"Oh, Señorita!" she exclaimed under her breath. "Does the Señorita know that her door is open? Let me close it, and the shutter on the other side. I will run round there in a minute. Some one might see the Señorita; people may be passing along the veranda at any moment."
Felisa gave a shrill and merry laugh.
"People might see! Why, my good girl, don't you know that is just why we wear such gowns, that people may see? Come and fasten this thing. Isn't it lovely against my neck?"
Agueda could not but admit to her secret soul that it was lovely against Felisa's neck. But she coloured as she entered and closed the door carefully behind her. She had seen nothing like this, except in those abandoned picture papers that came sometimes from the States, or from France, to Don Beltran, and then, as often as not, she hid them that she might not see him looking at them. She could not bear to have him look at them. She felt—
"Open the door, that's a good girl! There! Are you sure that the catch is secure? These beauties were my aunt's. See how they become me. I would not lose them for the world. Oh! had I only had them before."
"Are—are—they—has the Señor given them perhaps—to—to—"
"Well, not exactly, Agueda, good girl; but some day, who knows—there!" Felisa made a pirouette and sank in a low curtsey on the bare floor, showing just the point of a pink satin toe. "See how they glitter, even in the light of these candles. Imagine them in a ball-room—Agueda, and me in them! Now I must go and show my cousin. Open the door. Do you not hear—open the—"
"The Señorita is never going to show herself to the Señor in such a gown as that! What will the Señor say? The Señorita will never—"
But Felisa had pushed past Agueda, and was half-way down the veranda.
The thoughts that flashed through Agueda's mind were natural ones. She had honestly done her best to keep the Señorita from disgracing herself in the Señor's eyes, but she would have her way. She had gone to her own destruction. There was a quickening of Agueda's pulses. Ah! Now he would turn to her again. He could not bear any sign of immodesty in a woman. He had often said to Agueda that that was her chief charm, her modesty. He had called her "Little Prude," and laughed when she blushed. Was it to be wondered at that Agueda rejoiced at Felisa's coming defeat, at her imminent discomfiture, the moment that Beltran should see her? She stood in the doorway of Felisa's room, watching the fairy-like figure as it lightly danced like a will-o'-the-wisp down the dark veranda's length, flashing out like a firefly as it passed an opening where there was a light within, going out in the darkness between the doors, still keeping up its resemblance to theignis fatuus.
Before Felisa reached the salon Beltran came out to discover why his charmer had absented herself for so long a time. Agueda caught the look in his eyes, as he stood, almost aghast at the meretricious loveliness of the little creature before him.He gazed and gazed at her. Was it in disgust? Alas! no. Poor Agueda! Rapture shone from his eyes. He opened his arms. But Felisa eluded him and danced round the corner of the veranda.
"You pretty thing! You pretty, you lovely, you adorable thing!" she heard Beltran exclaim, as utterly fascinated, he followed the small siren in her tantalizing flight.
That succession of events designated as Time passed rapidly or slowly, as was the fate of the beneficiary or the sufferer from its flight or its delay. In some cases the milestones seemed leagues apart, in others but a short foot of space separated them.
To Beltran the hours of the night dragged slowly by, when, as was often the case, he lay half awake in a delirious dream of joy, longing for dawn to break the gloom that he might come again within the magic of that presence which had changed the entire world for him.
To Agueda the hours of the night flew on wings. As she heard the crowing of the near and distant cocks answering each other from coloñia or river patch, or conuco, she sighed to herself. "It is nearly four o'clock, soon it will be five, then six, and the next stroke, oh, God! seven!" For then would the cheery voice which could no longer wait call from the veranda, "How are you this morning, little cousin?" and the answer from that dainty interior would be, "Quite well, Cousin Beltran, ifthe cocks could be persuaded not to roost directly under the floor of my room, and keep me awake half the night."
Then Agueda must attend to the early breakfast. Trays must be sent to the rooms of the visitors, and for two hours would the Señor impatiently pace the veranda or the home enclosure, awaiting the reappearance of his goddess.
There was no sign of the wearing effect of sleeplessness on the shell-like face when that important little lady appeared upon the veranda, clothed in some wonderful arrangement of diaphanous material, which was to Beltran's vision as the stage manager's dream of the unattainable in costume. With the joyous greeting there was offered a jasmine or allemanda flower or bougainvellia bracht for the girdle bouquet, which often Beltran assisted in arranging, as was a cousin's right; and in return, if Felisa was very good-natured, there followed the placing of a corresponding bud or blossom in Beltran's buttonhole by those small, plump fingers, loaded down with their wealth of shining rings.
It was at this time that Agueda received a shock which, as a preliminary to her final fate, more than all conveyed to her mind how things were going. It was early morning. Juana had brought to Agueda's room the fresh linen piled high in the old yellow basket. Together they laid the articles onchairs and table, selecting from the pile those that needed a few stitches. Agueda sat herself down by the window to mend. She took up her needle and threaded it, then let her hands fall in her lap, as had become her custom of late. Her head was turned to the grove outside, and her gaze rested among the leaves and penetrated their vistas without perceiving anything in grove or trocha.
She had heard Beltran moving about in his room, but he had thrown the door wide and gone whistling down the veranda toward that latest goal of his hopes. She heard the gay greeting, and the distant faint response, then a laugh at some sally of fun. Agueda looked wearily at the pile of starched cleanliness, and took up her work again. How hateful the drudgery seemed! Before this—in other days—time was—when—
It was a homely bit of sewing, a shirt of the Señor's, which needed buttons. This recalled to Agueda that the last week's linen had been neglected by her. It had been put away as it came from Juana's hands. With sudden decision she determined now to face the inevitable, to accept the world as it had become to her, all in a moment, as it were.
Agueda arose and dropped the linen from her lap to the floor. She had never been taught careful ways. All that she knew of such things hadcome to her by intuition, and her action showed the dominant strain of her blood—not the exactness of a trained servant, but the carelessness of a petted child of fortune. She stepped over the white mass at her feet and went to the door that led from her room to Beltran's. She walked as one who has come to a sudden determination. Of late she had not been there, except to perform some such service as the present moment demanded. She seized the knob in her hand, and turned it round, pressing the weight of her young body against the door. Instead of bursting hurriedly into the room, as was her wont, she found the door unyielding. Again she tried it, twisting the knob this way and that.
She was about to call upon one of the men to come to her aid, as the door had stuck fast, when suddenly she stopped, standing where the exertion had left her. Her colour fled, her lips grew bloodless, she leaned dizzy and sick against the door. On the floor, at her feet, she had caught sight of a small shaving that had pushed itself through the crack underneath. She put her hand to her side as if a physical pain had seized her. She ran to the door of her room which opened upon the outer and more secluded veranda. Passing through this, she walked with trembling steps to the doorway of Beltran's room. She could hear his gay badinagedown at the end of the house, where she knew that Felisa was sipping her chocolate inside her room, while he called impatiently to know when she would be ready for the excursion of the day.
Agueda entered Beltran's room and walked swiftly to the communicating door. Ah! it was as she had feared. Some shavings upon the floor, and a new bolt, put there she knew not when, perhaps when she was up in the field on the previous day, attested to the verity of her suspicion. What did Beltran fear? That, remembering the old-time love and confidence, she should take advantage of it and of her near proximity, and when all the coloñia slept, go to him and endeavour to recall those past days, try to rekindle the love so nearly dead? Nearly dead! It must be quite so, when he could remind her thus cruelly, if silently, that a new order of things now reigned at San Isidro.
Agueda appreciated, now perhaps for the first time fully, that her life had changed, that she had become now as the Nadas and the Anetas of this world. She closed her lips firmly as this thought came to her. Well, if it were so, she must bear it. Like Aneta, she had not been "smart," but unlike the Anetas of this life, she would learn something from her misfortune, and be henceforth self-respecting, so far as this great and overwhelming blow would allow. Never again should Beltran feel thathe had the right to bestow upon her a touch or a caress, however delicate, however gentle. They were separated now for good and all. She saw it as she had never seen it before. All along she had been hoping against hope. She had constantly remembered Beltran's words that first week of Felisa's stay: "They will be going home soon, and then all will be as before." She saw now that Beltran had deceived himself, even while he was deceiving her. He could not turn them out, as he had once said to her, but he had now no wish to turn them out, nor did they wish to go. He was lost to her, but even so, with the memory of what had been, Beltran should respect her. He should find that, as she was not his chattel, she would not be his plaything while he made love to that other respectable girl, who would tolerate no advances which were not preceded by a ceremony and the blessing of the church. Foolish, foolish Agueda! Had she been "smart," she might have welcomed Felisa as her cousin, instead of appearing as the slighted thing she now felt herself to be. And then, again, her soul rebelled at such a view of the case. His wife! What humiliation were hers to be Beltran's wife, and see what she saw now every day, the proof of his love for this fair-haired cousin of his, while she, his wife, looked on helpless. Then, indeed, would she have been in his power.Now she was free—free from him, free to respect herself, even in her shame.
As Felisa has been likened to a garden escape in point of looks, so might one liken Agueda to a garden escape in point of what people designate as morals. Agueda had never heard of morals as such. She had had no teaching, only the one warning which Nada had given her, and that, she considered, she had followed to the letter.
Agueda had stood intrenched within a garden whose soil was virtue. She did not gaze with curiosity, nor did she care to look, over the palings into the lane which ran just outside. She stood tall and splendid as a young hollyhock, welcoming the sun and the dew that Heaven sent down upon her proud young head. But though fate had surrounded her with this environment, whose security she had never questioned, her inheritance had placed her near the palings. Those other great white flowers that stood in the middle of the garden could never come to disaster. But Agueda, unwittingly, had been thrust to the wall. Love's hand had pushed itself between the palings of the fence that surrounded her garden and had bent the proud stalk and drawn it through into the outer lane. While Beltran showed his love for her, she did not feel that she had escaped from her secure stand inside. Her roots were strong and embedded in the soil ofvirtue, and wanton love would never find a place within her thoughts or feelings. She did not realise the loss of dignity. "All for love," had been her text and creed. The remedy, if remedy were needed, had been close at hand. It had been offered her. She had only to stretch out her hand and take it, and draw back within her garden, showing no bruise or wound, but happy in that she could still rear herself straight and proud among the company of uninjured stalks. But though the remedy had been at hand, Agueda had not grasped it with due haste. Unmindful of self, she had allowed the opportunity to escape her, and now she could not spring back among those other blooms whose freshness had never been tarnished. Alas! She found herself still in the muddy lane. She had been plucked and worn and tossed down into the rut along the roadside, where she must forever lie, limp and faded.
What boots it to dwell upon the sufferings of a breaking heart? Hearts must ache and break, just as souls must be born and die, for thus fate plans, and the world goes on the same.
Things went on the same at the plantation of San Isidro. Don Noé made no motion to leave it, and Felisa was happier than she had ever been, and sofor once was in accord with her father. Beltran dreaded from day to day the signal for their departure, but it did not come.
Uncle Adan moved among all these happenings with a soul not above cacao seed and banana suckers. He kept tally at the wagon-train or in the field, and if he thought of Agueda at all it was with a shrug of the shoulders and the passing reflection: "She is as the women of her race have been. It is their fate." For she was surely of that race, though only tradition and not appearance was witness to the fact.
As for Agueda, no one about her could say what she felt or thought. She remained by herself. What she must see, that she saw. That which she could keep from knowing, she dulled her mind to receive, and refused to understand or to accept. She endeavoured to become callous to all impressions. One would have said that she did not care, that her passing fancy for Beltran, as well as his for her, had died a natural death. And yet, so contradictory is woman's nature, when placed in such straits as those which now overwhelmed her, that sometimes a fierce curiosity awoke within her, and then she would pass, to all appearance on some household errand bent, within the near neighbourhood of Beltran and his cousin. They, grown careless, as custom encourages, always gave hersomething to weep over. Then for a time she avoided them, only to return again to her foolish habit of inquiry.
Agueda grew deathly in pallor, and thin and weary looking. Her face had lost its brightness. Gaze where she would, she saw nothing upon her horizon but dark and lowering clouds. Sometimes she opened her drawer to look for a moment at the sewing, discarded now these many weeks, but she did no more than glance at it. "It will not be needed," she said to herself, with prophetic determination.
She might have said with Mildred: "I was so young. I loved him so. I had no mother. God forgot me, and I fell." As for pardon, Agueda did not think of that. Consciously she had committed no sin.
Not that she ever argued the matter out with herself. She would never have thought of continuing Mildred's plaint, and saying, "There may be pardon yet," although she felt, if she did not give expression to the feeling in words, "All's doubt beyond. Surely, the bitterness of death is past." There could be no "blot on the escutcheon" of Agueda. She had no escutcheon, as had Browning's heroine, though perhaps some drops of blood as proud coursed through her veins. She was not introspective. She did not reason nor argue withherself about Beltran's treatment of her. It was only that suddenly the light had become darkness, the sun had grown black and cold. There was no more joy in life, everything had finished for her. Truly, the bitterness of death was past.
There came an evening when there were mutterings up among the hills. The lightning pranked gayly about the low-hanging clouds. Occasionally a report among the far-distant peaks broke the phenomenal stillness.
Felisa lounged within the hammock which swung across the veranda corner. It was very dark, the only lights being those gratuitous ones displayed by the cucullas as they flew or walked about by twos or threes. At each succeeding flash of lightning Felisa showed increased nervousness. Her hand sought Beltran's, and he took it in his and held it close.
"See, Felisa! I will get the guitar, and we will sing. We have not sung of late."
Felisa clasped her hands across her eyes and burst into tears. Beltran was kneeling at her feet in an instant.
"What is it, my Heart? What is it? Do not sob so."
"I am afraid, afraid!" sobbed Felisa. "All is so mysterious. There are queer noises in theground! Hear those hissing, rushing sounds! Cousin! cousin! What is it?"
"You are nervous, little one. We often have such storms in the mountains. It may not come this way at all. See, here is the guitar."
He patted the small fingers lying within his own, then stretched out his hand for the guitar, hanging near. He swept his fingers across the strings.
"What shall we sing?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. Volatile as a child, believing that which she wished to believe, Felisa sat upright at the first strain of music. She laughed, though the drops still stood upon her cheeks, and hummed the first line of "La Verbena de la Paloma."
"I will be Susana," she said, "and you shall be Julian. Come now, begin! 'Y á los toros de carabanchel,'" she hummed.
The faint light from the lantern hanging in the comidor showed to Felisa the look in Beltran's eyes as he bent toward her.
"I do not like you, my little Susana," he said, bending close to her shoulder, "because you flout me, and flirt with me, and break my poor heart all to little bits. Still, we will sing together once more."
"Once more? Why do you say once more, cousin?" asked Felisa, apprehensively. A shadow had settled again over her face.
"Did I? I do not know. Come now, begin." His voice was lowered almost to a whisper, as he sang the first lines of the seductive, monotonous little Spanish air. The accompaniment thrilled softly from the well-tuned strings.
"Donde vas con mantón manila,Donde vas con vestido chiné,"
"Donde vas con mantón manila,Donde vas con vestido chiné,"
"Donde vas con mantón manila,Donde vas con vestido chiné,"
"Donde vas con mantón manila,
Donde vas con vestido chiné,"
he sang.
Her high soprano answered him:
"A lucirme y á ver la verbena,Y á meterme en la cama después."
"A lucirme y á ver la verbena,Y á meterme en la cama después."
"A lucirme y á ver la verbena,Y á meterme en la cama después."
"A lucirme y á ver la verbena,
Y á meterme en la cama después."
Beltran resumed:
"Porqué no has venido conmigoCuando tanto te lo supliqué."
"Porqué no has venido conmigoCuando tanto te lo supliqué."
"Porqué no has venido conmigoCuando tanto te lo supliqué."
"Porqué no has venido conmigo
Cuando tanto te lo supliqué."
"'Lo sup—li—que,'" he repeated, with slow emphasis.
Felisa laughed, shook her head coquettishly, and answered as the song goes.
Then,
"'Quien es ese chico tan guapo,'"
"'Quien es ese chico tan guapo,'"
"'Quien es ese chico tan guapo,'"
"'Quien es ese chico tan guapo,'"
sang Julian. "Who is he, little Felisa? Is there any whom I need fear?" He dropped his hand from the strings, and seized the small one so near his own.
"I know a great many young men, cousin, but I will not own that there is a guapo among them. And this I tell you now, that I shall go to laVerbena with whom I will, if ever I return to Sunny Spain."
"Y a los toros de carabanchel,"
"Y a los toros de carabanchel,"
"Y a los toros de carabanchel,"
"Y a los toros de carabanchel,"
she sang again defiantly, her thin head-notes rising high and clear. Was there no memory in Beltran's mind for the contralto voice which had sung the song so often on that very spot—a voice so incomparably sweeter that he who had heard the one must wonder how Beltran could tolerate the other.
Agueda was seated half-way down the veranda alone. She could not sit with them, nor did she wish to, nor was she accustomed to companionship with the serving class. She endeavoured to deafen her ears to the sound of their voices. She would have gone to her own room and closed the door, but it was nearer their seclusion than where she sat at present, and then—the air of the room was stifling on this sultry night. She glanced down toward the river, where the dark water rolled on through savannas to the great bay—a sea in itself. She could distinguish nothing; all was black in that blackest of nights. She dared not go forth, for she felt that the storm must soon burst. She sat, her head drooped dejectedly, her hands lying idly in her lap. Uncle Adan joined her, the lantern in his hand showing her dimly his short, dark form. The manager looked sourly at his niece, and cast anangry glance in the direction of the two at the corner of the casa. He had suddenly awakened to the fact that Agueda's kingdom was slipping from her grasp, and if from hers, then from his also. Should this northern Señorita come to be mistress here at San Isidro, what hold had he, or even Agueda herself, over its master? He spoke almost roughly to Agueda.
"Go you and join them," he said. "Go where by right you belong."
Agueda did not look at him. She shook her head, and drooped it on her breast. A sudden flash of lightning made the place as bright as day. Uncle Adan caught a glimpse of that at the further corner which made him rage inwardly.
"Did you see that?" he whispered.
"No," said Agueda. "I see nothing."
"I have no patience with you," said Uncle Adan. He could have shaken her, he was so angry. "Had you remained with them, as is your right, some things would not have happened."
He left her and went hurriedly toward the stables. Presently he returned. Agueda was aware of his presence only when he touched her.
"The storm will be here before long," he said. "Can you get him away without her? Anything to be rid of those northern interlopers."
"What do you mean?"
"Call him away, draw him off. Tell him to come to the rancho—that I wish to see him about preparations as to their safety. Get him away on any pretext. Leave the others here with no one to—"
"It is not necessarily a flood," said the girl, with a strange, new, wicked hope springing up within her heart.
"It will be a flood," said Uncle Adan. "It is breaking even now at Point Galizza."
For answer Agueda arose.
"Good girl! You are going, then, to tell him—"
"Yes, to tell him—"
"Call him away! I will saddle the horses. I will have the grey at the back steps in five minutes. Tell him that Don Silencio has need of him."
"If the Don Silencio's own letter would not—"
"The grey can carry double. You can ride with him. I will go ahead. The flood is coming. It is near. I know the signs."
Agueda drew away from the hand which Uncle Adan laid upon her wrist.
"Let me go, uncle," she said.
Uncle Adan released her.
"The flood will last but a day or two," he whispered in her ear, "but it will be a deep one. All the signs point to that. We have never had such a one; but after—Agueda, after—there will be no one to interfere with you—with me, if—"
Agueda allowed him to push her on toward the end of the veranda, where the two were still singing in a desultory way.
"I shall warn them," she said.
"Him!" said Uncle Adan, in a tone of dictation.
"I shall warn them," again said Agueda, as if she had not spoken before.
"Fool!" shouted Uncle Adan, as he dashed down the veranda steps and ran toward the stables. "And the forest answered 'fool!'"
Agueda heard hurrying footsteps from the inner side of the veranda. Men were running toward the stables. She drew near to Beltran. The faint light of the lantern in the comidor told her where the two forms still sat, though it showed her little else. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, but she laid it also upon a smaller, softer one than her own. The hand was suddenly withdrawn, as Felisa gave an apprehensive little scream.
"What do you want?" asked Beltran impatiently, who felt the warring of two souls through those antagonistic fingers.
"You must come at once," said Agueda, with decision. "The storm will soon burst."
"Nonsense! We have had many sultry nights like this. Where do you get your information?"
"My uncle Adan says that the storm will soon burst. He has gone to saddle the horses."
Felisa gave a cry of fear.
Beltran turned with rage upon Agueda. A flash of lightning showed her the anger blazing in his eyes. It also disclosed to her gaze Felisa cowering close to him.
"How dare you come here frightening the child? Your uncle has his reasons, doubtless, for what he says. As for me, I am perfectly convinced that there will be no storm—that is, no flood."
"I beg of you, come!" urged Agueda.
"Oh, cousin! What will become of us? Why does that girl fear the storm so?"
"There will be no storm, vida mia, and if there is, has not the casa stood these many years? Agueda knows that as well as I."
Agueda withdrew a little, she stood irresolute. She heard the sound of horses' feet, she heard Uncle Adan calling to her. She heard Don Noé calling to Eduardo Juan to bring a light, and not be so damned long about it. Old Juana called, "'Gueda, 'Gueda, honey! come! Deyse deat' in de air! 'Gueda!"
There was a sudden rush of hoofs across the potrero, and then the despairing wail from Palandrez, "Dey has stampeded!" She heard without hearing. She remembered afterward, during that last night that she was to inhabit the casa, that allthese sounds had passed across almost unheeding ears. She ran again to Don Beltran.
"Come! Come, Beltran, dear Beltran," she said. "The river is upon us!"
She wrung her hands helplessly. It seemed to her as if Beltran had lost his power of reasoning.
"How dare she call you Beltran?" said Felisa.
There came a crash which almost drowned the sound of her voice, then a scream from Felisa, intense and shrill. Agueda heard Beltran's voice, first in anger, then soothing the terrified girl again, shouting for horses, and above it all, she heard the water topple over the embankment, and the swash of the waves against the foundations of the casa.
She ran hurriedly and brought the lantern which hung within the comidor. When Felisa opened her eyes, and looked around her at the waste of waters, she shrieked again.
"How dare you bring that light? Put it out!" ordered Beltran.
"We must see to get to the roof," answered Agueda, with determination.
"The roof! The water is not deep. See, Felisa, it is only a foot deep. The grey can carry you and me with safety."
"Does not the Señor know that the horses have stampeded?" said Agueda. "Our only hope of safety now lies upon the roof. We must get tothe roof. See how the water is already getting deeper."
And now, Agueda, her listlessness gone, ran into the casa and seized upon what she knew was necessary for a night in the open air. Beltran followed her into the hall. He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and shook her angrily. His judgment seemed to have deserted him.
"Why did you not warn us?" he said. "Was it a part of your plan to—to—"
"My plan!" said Agueda. "Have I not begged you? I could have gone—Uncle Adan told me—"
Beltran seized the lantern and ran out and along the veranda to where Felisa stood clinging to the pilotijo. She was crying wildly.
As Beltran approached, the light of his lantern revealed to Felisa more fully the horror of her surroundings. A fierce wind had arisen in a moment, and was beating and threshing the trees, flail-like, downward upon the encroaching river. Felisa turned upon Beltran in fury. She pointed with tragic earnestness to the waters which now surrounded the casa, and which had assumed the proportions of a lake. A thin stream was reaching, reaching over from the edge of the veranda; its searching point wetted her shoe.
"You should have told me that such things happen in this barbarous place! You pretend to loveme, and to keep me with you, you keep me ignorant of my danger, and now I must die. I must be drowned far away from my home in a savage land, all because you pretend that you love me! Oh, God! I am so young to die! So young to die!"
Beltran enfolded the girl in his arms.
"You shall not die. There is no danger of dying. We will go up on the roof. See! here are the steps. You will behold a wonderful sight to-night. You will laugh at your fears to-morrow."
Beltran urged her toward the ladder as he spoke.
"Agueda and I have spent more than one night up there, have we not, Agueda? She will tell you that there is nothing to fear. Agueda, tell my cousin that there is nothing to fear."
"I did not know what there was to fear," said Agueda in a low voice.
Felisa was crying bitterly, as Beltran aided her up the lower steps of the ladder. Agueda followed Beltran and Felisa. She carried some heavy wraps, and struggled up the steep incline unaided. Arrived upon the roof, she found the cousins standing together, Beltran's arm cast protectingly round the trembling girl, her eyes hid against his breast.
"My cousin is nervous," said he, in a half apologetic tone; for though his intimacy with Felisa had passed the highest water-mark, where cousinship ends and love begins, he had not obtruded hisactions or words upon Agueda's notice. But now as he felt the shaking of Felisa's young form against his own, suddenly he seemed to throw off all reserve.
"Vida mia!" he said. "Vida mia! look up, speak to me. Do look. See that faint light in the east! The moon will soon rise. It is a beautiful sight. The Water will go down in a few hours. You will laugh at your fears to-morrow, child. These floods do not last long, do they, Agueda? When was the last one? Do you remember, Agueda?"
"Yes, I remember," answered Agueda.
"Come, then, and tell her. You can comfort her if you tell her how little there is to fear."
"I do not think that I shall comfort her," said Agueda. She glanced at the refuge behind the chimney, and then back at Beltran. "It was one long year ago," she said.
He turned away. "Come, Felisa," he said. "There is shelter from this wind behind the old chiminea."
He guided her along the slight slope of the roof. The wind was rising higher with every moment. It howled down from the hills; it bent and slashed at the treetops; it caught Felisa's filmy gauzes and whirled them upward and about her head.
Beltran half turned to Agueda.
"Give me the cloak," he said. He took it fromher and enveloped Felisa in it, then led her to the safe shelter of the broad old chimney. Behind it was a figure upon his knees. It was Don Noé. He was praying with the fervour of the death-bed repenter.
Felisa, with a return of her flippant manner, laughed shrilly.
"The truly pious are also unselfish, papa. Give us a little shelter from this searching wind."
"Oh, do not! Do not! If I move, I shall fall! You will push me off!" and Don Noé continued petitioning Heaven in his own behalf.
Agueda was left standing in the centre of the roof. Palandrez and Eduardo Juan, who had followed the Señores to this their only refuge, were lying flat upon their faces. They held a lantern between them—a doubtful blessing, in that it illumined with faint ray the gloom and horror below, but it told so little that the possibility seemed more dreadful than the reality was at the moment.
"Lay down, Seño'it' 'Gueda," called Eduardo Juan. "Lay yo' body down."
A sudden gust of wind forced Agueda to run. She guided herself to the chimney, and was held against it. Her garments fluttered round its corners, striking Beltran in the face with sharp slaps and cracks. She could not intrude upon that shelter. Her place was now upon the hither side. Shethrew herself flat upon her face, as Palandrez had suggested, her head above the ridge pole, her feet extended down the slight incline, and clutched at a staple in the roof, placed securely there for just such a night as this.
There were no stars; there was no moon. Yet it must rise soon.
Suddenly the lantern was overturned and its light extinguished, making more ominous the sound of water rising, rising, rising! It lapped and played about the pilotijos. It must be half-way up the veranda posts by now. It eddied round the corners of the casa. It forced its way through the weak places. One could hear it tearing and ripping at unstable portions of the house, as it flowed through the interior. Grinding noises were heard, as great roots and trunks of trees were borne and swayed by the flood against the walls. They piled themselves up at the southern end, remaining thus for a short, unsteady moment, and then, overpowered by the rush and force of water, they parted company, some to hasten along on one side of the casa, and some on the other.
Suddenly Agueda was conscious of something creeping against her foot. It was cold! Good God! It was wet! The sole of her shoe was soaked; the river had reached even there. She heard the licking of those hungry lips which were ready to drink in the helpless souls stranded at their mercy. This was indeed a sudden rising! Then there was no hope. She wondered how long it would be before Beltran would learn the fact, and what he would do when the truth came to him. She drew herself up by the iron staple and curled her body half way round the chimney. Her ear touched the ruffles of Felisa's gown. She heard a tender voice speaking much as it had to her a year ago.
"Come closer," it said. "Do not fear. I am here."
"Beltran!" she called. "Beltran!"
"Who calls me?" came his voice from out the blackness. "You, Agueda?"
"Yes, it is I, Agueda. The river is rising very high. It has come up quickly. I felt it againstmy foot. Can you not try to catch some tree or branch?"
"Oh, God! Oh, God! Save me!" It was Felisa's voice. "Why did I ever come to this accursed island? Why, oh, why? How dared you tell me that I was safe! Safe with you? Oh, my God! Safe with you! Are you greater than God? If He cannot save me, can you?"
As Felisa shrieked these words, which were almost drowned by the sound of the swiftly rushing waters, she raised her small fist and struck at Beltran. The jewels on her fingers cut his lip.
His musical voice, patient and still tender, answered as if to a naughty child.
"Careful! you will throw yourself off! Agueda, why must you come here frightening my cousin? When the moon rises she will see the falseness of your story."
As if to convict him out of his own mouth, the moon suddenly shone through a rift in the black clouds which edged the horizon. It discovered to Agueda Felisa clasped to a resting-place that was her own by right. It showed her Beltran holding the little form in his arms, as once he had held her own. It showed her Beltran covering the blonde head with passionate kisses, as once he had covered her darker one.
Agueda clutched the chimney for support. Death was no worse than this.
Felisa opened her trembling lids and gazed abroad on the expanse of waters. Wail after wail issued from her white lips and mingled with the wind that blew wantonly the tendrils of her hair. She struck Beltran in the face again, she pushed him from her with the fury of a maniac.
Great trees and branches were pounding against the roof. The peons had climbed to the highest point, and now, as a trunk came tearing down toward them, with a pitying glance at those they left behind, and a chuckle at their own presence of mind, they caught at it, and were whirled away to death or to succour.
Don Noé, ever on the watch, with face thin and fierce, with nostrils extended and eyes wild and staring, peered round the chimney where he hung in prayerful terror. His resolution was made in one of those sudden moments of decision that come to the weakest. Watching his chance, he sprang and clutched at the giant as it came bobbing and wobbling by, and in company with Palandrez and Eduardo Juan, he floated away from his late companions.
Agueda, left alone upon her side of the roof, crouched, looking ever toward the south, searching for a cask, a boat, a tree, a plank, a piece ofhousehold furniture, anything by which she might hold and save her life and Beltran's. Not Felisa's; that she could not do, even though Beltran loved her.
Until now Agueda had thought that she longed for death; but the instinct of self-preservation is strong, and she could hardly comprehend her newly awakened desire to seize upon some sort of floating thing which might mean safety for herself. She stood gazing over the broad expanse of water. It had become a sea. The face of nature was changed. The position of the river bank was discernible only from the waving line of branches which testified where their trunks stood. There were one or two oases whose tops showed still above the surface of the stretching, reaching flood. Agueda thought that she could discern some one in a treetop near the hill rancho. She wondered if it could be Uncle Adan. She thought that she heard a shout. She tried to answer, but the weak sound of her voice was forced back into her throat. It would not carry against the force of the wind. No other land nearer than the heights of Palmacristi was to be seen. The horses and cattle must have perished. It had indeed become, as Uncle Adan had warned her, a greater flood than the country had ever known. To add to the unspeakable gloom of the scene, the clouds parted wider and allowed the moon to sparkle more fully upon the boiling waterbelow and the trees and branches as they rolled and hastened onward.
As Agueda stood and gazed up the stream, suddenly, from out the perspective of the moon-flecked tide, a little craft came sailing down—a tiny thing that seemed to have been set upon the waste of waters by some pitying hand. She watched it with eager eyes, as it floated onward. Her body swayed unconsciously with each change in its course or pointing of its bow to right, to left, as if she feared that it would escape her anxious hand. Fate drifted it exactly across the thatch at the south end of the roof. On it came, and was driven to her very feet. Here was succour! Here was help! She could save herself, unwatched, unknown, of those others behind the shelter there, and float away to the chance of rescue. Agueda stepped ankle-deep in the water, and stooping, held in frenzied clutch this gift of the gods.
"The little duck boat of Felipe," she exclaimed, as she drew it toward her. "The little duck boat of Felipe!"
Beltran had arisen as he heard the boat grate against the roof. He stepped cautiously out from behind the chimney, Felisa leaning upon him. Agueda raised her eyes to them. She shook as if with a chill. She was drawing the boat nearer, and battling with the flood to keep her treasure in hand.
"Agueda," called Beltran. "Take her with you. Her weight is slight."
Felisa raised her head from his shoulder, and cast a terrified look about her. Beltran looked at Agueda, and then down at Felisa.
"She will save you," he said.
"I will not go without you, Beltran," sobbed Felisa. "I dare not go without you. Oh! come with me! That girl of yours, that Agueda, I dare not go with her! She hates me! She will kill me!"
When Beltran had said, "She will save you," Agueda had begun to draw the skiff nearer to him. She moved with great care, that the flood might not wrench from her this treasure trove.
"It is true that I hate you," said Agueda, in a hard, cold voice, as she brought the boat to Felisa's feet, "but I will not kill you." She pushed the tiny craft nearer to Felisa. "Take your place," said she. "I will hold it steady."
"I will not go without you," again shrieked Felisa, turning to Beltran. "I dare not go without you. Oh, Agueda! dear Agueda! You do not care to live. What have you to live for? While I—"
"True," said Agueda. "Will the Señorita take her place?"
Felisa still held to Beltran's hand.
"I will not go alone," she said. "Come with me, dear love! Come with me; I cannot live without you."
"There is not room for all," said Beltran, glancing, as he spoke, at Agueda. "At least, Felisa, we can die together."
Ever changeable, and suddenly angered at this, Felisa again struck at Beltran, and tried with her small strength to thrust him aside, so that his footing was imperilled. Agueda turned pale as she saw his danger. Beltran laughed nervously, and seized with firmer grasp the staple buried in the mortar.
"And do you think that will compensate me?" screamed Felisa. "Do you think that I shall welcome death because I may die in your company? I tell you, I will not die. I love all the pleasant things of life—I love myself, my pretty self. I am meant for life and love and warmth, not cold and death. There is not a human being who could reconcile me to death. Oh, my God! and such a death!"
Felisa screamed hysterically. She sobbed and choked, and amid her shrieks were heard the disjointed words, "I—will—not—die!"
In her frenzy the fastening at her throat gave way, and Agueda caught sight of the diamond pendant at her neck. Agueda, with her eyes onBeltran, nodded her head toward the boat, as if to say, "Do as she asks." When she spoke, she said:
"I will hold it steady, as steady as I can."
Felisa cast another horrified look around her upon the moonlit, shoreless sea.
"Oh, God!" she sobbed, as holding frantically to Beltran's hand, she stepped into the boat. She drew him toward her, so that he could with difficulty resist the impelling of her hand. Beltran tried to release his fingers from the grasp of Felisa. He turned to Agueda, and motioned toward the one hope of succour.
She shook her head.
"I cannot hold it long," she said.
"Beltran! Beltran!" sobbed Felisa.
The boat pulled and jerked like a race horse. Even Felisa's slight weight made a marked difference in its buoyancy.
Agueda's position was made the more unstable by her skirt, which fluttered in the wind.
"I can hold it but a second more," she said. She was still stooping, holding the boat in as firm a grasp as her footing would allow.
Beltran stood irresolute, wavering.
"I cannot leave you here, Agueda, to die perhaps—for—her—for me."
"I died long weeks ago," she muttered, more toherself than to him, and motioned again with her head toward the boat.
The water was rushing past them. It was ankle-deep now. Agueda steadied herself more firmly against the chimney.
Felisa, shivering with fright, stretched out her arms appealingly to Beltran, her cheeks streaming with tears. Beltran glanced at Agueda, with a look that was half beseeching, half apologetic, as if to forestall the contempt which he knew that she must feel for him, and—stepped into the boat. His weight tore it from Agueda's grasp. It began to float away, but before it had passed a span from where Agueda stood alone, he turned and shouted, "Come! Agueda, come! Throw yourself in, I can save you!"
Ah! that was all that she cared to hear. It was the old voice. It sank into her heart and gave her peace. For in that flash of sudden and overwhelming remorse which is stronger than death, Beltran had seen that which he had not noticed before, the sad change in her girlish figure. Felisa clung to him, threatening to upset the skiff. He thrust her from him. "Come!" again he shouted, "Come!" He stretched out his arms to Agueda, but as the words left his lips he was whirled from her presence.
In that supreme moment Beltran caught themotion of her lips. "My love!" they seemed to say, and still holding to the staple with one hand, she raised the other toward him, in good-by perhaps—perhaps in blessing.
Agueda kept her gaze fixed upon the little speck, shrinking involuntarily when she saw some great trunk endanger its buoyancy.
The boat was drifting swiftly along in the waters now, and in that mad rush to the sea Beltran strained his eyes ever backward to catch the faint motion of that fluttering garment in its wave of farewell.
PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEYAND SONS COMPANY AT THELAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.