FOOTNOTE:[2]Cock-fight.
[2]Cock-fight.
[2]Cock-fight.
When Agueda left the Casa de Caboa she turned down the trocha towards the sea. Although the sea was not far from San Isidro as the crow flies, the dwellers at the hacienda rarely went there. In the first place, there was the river to cross, and then the wood beyond the river was filled with a thick, short growth of prickly pear. This sort of underbrush was unpleasant to pull through. Don Beltran had tried to buy it from Escobeda up at Troja, but Escobeda seemed to have been born to annoy the human race in general, and Don Beltran and Silencio in particular. He would not sell, and he would not cultivate, so that the sea meadow, as they called it at San Isidro, was an eyesore and a cause of heart-burning to Don Beltran.
Agueda chirruped to her horse, and was soon skirting the plantation of Palmacristi. The chestnut was a pacer, and Agueda liked his single foot, and kept him down to it at all hazards.
She felt as if she were in Nada's American chair, the motion was so easy and pleasant. The beach was rather a new experience to the chestnut, butafter a little moment of hesitancy he started on with a nod of the head.
"Ah!" said Agueda, with a laugh, "it is you, Castaño, who know that I never lead you wrong."
She shook the bridle, and the horse put forth his best powers. They took the wet sand just where the water had retreated but a little while before. It was as hard and firm as the country road, but moist and cool.
"How I should like to plunge into that sea," said Agueda to Castaño. Castaño again nodded an acquiescent head. A salt-water bath was a novelty to these comrades.
After a few moments of pacing, Agueda came to the sand spit which ran out from the plantation into the sea. Here was the boat-house which Don Gil had built, and Agueda noticed that it was placed upon a high point, with ways leading down on either side into the water. She looked wistfully at the boat-house. "How I should love to sail upon that sea," thought Agueda. "No water, however high, could frighten me." Then she recalled with a flash the flood which had brought her happiness. She smiled faintly, for with the thought the unpleasant feeling which Don Gil's words had called up returned, she knew not why. Agueda was pacing towards the south. Upon her right stood up tall and high the asta of Palmacristi, the staff fromwhich hung the lantern that, she had heard, sent forth its white ray each night to warn the seafarers on that lonely coast.
"What harm for a ship to run on the sand," thought Agueda. "I have heard that rocks are cruel. But the sand is soft. It need hurt no one."
She struck spurs to Castaño, and covered several miles before she again drew rein. And now the bank grew high, and Agueda awoke to the fact that she was alone upon the beach, screened from the eyes of every one. Again the thought came to her of a bath in the sea, and she was about to rein the chestnut in when she heard a shout from the plateau above her head. She stopped, and tipping back her straw hat, she looked upward. All that she could discover was a mass of flowers in motion. "They are the air-plants, certainly," said Agueda to herself, "but I never saw them to grow like that." She looked to right and to left, but there was no human being in sight along the yellow bank outlined by sand and overhanging weeds.
"Who calls me?" she cried aloud, holding her hair from her ears, where the wind persisted in blowing it.
"Caramba, muchacho! Can you not see who it is? It is I, Gremo."
There was a violent agitation of the mass of blooms, and Agueda now perceived that a headwas shaking out its words from the centre of this woodland extravaganza.
"I can hardly see you, Gremo," said Agueda. "What do you want with me, Gremo?"
"And must I make brains for every muchacho[3]between here and the Port of Entry? Do you not know there are the quicksands just beyond?"
"Quicksands, Gremo! Yes, I had heard of quicksands, but I did not think them here. Can I get up the bank, Gremo?"
"No," answered Gremo, from his flower screen. "You must ride back a long way." He wheeled suddenly toward the south—at least, the mass of flowers wheeled, and a hand was stretched forth from the centre. A finger pointed along the sand. Agueda turned in the saddle and shaded her eyes again.
"What is it, Gremo?" she asked. "I see nothing."
"Then you do not see that small thing over which the vultures hover?"
"I see the vultures, certainly," said Agueda. "Some bit of fish, perhaps."
"No bit of fish or fowl, but foul flesh, if you will, hombre. It is the hand of a Señor, muchacho."
"The hand of a Señor? And what is the handof a Señor doing, lying along there on the shore?"
"It lies there because it cannot get loose. Caramba, muchacho! Do I not know?"
"Cannot get loose from what?" asked Agueda, still puzzled.
"From the Señor himself, muchachito. He lies below there, and his good horse with him. Do you not see a hoof just over beyond where the big bird lights?"
Agueda turned pale. She had never been near such death before. Nada had passed peacefully away with the sacred wafer upon her lips, and in her ears the good padre's words of forgiveness for all her sins, of which Agueda was sure she had committed none. Hers was a sweet, calm, sad death. One thought of it with relief and hope, but this was tragedy. There, along the beach, beneath the smiling sand, whose grains glistened in a million, million sparkles, lay the bodies of horse and rider, overtaken by this placid sea.
"I suppose he was a stranger," said Agueda. "There was no one to warn him." Suddenly she felt faint. A strong whiff of air reached her from the direction of the birds. She turned the chestnut rapidly, and struck the spur to his side.
"Wait, Gremo, wait!" she cried, "I am coming! Do not leave me here alone." The chestnut pacedas never horse paced before, and after a few minutes Agueda found a little cleft in the bank where a stream trickled down. Into this opening she guided Castaño, and with spur and whip aided him in his scramble up the bank. She galloped southward again, and neared the place where Gremo stood. She was guided by the mass of bloom. As she advanced she saw the blossoms shaking, but as yet perceived nothing human. Tales of the forest suddenly came back to her. Could it be that this was a woodland spirit, who had lured her here to this high headland, to throw her over the cliff again to keep company with the dead man yonder and the birds of prey? She had half turned her horse, when Gremo, seeing her plan, thrust himself further from his gorgeous environment.
"Ah! It is the little Agueda! Do not be afraid, Agueda, little Señorita. It is I, Gremo."
Agueda's cheek had not as yet regained its colour.
"It is Gremo, muchachito."
"What terrible thing is that down there, Gremo? And to see you looking like this frightened me!"
It was a curious sight which met Agueda's eyes. Gremo, the little yellow keeper of Los Santos light, was standing not far from his signal pole. He held a staff in each hand. The staves were crooked and uneven. They were covered with bark, and scraggy bits of moss hung from them here andthere. The strange thing about them was that each blossomed like the prophet's rod. At the top of the right-hand staff there shot out a splendid orange-coloured flower, with velvety oval-shaped leaves. Near the top of the left-hand staff was a pale pink blossom, large also, not wilted, as plucked flowers are apt to be, but firm and fresh. But these were not all the prophet's rods which Gremo carried. Across his back was slung an old canvas stool, opened to its fullest extent, and laid lengthwise across this were many more ragged staves, and on each and all of them a flower of some shade or colour bloomed. Then there were branches held under his arms, whose protruding ends blossomed in Agueda's very face, and quite enclosed the yellow countenance of Gremo. The glossy green of the leaves surrounding each bloom so concealed Gremo that he was lost in his vari-coloured burden of loveliness.
"So it is really you, Gremo! Do they smell sweet, those air-plants?"
Gremo shifted from one leg to the other. One of Gremo's legs was shorter than the other. He generally settled down on the short one to argue. When he was indignant he raised himself upon his long leg and hurled defiance from the elevation.
The mass of bloom seemed to exhale a delicate aroma. So evanescent was it that Gremo oftensaid to himself, "Have they any scent after all?" And then, in a moment, a breeze blew from left to right, across the open calix of each delicate flower, and Gremo said, "How sweet they are!"
"I sometimes think they are the sweetest things on God's earth," said Gremo. "That is, when the Señorita is not by," he added, remembering that his grandfather had brought some veneer from old Spain; "and then again I ask myself, is there any perfume at all?"
"Oh, now I smell it, Gremo!" said Agueda, sniffing up her straight little nose. "Now I smell it! It is delicious!"
"It is better than the perfume down below there," said Gremo, with a grimace. Agueda turned pale again.
"And what do you do with them, Gremo?" asked she.
"I take them to the Port of Entry, Señorita. I get good payment there. Sometimes a half-dollar, Mex. They stick them in the earth. They last a long, long time."
"Were you going there when you called me from—from—down there?"
"Si, Señorita. I was walking along the bank. I had just come from my casa"—Gremo gestured backward with a dignified wave of the hand—"when I heard El Castaño's hoofs on the hard sand therebelow." He turned and looked along the beach to where the noisome birds hovered. "I was too late to warn the Señor. Had I been here, I should even have laid down my plants and have run to the edge of the cliff"—Gremo jerked his head towards the humped-up pit of sand—"and called, 'Olá! Porque hace Usted eso? It is Gremo who has the kind heart, muchacho.'"
"I am not a boy, Gremo," said Agueda, glancing down at her riding costume.
"It is the same to me, Señorita," said Gremo, who in common with his fellows had but one gender of speech.
Agueda was looking at the hand which thrust itself out from the sand of the shore. It seemed as if the fingers beckoned. She shuddered.
"They should put up a sign," she said, quickly. "I shall tell the Señor Don Beltran. He will put up a notice—a warning."
"Caramba, hombre! And why must you interfere? No people in this part will go that way. They all know the danger as well as the birds. I live here in this part. Why not leave it to me?"
"But will you, Gremo?"
"What? Put up the sign? I most certainly shall, Señorita. Some day when I have not the air-plants to gather, or the lanterna to clean, or when I am not down with the calentura, or there is no fair atHaldez, or no cock-fight at Saltona. The Señorita does not know how long I have thought of this—I, Gremo! Why, as long ago as when the Señor Don Gil bought the sand spit I had the board prepared. That is now going on four years, if I count aright. I told the Señor Don Gil that I would get a board, and I have."
"He thinks it there now, I am sure," said Agueda.
"Well, well! He may, he may, our Don Gil! I am not disputing it, Señorita. I am only waiting for the padre to come and put the letters on it."
"Have you told him, Gremo?" said Agueda, bending forward anxiously.
"Caramba, Señorita!" said Gremo, raising up on his long leg, "where do you suppose I am to find the time to tell the padre? If I should take a half-day from my work when I am at San Isidro, and walk over to the bodega, the padre might be away at the cock-fight at Saltona, or the christening at Haldez. The Don Beltran is a gentle hombre, but he would not pay me for half a day when I did not earn it. If I could know when the padre was at home, I would go, most certainly."
"You must have seen him many times in the last three years," said Agueda.
"I will not deny that I have seen the padre," answered Gremo, rising angrily on the tips ofhis knotted brown toes. "But would you have me disturb a man like our padre when he was watching the shoemaker's black cock from Troja, to see if his spurs were as long as the spurs of the cock of Corndeau?—that vagamundo!"
Agueda reined Castaño round, so that his head pointed in the general direction of the bodega, as well as homeward.
"I can tell the padre, Gremo," she said, and then added with determination, "It must not be left another day."
Gremo settled down upon his short leg.
"Now, Señorita," he said argumentatively, "do not interfere. It is I that have this matter well within my grasp. There is no one coming this way to-day—along the beach, I mean."
"How do you know, Gremo?" questioned Agueda.
Gremo shrugged his shoulders.
"It is not likely, muchacho. Our own people never come that way, and there are so few strangers—not three in as many years. We cannot now help the Señor who lies there, can we, Señorita?"
"No," said Agueda, sadly; "but we can prevent—"
"Leave it to me, Señorita. I promise that I will attend to it to-morrow. I—"
"And why not to-day?"
"Because, you see, muchacho, I must take the air-plants to the Port of Entry. I am on my way there now. I but stopped to warn the Señorita, and I pay well for my kindness. Now I shall not be able to return to-night. As the Señorita has detained me all this long while, will she be so good as to stop at my casa and tell Marianna Romando to come over and light the lantern on the signal-staff at an early hour? This, you know, ismylighthouse, little 'Gueda. This is Los Santos."
"Have I come as far as Los Santos head?" asked the girl.
Agueda looked upwards at the place where the red lantern hung against the staff.
"How can a woman climb up there?" she said.
"She will bring the ladder, the Marianna Romando," said Gremo, moving a step onwards.
"I do not think I know Marianna Romando. Is she your wife, Gremo?"
"Well, so, so," answered Gremo. "But she will do very well to light the lantern all the same."
Agueda sat her horse, lost in thought. When she raised her eyes nothing was to be seen of Gremo. An ambulating mass of bloom, some distance along on the top of the sea bank, told her that he was well on his way toward the Port of Entry. This was the best way, Gremo considered, to put an end to discussion.
Agueda did not know just where the casa of the light-keeper lay. Seeing that a well-worn path entered the bushes just there, she turned her horse's head and pushed into the tall undergrowth. After a few moments she came out upon a well-defined footway. Her path led her through acres of mompoja trees, whose great spreading spatules shaded her from the scorching sun. She had descended a little below the hill, and once out of the fresh trade breeze, began to feel the heat. She took off her hat as she rode, and fanned herself. Five or six minutes of Castaño's walking brought her to a hut; this hut was placed at a point where three paths met. It stood in a sort of hollow, where the moisture from the late rains had settled upon the clay soil. The hut was thatched with yagua. It was so small that, Agueda argued, there could be but one room. There was a stone before the doorway sunk deep in the mud. Before the opening, where the door should be, hung a curtain of bull's hide. A long ladder stood against the house. Its topmost rung was at least an entire story in height above the roof, and Agueda wondered why it was needed there. The only signs of life about the place were three or four withered hens, which ran screaming, with wobbling bodies and thin necks stretched forward, at the approach of the stranger. Their screams brought a yellowwoman to the door. If Gremo looked like a withered apple, this was his feminine counterpart. Her one garment appeared to be quite out of place. It seemed as if there could be nothing improper in such a creature going about as she was created. The slits in the faded cotton gown were more suggestive than utter nakedness would have been. This person nodded at the chickens where they were disappearing in the bush.
"They are as good as any watch-dog," said she. "There is no use of thieves coming here."
Agueda rode close.
"I am not a thief," said Agueda. "Can you tell me where is the casa of Gremo, the light-keeper?"
"And where but here in this very spot?" said the piece of parchment, smiling a toothless smile and showing a fine array of gums. "But had you said the casa of Marianna Romando, you would have come nearer the truth."
Agueda had not expected the casa of which Gremo spoke with such pride to look like this, or to belong to some one else.
"Well, then, I have come with a message from your hus—from Gremo."
"The Señorita will get off her horse and come in? What will the Señorita have? Some bread, an egg—a littleching-ching?"
The woman smiled pleasantly all the time that she was speaking. Agueda had difficulty in understanding her, for the entire absence of teeth caused her lips to cling together, so that she articulated with difficulty. Still she smiled. Agueda shook her head at the hospitable words.
"I have no time, gracias, Señora. You will see that I have been wet with the showers," she said; "and I have been delayed twice already. Gremo asked me to tell you that he would come to the Port of Entry too late to return and light the lantern. He asks that you will do it for him."
For answer the woman hurriedly pulled aside the bull's-hide curtain and entered the hut. She reappeared in a moment with an old straw hat on her head. She was lifting up her skirt as she came, and tying round her waist a petticoat of some faded grey stuff. Her face had changed. She smiled no longer.
"It is that fat wife of the inn-keeper at the sign of the 'Navío Mercante.'[4]She it is who takes my Gremo from me." She entered the hut again, and this time reappeared with a coarse pair of native shoes. She seated herself in the doorway, her feet on the damp stone, and busily began to put on the shoes, her tongue keeping her fingers in countenance.
"As if I did not know why my Gremo goes to the Port of Entry! He will sit in the doorway all the day! She will give him of the pink rum! He will spend all the pesos he has made! His plants will wither! Oh, yes, it is that fat Posadera who has got hold of my Gremo."
Agueda turned her horse's head.
"How do I go on from here?" she asked.
"Where is the Señorita going?"
"To San Isidro, but first to El—"
"Aaaaiiiieee!" said the woman, standing in the now laced shoes, arms akimbo. "So this is Don Beltran's little lady?"
Agueda flushed.
"I live with my uncle, the Señor Adan, at San Isidro." She pushed into the undergrowth.
"The Señora is going wrong," said the woman. "Señorita," said Agueda, sharply, correcting the word. "Which way, then?"
Getting no answer, she turned again. She now saw that the woman had gone to the side of the house and was taking the long ladder from its position against the wall. She bent her back and settled it upon her shoulders. Agueda looked on in astonishment while this frail creature fitted her back to so awkward a burden. Marianna Romando looked up sidewise from under the rungs.
"I go to light the señale now," she said. "Itmay burn all day, for me. What cares Marianna Romando? Government must pay. Then, when it is lighted I shall hide the ladder among the mompoja trees. He did not dare to tell me that he would remain away. He knows that I do not like that fat wife of the inn-keeper. I shall lead him home by the ear at about four o'clock of the morning. There are ghosts in the mompoja patch, but they will not appear to two."
All through this discourse Marianna Romando had not raised her voice. She smiled as if she considered the weaknesses of Gremo amiable ones. She started after him as a mother would go in search of a straying child; like a guardian who would protect a weak brother from himself.
"I have only this to say to you, Señorita," she called after Agueda, turning so that the ladder swished through the low bushes, cutting off some of the tops of the tall weeds, both before and behind her. "Keep the Señor well in hand. When they go away like that, no one knows whom they may be going after."
Agueda closed her ears. She did not wish to hear that which her senses had perforce caught. She pushed along the path that Marianna Romando had indicated, and in twenty minutes saw the white palings of Don Mateo's little plantation, El Cuco.
FOOTNOTES:[3]Lad.[4]Merchant ship.
[3]Lad.
[3]Lad.
[4]Merchant ship.
[4]Merchant ship.
When Raquel had given Agueda the note and the kiss, and had seen her ride rapidly away, she closed the shutter. She made the room as dark as possible. She could not bear to have the sun shine on a girl who had written to a man to come to her succour. It could mean nothing less than marriage, and it was as if she had offered it. But what else remained for her but to appeal to Don Gil? If the few words that he had spoken meant anything, they meant love. If the beating of her heart, when she caught ever so distant a glimpse of him, meant anything, it meant love. She had received a note from him only a week back. She would read it again. Her uncle had searched her room only yesterday for letters, and she was thankful that she had had the forethought to conceal Silencio's missive where he would not discover it. He had ordered old Ana to search the girl's dresses, and Ana, with moist eyes and tender words, had carried out Escobeda's instructions. She had found nothing, and so had told the Señor Escobeda.
"And when does the child get a chance toreceive notes from the Señores?" asked Ana, indignant that her charge should be suspected. It was the reflection upon herself, also, that galled her. "I guarded her mother; I can guard her, Señor," said the old woman, with dignity.
"Do you not know that the young of our nation are fire and tow?" snarled Escobeda. "I shall put it out of her power to deceive me longer."
With that he had flung out of the casa and ridden away. It was then that Raquel had beckoned to Agueda, where she loitered under the shelter of the coffee bushes. After Agueda had gone, Raquel seated herself upon a little stool which had been hers from childhood. She raised one foot to her knee, took the heel in her hand, and drew off the slipper. Some small pegs had pressed through and had made little indentations in the tender foot. But between the pegs and the stocking was a thick piece of paper, whose folds protected the skin. She had just removed it when the door opened, and Ana entered. Raquel started and seemed confused for a moment.
"You frightened me, Ana," said Raquel. "I thought that you had gone to the fair. So I told—"
"You told? And whom did you have to tell, Señorita?"
"I told my uncle. He was here but now. Oh! dear Ana, I am so tired of this hot house. I longfor the woods. When do you think that he will let me go to the forest again?"
Ana drew the girl toward her. Her lips trembled.
"I am as sorry as you can be, muchachita; but what can I do? What is that paper that you hold in your hand, Raquel?"
Raquel blushed crimson. Fortunately Ana's eyes were fixed upon the paper.
"I had it folded in my shoe," said Raquel. She threw the paper in the scrap basket as she spoke. "See, Ana." She held up the slipper. "Look at those pegs! They have pushed through, and my heel is really lame. I can hardly walk." Raquel limped round the room to show Ana what suffering was hers, keeping her back always to the scrap-basket. "If he would allow me to go to the town and buy some shoes!" said Raquel—Ana's espionage having created the deceit whose prophylactic she would be.
"You had better put on your slipper," said the prudent Ana. "You will wear out your stockings else."
"But how can I put on my slipper with those pegs in the heel?" asked Raquel.
"You had the paper."
"It was punched full of holes."
"Let me see it," said Ana.
"I threw it away," said Raquel. "Get meanother piece of paper, for the love of God, dear Ana. My uncle does not allow me even a journal. I am indeed in prison."
Ana arose.
"I will take the scrap-basket with me," she said.
"Not until you have brought the paper, Ana. I shall tear up some other pieces."
When Ana had closed the door Raquel pounced upon the waste-basket. She took the folded paper from the top of the few scraps lying there. This she opened, pulling it apart with difficulty, for the pegs had punched the layers together, as if they had been sewn with a needle. She spread the paper upon her knee, but first ran to the door and called, "Ana, bring a piece of the cotton wool, also, I beg of you."
"That will keep her longer," said Raquel, smiling. She spoke aloud as lonely creatures often do. "She must hunt for that, I know." She heard Ana pulling out bureau drawers, and sat down again to read her letter.
"Dearest Señorita," it ran. "I hear that you are unhappy. What can I do? I hear that you are going away. Do not go, for the love of God, without letting me know.Your faithful servant, G."
"Dearest Señorita," it ran. "I hear that you are unhappy. What can I do? I hear that you are going away. Do not go, for the love of God, without letting me know.
Your faithful servant, G."
"I have let you know, Gil," she said. "I am not going away, but I am unhappy. I am aprisoner. I wonder if you will save me?" Ana's heavy tread was heard along the corridor. Raquel hastily thrust the note within the bosom of her dress. When the cotton had been adjusted and the slipper replaced, Ana took up the scrap-basket.
"Dear Ana, stay a little while. I am so lonely. Don't you think he would let me sit on the veranda?"
"He would let you go anywhere if you would promise not to speak to the Señor Silencio," said Ana.
"I will never promise that, Ana," said Raquel, with a compression of the lips.
She laid her head down on Ana's shoulder.
"I am so lonely," she said. The tears welled over from the childish eyes. The lips quivered. "I wonder how it feels, Ana, to have a mother." Ana's eyes were moist, too, but she repressed any show of feeling. Had not the Señor Escobeda ordered her to do so, and was not his will her daily rule?
Suddenly Raquel started—her hearing made sensitive by fear.
"I hear him coming, Ana," she said.
"You could not hear him, sweet; he has gone over to see the Señor Anecito Rojas."
"That dreadful man!" Raquel shuddered. "Why does he wish to see the Señor Anecito Rojas?"
"I do not know, Señorita." Ana shook her head pitifully. It seemed as if she might tell something if she would.
Suddenly she strained her arms round the girl.
"Raquel! Raquel!" she said, "promise me that you will sometimes think of me. That you will love me if we are separated. That if you can, if you have the power, you will send for me—"
"Ana! Ana!" Raquel had risen to her feet and was crying. Her face was white, her lips bloodless. "Tell me what you mean. How can I send for you? Where am I going that I can send for you? Am I going away, Ana? Ana, what do you know? Tell me, Ana, dear—dear Ana, tell me!"
But Ana had no time or reason to answer. There was a sound of horse's hoofs before the door, a man's heavy foot alighting upon the veranda, the throwing wide of the outer door, and Escobeda's voice within the passage.
"Ana!" it shouted, "Ana!"
Ana arose trembling. "I am here, Señor," she said.
"Where is that girl, Raquel?"
"The Señorita is also here, Señor," answered Ana.
The door was flung open.
"Pack her duds," said Escobeda. "She leaves this by evening."
"I—leave—here?" Raquel had arisen, and was standing supporting herself by Ana's shoulder.
"I suppose you understand your mother tongue. It is as I said; you leave here this evening."
"Oh, uncle! Where—where am I to go?"
"That you will find out later. Pack her duds, Ana."
Ana trembled in every limb. She arose to obey. Raquel threw herself on the bare floor at Escobeda's feet.
"Oh, uncle!" she said. "What have I done to be sent away? Will you not tell me where I am going?"
The girl cried in terror. She wept as a little child weeps, without restraint. "I am so young, uncle. I have no home but this. Do not send me away!"
Escobeda looked down at the childish figure on the ground before him, but not a ray of pity entered his soul, for between Raquel's face and his he saw that of Silencio, whose father had been his father's enemy as well as his own. He felt sure that soon or late Silencio would have the girl. He spoke his thoughts aloud.
"I suppose he would even marry you to spite me," he said.
"Who, uncle? Of whom do you speak?"
"You know well enough; but I shall spoil hisgame. Get her ready, Ana; we start this afternoon."
"There is a knocking at the outer door," said Ana. "I will go—"
"You will pack her duds," said Escobeda, who was not quite sure of Ana. "I will answer the summons myself."
As he was passing through the doorway, Raquel said, despairingly:
"Uncle, wait a moment. You went to the Señor Anecito Rojas. How did you get back so soon—"
"And who told you that I was going to him? Yes, I did start for the house of Rojas, but I met him on the way, so I was saved the trouble."
"Are you going to send me to him, uncle?" asked Raquel. The girl's face had again become white, her eyes were staring. There was some unknown horror in store. What could it be?
"Send you to him? Oh, no! Why should I send you to him? I have a better market for you than that of Rojas. He is only coming to aid me with those trusty men of his, in case your friend Silencio should attempt to take you from me. He had better not attempt it. A stray shot will dispose of him very quickly."
"Am I to remain on the island, uncle?"
"Yes and no," answered Escobeda. "We take the boat to-night for the government town. Whenwe arrive, it will be as the governor says—he must see you first."
Raquel understood nothing of his allusions. Ana cried silently as she took Raquel's clothes from the drawers and folded them.
"I cannot see what the governor has to do with me?" said Raquel.
"You will know soon enough," said Escobeda. His laugh was cruel and sneering.
Raquel turned from Escobeda with an increased feeling of that revulsion which she had never been able entirely to control. She had felt as if it were wrong not to care for her uncle, but even had he been uniformly kind, his appearance was decidedly not in his favour. She glanced at his low, squat figure, bowed legs, and thick hands. She had time to wonder why he always wore earrings—something which now struck her as more grotesque than formerly. Then she thrust her hand within the bosom of her gown, raised it quickly, and slipped something within her mouth.
Escobeda caught the motion of Raquel's arm as he raised his eyes. She backed toward the wall. He advanced toward her threateningly. He seized her small shoulder with one hand, and with a quick, rough motion he thrust the thick forefinger of the other between her lips, and ran it round inside her mouth, as a mother does in seeking a button orsome foreign substance by which a child might be endangered. Raquel endeavoured to swallow the paper. At first she held her teeth close together, but the strength of Escobeda's finger was equal to the whole force of her little body, and after a moment's struggle Silencio's note was brought to light. He tried to open it.
"It is pulp! Nothing but pulp!" he said, shaking the empty hand at her. Raquel stood outraged and pale. What was the matter with this man? He had suddenly shown himself in a new light.
"How dare you treat me so?" she gasped.
"You have hurt her, Señor," said Ana, reproachfully. "Does it pain you, sweet?" Ana had run to the girl, and was wiping her lips with a soft handkerchief. A tiny speck of blood showed how less than tender had been this rough man's touch.
"If it pains me? Yes, all over my whole body. How dare he! Anita, how dare he!"
Escobeda laughed. He seated his thick form in the wicker chair, which was Raquel's own. It trembled with his weight. He laid the paper carefully upon his knee, and tried to smooth it.
"I thought you said she received no notes from gentlemen," he roared. Ana stood red-eyed and pale.
"She never does, Señor," she answered, stifling her sobs.
"And what is that?" asked Escobeda, in a grating voice. He slapped the paper with the back of his hand into the very face of Ana. "Do you think that I cannot read my enemy's hand—aye, and his meaning? Even were it written in invisible ink. 'Gil!' Do you see it? 'Gil!'" He slapped the paper again, still thrusting it under Ana's nose.
"There may be more than one Gil in the world, Señor," sniffed the shaking Ana.
"Do not try to prevaricate, Ana. You know there is not more than one Gil in the world," said Raquel, scornfully.
Ana, in danger from the second horn of her dilemma, stood convicted of both, and gasped.
"There is only one Gil in the world for me. That is Don Gil Silencio-y-Estrada. That is his note which you hold, uncle. It is a love letter. I have answered it this very day."
Raquel, now that the flood of her speech had started to flow, said all that she could imagine or devise. She said that which had no foundation in fact. She made statements which, had Silencio heard them, would have lifted him to the seventh heaven of bliss.
"He wants me to go away with him. He knows that I am imprisoned. He implores me to come to him. Be sure," said Raquel, her eyes flashing, "that the opportunity is all that I need."
Ana stood aghast. She had never seen Escobeda defied before. All the countryside feared to anger him. What would become of the two helpless women who had been so unfortunate?
Escobeda was livid. His eyes rolled with rage; they seemed to turn red. He arose from the chair, leaving it creaking in every straw. He clenched his fist, and shook it at the woman and girl alternately. His ear-rings danced and trembled. He seemed to be seized with a stuttering fit. The words would not pass the barrier of his brown teeth. He jerked and stammered.
"We—we—shall see. We shall s—s—see. This—this—eve—evening."
Raquel, her short spurt of courage fled, now stood with drooped head. Escobeda's anger seemed to have left him as suddenly as it had appeared. He threw Silencio's note on the floor.
"Ah! bah!" he said, contemptuously. "It sounds very fine. It is like hare soup: first catch your hare. Silencio shall not catch you, my little hare. His horses are not fleet enough, nor his arm long enough."
"All the same, I think that he will catch me," said Raquel, again defiant, with a fresh burst of courage.
Escobeda turned on his heel.
"Go to the door, Ana," he said, "and see who keeps up that thumping."
When Ana had shuffled along the passage, Raquel turned to Escobeda. "It may be a messenger from the Señor Silencio," she said. "I sent him a letter some hours ago."
"And by whom, pray?"
"That I will not tell you. I do not betray those who are kind to me. You told me early this morning that I was to be taken away. You will see now that I, too, have a friend."
Ana's steps interrupted this conversation.
"Well?" asked Escobeda. "The messenger is—will you speak?"
"It is the man Rotiro from Palmacristi," said Ana, in a low voice.
Raquel gave a quick little draw of her breath inward. The sound made a joyous note in that cruel atmosphere.
"It will do you no good," said Escobeda. "Go and tell him that I will see him presently. I will lock you up, my pretty Señorita, that you send no more notes to that truhan.[5]You have now but a few hours to make ready. Put in all your finery; though, after all, your new master can give you what he will, if you please him."
FOOTNOTE:[5]Mountebank.
[5]Mountebank.
[5]Mountebank.
It was an unthrifty-looking place, El Cuco—very small, as its name implied. How Don Mateo had asked any woman to marry him with no more to give her than the small plantation of El Cuco, one could not imagine. The place was little more than a conuco, and Don Mateo, through careless ways and losses at gambling, selling a little strip of field here and some forest land there, was gradually reducing the property to the size of a native holding.
The lady who had inveigled Don Mateo into marrying her sat upon the veranda, fat and hearty. Her eyes were beginning to open to the fact that Don Mateo had not been quite candid with her. He had said, "My house is not very fine, Señorita, but I have land; and if you will come there as my wife, we will begin to build a new casa as soon as the crops are in and paid for." The crops had never come in, as far as the Señora had discovered; and how could crops be paid for before they were gathered? There had grown up within the household a very fine crop of complaints, but these DonMateo smoothed over with his ready excuses and kindliness of manner.
Agueda leaned down to the small footpath gate to unfasten the latch. She found that the gate was standing a little way open and sunk in the mud, but that there was no room to pass through.
"Go round to the other side," called a voice from the veranda.
A half-dozen little children, of all shades, came trooping down the path. Then, as she turned to ride round the dilapidated palings, they scampered across the yard, a space covered by some sort of wild growth. They met her in a troop at the large gate, which was also sunk in the ground through the sagging of its hinges. Fortunately, it had stood so widely open now for some years that entrance was quite feasible.
Agueda struck spur to Castaño's side, and he trotted round to the veranda. They stopped at the front steps, and throwing her foot over the saddle, Agueda prepared to dismount.
"What do you want here?" asked a fat voice from the end of the veranda.
"I should like to see Aneta, Señora," said Agueda. "May one of the peons take my horse?"
"You can go round to the back, where Aneta is, then," answered the Señora, without rising. "Sheis washing her dishes, and it is not you who shall disturb her."
Agueda looked up with astonishment. The last time that she had come to El Cuco, Aneta had sat on the veranda in the very place where the stranger was sitting now. That chair, Don Mateo had brought over from Saltona once as a present for Aneta. It was an American chair, and Aneta used to sit and rock in it by the hour and sing some happy song. Agueda remembered how Aneta had twisted some red and yellow ribbons through the wicker work. Those ribbons were replaced now by blue and pink ones.
Without a word Agueda rode round the house. Arrived at the tumble-down veranda which jutted out from the servants' quarters, she heard sounds which, taken in conjunction with the Señora's words, suggested Aneta's presence. When Aneta heard the sound of horse's hoofs she came to the open shutter. Agueda saw that her eyes were red and swollen. A faint smile of welcome overspread Aneta's features, which was succeeded at once by a shamefaced look that Agueda should see her in this menial position.
"Dear Agueda!" said she; "how glad I am to see you! But this is no place for you."
"I wish that you could come down to the river,"said Agueda. "I have so much to ask you. Who is the Señora on the veranda, Aneta?"
"Do you not know then that he is married?" asked Aneta, the tears beginning to flow again.
"Married!" exclaimed Agueda, aghast. "To the Señora on the veranda?"
Aneta nodded her head, while the salt tears dropped down on the towel with which she was slowly wiping a large platter. Agueda was guilty of a slight bit of deceit in this. She had heard that Don Mateo was married, but it had never occurred to her that things would be so sadly changed for Aneta. Somehow she had expected to find her as she had always found her, seated on the veranda in the wicker chair, the red and yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and in her lap the embroidery with which she had ever struggled.
"Can you come down by the river?" asked Agueda.
"I suppose that I must finish these dishes," said Aneta, through her tears. "Oh, Agueda, you have had nothing to eat, I am sure. You have come so far. Let me get you something."
"Yes, I have come far, Aneta. I should like a little something." It did not occur to Agueda to decline because of the Señora's rudeness. She had never heard of any one's being refused food at any hut, rancho, or casa in the island. The strangerwas always welcome to what the host possessed, poor though it might be.
"I will not dismount," said Agueda. "Perhaps you can hand me a cup of coffee through the window." Agueda rode close to the opening. Aneta laid her dish down on the table, and went to the stove, from which she took the pot of the still hot coffee. She poured out a cupful, and handed it to Agueda.
"Some sugar, please," said Agueda, holding the cup back again. Aneta dipped a spoon in the sugar bowl which was standing on the table in its pan of water. It was a large pan, for "there are even some ants who can swim very well," so Aneta declared. Agueda took the cup gratefully, and drained it as only a girl can who has ridden many miles with no midday meal.
"I hoped that I should be asked to breakfast, Aneta," said Agueda, wistfully. She remembered the time when she had sat at the table with Aneta, and partaken of a pleasant meal.
"I can hand you some cassava bread through the window, Agueda," said Aneta, with no further explanation.
She took from the cupboard a large round of the cassava and handed it to Agueda. Agueda broke it eagerly and ate hungrily.
"That is good, Aneta. Some more coffee, please."
Aneta took up the pot to pour out a second cup.
"And who told you that you might give my food away?"
The voice was the fat voice of the Señora. She had exerted herself sufficiently to come to the kitchen door.
"Pardon, Señora!" said Agueda. Her face expressed the astonishment that she felt. She unconsciously continued to eat the round of cassava bread.
"You are still eating?"
Agueda looked at the woman in astonishment.
"Does the Señora mean that I shall not eat the bread?" asked she.
"We do not keep a house of refreshment," said the Señora.
Agueda handed the remainder of the cassava bread to Aneta.
"I see you do not, Señora. Come, Aneta, come down to the river."
Aneta looked hesitatingly at the Señora.
"You need not mind the Señora, Aneta. She does not own you."
At this Aneta looked frightened, and the Señora as angry as her double chin would allow.
"If the girl leaves, she need not return," said the Señora.
"My work is nearly done," said Aneta, with a fresh flood of tears.
"Crying, Aneta! I am ashamed of you. Come, I will help you finish your dishes."
Agueda rode around to the veranda pilotijo and dismounted. She tied Castaño there, as is the custom, taking care that she chose the pilotijo furthest removed from the main post, where several machetes were buried with a deep blade stroke.
The Señora was too heavy and lazy to object to Agueda's generosity. She seated herself in the doorway and watched the process of dish-washing. When the girls had finished, the worn towels wrung dry and hung on the line, Aneta took from the veranda nail her old straw hat.
"On further thought, you cannot go," said the Señora. "I need some work done in my room."
Agueda put her arm round Aneta.
"I bought her off," she said. "Come, Aneta, I have so little time."
At these words the Señora had the spirit to rise and flap the cushion of a shuffling sole on the floor in imitation of a stamp of the foot.
"You cannot go," she said.
For answer the two girls strolled down toward the river, Castaño's bridle over Agueda's arm, Aneta trembling at her new-found courage.
Aneta was a very pretty, pale girl, withbronze-coloured hair, although her complexion was thick and muddy, showing the faint strain of blood which made her, and would always hold her, inferior to the pure Spanish or American type. Her eyes were of a greenish cast, and though small, were sweet and modest. She was perhaps twenty-three at this time. It is sad to have lived one's life at the age of twenty-three.
"I have so many years before me, Agueda," said Aneta.
"Why do you stay here?" asked Agueda.
"Where have I to go?" asked Aneta.
"That is true," assented Agueda.
"My father will not have me back. He says that I should have been smart and married Don Mateo; but I never thought of being smart, 'Gueda; I never thought of anything but how I loved him."
A pang of pity pierced the heart of Agueda, all the stronger because she herself was so secure.
The two girls walked down toward the shining river. Castaño followed along behind, nibbling and browsing until a jerk of the bridle caused him to raise his head and continue his march.
The river was glancing along below the bank. Low and shallow, it had settled here and there into great pools, or spread out thinly over the banks of gravel which rose between.
"Can we bathe, Aneta?" asked Agueda.
"I suppose so," said Aneta, mournfully.
"Smile, Aneta, do smile. It makes me wretched to see you so sad."
Aneta shook her head.
"What have I left, Agueda?"
Agueda hung Castaño's bridle on a limb, and seeking a sheltered spot, the two girls undressed and plunged into the water, a pool near the shore providing a basin. One may bathe there with perfect seclusion. The ford is far below, and no one has reason to come to this lonely spot. The water was cool and delicious to Agueda's tired frame.
"Agueda," said Aneta, as they were drying themselves in the sun, "will Castaño carry double?"
"Why, Aneta, I suppose he will. I never tried him."
"I promised El Rey to come to see him one day soon. That was weeks ago. You know that Roseta has gone. The little creature is alone. If I should go there by myself the Señora would say bad things about me. She would say that I had gone for some wrong purpose. God knows I have no wrong purpose in my heart."
"Yes, I will go with you," said Agueda. "But, we must hasten. I have been away so long already. What time should you think it is, Aneta?"
Aneta turned to the west and looked up to thesky with that critical eye which rural dwellers who possess no timepiece acquire.
"Perhaps three o'clock, Agueda, perhaps four. Not so very late."
"So that I am home by six it will do," said Agueda.
She reproached herself that she should think of the happiness that awaited her at home while Aneta was so sad.
When they were again dressed, Agueda mounted Castaño, and riding close to an old mahogany stump, gave her hand to Aneta, aiding her to spring up to the horse's flank. Castaño was not over-pleased at this addition to his burden, but he made no serious demonstration, and started off toward the ford. The ford crossed, Agueda guided Castaño along the bank of the stream.
"Is this the Brandon place?" asked Agueda.
"No," said Aneta. "It is part of the Silencio estate."
Again Agueda felt the flush arise which had made her uncomfortable in the morning.
"I have never been this way," said Agueda, who was following Aneta's directions. "I was there this morning, but I rode down the gran' camino."
"You went there?"
"Yes; to carry a note."
"To the Señor?"
"Am I going right, Aneta?"
"Yes," said the easily diverted Aneta. "Follow the little path. They live on the river bank below the hill." In a few moments a thatched roof began to show through the trees.
"There it is," said Aneta; "there is Andres' rancho."
When they arrived at the rancho they found that the door was closed. Agueda rapped with her whip. "They are all away, I think," said she.
"Oh! then, they are not all away," piped a little voice from the inside. "Take the key from the window, and I will let you open my door."
Agueda laughed. Aneta slid off the horse, and Agueda rode to the high window, from whose ledge she took a key.
"My Roseta, is that you?" called the child's voice.
Aneta looked up at Agueda and shook her head with a pitying motion. The child's sorrow had effaced her own for the time.
"No, El Rey," she called; "it is Aneta, and I bring Agueda, from San Isidro."
"You are welcome, Señoritas," piped the little voice again.
By this time Aneta had inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. A small, thin child was sitting on the edge of a low bed. He arose togreet them with a show of politeness which struggled against weariness.
"Andres and Roseta are away," he said. "Andres said that he would bring her if he could find her."
Agueda had heard of El Rey, but she had never seen the child before.
"I should think he would surely bring her," said she in a comforting tone. She was seeing much misery to-day. She felt reproached for being so happy herself, but she looked forward to her home-coming as recompense for it all.
"Would you like to come to San Isidro some time, El Rey?" she asked.
"Does Roseta ever come there?" asked the child.
"She has never been yet, but she may come some day," answered Agueda, with that merciful deceit which keeps hope ever springing in the breast.
Aneta stooped down towards the floor.
"Have you anything to play with, El Rey?" she asked.
"El Rey has buttons. El Rey has a book that the Señor at Palmacristi gave him, but he is tired of those. When will Roseta come?"
Agueda turned away.
"I cannot bear it," she said.
El Rey looked at her curiously.
"Would you like to ride the pretty little horse, El Rey?"
The child walked slowly to the door and peered wistfully out.
"El Rey would like to ride; but Roseta might come."
"We will not go far," said Agueda. "Come, let me lift you up." El Rey suffered himself to be lifted to the horse's back, but his eyes were ever searching the dim vista of the woodland for the form that did not appear.
"I cannot enjoy it, Señora," said he, politely. "El Rey would enjoy the Señora's kindness if Roseta could see him ride."
"I must go, Aneta," said Agueda, her eyes moist.
She lifted the child down from Castaño's back. He at once entered the casa. He turned in the doorway, his thin little figure occupying small space against the dark background.
"Adios, Señoritas," said the child. "Oh! will the Señoritas please put the key on the window ledge?"
"We cannot lock you in, El Rey," said Agueda.
"Do you mean that we are to lock you in, El Rey?" asked Aneta at the same time.
"Will the Señoritas please not talk," said the child. "I cannot hear. I sit and listen all day.If the Señoritas talk I cannot hear if any one comes."
"But must we lock the door?" asked Agueda.
"Is that what Andres wishes?" asked Aneta.
"If you please, Señorita; put the key on the window ledge."
"I shall not lock him in," said Aneta. "I cannot do it. I will stay a while, El Rey," she said.
Aneta sat down in the doorway, her head upon her hand. She belongs not to the detail of this story. She is only one of that majority of suffering ignorant beings with whom the world is filled, who make the dark background against which happier souls shine out. Agueda rode back to the ford. She galloped Castaño now. At the entrance of the forest she turned and threw a kiss to Aneta. The girl was still in the doorway, but El Rey was not to be seen. Agueda fancied him sitting on the low bed, his ear strained to catch the fall of a faraway footstep.