"For it's whoop-la! whoop!Git along, my little dogies;For Wyoming shall be your new home!—
"What in the Rockies is going on here, anyhow?"
Rita turned her head. A horseman had come around the bend, and checked his horse, looking at the scene before him. A giant rider on a giant horse. The moon shone on his brown uniform, his slouched felt hat, and the carbine laid across his saddle-bow. Under the slouched hat looked out a bronzed face, grim and bearded, lighted by eyes blue as Delmonte's own.
Rita gave one glance. "Help!" she cried, "America, help!"
"America's the place!" said the horseman. He waved his hand to some one behind him, then put his horse to the gallop. Next instant he was beside them.
Delmonte started to his feet, revolver in hand. "U. S. A.?" he said. "You're just in time, uncle. I'm glad to see you."
"Always like to be on time at a party," said the rough rider, levelling his carbine. "My fellows are—in short, here they are!"
There was a scurry of hoofs, a shout, and thirty horsemen swept around the curve and came racing up.
"What's up, Cap'n Jim?" cried one. "Have we lost the fun? Gringos, eh? hooray!"
The Spaniards had checked their horses. Four of them lay dead in the road, and several others were wounded. At sight of the mounted troop, they stopped and held a hurried consultation, then turned their horses and rode away.
The giant looked at Delmonte. "Want to follow?" he asked. "This is your hand, comrade."
"I want a horse!" said Captain Jack."Miss Montfort,"—he turned to Rita, who had risen to her feet, and stood pale but quiet,—"these are our own good country-men. If I leave you with them but a few moments—"
"Hold on!" said the big man. "What did you call the young lady?"
Delmonte stared. "This is Miss Montfort," he said, rather formally.
"Not Rita!" cried the giant. "Pike's Peak and Glory Gulch! Don't tell me it's Rita!"
"Oh, yes! yes!" cried Rita, running forward with outstretched hands. "It is—I am! and you—oh, I know, I know. You are Peggy's big brother. You are Cousin Jim!"
"That's what they said when they christened me!" said Cousin Jim.
It was no time for explanations. Jim Montfort put out a hand like a pine knot, and gave Rita's fingers a huge shake.
"Glad to find you, cousin," he said. "I've been looking for you. Now, what's up over there?" He nodded in the direction of the fire.
"Acandela," said Delmonte, briefly. "I must get back; there are women there. If one of your men will catch me that horse—"
"But you are wounded!" cried Rita. "Cousin, he is shot in the arm. Do not let him go!"
Delmonte laughed. "It's nothing, Miss Montfort," he said; "but nothing at all, I assure you. When we get to camp youshall put some carbolic acid on it, and tie it up for me; that's field practice in Cuba. I shall be proud to be your first field patient." He spoke in his usual laughing way; but suddenly his face changed, and he leaned toward her swiftly, his hand on the horse's mane. "I shall never forget this time—our ride together," he said. "I hope you will not forget either—please? And now, Miss Montfort, I have no further right over you. I would have done my best, I think you know that; but—I must give you into your cousin's protection. You will remain here?"
"Of course she will!" said Cousin Jim, who had heard only the last words. "I'll go with you, comrade. Raynham, Morton, you will mount guard by the lady."
The troopers saluted, and raised their hats civilly to Rita, inwardly cursing their luck. Because they owned the next ranch to Jim Montfort, was that any reason why they should lose all the fun? and whycould not girls stay at home where they belonged?
But Rita herself cried out and clasped her hands, and ran to her cousin. "Oh, Cousin Jim—Señor Delmonte—let me go with you! Please, please let me go back. My poor Manuela—Marm Prudence—they may be hurt, wounded. There can be no danger with all these brave men. Cousin, I have been in a camp hospital, I know how to dress wounds. I can be quiet—Señor Delmonte, tell him I can be quiet!"
She looked eagerly at Delmonte.
"I can tell him that you are the bravest girl I ever saw," he said. "But, you have been through a great deal. I don't like to have you go back among those rascals."
James Montfort stroked his brown beard thoughtfully.
"Guess it's safe enough," he said at last. "Guess there's enough of us to handle 'em. Don't know but on the whole she'll be betteroff with us. My sister Peggy wouldn't like to miss any circus there was going, would she, little girl? Catch another of those beasts for the lady, Bill!"
Rita, with one of her quick gestures, caught his great hand in both hers. "Oh, you good cousin!" she cried. "You dear cousin! You are the very best and the very biggest person in the world, and I love you."
"Well, well, well!" said Cousin Jim, somewhat embarrassed. "There, there! so you shall, my dear; so you shall. But as for being big, you should see Lanky 'Liph of Bone Gulch. Now there—but here is your horse, missy."
The horses of the dead Spaniards had been circling about them, more or less shyly. Two of them were quickly caught by the rough riders, and Rita and Delmonte mounted. As they did so, both glanced toward the spot where lay the brave horse that had borne them so well.
"It was for life indeed, Aquila!" said Captain Jack, softly. His eyes met Rita's, and she saw the brightness of tears in them. Next moment they were galloping back to theresidencia.
They came only just in time. Not ten minutes had passed since they left the courtyard, but in that time the savage Spaniards had done their work well. The house itself was in flames, and burning fiercely. Good Don Annunzio lay dead, carbine in hand, on the steps of his ruined home. Beside him lay the Creole youth in whose charge Delmonte had left Manuela. The lad was still alive, for as Delmonte bent from the saddle above him he raised his head.
"I did my best, my captain!" he said. "They were too many."
"Where are they?" asked Delmonte and Montfort in one breath.
The boy pointed down the road; raised his hand to salute, and fell back, dead.
"NOW AGAIN IT WAS A RIDE FOR LIFE.""NOW AGAIN IT WAS A RIDE FOR LIFE."
Now again it was a ride for life—not their own life this time. Rita had clean forgotten herself. The thought of her faithful friend and servant in the hands of the merciless Spaniards turned her quick blood to fire. She galloped steadily, her eyes fixed on the cloud of dust only a few hundred yards ahead of them, which told where the enemy was galloping, too.
Jim Montfort glanced at her, and nodded to himself. "She'll do!" he said in his beard. "Montfort grit's good grit, and she's got it. This would be nuts to little Peggy."
Jack Delmonte, too, looked more than once at the slender figure riding so lightly between him and the big rough rider. How beautiful she was! He had not realised half how beautiful till now. What nerve! what steadiness! It might be theReina de Cuba, Donna Hernandez herself, riding to victory.
He felt an unreasonable jealousy of "Cousin Jim." Half—nay! a quarter of an hourago, she was riding with him; there were only they two in the world, they and Aquila, poor Aquila,—who had given his life for theirs. She was his comrade then, his charge, his—and now she was Miss Montfort, a young lady of fortune and position, under charge of her cousin, a Yankee captain of rough riders; and he, Jack Delmonte, was—nothing in particular.
As he was thinking these thoughts, Rita chanced to turn her head, and met his gaze fixed earnestly upon her. She blushed suddenly and deeply, the lovely colour rising in a wave over cheeks and forehead; then turned her head sharply away.
"Now I have offended her!" said Jack. "Idiot!" and perhaps he was not very wise.
But there was little time for thinking or blushing. The Spaniards, seeing Delmonte, whom they regarded as the devil in person, descending upon them in company with a giant and an army (for so they described theband of rough riders at headquarters next day), abandoned their prisoners. The Americans chased them for a mile or so, killed three or four, and, as they reported, "scared the rest into Kingdom Come," leaving them only on coming to a thick wood, into which the Gringos, leaping from their horses, vanished, and were seen no more. The victors then returned to the forlorn little group of women and negroes, huddled together by the roadside. Rita had already dismounted, and had Manuela in her arms. She felt her all over, hurrying question upon question.
"My child, you are not hurt? not wounded? these ruffians—did they dare to touch you? did they have the audacity to speak to you, Manuela? Oh, why did I leave you? I could not help it; you saw I could not help it. You aresureyou have no hurt?"
"But, positively, señorita," said Manuela. "See! not a scratch is on me. They—one fellow—offered to tie my hands; I scratchedhim so well that he ran away. I am safe, safe—praise be to all saints, to our Holy Lady, and the Señor Delmonte. But—poor Cerito, señorita? what of him? he was with us; he fought like a lion. I saw him fall—"
"Poor Cerito!" said Rita, gravely. "He was a brave, brave lad. A thousand sons to Cuba like him!"
Donna Prudencia was sitting apart on a stone by the roadside. Rita went up to her, took her hand, and kissed her cheek. The Yankee woman looked kindly at her and nodded comprehension, but did not speak. Rita stood silent for a few minutes, timidly stroking the brown cheek and white hair. Her cousin Margaret came into her mind. What would Margaret say, if she were here? She would know the right word, she always did.
"Marm Prudence," she said, presently, "to have the memory of a hero, of one who diesfor his country,—that is something, is it not? some little comfort?"
Marm Prudence did not answer at once.
"Mebbe so," she said, presently. "Mebbe so, Miss Margaritty. Noonzio was a good man. Yes'm, I've lost a good husband and a good home! A good husband and a good home!" she repeated. "That's all there is to it, I expect." Her rugged face was disturbed for a moment, and she hid it in her hands; when she looked up, she was her own composed self.
"And what's the next thing?" she asked. "Thank you, Cap'n Delmonty, I'm feeling first-rate. Don't you fret about me. You done all you could. I'll never forget what you done. Poor husband's last words before he was shot was thanking the Lord Miss Margaritty was off safe. We knew we could trust her with you."
"Indeed," said honest Delmonte, "it is not me you must thank, Donna Prudencia. I didwhat I could, but it was Captain Montfort and his men who saved both her life and mine."
He told the story briefly, and Marm Prudence listened with interest. "Well," she said, "that was pretty close, wasn't it? Anyway, you done all you could, Cap'n Jack, and nobody can't do no more. And he's Miss Margaritty's cousin, you say? I want to know! He's big enough for three, ain't he?"
Rita laughed, in spite of herself. She beckoned to Cousin Jim, who came up and shook hands with the widow with grave sympathy. But he seemed preoccupied, and, while they were preparing to return to the ruined farm, he was pulling his big beard and meditating with a puzzled air.
"Look here!" he broke out at last, addressing his men. "I've been wondering what was wrong. I couldn't seem to round up, somehow, and now I've got it. Where'sthat poor old Johnny? I left him with you when I rode forward to reconnoitre."
The rough riders looked at one another, and hung their heads.
"Guess he must have dropped behind," said Raynham. "We didn't wait long after you signalled to us to come on. We—came."
"That's so!" clamoured the rough riders, in sheepish chorus. "We came, Cap'n Jim. That's a fact!"
"Well—that's all right!" said Jim. "You might have brought the old Johnny along, though, seems to me. Two of you ride back and get him; you, Bill, and Juckins. If he seems used up, Juckins can carry him, pony and all."
Juckins, a huge Californian, second only to Montfort in stature, chuckled, and rode off with Raynham at a hand gallop.
Montfort turned to Rita.
"I haven't had time to tell you about it before," he said. "Cousin Rita, I've beenhunting for you for three days. We met an old Johnny—an old gentleman, I should say—riding about on a pony, for all the world like Yankee Doodle. He'd got lost, poor old duffer, among these inferior crossroads, and didn't know whether he was in China or Oklahoma. We picked him up, and, riding along, it came out that he was searching for his ward, a young lady who had run away from a convent. Ever heard of such a person, missy? He had started out alone, to ride about Cuba till he found her. Kind of pocket Don Quixote, about five foot high, white hair, silk clothes; highly respectable Johnny."
"Don Miguel!" cried Rita. "Poor, dear, good Don Miguel! I have never written to him, wicked that I am. Oh, where is he, Cousin Jim?"
"Come to ask him," Jim continued, "it appeared that the young lady's name was Montfort. Now, I had just had a letter fromUncle John, wanting me to raise the island to get hold of you and ship you North at once. He had had no letters; was alarmed, you understand. Laid up with a bad knee, or would have come himself. I was just going to start back to the city in search of you, when up comes Don Quixote. When he heard I was your cousin, he fell into my arms, pony and all. Give you my word he did! Almost lost him in my waistcoat pocket. I cheered him up a bit, and we've been poking about together these three days, looking for General Sevillo's camp. Thought you might be there. We were camping by the roadside when we heard your firing. Ah! here he comes now!"
The rough riders came back, their horses trotting now, instead of galloping. Between them, ambling gently along, was a piebald pony of amiable appearance, and on the pony sat a little oldgentlemanwith snow-white hair and a face as mild and gentle as thepony's own. At sight of Rita running to meet him, he uttered a cry of joy, and checked his horse. Next moment he had dismounted, and had her in his arms, sobbing like a child.
"Dear Donito Miguelito!" cried Rita. "Forgive me! please do forgive me, for frightening you. I could not go to the convent, indeed I could not. I am a wretch to have treated you so, but I could not go to that place."
"Of course you could not, my child," said the good old man. "Nunc dimittis, Domine! Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. Of course you could not."
"I could not live with Concepcion; don't you know I could not, Donito Miguelito?"
"The thought is impossible, my Pearl. Speaking with all possible respect, the Señora Montfort, though high-born and accomplished, is a hysterical wildcat. You did well, my child; you did extremely well. So long as Ihave found you, nothing matters; but, nothing at all. As my great, my gigantic friend, my colossal preserver, el Capitan Gimmo, says, 'Ourrah for oz!'"
"Hurrah!" shouted the rough riders.
They made but a brief halt at the ruined farm. The house was completely gutted; the widow of Don Annunzio had the clothes she stood in, and nothing beside. She stood quietly by while her husband's body was laid in the grave beside that of young Cerito; a shallow grave, hastily dug in what had lately been the garden. She listened with the same quiet face while good old Don Miguel, with faltering voice, recited a Latin prayer. She was a Methodist, he a fervent Catholic; but it mattered little at that moment.
By this time it was daylight. A small patch of bananas was found, that had escaped the destroying torch, and on these the party made a hasty meal; then they rodeaway, all save the negroes, who preferred to stay in the neighbourhood where their lives had been spent.
They rode slowly, in deference to Don Miguel's age and that of his pony. Rita, riding beside the good old man, listened to the recital of his terrors and anxieties from the time her flight was discovered to the present moment. These caused her real grief, and she begged again and again for the forgiveness which he assured her was wholly unnecessary. But when he described the hysterical rage of her stepmother, her eyes brightened, and the colour came back to her pale cheek. She had no doubt that Concepcion Montfort was sorry to lose her; the larger part of her father's fortune had been settled upon her, Rita, before his second marriage.
"The señora also has made diligent search for you, my child!" said Don Miguel. "She has offered ample rewards—"
"I know it!" said Rita. "Only yesterday—can it be that it was only yesterday?—Don Diego Moreno was here—there, I should say, at that peaceful home that is now a heap of ashes. These Spaniards!"
Had she seen Don Diego? the old man asked; and he seemed relieved when she answered in the negative.
"It is well; it is well!" he said. "He is a relative of the señora's, I am aware; but it would have been unsuitable, most unsuitable."
"What would have been unsuitable, Donito Miguelito?"
Don Miguel looked confused. "A—nothing, my child. The Señora Montfort had an idea—Don Diego made certain advances—in short, he would have asked for your hand, my señorita—well, my Margarita, if you will have it so. But I took it upon myself to refuse these overtures without consulting you."
Rita heard a low exclamation, and turning,saw Delmonte's face like dark fire beside her.
"I beg your pardon!" he said. "I could not help hearing. Don Miguel, if Diego Moreno makes any more such proposals, kindly let me know, and I'll shoot him at sight."
"I—thank you! thank you, my son!" said Don Miguel, somewhat fluttered. "I hope no violence will be necessary. I used strong language, very strong language, to Don Diego Moreno. I—I told him that I considered him a person entirely objectionable, unfit to sweep the road before the Señorita Montfort's feet. He went away very angry. I thought we should hear no more of him; but it seems that he still retains his presumptuous idea. Without doubt, it will be best, my dear child, for you to seek the northern home of your family without delay."
Why, at this obviously sensible remark, should Rita feel a sinking at the heart, and a sudden anger against her dear old friend?And again, why, on stealing a glance at Delmonte, and seeing the trouble reflected in his face, should her heart as suddenly spring up again, and dance within her? What had happened?
They had ridden some miles, when Jim Montfort, on his big gray horse, ranged alongside of Delmonte.
"It appears to me," he said, "that something is going on in these woods here. I've seen two or three bits of brown that weren't bark, and if I didn't catch the shine of a gun-barrel just now, you may call me a Dutchman. I think I'll fire, and see what happens."
"No, don't do that!" said Delmonte, quietly. "It's only my fellows. They've been keeping alongside for the last half-mile, waiting for a signal. They might as well come out now."
He gave a low call in two notes; the call Rita had heard—was it only the night before? it seemed as if a week had passed since then.
The call was answered from the wood; and as if by magic, from every tree, from every clump of bushes, came stealing lean brown figures, leading equally lean horses, all armed and on the alert. They saluted, and, at a word from the burly Juan, fell into order with the precision of a troop on drill.
"What's all this, Juan?" asked Delmonte. "No order was given."
Juan replied with submission that a negro boy had brought news an hour ago that Don Annunzio's house had been burned, he and his whole household murdered, and their captain taken prisoner; and that the latter was being brought in irons along the road to Santiago. They, Juan and the rest, had planned a rescue, and disposed themselves to that end in the most advantageous manner. That they were about to fire, when they recognised their captain's escort as Americans;and that they then resolved to accompany the party as quietly as might be till they came near the camp, and then make their presence known to all, as they had at once made it known to Delmonte himself by a low call which only he had noticed.
"Not wishing to intrude," Juan concluded, with a superb salute.
Delmonte turned to his companions. "Miss Montfort," he said, "Captain Montfort—you'll all come up to my place, of course, and rest, for to-day, at least. It isn't much of a place to ask you to, but—it's quiet, at least, and—you can rest; and you must be half-starved. I know I am."
His face was eager as a boy's. Rita's was not less so, as she gazed at the big cousin, who stroked his beard as usual, and reflected.
"I did mean to push straight on to Santiago," he said, "but—it's a good bit of a way, to be sure; what do you say, little cousin? tired? hey?"
Rita blushed. "A—a little tired, Cousin Jim; andveryhungry!"
This settled it. Captain Montfort bid Delmonte "fire away." The latter said a few rapid words to Juan, and the scout shot off like an arrow across the fields, riding as if for his life.
An hour later, the whole party was seated around a fire, in as comfortable a nook of the hills as guerilla leader could desire, sipping coffee, and eating broiled chicken and fried bananas, fresh from theparilla. The fire was built against a great rock that rose abruptly from the dell, forming one side of it, and towering so high that the smoke disappeared before it reached the top. Thick woods framed the other sides of the natural fastness, and here the Cuban riders could lie hidden for days and weeks, unsuspected, unseen, save by the wandering birds that now and then circled above their heads. No tents or huts here; the horses were tethered totrees; the commander's hammock was swung in a shady thicket near the great rock; as for his men, a ragged blanket and the "soft side of a stone" were all they asked.
Rita had dressed Captain Delmonte's wound, and bandaged the arm in approved style, Cousin Jim looking on with grunts of approval. He and Delmonte himself both assured her that, if they were handling it, they should simply squirt carbolic acid into it, and tie it up with anything that came handy; but Rita shook her head gravely, and three of her delicate handkerchiefs, brought from the long-suffering bag which Manuela had somehow managed to save from the ruins, torn into strips, made a very sufficient bandage. The wound was, in truth, slight. Delmonte looked almost as if he wished it more severe, for the whole matter of bathing and dressing could not be stretched beyond ten minutes; but Rita's pride in her neatbandage was pretty to see, and he watched her with delighted eyes through every stage.
"Snug quarters!" said Jim Montfort, approvingly, as, the breakfast over, he stretched his huge length along the grass and looked about him; and all the party echoed his opinion. The two captains fell into talk of the war and its ways, while the women, wearied out, rested after their long night of distress and fatigue. Marm Prudence chose the dry grass, with a cloak for a pillow, but Rita curled herself thankfully in Captain Jack's hammock, after trying in vain to persuade him that he was an invalid, and ought to take it himself. After some rummaging in a hole in the rock which served him for cupboard and wardrobe, Delmonte brought her a small pillow in a somewhat weather-beaten cover. "I wish I had a better one," he said. "This has been out in the rain a good deal, and I'm afraid it smellsof smoke, but it's a great pillow for sleeping on."
"Oh, thank you!" said Rita. "It is very comfortable indeed. How good you are to me, Captain Delmonte. And whatever you may say, it is a great shame for me to take your own hammock. If there were only another—"
"Oh, please don't!" said Jack. "It's really—you must not talk so, Miss Montfort. As if there was anything I wouldn't do—why, this hammock will never be the same again. I—I mean—oh, you know what I mean, and I never could make pretty speeches. But—it is a pleasure, and—an honour, to have you here; and you can't think how much it means to me. Good night! I mean—sleep well."
He added a few words of a German song relative to the desirability of a certain lovely angel's slumbering sweetly. Rita did not understand German, but the tone of Delmonte's voice was in no particular language, and, tired as she was, it was some time before she went to sleep.
It was late afternoon when they took the road again. Before starting they held a council, seated together beneath the great tree, under whose shade Rita had slept peacefully for several hours. Jim Montfort was the first speaker.
"I take it," he said, "we'd better, each one of us, say what we mean to do. Then the sky will be clear, and we can fit in or shake apart, as seems best in each case. We all ride together to Pine del Rio, as Captain Delmonte is so friendly as to ride with us. After that—I'll begin with you, ma'am." He addressed, the widow respectfully. "How can I best serve you? I am going to see my cousin safe off, and you must call upon me for any service I can possibly render you."
"She will stay with me!" cried Rita."Dear Marm Prudence, you will stay with me, will you not?"
Marm Prudence shook her head, though with a look of infinite kindliness. "Thank you, dear," she said; "it's like you to say it, but I'm going home to Greenvale, Vermont. I've a sister living there yet. I'll go back to my own folks at last, and lay my bones alongside o' mother's. I'll never forgit you, though, Miss Margaritty," she added, "nor you, Cap'n Jack. There! I can't say much yet."
She turned away, and all were silent for a moment, as she wiped the tears from her rugged face.
"You go straight home, I suppose, sir?" said Jim, addressing Don Miguel.
"Yes, yes!" cried the little gentleman. "I go to Pine del Rio with my dear ward here. To see her safe on board a good vessel, bound for the North; to say farewell to the joy of my old days, and put out the light of my eyes—that is my one sad desire, Señor Montfort. After that—I am old, I have but a short time left, and my prayers will require that."
"Well, then, it seems as if the first thing on all hands was to find a steamer sailing for home," said Jim. "If Mrs. Annunzio will take charge of you, Cousin Rita, I think that will be the best thing. Uncle John will send some one to meet you in New York and take you to Fernley. How does that suit you?"
Rita was silent. She had grown very pale. Delmonte looked at her eagerly, but did not speak.
"What do you say, little cousin?" repeated Montfort. "You have a mind of your own, and a pretty decided one, if I'm not mistaken. Let's hear it!"
Rita spoke slowly and with difficulty, her ready flow of speech lacking for once.
"Cousin Jim—dear Don Miguel—you are both so kind, so good. You too, Marm Prudence. I love the North. I love my dearuncle and cousin—ah, how dearly!—but—I do not want to go to Fernley."
"Not want to go!" repeated the others.
"No! indeed, indeed, I cannot go. I have been thinking, Cousin Jim, a great deal, while all these things have been happening; these wonderful, terrible things. I—I ought to have learned a great deal; I hope I have learned a little. I have talked enough about helping my country; too much I have talked; now I want to do something. I am going to work in one of the hospitals. Nurses are needed, I know, every day more of them. I do not know enough—yet—to be a nurse, but I can be a helper. I am very humble; I will do the meanest work, but—but that is what I mean to do."
She ceased, and all the others, looking in her face, saw it bright and lovely with earnest resolve. But Don Miguel cried out in expostulation. It was impossible, he said. It could not be. She was too young, too delicate, too—the proposition was monstrous. He appealed to Captain Montfort to support him, to exercise his authority, to persuade this dear child that the noble idea which filled her young and ardent heart was wholly impracticable.
Jim Montfort was silent for a time, looking at Rita from under his heavy eyebrows. Presently—"You mean it?" he said.
"I mean it with all my heart!" said Rita.
"Well," said Jim, "my opinion is—considering my sister Peggy and her views, to say nothing of Jean and Flora—my opinion is, Rita—hurrah for you!"
A month ago, Rita would have gone into violent heroics at such a moment as this. As it was, she smiled, though her eyes filled with tears, and said, quietly, "Thank you, cousin! It is what I expected from Peggy's brother."
"May I speak?" said another voice. They turned, and saw Jack Delmonte, his blue eyes alight with eager gladness.
"If—if Miss Montfort has this noble desire to help in the good cause," he said, "it is easy for her to do it. My mother has turned herresidencia, just outside the city, into a hospital. I am going there to-day. She needs more help, I know. You—you would like my mother, Miss Montfort; everybody likes my mother. She would do all she could to make it easy for you, and she would be so glad—oh, I can't tell you how glad she would be. And I think you are quite certain to like her."
"Ah!" said Rita. "Have I not heard of the Saint of Las Rosas? There is no need to tell me how good and how noble the Señora Delmonte is. But—but will she like me, Captain—Captain Jack?"
"Will she?" said Jack. "Will the sun shine?"
Las Rosas, June —, 1898.
Dear Uncle John:—Since I last wrote you, telling of our finding Rita, and of her safe delivery to Señora Delmonte, things have been happening. In the first place, I got a shot in my leg, in a skirmish, and, as the bone was broken, and it didn't seem to come round as it ought, I came here to be coddled, and am having a great time of it. Señora Delmonte is a fine woman, sir. You don't see many such women in a lifetime. She has a little hospital here, as complete as if she had New York City in her back dooryard; all her own place, you understand. Kind of Florence Nightingale woman. What's more, little Ritapromises to become her right hand; if she's given a chance, that is—I'll come to that by and by, though. The way that little girl takes hold, sir, is a caution. She's quick, and she's quiet, and she's cheerful; and she has brains in her head, which is a mighty good thing in a woman when you do find it. She and Señora Delmonte are like mother and daughter already; and this brings me to something else I want to say. It's pretty clear that Jack Delmonte has lost his heart to this little girl of ours. It began, I suspect, the night he carried her off from the Spaniards; you have heard all about that; and it's been going on here, while a little flesh wound he had was healing. Yes, sir, he's in it deep, and no mistake; and, for that matter, I guess she is, too, though those things aren't in my line. Anyhow, what I want to say is this: Jack Delmonte is as fine a fellow as there is this side of the Rockies; and I don't know that I'll stop there, barring mybrother Hugh. This war isn't going to last much longer. By some kind of miracle, this place—sugar plantation, and well paying in good times—hasn't been meddled with; and Jack ought to be able to support a wife, if he puts good work into the business, as he will. He's a first-rate all-round fellow, and has brains in his head—said that before, didn't I? well, it's a good thing in a man, too. I'm not much of a hand at writing, as I guess you'll see. All I mean to say is, if he and little Rita want to hitch up a double team, my opinion is it would be a mighty good thing, and I hope you'll give them your blessing and all that sort of thing, when the time comes.
Much obliged for your letter, but sorry your knee still bothers you. Father has been laid up, too, so he writes; rheumatism. I'm getting on first-rate, and shall be out of this soon. I think a month or so more will see the whole blooming business over, and peace declared.Time, too! this is no kind of a country to stay in.
Your affectionate nephew,James Montfort.
P.S. Tell Cousin Margaret that J. D. isall right.
Las Rosas, June —, 1898.
My Dear Mr. Montfort:—I wonder if you remember Mary Russell, with whom you used to dance now and then when you came to Claxton in the old days, we will not say how many years ago. I certainly have not forgotten the pleasant partner who waltzed so well, and I am glad to have the opportunity of claiming acquaintance with you. I meant to write as soon as your niece arrived at my house, but the battle in this neighbourhood the day after brought us such an influx of wounded that my hands were very full, and the hasty dictated line was all I could manage. We are now in a little eddy of the storm (which, we hope, is nearly over), and have only a dozenmen in the house, and most of these convalescent; so I must not delay longer in assuring you of the very great pleasure and help it has been to me to have Margarita with me. Indeed, I hardly know what I should have done without her the first week, as two of my nurses were ill just at the time when we were fullest. She shows a remarkable aptitude for nursing, which is rather singular, as she tells me that until lately she has been extremely timid about such matters, fainting at the sight of blood, etc. You never would think it now, to see her going about her work in the wards. The patients idolise her, and what is more (and less common), so do the nurses, who declare that she will miss her vocation if she does not go into a training-school as soon as she leaves Las Rosas; but I fancy you would not choose so arduous a life for her.
"THE PATIENTS IDOLISE HER.""THE PATIENTS IDOLISE HER."
This brings me, my dear Mr. Montfort, to what is really the chief object in my writingto you to-day. Without beating about the bush, I am going to say, at once and frankly, that my dear son, Jack, has become deeply attached to this charming niece of yours. Who could be surprised at it? she must always have been charming; but the sweetness and thoughtfulness that I have seen growing day by day while she has been under my charge are, I somehow fancy, a new phase of her development. Indeed, Rita herself has told me, in her vivid way, of some of the wild pranks of her "unguided youth," as she calls it,—the child will be nineteen, I believe, on her next birthday!—and we have laughed and shaken our heads together over them. She is far more severe upon herself than I can be, for I see the quick, impulsive nature, and see, too, how it is being subdued and brought more and more under control by a strong will and a good heart. A very noble woman our Rita will make, if she has the right surroundings.
Can we give her these? that is the question; a question for you to answer, dear Mr. Montfort. Jack saw readily, when I pointed it out to him, that it would not be suitable for him to speak of love to an orphan girl—an heiress, too, I believe—without her guardian's express consent. He chafes at the delay, for he is very ardent, being half Cuban; but you may have entire confidence that he will say nothing to Rita until I hear from you.
You can easily find out about Jack; there is nothing in his life that he need conceal. Colonel G. and Mrs. B——, in New York, Professor Searcher and Doctor Lynx, of Blank College, will tell you of his school and college days; and Captain Montfort will, I think, say a good word for his record as a soldier and a patriot. Of course, in my eyes, he is a little bit of a hero; but maternal prejudice laid aside (if such a thing may be!), I can truly say that he is a clean, honest, high-minded man, with a sound constitution andan excellent disposition. Add to this a moderate income (not, I am happy to say, enough to allow him to dispense with work, were he inclined to do so, which he is not), and a very earnest and devoted attachment, and you have the whole case before you. May I hope to have your answer as soon as you shall have satisfied yourself on the various points on which you will naturally seek information? I assure you that, with the best intentions in the world, Jack does find it hard to restrain himself. Let me add that, if your answer is favourable, it will make me as well as my son very happy. Rita is all that I could wish for in a daughter; and I shall try my best to fill a mother's place toward her.
In any case, believe me, dear Mr. Montfort,
Cordially yours,Mary Russell Delmonte.
P.S. You may ask, does Rita return Jack's affection?I think she does!
Santiago, June —, 1898.
Honoured Señor:—Your valued letter, containing inquiries on the subject of Señor Captain John Delmonte is at hand and contents notified. I hasten to reply with all the ardour of which I am capacious. This young man is a nobleman; few princes have equalled him in virtuous worth. Brave, honourable, pious (though Protestant; but this belief is probably your own, and is held by many of those most valuable to me, your honoured brother among them), a faithful and obedient son, a leader beloved to rapture by his soldiers. If more could be to say, I would hasten to cry it aloud. You tell me, with noble frankness, he is a pretender for the hand of my beloved Margarita; already it has been my happiness to be aware of it. Señor Montfort, to see these two admirable young persons united in the holy bondages of weddinglock is the last and chief wish of my life. I earnestly beg your sanction oftheir unition. In Jack I find a son for my solitary age; in Margarita a daughter, the most tender as she is the most beautiful that the world contains. To close my aged eyes on seeing them unified, is, I repeat it, the one wish of,
Honoured Señor,Your most obedient and humble servitor,Miguel Pietoso.
Las Rosas, June —, 1898.
My Dear Mr. Monfort:—I have just read your letter to my mother, and I want to thank you before I do anything else. There isn't much to say, except that I will do my best to be in some degree worthy of this treasure, if I win it. I will try to make her happy, sir, I will indeed. No one could be good enough for her, so I will not pretend to that.
She is awake now, so I must go.