While her thoughts were rambling on in this way, her eyes were idly looking at the man who lay upon his face and writhed under the stitches that the surgeons took to close the gaping wound upon his head; he turned his face an instant toward her and she recognized him as a Spanish officer she'd seen in San Domingo under most distressing circumstances; she had gone, as she had often done before, to minister to the needs of those who were among the poorer classes in the village, one day, and found before a hovel a most richly caparisoned horse held by an orderly; inside, there knelt upon the floor a young and pretty peasant girl; she was imploring this same officer who lay upon that little cot not to make her go with him to be his helpless slave; Ruth rescued her and told the man to go his way in no uncertain language; now, he lay there dressed as if he were an American soldier; she recognized him perfectly for his face had often haunted her, it was so sinister and devilish.
She sought out Father Felix, then, and told him what she had discovered, and he took what steps were necessary in the matter, for he who'd named Ruth Tender Heart had named her very well indeed; it seemed to her she could not bear to turn this Spanish spy over to the proper authorities, and, yet, she knew it was her duty to do that very thing, so the good Priest helped her to do her duty as he'd promised her he would, and, after that, there was a wall at sunrise and a platoon of armed men, and, then, that Spanish spy soon disappeared.
We intimated when we first began this tale that Father Felix was a man to be admired, not only for his strong religious zeal, but for his great virility and patriotic fervor.
Never had he shown these qualities more fully than during the naval battle of Santiago which engagement took place shortly after the events narrated in the last chapter; there was work to do on land as well as on the water at that crucial time; more than 18,000 helpless persons ... men, women and children ... marched out of the beleagued city seeking safety in the open country surrounding it; among these were many wealthy women of the higher class whose delicate silken garments were bedraggled and torn by the hardships of the journey which it was necessary to make on foot over muddy roads and through barbed wires which had been stretched irregularly all around Santiago and its vicinity by the Spanish soldiery for the purpose of turning back the invading Americans who were advancing upon them.
Among these women there was one who reached the hospital over which Ruth Wakefield presided; she was bespattered and weary and sick at heart, but there was a light in her dark eyes and a steadiness in her firm hand that appealed to Ruth at once and made her single this one woman from among all who came to her that day for help; as soon as she had changed her apparel and washed the grime of travel from her person, she asked to be allowed to assist the others who were at work among the little cots that were now filled with suffering humanity; she took her place so quietly that it seemed to those among whom she moved that she had almost always been right there and would always continue to be there; Estrella liked her from the first of their acquaintance and the older woman found the girl so pleasing that whenever she could do so, she gave her hand a little squeeze or patted her upon her shoulder to make her know that they two were congenial and going on, together, toward the same loved goal; this silent association became at once a bond between these two who, in their nurse's uniforms, looked enough alike to be twin sisters ... they had the same dark eyes and sensitive and drooping lips ... they had the same fair skins, although Estrella had been tanned by more outside exposure than the other had ... they moved in the same way and both were tall and straight and lithe and quick; Ruth noticed them together and at once began to wonder why they looked so much alike ... then she thought of what Estrella'd told her as to what she knew of her own family, and, immediately, Ruth began to speculate and piece together little circumstances and then she soon began to hope that poor Estrella, maybe, might, in this way, find her own people; so she asked some kindly questions of the woman who had come to them that day, and she found that she had had a little sister, long ago ... a little sister who had disappeared and whom they'd mourned as dead for many years; Ruth told her all she knew about the girl ... all except her intimate association with the man whom, she, herself, had married; she did not feel that she could speak of him to this dark stranger ... anyway, it would not matter, now, and if Estrella wished to speak about it later on, then she could do so; they called the girl, then, and found she had a little dainty cross of gold that she had always worn about her neck.... Manuello's mother had preserved it for her while she was an infant thinking it might prove the child's identity, so that the ones who'd cared for her might be profited thereby, and, since she knew about it, she, herself, had held it sacred as the only link that bound her to her unknown family ... and so it proved, indeed, the link that proved her as the sister of the lady who had come to them that day from the beleaguered city of Santiago.
Estrella's blood, it seemed, was Spanish ... she had descended from the ones who knew the roses of Castile ... she'd always seemed far different from the peasants among whom she'd lived until she met Ruth Wakefield who recognized in her a higher strain ... a higher nature ... than she found in any of the peasants whom she met in San Domingo; old Mage, even, looked upon Estrella differently than on the other servants whom she always treated with great condescension, for she felt herself above the most of them as she was always nearer to her dear young lady than any of them were; Ruth trusted her with Tid-i-wats, for one thing, which separated her from all the rest, for Tid-i-wats, was most abrupt in very many ways, and, sometimes, even went so far as to just sink her long, sharp claws right through whatever garments anybody wore, so that they found and often even penetrated the skin beneath the garments; she would do this deed in such a loving way that many who were sadly scratched by her would try to smile and take this punishment as if it were but joy and gladness ... old Mage squirmed sometimes, 'tis true, beneath this discipline that Tid-i-wats gave very freely, but she never put her down or turned against her,—only saying:
"Tid-i-wats! Good land! Your blessed little claws are very sharp indeed," and, then, she'd often turn to Ruth and add, "I tell you Tid-i-wats is just as young and spry as she ever was ... no one would ever think how old she is if he could feel her claws."
When Estrella found that she was not alone, but had a family, and a loving, wealthy sister, old Mage was very glad indeed ... she'd found the girl a little in her way for many reasons; Ruth deferred to her a little, pitying her so much, and old Mage knew that if Ruth pitied anybody very much she might, in time, begin to love the person whom she put her tender pity on, and, then, to the old nurse, Estrella always brought up the memory of the man who had deceived her ... made her think him to be far better than he'd ever been ... and, so, altogether, Estrella's good fortune pleased old Mage in very many pleasant ways.
To say that Ruth was glad to have Estrella find her people was to put the case too lightly altogether; she was far too unselfish not to rejoice in her good fortune even though her going might mean great human loneliness for her: she had in her own inner consciousness a kind of spiritual and lasting strength on which she always leaned when outside companionship failed her in any way ... she never was alone although she often seemed to be so ... in fact, Ruth Wakefield often found herself to be alone among a crowd of human beings ... it seemed to her their many diverse thoughts disturbed the peace of mind she always longed to have ... her pity was so great ... her sympathy so broad ... and sorrows and sore trials are so common to the entire race of men and women ... that she seldom found much joy among the people whom she met; she gave most liberally to all she came in contact with ... she gave encouragement and comfort and sympathy and help ... but seldom did she find a human being who could give her anything at all for any length of time, at least:
"They come and they go," she often sadly said. "It seems to me that there is nothing steadfast in this world except the God on whom I always lean when all else fails me.... I wish Icouldfind something strong enough to tie my faith to ... IwishI could ... it would be wonderful to know that I could always find good, solid ground beneath my human feet ... it would be wonderful to feel that nothing mattered between another human being and myself ... to feel that nothing, good or bad, could ever really change our feelings toward each other ... but I'd have to know for sure that it was so ..." she'd add, "I'd have to know for sure, I'd have to try it out somehow ... so many things have slipped away from me ... so very many things ... I'd have to know for sure, somehow, before I'd dare to trust too much."
While these personal matters were taking the attention of some of those within the shadowy hospital, Father Felix was undergoing an altogether different experience.
The good Priest had, more than once, covered the entire eight miles of entrenchments around Santiago on foot and with a heavy pack containing supplies on his broad back; during the time that elapsed between the naval battle of Santiago and the surrender of the city on Sunday, July 17, 1898, he had marched with his little flock of soldiers over many stony trails and through many miry passes, and, while the engagement itself was in progress, he had performed many heroic deeds and, more than once, he had fervently thanked God for his sturdy strength of arm and limb because he was thereby enabled to give material as well as spiritual aid to those who came within the reach of his hands; had anyone been watching a certain shady spot near Santiago on July 3, 1898, he might have witnessed a peculiar scene.
A rather short thick-set man, dressed as an army Chaplain and wearing a crucifix attached to a strong chain around his neck, was bending over one who lay there in the shade; he seemed to be examining the man to see if life remained in his body, and, yet, he always held the crucifix before the face of him who lay there as if he wished him to behold it, in case his earthly eyes should evermore see anything; he tried in every way he could to gain some recognition of his holy office from the man over whose earthly tenement he was then bending, but, as he did not succeed in this, he gently laid the crucifix upon the apparently pulseless breast, and went his way to find, perhaps, another one to whom he might administer the final consolation of the church whose dogmas he believed in.
The man he'd left behind him stirred uneasily, and, as he writhed and twisted there, the crucifix slid off his breast and fell upon the ground; it lay where it had fallen until Father Felix came again and brought with him another sufferer; he looked upon the breast of his first charge and did not see his crucifix ... it lay beneath the body of the one he'd left it with; he gently said:
"I left my crucifix with you, my Friend ... I thought it might be a consolation to you if you came to life again at all. I do not see the crucifix ... could anyone have taken it during my absence, I wonder?"
"I'm sure I don't know anything about your crucifix, good Sir," the man replied in a weak voice. "I have other things to fix my mind on than anything like that. For one thing, I am wounded and I need a surgeon more than I do Priests or crosses."
"I'll supply that need as far as I am able," Father Felix said. "I know I am an amateur and yet I have set broken limbs and tied up arteries and sewed up wounds full many times because there was no one better near enough to do it. Where are you hurt, my Friend?"
"I am not hurt at all, you blundering old fool, you ..." the man began. "I'm dead and buried ... killed completely ... that is all ... and I don't want any old woman's work. Go get a surgeon for me ... quick! I'm losing lots of blood ... I need a surgeon, I tell you ... go get me one!"
Father Felix did not say a word in answer to this tirade for he had heard full many such remarks since he had been at work among the soldiers, and, so, he bound the wounds of the second sufferer he'd brought before he stopped the flow of blood from his first charge, for, well he knew the loss of some good red blood might make it easier for him to help the man ... he was too full of life and anger ... too full of unrepented viciousness ... for the good Priest to help him very much, and, so, he let him lay there in the shade and curse and fume and rage until he worked his evil temper off a little; then he gently said to him:
"Now, if you think that I can help you any, I will do all I can for you, Friend, but if you'd rather lie there on the ground and take the name of God in vain, why, I must let you do so. There is no one within hail except myself, who knows a thing about surgery, unless this man, here, does; I do not know about that part but he is wounded, too, so that I guess I am your only hope here on the earth at present. May I see your hurt and maybe bind it up and make your suffering less than it is, now?"
Sheepishly, the man looked up at him, and moved a little so the crucifix became exposed; Father Felix quickly picked it up and put the chain around his neck again, and then he added to the things that he had said before:
"I'm sure I'm very glad I found my crucifix ... it is of value to me for it has been the means of consolation to a great many sufferers from this sad war; it seems to help so many to behold the sufferings of One Who gave His precious life to save the lost and suffering souls who wander on the earth. He loved you, Sir, and, in His Name, I love you, too, and wish to help you, though you flout my work in your behalf. I am an amateur, but I can bind the only wound I see about you, Sir. Shall I do it, Sir, or not? I'd like to do the work the very best I could, but, if you say me nay, I'll leave it as it is."
The man grinned like a bashful boy, but he bowed his head in assent and Father Felix went to work and bound his wound and left him lying there beside the other sufferer and went to find another man to help; his stocky legs and muscular arms came in quite handily, that time, for, when he came back to the shady spot, he bore one on his shoulder who looked and seemed as if already dead and gone beyond the things of earth but Father Felix laid him gently down and knelt beside him while he gently laid his recovered crucifix upon his almost pulseless breast; the first man watched the operation silently, and, then, he moved a little farther from the deepest of the shade and said:
"Better bring him over here. It's better in the shade. I'll make a little more room here beside me and maybe I can help some in the dressing of his wounds."
"I thank you, Sir," the Priest replied. "I surely thank you kindly, but this man has gone, I fear, beyond our earthly aid; and, yet, I could not bear to leave him lying out there in the sun; the heat is terrible out there and flies and insects gather round and many lying out there suffer from their stings. I'll leave my crucifix, here, on his breast, and, if he moves or speaks, will you please tell him I will be right back?"
And then good Father Felix made another solemn trip to that sad battle-field and brought another man into the shade; and he whom he had brought there, just before, lay silently ... the silent crucifix upon his breast. The priest leaned down to listen for his breathing, then, and raised his head with joy depicted on his countenance.
"He lives!" he cried aloud. "This poor fellow is alive! Perhaps it may be possible for us to bring him into consciousness again. Now, Sir," he addressed the man he had first brought into the friendly shade, "maybe you can help me. Take one of his hands between your own and rub it just as hard as you can rub it, Sir; that's right ... now, take the other one and do the same with it. Your strong vitality will maybe help his weakness, Sir. We two together may be instruments in God's Hands to bring him back to earthly life again."
He put some drops of cordial on his tongue and chafed his limbs and turned him over many times until he saw some signs of returning consciousness and then he raised him up and rested his head upon his helper's breast and held the crucifix before his face so he would see it if his eyes would open; and his helper held the hands of him who seemed about to die and gazed with eagerness into his countenance.
The good Priest saw this look upon his helper's face and joyed to see it there instead of the malevolent expression that had rested on his rather handsome features only a short time before.
At length, the sufferer resting on the other's breast opened his wide eyes and gazed upon the crucifix and motioned that it be brought nearer to his dying lips; he kissed it, then, devoutly, and his deathless spirit passed to Him Who gave it life at first.
Father Felix gently laid his body down upon the ground and placed the crucifix upon his cold, still breast, and, then, he said to him who watched it all in silence:
"You see, Sir, some are happier to have the crucifix to kiss before they go to meet their Maker; I did not know that you felt as you said you did about it. I beg your pardon, Sir ... I humbly beg your pardon."
On July 17, 1898, United States troops marched into and took possession of the city of Santiago, thereby completing the assurance of independence to Cuba.
On that auspicious day Ruth Wakefield closed her temporary hospital and turned over to its new owner the little cottage which she had built to shelter her small family during her stay near Santiago; with tears of joy as well as sorrow, she had said good-bye to Estrella and her new-found relatives who were about to return to the home of the latter; Father Felix had decided to return to his little flock at San Domingo as he felt that his work with the army was finished, so that, in his company and with old Mage and Tid-i-wats safely ensconced near to her, she sailed upon the first steamer going toward Havana after there was no longer need of her help among the American soldiers.
It was with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow that she left the scene of her recent activities ... she was carrying with her many sad memories of heroism and of suffering borne with patriotic patience ... her heart was heavy when she reflected upon the horrors she had witnessed, but her spirit was loyal to the sacred cause for which so many splendid lives had been sacrificed ... she could see, with prophetic vision, a happy and prosperous race of people taking the place of the down-trodden and pitiful company of cowering peasants with which she had been all too familiar ... it seemed to her that she could see the smiling faces of many happy children crowding along the narrow streets of the small villages of Cuba ... it seemed to her that she could almost hear old men relating the long-past horrors that had been common under the iron heel of the Spanish oppressor ... relating these remembered facts to those who shook their heads, half doubtingly, as they listened to them.
Ruth herself, was looking forward with bright anticipation to her return to her own beloved home ... dear to her, not only because of its intrinsic attractiveness, but also because of the precious memories it held of her parents whom she constantly mourned for and kept alive within her loving heart; for so it is, as I believe, that those who are beyond the earth yet live among us who are yet in human form; I think that those who are made welcome in the hearts of men and women continue, often, their stay within the circle of humanity; so long as mortals remember and long for them, so long will they care to wander among the hills and mountains and along the pleasant valleys and by the oceans and the rivers of the earth; if they should be forgotten by all humanity, it does not seem to me that they would often wish to look upon the moonlight or the sunlight of our world; if nowhere in our world their spirits could find a resting-place, it seems to me they would not care to stray among mortal men and women.
Freed souls, as I believe, are not compelled to associate with those who are uncongenial to them; they do not have to yield their finest taste and dearest wishes, as so many mortals do, to what is far beneath them ... far beneath their inner consciousness of right and wrong. They do not, as I hope, just because they made some sad mistake, go on suffering for dreary years, as many women have, because they saw no way of sure release except through death itself.
It is a pitiful but well-established fact that many wives and mothers have borne long years of martyrdom because, in their first youth, they made unfortunate matrimonial alliances.
There are so very many ways to put on binding-chains in human life; there are so many changes common to most mortals, steadfastness and truth are such rare qualities, that I sometimes wonder how men and women manage even as well as they do.
Sometimes, we criticize our fellow-men and fellow-women pretty harshly, but, then, perhaps, we only see one side, and if we could look down from some great height, perhaps we, then, would marvel that they do as well as they do, now, with human life.
There have been those who honestly expected that, when they would leave their earthly tenements, they would go to sleep, when they had gone across the unknown river that they knew as death's cold stream, and, maybe, sleep a thousand years or so; they must have dreaded that last, long sleep, especially if they, as might have happened, had never been very sound or very quiet sleepers ... if they had always seemed to be on guard and wakened at the slightest unfamiliar sound ... the thought that they would just lie silently within the narrow grave they must have known it was intended they should be put in must have been a most unpleasant one; they must have edged around it all they could and seldom mentioned it to anyone around them, and, yet, that horrid thought ... that last, long sleep ... must have, often, been present in their waking thoughts, and must have, even, sometimes, haunted them in their dreams.
But I believe that we go right on living when we leave the earth-plane; I believe that most of us will be wide awake and conscious from the very start of that larger life that we will, then, begin to live. I hope that we will find that we do not have to sleep at all unless we choose to do so.
Ruth Wakefield kept the memories of her parents in her heart and so she always had them with her where she went, and, now, that she was going back where they and she had spent so very many happy years together, it was natural that she should think of them even more than common; a feeling of deep sadness stole across her mind whenever she reflected on her parents and their home, somehow; she could not account for this at all ... she could not satisfy herself that she had any real reason for this feeling of sadness ... but it would creep over her in spite of her efforts to banish it from her mind; old Mage felt this and tried to cheer her dear young lady up ... little Tid-i-wats felt it and rubbed against her lovingly and purred her little happy song of comfort and content ... and, yet, Ruth Wakefield dreaded, while she longed for, her own home, and, as the vessel they were on drew near to Havana, this feeling of unaccountable sadness deepened with the girl ... she drew her breath in sharply and a deep and heart-felt sigh broke from her lips as they reached the landing-place and left the wild and treacherous waters far behind them.
Father Felix wondered if this evident sadness and dread were due, in part, to the experiences through which they had both passed, and also, the thought of the man whom Ruth had married surreptitiously would often cross the mind of the good Priest, for he knew well she often must remember him and his dashing, dark and manly beauty; old Mage almost cursed him in her fierce old heart when she noticed that Ruth was sad although she'd always been so glad to come back home.
"It's that fellow's fault!" she grumbled to herself. "It's all his fault ... I hope he's good and dead by this time! I'm sure I'd help to make him so, most willingly! What did he want to come into her young life and almost ruin it for? The low-lived pup!"
They started out, as dusk was falling, the day they reached Havana, to go to San Domingo, and, then, home; Father Felix went with them as far as his refectory, and there he bade them a cheerful good-bye and said he'd come up, soon, and see them in their home again.
Ruth, somehow, feared to say good-bye to the good Priest and kept his hand in hers much longer than was her wont with any man ... he was a bulwark for anyone who clung to him for strength ... his was a nature strong and good and clean and kind.... Ruth felt this more than usually, that evening, and dreaded to go on without him; he noticed this strange mood in her and said with cheery acquiescence:
"Perhaps I'd better go on up the hill with you, my Daughter. I can as well as not. No one awaits me except my little choir-boys and they have managed a long time without me. If you will wait a moment while I look about a bit, I'll just go on up with you and see you nicely settled in your own old place and then I'll come back here and settle down myself."
Suiting his actions to his words, the good Priest looked around and climbed the hill with Ruth and her small retinue; the path seemed so familiar with the shadows falling all around it, that she laughed and said to Father Felix:
"I am a coward, after all ... afraid of friendly wind-mills like Don Quixote ... having had to do so much with Spaniards may have made me like them in some degree at least.... I wonder if Cervantes was afraid, himself, of things that no one ought to be afraid of! I wonder if Sancho Panza was afraid, too ... was Rozinante...."
And, then, she stopped, for they had reached what had been, once, the outer gate of her palatial residence; there was no gate there ... there was no residence ... there was no life there ... it was the tomb of hope and home for her; the dwelling had been razed completely ... in its stead were only smouldering ruins ... all her precious memories ... her visible and tangible reminders of her parents ... had been swept away ... she had paid an awful price for helping those who needed help from her.
Father Felix stood beside her with his hand upon her shoulder ... he could not say a word of consolation or of any sort of help ... he was dumbfounded by it all; old Mage sunk down upon the ground and wept, and Tid-i-wats came close to Ruth and rubbed against her garments; stooping, then, she picked her little pet up and held her closely clasped within her sheltering arms; then she went to her old nurse and said to her:
"Do not despair, my dear old Friend. God will provide for us, some way. This is a dreadful thing, but we must make the very best of it that we can possibly. I will try to think of some way whereby we may be sheltered for this one night that is before us and then I hope to find some way to rebuild a portion of the residence we used to have here on this blessed spot. Let's bear this, dear old Friend. Let's think we gave our home to save this country for the people who inhabit it and may their homes be just as full of peace and comfort and joy and gladness as this one that is gone has been for all who came beneath its friendly roof."
The Father Felix stood beside her and said:
"My Daughter, come with me; I'll house you all for this one night at least; I'll find a way tomorrow, somehow, for you, so that you may go on in the path that you were meant to walk in. My Daughter, let us pray for guidance in this unexpected sorrow. Let us pray."
They knelt there underneath the friendly stars and the good Priest prayed, earnestly:
"Dear, kind and loving Father," then he said, "look down upon us as we kneel before Thee, here; direct us with Thy holy Wisdom, for we falter and are cast down with the burden of this day. Direct the feet of her who has been sorely stricken, here, tonight; direct her feet so that she may go on upon the path that Thou hast pointed out to her. Help her to go on with courage and devotion to the cause for which she has made this great and almost overpowering sacrifice. Help her to show in all her acts, henceforth, the same sweet resignation to Thy Will that she has shown so far. And help me, Father, help Thy humble servant who is but feeble and who often fails in doing all he should for Thee and for Thy children, help Thy humble and most unworthy servant to stand as if he were a pillar, so that she may lean upon him if her courage falters, or if she should stumble or grow weak in walking in the path that she was meant by Thee to walk upon. Look down in mercy on Thy servants as we kneel before Thee here. Amen."
Tid-i-wats endured this, patiently, until he went beyond the common run of prayers for him when they had been together, then she squirmed and twisted in Ruth's arms, and, finally, escaped her altogether; then old Mage corraled her and the two of them had quite a little conversation on the side:
"You naughty little thing! You must behave yourself and be a nice little lady. Can't you see what's happened to us without making us a lot of trouble, too?"
And Tid-i-wats said, plainly:
"I'll do just as I please, you mean old thing you! Don't youdareto hold me when I want to get away! I'll show you what my claws will do to you, old Mage! You let me go this minute!"
Then she used some language only known to cats and those who know the devious ways of little petted cats.
Then Ruth turned to her and whispered:
"Little Dadditts! Little Tid-i-wats! Be a nice lady, now ... be a very nice little lady, now. Dadditts ... little bit of Dadditts...."
Then she held her close and tried to comfort her and gain some comfort for herself, but her tears would come to think how happy they had always or most always been in that fine home which seemed so much a part of life to Ruth that, now that it was gone from her, life seemed a sordid and a sorry thing.
But she went with Father Felix, quietly, to the refectory and there they all found comfort and refreshment, for the good Priest always had prepared himself to entertain some unexpected guests, and, with returning security and peace, his parishioners had brought some supplies to welcome him on his return; so they fared quite well considering what had met them when they reached the place where Ruth had thought to find rest from her arduous toil; instead, she had to meet renewed unrest and many problems to be solved in her near future.
When Ruth Wakefield awoke the next morning after her arrival in the village of San Domingo, she became conscious of her surroundings with a sudden start; at first, she scarcely realized just where she was, for her long trip on the boat following her strenuous and nerve-wracking labor of the past few weeks, had left her very weary in mind as well as in body, so that her sleep had been profound and restful; she looked about her wonderingly and did not recognize anything near to her except little Tid-i-wats who was cuddled up in a little soft round ball right beside her pillow; then, from the adjoining room, she began to hear old Mage, who was, evidently, making her customary strenuous efforts to continue her slumbers.
Gradually, Ruth remembered the desolation to which she had returned, and, hastily dressing, she left the refectory intending to go at once to the spot where her much-loved home had been, and ascertain, under the light of day, the extent of her loss, also, she wished to make some plans, while she could do so quietly and unobserved, as to the future of her little family, who, as it seemed, was now without a roof to shelter them.
She slowly and cautiously ascended the hill; the pathway was almost obliterated by the growth of the wild things that had been allowed to run riot over it and she followed it more by instinct than anything else; as she gained the point from which the proud edifice she had so loved used to become visible to anyone approaching it, the fact that no buildings of any kind were in sight pressed upon her inner consciousness, and it was only with great effort that she proceeded at all; somehow, she had hoped, she now found, that the hasty survey they had made the night before might have been overdrawn in some respects and the corroboration of her worst fears was hard for her to bear; but she had become accustomed, from long endurance, to meet whatever came with calmness and courage; so she straightened her slim, tall figure to its full height, and advanced with the air of a soldier marching forth to meet the foe.
She had passed the spot where the entrance gates had been; the pillars on either side of the entrance were almost entirely demolished and there was nothing to be seen of the gates themselves; all along the driveway débris was piled in disordered heaps; evidently, no one had been here, or so it seemed at a first glance, anyway, for some time; vegetation had even partially covered a part of the ruins of the dwelling itself; with repeated gasps of horror, she ran from what had been the front entrance to her home to first one side and then the other; finally, she sat down, disconsolately, like Niobe, amid the ruins of her former happiness; she knew that she was where her library had been; here she had found her most satisfying, lasting happiness, surrounded as she had been by the books she had loved; she could see the half-burned remains of many of her favorites lying all around her; thinking to save some portion of one of these, she picked it up, fondly, and laid it in her lap, while she bent over it searching for some word of comfort or some sustaining sentence; it seemed to her that some of the authors she had so dearly loved and almost reverenced, would surely come to her aid in this dire calamity ... it almost seemed to her as if one or more of them would actually speak to her in such a way as to impress her mind with their fine thoughts.
Suddenly, she became conscious of the nearness of some human being; looking up, surprised and even alarmed, she beheld the man whose life she had been instrumental in saving after the battle of San Juan Hill.
"Tender Heart," he said, softly, "Tender Heart, what have we here? Why are you so sad? You came to me in grievous trouble and I, it seems, have found you under similar circumstances. Tender Heart," he pleaded, "Tender Heart, let me help you as you helped me if I can do so."
She turned and looked into his eyes ... she rose to her feet and took one hesitating step toward him ... she stretched out both her hands, and, somehow, then, she felt his strong arms fold themselves around her yielding form ... she felt his heart beat very near to hers ... she felt his lips against her hair ... and, then, she turned her face from his broad shoulder where it had found a resting-place, and, as her lips met his, it seemed to her that, after all, she had come home; a feeling of deep security and sweet peace crept over her:
"Tender Heart," he murmured very near to her small, shell-like ear, for she had, once more, put her head against his shoulder, "Tender Heart, you do not know my name.... I am, to you, but one of those five men who volunteered, at once, to follow Teddy up San Juan Hill.... I am, to you, but only him you rescued from almost certain death upon that bloody battle-field. Are you sure you are not making a mistake, sweet, trusting Tender Heart, to grant me this great privilege, knowing as little of me as you do?"
He waited for her answer, for some time, but, then, he waited willingly indeed, for her soft nearness was enough to make him very happy; when her answer came she spoke in such low tones he had to listen very closely ... he had to put his arms about her a little closer than they had been yet ... he had to lift her from the ground and bring her soft, red mouth upon a level with his head, indeed ... and then, he heard her say:
"I know you just as well as you know me. We do not know each other's names ... we do not need to know them ... now ... I only know I love you, Dear ... and, now, I know that you love me."
And, then, he set her feet upon the ground again and looked down into her clear, gray eyes, and found within their shining depths the very things he wanted most to know; and she looked up and saw a man who was a man indeed ... a man on whom she knew that she could lean ... a man whom she would love to walk beside ... a man of whom she could be always proud.
Standing there, they gazed into each other's eyes and read their future in them ... read the happiness that they might know together on the earth, and, then, they saw beyond the chance and change that seem to to govern earthly things, and saw themselves together in some higher, better sphere. They plainly saw, there, in each other's eyes, the promise of another, more etherial world, where they might spend long ages of eternal joy and gladness in each other's company.
Father Felix found them so, for he had followed Ruth to see if he could help her meet the problems that confronted her; the good Priest hesitated for only a moment before he said:
"My Daughter, I trust that you have found true happiness. Sir, I do not know you very well, but I can give you most profound assurance that you have found a jewel among women; if she has any faults I have not found them, yet, and I have spent full many happy hours in her society; my work is to find faults, if so be I can trace them out; I am a hunter, and a most successful one, of human frailties, and, when I give you my most profound assurance that I have not found a fault in this one woman, the statement is worthy of respect.
"Your coming at this time is most propitious, for I was almost at my wit's end as to how to help her bear the direful calamity that has just come upon her. She has not remembered half she's lost, and, now that she has found you, Sir, I trust that she will nevermore remember much of it, but that she will go on, with you beside her, leaving far behind her in her earthly path sad memories of happy days that nevermore can come to her."
The man, then, gave to Father Felix his right hand and kept his left arm round Ruth's slender waist:
"I do not doubt your word," he answered the good Priest. "I feel that every single word of what you've said is strictly true, and, yet, I have some fault to find with this young lady, here; she came away and did not leave a message behind for me, and I have had a weary, most disheartening time since she departed. I came to San Domingo, I traced her that far, easily, and, then, I found a little girl named Tessa something, who said she knew the very place to find her in ... she said she knew she'd go where, once, the mansion on the hill had stood ... and, so, I came straight here, and, so, I've found her. Tender Heart," he asked, "have you told the good Priest how we met?"
Then Ruth blushed her pretty, fleeting, characteristic little blush, and said:
"Father Felix knows me even better than I know myself, for he has told me many times what I would do before I did it. Father Felix knows me better, even, thatyoudo," then she turned to Father Felix, laughing like a happy little child, and added, "He don't even know my name and I have no idea whathisis; he calls me Tender Heart because I am so easily misled by tenderness and I call him ... why, I have never called him anything at all."
"Yes, you have!" he interrupted, eagerly. "You called me 'Dear' just now ... so she is Tender Heart and I am Dear and that's enough, I think, don't you?"
The good Priest smiled upon them almost condescendingly, for he was far above such little human twists and turns, or so he seemed to be at least, and so he was in very truth, for he had had his romance ... he had seen the grave close over the bright curls of one he dearly loved who loved him just as dearly as he did her; it was after that that he had taken up the work he did so well; he left his human happiness behind him in that narrow grave and looked beyond it to a higher, better kind of happiness; Ruth knew a little of this romantic sorrow for the good Priest had imparted it to her, and, so, her tender eyes filled up with sudden tears and her low, sweet voice trembled into even softer cadences than usual as she said:
"Dear Father Felix, you are more to me than any loving brother that a woman ever had ... you are the only one who ever understood my human sorrow and I think that you will fully understand my human happiness. I wish with all my heart that you could be as happy as we are," her fair face flushed again, "for you deserve far more of happiness than I do ... as for him," she added, archly, "as for him ... do not be too sure of perfect human happiness for him.... I am but a mere child in very many ways.... I have so very much to learn.... I'm sure I'll always do the very best I can, but whether that will be the very best that could be done, of course I do not know."
"I'll risk it, anyway, and I will risk it gladly, joyfully," the man averred. "I'd go again upon that bloody battle-field if you'd be sure to find me, Tender Heart," he ended, "if only in that way we two were meant to meet."
When Ruth went back to the refectory she found old Mage and Tid-i-wats as lively as two crickets and as cheery as could be ... she introduced the man whose life she'd saved, or so it seemed, to them, and each of them acknowledged the introduction in her own peculiar way; old Mage stared at the man and sized him up most shrewdly, and, then, she gave her verdict very plainly by her manner of addressing him:
"I'm glad to see you, Sir," she said. "I'm surely very glad to see you for I've often heard my dear young lady speak of you; I hope you'll stay around here near to us for we will have another home to build and Tid-i-wats and I are not much help to her.... I'm growing to be an old woman, now, and Tid-i-wats is so peculiar that she never is much help to anyone."
And, then, the little cat came close to him and smelled his hands and rubbed against his legs, and, finally, when he sat down, she jumped up in his lap and settled down and twisted round and licked herself and washed her face and made herself entirely at home; and then she looked up at old Mage and Ruth and whispered to them that she liked him very well indeed, and, so, he was adopted into that small family.
An author who has been considered by very many people to be a most successful writer, one whose words have set before very many eyes vivid pictures of individual characteristics and national events as well, whose Indians are known all over the world, and whose historical novels will be eagerly perused as long as there are American eyes to read the pages of any book at all, used to make a sort of summary of the principal events in the lives of his very interesting characters: it always seemed to me that there was something very wholesome and satisfying in the way he finished up his books, and, so, I'd like to relate just a little more about the people I have tried to picture in this little book of mine.
Ruth Wakefield found her earthly mate when she found him whose life she helped to save upon the battle-field at night, and spent full many happy years in his society; they built a modern home upon the site of the mansion on the hill and did much good among the peasants living near to them; the man became the author of very many books, and Ruth assisted him in very many ways.
Old Mage and little Tid-i-wats lived out the span of earthly life allotted to each one of them, beneath the tender eye and ready hand of her who loved them both, and, when the time that had been set for them to leave this world behind them, came, Ruth Wakefield staid beside them to the very last, and ministered to them as no one else would ever do.
The man she'd found had named her well when he said "Tender Heart!" to her, that night upon the battle-field.
Her heart was very tender, always, except with reference to herself; she often did upbraid herself and never gave herself much credit; she often mourned, in secret, over her few brief memories of the wild, impulsive, almost insane, so-called love of him she'd married in her untried youth; she often said:
"Poor Boy! Poor, lost and misled Boy! I ought to have treated him far differently than I did; his earthly path crossed mine for some good reason, I presume; and I did not do all the things I might have done, when I was near enough to help him, for him ... yet ..." she always ended, "I did the very best I could do for him, it seemed to me, at the time I had the opportunity, and I always meant and prayed to do just right. I went wrong, somehow ... or he had gone too far along a certain road before I ever met him for me to turn him back ... anyway, I pity him with all my heart and hope that he is happy where he's gone.... I hope he's found the very place he belongs in.... I know I always think of him with tender pity and no resentment, although, according to the standards of the world, he did me grievous wrong. Poor lost and misled Boy! He often looked so sad and desperate ... I wish I had done better by him while I had the chance."
Her tender heart was uppermost in almost all she did except when she was doing for herself, and, then, she'd say:
"My tastes are very simple ... I do not need very much of this world's goods ... it takes so very little happiness to make me almost wild with joy.... I've had to look on sorrow often, and, when I come to Joy, I bask in it as if it were God's holy sunshine."
But, if it should be that old Mage or Tid-i-wats or anyone of all of those who were dependent on her, from time to time, for she, somehow always seemed to accumulate those who needed her help round her, why, then it was quite different to Tender Heart ... then, she'd say and say with vigor:
"OfcourseI can arrange to have it that way! Why, certainly, if that would bring happiness, I'll fix it right away."
And sure enough she would arrange it, no matter what it meant for her of loneliness or labor ... no matter if she had to go along a lonely road that had been full of peace and happiness for her before the one who left her lonely had come into her daily life and made it hard for her, in that way, while the days were going by, yet made a grievous change again, in going; she set her teeth and did the things she had to do to make the other person happy, or to do the things he said would make him happy, then she turned her face toward her own life, cheerfully, although her hours were often very sad and lonely.
But this was all before she met the man whose life she'd helped to save upon that battle-field ... all before she'd lost her cherished home and built another one. From that time on unto the end of earthly life for her, she found sweet satisfaction and content, for she had found a steadfast love to lean upon, a strong and true and virile human being, whose tastes were similar to hers, who loved his native land, America, with all his heart, as she did, too.
It heartens all humanity to meet a happy pair who are congenial.
It gives all other human beings courage to go on upon the path that has been set for them to go upon, to know that there is happiness if only they could find the way to reach it.
Estrella soon forgot the handsome lover over whom she mourned so bitterly; the memory of him soon became a wild, sweet dream, and had she met him as he was in San Domingo, after she had found her proper place in life, it is probable that she would have turned away from him; life's contrasts have so much to do with early love that it is often difficult to know what love is really like; Estrella, when she was an unknown waif, was differently placed than she was later on. Victorio Colenzo would not have seemed the same to her that he did when she was but an unknown, simple girl; education made a change in her ... her sister looked to that. She grew to be a splendid woman, in very many ways, and married one who was her peer.
Poor little Tessa seems the most forlorn of all the characters in this book. She tried so hard and failed so utterly in almost all she ever did. But Father Felix watched her tenderly, and helped her on, and, finally, one day, he married her to one who loved her truly in his own rude way, to one who was a sturdy peasant like herself, who had no romance in him, but who was true to her, and kind, as kindness goes among his sort of people; he provided for her and their children; she had many more necessities and even luxuries than most of those who were associated with her. She, sometimes, dreamed of Manuello; she never knew how his life ended.
Ruth Wakefield looked her up, from time to time, but did not tell her very much about the Spanish-American war or those who entered into it; she knew she could not really understand much more than would the helpless baby at her ample breast, for Tessa did not stay the slim, small person that she was at first; she grew to be as wide, almost, as she was tall, and seemed to be quite happy as she was. She always limped a little from the blow that Manuello gave to her; the deep, sad scar he left upon her gentle heart could not be seen, and it, somehow, grew over as her flesh and family increased.
Estrella always remembered her and sent her many costly and curious things which were her constant delight. She loved to display these mementoes of her girlhood's friend; her children, and her heavy husband, too, were, always proud of them.
It seems to me that, when such souls as animated little Tessa's form leave this world behind them for all time, it must be that they find some soft, warm places, where they can sit at ease and watch dear little children play, and, maybe, join them in their play, and dream of happy hours, and forget all the trials of their lives upon the earth.
The course of human life will, sometimes, like a placid river, flow along for many years without a single change that is any more disturbing than a little, gentle ripple or an easy turn; then, all at once, like the water, that has been so clear and still, when it has reached the rapids and becomes a raging, turbid torrent, so human life may, suddenly, be stirred to its very depths; something may transpire that will call for the most sublime courage and the most strenuous endeavor, combined with the most harrowing self-sacrifice.
Like a stroke of lightning out of a calm summer sky, more than one great event in our national history has thrust itself upon our startled consciousness. At these times, leaders have appeared who have taken their places at the head of affairs as naturally and as calmly as if they had been, always, guiding those who followed after them, although, perhaps, before the time that they were needed, they were, comparatively, unknown. And so, it seems to me, it will be always. There is a Plan, an infinite, a just, a universal Plan, to which all things, mundane or otherwise, must, in the end, conform. To keep ourselves informed as to the part that we were meant to take in this great Plan, it seems to me, should be our constant study and our constant strong desire.
The light of truth and understanding, that is God's Smile, looks up into our faces from the heart of every flower, whether bathed in moonlight, or shining underneath the sun; the simplest soul or the grandest intellect, alike, may bask beneath this light and feel its healing power.
I love, above all else, the God of truth and right and justice, Who rules all worlds and watches over everything that lives and moves and has its being in His whole universe.
It seems to me that there is implanted, although it may be completely covered up, at times, in the nature of every human being, a reverence and a most affectionate regard, that rests upon implicit faith, for Him Who gave to us, at the very beginning of of our human lives, an infallible guide ... conscience, or inner consciousness of right and wrong ... which, if always heeded, will show us where to go and what to do, no matter what vicissitudes, disappointments or sorrows we may meet.
And, next to God, it seems to me, it is both natural and right to love the land of one's nativity.
I know I hold in my regard, above all personal advantages, above all temporal happiness or praise, America ... the great United States ...that one fair land whose single boast has always been that it was free.