"Julio:—The bearer of this is the wife of Pedro Valdez. You are to take her and her family in, and give them the best the house contains; the best, do you hear? put them in the marble guest-chamber, and place the house at their disposal. Send for Doctor Blanco to attend them; let Teresa wait upon them, and let her furnish them with clothes from my wardrobe. If you do not do allthis, Julio, I will have you killed; so fail not as you value your life."Margarita de San Real Montfort."P.S. The Señor Don Carlos is here with me, and echoes what I say. We are with the brave General Sevillo, and if you dare to disobey, terrible revenge will be taken."
"Julio:—The bearer of this is the wife of Pedro Valdez. You are to take her and her family in, and give them the best the house contains; the best, do you hear? put them in the marble guest-chamber, and place the house at their disposal. Send for Doctor Blanco to attend them; let Teresa wait upon them, and let her furnish them with clothes from my wardrobe. If you do not do allthis, Julio, I will have you killed; so fail not as you value your life.
"Margarita de San Real Montfort.
"P.S. The Señor Don Carlos is here with me, and echoes what I say. We are with the brave General Sevillo, and if you dare to disobey, terrible revenge will be taken."
"The ardent patriotism of theseñorita," said the General, cautiously, "is beautiful and inspiring; nevertheless, is it not possible that a more conciliatory tone might—I would not presume to dictate, but—"
"Oh, Rita!" cried Carlos. "Child, when will you learn that we are no longer acting plays at home? This is absurd!"
With an impatient movement that might have been Rita's own, he snatched the paper and tore it in two. "The General cannot be troubled with such folly!" he said, shortly. "Go to your room, my sister, and repose yourself after your fatigues."
"By no means!" cried the kindly General, seeing Rita's eyes fill with tears of anger and mortification. "The señorita has promised to make my tea for me this evening. Give orders, I pray you, Don Carlos, that Valdez bring his family to us for the night; the rest can well wait for to-morrow's light. The señorita is exhausted, I fear, with her manifold fatigues, and she must have no more anxieties to-day. Behold the tea at this moment! Señorita Rita, this will be the pleasantest meal I have had since I left my home, two years ago."
No anger could stand against the General's smile. In a moment Rita was smiling herself, though the tears still stood in her dark eyes, and one great drop even rolled down her cheek, to the General's great distress. Carlos, seeing with contrition his sister's effort at self-control, bent to kiss her cheek and murmur a few affectionate words. Soon they were all seated around the little table, Ritaand the General on camp-stools, Carlos on a box. The tea was smoking hot; what did it matter that the nose of the teapot was broken? Rita had never tasted anything so delicious as that cup of hot tea, without milk, and with a morsel of sugar-cane for sweetening. The camp fare, biscuits soaked in water and fried in bacon fat, was better, she declared, than any food she had ever tasted in her life. To her delight, a small box of chocolate still remained in her long-suffering bag; this she presented to the General with her prettiest courtesy, and he vowed he was not worthy to taste such delicacies from such a hand. So, with interchange of compliments, and with a real friendliness that was far better, the little feast went on gaily; and when, late in the evening, Rita withdrew to her tent, she told Manuela that she had never enjoyed anything so much in her life; never!
Camp of the Sons of Cuba,May the —, Midnight.
My Marguerite:—What will you say when your eyes, those calm gray eyes, rest upon the above heading? Will they open wider, I ask myself? Will the breath come quicker between those cool rose-leaves of your lips? "It is true!" you will murmur to yourself. "She has done as she said, as she swore she would. My Rita, my wild pomegranate flower, has kept her vow; she is in the mountains with Carlos; she has taken her place beside the defenders of her country."
Ah! you thought it was play, Marguerite, confess it! You thought the wild Cuban girl was uttering empty breath of nothingness;you have had no real anxiety, you never dreamed that I should really find myself—where now I am. Where is it? Listen, Marguerite! My house—once Carlos's house, now mine by his brotherly gift—stands in a little glen of the hills. An open space, once dry grass, now bare earth, baked by the sun, trodden by many feet; a cluster of palms, a mountain spring gushing from a rock hard by; on every side hills, the brown, rugged hills of Cuba, fairer to me than cloudy Alps of Italy, or those other great mountains of which never can I remember the barbarous names. To teach me geography, Marguerite, you never could succeed, you will remember; more than our poor Peggy history. Poor little Peggy! I could wish she were here with me; it would be the greatest pleasure of her life. For you, Marguerite, the scene is too wild, too stern; but Peggy has a martial spirit under her somewhat clumsy exterior. But I wander, and Peggy is withoutdoubt sleeping at this moment under the stern eye of her schoolmistress. I began to tell you about my house, Marguerite. So small a house you saw never. Standing, I reach up my hand and touch the roof, of brown canvas, less fresh than once it was. Sitting, I stretch out my arms—here is one wall; there—almost, but a few feet between—is the other. In a corner my bed—ah, Marguerite! on your white couch there, with snowy draperies falling softly about you, consider my bed! a pile of dried grasses and leaves, shaken and tossed anew every morning, covered with a camp blanket. I tell you, the gods might sleep on it, and ask no better. In another corner sleeps Manuela, my faithful maid, my humble friend, the companion of my wanderings. Some day you shall see Manuela; she is an excellent creature. Cultivated, no; intellinctual—what is that for a word, Marguerite? Ah! when will you learn Spanish, that I may pour my soul with freedom?—no;but a heart of gold, a spirit of fire and crystal. She keeps my hut neat, she arranges my toilet,—singular toilets, my dear, yet not wholly unbecoming, I almost fancy,—she helps me in a thousand ways. She has a little love-affair, that is a keen interest to me; Pepe, formerly the servant of Carlos, adores her, and she casts tender eyes upon the young soldier. For me, as you know, Marguerite, these things are for ever past, buried in the grave of my hero, in the stately tomb that hides the ashes of the Santillos. I take a sorrowful pleasure in watching the budding happiness of these young creatures. More of this another time.
I sit, Marguerite, in the doorway of my little house. It is the middle hour of the night, when tomb-yards gape, as your Shakespeare says. Am I sleepy? No! The camp slumbers, but I—I am awake, and I watch. I had a very long siesta, too. The moon is full, and the little glade is bathed in silverlight. Here in Cuba, Marguerite, the moon is other than with you in the north. You call her pale moon, gentle moon, I know not what. Here she shines fiercely, with passion, with palpitations of fiery silver. The palms, the aloes, the tangled woods about the camp, are black as night; all else is a flood of airy silver. I float, I swim in this flood, entranced, enraptured. I ask myself, have I lived till now? is not this the first real thrill of life I have ever experienced? I alone wake, as I said; the others slumber profoundly. The General in his tent; ah, that you could know him, Marguerite! that you and my uncle could embrace this noble, this godlike figure! He is no longer young, the snows of seventy winters have blanched his clustering locks; it is the only sign of age. For the rest, erect, vigorous, a knight, a paladin, a—in effect, a son of Cuba. The younger officers regard him as a divinity; they live or die at his command. They are three, these officers;Carlos is one; the others, Don Alonzo Ximenes, Don Uberto Cortez. Don Alonzo is not interesting; he is fat, and rather stupid, but most good-natured. Don Uberto is Carlos's friend, a noble young captain, much admired formerly in Havana. I have danced with him, my cousin, in halls of rose-wreathed marble; we meet here in the wilderness, I with my shattered affections, he with his country's name written on his soul. It is affecting; it is heart-stirring, Marguerite; yet think nothing of it; romance is dead for Margarita Montfort. Carlos is my kind brother, as ever. He was vexed at first at my coming here. Heavens! what was I to do? My stepmother was dragging me to a convent; my days would have been spent there, and in a short time my life would have gone out like a flame. "Out, short candle!" You see I remember your Shakespeare readings, my dearest. Can I forget anything that recalls you to me, half of my heart? Ifthere had been time, indeed, I might have written to my uncle; I might even have come to you; but the hour descended like a thunderbolt; I fled, Manuela with me. The manner of my flight? you will ask. Marguerite, it was managed—I do not boast, I am the soul of humility, you know it!—the manner of it was perfect. Listen, and you shall hear all. You remember that in my last letter—written, alas! in my beloved garden, which I may never see more—I spoke with a certain restraint, even an approach to mystery. It was thus. At first, when that woman proposed to take me to the convent, I was a creature distracted. The fire of madness burned in my veins, and I could think of nothing save death or revenge. But with time came reflection; came wisdom, Marguerite, and inflexible resolve. To those she loves, Margarita Montfort is wax, silk, down, anything the most soft and yielding that can be figured. To her enemies, steel andadamant are her composition. I had two friends in that house of Spaniards; one was Pasquale, good, faithful Pasquale, an under gardener and helper; the other, Manuela, my maid. I have described her to you—enough! I realised that action must be of swiftness, the lightning flash, the volcano fire that I predicted. Do not say that I did not warn you, Marguerite; knowing me, you must have expected from my last letter what must come. I called Manuela to my room, I made pretence that she should arrange my hair. My hair has grown three inches, Marguerite, since I left you; it now veritably touches the floor as I sit. Our holy religion tells us that it is a woman's crown, yet how heavy a one at times! I closed the door, I locked it; I caused to draw down the heavy Persians. Then, tiger-like, I sprang upon my attendant, and laid my hand on her mouth. "Hush!" I tell her. "Not a word, not a sound! dare but breathe, and you may be my death. Mylife, I tell you, hangs by a thread. Hush! be silent, and tell me all. Tell me who assists Geronimo in the stables since Pablo is ill." Manuela struggles, she releases herself to reply—
"Pasquale!"
It is the answer from heaven. Pasquale, I have said, is my one friend beside Manuela. I say to her, "Do thus, and thus! give these orders to Pasquale; tell him that it imports of your life and mine, saying nothing of his own; that if I am not obeyed, the evil eye will be the least of his punishments, and death without the sacraments the end for him."
Manuela hears; she trembles; she flies to execute my commands. Then, Marguerite—then, what does the daughter of Cuba do? She goes to the wall, to the trophy I have described to you so often. She selects her weapons. Ah, if you could see them! First, a long slender dagger, the steel exquisitely inlaid with gold, in a sheath of green enamel; a dagger fora prince, Marguerite, for your Lancelot or Tristram! Another, short and keen, the blade plain but deadly, cased in wrought leather of Cordova. Last, my machete, my pearl of destructiveness. It was his, my Santayana's; he procured it from Toledo, from the master sword-maker of the universe. The blade is so fine, the eye refuses to tell where it melts into the air; a touch, and the hardest substance is divided exactly in two pieces. The handle, gold, set with an ancestral emerald, which for centuries has brought victory in the field to the arm of the hero who wore it; the sheath—I forget myself; this weapon has no sheath. When a Santillo de Santayana rides into battle, he has no thought to sheathe his sword. These, Marguerite, are my armament; these, and a tiny gold-mounted revolver, a gem, a toy, but a toy of deadly purpose. Enough! I lay them apart, ready for the night. I go to my stepmother, I smile, I make submission. I will do all she wishes;I am a child; her age impresses me with the truth that I should not set my will against hers. Concepcion is thirty on her next birthday; she tells the world that she is twenty, but I know! it grinds her bones when I remind her of her years, as they were revealed to me by a member of her family. So! She is pleased, we embrace, the volantes are commanded, all goes smoothly. I demand permission to take my parrot to the convent; it is, to my surprise, accorded; I know she thought those savage sisters would kill him the first time he uttered his noble and inspiring words.
The night comes, the hour of the departure. To accompany us goes my good Don Miguel, the dear old man of whom I have told you, whom I revere as my grandfather. My heart yearns to tell him all, to cast myself on his venerable bosom and cry, "Come with me; take me yourself to my brother; share with us the perils and glories of thetented field!" But no! he is old, this dear friend; his hair is the snow, his step is feeble. Hardships such as Rita must now endure would end his feeble life. I speak no word; a marble smile is all I wear, though my heart is rent with anguish. The carriages are at the door. Concepcion would have me ride in the first, that she may have her eyes on me at each instant. She suspects nothing, no; it is merely the base and suspicious nature which reveals itself at every occasion. I refuse, I prodigate expressions of my humility, of my determination to take the second place, leaving the first to her; briefly, I take the second volante, Manuela springing to my side. After some discontent, appeased by dear Don Miguel, who is veritably an angel, and wants but death to transport him among the saints, Concepcion mounts in the first volante. I have seen that Pasquale is on the box of mine; I possess my soul, I lean back and count the beats of my feveredpulse, as we ascend the steep road, winding among hills and forests. The convent is at the top of a long, long hill, very steep and rugged; the horses pant and strain; humanity demands that they slacken their pace, that the carriages are slowly, slowly, drawn up the rugged track. The night descends, I have told you, swiftly in our southern climate; already it is dark. On either side of the road are tall shrouded forms, which Manuela takes for sentinels, for Spanish soldiers drawn up to watch, perhaps to arrest us. I laugh; I see they are the aloes only, planted here in rows along the road. Presently, at a turn of the road, a light! a fire burning by the roadside, and soldiers running, real ones this time, to the horses' heads. "Alerta! quien va?" It is the Spanish challenge, Marguerite; it is a piquette of the Gringos, of the hated Spaniards. They peer into the carriages, faces of savages, of brutes, devils; I feel their glances like poisoned arrows. They demand, Don Miguel makes answer, shows his papers. Of the instant these slaves are cringing, are bowing to the earth. "Pass, most honourable and illustrious Señor Don Miguel Pietoso, with the heavenly ladies under your charge!" It is over. The volantes roll on. I clasp Manuela in my arms and whisper, "We are free!" We mingle our tears of rapture, but for a moment only. We approach the steepest pitch of the long hill (it is veritably a mountain), a place beyond conception rugged and difficult. The horses strain and tug; they are at point of exhaustion. I look at Pasquale; Pasquale has served me since my cradle. Does his head move, a very little, the least imaginable motion? It is too dark to see; the moon is not yet risen. But I feel the horses checked, I feel the carriage pause, an instant, a breath only. I step noiselessly to the ground; the volante is low, permitting this without danger. Manuela follows.There is not a sound, not a creak, not the rustle of a fold. Again it is over. The volante rolls on. Manuela and I are alone, are free in the mountains of Cuba Libre.
I have but one thought: my country, my brother! Behold me here, in the society of one, prepared to shed my blood for the other. You would never guess who else is with us; Chiquito, our poor old friend the parrot, the sacred legacy of that white saint, our departed aunt. Could I leave him behind, to unfriendly, perhaps murderous, hands? Old Julio is a Spaniard at heart; Chiquito is a Cuban bird; his very soul—do you doubt that a bird has a soul, when I tell you that I have seen it in his eyes, Marguerite?—his very soul speaks for his country. If you could hear him cry, "Viva Cuba Libre!" The camp is on fire when they hear him. Ah, they are such brave fellows, our soldiers! poor, in rags, half-fed—it matters not! each one is a hero, and all are my brothers. Marguerite, sleep hangs at last upon me. Good-night, beloved; good-night, cool white soul of ivory and silver. I love thee always devotedly. Have no fear for me. It is true that the Spaniards are all about us in these mountains, that at any moment we may be attacked. What of that? If the daughter of Cuba dies by her brother's side, in her country's cause, my Marguerite will know that it is well with her. You will shed a tear over the lonely grave among the Cuban hills; but you will plant a wreath for Rita, a wreath of mingled laurel and immortelle, and it will bloom eternally.
Ever, and with a thousand greetings to my honoured and admired uncle, your
Margarita de San Real Montfort.
Rita drew a long breath as she folded her letter. She was in a fine glow of mingled affection and patriotic fervour; it had been a great relief to pour it all out in Margaret's sympathetic ear, though that ear were a thousand miles away. Now she really must go to bed. It was one o'clock, her watch told her. It seemed wicked, profane, to sleep under such moonlight as this; but still, the body must be preserved.
"But first," she said to herself, "I must have a drop of water; writing so long has made me thirsty."
She took up the earthen water-jar, but found it empty. Pepe had for once been faithless; indeed, neither he nor Manuela hadescaped the witchery of the full moon, and she had had little good of them that whole evening. She glanced at the corner where Manuela lay; the light, regular breathing told that the girl was sound asleep. It would be a pity to wake her from her first sweet sleep, poor Manuela. A year, perhaps a month ago, Rita would not have hesitated an instant; but now she murmured, "Sleep, little one! I myself will fetch the water."
She stepped out into the moonlight, with the jar in her hand. All was still as sleep itself. No sound or motion from huts or tent. Under the palms lay a number of brown bundles, motionless. Dry leaves, piled together for burning? no! soldiers of Cuba, wrapped in such covering as they could find, taking their rest. Alone, beside a little heap of twigs that still smouldered, the sentry sat; his back was turned to her. Should she speak to him, and ask him to go to the spring for her? No; how much more interesting to go herself! Everything looked so different in this magic light; it was a whole new world, the moon's fairyland; who knew what wonderful sights might meet her eyes? Besides, her old nurse used to say that water drawn from a pure spring under the full moon produced a matchless purity of the complexion. Her complexion was well enough, perhaps, but still—and anyhow, it would be an adventure, however small a one.
The girl's feet, in their soft leather slippers, made no sound on the bare earth. The sentry did not turn his head. Silent as a cloud, she stole across the little glade, and passed under the trees at the farther end. Here the ground broke off suddenly in a rocky pitch, down which one scrambled to another valley or glen lying some hundred feet lower; the cliff (for it was steep enough to merit that name) was mostly bare rock, but here and there a little earth had caught and lodged,and a few seeds had dropped, and a tuft of grass or a little tree had sprung up, defying the gulf below. A few feet only from the upper level, just below a group of palms that nodded over the brink, the stream gushed out from the face of the rock, clear and cold. The soldiers had hollowed a little trough to receive the trickling stream, and one had only to hold one's pitcher under this spout for a few minutes, to have it filled with delicious water. Rita had often come hither in the daytime, during the week that had now passed since her arrival at the mountain camp. It was a wild and picturesque scene at any time, but now the effect of the intense white light, falling on splintered rock, hanging tree, and glancing stream was magical indeed. Rita lay down on her face at the edge of the precipice, as she had seen the soldiers do, and lowered her jar carefully. As the water gurgled placidly into the jar, her eyes roved here and there, taking in every detail ofthe marvellous scene before her. Never, she thought, had she seen anything so beautiful, so unearthly in its loveliness. Peace! silver peace, and silence, the silence of—hark! what was that?
A crack, as of a twig breaking; a rustling, far below in the gorge; a shuffling sound, as of soft shod feet pressing the soft earth. Rita crouched flat to the ground, and, leaning over as far as she dared, peered over the precipice. The bottom of the gorge was filled with a mass of tall grasses and feathery blossoming shrubs, with here and there a tree rising tall and straight. The leaves were black as jet in the strong light. Gazing intently, she saw the branches tremble, wave, separate; and against the dark leaves shone a gleam of metal, that moved, and came nearer. Another and yet another; and now she could see the dark faces, and the moon shone on the barrels of the carbines, and made them glitter like silver.
Swiftly and noiselessly the girl drew back from the brink, crouching in the grass till she reached the shadow of the grove. Then she rose to her feet, still holding her jar of water carefully,—for there was no need of wasting that,—and ran for her life.
A whispered word to the sentry, who sprang quickly enough from his reverie beside the fire; then to the General's tent, then to Carlos, with the same whispered message. "The Gringos are here! Wake, for the love of Heaven!"
In another moment the little glade was alive with dusky figures, springing from their beds of moss and leaves, snatching their arms, fumbling for cartridges. The General was already among them. Carlos and the other officers came running, buckling their sword-belts, rubbing their eyes.
"Where are they?" all were asking in excited whispers. "Who saw them? Is it another nightmare of Pepe's?"
"No! no!" murmured Rita. "I saw them, I tell you! I saw their faces in the moonlight. I went to get some water. They are climbing up the cliff. I did not stop to count, but there must be many of them, from the sound of their feet. Oh, make haste, make haste!"
The General gave his orders in a low, emphatic tone. Twenty men, with Carlos at their head, glided like shadows across the glade, and disappeared among the trees. Rita's breath came quick, and she prepared to follow; but the old General laid a kind hand on her arm. "No, my child!" he said. "You have done your country a great service this night. Do not imperil your life needlessly. Go rather to your room, and pray for your brother and for us all."
But prayer was far from Rita's thoughts at that moment. "Dear General," she implored, with clasped hands, the tears starting to her eyes, "Let me go! let me go! I imploreyou! I will pray afterward, I truly will. I will pray while I am fighting, if you will only let me go. See! I have come all this way to fight for my country; and must I stay away from the first battle? Look, dear Señor General! Look at my machete! Isn't it beautiful? it is the sword of a hero; I must use it for him. Let me go!" The beautiful face, upturned in the moonlight, the dark eyes shining through their tears, might have softened a harder heart than that of General Sevillo. He opened his lips to reply, his fatherly hand still on her arm, when suddenly a sharp report was heard. A single shot, then a volley, the shots rattling out, struck back and forth from cliff to cliff, multiplying in hideous echoes. Then broke out cries and groans; the crash of heavy bodies falling back among the trees below, and shouts of "Viva Cuba;" and still the shots rang out, and still the echoes cracked and snapped. Rita turned pale as death, andclasped her hands on her bosom. "Ah!Dios!" she cried. "I had forgotten; there will be blood!" and rushing into her hut, she flung herself face downward on her leafy bed.
The perplexed General looked after her for a moment, pulling his grizzled moustache. "Caramba!" he muttered. "To understand these feminines? Decidedly, this charming child must be sent into safety to-morrow." And shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, he strode in the direction of the firing.
Ten minutes' sharp fighting, and the skirmish was over. The Spanish "guerilla" was scattered, many of the guerilleros lying dead or wounded at the foot of the precipice, the others scrambling and tumbling down as best they might. Carlos and his men had so greatly the advantage in position, if not in numbers, that not a single Cuban was killed, though two or three were more or less seriously wounded. Among these was the unfortunate Pedro Valdez, who had only that evening returned to camp, having left his child and his old mother in a place of safety. His wife had been allowed to remain for a short time in camp, at the request of the surgeon, as she had had some experience in nursing. Now he was shot in the arm, and his comrades lifted him gently, and carried him back. His wife was waiting for him. She seemed to have expected something of the kind, for she made no outcry; she followed quietly to the clump of trees distant a little way from the rest of the camp, where good Doctor Ferrando had the solitary rancho, the case of surgical instruments and the few rolls of bandages that constituted his field hospital. A rough table had been knocked together for operations; otherwise the sick and wounded fared much as the rest did, sleeping on beds of leaves and dry grass, and fighting the mosquitoes as best they might. Here the bearers laid Pedro down, and Dolorestook her place quietly at his side, fanning away the insects that hovered in clouds about the wounded man, holding the poor arm while the doctor dressed it, and behaving as if her life had been spent in a hospital.
Doctor Ferrando spoke a few words of approval, but the woman heeded them little; it was a matter of course that where there was suffering, she should be at work. So, when Pedro presently dropped off to sleep, she moved softly about among the wounded men, smoothing a blanket here, changing a ligature there, doing all with light, swift fingers whose touch healed instead of hurting.
She was sitting beside a lad, the last to be brought in from the scene of the skirmish, when the screen of bushes by the rancho was parted, and Rita appeared. Slowly and timidly she drew near; her face was like marble; her eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Dolores made a motion to rise, but a gesture bade her keep her place.
"Hush!" said the young girl. "Sit still, Dolores! I have come—to—to learn!"
"To learn, señorita?" repeated the woman, humbly. The señorita was in her grateful eyes a heaven-descended being, whose every look and word must be law; this new bearing amazed and puzzled her.
"What can this poor soul teach the noble and high-born lady?" she asked, sadly. "I know nothing, not even to read; I am a poor woman merely. The señor doctor is this moment gone to take his distinguished siesta; do I call him for the señorita?"
Rita shook her head, and crept nearer, gazing with wide eyes of fear at the prostrate form beside which Dolores was sitting.
"'HUSH!' SAID THE YOUNG GIRL. 'SIT STILL.'""'HUSH!' SAID THE YOUNG GIRL. 'SIT STILL.'"
"See, Dolores!" she said; and her tone was as humble as the woman's own. "I must learn—to take care of him—of them!" She nodded at the sufferer. "All my life, you see, I could never bear the sight of blood. To cut my finger, I fainted at the instant.Always they said, 'Poor child! it is her delicacy, her sensibility;' they praised me; I thought it a fine thing, to faint, to turn pale at the word even. Now—oh, Dolores, do you see? I desire to help my country, my brother, all the heroes who are risking their life, are shedding their—their blood—for Cuba. I think I can fight; I forget; I see only the bright shining blades, the victorious banners; I forget that these heroes must bleed, that this horrible blood must flow in streams, in torrents, that oceans of it must overwhelm us, the defenders of my country.Ay de mi!I begged the General even now to let me fight, to let me stand beside my Carlos, and wield my beautiful machete. Suddenly, Dolores—I heard the shots; I heard—terrible sounds! screams—oh, Dios!—screams of men, perhaps of my own brother, in anguish. All at once it came over me—I cannot tell you—I saw it all, the blood, the wounds, the horror to death. I awoke from my dreams; I wasa child, do you see, Dolores? I was a child, playing at war, and thinking—thinking the thoughts of a silly, silly child. Now I am awake; now I know—what—what war means. So—I am foolish, but I can learn; I think I can learn. You are a brave woman; I have been watching you through the leaves for half an hour. I saw you—I saw you change those cloths; those terrible bloody cloths on that poor man's head. At first my eyes turned round, I saw black only; but I opened them again, I fixed them on what you held, I watched. Now I can bear quite well to look at it. Help me, Dolores! teach me—to help as you help; teach me to care for these brothers, as you do."
Dolores looked earnestly in the beautiful young face. In spite of the deadly pallor, she saw that the girl was fully herself, was calm and determined. With a simple, noble gesture she lifted Rita's slender hand to her lips, saying merely: "This hand shall bring blessing to many! come, my señorita, and see! it is so easy, when once one knows the way of it."
Very gently the poor peasant's wife showed the rich man's daughter the A B C of woman's work among the sick and suffering. At first Rita could do little more than control her own nerves, and fight down the faintness that came creeping over her at sight of the bandaged faces, ghastly under the brown, of the torn flesh and nerveless limbs. Gradually, however, she began to gain strength. The rough brown hand moved so easily, so lightly; it laid hold of those terrible bandages as if they were mere ordinary bits of linen. Surely now, she, Rita, could do that too. As Dolores took a cloth from her husband's head, the girl's hand was outstretched, took it quietly, and handed a fresh one to the nurse. The cloth she took was covered with red stains. For a moment Rita's head swam, and the world seemed to turn dark before her eyes;but she held the thing firmly, till her sight cleared again; then dropped it in the tub of water that stood ready, and taking up the fan of green palm-leaf, swept it steadily to and fro, driving the clouds of flies and mosquitoes away from the sufferer.
Coming back from his siesta half an hour later, good Doctor Ferrando paused a moment at the entrance of the hospital grove. There were two nurses now; the good man gazed in astonishment at the slender figure kneeling beside one of the rough cots, fanning the wounded man, and singing in a low, sweet voice, a song of Cuba. Several of the men were awake, and gazing at her with delight. Dolores, with a look of quiet happiness on her face, sat beside the bed where her husband was sleeping peacefully. "Come!" said the doctor, "war, after all, has its beauty as well as its terror. Observe this heavenly sight, you benevolent saints!" he waved his cigar upward, inviting the attention of allattendant spirits. "Consider this lovely child, awakened to the holiness of womanhood! and the General will destroy all this to-morrow, from respect for worldly conventions! He is without doubt right; yet, what a pity!"
"If I must, dear Señor General—I will be good, I will, indeed; but my heart will break to leave Carlos, and the camp, and you, Señor General."
"My dear child,—my dear young lady, what pleasure for me to keep you here! the first sunshine of the war, it came with you, Señorita Margarita. Nevertheless, duty is duty; I should be wanting in mine, most wofully and wickedly wanting, if I allowed you to remain here, in hourly danger, when a few hours could place you in comparative safety. Perfect safety, I do not promise. Where shall we find it, even for our nearest and dearest, in this poor distracted country? But with Don Annunzio and his family you willbe safe at least for a time; whereas here—" The General looked around, and shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands out with a dramatic gesture. "The Gringos have learned the way to our mountain camp; they will not forget it. Another attack may come any night; our camp is an outpost, placed of purpose to guard this position, which must of necessity be one of danger. To have women with us—it is not only exposing them to the terrible possibilities of war, but—"
He paused. "I see!" cried Rita. "I see! you are too kind to say it, but we are a burden upon you. We make harder the work; we are an encumbrance. Dear Señor General, I go! I fly! Give me half, a quarter of an hour, and I am gone. Never, never, will I be in the way of my country's defenders; never! Too long we have stayed already; Manuela shall make on the instant our packets, and in a little hour you shall forget that we were here at all."
The good General cried out, "No! no! my dear child, my dear señorita; cease these words, I implore you. You cut me to the heart. Consider the help that you have brought to us; consider the nursing, the tender care that you and the wife of Valdez have given to our sufferers, in the rancho there. Never will this be forgotten, rest assured of that. But—it is true that you must go; yet not too soon. This evening, when the coolness falls, Don Carlos, with a chosen escort, will conduct you to the residence of Don Annunzio. There, I rejoice to think that you will find, not luxury, but at least some few of the comforts of ordinary life. Here you have suffered; your lofty spirit will not confess it, but you have—you must have suffered, delicate and fragile as you are, in the rough life of a Cuban camp. Enough! The day is before you, dearest señorita. I pray you, while it lasts, make use of me, of all that the camp contains, in whatever wayyou can imagine. I would make the day a pleasant one, if I might. Command me, dear señorita, in anything and everything. The camp is yours, with all it contains."
He bowed with courtly grace, and Rita courtsied and then turned quickly away, to hide the tears that would come in spite of her. It was a keen disappointment. When Carlos told her that morning that she must leave the camp, she had refused pointblank. A stormy scene followed, in which the old Rita was only too much in evidence. She raged, she wept, she stamped her little foot. She was a Cuban, as much as he was; she was a nurse, a daughter of the army; no human power should drive her from the ground where she was prepared to shed her last drop of blood for the defenders of her country. Now—a few kind, grave words from a gray-haired man, and all was changed. She was not a necessity, she was a hindrance; she saw that this must be so; the pain wassharp, but she would not show it; she would never again lose her self-control, never. Carlos should see that she was no longer a child. He had called her a child, not half an hour ago, a naughty child, who was making trouble for everybody. Well—Rita stood still; the thought came over her suddenly,—it was true! she had been childish, had been naughty. Suppose Margaret or Peggy should behave so, stamping and storming; how would it seem? Oh, well, that was different. Their blood was cool, almost cold. It flowed sluggishly in their veins. She was a child of the South; it was not to be expected that she should be like Margaret. Yes! but—the thought would come, troubling all her mind; suppose Margaret were here, with her calm sense, her cheerful face, and tranquil voice; would not she be of more use, of more help, than a girl who could not help screaming when she was in a passion?
These thoughts were new to Rita Montfort.Full of them, she walked slowly to her hut, with bent head, and eyes full of unshed tears. Meanwhile, the good General went back to his tent, where Carlos awaited him with some anxiety.
"Well?" he asked, as the gray head bent under the tent-flaps.
"Well," responded his commander. "It is very well, my son. The señorita—she is adorable, do you know it? Never have I seen a more lovely young person! The señorita is most reasonable. She comprehends; she understands the desolation that it is to me to send away so delightful a visitor; nevertheless—she accepts all, with her own exquisite grace."
Carlos shrugged his shoulders; that same exquisite grace had flashed a dagger in his eyes not ten minutes before, vowing that it should be sheathed in the owner's heart before she left the camp; but it was not necessary to say this to the General. Carloswas an affectionate brother, and was honestly relieved and glad to find that Rita had come to her senses. He thanked General Sevillo warmly for his good offices, and, being off duty, went in search of his sister, determining that he would make her last day in camp a pleasant one, so far as lay in his power. He found Rita sitting sadly in the door of her hut, watching Manuela, who was packing up their belongings, unwillingly enough. Manuela had enjoyed her stay in camp greatly, and thought life would be very dull, in comparison, at Don Annunzio's cottage; but there was no escape, and the white silk blouse and the swansdown wrapper went into the bag with all the other fineries.
"Come, Rita," said Carlos, taking his sister's hand affectionately; "come with me, and let me show you some things that you have not yet seen. You must not forget the camp. Who knows? Some day you may come back to pay us a visit."
Rita shook her head, and the tears came to her eyes again; but she drove them back bravely, and smiled, and laid her hand in her brother's; and they passed out together among the palm-trees.
Manuela looked after them, and laid her hand on her heart; it was a gesture that she had often seen her mistress use, and it seemed to her infinitely touching and beautiful. "Ohimé," sighed Manuela. "War is terrible, indeed! To think that we must go away, just when we are so comfortable. But where, then, is this idiot? Pepe! When I call you, will you come, animal? Pepe!"
The thicket near the rancho rustled and shook, and Pepe appeared. This young man presented a different figure from the forlorn one that had greeted the two girls on their first arrival at the camp. His curly hair was now carefully brushed and oiled. The scarlet handkerchief was still tied about his head, but it was tied now with a grace thatmight have done credit to the most dandified matador in the Havana ring. His jacket was neatly mended; altogether, Pepe was once more a self-respecting, even a self-admiring youth. Also, he admired Manuela immensely, and lost no opportunity of telling that she was the light of his eyes and the flower of his soul. He was now beginning some remarks of this description, but Manuela interrupted him, laying her pretty brown hand unceremoniously on his lips.
"For once, Pepe, endeavour to possess a small portion of sense," she said. "Listen to me! We must leave the camp."
"How then, marrow of my bones! Leave the camp? You and I?"
"I am speaking to a monkey, then, instead of a man? The use, I ask you, of addressing intelligent remarks to such a corporosity? My mistress and I, simpleton. This General of yours drives us from his quarters; he begrudges the morsel we eat, the rude hutthat shelters us. Enough! we go; even now I make preparation. Pull this strap for me, Pepe; at least you have strength. Ah! If I were but a great stupid man, it would be well with me this day!"
"But well for no one else, my idol," said Pepe, tugging away at the strap. "Desolation and despair for the rest of mankind, Rose of the Antilles. Accidental death to this bag! why have you filled it so full? There! it is strapped. Manuela, is it possible that I live without you? No! I shall fall an easy victim to the first fever that comes; already I feel it scorching my—"
"Oh, a paralysis upon you! Can I exercise my thoughts, with the chatter of a parrot in my ears? Attend, then, Pepe,—you will miss me a little, will you? Just a very little?"
Pepe opened his mouth for new and fiery protestations, but was bidden peremptorily to shut it again.
"I desire now to hear myself speak," said Manuela. "I weary, Pepe, for the sound of my own poor little voice. Listen, then! These days I have been here, and you have never asked me what I brought with me for you; brought all that cruel way from the city. I knew I should find you somewhere, my good Pepe; or, if not you, some other friend, some other good son of Cuba. I thought of you, I remembered you, even in the rush of our departure. See! It is yours. May it bring you fortune!"
She handed him a little packet, neatly folded in white paper, and tied with a crimson ribbon. Receiving it with dramatic eagerness, Pepe opened it and looked with delight at its contents.
"Adetente!" he cried. "Manuela! and the most beautiful that has been seen upon the earth. This is not for me! No! Impossible! The General alone is worthy to wear this object of an elegance so resplendent."
Reassured on this point, he proceeded to pin the emblem on his jacket, and contemplated it with delighted pride. It was a simple thing enough; a square of white flannel the size of an ordinary needlebook, neatly scalloped around the edge with white silk. In the centre was embroidered a crimson heart, and under it the words, "Detente! pienso en ti!" ("Be of good cheer! I think of thee!")
"And did you really think of me, Manuela?" cried the delighted Pepe. "Did you, bright and gay, in the splendid city, think of the lonely soldier?"
"Yes, I did," said Manuela, "when I had nothing else to do. And now you may go away, Pepe, I am busy; I cannot attend to you any longer."
"But," said Pepe, bewildered, "you called me, Manuela."
"Yes; to strap my bag. It is done; I thank you. It is finished."
"And—you have given me thedetente, moon of my soul!"
"Then you cannot complain that I never gave you anything. And now I give you one thing more,—leave to depart.Adios,Don Pepe!" and she actually shut the door of the hut in the face of her astonished adorer, who departed muttering strange things concerning the changeableness of all women, and of Manuela in particular.
Meanwhile, Rita and Carlos were wandering about the camp, and Rita was seeing, as her brother promised, some things that were new to her, even after a stay of nearly a week. She saw the kitchen, or what passed for a kitchen,—a pleasant spot under a palm-tree, where the cook was even then toasting long strips of meat over theparilla, a kind of gridiron, made by simply driving four stakes, and laying bits of wood across and across them, then lighting a fire beneath.
"But why does it not burn up, yourparilla?" asked Rita of the long, lean, coffee-coloured soldier, picturesque and ragged, who was turning the strips with a forked stick.
"Pardon, gracious señorita, it does burn up; not the first time, nor perhaps the second, but without doubt the third."
"And then?"
"And then,—it is but to build another. An affair of a moment, señorita."
"But does not the meat often fall into the fire when it breaks?"
"Sufficiently often, most noble. What of that? It imparts a flavour of its own; one brushes off the ashes—soldiers do not dine at the Hotel Royal, one must observe. May I offer the señorita a bit of this excellent beef? This has not fallen down at all, or at most but once, one little time."
Rita thanked him, but was not hungry. At least she would have a cup ofguarapo, the hospitable cook begged; and he hastened to bring her a cup of polished cocoanut shell,filled with the favourite drink, which was simply hot water with sugar dissolved in it. Rita took the cup graciously, and drank to the health of the camp, and to the freedom of Cuba; the cook responded with many bows and profuse thanks for the honour she had done him, and the brother and sister passed on.
"There are some good bananas near here," said Carlos; "little red ones, the kind you like, Rita. I'll fill a basket for you to take with you; Don Annunzio's may not be so good."
They were making their way through a tangle of tall grass and young palm-trees, when suddenly Rita stopped, and laid her hand on her brother's arm.
"Look!" she said. "Look yonder, Carlos! The grass moves."
"A snake, perhaps," said Carlos; "or a land-crab. Stand here a moment, and I will go forward and see."
He advanced, looking keenly at the clump of yellowish grass that Rita had pointed out. Certainly, the grass did move. It quivered, waved from side to side, then seemed to settle down, as if an invisible hand were pulling it from below. Carlos drew his machete, and bent forward; whereupon a loud yell was heard, and the clump of grass shot up into the air, revealing a black face, and a pair of rolling eyes.
"What is it?" cried Rita, in terror. "Carlos, come back to me! It is a devil!"
"Only a scout!" said her brother, laughing. "One of our own men on outpost duty. Have peace, Pablo! your hour is not yet come."
"Caramba!I thought it was, my captain!" said the negro scout, grinning. "Better be a crab than a Cuban in these days."
He was a singular figure indeed. From head to waist he was literally clothed in grass, bunches of it being tied over his head and round his neck and shoulders, falling to histhighs. A pair of ragged trousers of no particular colour completed his costume. A more perfect disguise could not be imagined; indeed, except when he lifted his head, he was not to be distinguished from the clumps and tufts of dry grass all about him.
"Pablo is a good scout!" said Carlos, approvingly. "No Gringo could possibly see you till he stepped on you, Pablo; and then—"
"And then!" said Pablo, grinning from ear to ear; and he drew his machete and went through an expressive pantomime which, if carried out, would certainly have left very little of Gringo or any one else.
"Is your post near here? show it! The señorita would like to see how a Cuban scout lives."
Pablo, a man of few words, gave a pleased nod, and scuttled away through the bush, beckoning them to follow. Rita, stepping carefully along, holding her brother's hand, kept her eyes on the scout for a few moments;then he seemed to melt into the rest of the grass, and was gone. A few steps more, and they almost fell over him, as his black face popped up again, shaking back its grassy fringes.
"Behold the domicile of Pablo!" he said, with a magnificent gesture. "The property, with all it contains, of the señorita and the Señor Captain Don Carlos."
Brother and sister tried to look becomingly impressed as they surveyed the domain. Close under a waving palm-tree a rag of brown canvas was stretched on two sticks laid across upright branches stuck in the ground. Under this awning was space for a man to sit, or even to lie down, if he did not mind his feet being in the sun. A small iron pot, hung on three sticks over some blackened stones, showed where the householder did his cooking; a heap of leaves and grass answered for bed and pillows; this was the domicile of Pablo.
Breaking a twig from a neighbouring shrub, the scout bent over the pot, and speared a plantain, which he offered to Rita with grave courtesy. She took it with equal dignity, thanking him with her most gracious smile, and ate it daintily, praising its flavour and the perfection of its cooking till the good negro's face shone with pleasure.
"And you stay here alone, Pablo?" she asked. "How long? you are not afraid? No, of course not that; you are a soldier. But lonely! is it not very lonely here, at night above all?"
Pablo spread out his hands. "Señorita, possibly—if it were not for the crabs. These good souls—they have the disposition of a Christian!—sit with me, in the intervals of their occupations, and are excellent company. They cannot talk, but that suits me very well. Then, there is always the chance of some one coming by—as to-day, when the Blessed Virgin sends the señoritaand the Señor Don Carlos. Also at any moment the devil may send me a Gringo; their scouts are as plenty as scorpions. No, señorita, I am not lonely. It is a fine life! In a prison, you see, it would be quite otherwise."
"But there are other ways of living, Pablo, beside scouting and going to prison," said Rita, much amused.
"Without doubt! Without doubt!" said Pablo, cheerfully. "And assuredly neither would befit theseñorita. May she live as happy as she is beautiful, the sun being black beside her.Adios, señorita;adios, Señor Captain Don Carlos!"
"Adios, good Pablo! good luck to you and your crabs!" and laughing and waving a salute, they left the scout nodding his grass-crowned head like a transformed mandarin, and went back to the camp.
A long, low adobe house, brilliantly white with plaster; a verandah with swinging hammocks; the inevitable green blinds; the inevitable cane and banana patch; this was Don Annunzio's. Don Annunzio Carreno himself (to give him his full name for once, though he seldom heard or used it) sat in a large rocking-chair on the verandah, smoking. He was enormously stout and supremely placid, and he looked the picture of peace and prosperity, in his spotless white suit and broad-brimmed hat.
To Rita, weary after her ten miles' ride from the camp, the whole place seemed a page out of a picture-book. Her mind was filled with rugged and startling images: therude hospital, with its ghastly sights and homely though devoted tendance; the ragged soldiers, with head or arm bound in bloody bandages; the camp fire and kitchen, the scout in his grassy panoply. Her eyes had grown accustomed to sights like these, and the bright whiteness of house and householder, the trim array of flower-beds and kitchen-garden, struck her as strange and artificial. She felt as if Don Annunzio ought to be wound up from behind, and was whimsically surprised to see him rise and come forward to meet them.
Carlos made his explanation, and presented General Sevillo's letter. Don Annunzio's hat was already in his hand and he was bowing to Rita with all the grace his size allowed; but now he implored them to enter the house, which he declared he occupied henceforward only at their pleasure.
"If the señorita will graciously descend!" said the good man. "On the instant I callmy wife. Prudencia! Where are you, then? Visitors, Prudencia; visitors of distinction. Hasten quickly!"
A woman appeared in the doorway; tall and lean, clad in brown calico, with a sun-bonnet to match, but with apron and kerchief as snowy as Don Annunzio's "ducks."
"For the land's sake!" said Señora Carreno.
Rita looked up quickly.
"Visitors, my love!" Don Annunzio explained rapidly, in good enough English. "The Señor Captain and the Señorita Montfort, bringing a note from his Excellency General Sevillo. The señorita will remain with us for some days; I have placed all at her disposal; I—"
"There, Noonsey!" said the lady, not unkindly. "You set down, and let me see what's goin' on."
She laid a powerful hand on her husband's shoulder, and pushed him into his chair again; then advanced to the verandah steps, regarding the newcomers with frank but cheerful scrutiny.
"What's all this?" she said. "Good mornin'! Yes, it's a fine day. Won't you step in?"
Carlos told his story, and asked permission for his sister and her maid to spend some days at the house until some permanent place could be found for her.
The señora considered with frowning brows, not of anger but of consideration.
"Well," she said, "I did say I wouldn't take no more boarders. I had trouble with the last ones, and said I'd got through accommodatin' folks. Still—I dunno but we could manage—does she understand when she's spoke to—English, I mean?"
"Yes, indeed, I do!" cried Rita, coming forward. "I am only half Cuban; it is good to hear you speak. If you will let me stay, I will try to give little trouble. May I stay, please?"
"Well, I guess you may!" cried the New England woman. "You walk right in and lay off your things, and make yourself to home. The idea! Why didn't you say—why, it's as good as a meal o' victuals to hear you speak. Been to the States, have you? Well, now, if that don't beat all! Noonsey, you go and tell José we shall want them chickens for supper. Set down, young man! This your hired gal, dear? Does she speak English? Well no, I s'pose not."
She said a few words to Manuela in Spanish which, if not melodious, was intelligible, and then led Rita into the house, talking all the way.
"Here's the settin'-room; and here's the spare-room off'n it. There! lay your things on the bed, dear. I keep on talkin', when all the time I want to hear you talk. It is good to hear your native speech, say what they will. Husband, he does his best, to please me; but it's like as though he wasspeakin' molasses, some way. Been in the States to school, did you say?"
Rita told her story: of her American father, who had always spoken English with her and her brother; of the summer spent in the North with her uncle and cousins. "Oh," she said, "you are right. I used to think that I was two-thirds Cuban; I thought I cared little, little, for the American part of me. Now—but it is music to hear you speak, Señora Carreno."
"S'pose you call me Marm Prudence!" said the good woman, half-shyly. "I don't see as 'twould be any harm, and I should like dretful well to hear the name again. I was a widow when I married Don Noonzio. Yes'm. My first husband was captain of a fruit schooner. I voyaged with him considerable. He died in Santiago, and I never went back home: I couldn't seem to. I washed and sewed for families I knew, and then bumbye I married Don Noonzio. Hegave me a good home, and he's a good provider. There's times, though, that I'm terrible homesick. There! I don't know what I should do if 'twa'n't for my settin'-room. Did you notice it, comin' through? I just go there and set sometimes, and look round, and cry. It does me a sight o' good."
Rita had indeed glanced around the sitting-room as she passed through it, but it said nothing to her. The six haircloth chairs, the marble-topped centre-table with its wool and bead mat, its glass lamp with the red wick, its photograph-album and gilt family Bible, did not speak her language. Neither did the mantelpiece, with its two china poodles and its bunches of dried grasses in vases of red and white Bohemian glass. The Cuban girl could not know how eloquent were all these things to the exiled Vermont woman; but she looked sympathetic, and felt so, her heart warming to the homely soul, with her rugged speech and awkward gestures.
Marm Prudence now insisted that her guest must be tired, and brought out a superb quilt, powdered with red and blue stars, to tuck her up under; but word came that Captain Montfort was going, and Rita hurried out to the verandah to bid him farewell. Carlos took her in his arms, affectionately. "How is it, then, little sister?" he asked. "Are you reconciled at all? Can you stay here in peace a little, with these good people?"
Rita returned his caress heartily. "You were right, Carlos!" she said. "You and the dear General were both right. It was wonderful to be there in camp; I shall never forget it; I hope I shall be better all my life for it; but I could not have stayed long, I see that now. Here I shall be taken care of; here I shall rest, as under a grandmother's care. This good Marm Prudence,—that is what I am to call her, Carlos,—already I love her, already she tends me as a bird tends her young. Ah, Carlos, you will not neglectChico? I leave him as a sacred legacy. The men implored me so. They said the bird had brought them good fortune once, and would be their salvation again; I had not the heart to take him from them. You will see that they do not feed him too much? Already he has had a fit of illness from too much kindness on the part of our faithful soldiers. Thank you! and have no thought of me, my brother; all will be well with me. Return to your glorious duty, son of Cuba. It may be that even here, in this peaceful spot, it may be given to your Rita to serve the mother we both adore.Adios, Carlos! Heaven be with thee!"
Carlos, who was of a practical turn of mind, was always uncomfortable when Rita spread her rhetorical wings. He did not see why she could not speak plain English. But he kissed her affectionately, heartily glad that he could leave her content with her surroundings; and with a cordial farewell to the goodpeople of the house, he rode away, followed by his clanking orderlies, leading the horse Rita had ridden.
While all this had been going on, Manuela had been arranging her mistress's things; shaking out the crumpled dresses, brushing off the bits of grass and broken straw that clung to hem and ruffle, mementoes of the days in camp. Manuela sighed over these relics, and shook her head mournfully.
"Poor Pepe!" she said. "If only he does not fall into a fever from grief! Ah, love is a terrible thing!Dios!what a rent in the señorita's serge skirt! A paralysis on the brambles in that place! yet it was a good place. At least there was life. One heard voices, neighing of horses, jingling of stirrups. Here we shall grow into two young cabbages beside that old one, my señorita and her poor Manuela. Ah, life is very sad!"
Here Manuela chanced to look out of the window, and saw a handsome Creole boyleading a horse to water in the courtyard. Instantly her face lighted up. She flew to the looking-glass, and was arranging her hair with passionate eagerness, when the door opened, and Rita entered, followed by their kind hostess. Manuela started, then turned to drop a demure courtsey. "I was examining the glass," she explained, "to see if it was fit for the señorita to use. These common mirrors, you understand, they draw the countenance this way, that way,—" she expressed her meaning in vivid pantomime,—"one thinks one's visage of caoutchouc. But this is passable; I assure you, señorita, passable."
"Well, I declare!" said Marm Prudence. "My best looking-glass, that I brought from Chelsea, Massachusetts, when I was first married! If it ain't good enough for you, young woman, you're free to do without it, and so I tell you."
She spoke with some severity, but softened instantly as she turned to Rita. "Now you'lllie down and rest you a spell, won't you, dear?" she said. "I must go and see about supper, and I sha'n't be satisfied till I see you tucked up under my 'Old Glory spread.' That's what I call it; it has the colours, you see. There! comfortable? Now you shut your pretty eyes, and have a good sleep. And you," she added, turning to Manuela, "can come and help me a spell, if you've nothing better to do. I'm short-handed; help is turrible skurce in war-time, and I can keep you out of Satan's hands, if nothing else."