With it came a craving for peace and rest so insidious that in some vague fear of yielding to it he quickened his pace, as if to increase his distance from the church and its apostle.He was almost out of breath when he reached the summit, and turned to look back upon the Mission buildings and the straggling street of the pueblo, which now for the first time he saw skirted the wall of the garden in its descent towards the sea.He had not known the full extent of Todos Santos before; when he swam ashore he had landed under a crumbling outwork of the fort; he gazed now with curious interest over the hamlet that might have been his home.He looked over the red-tiled roofs, and further on to the shining bay, shut in by the impenetrable rampart of fog.He might have found rest and oblivion here but for the intrusion of those fellow-passengers to share his exile and make it intolerable.How he hated and loathed them all! Yet the next moment he found himself scrutinizing the street and plaza below him for a glimpse of his countrywomen, whom he knew were still in the town or vainly endeavoring to locate their habitation among the red-tiled roofs.
And that frank, clear-eyed girl--Miss Keene!--she who had seemed to vaguely pity him--she was somewhere here too--selected by the irony of fate to be his confederate! He could not help thinking of her beauty and kindness now, with a vague curiosity that was half an uneasiness.It had not struck him before, but if he were to accept the ridiculous attitude forced upon him by Todos Santos, its absurdity, as well as its responsibility, would become less odious by sharing it with another.Perhaps it might be to HER advantage--and if so, would he be justified in exposing its absurdity? He would have to see her first--and if he did, how would he explain his real position? A returning wave of bitterness threw him back into his old despair.
The twilight had slowly gathered over the view as he gazed--or, rather a luminous concentration above the pueblo and bay had left the outer circle of fog denser and darker.Emboldened by the apparent desertion of the Embarcadero, he began to retrace his steps down the slope, keeping close to the wall so as to avoid passing before the church again, or a closer contact with the gardener among the vines.In this way he reached the path he had skirted the night before, and stopped almost under the shadow of the Alcalde's house.It was here he had rested and hidden,--here he had tasted the first sweets of isolation and oblivion in the dreamy garden,--here he had looked forward to peace with the passing of the ship,--and now? The sound of voices and laughter suddenly grated upon his ear.He had heard those voices before.
Their distinctness startled him until he became aware that he was standing before a broken, half-rotting door that permitted a glimpse of the courtyard of the neighboring house.He glided quickly past it without pausing, but in that glimpse beheld Mrs.
Brimmer and Miss Chubb half reclining in the corridor--in the attitude he had often seen them on the deck of the ship--talking and laughing with a group of Mexican gallants.A feeling of inconceivable loathing and aversion took possession of him.Was it to THIS he was returning after his despairing search for oblivion?
Their empty, idle laughter seemed to ring mockingly in his ears as he hurried on, scarce knowing whither, until he paused before the broken cactus hedge and crumbling wall that faced the Embarcadero.
A glance over the hedge showed him that the strip of beach was deserted.He looked up the narrow street; it was empty.A few rapid strides across it gained him the shadow of the sea-wall of the Presidio, unchecked and unhindered.The ebbing tide had left a foot or two of narrow shingle between the sea and the wall.He crept along this until, a hundred yards distant, the sea-wall reentered inland around a bastion at the entrance of a moat half filled at high tide by the waters of the bay, but now a ditch of shallow pools, sand, and debris.He leaned against the bastion, and looked over the softly darkening water.
How quiet it looked, and, under that vaporous veil, how profound and inscrutable! How easy to slip into its all-embracing arms, and sink into its yielding bosom, leaving behind no stain, trace, or record! A surer oblivion than the Church, which could not absolve memory, grant forgetfulness, nor even hide the ghastly footprints of its occupants.Here was obliteration.But was he sure of that?
He thought of the body of the murdered Peruvian, laid out at the feet of the Council by this same fickle and uncertain sea; he thought of his own distorted face subjected to the cold curiosity of these aliens or the contemptuous pity of his countrymen.But that could be avoided.It was easy for him--a good swimmer--to reach a point far enough out in the channel for the ebbing tides to carry him past that barrier of fog into the open and obliterating ocean.And then, at least, it might seem as if he had attempted to ESCAPE--indeed, if he cared, he might be able to keep afloat until he was picked up by some passing vessel, bound to a distant land!
The self-delusion pleased him, and seemed to add the clinching argument to his resolution.It was not suicide; it was escape--certainly no more than escape--he intended! And this miserable sophism of self-apology, the last flashes of expiring conscience, helped to light up his pale, determined face with satisfaction.He began coolly to divest himself of his coat.
What was that?--the sound of some dislodged stones splashing in one of the pools further up! He glanced hurriedly round the wall of the bastion.A figure crouching against the side of the ditch, as if concealing itself from observation on the glacis above, was slowly approaching the sea.Suddenly, when within a hundred yards of Hurlstone, it turned, crossed the ditch, rapidly mounted its crumbling sides, and disappeared over the crest.But in that hurried glimpse he had recognized Captain Bunker!
