Coquette: A Tale of the Haunted Mesa

Coquette A Tale of the Haunted Mesa

By Alfred Lambourne

Coquette was demure as a saint. While she read in the — pages of some prohibited romance her heavy lids hiding her — golden eyes, like those of the daughter of Herodias one would have thought that she was reading the psalter or the book of prayer. What ingenious tones were in her voice, what trustful simplicity when she spoke with the rising inflection. Surely the unsophisticated young keeper of the "Park" would be helpless against such charms. He would take the greatest of pleasure in the instruction of such questioning innocence. Why, he became unconsciously eloquent as in his simple words he told the wonders of that haunted land. And Coquette, how deeply interested was she in the legends and remains of those vanished tribes! But, then, Coquette was an actress and could play a part. Perhaps she did as well, too, in her act, when off as upon the theatre stage. And a summer vacation should not be wasted. Wherever there are men, are there not conquests to make?

A slight happening— all tragedies begin in what appears to be a slight happening —caused the party of holiday seekers, of

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which Coquette was one, to pause in the Mesa Land. The slight happening was a broken coach wheel, and a consequent waiting at the keeper's lodge. There the keeper had lost heart and head in the presence of the young actress, and there had begun the game of love. And why should not Coquette wish to see that theatre on the Mesa top? The theatre of a primal race, a theatre where once the living, now dead for unfathomed time, were amused in the passing hour. Perhaps for the time being, the actress was sin-

It was a most singular "Park," the one Over which the young keeper had been given charge. No leafy vistas, no open glades, no tree-shaded avenues were there. There were no streams, no lakes, no restful hues of luxuriance, only the deserts of fervid color, scorched into harmonies by a cloudless sun. There were the drifted sand, the glacial silt, and slopes of crumbling stone. And high above these the cliff fronts, the almost inaccessible table land, the mesa, an island of rock in the sky. And there was that theatre of Neolithic time, of the Stone Age. The natural strata, broken into semi-circles, had formed the theatre seats, and before them was the stage of stone. And the seats upon those circles were worn smooth by those who had once sat upon them and looked upon the ancient players. The ruined theatre at Italia, near Seville, in Spain; that one at Petraea, the Edom of the Scriptures, were yet unbuilt, if the supposition of many archaeologists be true, when the theatre upon the mesa top was a desolation even as it is today. And Coquette had read of the Greek and Roman theatres where the actors had deported themselves beneath the open sky. And she had heard of the theatre of Corinth, at Electra and at Tamora. And these had tempted the modern actor to speak where immortal ones had been. Then why should she not act in this strange theatre on the mesa top? Those theatres of the old world had put to shame, with their wonders of art, this primitive place of amusement beneath the new world sky. But how recent were even those theatres compared with this one, half fashioned by nature when the world was young, and completed to their purpose by a people whose — very traditions are lost a theatre of primitive man Did an unseen audience look on? Did those one-time living inhabitants of the mesa gather again in their ancient theatre? Did they watch the acting of the fair Coquette, and listen to words in an unknown tongue? It would have been a most singular sight for one to have looked upon, could they have seen those ancient players and their play, whatever it might have been, and the audience who looked upon them. But after all the ages have passed, it was scarcely a less strange sight to see the

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pampered Coquette, a favorite of the footlights, she upon whom had looked the audiences in the theatres of a hundred cities, and her audience of one, for Coquette played for the living —for the keeper alone. II

Was it two singular a thought? The modern actress upon that ancient stage, and mayhap the eyes of the dead looking in pleasure or anger upon her? In the east and west hung moon and sun. Upon the wild mesa, the high theatre was lit with changeful lights. A disc of ruddy gold was the moon on a sky of beryl green, and beneath the sun the mountains on the desert horizon glowed in wondrous crimson. And between the chang- ing lights, Coquette went through her part. Amusement for Coquette; disaster for the keeper. Who, then, could blame the poor, young, enamored keeper if he played the fool? He was lost in the romance of love. To his heart's fulness his tongue gave utterance. Whocould have left his passion unspoken beneath that flood of summer moon- light? How short had been the week, and yet how long! It seemed to the keeper that he had never lived until then. What indeed had been his life before he met Coquette? Every emotion seemed new in the heart of a man who was so suddenly and so deeply in love. The very past seemed to live, those vanished lovers of the mesa, they seemed to reach and clasp his hand across the centuries. And, then, what provocations to fall in love! The heart of the keeper must have been as impervious to the greatest passion as those blocks of stone, if he could have escaped the attractions of one so beautiful and so skilled. How quickened his pulse when his hand touched hers at some difficult turn of the trail! How quickened his heart-throbs when those eyes of gold looked for a moment so straight into his own, and how his heart throbbed again when his admiration was too openly expressed those same eyes looked so demurely upon there were places upon the trail, broken in the ground. And the course of years when it became necessary to direct the placing of the little booted foot. Half a dozen times he had come nearly unto speaking his love and as many times his courage failed. But at length there came the fated moment.

How many lovers must have spoken their vows at the of that ancient trail head Up and down that steep passed the dusky, the black-haired girls of the mesa, the water-jars upon their heads, and there must have passed up and down the young warriors and huntsmen of those early days, exulting in their prowess

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of warfare, or with the desert game which they had secured in the hunt below. And there were lovers in those days and actresses, too, or why that theatre on the mesa top? And they must have met, the lovers of the long ago, at the head of that trail, and there might have spoken their vows. Perhaps on that very spot, the thousands had talked of their loves, and it might well have been beneath such a golden moon as that. And among the far-away people were there not the true and the false, the sincere and the slight? The little tragedy of the keeper and his love was as old as the race. Many, indeed, must have been the answers that were once given to those lovers who were now no more. But was there one that was more cruel than the laughing one of Coquette?

Disillusioned! This girl who was so beautiful and talented was without a heart; this actress who could be so emotional and appeal, as it were, to the very soul, was a cheat. She who had been at such pains to enslave the lover, how lightly she could brush his pleading away. He had misunderstood, but he must not be absurd. What an attentive and splendid "guide" he had been, but he must not undo that pleasure he had given. Really — with that enslaving, or heart-breaking laugh, as the case might — be, to be so foolish deserved a scolding, and yet there was her hand, should they not part as friends? And so to the lodge. In the soul of the keeper was blank despair, and in his heart a sullen rage. What a mockery was the summer night. And yet, as they descended the winding trail, the moon rising toward the zenith, became white and cold, the glamor was no longer over the mesa, and it looked old with desolation and death.

And so the week at the mesa was ended. A slight mishap, the breaking of the wheel of a coach, and a life was undone. And yet the friends of the young keeper wondered why he should have committed so rash an act. They could find no cause for the deed. And not one would have thought of love. And Coquette? She never learned of what happened in the keeper's lodge. With those eyes of gold, like those of the daughter of Herodias, she would scarcely have cared to look on that sight. Yet he had died; his lips were sealed beyond all speech, and his ears were deaf to all sounds, even to the merry laugh of Coquette, who was far away.

© Underwood & Underwood, New York Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, and Charlie Chaplin, the three most famous screen stars, were instrumental in obtaining many subscriptions for the second and third Liberty Bonds. They toured the greater part of the United States in a whirlwind campaign, and succeeded in obtaining great results. Each of them was assigned a territory to cover, though Fairbanks was the only one to go on a tour in the second Liberty Loan. They passed through Salt Lake City for the East, on their tour for the third loan, April 2. Fairbanks had many new stunts up his sleeve to use for Uncle Sam. The picture shows just one of the stunts which Fairbanks contributed to a Red Cross benefit in the Grand Canyon of Arizona. He gave the gap between the cliffs a glance, gauged the distance, then ran and jumped and flew across. This sounds easy, but there are few who have faith enough in themselves to imitate mountain goats on the cliffs overhanging the Grand Canyon. It's all the same to Douglas, however, because, aside from his own agility as a jumper, the movies help him, and are capable of assisting him to perform almost any stunt he desires.