opposite Inez Rojas in a properly appointed drawing-room, guarded by a
properly appointed chaperon and with a cup of tea on his knee, the
situation struck him not only as delightful, but comic. With inward
amusement he thought of their other meetings: those before sunrise,
and the one by moonlight when Inez had told him he was seeing her for
the last time, and when policemen threatened his advance and sharks
cut off his retreat. From a smile in the eyes of the girl herself
Roddy guessed that she also found the meeting not without its humorous
side. Roddy soon discovered he could not adjust his feelings to the
exigencies of an afternoon call. After doing his duty as an adopted
uncle to the Broughton children and to his hostess and her tea and to
Peter, in permitting him ten minutes' talk with Inez, he brought that
interview to an abrupt end.
"Miss Rojas," he exclaimed, "you haven't seen Mrs. Broughton's garden
in two years, have you? Such a lot of things grow up in two years. Let
me introduce them to you."
Giving her no chance to demur, Roddy strode out of the French windows
into the garden, and, as Inez with an apologetic bow to the others
followed, Peter moved to a chair beside Mrs. Broughton and held out
his empty cup.
"There's a certain subtlety about Roddy's methods," he remarked, "that
would easily deceive the deaf, dumb and blind."
The garden was full of rare trees, plants and flowers brought from
every island of the Caribbean Sea, but Roddy did not pause to observe
them. He led the way to a bench under a cluster of young bamboo trees
and motioned to the girl to sit down. When she had done so he seated
himself sideways on the bench and gazed at her. His eyes were filled
with happiness.
"It's quite too wonderful to be true," he said contentedly.
Inez Rojas turned to the tropical splendor of the garden.
"Yes," she answered. "Everything grows so fast here. The change is
quite wonderful."
Roddy shook his head at her disappointedly.
"You mustn't do that," he reproved her gravely; "when you know what I
mean you mustn't pretend to think I mean something else. It's not
honest. And time is too short. To me--these moments are too
tremendously valuable. Every other time I have seen you I've had to
keep looking over my shoulder for spies. Even now," he exclaimed in
alarm, "those infernal Broughton children may find me and want to play
ride-a-cock-horse! So you see," he went on eagerly, "you must not
waste time misunderstanding me."
"Will you tell me about the tunnel?" asked the girl.
"The tunnel!" repeated Roddy blankly.
But he saw that her mind was occupied only with thoughts of her
father, and at once, briskly and clearly, he explained to her all that
had been accomplished, and all the plots and counter-plots that were
in the air.
"And how soon," asked the girl, "do you think it will be safe to enter
the tunnel?"
Roddy answered that McKildrick thought in two or three days it would
be clean of poisonous gases, but that that night they would again
attempt to explore it.
"If I could only help!" exclaimed Inez. "It is not fair that strangers
to my father should be taking a risk that should fall to one of his
children. It would mean so much, it would make me so happy, if I could
feel I had done any little thing for him. You cannot know how grateful
I am to you all, to your friends, and to you!" Her eyes opened wide in
sympathy. "And you were so ill," she exclaimed, "and the fever is so
likely to return. I do not see how it is possible for you to work at
night at El Morro and by day on the light-house and not break down. We
have no right to permit it."
"My health," explained Roddy dryly, "is in no danger from overwork. I
am not employed by the company any longer. If I like I can sleep all
day. I've discharged myself. I've lost my job."
"You have quarrelled with your father," said the girl quickly, "on
account of my father? You must not!" she exclaimed. "Indeed, we
cannot accept such a sacrifice."
"The misunderstanding with my father," Roddy assured her, "is one of
long standing. I've never made a success of what he's given me to do,
and this is only the last of a series of failures. You mustn't try to
make me out an unselfish person. I am sacrificing nothing. Rather, in
a way, I have gained my independence. At least, if I get a position
now, people can't say I obtained it through my father's influence. Of
course, it's awkward to be poor," added Roddy dispassionately,
"because I had meant to ask you to marry me."
With an exclamation the girl partly rose and then sank back,
retreating to the farthest limit of the bench.
"Mr. Forrester!" she began with spirit.
"I know what you're going to say," interrupted Roddy confidently. "But
I ought to tell you that that doesn't weigh with me at all. I never
could see," he exclaimed impatiently, "why, if you love a girl, the
fact that she is engaged should make any difference--do _you_? It is,
of course, an obstacle, but if you are the right man, and the other
man is not, it certainly is best for everybody that you should make
that plain to her before she marries the wrong man. In your case it
certainly has made no difference to me, and I mean to fight for you
until you turn back from the altar. Of course, when Vega told me you
were engaged to him it was a shock; but you must admit I didn't let it
worry me much. I told you as soon as I saw you that I loved you----"
The girl was looking at him so strangely that Roddy was forced to
pause.
"I beg your pardon!" he said.
The eyes of Inez were searching his closely. When she spoke her voice
was cold and even.
"Then it was Colonel Vega," she said, "who told you I was engaged to
him."
"Of course," said Roddy. "He told me the night we crossed from
Curacao."
Deep back in the serious, searching eyes Roddy thought that for an
instant he detected a smile, mischievous and mocking; but as he leaned
forward the eyes again grew grave and critical. With her head slightly
on one side and with her hands clasped on her knee, Inez regarded him
with curiosity.
"And that made no difference to you?" she asked.
"Why should it?" demanded Roddy. "A cat can look at a king; why may
not I look at the most wonderful and lovely----"
In the same even tones of one asking an abstract question the girl
interrupted him.
"But you must have known," she said, "that I would not engage myself
to any man unless I loved him. Or do you think that, like the women
here, I would marry as I was told?"
Roddy, not at all certain into what difficulties her questions were
leading him, answered with caution.
"No," he replied doubtfully, "I didn't exactly think that, either."
"Then," declared the girl, "you must have thought, no matter how much
I loved the man to whom I was engaged, that you could make me turn
from him."
Roddy held out his hands appealingly.
"Don't put it that way!" he begged. "I've never thought I was better
than any other man. I certainly never thought I was good enough for
you. All I'm sure of is that no man on earth can care for you more.
It's the best thing, the only big thing, that ever came into my life.
And now it's the only thing left. Yesterday I thought I was rich, and
I was glad because I had so much to offer you. But now that I've no
money at all, now that I'm the Disinherited One, it doesn't seem to
make any difference. At least, it would not to me. Because if I could
make you care as I care for you, it wouldn't make any difference to
you, either. No one on earth could love you more," pleaded Roddy. "I
know it. I feel it. There is nothing else so true! Other men may bring
other gifts, but 'Mine is the heart at your feet! He that hath more,'"
he challenged, "'let him give!' All I know," he whispered fiercely,
"is, that I _love_ you, I _love_ you, I _love_ you!"
He was so moved, he felt what he said so truly, it was for him such
happiness to speak, that his voice shook and, unknown to him, the
tears stood in his eyes. In answer, he saw the eyes of the girl
soften, her lips drew into a distracting and lovely line. Swiftly,
with an ineffable and gracious gesture, she stooped, and catching up
one of his hands held it for an instant against her cheek, and then,
springing to her feet, ran from him up the garden path to the house.
Astounded, jubilant, in utter disbelief of his own senses, Roddy sat
motionless. In dumb gratitude he gazed about him at the beautiful
sunlit garden, drinking in deep draughts of happiness.
So sure was he that in his present state of mind he could not again,
before the others, face Inez, that, like one in a dream, he stumbled
through the garden to the gate that opened on the street and so
returned home.
* * * * *
That night McKildrick gave him permission to enter the tunnel. The
gases had evaporated, and into the entrance the salt air of the sea
and the tropical sun had fought their way. The party consisted of
McKildrick, Peter and Roddy and, as the personal representative of
Inez, Pedro, who arrived on foot from the direction of the town.
"She, herself," he confided secretly to Roddy, "wished to come."
"She did!" exclaimed Roddy joyfully. "Why didn't she?"
"I told her your mind would be filled with more important matters,"
returned Pedro, seeking approval. "Was I not right?"
Roddy, whose mind was filled only with Inez and who still felt the
touch of her hand upon his, assented without enthusiasm.
McKildrick was for deciding by lot who should explore the underground
passage, but Roddy protested that that duty belonged to him alone.
With a rope around his waist, upon which he was to pull if he needed
aid, an electric torch and a revolver he entered the tunnel. It led
down and straight before him. The air was damp and chilly, but in
breathing he now found no difficulty. Nor, at first, was his path in
any way impeded. His torch showed him solid walls, white and
discolored, and in places dripping with water. But of the bats, ghosts
and vampires, for which Peter had cheerfully prepared him, there was
no sign. Instead, the only sounds that greeted his ears were the
reverberating echoes of his own footsteps. He could not tell how far
he had come, but the rope he dragged behind him was each moment
growing more irksome, and from this he judged he must be far advanced.
The tunnel now began to twist and turn sharply, and at one place he
found a shaft for light and ventilation that had once opened to the
sky. This had been closed with a gridiron of bars, upon which rested
loose stones roughly held together by cement. Some of these had fallen
through the bars and blocked his progress, and to advance it was
necessary to remove them. He stuck his torch in a crevice and untied
the rope. When he had cleared his way he left the rope where he had
dropped it. Freed of this impediment he was able to proceed more
quickly, and he soon found himself in that part of the tunnel that had
been cut through the solid rock and which he knew lay under the waters
of the harbor. The air here was less pure. His eyes began to smart
and his ears to suffer from the pressure. He knew he should turn back,
but until he had found the other end of the tunnel he was loth to do
so. Against his better judgment he hastened his footsteps; stumbling,
slipping, at times splashing in pools of water, he now ran forward. He
knew that he was losing strength, and that to regain the mouth of the
tunnel he would need all that was left to him. But he still pushed
forward. The air had now turned foul; his head and chest ached, as
when he had been long under water, and his legs were like lead. He was
just upon the point of abandoning his purpose when there rose before
him a solid wall. He staggered to it, and, leaning against it,
joyfully beat upon it with his fists. He knew that at last only a few
feet separated him from the man he had set out to save. So great was
his delight and so anxious was he that Rojas should share in it, that
without considering that no slight sound could penetrate the barrier,
he struck three times upon it with the butt of his revolver, and then,
choking and gasping like a drowning man, staggered back toward the
opening. Half-way he was met by McKildrick and Peter, who, finding no
pressure on the end of the rope, had drawn it to them and, fearing for
Roddy's safety, had come to his rescue. They gave him an arm each,
and the fresh air soon revived him. He told McKildrick what he had
seen, and from his description of the second wall the engineer
described how it should be opened.
"But without a confederate on the other side," he said, "we can do
nothing."
"Then," declared Roddy, "the time has come to enroll Vicenti in the
Honorable Order of the White Mice."
On their return to Roddy's house they sent for Vicenti, and Roddy,
having first forced him to subscribe to terrifying oaths, told the
secret of the tunnel.
Tears of genuine happiness came to the eyes of the amazed and
delighted Venezuelan. In his excitement he embraced Roddy and
protested that with such companions and in such a cause he would
gladly give his life. McKildrick assured him that when he learned of
the part he was to play in the rescue he would see that they had
already taken the liberty of accepting that sacrifice. It was
necessary, he explained, that the wall between the tunnel and the cell
should fall at the first blow. An attempt to slowly undermine it, or
to pick it to pieces, would be overheard and lead to discovery. He
therefore intended to rend the barrier apart by a single shock of
dynamite. But in this also there was danger; not to those in the
tunnel, who, knowing at what moment the mine was timed to explode,
could retreat to a safe distance, but to the man they wished to set
free. The problem, as McKildrick pointed it out, was to make the
charges of dynamite sufficiently strong to force a breach in the wall
through which Rojas could escape into the tunnel, and yet not so
strong as to throw the wall upon Rojas and any one who might be with
him.
"And I," cried Vicenti, "will be the one who will be with him!"
"Good!" said Roddy. "That's what we hoped. It will be your part, then,
to prepare General Rojas, to keep him away from the wall when we blow
it open, and to pass him through the breach to us. Everything will
have to be arranged beforehand. We can't signal through the wall or
they would hear it. We can only agree in advance as to the exact
moment it is to fall, and then trust that nothing will hang fire,
either on your side of the barrier or on ours."
"And after we get him into the tunnel!" warned Vicenti, as excited as
though the fact were already accomplished, "we must still fight for
his life. The explosion will bring every soldier in the fortress to
the cell, and they will follow us."
"There's several sharp turns in the tunnel," said McKildrick "and
behind one of them a man with a revolver could hold back the lot!"
"I speak to do that!" cried Roddy jealously. "I speak to be Horatius!"
"'And I will stand on thy right hand,'" declared Peter; "'and hold the
bridge with thee.' But you know, Roddy," he added earnestly, "you're
an awful bad shot. If you go shooting up that subway in the dark
you'll kill both of us. You'd better take a base-ball bat and swat
them as they come round the turn."
"And then," cried Roddy, springing to his feet, "we'll rush Rojas down
to the launch! And in twelve hours we'll land him safe in Curacao.
Heavens!" he exclaimed, "what a reception they'll give him!"
The cold and acid tones of McKildrick cast a sudden chill upon the
enthusiasm.
"Before we design the triumphal arches," he said, "suppose we first
get him out of prison."
When at last the conference came to an end and Vicenti rose to go,
Roddy declared himself too excited to sleep and volunteered to
accompany the doctor to his door. But the cause of his insomnia was
not General Rojas but the daughter of General Rojas, and what called
him forth into the moonlit Alameda was his need to think undisturbed
of Inez, and, before he slept, to wish "good-night" to the house that
sheltered her. In this vigil Roddy found a deep and melancholy
satisfaction. From where he sat on a stone bench in the black shadows
of the trees that arched the Alameda, Miramar, on the opposite side of
the street, rose before him. Its yellow walls now were white and
ghostlike. In the moonlight it glistened like a palace of frosted
silver. The palace was asleep, and in the garden not a leaf stirred.
The harbor breeze had died, and the great fronds of the palms, like
rigid and glittering sword-blades, were clear-cut against the stars.
The boulevard in which he sat stretched its great length, empty and
silent. And Miramar seemed a dream palace set in a dream world, a
world filled with strange, intangible people, intent on strange,
fantastic plots. To Roddy the father, who the day before had cast him
off, seemed unreal; the old man buried in a living sepulchre, and for
whom in a few hours he might lose his life, was unreal; as unreal as
the idea that he might lose his life. In all the little world about
him there was nothing real, nothing that counted, nothing living and
actual, save the girl asleep in the palace of frosted silver and his
love for her.
His love for her made the fact that he was without money, and with no
profession, talent or bread-and-butter knowledge that would serve to
keep even himself alive, a matter of no consequence. It made the
thought that Inez was promised to another man equally unimportant. The
only fact was his love for her, and of that he could not doubt the
outcome. He could not believe God had brought into his life such
happiness only to take it from him.
When he woke the next morning the necessity of seeing Inez again and
at once was imperative. Since she had left him the afternoon before,
in the garden of Mrs. Broughton, she had entirely occupied his
thoughts. Until he saw her he could enjoy no peace. Against the
circumstances that kept them apart he chafed and rebelled. He
considered it would be some comfort, at least, to revisit the spot
where he last had spoken with her, and where from pity or a desire to
spare him she had let him tell her he loved her.
The unusual moment at which he made his call did not seem to surprise
Mrs. Broughton. It was almost as though she were expecting him.
"My reason for coming at this absurd hour," began Roddy in some
embarrassment, "is to apologize for running away yesterday without
wishing you 'good-by.' I suddenly remembered----"
The young matron stopped him with a frown.
"I am disappointed, Roddy," she interrupted, "and hurt. If you
distrust me, if you won't confide in an old friend no matter how much
she may wish to help you, she can only----"
"Oh!" cried Roddy abjectly, casting aside all subterfuge, "_will_ you
help me? Please, Mrs. Broughton!" he begged. "_Dear_ Mrs. Broughton!
Fix it so I can see her. I am _so_ miserable," he pleaded, "and I am
so happy."
With the joyful light of the match-maker who sees her plans proceeding
to success Mrs. Broughton beamed upon him.
"By a strange coincidence," she began, in tones tantalizingly slow, "a
usually proud and haughty young person condescended to come to me this
morning for advice. _She_ doesn't distrust me. She believes----"
"And what did you advise?" begged Roddy.
"I advised her to wait in the garden until I sent a note telling
you----"
Already Roddy was at the door.
"What part of the garden?" he shouted. "Never mind!" he cried in
alarm, lest Mrs. Broughton should volunteer to guide him. "Don't
bother to show me; I can find her."
Mrs. Broughton went into the Consulate and complained to her husband.
"It makes Roddy so selfish," she protested.
"What did you think he'd do?" demanded Broughton--"ask you to go with
him? You forget Roddy comes from your own happy country where no
chaperon is expected to do her duty."
Inez was standing by the bench at which they had parted. Above her and
around her the feathery leaves of the bamboo trees whispered and
shivered, shading her in a canopy of delicate sun-streaked green.
Like a man who gains the solid earth after a strenuous struggle in the
waves, Roddy gave a deep sigh of content.
"It has been so hard," he said simply. "It's been so long! I have been
parched, starved for a sight of you!"
At other times when they had been together the eyes of the girl always
looked into his steadily or curiously. Now they were elusive, shy,
glowing with a new radiance. They avoided him and smiled upon the
beautiful sun-steeped garden as though sharing some hidden and happy
secret.
"I sent for you," she began, "to tell you----"
Roddy shook his head emphatically.
"You didn't send for me," he said. "I came of my own accord. Last
night you didn't send for me either, but all through the night I sat
outside your house. This morning I am here because this is where I
last saw you. And I find _you_. It's a sign! I thought my heart led me
here, but I think now it was the gods! They are on my side. They fight
for me. Why do you try to fight against the gods?"
His voice was very low, very tender. He bent forward, and the girl,
still avoiding his eyes, sank back upon the bench, and Roddy, seating
himself, leaned over her.
"Remember!" he whispered, "though the mills of the gods grind slow,
they grind exceeding fine. The day is coming when you will never have
to send for me again. You cannot escape it, or me. I am sorry--but I
have come into your life--to stay!"
The girl breathed quickly, and, as though casting off the spell of his
voice and the feeling it carried with it, suddenly threw out her hands
and, turning quickly, faced him.
"I must tell you what makes it so hard," she said, "why I must not
listen to you. It is this. I must not think of myself. I must not
think of you, except--" She paused, and then added, slowly and
defiantly--"as the one person who can save my father! Do you
understand? Do I make it plain? I am _making use_ of you. I have led
you on. I have kept you near me, for his sake. I am sacrificing
you--for him!" Her voice was trembling, miserable. With her clenched
fist she beat upon her knee. "I had to tell you," she murmured, "I had
to tell you! I had to remember," she protested fiercely, "that I am
nothing, that I have no life of my own. Until he is free I do not
exist. I am not a girl to love, or to listen to love. I can be only
the daughter of the dear, great soul who, without you, may die. And
all you can be to me is the man who can save him!" She raised her
eyes, unhappily, appealingly. "Even if you despised me," she
whispered, "I had to tell you."
Roddy's eyes were as miserable as her own. He reached out his arms to
her, as though he would shelter her from herself and from the whole
world.
"But, my dear one, my wonderful one," he cried, "can't you see that's
only morbid, only wicked? _You_ led _me_ on?" he cried. He laughed
jubilantly, happily. "Did I _need_ leading? Didn't I love you from the
first moment you rode toward me out of the sunrise, bringing the day
with you? How could I help but love you? You've done nothing to make
me love you; you've only been the most glorious, the most beautiful
woman----"
At a sign from the girl he stopped obediently.
"Can't I love you," he demanded, "and work for your father the more,
because I love you?"
The girl sat suddenly erect and clasped her hands. Her shoulders moved
slightly, as though with sudden cold.
"It frightens me!" she whispered. "Before you came I thought of him
always, and nothing else, only of him. I dreamed of him; terrible,
haunting dreams. Each day I prayed and worked for him. And then--" she
paused, and, as though seeking help to continue, looked appealingly
into Roddy's eyes. Her own were uncertain, troubled, filled with
distress. "And then you came," she said. "And now I find I think of
you. It is disloyal, wicked! I forget how much he suffers. I forget
even how much I love him. I want only to listen to you. All the
sorrow, all the misery of these last two years seems to slip from me.
I find it doesn't matter, that nothing matters. I am only happy,
foolishly, without reason, happy!"
In his gratitude, in his own happiness, Roddy reached out his hand.
But Inez drew her own away, and with her chin resting upon it, and
with her elbow on her knee, sat staring ahead of her.
"And I find this!" she whispered guiltily, like one at confession. "I
find I hate to spare you for this work. Three weeks ago, when you left
Curacao, I thought a man could not risk his life in a nobler cause
than the one for which you were risking yours. It seemed to me a
duty--a splendid duty. But now, I am afraid--for you. I knew it first
the night you swam from me across the harbor, and I followed you with
my eyes, watching and waiting for you to sink and die. And I prayed
for you then; and suddenly, as I prayed, I found it was not you for
whom I was praying, but for myself, for my own happiness. That I
wanted you to live--for me!"
The girl sprang to her feet, and Roddy rose with her, and they stood
facing each other.