Part 4

All through this discourse Marianna Romando had not raised her voice. She smiled as if she considered the weaknesses of Gremo amiable ones. She started after him as a mother would go in search of a straying child; like a guardian who would protect a weak brother from himself.

"I have only this to say to you, Señorita," she called after Agueda, turning so that the ladder swished through the low bushes, cutting off some of the tops of the tall weeds, both before and behind her. "Keep the Señor well in hand. When they go away like that, no one knows whom they may be going after."

Agueda closed her ears. She did not wish to hear that which her senses had perforce caught. She pushed along the path that Marianna Romando had indicated, and in twenty minutes saw the white palings of Don Mateo's little plantation, El Cuco.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Lad.

[4] Merchant ship.

IV

When Raquel had given Agueda the note and the kiss, and had seen her ride rapidly away, she closed the shutter. She made the room as dark as possible. She could not bear to have the sun shine on a girl who had written to a man to come to her succour. It could mean nothing less than marriage, and it was as if she had offered it. But what else remained for her but to appeal to Don Gil? If the few words that he had spoken meant anything, they meant love. If the beating of her heart, when she caught ever so distant a glimpse of him, meant anything, it meant love. She had received a note from him only a week back. She would read it again. Her uncle had searched her room only yesterday for letters, and she was thankful that she had had the forethought to conceal Silencio's missive where he would not discover it. He had ordered old Ana to search the girl's dresses, and Ana, with moist eyes and tender words, had carried out Escobeda's instructions. She had found nothing, and so had told the Señor Escobeda.

"And when does the child get a chance to receive notes from the Señores?" asked Ana, indignant that her charge should be suspected. It was the reflection upon herself, also, that galled her. "I guarded her mother; I can guard her, Señor," said the old woman, with dignity.

"Do you not know that the young of our nation are fire and tow?" snarled Escobeda. "I shall put it out of her power to deceive me longer."

With that he had flung out of the casa and ridden away. It was then that Raquel had beckoned to Agueda, where she loitered under the shelter of the coffee bushes. After Agueda had gone, Raquel seated herself upon a little stool which had been hers from childhood. She raised one foot to her knee, took the heel in her hand, and drew off the slipper. Some small pegs had pressed through and had made little indentations in the tender foot. But between the pegs and the stocking was a thick piece of paper, whose folds protected the skin. She had just removed it when the door opened, and Ana entered. Raquel started and seemed confused for a moment.

"You frightened me, Ana," said Raquel. "I thought that you had gone to the fair. So I told--"

"You told? And whom did you have to tell, Señorita?"

"I told my uncle. He was here but now. Oh! dear Ana, I am so tired of this hot house. I long for the woods. When do you think that he will let me go to the forest again?"

Ana drew the girl toward her. Her lips trembled.

"I am as sorry as you can be, muchachita; but what can I do? What is that paper that you hold in your hand, Raquel?"

Raquel blushed crimson. Fortunately Ana's eyes were fixed upon the paper.

"I had it folded in my shoe," said Raquel. She threw the paper in the scrap basket as she spoke. "See, Ana." She held up the slipper. "Look at those pegs! They have pushed through, and my heel is really lame. I can hardly walk." Raquel limped round the room to show Ana what suffering was hers, keeping her back always to the scrap-basket. "If he would allow me to go to the town and buy some shoes!" said Raquel--Ana's espionage having created the deceit whose prophylactic she would be.

"You had better put on your slipper," said the prudent Ana. "You will wear out your stockings else."

"But how can I put on my slipper with those pegs in the heel?" asked Raquel.

"You had the paper."

"It was punched full of holes."

"Let me see it," said Ana.

"I threw it away," said Raquel. "Get me another piece of paper, for the love of God, dear Ana. My uncle does not allow me even a journal. I am indeed in prison."

Ana arose.

"I will take the scrap-basket with me," she said.

"Not until you have brought the paper, Ana. I shall tear up some other pieces."

When Ana had closed the door Raquel pounced upon the waste-basket. She took the folded paper from the top of the few scraps lying there. This she opened, pulling it apart with difficulty, for the pegs had punched the layers together, as if they had been sewn with a needle. She spread the paper upon her knee, but first ran to the door and called, "Ana, bring a piece of the cotton wool, also, I beg of you."

"That will keep her longer," said Raquel, smiling. She spoke aloud as lonely creatures often do. "She must hunt for that, I know." She heard Ana pulling out bureau drawers, and sat down again to read her letter.

"Dearest Señorita," it ran. "I hear that you are unhappy. What can I do? I hear that you are going away. Do not go, for the love of God, without letting me know.

Your faithful servant, G."

"I have let you know, Gil," she said. "I am not going away, but I am unhappy. I am a prisoner. I wonder if you will save me?" Ana's heavy tread was heard along the corridor. Raquel hastily thrust the note within the bosom of her dress. When the cotton had been adjusted and the slipper replaced, Ana took up the scrap-basket.

"Dear Ana, stay a little while. I am so lonely. Don't you think he would let me sit on the veranda?"

"He would let you go anywhere if you would promise not to speak to the Señor Silencio," said Ana.

"I will never promise that, Ana," said Raquel, with a compression of the lips.

She laid her head down on Ana's shoulder.

"I am so lonely," she said. The tears welled over from the childish eyes. The lips quivered. "I wonder how it feels, Ana, to have a mother." Ana's eyes were moist, too, but she repressed any show of feeling. Had not the Señor Escobeda ordered her to do so, and was not his will her daily rule?

Suddenly Raquel started--her hearing made sensitive by fear.

"I hear him coming, Ana," she said.

"You could not hear him, sweet; he has gone over to see the Señor Anecito Rojas."

"That dreadful man!" Raquel shuddered. "Why does he wish to see the Señor Anecito Rojas?"

"I do not know, Señorita." Ana shook her head pitifully. It seemed as if she might tell something if she would.

Suddenly she strained her arms round the girl.

"Raquel! Raquel!" she said, "promise me that you will sometimes think of me. That you will love me if we are separated. That if you can, if you have the power, you will send for me--"

"Ana! Ana!" Raquel had risen to her feet and was crying. Her face was white, her lips bloodless. "Tell me what you mean. How can I send for you? Where am I going that I can send for you? Am I going away, Ana? Ana, what do you know? Tell me, Ana, dear--dear Ana, tell me!"

But Ana had no time or reason to answer. There was a sound of horse's hoofs before the door, a man's heavy foot alighting upon the veranda, the throwing wide of the outer door, and Escobeda's voice within the passage.

"Ana!" it shouted, "Ana!"

Ana arose trembling. "I am here, Señor," she said.

"Where is that girl, Raquel?"

"The Señorita is also here, Señor," answered Ana.

The door was flung open.

"Pack her duds," said Escobeda. "She leaves this by evening."

"_I--leave--here?_" Raquel had arisen, and was standing supporting herself by Ana's shoulder.

"I suppose you understand your mother tongue. It is as I said; you leave here this evening."

"Oh, uncle! Where--where am I to go?"

"That you will find out later. Pack her duds, Ana."

Ana trembled in every limb. She arose to obey. Raquel threw herself on the bare floor at Escobeda's feet.

"Oh, uncle!" she said. "What have I done to be sent away? Will you not tell me where I am going?"

The girl cried in terror. She wept as a little child weeps, without restraint. "I am so young, uncle. I have no home but this. Do not send me away!"

Escobeda looked down at the childish figure on the ground before him, but not a ray of pity entered his soul, for between Raquel's face and his he saw that of Silencio, whose father had been his father's enemy as well as his own. He felt sure that soon or late Silencio would have the girl. He spoke his thoughts aloud.

"I suppose he would even marry you to spite me," he said.

"Who, uncle? Of whom do you speak?"

"You know well enough; but I shall spoil his game. Get her ready, Ana; we start this afternoon."

"There is a knocking at the outer door," said Ana. "I will go--"

"You will pack her duds," said Escobeda, who was not quite sure of Ana. "I will answer the summons myself."

As he was passing through the doorway, Raquel said, despairingly:

"Uncle, wait a moment. You went to the Señor Anecito Rojas. How did you get back so soon--"

"And who told you that I was going to him? Yes, I did start for the house of Rojas, but I met him on the way, so I was saved the trouble."

"Are you going to send me to him, uncle?" asked Raquel. The girl's face had again become white, her eyes were staring. There was some unknown horror in store. What could it be?

"Send you to him? Oh, no! Why should I send you to him? I have a better market for you than that of Rojas. He is only coming to aid me with those trusty men of his, in case your friend Silencio should attempt to take you from me. He had better not attempt it. A stray shot will dispose of him very quickly."

"Am I to remain on the island, uncle?"

"Yes and no," answered Escobeda. "We take the boat to-night for the government town. When we arrive, it will be as the governor says--he must see you first."

Raquel understood nothing of his allusions. Ana cried silently as she took Raquel's clothes from the drawers and folded them.

"I cannot see what the governor has to do with me?" said Raquel.

"You will know soon enough," said Escobeda. His laugh was cruel and sneering.

Raquel turned from Escobeda with an increased feeling of that revulsion which she had never been able entirely to control. She had felt as if it were wrong not to care for her uncle, but even had he been uniformly kind, his appearance was decidedly not in his favour. She glanced at his low, squat figure, bowed legs, and thick hands. She had time to wonder why he always wore earrings--something which now struck her as more grotesque than formerly. Then she thrust her hand within the bosom of her gown, raised it quickly, and slipped something within her mouth.

Escobeda caught the motion of Raquel's arm as he raised his eyes. She backed toward the wall. He advanced toward her threateningly. He seized her small shoulder with one hand, and with a quick, rough motion he thrust the thick forefinger of the other between her lips, and ran it round inside her mouth, as a mother does in seeking a button or some foreign substance by which a child might be endangered. Raquel endeavoured to swallow the paper. At first she held her teeth close together, but the strength of Escobeda's finger was equal to the whole force of her little body, and after a moment's struggle Silencio's note was brought to light. He tried to open it.

"It is pulp! Nothing but pulp!" he said, shaking the empty hand at her. Raquel stood outraged and pale. What was the matter with this man? He had suddenly shown himself in a new light.

"How dare you treat me so?" she gasped.

"You have hurt her, Señor," said Ana, reproachfully. "Does it pain you, sweet?" Ana had run to the girl, and was wiping her lips with a soft handkerchief. A tiny speck of blood showed how less than tender had been this rough man's touch.

"If it pains me? Yes, all over my whole body. How dare he! Anita, how dare he!"

Escobeda laughed. He seated his thick form in the wicker chair, which was Raquel's own. It trembled with his weight. He laid the paper carefully upon his knee, and tried to smooth it.

"I thought you said she received no notes from gentlemen," he roared. Ana stood red-eyed and pale.

"She never does, Señor," she answered, stifling her sobs.

"And what is that?" asked Escobeda, in a grating voice. He slapped the paper with the back of his hand into the very face of Ana. "Do you think that I cannot read my enemy's hand--aye, and his meaning? Even were it written in invisible ink. '_Gil!_' Do you see it? '_Gil!_'" He slapped the paper again, still thrusting it under Ana's nose.

"There may be more than one Gil in the world, Señor," sniffed the shaking Ana.

"Do not try to prevaricate, Ana. You know there is not more than one Gil in the world," said Raquel, scornfully.

Ana, in danger from the second horn of her dilemma, stood convicted of both, and gasped.

"There is only one Gil in the world for me. That is Don Gil Silencio-y-Estrada. That is his note which you hold, uncle. It is a love letter. I have answered it this very day."

Raquel, now that the flood of her speech had started to flow, said all that she could imagine or devise. She said that which had no foundation in fact. She made statements which, had Silencio heard them, would have lifted him to the seventh heaven of bliss.

"He wants me to go away with him. He knows that I am imprisoned. He implores me to come to him. Be sure," said Raquel, her eyes flashing, "that the opportunity is all that I need."

Ana stood aghast. She had never seen Escobeda defied before. All the countryside feared to anger him. What would become of the two helpless women who had been so unfortunate?

Escobeda was livid. His eyes rolled with rage; they seemed to turn red. He arose from the chair, leaving it creaking in every straw. He clenched his fist, and shook it at the woman and girl alternately. His ear-rings danced and trembled. He seemed to be seized with a stuttering fit. The words would not pass the barrier of his brown teeth. He jerked and stammered.

"We--we--shall see. We shall s--s--see. This--this--eve--evening."

Raquel, her short spurt of courage fled, now stood with drooped head. Escobeda's anger seemed to have left him as suddenly as it had appeared. He threw Silencio's note on the floor.

"Ah! bah!" he said, contemptuously. "It sounds very fine. It is like hare soup: first catch your hare. Silencio shall not catch you, my little hare. His horses are not fleet enough, nor his arm long enough."

"All the same, I think that he will catch me," said Raquel, again defiant, with a fresh burst of courage.

Escobeda turned on his heel.

"Go to the door, Ana," he said, "and see who keeps up that thumping."

When Ana had shuffled along the passage, Raquel turned to Escobeda. "It may be a messenger from the Señor Silencio," she said. "I sent him a letter some hours ago."

"And by whom, pray?"

"That I will not tell you. I do not betray those who are kind to me. You told me early this morning that I was to be taken away. You will see now that I, too, have a friend."

Ana's steps interrupted this conversation.

"Well?" asked Escobeda. "The messenger is--will you speak?"

"It is the man Rotiro from Palmacristi," said Ana, in a low voice.

Raquel gave a quick little draw of her breath inward. The sound made a joyous note in that cruel atmosphere.

"It will do you no good," said Escobeda. "Go and tell him that I will see him presently. I will lock you up, my pretty Señorita, that you send no more notes to that truhan.[5] You have now but a few hours to make ready. Put in all your finery; though, after all, your new master can give you what he will, if you please him."

FOOTNOTE:

[5] Mountebank.

V

It was an unthrifty-looking place, El Cuco--very small, as its name implied. How Don Mateo had asked any woman to marry him with no more to give her than the small plantation of El Cuco, one could not imagine. The place was little more than a conuco, and Don Mateo, through careless ways and losses at gambling, selling a little strip of field here and some forest land there, was gradually reducing the property to the size of a native holding.

The lady who had inveigled Don Mateo into marrying her sat upon the veranda, fat and hearty. Her eyes were beginning to open to the fact that Don Mateo had not been quite candid with her. He had said, "My house is not very fine, Señorita, but I have land; and if you will come there as my wife, we will begin to build a new casa as soon as the crops are in and paid for." The crops had never come in, as far as the Señora had discovered; and how could crops be paid for before they were gathered? There had grown up within the household a very fine crop of complaints, but these Don Mateo smoothed over with his ready excuses and kindliness of manner.

Agueda leaned down to the small footpath gate to unfasten the latch. She found that the gate was standing a little way open and sunk in the mud, but that there was no room to pass through.

"Go round to the other side," called a voice from the veranda.

A half-dozen little children, of all shades, came trooping down the path. Then, as she turned to ride round the dilapidated palings, they scampered across the yard, a space covered by some sort of wild growth. They met her in a troop at the large gate, which was also sunk in the ground through the sagging of its hinges. Fortunately, it had stood so widely open now for some years that entrance was quite feasible.

Agueda struck spur to Castaño's side, and he trotted round to the veranda. They stopped at the front steps, and throwing her foot over the saddle, Agueda prepared to dismount.

"What do you want here?" asked a fat voice from the end of the veranda.

"I should like to see Aneta, Señora," said Agueda. "May one of the peons take my horse?"

"You can go round to the back, where Aneta is, then," answered the Señora, without rising. "She is washing her dishes, and it is not you who shall disturb her."

Agueda looked up with astonishment. The last time that she had come to El Cuco, Aneta had sat on the veranda in the very place where the stranger was sitting now. That chair, Don Mateo had brought over from Saltona once as a present for Aneta. It was an American chair, and Aneta used to sit and rock in it by the hour and sing some happy song. Agueda remembered how Aneta had twisted some red and yellow ribbons through the wicker work. Those ribbons were replaced now by blue and pink ones.

Without a word Agueda rode round the house. Arrived at the tumble-down veranda which jutted out from the servants' quarters, she heard sounds which, taken in conjunction with the Señora's words, suggested Aneta's presence. When Aneta heard the sound of horse's hoofs she came to the open shutter. Agueda saw that her eyes were red and swollen. A faint smile of welcome overspread Aneta's features, which was succeeded at once by a shamefaced look that Agueda should see her in this menial position.

"Dear Agueda!" said she; "how glad I am to see you! But this is no place for you."

"I wish that you could come down to the river," said Agueda. "I have so much to ask you. Who is the Señora on the veranda, Aneta?"

"Do you not know then that he is married?" asked Aneta, the tears beginning to flow again.

"Married!" exclaimed Agueda, aghast. "To the Señora on the veranda?"

Aneta nodded her head, while the salt tears dropped down on the towel with which she was slowly wiping a large platter. Agueda was guilty of a slight bit of deceit in this. She had heard that Don Mateo was married, but it had never occurred to her that things would be so sadly changed for Aneta. Somehow she had expected to find her as she had always found her, seated on the veranda in the wicker chair, the red and yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and in her lap the embroidery with which she had ever struggled.

"Can you come down by the river?" asked Agueda.

"I suppose that I must finish these dishes," said Aneta, through her tears. "Oh, Agueda, you have had nothing to eat, I am sure. You have come so far. Let me get you something."

"Yes, I have come far, Aneta. I should like a little something." It did not occur to Agueda to decline because of the Señora's rudeness. She had never heard of any one's being refused food at any hut, rancho, or casa in the island. The stranger was always welcome to what the host possessed, poor though it might be.

"I will not dismount," said Agueda. "Perhaps you can hand me a cup of coffee through the window." Agueda rode close to the opening. Aneta laid her dish down on the table, and went to the stove, from which she took the pot of the still hot coffee. She poured out a cupful, and handed it to Agueda.

"Some sugar, please," said Agueda, holding the cup back again. Aneta dipped a spoon in the sugar bowl which was standing on the table in its pan of water. It was a large pan, for "there are even some ants who can swim very well," so Aneta declared. Agueda took the cup gratefully, and drained it as only a girl can who has ridden many miles with no midday meal.

"I hoped that I should be asked to breakfast, Aneta," said Agueda, wistfully. She remembered the time when she had sat at the table with Aneta, and partaken of a pleasant meal.

"I can hand you some cassava bread through the window, Agueda," said Aneta, with no further explanation.

She took from the cupboard a large round of the cassava and handed it to Agueda. Agueda broke it eagerly and ate hungrily.

"That is good, Aneta. Some more coffee, please."

Aneta took up the pot to pour out a second cup.

"And who told you that you might give my food away?"

The voice was the fat voice of the Señora. She had exerted herself sufficiently to come to the kitchen door.

"Pardon, Señora!" said Agueda. Her face expressed the astonishment that she felt. She unconsciously continued to eat the round of cassava bread.

"You are still eating?"

Agueda looked at the woman in astonishment.

"Does the Señora mean that I shall not eat the bread?" asked she.

"We do not keep a house of refreshment," said the Señora.

Agueda handed the remainder of the cassava bread to Aneta.

"I see you do not, Señora. Come, Aneta, come down to the river."

Aneta looked hesitatingly at the Señora.

"You need not mind the Señora, Aneta. She does not own you."

At this Aneta looked frightened, and the Señora as angry as her double chin would allow.

"If the girl leaves, she need not return," said the Señora.

"My work is nearly done," said Aneta, with a fresh flood of tears.

"Crying, Aneta! I am ashamed of you. Come, I will help you finish your dishes."

Agueda rode around to the veranda pilotijo and dismounted. She tied Castaño there, as is the custom, taking care that she chose the pilotijo furthest removed from the main post, where several machetes were buried with a deep blade stroke.

The Señora was too heavy and lazy to object to Agueda's generosity. She seated herself in the doorway and watched the process of dish-washing. When the girls had finished, the worn towels wrung dry and hung on the line, Aneta took from the veranda nail her old straw hat.

"On further thought, you cannot go," said the Señora. "I need some work done in my room."

Agueda put her arm round Aneta.

"I bought her off," she said. "Come, Aneta, I have so little time."

At these words the Señora had the spirit to rise and flap the cushion of a shuffling sole on the floor in imitation of a stamp of the foot.

"You cannot go," she said.

For answer the two girls strolled down toward the river, Castaño's bridle over Agueda's arm, Aneta trembling at her new-found courage.