Part 5

Aneta was a very pretty, pale girl, with bronze-coloured hair, although her complexion was thick and muddy, showing the faint strain of blood which made her, and would always hold her, inferior to the pure Spanish or American type. Her eyes were of a greenish cast, and though small, were sweet and modest. She was perhaps twenty-three at this time. It is sad to have lived one's life at the age of twenty-three.

"I have so many years before me, Agueda," said Aneta.

"Why do you stay here?" asked Agueda.

"Where have I to go?" asked Aneta.

"That is true," assented Agueda.

"My father will not have me back. He says that I should have been smart and married Don Mateo; but I never thought of being smart, 'Gueda; I never thought of anything but how I loved him."

A pang of pity pierced the heart of Agueda, all the stronger because she herself was so secure.

The two girls walked down toward the shining river. Castaño followed along behind, nibbling and browsing until a jerk of the bridle caused him to raise his head and continue his march.

The river was glancing along below the bank. Low and shallow, it had settled here and there into great pools, or spread out thinly over the banks of gravel which rose between.

"Can we bathe, Aneta?" asked Agueda.

"I suppose so," said Aneta, mournfully.

"Smile, Aneta, do smile. It makes me wretched to see you so sad."

Aneta shook her head.

"What have I left, Agueda?"

Agueda hung Castaño's bridle on a limb, and seeking a sheltered spot, the two girls undressed and plunged into the water, a pool near the shore providing a basin. One may bathe there with perfect seclusion. The ford is far below, and no one has reason to come to this lonely spot. The water was cool and delicious to Agueda's tired frame.

"Agueda," said Aneta, as they were drying themselves in the sun, "will Castaño carry double?"

"Why, Aneta, I suppose he will. I never tried him."

"I promised El Rey to come to see him one day soon. That was weeks ago. You know that Roseta has gone. The little creature is alone. If I should go there by myself the Señora would say bad things about me. She would say that I had gone for some wrong purpose. God knows I have no wrong purpose in my heart."

"Yes, I will go with you," said Agueda. "But, we must hasten. I have been away so long already. What time should you think it is, Aneta?"

Aneta turned to the west and looked up to the sky with that critical eye which rural dwellers who possess no timepiece acquire.

"Perhaps three o'clock, Agueda, perhaps four. Not so very late."

"So that I am home by six it will do," said Agueda.

She reproached herself that she should think of the happiness that awaited her at home while Aneta was so sad.

When they were again dressed, Agueda mounted Castaño, and riding close to an old mahogany stump, gave her hand to Aneta, aiding her to spring up to the horse's flank. Castaño was not over-pleased at this addition to his burden, but he made no serious demonstration, and started off toward the ford. The ford crossed, Agueda guided Castaño along the bank of the stream.

"Is this the Brandon place?" asked Agueda.

"No," said Aneta. "It is part of the Silencio estate."

Again Agueda felt the flush arise which had made her uncomfortable in the morning.

"I have never been this way," said Agueda, who was following Aneta's directions. "I was there this morning, but I rode down the gran' camino."

"You went there?"

"Yes; to carry a note."

"To the Señor?"

"Am I going right, Aneta?"

"Yes," said the easily diverted Aneta. "Follow the little path. They live on the river bank below the hill." In a few moments a thatched roof began to show through the trees.

"There it is," said Aneta; "there is Andres' rancho."

When they arrived at the rancho they found that the door was closed. Agueda rapped with her whip. "They are all away, I think," said she.

"Oh! then, they are not all away," piped a little voice from the inside. "Take the key from the window, and I will let you open my door."

Agueda laughed. Aneta slid off the horse, and Agueda rode to the high window, from whose ledge she took a key.

"My Roseta, is that you?" called the child's voice.

Aneta looked up at Agueda and shook her head with a pitying motion. The child's sorrow had effaced her own for the time.

"No, El Rey," she called; "it is Aneta, and I bring Agueda, from San Isidro."

"You are welcome, Señoritas," piped the little voice again.

By this time Aneta had inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. A small, thin child was sitting on the edge of a low bed. He arose to greet them with a show of politeness which struggled against weariness.

"Andres and Roseta are away," he said. "Andres said that he would bring her if he could find her."

Agueda had heard of El Rey, but she had never seen the child before.

"I should think he would surely bring her," said she in a comforting tone. She was seeing much misery to-day. She felt reproached for being so happy herself, but she looked forward to her home-coming as recompense for it all.

"Would you like to come to San Isidro some time, El Rey?" she asked.

"Does Roseta ever come there?" asked the child.

"She has never been yet, but she may come some day," answered Agueda, with that merciful deceit which keeps hope ever springing in the breast.

Aneta stooped down towards the floor.

"Have you anything to play with, El Rey?" she asked.

"El Rey has buttons. El Rey has a book that the Señor at Palmacristi gave him, but he is tired of those. When will Roseta come?"

Agueda turned away.

"I cannot bear it," she said.

El Rey looked at her curiously.

"Would you like to ride the pretty little horse, El Rey?"

The child walked slowly to the door and peered wistfully out.

"El Rey would like to ride; but Roseta might come."

"We will not go far," said Agueda. "Come, let me lift you up." El Rey suffered himself to be lifted to the horse's back, but his eyes were ever searching the dim vista of the woodland for the form that did not appear.

"I cannot enjoy it, Señora," said he, politely. "El Rey would enjoy the Señora's kindness if Roseta could see him ride."

"I must go, Aneta," said Agueda, her eyes moist.

She lifted the child down from Castaño's back. He at once entered the casa. He turned in the doorway, his thin little figure occupying small space against the dark background.

"Adios, Señoritas," said the child. "Oh! will the Señoritas please put the key on the window ledge?"

"We cannot lock you in, El Rey," said Agueda.

"Do you mean that we are to lock you in, El Rey?" asked Aneta at the same time.

"Will the Señoritas please not talk," said the child. "I cannot hear. I sit and listen all day. If the Señoritas talk I cannot hear if any one comes."

"But must we lock the door?" asked Agueda.

"Is that what Andres wishes?" asked Aneta.

"If you please, Señorita; put the key on the window ledge."

"I shall not lock him in," said Aneta. "I cannot do it. I will stay a while, El Rey," she said.

Aneta sat down in the doorway, her head upon her hand. She belongs not to the detail of this story. She is only one of that majority of suffering ignorant beings with whom the world is filled, who make the dark background against which happier souls shine out. Agueda rode back to the ford. She galloped Castaño now. At the entrance of the forest she turned and threw a kiss to Aneta. The girl was still in the doorway, but El Rey was not to be seen. Agueda fancied him sitting on the low bed, his ear strained to catch the fall of a faraway footstep.

VI

The shadows were growing long when Agueda cantered down the path that ran alongside of the banana walk. She crossed the potrero at a slow pace, for Castaño was tired and warm. As she slowly rounded the corner of the veranda, a figure caught her eye. It was Don Beltran, cool and immaculate in his white linen suit. He was smoking, and seemed to be enjoying the sunset hour.

"Ah! are you here at last, child! I was just about to send your uncle to look for you. Have you had dinner?"

"Not a mouthful," laughed Agueda, at the remembrance of the Señora at El Cuco. It was cruel to laugh while Aneta wept, but it was so hard not to be happy.

"Tell Juana to bring you some dinner. There was a san coche, very good, and a pilauf of chicken. Did you see Don Mateo?"

"No, Señor," said Agueda, looking down.

"Why will you persist in calling me Señor, Agueda? I am Beltran. Say it at once--Beltran!"

"Beltran," said Agueda, with a happy smile. Poor Aneta! Poor everybody in the world who did not have a Beltran to love her!

As Agueda told Beltran the history of her long day, he listened with interest. When she spoke of Aneta's changed life, "The brute!" said Beltran, "the damned brute!"

While Agueda was changing her dress for the dark blue skirt and white waist, Beltran sat and thought upon the veranda. When she came out again, he spoke.

"Agueda," said he, "it is time that you and I were married."

Agueda blushed.

"I see no cause for haste," said Agueda.

"It is right," said Beltran, "and why should we wait? What is there to wait for? I want you for my wife. I have never seen any one who could take me from you, and there is no such person in all the world. All the same, you must be my wife."

"I think the padre is away," said Agueda, looking down.

"He will be back before long, and then, if the river is still low, we will go to Haldez some fine morning and be married. Your uncle can give you away. He will be very glad, doubtless!" Don Beltran laughed as he spoke. He was not unconscious of Uncle Adan's plans, but as they happened to fall in with his own, he took them good-naturedly.

"Do you know, Agueda," he said presently, looking steadily at her, "that you are better born than I?"

"What does the Señor mean?" laughed Agueda.

"The Señor?"

"Well, then, Señor--Beltran. What do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I say, Agueda. Your grandfather, Don Estevan, is a count in his own country--in old Spain. That is where you get your pretty slim figure, child, your height, and your arched instep. You are descended from a long line of noble ladies, Agueda. I have seen many a Spanish gran' Señora darker than you, my Agueda. When shall our wedding-day be, child?"

Agueda shook her head and looked down at the little garment which she was stitching. She had no wish to bind him. That was not the way to treat a noble nature like his. Agueda had no calculation in her composition. Beltran could never love her better were they fifty times married. She was happy as the day. What could make her more so?

"Did the Señor enjoy his sail across the bay?" asked Agueda.

"It was well enough, child. I got the draft cashed, and, strange to say, I found a letter at the post-office at Saltona."

"From the coffee merchant, I suppose, Señor?"

"No, not from the coffee merchant, Señora," Beltran laughed, teasingly. "Guess from whom, Agueda; but how should you be able to guess? It is from my uncle, Agueda. My mother's brother. You know that he married in the States."

"I have heard the Señor say that the Señor his uncle married in the es-States," said Agueda, threading her fine needle with care, and making a tiny knot. Beltran drew his chair close. He twitched the small garment from her hands. She uttered a slight exclamation. The needle had pricked her finger. Beltran bent towards her with remorseful words, took the slender finger between his own, and put it to his lips. His other hand lay upon her shoulder. She smiled up at him with a glance of inquiry mixed with shyness. Agueda had never got over her shy little manner. The pressure of his fingers upon her shoulder thrilled her. She felt as ever that dear sense of intimacy which usage had not dulled.

Beltran again consulted the letter which he held.

"Uncle Nóe will arrive in a week's time," he said. "He is a very particular gentleman, is my Uncle Nóe. Quite young to be my uncle. Look at my two grey hairs, Agueda."

She released her hand from his, and tried to twist her short hair into a knot. It looked much more womanly so. She must try to make it grow if a new grand Señor was coming to San Isidro. Don Beltran was still consulting the letter.

"He brings his child--his little daughter. Now, Agueda, how can we amuse the little thing?"

Agueda, with work dropped, finger still pressed between her small white teeth, answered, wonderingly:

"A little child? Let me think, Señor."

"Ah!"

"Well, then, again I say Beltran, if you will. We have not much." How dear and natural the plural of the personal pronoun! "We have not much, I fear. There is the little cart that the Señora gave the Señor when he was muchachito. That is a good little plaything. I have cleaned it well since the last flood. The water washed even into the cupboard. Then there is--there is--ah, yes, the diamond cross. She will laugh, the little thing, when it flashes in the sunshine. Children love brilliant things. I remember well that the little Cristina, from the conuco, up there, used to love to see the sparkle of the jewels. But the little one will like the toy best."

"That is not much, dear heart."

"And then--and then--there may be rides on the bulls, and punting on the river in the flatboat, and the little chestnut--she can ride Castaño, the little thing!"

"Not the chestnut; I trained him for you, Agueda, child."

"And why should not the little one ride him, also? We can take her into the deep woods to gather the mamey apples, and to the bushes down in the river pasture to gather the aguacate. Only the little thing must be taught to keep away from the prickly branches, and--sometimes, Don--Beltran, we might take the child as far as Haldez, if some acrobats or circus men should arrive. We have not been there since Dondy-Jeem walked the rope that bright Sunday. Oh, yes! we shall find something to amuse her, certainly. A little child! We are to have a child in the house!" It was always a happy "we" with Agueda. "How old is the little thing?"

"I have not heard from my uncle for many years. I do not know when he married; but he is a young man still, Uncle Nóe. Full of affectation, speaking French in preference to Spanish and English, which are equally his mother tongues--I might say his mother and father tongue--but with all his affectations, delightful."

"A little child in the house! A little child in the house," murmured Agueda over and over to herself.

Now it was all bustle at the casa. San Isidro took on a holiday air. There was no more talk of marriage. Not because Don Beltran did not think of it and wish it, but because there was no time. A room down the veranda must be beautified for the little child. She was to be placed next her father, that if she should want anything at night, he could attend her.

"Where shall we put the nurse?" said Don Beltran.

"I am afraid the nurse will have to sleep in the rancho, Beltran. These two rooms take all that we have." Agueda looked up wistfully. "I wonder how soon she will come," she said. "The little thing! the little thing!"

VII

So soon as Agueda had disappeared down the trocha which leads to the sea, Silencio called for Andres. Old Guillermina came with a halt and a shuffle. This was caused by her losing ever and anon that bit of shoe in which she thought it respectful to seek her master, or to obey his summons. She agreed with some modern authorities, although she had never heard of them or their theories, that contact with Mother Earth is more agreeable and more convenient (she did not know of the claim that it is more healthful) than encasing the foot in a piece of bull's hide or calf's skin.

"Where is Andres?" asked Don Gil, impatiently.

"Has the Señor forgotten that the Andres has gone to the Port of Entry?"

"He has not gone there," said Silencio; "that I know, for I sent Troncha in his place. See where he is, and let me know. I need a messenger at once."

As Guillermina turned her back, Don Gil bit his lip. "Then I am helpless," he said aloud, "if Andres is not here." He arose and started after Guillermina, calling impatiently: "Do not wait for Andres; get some one, any one. I must send a message at once."

While Guillermina shuffled away, Silencio sat himself down at his desk and wrote. He wrote hurriedly, the pen tearing across the sheet as if for a wager. As its spluttering ceased, there was a knock at the counting-house door.

"Entra!" called Silencio, rising.

It was a moist day in May. The June rains were heralded by occasional showers, an earnest of the future. The dampness was all-pervading, the stillness death-like. No sound was heard but the occasional calling of the peons to the oxen far afield. The leaves of the ceiba tree hung limp and motionless; the rompe hache[6] had not stirred a leaf for two days past. No tender airs played caressingly against the nether side of the palm tufts and swayed them in fan-like motion. The gri-gri stood tall and grand, full of foliage at the top. Its numberless little leaves were precisely outlined, each one, against the sky. One might almost fear that he were looking at a painting done by one of the artists of the early Hudson River school, so distinctly was the edge of each leaf and twig drawn against its background of blue.

Rotiro stood and waited. Then he knocked again. A step was heard approaching from an inner room.

"Entra!" called a voice from within, but louder than before.

Rotiro obeyed the permission. He entered the outer room to find Don Gil just issuing from the inner one--that holy of holies, where no profane foot of peon, shod or unshod, had ever penetrated. Rotiro touched his forelock by way of salutation, drew his machete from its yellow leathern belt, swung it over his shoulder, and brought it round and down with a horizontal cut, slashing fiercely into the post of the doorway. It sank deep, and he left it there, quivering.

Silencio was moistening the flap of an envelope with his lip as Rotiro entered. After a look at Rotiro, Don Gil thought it best to light a taper, take a bit of wax from the tray and seal the note. He pressed it with the intaglio of his ring. The seal bore the crest of the Silencios. When he had finished he held the note for a moment in his hand, to dry thoroughly. As he stood, he surveyed the machete of Rotiro, which still trembled in the doorpost. The post was full of such gashes, indicating it as a common receptacle for bladed weapons. It served the purpose of an umbrella-stand at the north. Don Billy Blake had said: "We don't carry umbrellas into parlours at the No'th, and I bedam if any man, black or shaded, shall bring his machett into my shanty."

Don Billy was looked upon as an arbiter of fashion. This fashion, however, antedated Don Billy's advent in the island.

Rotiro unslung his shotgun from his shoulder and stepped inside the doorway. He leaned the gun against the inner wall.

"Buen' dia', Seño'," he nodded.

"Set that gun outside, Rotiro."

"My e'copeta very good e'copeta, Seño' Don Gil. It a excellent e'copeta. It is, however, as you know, not much to be trusted; it go off sometimes with little persuasion on my part, often again without much reason."

"Following the example of your tongue. Listen! Rotiro. I wish to do the talking. Attend to what I say. Here is a note. I wish you to take it up back of Troja, to the Señor Escobeda."

"But, Seño', I thought--"

"You thought! So peons think! On this subject you have no need to think. Take this note up to Troja, and be quick about it. I want an answer within an hour. Waste no time on thoughts or words, and above all, waste no time in going or returning. See the Señor Escobeda. Hand him the note, see what he has to say, and bring me word as soon as possible. Notice how he looks, how he speaks, what--"

"But the Seño' may not--"

"Still talking? Go at once! Do you remember old Amadeo, who was struck by lightning? I always believed that it was to quiet his tongue. It certainly had that effect. But for the one servant I have had who has been struck by lightning, I have had twenty who ought to have been. There was a prince in a foreign land who was driven crazy by his servants. He said, 'Words! words! words!' I wonder very much what he would have said could he have passed a week on the plantation of Palmacristi."

As the Devil twists Scripture to suit his purpose, so Silencio was not behind him in his interpretation of Shakespeare, and Rotiro prepared for his journey, with a full determination to utter no unnecessary word during the rest of his life. In dead silence he withdrew his machete from its gash in the doorpost, tied the letter round his neck by its cord of red silk, swung his apology for a hat upon his head, and was off. Meanwhile Don Gil sat and waited.

The hour ended as all hours, good or bad, must end. Don Gil kept his eyes fixed upon the clock. Ah! it was five minutes past the hour now.

"If I find that he has delayed one minute beyond the necessary--possibly Escobeda has held him there, taken him prisoner--prisoner! In the nineteenth century! But an Escobeda is ready for anything; perhaps he has--" There was a step at the doorway.

"Entra!" shouted Don Gil, before one had the time to knock, and Rotiro entered. He had no time to say a word. He had not swung his arm round his head, nor settled the machete safely in the post of the door, before Don Gil said, impatiently:

"Well! well! What is it? Will the man never speak? Did you see the Señor Escobeda? Open that stupid head of yours, man! Say something--"

Rotiro was breathless. He set his gun in the corner with great deliberation. At first his words would not come; then he drew a quick breath and said:

"I saw the Seño' E'cobeda, Don Gil. He is a fine man, the Seño' E'cobeda. Oh! yes, he is a very fine man, the Seño'!"

"Ah!" said Don Gil, dryly, "did he send me a message, this very fine man?"

Rotiro thrust his hand into the perpendicular slit that did duty for a legitimate opening in his shirt. He was dripping with moisture. Great beads stood out upon his dark skin. He pulled the faded pink cotton from his wet body and brought to light a folded paper. This he handed to Don Gil. The paper was far from dry. Don Gil took the parcel. He broke the thread which secured it--the thread seemed much shorter than when he had knotted it earlier in the day--and discovered the letter which he sought. The letter was addressed to himself.

Don Gil opened this missive with little difficulty. The sticky property of the flap had been impaired by its contact with the damp surroundings. Don Gil read the note with a frown.

"Caramba hombre! Did you go up back of Troja for this?"

Rotiro raised his shoulders and turned his palms outward.

"As the Seño' see."

If Rotiro had gone "up back of Troja" for nothing, it was obviously the initial occasion in the history of the island. The natives, as well as the foreigners, seemed to go "up back of Troja" for every article that they needed. They bought their palm boards back of Troja. They bought their horses back of Troja. They bought their cattle back of Troja. Back of Troja was made the best rum that was to be had in all the island. Back of Troja, for some undiscovered reason, were found the best guns, the best pistols, the sharpest "colinos," smuggled ashore at the cave, doubtless, and taken in the night through dark florestas, impenetrable to officers of the law. Many a wife, light of skin and slim of ankle, had come from back of Troja to wed with the people nearer the sea. The region back of Troja was a veritable mine, but for once the mine had refused to yield up what the would-be prospector desired.

"He'll get no wife from back of Troja," thought Rotiro, whose own life partner, out of the bonds of wedlock, had enjoyed that distinction.

"Whom did you see back of Troja?"

"The Seño' E'cobeda, Seño'. The Seño' E'cobeda is a ver--"

"Yes, yes, I know! How you natives will always persist in slipping your 's,' except when it is superfluous! How did Escobeda look?"