Chapter 1

To and fro, like a wild creature in its cage, paced that handsome woman,
with bent head, locked hands, and restless steps. Some mental storm,
swift and sudden as a tempest of the tropics, had swept over her and
left its marks behind. As if in anger at the beauty now proved
powerless, all ornaments had been flung away, yet still it shone
undimmed, and filled her with a passionate regret. A jewel glittered at
her feet, leaving the lace rent to shreds on the indignant bosom that
had worn it; the wreaths of hair that had crowned her with a woman's
most womanly adornment fell disordered upon shoulders that gleamed the
fairer for the scarlet of the pomegranate flowers clinging to the bright
meshes that had imprisoned them an hour ago; and over the face, once so
affluent in youthful bloom, a stern pallor had fallen like a blight, for
pride was slowly conquering passion, and despair had murdered hope.

Pausing in her troubled march, she swept away the curtain swaying in the
wind and looked out, as if imploring help from Nature, the great mother
of us all. A summer moon rode high in a cloudless heaven, and far as eye
could reach stretched the green wilderness of a Cuban _cafetal_. No
forest, but a tropical orchard, rich in lime, banana, plantain, palm,
and orange trees, under whose protective shade grew the evergreen coffee
plant, whose dark-red berries are the fortune of their possessor, and
the luxury of one-half the world. Wide avenues diverging from the
mansion, with its belt of brilliant shrubs and flowers, formed shadowy
vistas, along which, on the wings of the wind, came a breath of far-off
music, like a wooing voice; for the magic of night and distance lulled
the cadence of a Spanish _contradanza_ to a trance of sound, soft,
subdued, and infinitely sweet. It was a southern scene, but not a
southern face that looked out upon it with such unerring glance; there
was no southern languor in the figure, stately and erect; no southern
swarthiness on fairest cheek and arm; no southern darkness in the
shadowy gold of the neglected hair; the light frost of northern snows
lurked in the features, delicately cut, yet vividly alive, betraying a
temperament ardent, dominant, and subtle. For passion burned in the deep
eyes, changing their violet to black. Pride sat on the forehead, with
its dark brows; all a woman's sweetest spells touched the lips, whose
shape was a smile; and in the spirited carriage of the head appeared the
freedom of an intellect ripened under colder skies, the energy of a
nature that could wring strength from suffering, and dare to act where
feebler souls would only dare desire.

Standing thus, conscious only of the wound that bled in that high heart
of hers, and the longing that gradually took shape