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Page 47
A wretched woman she was now--but once the belle and beauty of the fair
Cuban town where Castrani's childhood and youth had been spent. She had
been a beautiful orphan, adopted by his parents, and brought up almost as
his sister. Perhaps, in those days, when they played together under the
soft Southern skies, he knew no difference.
Now she was dying. So said the message. Dying, and burdened with a
secret which she could confess to no ears save his. Before, when he had
gone to her, she had rallied after his arrival, and had declined making
confession. She should never speak of it, she said, until her death was
sure. But when she felt dissolution drawing nigh, she should send for
him again. And the summons had come. He obeyed it in haste, and one night
just before sunset, he stood by her bedside.
Once, she had been beautiful, with such beauty as a pure complexion,
black eyes, raven hair and perfect features confer; but now she was a
wreck. The pure, transparent complexion was pale as marble--the brilliant
eyes sunken--the magnificent hair bleached white as the wintry snow.
She welcomed him brokenly, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of
seeing him--and then the light faded away, leaving her even more ghastly
than before.
"They tell me I am dying," she said, hoarsely. "Do you think so?"
He smoothed back the hair on the forehead--damp already with the dews of
death. His look assured her better than the words he could not bring
himself to speak.
"My poor Arabel!"
"Arabel! Who calls me Arabel?" she asked, dreamily. "I have not heard
that name since _he_ spoke it! What a sweet voice he had! O, _so_
sweet!--but falser than Satan! O Louis, Louis! if we could go back to the
old days among the orange groves, before I sinned--when we were innocent
little children!"
"It is all over now, Arabel. You were tempted; but God is good to
forgive, if repentance is sincere."
"O, I _have_ repented! I have, indeed! And I have prayed as well as I
knew how. But my crimes are so fearful! You are sure that Christ is very
merciful?"
"Very merciful, Arabel."
"More merciful, more gentle and loving than our best friends, Louis?"
"He forgave those who crucified Him."
"O, if I could only trust Him--if I only could!"
She clasped her hands, and her pale lips moved in prayer, though there
was no audible word.
"Let me hold your hand, Louis. It gives me strength. And you were always
a friend so true and steadfast. How happy we were in those dear old
days--you, and Inez, and I! Ah, Inez--Inez! She died in her sweet
innocence, loving and beloved--died by violence; but she never lived
to suffer from the falsity of those she loved! Well, she is in
paradise--God rest her!"
The dark eyes of Castrani grew moist. There arose before him a picture of
the fair young girl he had loved--the gentle-eyed Inez--the confiding
young thing he was to have married, had not the hand of a cruel jealousy
cut short her brief existence. Arabel saw his emotion, and pressed his
hand in hers, so cold and icy.
"You have suffered also, Louis, but not as I have suffered--O, no! O, the
days before _he_ came--_he_, the destroyer! What a handsome face he had,
and how he flattered me! Flattered my foolish pride, until, deserting
home and friends, I fled with him across the seas! To Paris--beautiful,
frivolous, crime-imbued Paris. I am so faint and tired, Louis! Give me a
drink, from the wineglass."
He put it to her lips; she swallowed greedily, and resumed:
"I have written out my history fully. Why, I hardly know, for there are
none but you, Louis, who will feel an interest in the poor outcast. But
something has impelled me to write it, and when I am dead, you will find
it there in that desk, sealed and directed to yourself. Maybe you will
never open it, for if my strength does not desert me, I shall tell you
all that you will care to know, with my own lips. I want to watch your
face, as I go on, and see if you condemn me. You are sure God is more
merciful than man?"
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