The hot summer day was over and the light beginning to fade when Evelyn came down the steps of a country house in northern Maine. Banner's Post stood at the foot of a hillside among the dark pines, and the murmur of running water echoed about its walls. It belonged to Mrs. Willans, Mrs. Cliffe's sister, for Willans, who had bought the house at his wife's command, seldom came there and did not count. Mrs. Willans wanted a peaceful retreat where she and her friends, when jaded by social activities, could rest and recuperate in the silence of the woods. She had many interests and what she called duties, but she had of late felt called upon, with her sister's full approval, to arrange a suitable marriage for her niece. Henry Cliffe was not really rich.
Evelyn was dressed in the latest summer fashion, and the thin, light clothes became her. The keen mountain breezes had given her a fine color, and she looked very fresh and young by contrast with the jaded business man at her side. Cliffe wore an old gray suit that Evelyn had never seen and shabby leggings. A creel hung round his shoulders, and he carried a fishing-rod. His face was lined and pale, but when they left the garden and entered the woods Evelyn was surprised to note that his thin figure harmonized with the scattered boulders and the ragged pines. To some extent, this might be accounted for by the neutral tint of his clothes, but he somehow looked at home in the wilderness. Though he had once or twice gone off with an old friend on a shooting trip, she had never thought of her father as a sport.
"It is curious that you make me feel you belong to the bush," she said.
"I used to go fishing when I was a boy," Cliffe replied with a deprecatory smile. "I've never had much time for it since; but there's nothing I'm fonder of."
Evelyn found something pathetic in his answer. He had very few opportunities for indulging in the pastimes he liked, and now he was going out to fish with a keen eagerness that showed how scarce such pleasures were. His enjoyment was essentially natural; her friends' enthusiasm for the amusements Mrs. Willans got up was artificial and forced. They had too much, and her father not enough.
"I hope the trout will rise well," she said. "We were surprised to hear that you were coming down."
"I found I could get away for the week-end. Have you been having a good time?"
"Yes, in a way. I have everything I ought to like; something amusing to do from morning to night, the kind of people I've been used to about me, and Aunt Margaret sees that nobody is dull."
She had had more than she mentioned, for Gore was staying at Banner's Post, and had devoted himself to her entertainment with a frank assiduity that had roused the envy of other guests. Evelyn admitted feeling flattered, for Gore had many advantages, and his marked preference had given her an importance she had not always enjoyed.
"And yet you're not quite satisfied?" Cliffe suggested with a shrewd glance.
"Perhaps I'm not, but I don't know. Is one ever satisfied?"
"One ought to be now and then when one is young. Make the most of the pleasures you can get, but aim at the best."
Evelyn mused for a few minutes. She could treat her father with confidence. He understood her, as her mother seldom did.
"What is the best?" she asked.
"To some extent, it depends on your temperament; but it goes deeper than that. There's success that palls and gratification that doesn't last. One soon gets old and the values of things change; you don't want to feel, when it's too late, that there's something big and real you might have had and missed."
"Have you felt this?"
"No," Cliffe answered quietly; "I get tired of the city now and then and long for old clothes, a boat, and a fishing-rod, but these are things it doesn't hurt a man to go without. I have a home to rest in and a wife and daughter to work for. An object of that kind helps you through life."
"My trouble is that I don't seem to have any object at all. I used to have a number, but I'm beginning now to doubt whether they were worth much. But I'm afraid you have made a sacrifice for our sakes."
Cliffe looked at her thoughtfully.
"My belief is that you always have to make somesacrifice for anything that's worth while." He laughed. "But right now fishing is more in my line than philosophy!"
He followed the little path that led to the stream, and Evelyn turned back slowly through the quiet woods. Her father's remarks had led her into familiar but distasteful thought. It was perhaps true that one must make some sacrifice to gain what was best worth having; but she had been taught to seize advantages and not to give things up. Now she could have wealth, a high position, and social influence, which were of value in her world, and in order to gain them she had only to overcome certain vague longings and the rebellious promptings of her heart. Gore wanted her, and she had been pleasantly thrilled to realize it; perhaps she had, to some extent, tried to attract him. It was foolish to hesitate when the prize was in her reach; but she did not feel elated as she went back to the house.
She lingered among the last of the trees. They lifted their black spires against the sky, the air was filled with their resinous scent, and faint, elfin music fell from their tops. Far above, the bald summit of Long Mountain shone a deep purple, though trails of mist that looked like lace were drawn about its shoulders. Then the pines rolled down, straggling at first, but growing thicker and taller until they merged into the dark forest that hid the giant's feet. The wild beauty of the scene and the calm of the evening reacted upon the girl; she felt it was a trivial life that she and her friends led.
Rousing herself with an effort, she left the woods and entered the well-kept garden. It had an exoticlook; the bright-colored borders that edged the lawn jarred upon the austere beauty of the wilderness. Banner's Post was tamely pretty, and Nature had meant the spot to be grand. Still, the nickeled sprinklers that flung glistening showers across the smooth grass, and the big gasolene mower, belonged to her world, in which Nature was kept in her place by civilized art.
She saw Gore at the bottom of the steps in the midst of a group which included two attractive girls, and she was conscious of some satisfaction when he left his companions and came toward her.
"Luck has been against me all day," he said when he came up. "It seemed impossible to find you except in the center of what was going on. Now we'll run away for a little while."
His manner suggested a right to her society, and he turned toward the woods without waiting for her consent, but Evelyn thought he would have acted more wisely had he chosen a quiet nook on the veranda. Reggie was a product of his luxurious age; he was in his right place in a comfortable chair or moving gracefully about a polished floor with smartly dressed people in the background. Though not wholly artificial, and having some force of character, he failed to harmonize with the note of primitive grandeur struck by the rugged pines.
It was different with Evelyn when they sat down on a boulder. Her dress was in the latest fashion, but she had the gift of revealing something of her real personality through her attire. Its blue-gray tint matched the soft coloring of the lichened rock, and the lines of her tall figure were marked by a classical severity of grace. Then, her eyes were grave and her face was calm. It was her misfortune that she had not yet realized herself, but had accepted without much question the manners of her caste and the character Mrs. Cliffe had, so to speak, superimposed upon her.
"It's good to be quiet for a change," Gore said. "When I'm with you I feel that I needn't talk unless I want to. That's a relief, because it's when I feel least that I talk the most. You're tranquilizing."
"I'm not sure you're complimentary. Nowadays a girl is expected to be bright if she can't be brilliant."
"That's not your real line. Brilliance is often shallow, a cold, reflected sparkle. One has to get beneath the surface to understand you."
"Perhaps it's true of everybody," Evelyn answered with a smile. "Still, we're not taught to cultivate virtues that can't be seen."
"You can't cultivate the best of them; they've got to be an inherent, natural part of you. But I'm getting off the track—I do now and then."
Evelyn guessed what he meant to say, but although it would mark a turning-point in her life, and she did not know her answer, she was very calm. While she had, for the most part, allowed her mother to direct her actions, she had inherited Cliffe's independence of thought and force of will. So far, she had not exerted them, but she meant to do so now.
Looking up, she saw Long Mountain's towering crest cut in lonely grandeur against the fading green and saffron of the sky. The mist upon its shoulders shone faintly white against blue shadows; the pines had grown taller and blacker, and the sound of running water alone broke the silence. The resinoussmells were keener, and there was a strange repose in the long ranks of stately trees. Nature had filled the stony wilds with stern beauty, and Evelyn instinctively felt the call of the strong, fruitful earth. One must be real and, in a sense, primitive, here.
"This," she said, indicating the shadowy landscape, "is very grand. We don't give much thought to it, but it has its influence."
"I guess it's all quite fine," Gore agreed absently. "It would make a great summer-resort if they ran in a branch-railroad. In fact, I've imagined that Willans had something of the kind in view; he has a genius for developing real estate."
"An unthinkable desecration!" Evelyn exclaimed.
"Well," he said in a quiet voice, "if it would please you, I'd buy Banner's Post and all the land back to the lake, and nobody but my game-wardens should disturb it except when you let me come up here with you. Then you could teach me to appreciate the things you like."
The girl was touched, for he belonged to the cities, and had nothing in common with the rocky wilds, but she knew that he would keep his word and indulge her generously. Nor was she offended by the touch of commercial spirit, though she would rather he had offered something that would cost him effort of body or mind.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't find me worth the sacrifice you would have to make," she said. "Your tastes don't lie that way."
He made a gesture of dissent.
"None of them are very strong, and I know that you go farther in everything than I can. You'reelusive, but I've felt, for a long time, that if I could reach and win you, you'd help me along. That's my strongest argument and what I really meant to say. Surely, you have seen that I wanted you."
Evelyn felt guilty, because she had seen this and had not repulsed him. She did not love the man, but love was not thought essential in her circle and she had never been stirred by passion.
"I felt that I couldn't get hold of you," he went on; "you were not ready. We were friends and that was something, but I was looking for a change in you, some hint of warmth and gentleness."
"And do you think I am ready now?"
"No; I only hoped so. I feared I might be wrong. But I began to find holding myself back was getting too hard, and I was afraid somebody else might come along who had the power to rouse you. I believe you can be roused."
"I wonder!" she said in a curious tone.
"You make people love you," he broke out. "That's a proof that when the time comes you're capable of loving. But I only ask to be near you and surround you with what you like best. There's a rare aloofness in you, but you're flesh and blood. When you have learned how I love you, you can't hold out."
Evelyn was silent, hesitating, with a troubled face. She liked him; he was such a man as her mother meant her to marry and, until the last few weeks, she had acquiesced in her obvious fate. Now, however, something prompted her to rebel, although prudence and ambition urged her to yield.
As he watched her in keen suspense, Gore suddenly lost his head. The next moment his arm was roundher and he drew her forward until she was pressed against him with her face crushed against his. At first she did not struggle, and he thought she was about to yield, until he felt her tremble and her face was suddenly turned away. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and firmly held him back while she slipped from his relaxing grasp. Gore knew that he had blundered. Letting his arms drop, he waited until she turned to him, without anger, although her eyes were very bright and her color was high.
"I'm sorry, Reggie, but it's impossible for me to marry you."
"You are sure?" he asked rather grimly. "This is important to me, you know."
"Yes," she said with signs of strain; "I am sure. I think I wish it had been possible, but it isn't. You have convinced me."
He was silent for a moment.
"It cuts pretty deep," he said slowly. "I've been afraid all along that even if you took me you'd never be really within my reach. I guess I've got to bear it and let you go."
He rose and stood looking at her irresolutely, and then, with a gesture of acquiescence, abruptly turned away.
When he had gone, Evelyn sat still in the gathering dusk. She had, at first, submitted to his embrace, because she wished to find in any emotion he was capable of arousing an excuse for marrying him. But she had felt nothing except repulsion. Then in a flash the truth was plain; any closer relationship than that of friend would make her loathe the man she in some ways admired. This was disturbing, but little by littleshe began to realize that his touch had a strange after-effect. It had stirred her to warmth, but not toward him. Longings she had not thought herself capable of awoke within her; she was conscious of a craving for love and of a curious tenderness. Only, Reggie was not the man. He had roused her, but she did not know whether she ought to be grateful for that. She blushed as she struggled with her rebellious feelings, and then resolutely pulled herself together. Her mother must be told.
Mrs. Cliffe was resting before dinner when Evelyn entered her room and sat down without speaking.
"What is the matter?" Mrs. Cliffe asked with a premonition that something had gone wrong. "Why do you come in, in this dramatic way?"
"I didn't mean to be dramatic," Evelyn answered quietly. "Still, perhaps I was rather highly strung. Reggie asked me to marry him, and I told him I could not."
Mrs. Cliffe sat up suddenly, and there was an angry sparkle in her eyes.
"Then I think you must be mad! What led you to this absurd conclusion?"
"It's hard to explain," Evelyn answered with a faint smile. "I suppose I couldn't give you any very logical reasons."
"Then it may not be too late to put things right!" Mrs. Cliffe saw a ray of hope.
"I'm afraid it is. I think Reggie knows that—he was very considerate. There is no use in your trying to do anything; I must have my own way in this."
Mrs. Cliffe was painfully surprised. The girl had suddenly developed and revealed unsuspected capacities. She had grown like her father, who, for all his patience, was sometimes immovable. There was inflexibility in Evelyn's attitude; her face was hard and determined.
"Very well," she acquiesced. "Your father must be told, and I don't know what he will do about it."
"I would rather tell him myself," Evelyn said.
This was not what Mrs. Cliffe wanted, but the girl moved to the door as she finished speaking, and her mother sat down, burning with indignation. Her authority had been outraged, she felt overcome, and did not leave her room all evening.
Evelyn found Cliffe on the veranda, and took him down the steps before she told him what she had done. He listened without surprise; indeed, she thought his manner was rather curiously sympathetic.
"Well," he said, "in a way I'm sorry. Reggie's a good fellow as far as he goes. But I imagined you liked him. Why did you refuse?"
"It isn't very plain," Evelyn answered. "I felt I had to. Perhaps Long Mountain had something to do with it."
Cliffe smiled, but not with amusement, and Evelyn saw that he understood. Somehow she had expected him to do so and she was touched when he gently pressed her arm.
"After all, you're the person most interested, and you must please yourself—though your mother will be badly disappointed," he said. "It's possible we're wiser in the woods than in the city. One sees the things that matter more clearly away from the turmoil."
Gore left Banner's Post abruptly, to Evelyn's relief, and on the morning after his departure she and Cliffe stood on the steps before the other guests had come down to breakfast. It had rained all night, the mist hung low about Long Mountain's side, and a fresh wind woke waves of sound from the rustling pines. A creel hung round Cliffe's shoulders, and he contemplated the dripping woods with a smile of half-apologetic satisfaction.
"The fishing should be great to-day!" he exclaimed. "But I feel that I'm playing truant. I ought to be back at the office. Guess the trout I catch will cost me high; but the temptation is pretty strong when I see the water rise."
"I'm glad you have been rash for once," Evelyn replied. "Besides, you have an office full of people who can look after things for you."
Cliffe shook his head.
"That's the excuse I tried to make, but it won't quite work. If you want to be a successful operator, you have to sit tight with your finger on the pulse of the market. A beat or two more or less makes a big difference. Finance soon gets feverish."
"And you are one of the doctors who send its temperature up or down."
"No; that's a wrong idea. Once on a time the big men did something of the kind, but now the dollar's a world-force that's grown too strong for them. We gave it a power we can't control; it drives us into combines and mergers we didn't plan. It's a blind force that rolls along undirected, over our bodies if we get in its way. All we can do is to try to guess its drift. The successful man is the one who does so first."
"I wonder whether you're to be pitied or envied. The work must be absorbing, and it's simple, in a way."
"Simple!" Cliffe exclaimed.
"Well, you have an object; your aims are definite and you know, more or less, how to carry them out. We others, who have no purpose in life, spend our time in amusements that leave us dissatisfied. When we stop to think, we feel that we might do something better, but we don't know what it is. The outlook is blank."
Cliffe gave her a sharp glance. Evelyn had changed in the last few months, and she had been strangely quiet since her refusal of Gore. Seeing his interest, she laughed.
"I'm not asking for sympathy; and I mustn't keep you from the trout. Go and catch as many as you can. It must be nice to feel that you have only to pick up a fishing-rod and be young again."
She walked to the gate with him, but Cliffe stopped when they reached it, for a big automobile was lurching down the uneven road. The mud splashed about the car indicated distance traveled at furious speed, but it slowed at the bend near the gate, and Cliffe sighed as he recognized Robinson.
"I guess this stops my fishing," he said in a resigned tone. Dropping his rod and creel, he jumped on to the footboard as the driver cautiously took the gate, and Evelyn smiled as the car rolled up the drive. She was sorry that her father had lost his favorite sport, but his prompt surrender of it was characteristic. He was first of all a man of business.
"Wired for an auto' to meet me when I left the train," Robinson told him. "It was raining pretty hard, and they don't do much grading on these mountain roads, but I made the fellow rush her along as fast as he could." He took some letters from his wallet. "Read these and think them over while I get breakfast."
Half an hour afterward they sat in a corner of the veranda, where Mrs. Willans' guests left them alone. These quiet, intent men of affairs obviously did not belong to their world.
"Well?" Robinson said.
"One of two things has got to be done; there's no middle course."
Robinson nodded.
"That's true. Middle courses generally lead to nothing."
"Very well. We can cut out our deal with President Altiera, lose the money we have spent, and let the concessions go; or we can pay up again, hang on, and put the matter through."
"What's your opinion? The fellow asks for more."
"Do you mean to be guided by me?"
"Yes," Robinson said. "Take which you think is the right line; I'll stand in."
"It's pretty hard to see. We'll make good if we getthe concessions; but the President's up against a bigger thing than he thought. It's going to cost him and us some money to head off the revolutionists, but if we don't drop out right now, we've got to brace up and put it over. Well, as I'm fixed, it's a big risk. My money's making good interest, and if I go on, I've got to sell out stock I meant to hold. A set-back would be a serious thing for me. I want a few minutes to think it over."
Robinson had confidence in Cliffe's integrity and judgment.
"An hour, if you like," he said; "then we'll have to pull out, whatever you decide."
For a long while Cliffe sat silent with knitted brows. His wife made claims upon his means that he sometimes found it hard to satisfy; and it was his ambition that his daughter should be rich. After carefully pondering the letters, he saw that he might be involved in a conflict with forces whose strength he could not estimate, and defeat would cost him the fruit of several years' labor. Yet the prize to be won was tempting, and he could take a risk. Besides, they already had put a good deal of money into it.
"Well," he said at last, "I've made up my mind."
"To hold on, I guess," Robinson suggested with a smile.
"That's so," Cliffe answered in a quiet voice. "What's more, I'm going out to look into things myself. We can talk it over on the way to town. I'll be ready as soon as I've told my wife."
Robinson took out his watch.
"Give you half an hour if we're to catch the train," he said.
Cliffe met Evelyn in the broad hall, and told her that he would have to go south at once.
"Take me with you, won't you?" she begged. "I want to get away from Banner's Post."
Cliffe hesitated a moment.
"Why, yes," he then said; "I see no reason why you shouldn't go—particularly as your mother means to stay with Margaret Willans."
When, a half hour later, the car started from the bottom of the steps and Mrs. Cliffe turned away with a wave of her hand, Evelyn stood in the drive, asking herself bluntly why she wished to accompany her father. A longing for change had something to do with it; she was getting tired of an aimless and, in a sense, uneventful life, for it was true that occupations that had once been full of pleasurable excitement had begun to pall. But this was not her only object. Grahame was somewhere on the coast she meant to visit, and she might meet him. Evelyn admitted with a blush that she would like to do so.
The next morning a telegram arrived from Cliffe, directing her to join him in town, and ten days later she stood, at evening, on a balcony of the Hotel International, in Havana. It was getting dark, but a few lamps were lighted in thepatio, and the moonlight touched one white wall. The air was hot and heavy, and filled with exotic smells, and the sound of alien voices gave Evelyn the sense of change and contrast she had sought. Yet she knew that, so far, the trip had been a failure. It had not banished her restlessness; Havana was as stale as New York. She remembered with regret how different it had been on her first visit.Grahame and his companion had been with her then, and she knew that she missed them.
She turned as a man came out on the balcony that ran along the end of the house. He did not look like a Cuban, and she started when the moonlight fell upon him, for she saw that it was Grahame. He was making for the stairs at the corner where the two balconies joined and did not notice her. Evelyn realized that, as she wore a white dress, her figure would be indistinct against the wall, and, if she did not move in the next few moments, he would go down the stairs and disappear among the people in thepatio. If he had meant to enter the hotel, he would not have come that way.
She felt that if she let him go they might not meet again. After all, this might be wiser. Yet her heart beat fast, and she thrilled with a strange excitement as she stood irresolute, knowing that the choice she had to make would be momentous.
Grahame reached the top of the stairs without turning, and was going down when she leaned over the balustrade. She did not consciously decide upon the action; it was as if something had driven her into making it.
"Mr. Grahame!" she called softly.
He looked up with the moonlight on his face and she saw the gleam she had expected in his eyes. Then he came swiftly toward her, and her indecision vanished when she gave him her hand.
"This is a remarkably pleasant surprise, but I didn't see you until you spoke," he said. "Have you just come out of one of the rooms?"
"No; I've been here some time. I saw you as soon as you appeared on the balcony."
Grahame gave her a quick look, and she knew he was wondering why she had waited until the last moment. He was shrewd enough to see that the delay had some significance, but this did not matter.
"Well," he said, "I'm glad you didn't let me pass, because I was going out into the street, and it's doubtful if I'd have come back."
"Yes," said Evelyn; "I seemed to know that."
He was silent for a moment, but his expression was intent and a faint glow of color showed in his brown face. Evelyn let him make what he liked of her admission. She had not been influenced by coquetry, but by a feeling that it was a time for candor.
"I was thinking about an interview I'd just finished—that is why I didn't look round," he explained. "I came from Matanzas this afternoon."
"Then theEnchantressisn't here?"
"No; she's at Matanzas, but I can't get back to-night. Will you be here long?"
"A day or two, waiting for a boat. I wonder whether you would stay and dine with us this evening?" Then a thought struck Evelyn, and she added: "That is, if it isn't undesirable for you to be seen here."
She had not expected him to hesitate and was prepared for his reckless twinkle.
"Of course I'll stay! But did you mean—if it was not unsafe?"
"I suppose I did," she admitted with a smile. "You know I helped you in a mysterious plot the last timeI was here. Now it would be selfish of me to ask you to wait if you think you'd better not."
"There's no risk worth counting, and I'd take it if there was. When you have a temperament like mine it's hard to deny yourself a pleasure."
"I shouldn't have thought you self-indulgent," Evelyn smiled.
"Well," he said, "one's fortitude has its limits. I suppose it depends upon the strength of the temptation."
He had answered in a light vein, and Evelyn followed his lead.
"It's a relief to know you mean to stay. My father will be pleased to see you; but he may not have finished his business when dinner is ready, and I rather shrink from going down alone."
They talked about matters of no importance for a time, and then went through thepatioto the dining-room. It was not full, and Evelyn imagined that Grahame was glad there were several unoccupied chairs between them and the rest of the company. She noticed, moreover, that when people came in he glanced up quietly, as if he did not want her to notice his action, and she had a guilty feeling that she had made him take a risk that was greater than he would own. Yet she was glad that he had taken it.
"Where are you going when you leave Havana?" he asked presently.
"To Valverde, and afterward perhaps to Rio Frio."
Grahame looked thoughtful, and Evelyn quietly studied him. Her training had made her quick at guessing what lay behind the reserve of people whowere not quite frank with her, and she saw that he was disturbed.
"Why should I not go there?" she asked.
"I don't know any good reason if your father's willing to take you, but the country's in a rather unsettled state just now." Grahame paused for a moment and added earnestly: "Don't trust Gomez."
"Do you think we shall meet him?"
"Yes," he said with a dry smile; "I think it very likely."
"Then you must know something about my father's business, and what is going on in the country."
"I believe I know more about the country than your father does. In fact, I'd like to warn him against Gomez, only that I imagine he's a good judge of character and already knows his man."
Grahame wrote an address on a leaf of a small notebook and, tearing it out, put it on her plate.
"I'm going to ask a favor. If you should meet with any difficulty at Rio Frio, will you send me a message through the man whose name I've written down? I might, perhaps, be of some use."
"Do you expect us to get into any difficulty?"
"No; but one can't tell—trouble might arise."
"And, if it did, you could help us?"
"Well," he said gravely, "I'd do my best."
Evelyn's eyes sparkled.
"I know you could be trusted! But all this mystery gives the trip an extra interest. Then, you have made it obvious that theEnchantresswill be on the coast."
"May I hope that this adds to your satisfaction?" Grahame said, smiling.
"Now you're frivolous, and I was pleasantly excited! However, I'll promise that if anything very alarming seems to threaten us I'll send you word."
Grahame looked up. An elderly Cuban gentleman, three or four places off, had once or twice glanced at them carelessly and then resumed his conversation with a lady beside him, but Grahame noticed that he stopped when Evelyn spoke.
"Am I to tell my father what I have promised?" she asked.
"You must use your own judgment about that."
Evelyn understood him. He would not ask her to keep a secret from her father, and she liked his delicacy; but he looked thoughtful. She did not know that the Cuban gentleman engaged his attention.
"Well," she said, "I'll tell him if it seems necessary; that is, if there's any reason for sending you word. Otherwise, of course, there would be no need to mention it."
"No," he agreed with a smile that seemed to draw them closer because it hinted at mutual understanding.
"One doesn't feel forced to explain things to you," Evelyn said impulsively.
"That's an advantage. Explanations are a nuisance, and sometimes dangerous when they're important. I find them easiest when they don't matter."
Cliffe came in and greeted Grahame cordially; and Grahame, glancing down the table without turning his head, saw the Cuban studying them. Something in the man's manner suggested that Cliffe's friendliness had surprised him. He made a few hasty pencil marks on the back of an old letter and then, looking up suddenly, caught Grahame watching him curiously. The Cuban pushed back his chair and left the room, although Grahame suspected that his dinner was not more than half finished.
Evelyn, surprising the alert look on Grahame's face, was now more disturbed than ever on his account. Evidently there was danger for him here.
Her fears would have been increased had she known the few words the spy wrote on his envelope.
On a hot evening not long after he left Havana, Cliffe sat in a room of the old Spanishpresidioat Valverde. The building was in harmony with the decayed town, for it had been begun in more prosperous times, and its lower courses were solidly laid with stone. Molded doors and windows spoke of vanished art, and the gallery round the centralpatiowas raised on finely carved pillars, but Valverde had fallen on evil days and thepresidiohad been finished with adobe mud. It had served at different times as the seat of the government, the barracks, and the jail, and now, when part had fallen down, the rest had been rudely repaired, and Gomez was quartered there when he visited the port.
Outside, the ruinous building still retained a certain dignity, but this was not so within, where degenerate taste was shown in the tawdry decoration, and Gomez's sitting-room frankly offended Cliffe with its suggestion of effeminate luxury. Gaudy silk hangings hid the old adobe walls, a silver lamp with a smoked chimney hung from the ceiling by tarnished chains, and highly colored rugs were spread upon the dirty floor. There were inartistic but heavily gilded Frenchclocks and mirrors; and over all a sickening scent of perfume.
Cliffe found it more pleasant to look out through the open window at the town, which lay beneath him, bathed in moonlight. The close-massed, square-fronted houses glimmered white and pink and yellow, with narrow gaps between them where a few lights burned; a break, from which dusky foliage rose, marked thealameda. In front ran a curving beach where wet sand glistened below a bank of shingle and a fringe of surf broke with a drowsy roar. Though it was not late, there was no stir in the streets; an air of languorous depression brooded over the town. Gomez seemed to feel that it needed an explanation.
"Our trade," he said, "is prosperous, but we do not encourage the people to gather in the plaza, and the cafés are watched. They are the storm centers: it is there the busybodies talk. The man who stays at home and minds his business is seldom a danger to the State. He dislikes change, and has no time to waste on idealistic theories."
"I guess that's true, up to a point," Cliffe agreed. "The industrious citizen will stand for a good deal, but he's a man to reckon with when things get too bad. He doesn't talk, like the others; he's been trained to act, and there are developments when he makes up his mind about what he wants. However, this is not what we're here to discuss."
"No; but the state of the country has something to do with the matter. We admit that there have been manifestations of discontent, and disturbances caused by mischievous persons who love disorder, and wemust enforce quietness and respect for authority. This, you will understand, costs some money."
"I've subscribed a good deal," Cliffe reminded him. "I'm anxious to learn when I'm going to get it back."
"The wish is natural. May I point out that in generously offering help you threw in your lot with the Government and made our interests yours?"
"I see that pretty clearly," Cliffe replied with a touch of grimness, for he recognized the skill with which he had been led on until he could not draw back without a heavy loss. "Anyway, as you seem to have weathered the storm, I want my reward. In short, I've come to find out when your President means to sign the concessions."
"It will be as soon as possible; there is a small difficulty. We have an elective legislature; an encumbrance, señor, which hampers the administration, but in times of discontent it has some influence. Our people are jealous of foreigners, and there are interested persons ready to work upon their feelings. This is why the President hesitates about granting fresh concessions until he has found a way of silencing his enemies among the representatives. You perceive that I am frank with you."
"It's what I like; but you haven't told me yet what I want to know. Now, unless I can find out exactly when I may expect the papers signed, I'll feel compelled to shut off supplies. I'd rather cut my loss than go on enlarging it."
Gomez looked pained.
"I must remind you, with some diffidence, that others have offered their help," he said.
"They offered it; they haven't paid up. I expect you'll find they'll insist on knowing when you mean to deliver the goods. That's my position; I stand firm on it."
"Very well. Before answering, I must inform the President."
"You needn't. I'm going to take this matter to headquarters."
"Unfortunately, the President has gone to Villa Paz for a short rest. I fear he would not like to be disturbed."
"He will see me; he has to," Cliffe declared.
"After all, it is possible, but I see a difficulty. There is no inn at Villa Paz where the señorita could find accommodation and the President is, like myself, a bachelor. He could receive you, but not the señorita. Our conventions are antiquated, but they must be considered. It is this which prevents me from offering my hospitality."
Cliffe pondered for a few moments. The conventions Gomez mentioned were justified, because women are not treated in his country as they are in the United States, and Cliffe could not leave Evelyn alone in the Valverde Hotel. For all that, he must see the President, and he imagined that although Gomez had made some difficulties the fellow was willing that he should go. Gomez was a clever rogue, but Cliffe thought he could be trusted so long as their interests did not clash.
He looked up sharply, for there was a sudden stir in the town. Cliffe was conscious of no definite sound, but he felt that the quietness had been broken and he saw that Gomez was listening. The man's fleshy face was intent; the stamp of indulgence had gone andgiven place to a look of fierce cruelty. He had become alert and resolute; this struck Cliffe as significant, as there was, so far, nothing to cause alarm.
In a few moments a murmur broke out, and swelled while Gomez walked to the open window. The streets were suddenly filled with the patter of hurrying feet, and the confused outcry became a menacing roar. Cliffe jumped up. He had heard something like it when a mob of desperate strikers drove the police through an American manufacturing town; and now his daughter was alone at the hotel.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A tumult," Gomez answered. "I do not think it will be serious. We have placed a guard about the hotel, so the señorita is safe. But you will excuse me for a few minutes."
He went into an adjoining room, and Cliffe, standing by the window, heard a telephone call. After this, all sounds inside the house were drowned by the growing uproar outside. Cliffe could see nothing of the riot, but he thought he could locate it in one of the dark gaps that pierced a block of houses some distance off. The clamor gained in effect from the mystery that surrounded its cause.
Two pistol shots rang out and there was a wild shouting, but the note of fury had changed to alarm. Cliffe thought he could hear men running, and he pictured the mob pouring down the narrow street in flight, for the cries grew less frequent and receded. At last they died away, and a group of men moving in regular order came out of the mouth of a street. They seemed to have a prisoner in their midst, and four peons plodded behind, carrying something on ashutter. Then they all vanished into the gloom, and when their measured steps were getting faint Gomez returned with an unpleasant smile.
"It is nothing," he said. "We had planned the arrest of a troublesome person called Castillo, who is a favorite with the mob. There was some excitement, and a few stones were thrown, but only one attempt at a rescue, the leader of which was shot by the rural guards. As he was a man we suspected of sedition, this has saved us some trouble."
Cliffe looked at him, as one who might study a new species of animal or some rare and ugly plant.
Gomez spread out his hands.
"It is worth noting that the affair proves our strength," he said gloatingly. "We have seized a popular leader of the discontented, and there was no determined resistance. One may consider it an encouraging sign."
Cliffe nodded agreement, and Gomez changed the subject.
"I have been thinking," he said. "If you are resolved to see the President, Señora Herrero, wife of thealcalde, whom you have met, would take care of the señorita while you are away. They are people of some importance, and she would be safe with them."
This struck Cliffe as a good suggestion, and when Gomez accompanied him to thealcalde'shouse the matter was arranged with Evelyn's consent. The next morning Cliffe set off with a relay of mules and three or four days later was received by the President at a little town among the hills. Nothing was said about business until he had rested and dined, and then he sat with his host on a veranda half hidden by bougainvillea, looking down on the dim littoral that ran back to the sea.
President Altiera differed from his secretary. He looked more of an autocratic soldier than a diplomatist. There was a hint of brutality about him, and Cliffe thought he would rather use force than guile. The man had a coarse, strong face, and his eyes were stern, but he was rather reserved than truculent.
"Señor," he said, "since I understand you were determined to see me, it is an honor to welcome you, and my house and self are at your command. I imagine, however, that neither of us often wastes much time on compliments."
"My excuse is that I find one does best by going to headquarters when any difficulties arise. It seemed possible that your secretary might smooth down my remarks before transmitting them."
"And you do not wish them smoothed down," Altiera dryly suggested.
"I think it best that we should understand each other."
"That is so. What do you wish to understand?"
"When I may expect the sealed grant of the concessions."
"In two months, provided that my enemies do not kill me first, which I think is hardly probable."
"One hopes not, but there is another risk; not large, perhaps, but to be reckoned with."
Altiera laughed.
"That the people may choose another President? No, señor. I rule this country. When I cease to do so it will be because I am dead. Let us be candid. Your concessions depend upon the luck that may attend some assassin's attempt, and I take precautions."
Cliffe thought this was true. Altiera carried a pistol, and could use it remarkably well, and two armed guards were posted outside the veranda.
"There is a condition," Altiera said. "The concessions will be yours in two months, but payment of the money my secretary asked for must be made in a fortnight, or, if this is impossible, as soon as you get home."
"It would suit me better to take the concessions in a fortnight and pay in two months," Cliffe retorted coolly.
"I am not a trader, señor; I do not dispute and haggle over a bargain."
"Neither do I," said Cliffe. "Still, it's necessary for a trader to state his terms."
There was silence for a few moments, and Cliffe, studying his antagonist's face, thought his statement justified. The man might use brutal means to gain his end, but he would not contend about a small advantage.
"Very well," the President conceded. "Though it will cause me some embarrassment, I make another offer. You shall have the grant in a month."
"A month is too long to wait."
Altiera rose and stood with his brown hand clenched upon the back of his chair and his brows knitted. It seemed to cost him an effort to maintain his self-control, and Cliffe saw that he had pressed him hard. For all that, he did not mean to yield. He had gone farther than was prudent, and knew when to stop.
"You understand what you risk by your exactions?" Altiera asked menacingly.
"Señor Gomez made that plain. I have no security for the money already paid, except your honor."
Altiera bowed.
"Though the situation is difficult and you make it worse, I believe your confidence is not misplaced. Well, since one or two of my ministers must be consulted, I cannot give you an answer for a week; but the country is healthful in this neighborhood, and you may be interested in studying its resources. My house is at your disposal, and your comfort will be provided for while I see what can be done."
It took Cliffe a minute or two to make up his mind. He would rather have gone back to Valverde at once; but he felt that he must finish his business before returning. Although he had some misgivings, he agreed to stay.
In reaching his decision he thought Evelyn safe with thealcalde; but he had not reckoned on the cunning of Secretary Gomez.
Evelyn found the time pass heavily at Valverde. The town was hot and uninteresting, although she did not see much of it, for it was only when the glaring sunshine had faded off the narrow streets that she was allowed a leisurely stroll in company with thealcalde'swife. Señora Herrero, who was stout and placid, and always dressed in black, spoke no English, and only a few words of French. After an hour's superintendence of her half-breed servants' work, she spent most of the day in sleep. Yet she was careful of her guest's comfort, and in this respect Evelyn had no cause for complaint.
It was the monotony the girl found trying. After the ten o'clock breakfast there was nothing to be done until dinner was served at four. The adobe house was very quiet and was darkened by lattices pulled across the narrow windows; and there was no stir in the town between noon and early evening. Evelyn patiently tried to grasp the plot of a Spanish novel, and when she got tired of this sat in the coolest spot she could find, listening to the drowsy rumble of the surf. Hitherto her time had been occupied by strenuous amusements, and the lethargic inaction jarred.
It was better when the shadows lengthened, becausethere were then voices and footsteps in the streets. One could watch the languid traffic; but when night came Valverde, instead of wakening to a few hours' joyous life, was silent again. Sometimes a group of people went by laughing, and now and then a few gathered round a singer with a guitar, but there was no noisy talk in the cafés and no band played in thealameda. An ominous quietness brooded over the town.
All this reacted on Evelyn's nerves, and one hot afternoon she felt ready to welcome any change as she sat in a shaded room. Her hands were wet with perspiration, the flies that buzzed about her face exasperated her, and she found the musky smell that filled the house intolerable. Señora Herrero lay in a big cane chair, looking strangely bulky and shapeless in her tight black dress, with her eyes half closed and no sign of intelligence in her heavily powdered face. Evelyn longed to wake her and make her talk.
Then there were steps outside and Gomez came in. He bowed, and Señora Herrero grew suddenly alert. Indeed, it struck Evelyn that her hostess felt disturbed, but she paid no attention to this. She was glad of a break in the monotony, and it was not until afterward her mind dwelt upon what took place.
"Señor Cliffe's business with the President will keep him longer than he thought. He may be detained for a fortnight," Gomez said.
Evelyn had no reason for being on her guard, and her disappointment was obvious.
"I was looking forward to his return in a day or two," she answered.
"The señor Cliffe is to be envied for having a dutiful daughter," Gomez smiled. "Still, I need not offer my sympathy, because it is his wish that you should go to him."
"When?" Evelyn asked eagerly.
"As soon as you are ready. I have ordered the mules, and you can bring what you think needful. We could start after dinner, and I offer myself as escort for part of the way."
"But this is impossible!" Señora Herrero exclaimed in horrified protest.
Gomez spread out his hands deprecatingly.
"With apologies, señora, I think not. My plan is that you should go with your guest until I can place her in some other lady's hands."
"But it is years since I have ridden a mule, and exercise makes me ill! Besides, I cannot leave my husband and my household."
Evelyn remembered afterward that her hostess's indignant expression suddenly changed, as if Gomez had given her a warning look; but he answered good-humoredly:
"I have seen Don José. He feels desolated at the thought of losing you for two or three days, but he agrees that we must do all we can to suit the wishes of our American friends. Besides, you can travel to Galdo, where we stay the night, in a coach. I will see that one is sent, but it may take an hour or two to find mules."
"They must be good," said the señora. "I am heavy, and the road is bad."
"We will pick the best; but until you overtake us the señorita Cliffe will, no doubt, be satisfied with my escort. We should reach Galdo soon after dark. Theseñora Romanez will receive us there, and we start early the next morning on our journey to the hills."
Gomez turned to Evelyn.
"This meets with your approval?" he asked suavely.
"Oh, yes," she agreed; though she afterward realized that there was no obvious reason why she should not have waited for the coach, and that it was curious her hostess did not suggest this.
Gomez returned after dinner before Evelyn was quite ready, and she was somewhat surprised that he made no remark about the luggage she wished to take. It was skilfully lashed on the broad pack-saddles, and they set off when she mounted a handsome mule. There were two baggage animals, driven by dark-skinned peons, and two mounted men brought up the rear. Gomez said this explained the delay in getting mules for the coach, but added that the girl would find the journey pleasanter in the saddle.
Evelyn agreed with him as they rode down the roughly paved street. It was a relief to be moving, and the air had got pleasantly cool. Half-breed women with black shawls round their heads looked up at her from beside their tiny charcoal cooking fires, and she saw dark eyes flash with hostility as her escort passed. Here and there a woman of pure Spanish blood stood on a balcony and glanced down with shocked prudery at the bold American, but Evelyn smiled at this. She distrusted Gomez, who obviously was not a favorite with the poorer citizens, but as a traveling companion she did not find much fault with him.
After a while they left the houses behind and turned into a dusty, rutted track. The murmur of the seafollowed them until they reached a belt of forest where the sound was cut off, and Evelyn felt as if she had lost a friend. The measured beat of the surf and the gleam of spray were familiar things; the forest was mysterious, and oppressively silent. In places a red glow shone among the massive trunks, but, for the most part, they were hung with creepers and all below was wrapped in shade. The track grew soft and wet; the air was steamy and filled with exotic smells. Evelyn felt her skin get damp, and the mules fell into a labored pace.
Strange noises began to fill the gathering gloom; the air throbbed with a humming that rose and fell. Deep undertones and shrill pipings that it was hard to believe were made by frogs and insects pierced the stagnant air. Specks of phosphorescent light twinkled among the leaves, but the fireflies were familiar and Evelyn welcomed them. She felt suddenly homesick, and wished they were not leaving the coast; but she remembered that her father had sent for her, and brushed her uneasiness away.
After a time, Gomez stopped.
"We have not gone fast, and the señora ought to overtake us soon," he said. "Will you get down and wait for her?"
The forest, with the thin mist drifting through it, had a forbidding look, and, for the first time that she could recollect, Evelyn felt afraid of the dark.
"Let us go on," she said.
Gomez hesitated a moment and then acquiesced.
The road got steep and the mist thicker. Drooping creepers brushed them as they passed, and now and then Evelyn was struck by a projecting branch.Her mule, however, needed no guidance, and she sank into a dreamy lethargy. There was something enervating and soporific in the steamy atmosphere.
At last the gloom began to lighten and they came out into the luminous clearness of the tropic night. In front lay a few flat blocks of houses, surrounded by fields of cane, and here and there a patch of broad-leafed bananas. Passing through the silent village they reached a long building which Gomez said was the Romanezhacienda.
Lights gleamed in the windows, but they knocked twice before a strong, arched door was unfastened, and they rode through into thepatio. It was obvious that they were expected. A gentleman dressed in white, his stout wife in black, and a girl who wore a thin, yellow dress, came down to welcome them. They were hospitable, but Evelyn, speaking only a few words of Castilian, and feeling very tired, was glad when her hostess showed her to her room.
She soon went to sleep, and, wakening early, felt invigorated by the cool air that flowed in through the open window and the sight of the blue hills that rose, clean-cut, against the morning sky. Then she had a drowsy recollection of something being wrong, and presently remembered that the señora Herrero had not arrived. This, however, was not important, because Gomez could no doubt arrange for her hostess to accompany them on the next stage of their journey.
Evelyn found Gomez apologetic when they met at breakfast. He was much vexed with thealcalde'swife, but the señorita Romanez and her duenna would take her place, and he expected to put Evelyn in her father's care in two more days. This, he added, wouldafford him a satisfaction that would be tempered by regret.
They started after breakfast, but Evelyn did not feel drawn to her new companion. Luisa Romanez was handsome in a voluptuous style, with dark hair, a powdered face, and languishing black eyes, but so far as she could make her meaning clear, she banteringly complimented Evelyn on having won the admiration of a distinguished man. Evelyn declared that this was a mistake, and Gomez had offered his escort as a duty, to which Doña Luisa returned a mocking smile. Her amusement annoyed Evelyn. On the whole, she was glad that conversation was difficult. The sour, elderly duenna who rode behind them said nothing at all.
After traveling all day, they stopped at a lonelyhacienda, where Evelyn soon retired to rest. She slept well, and, wakening rather late the next morning, found that Doña Luisa and her duenna had left an hour before. This was embarrassing, because Evelyn knew something about Spanish conventions; but, after all, she was an American, and they did not apply to her.
Gomez appeared annoyed and extremely apologetic.
"There has been a misunderstanding," he explained. "I thought the señorita Romanez would go with us to Rio Frio, but she told me last night that she must return early this morning. I expostulated and implored, but the señorita was firm. She declared she had not promised to come farther than thehacienda. You see my unfortunate position. One cannot compel a lady to do what she does not wish."
"When shall we reach Rio Frio?" Evelyn asked.
"If all goes well, late this afternoon."
Evelyn thought for a moment. She was vexed and vaguely alarmed, but her father was waiting for her at Rio Frio.
"Then let us start as soon as possible," she said.
Gomez bowed.
"When breakfast is over. I go to give my men their orders."
Leaving thehacienda, they rode by rough, steep tracks that wound through belts of forest and crossed sun-scorched slopes. Although it was hot, the air was clear, and Evelyn was pleased to see that Gomez kept the mules at a steady pace. At noon they reached a cluster of poverty-stricken mud houses, and Gomez called one of the ragged, half-breed peons. They talked for some time in a low voice, and then Gomez turned to Evelyn.
"I am afraid we shall have to wait here for two or three hours," he said. "It might be dangerous to go any farther now."
"But I must get on!" Evelyn answered sharply.
"Your wishes would be a command, only that I must think of your safety first. There is an inn in the village, and while you rest I will explain why we cannot go forward."
Evelyn found the smallfondaindescribably dirty, but it offered shelter from the sun. Openings in its bare walls let in puffs of breeze, and decaying lattices kept out the glare, but the room was full of flies, and rustling sounds showed that other insects lurked in the crevices. The place reeked with the smell ofcañaand kerosene, and Evelyn had to force herself to eat a little of the greasy mess that was set before her in rude,sun-baked crockery. When the meal was over Gomez began his explanation.
"You have heard that the country is disturbed. There are turbulent people who want a revolution, and I am not popular with them."
Evelyn smiled, for she had learned something about the country's politics and she thought he had expressed the feeling of its discontented citizens very mildly. She distrusted him, but, so far, his conduct had been irreproachable.
"I see you understand," he resumed. "The worst is that you too are an object of suspicion; it is known that your father is a friend of the President and has business with him. Well, I have been warned that some of our enemies are in the neighborhood, and they might rouse the peons to attack us. They will know when we left thehaciendaand watch for us, but we can outwit them by waiting a while and then taking another road."
This was plausible, and Evelyn agreed to the delay, although she did not feel quite satisfied when Gomez left her. The dirty room was very hot and its atmosphere unspeakably foul, but she could not sit outside in the sun, and, taking up a soiled newspaper, she tried to read. Her knowledge of Castilian did not carry her far, but she made out that the Government was being urged to deal severely with a man named Sarmiento.
Evelyn put down the paper, feeling that she ought to know the name. Sarmiento had some connection with Grahame and his friends; perhaps they had spoken of him. This led her to think of them. It looked as if Grahame were interested in the country'spolitics. Remembering the promise she had made, she wondered whether theEnchantresswas then on the coast. As he seemed to be opposing Gomez, he must be helping the revolutionaries, while her father had business with the President. This was puzzling, and she sat thinking about it for some time; and then looked up with a start as Gomez came in.
"So you have been reading thediario!" he remarked.
"I don't understand very much; but who is Don Martin Sarmiento?"
"A dangerous person who goes about making trouble."
"It's curious, but I think I have met him."
Gomez gave her a searching glance and then smiled.
"He is not worth remembering, but you did meet him at Havana."
"Ah!" said Evelyn sharply.
Gomez laughed.
"Must I remind you, señorita, of a little affair at the Hotel International?"
Evelyn remembered it well and guessed that it was Sarmiento whom Gomez had been pursuing when she stopped him by dropping her ring. She could now understand his look of baffled rage, and she recalled her shrinking from the savagery it displayed.
"One imagines that you did not know Don Martin," Gomez said lightly, although there was a keen look in his narrowed eyes.
"No," Evelyn answered; "I only saw him at dinner."
"Then perhaps you have heard your father speak of him?"
"I am not sure; I have heard his name somewhere; but I don't think my father ever met him."
"Well, I don't know that it is of much importance. I came to tell you that I think we can start."
They set off and reached Rio Frio without trouble some time after dark. People in the streets turned and gazed at them, and although some saluted Gomez, Evelyn thought that, for the most part, they watched the party with unfriendly curiosity. She was eager to meet her father, but when they dismounted in thepatioof a large white house she got a shock. A dark-skinned woman and several half-breed servants came down from a gallery to welcome them, but Cliffe was not there.