The first day of March.

For six months I have added nothing to this record; though time and again I have taken up my pen to write, and then laid it by, with no mark upon the fresh page. Can heartache be written down in words? Can loneliness and longing,—the desolation of one who has no human creature on whom to lavish love and care,—the dull misery that is known only to those whose best beloved are suffering the worst woes of this woeful life,—can all these be told? Ah, no! one can only feel them—bear them—and be crushed by them.

If it had not been for the good old dame, I know not what would have become of me. Many a day and many a night I have clung to her for hours, weeping—crying aloud, "I cannot bear it! I cannot!" What choice had I but to bear it? And tears cannot flow forever; the calm of utter weariness succeeds.

'Tis not that I have been ill treated. I am well housed, and daintily clothed and fed. Unless Melinza—or some other guest—is present, I sit at the Governor's own table. His wife makes of me something between a companion and a plaything: one moment I have to bear with her capricious kindness; the next, I am teased or driven away from her with as little courtesy as she shows to the noble hound that follows her like her own shadow.

Until lately I have seen little of Melinza. Early in the winter he went away to the Habana and remained absent two months, during which time I had more peace of mind than I have known since first we came here. But since his return he has tried in various ways to force himself into my presence; and DoÑa Orosia,—who could so easily shield me if she chose,—before she comes to my relief, permits him to annoy me until I am roused to the point of passionate repulse. One could almost think she loves to see me suffer—unless it is the sight of his discomfiture that affords her such satisfaction.

But all of this I could endure if only my dear love were free! I have heard that he is ill. It may not be true,—God grant that it is not! Still, though the rumour came to me by devious ways, and through old Barbara's lips at last (and she is ever prone to think the worst), it is more than possible! I, myself, have suffered somewhat from this long confinement; and in how much worse case is he!

I have tried to occupy myself, that I may keep my thoughts from dwelling forever on our unhappy state. In the past six months I have so far mastered the Spanish tongue that now I can converse in it with more ease than in the French. The Governor declares that I have the true intonation; and even DoÑa Orosia admits that I have shown some aptitude. I care nothing for it as a mere accomplishment; but I hope that the knowledge may be of use if ever we attempt escape. (Though what chance of escape is there when Mr. Rivers is within stone walls and I have no means of even holding converse with Mr. Collins?)

I have one other accomplishment that has won me more favour with the Governor's wife than aught else. She discovered, one day, that I have some skill with the lute, and a voice not lacking in sweetness; and now she will have me sing to her by the hour until my throat is weary and I have to plead for rest.

I had, recently, a conversation with her that has haunted me every hour since; for it showed me a side of her nature that I had not seen before, and that leads me to think that under her caprice and petulance there is a deep purpose hidden.

I had exhausted my list of songs, and as she still demanded more I bethought me of a curious old ballad I had heard many years ago. The air eluded me for some while; but my fingers, straying over the strings, fell suddenly into the plaintive melody; with it, the words too came back to me.

"A melancholy air, yet with somewhat of a pleasing sadness in its minor cadences," commented DoÑa Orosia when I had ceased. "Translate me the words, an your Spanish is sufficient."

"That it is not, I fear," was my reply, "and the task is beyond me for the further reason that the song is not even English, but in a dialect of the Scots. 'Tis only the plaint of a poor lady whose mind seems to have gone astray in her long waiting for a faithless lover"—and I gave her the sense of the verses as best I could.

"Nay," said the Spanish woman, with a singular smile. "She hath more wit than you credit her with. You mark me, the flood of a woman's tears will bear a man further than a mighty river, and her sighs waft him away more speedily than the strongest gale. And once he has gone, taking with him such a memory of her, 'twould be far easier for her to drink the ocean dry than to wile him home. For let a man but suspect that a woman could break her heart for him, and he——is more than content to let her do it!"

She paused; but I made no answer, having none upon my tongue. Presently she added: "When once a woman has the folly to plead for herself, in that moment she murders Love; and every tear she sheds thereafter becomes another clod upon his grave. There remains but one thing for her to do——"

"Herself to die!" I murmured.

"Nay, child! To live and be revenged!" She turned a flushed face toward me; and, though the water stood in her eyes, they were hard and angry. "To be revenged! To plot and to scheme; to bide her time patiently; to study his heart's desire, and to foster it; and then——"

"And then?" I questioned softly, with little shivers of repulsion chilling me from head to foot.

"To rob him of it."

The words were spoken deliberately, in a voice that was resonant and slow. 'Twas not like the outburst of a moment's impulse—the sudden jangling of a harpstring rudely touched; it was rather with the fateful emphasis of a clock striking the hour, heralded by a premonitory quiver—a gathering together of inward forces that had waited through long moments for this final utterance.

What manner of woman was this? I caught my breath with a little shuddering cry.

DoÑa Orosia turned quickly.

"Go! Leave me!" she cried. "Do you linger? Can I never be rid of you? Out of my sight! I would have a moment's respite from your great eyes and your white face. Go!"

And I obeyed her.