"Come in, then, both of you."
Andres, with El Rey in his arms, followed Don Gil across the large living-room. Don Gil turned as he unlocked the door at the end of the passage.
"I have something to say to you," he said, "which must not be overheard."
Andres, the pioneer of his race, followed the Señor into the spring-like privacy of the sanctum.
"Now don't worry your brain, Andres. Listen to what I shall ask of you, and go and do it. You know it has always been my theory that a peon should not try to think, and why? Simply because he has no brain, Andres."
"As the Señor says," assented Andres.
When Andres issued from the counting-house of Palmacristi he was examining critically the trigger of a gun. That fine Winchester it was which had been the wonder and delight of the natives since the Señor Don Juan Smit' had brought it down from the es-States. When the Señor Silencio had asked the Señor Don Juan Smit' if the gun would shoot straight, the Señor Don Juan Smit' had laughed softly, and had answered, "Well, I guess!" and the Señor Don Juan Smit' had not exaggerated.
"And El Rey?"
"El Rey will go with Andres, Señor," answered the thin voice.
"The muchachito will do as he chooses, Señor." The child was following close upon his father's steps.
"It is too far for him, Andres. Stay with me, El Rey."
The child looked wistfully up at Andres.
"Andres will carry El Rey. Perhaps we shall find Roseta at the place where Andres goes to shoot."
"I will carry him, Señor. His weight is nothing. Dear God! nothing!"
Andres swung the child up to his hip, where he sat astride, securely held by Andres's strong arm, and descended the veranda steps.
"Come and tell me when it is done," Silencio called after them.
"Si, Señor. Buen' noch', Señor."
"Buen' noch', Señor," echoed El Rey's piping voice.
"Here, Andres." From his height on the veranda floor Don Gil tossed a key to Andres. "Open the boat-house, and run the boat out upon the southern ways. The southern ways, do you hear? Those nearest the Port of Entry."
Andres looked up wonderingly.
"Ah! you are trying to think. Do not try. It is useless. Obey! that is all."
Blindly faithful, Andres, having caught the key, turned away with an "As the Señor says," and disappeared down the camino which led toward the ocean cliff.
When he reached the headland of Palmacristi he suddenly diverged from the cliff path and ran hurriedly down the bank. The boat-house stood upon a safe eminence in the middle of the sand spit, with ways running down to the water on either side. Andres set El Rey down in the warm sand, andunlocked the boat-house door. He then pushed the boat to the end of the ways. The tide was still falling; it was nearly low water. He laid the oars ready; then he arose and looked southward along the coast. Ah! There shone the signal upon Los Santos headland. Old Gremo was at his post, then. Andres raised his shoulders to his ears, turned the palms of his hands outward, and said:
"Thy labour is of no use to-night, Gremo." He then took El Rey up from his nest in the warm sand, swung the child again to his hip, and remounting the bank, proceeded on his way.
So soon as Andres had departed Don Gil entered the comidor, and going to the table, struck a bell hanging above it. Jorge Toleto lounged to the doorway, against the side of which he propped himself.
"Tell Piomba to go over to the bodega at once, and ask the padre to dine with me this evening. Piomba has little time. Tell him to be off at once."
Jorge Toleto shuffled away, with the remnant of what in his youth had been a respectful bow. When he was gone Don Gil crossed the living-room, passed through two long passages, and entered a door at the end of the second. Here was a sort of general storeroom. When he emerged he carried in one hand a lantern, in the other he held a flatparcel. "A new lantern will burn more brightly," he said to himself.
It was growing dusk now. Don Gil descended the veranda stair and followed in the footsteps of Andres. As he crossed the rough grass beyond the veranda, old Guillermina espied him from a further window. She was engaged in opening the Señor's bed for the night, searching among the snowy linen to make sure, before tucking the rose-coloured netting beneath the mattress, that no black spider had hidden itself away, to prove later an unwelcome bedfellow to her adored Don Gil. For your tarantula will ensconce itself in unexpected corners at times, and is at the best not quite a desirable sleepmate.
"And for the love of the saints, where is our Don Gil departing to at this hour of the night? The dinner nearly ready, old Otivo watching the san coch' to see that it does not burn! The table laid, everything fine enough for a meal for the holy apostles! Aie! aie! for our Don Gil is one who will have it as fine for himself as for the alcade, when—pouff! off he goes, and we breaking our hearts while we wait. Ay de mi! ay de mi!"
The Señor, unconscious that he had been observed, passed hurriedly along the camino, and shortly struck into the little path or sendica which Andres had traversed but a short time before. AsDon Gil glanced over the cliff, he saw that the sea was still; almost calm. Even the usual ocean swell seemed but a wavelet, as it reached weakly up the beach, expending itself in a tiny whirl of pebbles and foam whose force wasnil, and lapsed in a retreat more exhausted than its oncoming.
A walk of ten minutes brought Silencio to the headland which bounded his property on the south. It was growing so dark that he could hardly distinguish the staff upon which it had been Andres's custom to hang each night hislanterna de señales, to send forth its white beam of cheer across the sea. When, after passing the red light of Los Santos Head, the pilot steered for the open ocean, the remark to the captain was always the same stereotyped phrase:
"Ah! There is the Palmacristi lantern bidding us Godspeed."
It is a sad thing when the habit of years must be changed. When a custom, fixed as the laws of the Medes, must be broken, chaos is often the result. Thus thought Silencio, as he reached the foot of theasta. It is, however, not necessary to say that his hand was not retarded by the thought. He groped for the cords which dangled from the top, and found them. He lighted a fusee and searched for and found the red slide, which he had laid on the ground. This was all that he wanted. Byfeeling, almost entirely, he removed the white pane from the lantern and replaced it by the red one, which he took from its wrapping. He then lighted the lantern, passed the cords through the metal hasps, and drew the signal to the top of the staff. The cords were so arranged as to permit of no swaying of the lantern. The light was fixed, and now from the top of the staff a red beam shone southward.
When Don Gil mounted the steps of his veranda at Palmacristi a tall, thin figure arose to greet him.
"Ah, padre, I am glad that Piomba succeeded in finding you. My dinners are lonely ones."
The padre laughed in the cracked voice of an old man.
"Better is the stalled ox where love is, than a dinner of herbs and poverty therewith."
"Just enough learning to misquote," quoted Don Gil, laughing also, but in a preoccupied manner.
"Perhaps it would be better to say 'just enough appetite.' My dinners are bad enough, since Plumero left me."
"Better to have him leave you, even if under a guard of soldiers, padre, than to let him put you where you can eat no more dinners. What was that, padre? Did you hear anything?"
"Nothing, my boy, but Jorge Toleto calling us to dinner. The willing ear, you know."
Don Gil ushered the old man into the comidor. His tall figure was bent and thin. The shabby black coat, whose seams shone with a generation's wear, flapped its tails about the legs of his scant white trousers. The good priest's figure was one in which absurdity and dignity were inextricably combined. The padre showed his years. He had never quite recovered from the attack made upon him by his trusted servant Plumero, the Good—Plumero, who now languished in the cep' over at Saltona.
The savory meal was ended. The night was warm and close.
"Let us sit upon the veranda and enjoy our cigarillos, padre."
Silencio seemed unlike himself. He was nervous, ill at ease. He had no sooner seated himself than he arose and paced the long veranda, the spark of his cigarette, only, showing his whereabouts. He looked often out to sea, and often in the direction of thelanterna de señales, whose ray was hidden from sight by the near hill.
"Do you hear anything, padre? Anything like a cry or a—"
"No, nothing! my boy. And as I was saying, there was my poor fighting cock lying in the corner, worse maltreated than he had ever been in any garito, and when I awoke—"
"That was certainly a gun. You are not rising to leave, padre; why, your cigarillo is not even half finished. I expect you to stay the night. No, no! I will take no denial. Guillermina, prepare the western room for the Padre Martinez."
"You know my weaknesses, muchacho mio. Very well, then, I will." But Silencio was down the steps and some feet away in the darkness, straining his ear for the sound which he knew must come. He took out his watch, and by the light of the veranda lantern noted the time. "Early yet," he muttered under his breath.
"Pardon, my son, you spoke to—"
"I was but saying that the moon is very late to—hark!"
"You are restless, Gil."
"It is this muggy weather. There! you certainly heard something?"
"Nothing, Gil; nothing but the nightingale yonder."
A cuculla flew into the padre's face. He brushed it gently away. It returned to wander over the long wisps of grey hair which straggled over the collar of the hot, dignified coat. The padre took the cuculla in his fingers, and placed it gently upon the leaves of the bougainvillia vine.
"I certainly think that the sweetest songsters I ever heard are the nightingales in this enclosure."
A footstep sounded on the graveled pathway which ran close to the veranda.
"Buen' noch', Señor."
Silencio started nervously.
"Ah! It is you, Andres? Buenas noches." Silencio raised his hand with a warning gesture. Andres's stolid face expressed as stolid acquiescence.
"Buen' noch', Señor. We did not find her at theasta de lanterna, Señor."
"Andres, take the child home; he is weary."
The tone was curt, unlike the kindly Don Gil. It was as if he had laid his hands on Andres's shoulders and were pushing him along.
"I should like to remain here, Señor. Perhaps she may come to-night. Who knows? Perhaps the good God will send her. He knows that I—cannot—bear—it, I cannotbear—" The child's voice broke in a sob.
Silencio's kindly nature was touched. "Take him round to Guillermina, Andres, and get dinner; both of you."
The two disappeared in the darkness.
Then Piombo brought a flaring Eastern lamp, at which Don Gil relighted his often extinguished cigarette.
"How still the night! How far a sound would carry on a night like this." The padre had butjust uttered these words when a long, booming sound struck upon the listening as well as the unexpectant ear.
Silencio bounded from his chair. He caught up a cloak which was lying conveniently ready.
"A steamer ashore!" he shouted. The old padre struggled to his feet. "Do not come. Go round to the quarters. Send the men to help. It must be at the sand spit. Follow me to the headland," and he was gone in the darkness. The padre wondered somewhat at Silencio's suspecting at once the locality of the stranded steamer, if that were the cause of the gun of distress. As he wondered, it spoke again, and gathering his wits together, he hastened round to the quarters.
Silencio bounded along the camino and up the cliff pathway. His feet seemed winged. The familiar local knowledge of childhood stood him in good stead at this crucial moment. He reached the staff. It was short work to release the cord and lower the lantern, extinguish the light, replace the red slide with a white one, and hoist the darkened signal in place again. Then he turned and ran quickly down the sandy bank.
"Now the light has simply gone out," he said to himself as he ran. His boat was where Andres had left it, the rising water making it just awash. A glance seaward showed to Silencio a steamer'slights. There came to him across the water bewildered shouts, the sounds of running feet, and evidences of confusion. He pushed his boat into the water, and bent to the oars. The steamer was, at the most, not more than a quarter of a mile distant. He pulled with desperation. He heard the sound of the foam as the propeller turned over, and he feared that with every revolution the vessel would back off into deep water. When he rowed alongside he was not noticed in the dark and confusion of the moment. He held his long painter in his hand, and as he climbed up over some convenient projections of the little vessel, fastened it securely.
He drew himself up hurriedly to the taffrail, and slid down to deck, mixing with the crew. He looked about now for the bewitching cause of the disaster. Some dark forms were standing by the companion door, and going close he discovered her whom he sought. He laid his hand on her arm to draw her away. At first she started fearfully, but even in darkness love is not blind, and she hurriedly withdrew with him to the side of the vessel.
"Stand here for a moment, Raquel," he whispered. "I am afraid that I cannot get you over the side without aid."
She stood where he placed her, and he ranforward with much bustle and noise, seeking the captain, calling him by name.
"Ah! the saints preserve us! Is that you, Señor Silencio? Where are we, Señor? There is no light anywhere to be seen. Where are we, for the love of God?"
"I am afraid that you have run aground on my sand spit, Señor Capitan."
"On your sand spit, Señor! Where, then, is Los Santos Head?"
"Some miles further down the coast, Señor Capitan."
"Ay de mi! I knew that pilot was no good. This is the first light that we have seen, and now that has gone out. This was a red light, Señor."
"Red light? You are dreaming, Señor Capitan."
The captain took this rejoinder in its literal meaning.
"It is true that I was dreaming, Señor. I beg of you not to mention it at the port. I have suffered with a fearful toothache all day. The pilot said that he was competent; we have never had any trouble." Silencio cut him short.
"I am here to offer my services, Señor Capitan. Can I be of any use? You may have a storm from the southward. To-day has been a weather-breeder. I think you have women on board. I could take them—"
"Gracias! gracias! my kind Señor Silencio. That will help me above all things."
"And if the wind does not rise, Señor Capitan, the tide will. Keep your engines backing, and there will be no harm done. I will take whom I can, and send for the others." Which proves that love, if not blind, may, however, be untruthful upon occasion.
How Silencio got Raquel over the side he never knew. Some one aided him at the captain's order, but he realized at last the blessed fact that she was there beside him, and that they were gliding from the vessel's hull as fast as he could impel the boat.
"Some miscreant has done this," roared the captain above the noise, as he leant over the side and strained his eyes after Silencio. "I beg you, Señor, to look for him, and when you have caught him, hand him over to me."
"I shall remember your words, Señor Capitan."
"I will have him shot in the market-place of the Port of Entry, and send for all the natives to see."
"I will remember your words, Señor Capitan, you may be sure of that, when I catch him—" But the last words of Don Gil were lost in the renewed efforts of the engineer to back the steamer from the sand spit.
No words passed at first between Raquel and herrescuer. If love is not always blind and sometimes not truthful, he is apt to be silent. Raquel needed no explanation. As the boat glided through the darkness, Silencio dropped the oars. He took her hands in his. His lips were pressed to hers. What question should she ask? What more did she crave to know? Here were life and liberty and love, in exchange for slavery, pollution, and worse than death.
When he lifted her slight form from the boat, he did not release her at once, but held her in his arms for a moment. He could hardly believe that his daring act had met with the one result for which he had hoped.
"Your uncle, where is he?"
"Escobeda? In the cabin, ill. There is a slight swell. He is always ill. I had not noticed it, the swell, on board the steamer. But he is not my uncle, Señor."
"I have proof of it in his own written words, dear heart. But uncle or not, he shall never separate us now."
"When can they get the steamer off the sand spit, Señor? I heard you say that the water is rising."
"They will float off by twelve o'clock to-night, Sweetheart. I hope they will forget you. But whether they do or not, they shall not have youever again, beloved. No, never again! You are mine now."
"He has none of those men with him," said Raquel. "They went back to Troja. But, Señor, he will come back from the capital, and then—Señor—then—"
"We will reckon with that question when it arises, dear one. At present, let us not think of Escobeda and his crew."
Half-way up the sandy slope they met the tall form of the padre descending. Silencio said shortly what he chose. Explanations were not in order, for, whatever had happened, and whatever might happen, this young girl could not remain unmarried in the house of her lover. "You must marry us this evening, padre; and we will go to the little church at Haldez to-morrow," said Don Gil, "if that will salve your conscience."
"My conscience needs no salving, my son. Yours rather. Perhaps, if you have anything to confess, I had better receive your confession before—"
"Ah, padre, what a tempter you are! So holy a man, too! No, let them do their worst. I have nothing to confess. I have won my stake; now let them come on." But he regarded the beautiful girl at his side with some uneasiness as he spoke.
"You must let me give you a chime of bells,Padre," said Raquel. The moon was struggling forth, and Silencio noticed her shy look as she raised her eyes to his. "That is, if—if the Señor will allow.
"Bribery, bribery!" said the padre in his thin old voice.
Silencio put his arm round Raquel, and they stepped to the edge of the cliff. With her head pressed close to his shoulder, together they watched the dancing lights upon the steamer, and listened to the hoarse orders and shouts which, mingled with the foaming spray under the vessel's stern, came to them across the water. They had forgotten the padre, for love adds another to her many bad qualities, that of ingratitude. The padre had just promised to perform for them the greatest service that it was his to give, and they had become oblivious of him, and of everything in the world but each other. They stood so, and watched the steamer for a little space, and then Silencio gathered the girl to his breast.
"Come home! dear Heart, come home!" he whispered, and she followed him down the path, her hand in his.
As they neared the Casa de Caoba they saw that a man was sitting upon the veranda steps. He had a child in his arms. The man was sleeping heavily, the slumber of the labouring peon. As Raquel cameup the steps of her new home, the child raised his large eyes wistfully to hers.
"When El Rey saw it was a Señora, El Rey thought it might be Roseta. When will Roseta come, Señor? When? When?"
Raquel stooped and lifted the boy tenderly from Andres's nerveless arms. She asked no question. With the instinct of the motherhood lying dormant within her, she knew that here was a motherless child, and that it suffered. At that moment she loved all the world. She pressed the boy close to her heart.
"Stay with me, little one; I will be Roseta to you."
El Rey raised his eyes to the sweet, dark face above him.
"Roseta was not gran', Señora," he said—he scanned her face critically—"but she was more pretty than the Señora. The Señora will pardon me if I say that Roseta's gown was much more handsome than the one the Señora wear."
At the word "señora" the young girl stooped and laid her lips upon the child's head.
"It was a gown of red. It had green spots—oh, such little green spots, small, small spots. El Rey used to count them. There were some little half-spots up there on the shoulder. Roseta said it was where the sewing came. Roseta did nothave shiny drops in her ears. The Señora's drops are like the bits of glass that Andres shot from the top of theastato-night. He had a gun, the gun of the Señor."
Raquel looked inquiringly at Silencio.
"It is true," he admitted.
"At Los Santos?"
"At Los Santos."
"They came down in showers, Señor, like little red stars."
"You are a poet, El Rey."
"Rather," said Silencio, smiling down at the child, where he stood leaning against Raquel, "El Rey is a little story-teller. He promised not to say a word—"
"It is a Señora who may know everything, all things. She has the good eyes."
"You are right, El Rey."
"The rings in Roseta's ears were round. They were big and round. She used to shake them when we went to the circus, so!" The tired head shook slowly. Andres stirred uneasily. He opened his dull, sad eyes and looked at El Rey. He had felt the touch on the wound even in his sleep.
"I often put my finger round them, so! Often and often I did."
Raquel took the little fingers between her own. She put them between her lips and bit themplayfully. Her white teeth made tiny indentations in the tender skin. El Rey smiled faintly, a promise, Raquel hoped, of a brighter day of forgetfulness to come.
Silencio stood looking on. He loved to see her so, the child leaning against her knee. Across the water came the sounds of shouts and hurried orders which disturbed no one. Raquel stroked the thin, straight hair over and over. She ran her soft fingers down the angular little face and neck. Tiny tremors of affection ran gently through the child's veins. El Rey laid his head upon the knee to which she drew him. His wasted hand shook as he laid it upon hers.
"You are good," said the child. "You are beautiful, you are kind, kind to El Rey." His tone was patient and old and full of monotony. "But oh! the Señora will pardon me? You are not Roseta."
There was one other person at the wedding of Don Gil and Raquel, besides the padre, who united them, and old Guillermina and Andres.
"Who will give you away?" asked Silencio.
"I myself," said she. Silencio laughed. "That cannot be," he said. As he spoke there was a humble knocking at the door of the salon. Raquel looked up and bounded from her seat.
"Oh, you dear old thing!" she said. She was fondling and kissing the bony creature, who stood aghast before her, who in turn was crying and begging the saints to have mercy upon her.
"And for the good God's sake, tell me how you got here, Señorita, and will the Señor allow me to sit down? My Sunday shoes have killed me, nearly. Is there anything that I could wear instead—" Ana stopped abashed at the sight of so fine a man as Silencio.
"How did the Señor rescue you, my Sweet? Is the Señor Escobeda dead, then?" Ana looked about her as if she expected to see the bodies of Escobeda and his followers over there on the edge of the trocha.
"I have been shipwrecked, Ana," said Raquel, smiling down upon the old woman.
"Ship—the holy saints pres—and you are not even wet—and where, then, is the Señor Escobe—"
"You seem very much worried about the Señor Escobeda, Ana," said Don Gil, who at once made Raquel's friend his own. "Do you not hear him off there now, cursing as usual?"
Ana listened. She heard distant cries, and the sound of the water as it churned underneath the propeller blades.
Ana shrank to the size of an ant as she answered, her face blanching: "Indeed! yes, I do hear theSeñor, Señor. I have heard the Señor like that, Señor, many a time. And does the Señor think that the Señor can come here to the casa of Palmacristi?"
"Not for some time, I think, Ana," said Don Gil, smiling, though a faint wrinkle was discernible on his brow.
"It always seems to me as if the Señor Escobeda could get anywhere, Señor," said Ana, simply. "He has only to wish, the Señor, and the thing is done."
"That would be bad for us," said Silencio. "Ana, will you give this lady to me?"
"I? And what does the Señor think that I have to do with it?"
"Is the Señor Escobeda a nearer relative than you are, Ana?"
"Indeed, no! Señor," said Ana. "I was her mother's own cousin once removed, while the Señor Es—"
"Very well!" said Silencio, "that is all that I want. Come! padre, let us prepare for the wedding."
It was two or three days after this that Uncle Adan came in toward sunset with a fine piece of news.
"The Señor knows the hacienda of Palmacristi?" began Uncle Adan, more as a preface than as a question.
Don Beltran laughed. He had known the hacienda of Palmacristi as long as he had known anything; he had known the old Don Gil well, who, indeed, had been a distant relative of his own, and he had seen the young Don Gil grow up to manhood. Beltran was ten years older than Silencio. He had often envied the young fellow his independence and freedom in the way of money. He thought him hot-headed and likely to get into trouble some day, and now, from Uncle Adan's account, that day had arrived. He did not think it necessary to say this; Adan knew it as well as he.
"What has he been doing now?" asked Don Beltran.
"Only getting married, Señor," answered the old capitas.
"I did not dream that he would do anything so sensible," said Don Beltran, with a glance at Agueda.
Agueda bent her eyes low and blushed. How dear it was of him to think of her first of all, and always in that connection. But what was the haste? He loved her, of that she was sure. He would always love her. When he was ready, she would be, but it was not a pressing matter.
"The Señor E'cobeda does not think it so sensible, Señor Don Beltran."
"Aaaah! it was the little Señorita Raquel, then. Wise man, wise man!"—Agueda looked up suddenly—"to marry the girl of his choice. But how did he get her, Adan? It was only three weeks ago that he wrote me a line, begging that I would aid him in an effort to carry her off."
"And the Señor answered—?"
"I told him that I would come whenever he called upon me. I have no liking for Escobeda. He will not sell me the lowlands between the river and the sea. He is an unpleasant neighbour, he—"
"He is a devil," said Adan.
"I think that it must be I who made that marriage hasten as it did," said Agueda, smilingly. "The Señor remembers the day last week when I came home and found the Señor with the letter from the Señor Don Noé saying that he wouldmake a visit at Palmacristi with the little child? It was on that day that I carried the note from the Señorita to Don Gil."
"And that was the very day of the marriage," broke in Adan, willing enough to interrupt his niece, though not his master. "It was the very day. There was a shipwreck, and somehow the young Señor got the Señorita from the vessel. Como no, hombre! When one wants a thing he must have it if he is gran' Señor. The padre was there, and he married them, and now they have to reckon with the Señor E'cobeda."
"Where was the precious rascal all this time?" asked Don Beltran.
"Some say that he was on board the ship, Señor, and that he was carried on to the government town. They say he knew nothing of the grounding of the vessel; he was always sick with the sea, that Señor E'cobeda. Caramba!Ishould like to see him sick with the sea, or with the bite of a black spider, or with anything else that would kill him—that Señor E'cobeda!"
"I cannot see what he can do, Adan," said Don Beltran. "If she is married, he cannot change that."
Adan nodded, and scratched his ankle with his machete.
"Married fast enough, Señor Don Beltran. First by the padre at the hacienda, and then at thelittle church at Haldez. I cannot see what rights he has over the young Señora now.
"None at all," said Don Beltran. "Does the lad want me over there—the Señor Silencio?"
"I have heard nothing from him, Señor Don Beltran. Juan Rotiro told me many things, but the Señor knows what Juan Rotiro is when the pink rum gets into his judgment. He says that the Señor E'cobeda will soon return, and that there will be fighting, but it seems to me that the Señor Don Gil can hold his own. Como no! when he has the law on his side."
"Law," Beltran laughed. "Do you suppose rascals like Escobeda care for law? Besides, he has the Governor on his side. He pays large sums for so-called concessions; that I know, and the Governor winks both eyes very fast at anything that Escobeda chooses to do. Did you hear anything about his getting that band from Troja together?"
"Caramba! yes, Señor Don Beltran! It was spoken under the breath, and just from one peon to the other. They did not know much."
Don Beltran arose. "I think I will ride over to Palmacristi, Agueda; get me my spur. Would you like to come, child?"
Agueda shook her head, and ran into the sitting-room to hide her confusion. Her face was a dull crimson as she took the spur down from the nail.
"The espuela is dusty; shall brighten it, Señor?"
"Call old Juana. I will not have you soil your pretty hands, child, on my spur. The grey, Pablo," he shouted toward the rambling structure that was dignified by the name of stable.
"And why not come with me, Agueda?"
Agueda bent over her stitching.
"I am much too busy to-day, Señor," she said. "Far too busy," she thought, "to go over there, not sure of my welcome." Things had changed at Palmacristi, and remembering the slight inflection in Silencio's tone when last she saw him, she knew that henceforth Raquel was quite out of her reach.
"I was good enough to take her note for her when she was Señorita," thought Agueda, "but I am not good enough to visit her now that she is Señora."
Agueda's sensitive and delicate nature had evolved this feeling out of an almost imperceptible glance, a faint, evanescent colouring of tone in the inflection of Silencio's voice, but it told her, as memory called it up, that the front door of Palmacristi would henceforth be closed to her. She would not hamper Beltran. He was thoughtless, and might suffer more from a slight to her than from one to himself; or else he might become angry and break his pleasant friendship with Silencio, a friendship which had existed between the familiesfor generations. No, she had better remain at home. Again, when Beltran asked her, she shook her head and smiled, though a drop of water lay near the surface of her eye, but Beltran did not see, and rode away gaily, waving his hand.
Arrived upon the height where stood the Casa de Caoba, he rode the grey down to the bank, because on the calm sea he had discovered Silencio and Raquel, in the little skiff in which Raquel had been rescued. He heard Silencio say, "There is Beltran; let us go in and see him."
"I do not know that Don Beltran," said Raquel. "Does not the girl Agueda live there, at San Isidro?"
"Yes; do you know Agueda?" As Silencio spoke he waved his hand to the horseman on the bank.
"Bien venido," he shouted. And then to Raquel, "Where did you see the girl Agueda?"
"I have often seen her," said Raquel. "She is very handsome. She looks like a young boy. She is really no darker than I am. Have you forgotten that she brought my note to you that day?"
"No," said Silencio; "I have not forgotten it. She has perhaps more good Spanish blood in her veins than either of us," continued he, as he bent to the oars.
"Such things are very sad," said Raquel. "She is so above her station. I should like to have her come here and live with us."
"That would not do at all, Raquel," returned Silencio, gravely.
"Is there anything wrong with her?" asked Raquel, wonderingly.
"N—no, not that I know of, but she is not of your station."
"And yet you say that she has better ancestry than either you or I," argued Raquel, as the boat grounded. "I am sure her uncle is a great deal more respectable than mine."
Silencio waved his hand to Beltran. "We were looking to see if there was any sign of the yacht," he called. "I sent her round to Lambrozo to be repaired. We may need her now any day. Oh! I quite forgot you do not know my wife, Beltran. I must introduce you."
Raquel bowed and walked onward to order refreshments for the visitor.
"Let me congratulate you," said Beltran, when Silencio had thrown the painter to Andres, who was standing near and had scrambled up the bank. "I was surprised by your very charming news."
"Hardly more than I was myself."
"How did you manage, Gil?"
"The gods were with me," answered Silencio,laughing, though Beltran noticed that his brow clouded over almost immediately. His laughter sounded false. "It is true that I have what I wished, Beltran," he continued—"the dearest blessing that any man, were he prince or noble, could ask." ("She is not half so beautiful as my Agueda," thought Beltran, while nodding acquiescence.) "I have her, she is mine; but—there is Escobeda still to be reckoned with."
"Where is he?" asked Beltran.
"I wish he were in hell," said Silencio, fiercely.
"You are not singular in that, but the result is not always the offspring of the desire. It would indeed be a blessing to send him there, but unfortunately, my boy, there is law for him in this land, though very little of it when it comes to the wrongs that you and I suffer. The question is, where is he, and when do you expect him here?"
"He went on to the government town with the steamer."
Beltran threw his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, walking beside his young friend. He heard all that there was to tell.
"He was very ill when the steamer ran on the sand spit that night." Silencio looked narrowly at his friend. He wished to see if his share in the decoying of the steamer had been noised abroad. Beltran listened without a flicker of the eyelash.
"The doctor had given him something strong—a new thing down here, called, I believe, chloral."
"Como no!" burst forth Beltran, "if they only gave him enough."
"They gave him enough for my purpose," said Silencio. "He was utterly stupid. Was I going to awake him and ask permission to run away with his niece? Caramba, Beltran! I should think not! He was stupid, I imagine, all the way to the government town. When he called for the bird whose wings he thought he had clipped, behold, the little thing had flown, and with me, the dreaded enemy."
Don Beltran laughed long and heartily.
"You are a clever boy, Gil; but how about the future? As you say, you have that still to reckon with."
The darkening of Silencio's face recalled to Beltran that antiquated simile of the sweeping of a cloud across the brightness of the sun. But not all old things have lost their uses.
"I know that," said Silencio; "that is the worst of it. I have taken her from him to protect her, and now—and now—if—I—should fail—"
"I rode over to-day for that very thing, Gil, to ask if I could help. I will come over with all my people if you say so, whenever you send for me. My uncle, Don Noé Legaspi, comes within a day or so, to stay with me at San Isidro. He bringshis little child, a motherless little thing, with him, but I can come all the same. I think that it was never said of my house that we deserted a friend or a kinsman in trouble."
"I see what you are afraid of," said Silencio. "You think he will attack me."
"I do," answered Beltran; "but we can stand him off, as the Yankees say. You have the right to shoot if he attacks you, but I hope that it will be my bullet that takes him off, the double-dyed scoundrel!"
"You will take some refreshment, Beltran?"
"No, it is late; my breakfast is waiting. A' Dios, Gil, a' Dios."
As they were about to part, Silencio called after his friend:
"I will send you word as soon as I receive the news myself. You will come at once, eh, Beltran?"
Don Beltran paused in mounting the grey, and turned his head to look at his friend. Silencio's fingers were nervously opening and closing around one of the fence palings.
"For myself I should not care; that you know, Beltran; but for her, it would kill me to have her fall into his hands again. It would be death to me to lose her. She will die if she thinks that she can be taken from me, and by that villain. Do youknow what they meant to do with her, Beltran? They meant—they meant—"
Silencio's voice sank to a whisper. His face had become white, his lips bloodless. His eyes seemed to sink back in his head and emit sparks of fire. In the compression of the mouth Beltran saw the determination of certain death for Escobeda should he come within range of Silencio's weapon.
Beltran was in the saddle now. He turned and surveyed his friend with some anxiety.
"Be careful, Gil," he said; "don't come within reach of the villain. Discretion is much the better part in this matter. Keep yourself under cover. They will pick you off, those rascals. Send for me the night before you know that he is coming, and I will ride over with ten of my men. We can garrison at your house?"
"I shall make ready for you," said Silencio. "My only fear is that I shall not have warning enough."
Beltran rode down to the coast to meet his young uncle and the child. He started early in the morning, riding the black. The groom led the roan for Uncle Noé's use, Pablo rode the spotted bull, and those peons who could be spared from the cacao planting walked over the two miles to the boat landing, to be ready to carry the luggage that the strange Señor and the little girl would bring.
As Dulgado's fin-keel neared the shore, Beltran could not distinguish the occupants, for the sail hid them from view; but when the boat rounded to alongside the company's landing, and a sprightly old gentleman got out and turned to assist a young girl to climb up to the flooring of the wharf, Beltran discovered that Time had not broken his rule by standing still. On the contrary, he had broken his record by outstripping in the race all nature's winners, for the young uncle had become a thin little old man, and the child a charming girl in a very pronounced stage of young ladyhood.
"I should have known that my cousin could not be a little child," thought Beltran, as he removedhis old panama, wishing that he had worn the new one. His dress was careless, if picturesque, and he regretted that he had paid so little attention to it.
Notwithstanding his somewhat rough appearance, Beltran raised the perfumed mass of ruffles and lace in his strong arms. He seated the girl in the chair, fastened firmly to the straw aparejo on the back of the great bull. At Agueda's suggestion, he had provided a safe and comfortable seat for the little one, to whose coming Agueda was looking forward with such unalloyed pleasure.
The girl filled it no more completely than Beltran's vision of her younger self would have done, though her billowy laces overlapped the high arms of her chair. Her feet, scarce larger than those of a child, rested upon the broad, safe footboard which Beltran had swung at the side of the straw saddle. Her delicate face was framed in masses of fair hair—pale hair, with glints here and there like spun glass.
Beltran could hardly see her eyes, so shaded was her face by the broad hat, weighted down by its wealth of vari-colored roses. To many a Northern man, to whom style in a woman is a desideratum, Felisa would have looked like a garden-escape. She had a redundant sort of prettiness, but Beltran was not critical. What if her eyes were small, her nose the veriest tilted tip, her nostrils and mouthlarge? The fluffy hair overhung the dark eyebrows, the red lips parted to show white little squirrel teeth, the delicate shell-like bloom on cheek and chin was adorable. It brought to Beltran's memory the old farm in Vermont where he had passed some summers as a lad, and the peach trees in the orchard. His environment had not provided him with a strictly critical taste. How fair she was! What a contrast to all the women to whom he had been accustomed! There was nothing like her in that swarthy land of dingy beauties. Her light and airy apparel was a revelation. Unconsciously Beltran compared it with the plain, straight skirts and blouse waists which he saw daily, and to its sudden and undeniable advantage. He was expecting to greet a little child, and all at once there appeared upon his near horizon a goddess full-blown. He had seen nothing in his experience by which he could gauge her. She passed as the purest of coin in this land of debased currency.
Her father, Uncle Noé, bestrode the roan which Eduardo Juan had brought over for him. When Don Noé was seated, Eduardo Juan gave him the bridle, and took his own place among the carriers of the luggage, which was greater in quantity than Don Beltran had expected. Eduardo Juan disappeared with a sulky scowl in answer to Pablo's contented grin, which said, "I have only to walk home,guide the bull, and see that the Señorita does not slip, while you—"
Pablo waited with patient servility, rope in hand, until the Señorita was safely seated in her chair. There was a good deal of sprightly conversation among the Señores. There was more tightening of girths and questions as to the comfort of his guests by Don Beltran. Then the cavalcade started, Pablo leading the bull, which followed him docilely, with long strides. The animal, ignorant as are the creatures of the four-footed race, with regard to his power over its enemy, man, was obedient to the slightest twitch of the rope, to which his better judgment made him amenable. The long rope was fastened to the ring in his pink and dripping nostrils. He stretched his thick legs in long and steady strides, avoiding knowingly the deeper pools which he had heretofore aided his kind to fashion in the plastic clay of the forest path.
Beltran rode as near his cousin as the path would allow. It was seldom, however, that they could ride abreast.
It was the southern spring, and flowers were beginning to bloom, but Felisa looked in vain for the tropical varieties which one ever associates with that region. The bull almost brushed his great sides against the tree trunks which outlined the sendica. When she was close enough Felisastretched out her hand and plucked the blackened remains of a flower from the center of a tall plant. It had been scorched and dried by the sun of the summer that was passed. She thrust the withered stems into the bull's coarse hair, turned to Beltran, and laughed.
"If I remain long enough, there will be flowers of all colors, will there not, cousin? Flowers of blue and red and orange."
"You will remain, I hope, long after they have bloomed and died again," answered Beltran, gallantly.
They had not been riding long before Felisa sent forth from her lips an apprehensive scream. Beltran spurred his horse nearer.
"What is it, cousin? Is thesillaslipping?"
Felisa looked up from under her cloud of spun silk, and answered:
"No, I am wondering how I am to get round that great tree."
Beltran, to whom the path was as well known as his own veranda at San Isidro, had no cause to turn his eyes from the charming face at his side.
"Oh! the trunk of the old mahogany? That has lain across the path for years. Do not be afraid, little cousin. Roncador has surmounted that difficulty more times than I can remember."
They were now close upon the fallen trunk.Felisa closed her eyes and clutched at the bull's shaggy neck. She screamed faintly.
Pablo turned to the right and pulled at the leading rope, but the bull, with no apparent effort, stubborn only when he knew that he was in the right, turned to the left, and Pablo perforce followed. It was a case of the leader led. When Roncador had reached the point for which he had started, a bare place entirely denuded of branches, he lifted one thick foreleg over, then the other. The hind legs followed as easily, a slight humping of the great flanks, and the tree was left behind. Suddenly Felisa found that they were in the path again.
"Ze bull haave ze raight," commented Pablo. "Ah endeavo' taike de Señorit' roun' de tre'. Bull ain' come. He know de bes' nor me." Don Beltran leaped his horse over the tree trunk, and Don Noé was taken over pale and trembling, whether or no, the roan following Don Beltran's lead. Beltran smiled openly at Pablo's discomfiture, and somewhat secretly at Uncle Noé's fear.
"A good little animal, that roan, Uncle Noé. How does he suit you?" Uncle Noé looked up and endeavoured to appear at ease, releasing his too tight clutch on the bridle.
"Il est rigolo, bien rigolo!" said Don Noé, gaily, between jerks occasioned by the liveliness of theroan. He glanced sidewise at his nephew to see if the Paris argot which he had just imported had had any effect upon him. He owed Beltran something for his superior horsemanship. Beltran never having heard the new word, was, however, not willing to give Don Noé a modicum even of triumph. He was bending over, securing a buckle on his bridle. Without raising his figure, he answered, "C'est vrai, mon oncle, c'est tout à fait vrai, il est très, très rigolo."
"Très ha ha!" added Don Noé.
"Bien ha ha!" nodded Don Beltran, not to be left behind.
"What wretched French Beltran speaks!" said Don Noé to his daughter, later.
Uncle Noé belonged to that vast majority, the great army of the unemployed. He loved the gaieties of the world, the enjoyments that cities bring in their train. But sometimes nature calls a halt. Nature had whispered her warning in Don Noé's ear, and he at once had thought of the plantation of San Isidro as the place to rest from a too lavish expenditure of various sorts. He had come to this remote place for a purpose, but he yawned as they rode along.
Beltran, proud of the beauties of San Isidro, pointed out its chief features as they proceeded. He turned, and said, still in French, to pleaseUncle Noé, and perhaps to show him that even at San Isidro all were not savages:
"There is much to be proud of, Uncle Noé. It is not a small place, when one knows it all."
"C'est vrai," again acquiesced Uncle Noé. "A la campagne il y a toujours beaucoup d'espace, beaucoup de tranquillité, beaucoup de verdure, et—" The rest of the sentence was lost on Beltran, but was whispered in the pink ear of Felisa, who laughed merrily.
"At what is my cousin laughing?" asked Beltran, turning, with a pleased smile. Uncle Noé did not answer. The words with which he had finished his sentence were, "et beaucoup d'ennui."
"You wanted to come," said Felisa, still laughing.
"Did you ever see such a God-forsaken place?" returned her father. "I had really forgotten how bad it was. Look at those ragged grooms. Imagine them in the Champs Elysées!"
"There can be no question of the Champs Elysées. How stupid you are, papa."
"And down in this valley! Just think of putting a house—I say, Beltran, who ever thought of putting your house down here in the valley?"
"It was my mother's wish," said Beltran. "I suppose that it was a mistake, but the river was further away in those days. It has changed itscourse somewhat, and encroached upon the casa, but we have never had any serious trouble from it. I shall build a house on the hill next year. The foundations are already laid." Don Beltran had said this for some years past. "Not that I think that I shall ever need it. When we have floods, the water makes but a shallow lake. It is soon gone."
As they entered the broad camino, Felisa saw a man coming toward them. He was mounted upon a fine stallion; the glossy coat of the animal shone in the sun. The rider wore an apology for a hunting costume, which was old and frayed with use. The gun, slung carelessly across his shoulder, had the appearance of a friend who could be depended upon at short notice, and who had spent a long life in the service of his owner. The stock was indented and scratched, but polished as we polish with loving hands the mahogany table which belonged to our great-grandmother. The barrel shone with the faithfulness of excellent steel whose good qualities have been appreciated and cared for. The man was short and dark. As he passed he removed his old panama with a sweep. Beltran gave him a surly half-nod of recognition, so curt as to awaken surprise in the mind of Felisa. The contrast between the greetings of the two men was so great that her slits of eyes noticed and compared them.
"Who is that man, cousin?"
"Don Matéo Geredo."
"Why do you not speak to him?"
"I nodded," said Beltran.
"You did not return his salute. I am sure it was a very gracious one, cousin. Why did you not return his—"
"Because he is a brute," said Beltran, shortly.
Felisa had not been oblivious of the glance of admiration observable in the man's eyes as he passed her by.
"Jealous so soon," she thought, with that vanity which is ever the food of small minds. Aloud she said, "He seems to have a pleasant face, cousin."
"So others have thought," said Beltran, with an air which said that the subject was quite worn out, threadbare. Then, changing his tone, "See, there is the casa! Welcome to the plantation, my little cousin."
And thus chatting, they drew up at the steps of San Isidro.
Agueda came joyfully out to meet them. Ah! what was this? Where was the little child of whom she and Beltran had talked so much? Agueda had carefully dusted the little red cart. She had fastened a yellow ribbon in the place from which the tongue had long ago been wrenched by Beltran himself. The cart stood ready in the corner of theveranda, but Agueda did not bring it forward. She caught sight of a glitter of bracelets and rings against a snow-white skin, as Felisa was lifted down from the aparejo in her cousin's arms. Her lips moved unconsciously.
"The diamonds, not the playthings," was her verdict.
As Agueda came forward, the surprise that she felt was shown in her eyes. She bowed gravely to the Señorita, who condescended to her graciously.
"Shall I show the Señorita to her room?" asked Agueda of Beltran.
With that wonderful adaptability which is the inalienable inheritance of the American woman, Agueda had accepted in a moment the change from the expected child to the present Señorita. It is true that Agueda's mother, Nada, had been but a pretty, delicate octoroon, but Agueda's father had been a white gentleman (God save the mark!) from a northern state, and Nada's father a titled gentleman of old Spain. From these proud progenitors and the delicate women of their families had Agueda inherited the natural reserve, the refinement and delicacy which were so obvious to all with whom she came in contact. She inherited them just as certainly as if Nada had been a white woman of the purest descent, just as certainly as if the gentle Nada had been united in wedlock to thedespoiler of her love and youth and life, George Waldon, for there ran in Agueda's veins a heritage of good old blood, which had made the daughters of the house of Waldon famous as pure and beautiful types of womanhood.
As Agueda asked her hospitable question, Beltran's square shoulders were turned toward her. He was busying himself with the strap of the aparejo. Agueda, who knew him as her own soul, perceived an embarrassed air, even in the turn of his head.
"If you please," said Beltran, without looking toward her.
The Señorita loitered. She asked Don Beltran for her bag. He lifted the small silver-mounted thing from the pommel of his saddle and handed it to Felisa with a smile. He seemed to look down at her indulgently, as if humouring a child. Agueda noticed the glittering monogram as it flashed In the sun. Beltran's hand touched Felisa's. A gentle pink suffused her features. Agueda caught the sudden glance which shot from Beltran's eyes to those of his cousin. A sickening throb pulsed upward in her throat. She shivered as if a cold wind—something that she had seldom felt in that tropic land—had blown across her shoulders.
Suddenly Aneta came into her thoughts, Aneta of El Cuco. Her lips grew white and thin. It is moments like these, with their premonitions, whichstreak the hair with grey. Agueda did not look at Beltran again. She drew her breath sharply, and said:
"If the Señorita permit, I will show her the way."
"In a moment, my good girl," said Felisa, carelessly, and lingered behind, bending above the flower boxes which lined the veranda's edge, flowers which Agueda had planted and tended.
"What a pretty servant you have, cousin," said Felisa.
Beltran started.
"Servant? Oh, you mean Agueda. She—she—is scarcely a servant, Agueda; she keeps my house for me."
Felisa turned and gazed after Agueda. The girl had walked the length of the broad veranda and stood waiting opposite a door, lithe and upright. She looked back, her face grave and serious. She was taller by several inches than Felisa. Her figure, slender as Felisa's own, was clothed in a pale blue cotton gown, fresh and clean, though faded with frequent washings, a spotless collar and cuffs setting off the statuesque throat and the shapely hands.
Felisa tick-tacked down the long veranda, her ruffles and billowy laces bouncing with her important little body. She uttered a subdued scream of surprise as she reached the open doorway andcaught sight of the fresh, cool-looking room, with its white furniture and bare floors, its general air of luxurious simplicity. The wooden shutter in the wall opposite the door was flung wide, and one was conscious of a tender tone of yellow green, caused by the rays of sunlight shining through and over the broad banana leaves. Great lilac and yellow pods hung from the shafts of greenery; some of the large oval leaves had fallen upon the veranda. Felisa noted them when she crossed the room to inquire further into her surroundings.
A ragged black was sitting on the veranda edge, swinging his legs over the six feet of space. "Hand me that leaf," said Felisa. The boy arose at once, and picking up the lilac leaf of the banana flower, held it out to her with a bow and the words in Spanish, "As the Señorita wishes."
Felisa took the leaf, but threw it down at once. She had expected to find a soft thing which would crumple in her hand. The leaf was hard and tough as leather. She could no more crush or break it with her small fingers than if it had been made of india-rubber, which, but for its color, it strongly resembled.
She turned and looked at Agueda.
"And do you have no curtains at the windows?"
"We have no curtains, and windows we do not have, either," answered Agueda. "The Señoritacan see that there are wooden shutters at the windows. No one has windows on this side of the island."
The tone was perhaps slightly defiant. It was as if Agueda had said, "What! Finding fault so soon?"
"Eet haave glaass obe' at dé ceety; Ah see eet w'en Ah obe' deyah."
Felisa started. The voice came from the corner of the room, which was concealed by the open door. She peered into the shadow, and faced the shriveled bit of brown flesh known as Juana.
Felisa laughed, as much at the words as at the speaker.
"Señ'it' t'ink Ah don' haave—yaas-been aat de ceety. Ah been aat ceety. Eet haave, yaas, peepul." The tone implied millions.
Felisa was standing in front of the dressing-table, taking the second long silver pin out of her hat.
"What does she say?" she asked through the hatpin which she held horizontally between her teeth. She removed the open straw, and ran the pins, one after the other, through the crown.
"She says that they have the glass—that is, the windows—at the city."
Still staring at Juana, Felisa seated herself upon the small white bed. Agueda pushed back the rose-coloured netting which hung balloon-like from theceiling. A freshly knotted ribbon gathered its folds and held them together, thus keeping the interior free from the intrusion of annoying or dangerous insects.
Felisa reached down with one plump hand, and drew the ruffled skirt upward, disclosing a short little foot, which she held out toward Agueda. Agueda did not move. She looked at Felisa with a slight arch of the eyebrows, and moved toward the door.
Juana hobbled up.
"De li'l laidy wan' shoe off? Ole Juana taake. Dat ain' 'Gueda business. Don Be'tra' don' laike haave 'Gueda do de waak."
"And why not, I should like to know?"
Juana chuckled down in the confines of her black and wrinkled throat.
Agueda went out to the veranda. She stood looking over toward the river, her arm round the pilotijo, her head leant against it. Her thoughts were apprehensive ones. She paid no heed to Juana's words.
"She Don Be'tra' li'l laidy, 'Gueda is. She ain' no suvvan,[7]ain' 'Gueda. She 'ousekeep', 'Gueda."
By this time Juana, with stiff and knotted fingers, had unlaced the low shoes. She took the small feet in her hand, and twisted them round, and Felisa with them, to a lying posture upon the low couch.