old fort of Tejon. At last had come the fight when the band of outlaws had been finally dispersed, Pierre Luzon wounded and dragged away to serve the rest of his days in prison, Don Manuel vanished like a wraith in the mist, gone where no man could tell.

But through the years that succeeded, Tia Teresa had known that he lived – had known in her heart of hearts that he would live until the vendetta he had sworn against Ben Thurston would be accomplished. The remittances that arrived from time to time, first from Spain, then from England, needed no signature to show that they were from her young master of former years and that he still held his faithful old nurse in affectionate remembrance. And at last had come the crowning surprise of all.

Tia Teresa had been bidden to come to Los Angeles by a letter which bore a strange signature, but the handwriting of which she had immediately recognized. And there, in a fine home beneath the foothills that skirt the city to the north, she had found Don Manuel again, much older in manner than by lapse of years – quiet, reserved, tinged with a sadness of which she knew the cause, but happy withal, for he was married to a beautiful English girl and had a little baby daughter. And as nurse to this child Tia Teresa, to her great joy, was promptly installed.

Thus again she had become the trusted servant in Don Manuel’s home, the only one around him possessing his full confidence and knowing the secret story of his past. For, amid these changed surroundings, his name was Ricardo Robles, his standing that of a Spaniard or Mexican of wealth, of scholarly tastes, and devoted to the seclusion of his home with its spacious surrounding gardens.

Their next door neighbors were an English family named Darlington, Mrs. Darlington and Mrs. Robles having been life-long friends. And here, too, was another tiny child in the home, likewise a daughter.

Seated in the summer-house, Tia Teresa was going over in her mind the whole chain of happenings – the new era that had dawned and had brought the hope of restored and abiding happiness for Don Manuel. But it had been fated not so to be. Within a year his young wife had died, his child was motherless, he himself, if not alone in the world, was broken-hearted. For a spell he had fits of brooding, then all of a sudden he had sold the home that could only henceforth be for him a place of saddening memories.

His daughter Merle, taking her English mother’s maiden name of Farnsworth, was transferred to the loving care of Mrs. Darlington. Thus had it come about that Grace Darlington and Merle Farnsworth had been brought up as sisters, with Tia Teresa their nurse, and in later years their devoted attendant.

Ricardo Robles had resolved to travel, but Tia Teresa had quickly divined that the vendetta was again in his heart. For no other reason could he have decided on masking the paternity of his infant daughter by giving her the maternal name. And from Tia Teresa Don Manuel had no secret to conceal. “Yes.” He had sworn he would hunt Ben Thurston through Europe, and it was to protect the future life of his child from any association with future consequences of the blood feud that he had handed her over to his friends under their solemn promise that, as Merle grew up, she should never know anything more than that both her parents had died.

So once again Don Manuel had gone his way and disappeared. Some years later the Darlington home had been transferred to England, where Mr. Darlington had fallen heir to some ancestral estates. Again, after a lapse of years, another change had occurred – Mr. Darlington dying, and Mrs. Darlington being left a widow in the big, now gloomy, English country-house, with Grace and Merle approaching young womanhood, and all of them, Tia Teresa included, longing again for the sunshine of California.

Intermittently during those years in England, Ricardo Robles had visited his friends, but the secret about his real relationship to Merle had always been preserved. Both daughters in the home had been brought up alike to regard him simply as a dear and valued friend, whose comings brought much happiness to their lives in the shape of gifts which preserved fond memories during his prolonged spells of absence.

And while the little family was still plunged in deep sorrow for the death of Mr. Darlington, Mr. Robles had reappeared as the messenger of great joy. For he brought the news that the beautiful rancho of La Siesta, lying in mid-California, among the foothills of the Tejon Valley, had been purchased for the express purpose that the widow and children should make it their future place of abode. In this way had come about the return to the land which each and all already loved best and regarded as truly “home.”

“Five years ago!” murmured Tia Teresa pensively. And they had been all so happy here, the young girls growing up with every accomplishment money and the best governesses could bestow, Don Manuel not far away watching the progress and developing beauty of his daughter, always hovering near for acts of helpful kindness.

Five years of placid enjoyment, of unbroken tranquility, till all of a sudden the old enemy had returned and all the rankling wounds of the old vendetta had been reopened!

In the Spanish soul of Tia Teresa there was bitter hate still, and fierce joy even now that the hour of retribution was approaching – that at last after all those years her little Rosetta would be avenged. Yet time had had some mellowing influences, for in her musings now she experienced a vague sense of uneasiness for possible consequences that in former times had never for a moment been tolerated. The true spirit of the vendetta had always been in her very blood – strike when you can, without thought of what may happen next.

But now she was thinking of coming happenings – of sorrow perhaps for Merle, of the undoubted danger for Don Manuel himself.

And while thus she conned the chances, her head bent in deep meditation, her eyes half closed, Ricardo Robles, approaching with noiseless step, stood by her side and laid an affectionate hand upon her shoulder.

“I have come, Tia Teresa,” he said simply, as he sat down at the edge of the little rustic table.

CHAPTER XXXII – Forebodings

FOR this last hour, Don Manuel,” she said, placing a hand on his, “I have been going over all the long story of the past, from the days when you were a little boy and Rosetta was suckled at my bosom. Why should I not have loved her?” asked the old duenna almost fiercely. “Why should I not love her still?” she added, in a lower tone, as she bowed her head and covered her eyes with her disengaged hand. “There is love that can never die, Don Manuel.”

“Nor should we wish it otherwise,” he said gently, caressing the hand extended toward him. “And this very night our undying love for dear little Rosetta will be proved – tonight at last she will be avenged.”

With a start Tia Teresa sat erect.

“Then it is all arranged?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, all finally arranged,” was his quiet rejoinder. “We meet this evening on Comanche Point – the place where I have always vowed he should answer for his crime. And you remember what day this is?”

“I remember – can I ever forget? – the very day we found her dead beneath the cliff.”

“The very day, Tia Teresa. So my vengeance will be complete. Before now I could have shot him a dozen times. But he would never have known that his death was by my hand. Tonight, however, he will know. And he will realize that the vendetta is the law of God – an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; his life, so precious to himself, for hers so dear to us in the happy old-time days.”

“But you, Don Manuel?” she asked fearfully.

“It does not matter much about me,” he answered. “But all the same I have come to speak a little in regard to myself. Tonight Ben Thurston assuredly will die, and should I perish with him, the story of the vendetta cannot fail to be revived and the identity of the recluse, Ricardo Robles, with Don Manuel, the outlaw, will be established. This will come as a great shock to all my dear friends at La Siesta – to Mrs. Darlington as well as to Grace and Merle. But this counts for little – the name of Don Manuel is just as honorable a name as that of Robles. And you can tell them further that all the loot I ever took from the gringos lies today untouched in Joaquin Murietta’s cave. I sullied my hands with none of it. I was made rich by the sale of, my ancestral estates in Spain. And that wealth the law cannot confiscate, for I have been only its trustee during all those years. Everything I possess has been vested from the first in the names of Merle Farnsworth and Grace Darlington.”

“Grace as well?” murmured Tia Teresa, enquiringly.

“Certainly, for I love both the girls dearly; there is ample to divide between them, and by ranking them together I guard Merle from the thought that I was anything more to her than to Grace. To both alike I was just a deeply attached friend.” He paused a moment, then regarded Tia Teresa fixedly. “For my little girl must never know that her father was an outlaw, with a price on his head; yes, with blood on his hands, if it is only the blood of the worthless Thurston breed.”

“That is no stain – it is an honor – it is a duty that you owed,” exclaimed the duenna with fervency, her hands clenched against her bosom as she spoke.

“You understand – we understand the vendetta, you and I, Tia Teresa. But the Americanos do not understand. And I have brought up my little girl as an American, for her own happiness I long ago realized. So she would never understand. When she comes to know that her old friend Ricardo Robles was Don Manuel de Valencia as well, she will breathe a gentle prayer of rest for his soul. But she will not be distressed by the knowledge that her father was the bandit and outlaw – she will not have to face the cruel world with that stigma attached to her name. For that I have contrived, for that I have suffered the dumb agony of childlessness all these years.”

“And that, in God’s name,” exclaimed Tia Teresa, “is part of the price Ben Thurston, thrice accursed, has to pay.”

“And tonight will pay,” responded Don Manuel, determinedly. “But I speak of all this just to put you on your guard. It will be necessary for me to say something to Mrs. Darlington as well. I have brought for her the papers that will establish the rights of Merle and Grace to all I leave behind.” As he spoke he touched his coat where the shape of a packet in an inner pocket showed.

“Your will?”

“No. As I have explained, I require no will. The property is theirs already. And I do not need to tell you, my dear Tia Teresa, my beloved friend, that you, too, have not been forgotten.” As he spoke he raised her hand and pressed it reverently to his lips.

“Don’t speak like that, Don Manuel,” she protested.

“I know that all I owe to you can never be repaid,” he continued, humbly, gratefully – “the devoted life-service for me and for Rosetta and our beloved parents as well.”

Again he kissed her hand, and this time she accepted the seal of his high-souled and chivalrous regard. There were tears in her eyes now.

“But, Don Manuel, you need not die tonight. Death for him – that is right. But why for you?”

“Perhaps not for me – most certainly,” he replied with a little, reassuring smile. “Oh, do not imagine that I deliberately court death for tonight. On the contrary, I have all my plans carefully laid. An automobile is ready for the road, and I have a yacht waiting for me at a quiet spot on the coast, and if all is well, by tomorrow’s dawn Pierre and I will be on the ocean. No one around here except at La Siesta will miss Ricardo Robles, and if the name of Don Manuel is associated with the death of Ben Thurston, only once more will the White Wolf have strangely disappeared just as he used to do in the old times.”

He was laughing, not loudly, but just with carefree, almost joyous triumph, as he rose to say good-bye.

“Then, Tia Teresa, if events work out just as I have planned, we may all meet again, somewhere, somehow – I cannot say more at present. For I shall be happy to see my little girl happy in her married love, and later on I shall close my eyes contentedly when I can feel assured that nothing from the past will ever emerge to spoil her life or bring to her distress of mind.”

Tia Teresa, too, had arisen.

“God grant it may be so,” she fervently exclaimed. “But somehow my mind misgives me. Today I am softened as I have never been before. Even for the sake of our dear Rosetta in Heaven I feel inclined to plead with you to let Thurston go his way and the vendetta be forgotten.” And she clung to his arm imploringly.

“Never!” cried Don Manuel, putting her gently but resolutely aside. “That can never be, Tia Teresa. You know it. A vow sworn over my wronged and murdered sister’s grave, over the graves of my parents as well, must be fulfilled. To break it at the very moment when it is in my power to give it fulfillment would be the act of a coward – a sacrilege that could never be atoned. No more words like that. I must not even listen.”

She was sobbing as she dropped back into her chair. Her silence was the confession that she was powerless to argue against the unwritten law of the vendetta.

“So I kiss you good-bye for the present, Tia Teresa.” He suited the action to the word, and, stooping, saluted her first on one cheek, then on the other. “Be your old brave and resolute self again. Where shall I find Mrs. Darlington?”

“Alone in her boudoir. This is her day for correspondence,” replied the duenna, resolutely striving to repress her tears.

“Then I’ll leave you here. Let your best wishes go with me.”

Almost lightly he touched her hand and was gone, disappearing among the roses.

Tia Teresa bowed her head across her folded arms. She was thinking not of the past now, but solely of the future.

“How would it all end?”

CHAPTER XXXIII – Old Friends

AM glad to find you alone,” spoke Mr. Robles, as he advanced into the subdued light of Mrs. Darlington’s boudoir.

She was seated at her escritoire. Around her were letters lying open for answer, others sealed and ready for the mail, also sundry books of account which indicated that the chatelaine of La Siesta was a business woman who paid attention to the running of her household and the management of her estate.

“Always so pleased to see you,” she replied, as she rose to give her visitor welcome.

“Pray, keep your seat, Mrs. Darlington. You form an attractive picture – the lady who is not too much of a lady to neglect her correspondence and her business affairs. And it is about some business matters that I have come to talk with you this evening.”

She smiled pleasedly over the compliment paid in the old-fashioned courtly style of the true Spanish grandee. She herself always suggested the old-time, old-world lady of fashion – one belonging to the old lace and sweet lavender era that has so nearly passed away.

“Business matters?” echoed Mrs. Darlington. “That sounds quite serious. We have had no cause to talk business for years and years. La Siesta has certainly justified its name.”

“But even the most pleasant siesta must in time come to an end,” he replied with a grave smile. “There are things in this world that must be accomplished – calls of duty that interfere sadly with continuous repose. I am leaving tonight on a journey – perhaps a long journey,” he added slowly and thoughtfully.

“Oh, going abroad? The wanderlust again? That’s too bad. We shall all miss you so much.” She spoke the words with real concern in her tone and in her eyes.

“Not exactly the wanderlust,” he responded. “But there is a certain task I must perform. And it takes me away – far away from your delightful La Siesta.”

“And for a long time?”

“That will be decided by events. I shall write you a long letter when once I am on the ocean. Meanwhile there are certain documents I wish to leave in your charge, my good kind friend.”

He drew the packet from the breast pocket of his coat. “They are important papers, and I wish them to be locked in your safe.”

“Under seal, I see,” she remarked, indicating the big circle of wax that closed the cover.

“Yes, sealed with my signet,” he answered, touching the ring on his finger. “But all the same I wish you to know the nature of their contents. That is why I have sought this little private talk.”

Silently she settled herself to listen, and he went on:

“You are aware that many years ago I sold out all my interests in Spain – lands and flocks and mines. Well, except for the money I used in building and furnishing my home, I invested the whole amount so realized in British Government bonds. But not in my own name. They stand in the names of Merle Farnsworth and Grace Darlington.”

Mrs. Darlington showed some surprise.

“Merle, of course. But why Grace, Mr. Robles? I need not tell you that she is already well provided for.”

“That I fully understand. But I preferred it so. To me both children were very dear, and have always continued to be very dear. There was more than a sufficiency to divide. I wished them to share my patrimony, even though the one might have a greater claim on me than the other. But it was precisely, to guard against such a thought occurring to the mind of any outsider that I have treated Merle and Grace exactly alike. The secret that Merle is my daughter is known only to you and Tia Teresa and me, and, as I have always wished, it must be kept from Merle herself and from all others – now, more than ever,” he added after a little pause.

“I have never sought to pry into this mystery,” replied Mrs. Darlington. “You had valid reasons for it, I well understood. But I was glad for the wee baby’s sake to take her to my heart – the child of the dearest friend of my girlhood days. And it was nice, too, for her to have her mother’s maiden name – Merle Farnsworth. So, from the very first, I loved her just as much as my own baby, Grace.”

“That I know,” said Robles, gratefully touching her hand. “I can never adequately thank you for the mother love you have so generously bestowed on my child. And I have always been grateful, too, for the chivalrous manner in which you have never sought to have me explain my actions in this matter – my virtual separation from the daughter whom, while hiding our relationship, I have loved all through her young life with passionate devotion.”

Mr. Robles was deeply moved. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand. In sympathy, Mrs. Darlington also was greatly affected.

“You have been the best of fathers to Merle,” she said in a trembling voice, “even though Merle little dreams of what she really means to your life. But oh, Mr. Robles, how often have I not pitied you when I have seen you restraining in her presence the natural impulses of your heart!”

“It was my duty,” he replied, regaining his composure by stern self-command and sitting erect again. “My bounden duty to her,” he added, resolutely. “So, as you have so kindly done before, we shall leave that subject alone. You call it a mystery. Be it so. Just let it abide a mystery to the end. Now, Mrs. Darlington,” he went on in a changed tone, “please lock up these papers. If I ever want them again I shall come to you. But if anything should happen to me, the seal is to be broken. You are my trustee. But there is no troublesome will to prove and execute. As I have already indicated, all the property I die possessed of, all the property that is inalienably and rightfully mine, including my home on the hill – everything is already apportioned between Merle and Grace, and stands in their names by a deed that dates back almost to their days of infancy.”