Part 9

"Some say that he was on board the ship, Señor, and that he was carried on to the government town. They say he knew nothing of the grounding of the vessel; he was always sick with the sea, that Señor E'cobeda. Caramba! _I_ should like to see him sick with the sea, or with the bite of a black spider, or with anything else that would kill him--that Señor E'cobeda!"

"I cannot see what he can do, Adan," said Don Beltran. "If she is married, he cannot change that."

Adan nodded, and scratched his ankle with his machete.

"Married fast enough, Señor Don Beltran. First by the padre at the hacienda, and then at the little church at Haldez. I cannot see what rights he has over the young Señora now.

"None at all," said Don Beltran. "Does the lad want me over there--the Señor Silencio?"

"I have heard nothing from him, Señor Don Beltran. Juan Rotiro told me many things, but the Señor knows what Juan Rotiro is when the pink rum gets into his judgment. He says that the Señor E'cobeda will soon return, and that there will be fighting, but it seems to me that the Señor Don Gil can hold his own. Como no! when he has the law on his side."

"Law," Beltran laughed. "Do you suppose rascals like Escobeda care for law? Besides, he has the Governor on his side. He pays large sums for so-called concessions; that I know, and the Governor winks both eyes very fast at anything that Escobeda chooses to do. Did you hear anything about his getting that band from Troja together?"

"Caramba! yes, Señor Don Beltran! It was spoken under the breath, and just from one peon to the other. They did not know much."

Don Beltran arose. "I think I will ride over to Palmacristi, Agueda; get me my spur. Would you like to come, child?"

Agueda shook her head, and ran into the sitting-room to hide her confusion. Her face was a dull crimson as she took the spur down from the nail.

"The espuela is dusty; shall brighten it, Señor?"

"Call old Juana. I will not have you soil your pretty hands, child, on my spur. The grey, Pablo," he shouted toward the rambling structure that was dignified by the name of stable.

"And why not come with me, Agueda?"

Agueda bent over her stitching.

"I am much too busy to-day, Señor," she said. "Far too busy," she thought, "to go over there, not sure of my welcome." Things had changed at Palmacristi, and remembering the slight inflection in Silencio's tone when last she saw him, she knew that henceforth Raquel was quite out of her reach.

"I was good enough to take her note for her when she was Señorita," thought Agueda, "but I am not good enough to visit her now that she is Señora."

Agueda's sensitive and delicate nature had evolved this feeling out of an almost imperceptible glance, a faint, evanescent colouring of tone in the inflection of Silencio's voice, but it told her, as memory called it up, that the front door of Palmacristi would henceforth be closed to her. She would not hamper Beltran. He was thoughtless, and might suffer more from a slight to her than from one to himself; or else he might become angry and break his pleasant friendship with Silencio, a friendship which had existed between the families for generations. No, she had better remain at home. Again, when Beltran asked her, she shook her head and smiled, though a drop of water lay near the surface of her eye, but Beltran did not see, and rode away gaily, waving his hand.

Arrived upon the height where stood the Casa de Caoba, he rode the grey down to the bank, because on the calm sea he had discovered Silencio and Raquel, in the little skiff in which Raquel had been rescued. He heard Silencio say, "There is Beltran; let us go in and see him."

"I do not know that Don Beltran," said Raquel. "Does not the girl Agueda live there, at San Isidro?"

"Yes; do you know Agueda?" As Silencio spoke he waved his hand to the horseman on the bank.

"Bien venido," he shouted. And then to Raquel, "Where did you see the girl Agueda?"

"I have often seen her," said Raquel. "She is very handsome. She looks like a young boy. She is really no darker than I am. Have you forgotten that she brought my note to you that day?"

"No," said Silencio; "I have not forgotten it. She has perhaps more good Spanish blood in her veins than either of us," continued he, as he bent to the oars.

"Such things are very sad," said Raquel. "She is so above her station. I should like to have her come here and live with us."

"That would not do at all, Raquel," returned Silencio, gravely.

"Is there anything wrong with her?" asked Raquel, wonderingly.

"N--no, not that I know of, but she is not of your station."

"And yet you say that she has better ancestry than either you or I," argued Raquel, as the boat grounded. "I am sure her uncle is a great deal more respectable than mine."

Silencio waved his hand to Beltran. "We were looking to see if there was any sign of the yacht," he called. "I sent her round to Lambrozo to be repaired. We may need her now any day. Oh! I quite forgot you do not know my wife, Beltran. I must introduce you."

Raquel bowed and walked onward to order refreshments for the visitor.

"Let me congratulate you," said Beltran, when Silencio had thrown the painter to Andres, who was standing near and had scrambled up the bank. "I was surprised by your very charming news."

"Hardly more than I was myself."

"How did you manage, Gil?"

"The gods were with me," answered Silencio, laughing, though Beltran noticed that his brow clouded over almost immediately. His laughter sounded false. "It is true that I have what I wished, Beltran," he continued--"the dearest blessing that any man, were he prince or noble, could ask." ("She is not half so beautiful as my Agueda," thought Beltran, while nodding acquiescence.) "I have her, she is mine; but--there is Escobeda still to be reckoned with."

"Where is he?" asked Beltran.

"I wish he were in hell," said Silencio, fiercely.

"You are not singular in that, but the result is not always the offspring of the desire. It would indeed be a blessing to send him there, but unfortunately, my boy, there is law for him in this land, though very little of it when it comes to the wrongs that you and I suffer. The question is, where is he, and when do you expect him here?"

"He went on to the government town with the steamer."

Beltran threw his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, walking beside his young friend. He heard all that there was to tell.

"He was very ill when the steamer ran on the sand spit that night." Silencio looked narrowly at his friend. He wished to see if his share in the decoying of the steamer had been noised abroad. Beltran listened without a flicker of the eyelash.

"The doctor had given him something strong--a new thing down here, called, I believe, chloral."

"Como no!" burst forth Beltran, "if they only gave him enough."

"They gave him enough for my purpose," said Silencio. "He was utterly stupid. Was I going to awake him and ask permission to run away with his niece? Caramba, Beltran! I should think not! He was stupid, I imagine, all the way to the government town. When he called for the bird whose wings he thought he had clipped, behold, the little thing had flown, and with me, the dreaded enemy."

Don Beltran laughed long and heartily.

"You are a clever boy, Gil; but how about the future? As you say, you have that still to reckon with."

The darkening of Silencio's face recalled to Beltran that antiquated simile of the sweeping of a cloud across the brightness of the sun. But not all old things have lost their uses.

"I know that," said Silencio; "that is the worst of it. I have taken her from him to protect her, and now--and now--if--I--should fail--"

"I rode over to-day for that very thing, Gil, to ask if I could help. I will come over with all my people if you say so, whenever you send for me. My uncle, Don Noé Legaspi, comes within a day or so, to stay with me at San Isidro. He brings his little child, a motherless little thing, with him, but I can come all the same. I think that it was never said of my house that we deserted a friend or a kinsman in trouble."

"I see what you are afraid of," said Silencio. "You think he will attack me."

"I do," answered Beltran; "but we can stand him off, as the Yankees say. You have the right to shoot if he attacks you, but I hope that it will be my bullet that takes him off, the double-dyed scoundrel!"

"You will take some refreshment, Beltran?"

"No, it is late; my breakfast is waiting. A' Dios, Gil, a' Dios."

As they were about to part, Silencio called after his friend:

"I will send you word as soon as I receive the news myself. You will come at once, eh, Beltran?"

Don Beltran paused in mounting the grey, and turned his head to look at his friend. Silencio's fingers were nervously opening and closing around one of the fence palings.

"For myself I should not care; that you know, Beltran; but for her, it would kill me to have her fall into his hands again. It would be death to me to lose her. She will die if she thinks that she can be taken from me, and by that villain. Do you know what they meant to do with her, Beltran? They meant--they meant--"

Silencio's voice sank to a whisper. His face had become white, his lips bloodless. His eyes seemed to sink back in his head and emit sparks of fire. In the compression of the mouth Beltran saw the determination of certain death for Escobeda should he come within range of Silencio's weapon.

Beltran was in the saddle now. He turned and surveyed his friend with some anxiety.

"Be careful, Gil," he said; "don't come within reach of the villain. Discretion is much the better part in this matter. Keep yourself under cover. They will pick you off, those rascals. Send for me the night before you know that he is coming, and I will ride over with ten of my men. We can garrison at your house?"

"I shall make ready for you," said Silencio. "My only fear is that I shall not have warning enough."

XII

Beltran rode down to the coast to meet his young uncle and the child. He started early in the morning, riding the black. The groom led the roan for Uncle Noé's use, Pablo rode the spotted bull, and those peons who could be spared from the cacao planting walked over the two miles to the boat landing, to be ready to carry the luggage that the strange Señor and the little girl would bring.

As Dulgado's fin-keel neared the shore, Beltran could not distinguish the occupants, for the sail hid them from view; but when the boat rounded to alongside the company's landing, and a sprightly old gentleman got out and turned to assist a young girl to climb up to the flooring of the wharf, Beltran discovered that Time had not broken his rule by standing still. On the contrary, he had broken his record by outstripping in the race all nature's winners, for the young uncle had become a thin little old man, and the child a charming girl in a very pronounced stage of young ladyhood.

"I should have known that my cousin could not be a little child," thought Beltran, as he removed his old panama, wishing that he had worn the new one. His dress was careless, if picturesque, and he regretted that he had paid so little attention to it.

Notwithstanding his somewhat rough appearance, Beltran raised the perfumed mass of ruffles and lace in his strong arms. He seated the girl in the chair, fastened firmly to the straw aparejo on the back of the great bull. At Agueda's suggestion, he had provided a safe and comfortable seat for the little one, to whose coming Agueda was looking forward with such unalloyed pleasure.

The girl filled it no more completely than Beltran's vision of her younger self would have done, though her billowy laces overlapped the high arms of her chair. Her feet, scarce larger than those of a child, rested upon the broad, safe footboard which Beltran had swung at the side of the straw saddle. Her delicate face was framed in masses of fair hair--pale hair, with glints here and there like spun glass.

Beltran could hardly see her eyes, so shaded was her face by the broad hat, weighted down by its wealth of vari-colored roses. To many a Northern man, to whom style in a woman is a desideratum, Felisa would have looked like a garden-escape. She had a redundant sort of prettiness, but Beltran was not critical. What if her eyes were small, her nose the veriest tilted tip, her nostrils and mouth large? The fluffy hair overhung the dark eyebrows, the red lips parted to show white little squirrel teeth, the delicate shell-like bloom on cheek and chin was adorable. It brought to Beltran's memory the old farm in Vermont where he had passed some summers as a lad, and the peach trees in the orchard. His environment had not provided him with a strictly critical taste. How fair she was! What a contrast to all the women to whom he had been accustomed! There was nothing like her in that swarthy land of dingy beauties. Her light and airy apparel was a revelation. Unconsciously Beltran compared it with the plain, straight skirts and blouse waists which he saw daily, and to its sudden and undeniable advantage. He was expecting to greet a little child, and all at once there appeared upon his near horizon a goddess full-blown. He had seen nothing in his experience by which he could gauge her. She passed as the purest of coin in this land of debased currency.

Her father, Uncle Noé, bestrode the roan which Eduardo Juan had brought over for him. When Don Noé was seated, Eduardo Juan gave him the bridle, and took his own place among the carriers of the luggage, which was greater in quantity than Don Beltran had expected. Eduardo Juan disappeared with a sulky scowl in answer to Pablo's contented grin, which said, "I have only to walk home, guide the bull, and see that the Señorita does not slip, while you--"

Pablo waited with patient servility, rope in hand, until the Señorita was safely seated in her chair. There was a good deal of sprightly conversation among the Señores. There was more tightening of girths and questions as to the comfort of his guests by Don Beltran. Then the cavalcade started, Pablo leading the bull, which followed him docilely, with long strides. The animal, ignorant as are the creatures of the four-footed race, with regard to his power over its enemy, man, was obedient to the slightest twitch of the rope, to which his better judgment made him amenable. The long rope was fastened to the ring in his pink and dripping nostrils. He stretched his thick legs in long and steady strides, avoiding knowingly the deeper pools which he had heretofore aided his kind to fashion in the plastic clay of the forest path.

Beltran rode as near his cousin as the path would allow. It was seldom, however, that they could ride abreast.

It was the southern spring, and flowers were beginning to bloom, but Felisa looked in vain for the tropical varieties which one ever associates with that region. The bull almost brushed his great sides against the tree trunks which outlined the sendica. When she was close enough Felisa stretched out her hand and plucked the blackened remains of a flower from the center of a tall plant. It had been scorched and dried by the sun of the summer that was passed. She thrust the withered stems into the bull's coarse hair, turned to Beltran, and laughed.

"If I remain long enough, there will be flowers of all colors, will there not, cousin? Flowers of blue and red and orange."

"You will remain, I hope, long after they have bloomed and died again," answered Beltran, gallantly.

They had not been riding long before Felisa sent forth from her lips an apprehensive scream. Beltran spurred his horse nearer.

"What is it, cousin? Is the _silla_ slipping?"

Felisa looked up from under her cloud of spun silk, and answered:

"No, I am wondering how I am to get round that great tree."

Beltran, to whom the path was as well known as his own veranda at San Isidro, had no cause to turn his eyes from the charming face at his side.

"Oh! the trunk of the old mahogany? That has lain across the path for years. Do not be afraid, little cousin. Roncador has surmounted that difficulty more times than I can remember."

They were now close upon the fallen trunk. Felisa closed her eyes and clutched at the bull's shaggy neck. She screamed faintly.

Pablo turned to the right and pulled at the leading rope, but the bull, with no apparent effort, stubborn only when he knew that he was in the right, turned to the left, and Pablo perforce followed. It was a case of the leader led. When Roncador had reached the point for which he had started, a bare place entirely denuded of branches, he lifted one thick foreleg over, then the other. The hind legs followed as easily, a slight humping of the great flanks, and the tree was left behind. Suddenly Felisa found that they were in the path again.

"Ze bull haave ze raight," commented Pablo. "Ah endeavo' taike de Señorit' roun' de tre'. Bull ain' come. He know de bes' nor me." Don Beltran leaped his horse over the tree trunk, and Don Noé was taken over pale and trembling, whether or no, the roan following Don Beltran's lead. Beltran smiled openly at Pablo's discomfiture, and somewhat secretly at Uncle Noé's fear.

"A good little animal, that roan, Uncle Noé. How does he suit you?" Uncle Noé looked up and endeavoured to appear at ease, releasing his too tight clutch on the bridle.

"Il est rigolo, bien rigolo!" said Don Noé, gaily, between jerks occasioned by the liveliness of the roan. He glanced sidewise at his nephew to see if the Paris argot which he had just imported had had any effect upon him. He owed Beltran something for his superior horsemanship. Beltran never having heard the new word, was, however, not willing to give Don Noé a modicum even of triumph. He was bending over, securing a buckle on his bridle. Without raising his figure, he answered, "C'est vrai, mon oncle, c'est tout à fait vrai, il est très, très rigolo."

"Très ha ha!" added Don Noé.

"Bien ha ha!" nodded Don Beltran, not to be left behind.

"What wretched French Beltran speaks!" said Don Noé to his daughter, later.

Uncle Noé belonged to that vast majority, the great army of the unemployed. He loved the gaieties of the world, the enjoyments that cities bring in their train. But sometimes nature calls a halt. Nature had whispered her warning in Don Noé's ear, and he at once had thought of the plantation of San Isidro as the place to rest from a too lavish expenditure of various sorts. He had come to this remote place for a purpose, but he yawned as they rode along.

Beltran, proud of the beauties of San Isidro, pointed out its chief features as they proceeded. He turned, and said, still in French, to please Uncle Noé, and perhaps to show him that even at San Isidro all were not savages:

"There is much to be proud of, Uncle Noé. It is not a small place, when one knows it all."

"C'est vrai," again acquiesced Uncle Noé. "A la campagne il y a toujours beaucoup d'espace, beaucoup de tranquillité, beaucoup de verdure, et--" The rest of the sentence was lost on Beltran, but was whispered in the pink ear of Felisa, who laughed merrily.

"At what is my cousin laughing?" asked Beltran, turning, with a pleased smile. Uncle Noé did not answer. The words with which he had finished his sentence were, "_et beaucoup d'ennui_."

"You wanted to come," said Felisa, still laughing.

"Did you ever see such a God-forsaken place?" returned her father. "I had really forgotten how bad it was. Look at those ragged grooms. Imagine them in the Champs Elysées!"

"There can be no question of the Champs Elysées. How stupid you are, papa."

"And down in this valley! Just think of putting a house--I say, Beltran, who ever thought of putting your house down here in the valley?"

"It was my mother's wish," said Beltran. "I suppose that it was a mistake, but the river was further away in those days. It has changed its course somewhat, and encroached upon the casa, but we have never had any serious trouble from it. I shall build a house on the hill next year. The foundations are already laid." Don Beltran had said this for some years past. "Not that I think that I shall ever need it. When we have floods, the water makes but a shallow lake. It is soon gone."

As they entered the broad camino, Felisa saw a man coming toward them. He was mounted upon a fine stallion; the glossy coat of the animal shone in the sun. The rider wore an apology for a hunting costume, which was old and frayed with use. The gun, slung carelessly across his shoulder, had the appearance of a friend who could be depended upon at short notice, and who had spent a long life in the service of his owner. The stock was indented and scratched, but polished as we polish with loving hands the mahogany table which belonged to our great-grandmother. The barrel shone with the faithfulness of excellent steel whose good qualities have been appreciated and cared for. The man was short and dark. As he passed he removed his old panama with a sweep. Beltran gave him a surly half-nod of recognition, so curt as to awaken surprise in the mind of Felisa. The contrast between the greetings of the two men was so great that her slits of eyes noticed and compared them.

"Who is that man, cousin?"

"Don Matéo Geredo."

"Why do you not speak to him?"

"I nodded," said Beltran.

"You did not return his salute. I am sure it was a very gracious one, cousin. Why did you not return his--"

"Because he is a brute," said Beltran, shortly.

Felisa had not been oblivious of the glance of admiration observable in the man's eyes as he passed her by.

"Jealous so soon," she thought, with that vanity which is ever the food of small minds. Aloud she said, "He seems to have a pleasant face, cousin."

"So others have thought," said Beltran, with an air which said that the subject was quite worn out, threadbare. Then, changing his tone, "See, there is the casa! Welcome to the plantation, my little cousin."

And thus chatting, they drew up at the steps of San Isidro.

Agueda came joyfully out to meet them. Ah! what was this? Where was the little child of whom she and Beltran had talked so much? Agueda had carefully dusted the little red cart. She had fastened a yellow ribbon in the place from which the tongue had long ago been wrenched by Beltran himself. The cart stood ready in the corner of the veranda, but Agueda did not bring it forward. She caught sight of a glitter of bracelets and rings against a snow-white skin, as Felisa was lifted down from the aparejo in her cousin's arms. Her lips moved unconsciously.

"The diamonds, not the playthings," was her verdict.

As Agueda came forward, the surprise that she felt was shown in her eyes. She bowed gravely to the Señorita, who condescended to her graciously.

"Shall I show the Señorita to her room?" asked Agueda of Beltran.

With that wonderful adaptability which is the inalienable inheritance of the American woman, Agueda had accepted in a moment the change from the expected child to the present Señorita. It is true that Agueda's mother, Nada, had been but a pretty, delicate octoroon, but Agueda's father had been a white gentleman (God save the mark!) from a northern state, and Nada's father a titled gentleman of old Spain. From these proud progenitors and the delicate women of their families had Agueda inherited the natural reserve, the refinement and delicacy which were so obvious to all with whom she came in contact. She inherited them just as certainly as if Nada had been a white woman of the purest descent, just as certainly as if the gentle Nada had been united in wedlock to the despoiler of her love and youth and life, George Waldon, for there ran in Agueda's veins a heritage of good old blood, which had made the daughters of the house of Waldon famous as pure and beautiful types of womanhood.