The Press., 1898-08-04
Number 1S.

could see her moving about in the patio
before him and in the empty rooms,
with the little green lorito perched on
her shoulder and the sunshine lighting
up her blue black hair and the red rose
In itP She had always worn the deep
red roses in her dark hair after the first
time that he had noticed and admired
the adornment in his careless way. But
then in all ways she had tried to
please him. Not good woman, she had
been very unselfish-and she had loved
him. Perhaps, after all, if he had mar
ried her instead of coolly breaking to
her after their two years together the
fact of the other woman in England
the sweet, pure girl, his wife-she
would have staid with him to the last,
nursed him, held to him even in death.
Well, it was over with--it didn't mat
ter much anyway-the wife was pro-
vided for, and if he went under all
alone in this plague cursed town
buenol
And then, very tired and stupid, his
head aching horribly, he stretched him
self on the floor in the shade of the
lemon tree and dozed. In uneasy sleep
he passed off into unconsciousness, as is
the way with the tito. In another hour
he was quietly raving. The birds few
close and chirped at him curiously. A
few lizards, attracted by the warm sun
shine, crawled up and basked on the
edge of the patio near him. The sun,
going down, blazed furiously on him
and increased the fever heat, but there
was no one else.
Just about sundown, as the sun rays,
cooler now, fell athwart the patio and
the body of the delirious man, some one,
heavily perfumedand in rustling clothes,
came through the gate and the shrub
berry and stood in the doorway, looking
about her with fierce, scornful express
sion that slowly faded away as she
unused. Over there was the fountain
of which they had been SO proud. 1t
was dry and grass grown now. The
lemon bushes planted by them with SO
much tender care and pruned and low
ingly tended were now great rough
trees, unpruned and gnarly. Even the
big rosebush that they had planted SO
that she could always have red roses
was wild and struggling. Everything
dead, gonel One slow tear trickled
down her painted cheek as she looked
about and thought. These little mute
things-dowers and the like-will stir
even a nameless woman into remorse
and sorrow and even agony sometimes.
She turned to go, signing heavily.
But some impulse moved her. She
wanted to go back through the patio to
the room that had been hers. One look
at it would not hurt, as she was going
away that night. He was out of the
city, SO she had been told-in Provi-
denoia-with that white faced woman,
his wife. Nobody would know it if she
made fool of herself and cried and
wept in that room for little space.
When one has been fool and broken
ones own heart, one has to weep.
She very nearly stumbled over the
form of the man as she went. He was
still raving, but not violently, as he lay
there, and, strange to say, in Spanish.
Perhaps if it had been in his own Ian
guage she would not have cared. But
she listened, her heart wildly beating,
as he murmured word after word,
phrases in her own tongue. She listen
ed, and soon a thought struck her.
there was no mention of the other WON
an, his wife, the wife who had gone
away and left him when trouble and
plague came near. She listened-what
was it he was saying, in a thickened,
husky tone? Dolores, te amasl Do
lores, mi querida''- And then, over
and over again, sweet Spanish words,
always of Dolores. Dolores, not the
white woman Oh, thank Godl Then
he had not loved her after all-he had
married her, but his heart had been true
to the poor Mexican.
Sobbing now, with all the pent up
passion of many past months, the wom-
an leaned over and clasped the burning,
delirious form in her arms, pressing her
lips to the unconscious face and the un-
seeing eyes. She knew that it was too
late to check the fever now-nothing
could be done-there were no medioos,
no botica, no drugs, not even water,
nothing. He could only die. But she,
who had loved him best, could die with
him.
Months after, the plague extinct, two
skeletons were found in the patio of the
little cottage. One was identified as that
Of Harry Hastings, M. E., which was
fortunate for his widow in England.
Otherwise she could not have claimed
the life insurance policies. But they
were paid, and the little widow invest
ed quite a large sum in pretty, black
Grape gowns And she was SO fair and
childish and innocent and helpless in
her black robes of bereavement that an
other man, rich one, proposed for her
and married her. She lives comfortably
and at ease in beautiful English home.
So perhaps she is not to be pitied after
all.
And in the Campo Santo on the hill
in Guanajuato there is a grave where
lie together two skeletons, those Of
Harry Hastings and the unknown wom-
an who had died with him. They had
been so buried to save time. The head
stone, erected by the Cha Unida, says
simply, "Henry Hastings, aged 81" So
the erstwhile widow is not shocked by
the knowledge that Dolores lies there
too. Hewitt Darrell in Argonaut.