On July 17, 1898, United States troops marched into and took possession
of the city of Santiago, thereby completing the assurance of
independence to Cuba.
On that auspicious day Ruth Wakefield closed her temporary hospital and
turned over to its new owner the little cottage which she had built to
shelter her small family during her stay near Santiago; with tears of
joy as well as sorrow, she had said good-bye to Estrella and her
new-found relatives who were about to return to the home of the latter;
Father Felix had decided to return to his little flock at San Domingo as
he felt that his work with the army was finished, so that, in his
company and with old Mage and Tid-i-wats safely ensconced near to her,
she sailed upon the first steamer going toward Havana after there was no
longer need of her help among the American soldiers.
It was with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow that she left the scene
of her recent activities ... she was carrying with her many sad memories
of heroism and of suffering borne with patriotic patience ... her heart
was heavy when she reflected upon the horrors she had witnessed, but
her spirit was loyal to the sacred cause for which so many splendid
lives had been sacrificed ... she could see, with prophetic vision, a
happy and prosperous race of people taking the place of the down-trodden
and pitiful company of cowering peasants with which she had been all too
familiar ... it seemed to her that she could see the smiling faces of
many happy children crowding along the narrow streets of the small
villages of Cuba ... it seemed to her that she could almost hear old men
relating the long-past horrors that had been common under the iron heel
of the Spanish oppressor ... relating these remembered facts to those
who shook their heads, half doubtingly, as they listened to them.
Ruth herself, was looking forward with bright anticipation to her return
to her own beloved home ... dear to her, not only because of its
intrinsic attractiveness, but also because of the precious memories it
held of her parents whom she constantly mourned for and kept alive
within her loving heart; for so it is, as I believe, that those who are
beyond the earth yet live among us who are yet in human form; I think
that those who are made welcome in the hearts of men and women continue,
often, their stay within the circle of humanity; so long as mortals
remember and long for them, so long will they care to wander among the
hills and mountains and along the pleasant valleys and by the oceans
and the rivers of the earth; if they should be forgotten by all
humanity, it does not seem to me that they would often wish to look upon
the moonlight or the sunlight of our world; if nowhere in our world
their spirits could find a resting-place, it seems to me they would not
care to stray among mortal men and women.
Freed souls, as I believe, are not compelled to associate with those who
are uncongenial to them; they do not have to yield their finest taste
and dearest wishes, as so many mortals do, to what is far beneath
them ... far beneath their inner consciousness of right and wrong. They
do not, as I hope, just because they made some sad mistake, go on
suffering for dreary years, as many women have, because they saw no way
of sure release except through death itself.
It is a pitiful but well-established fact that many wives and mothers
have borne long years of martyrdom because, in their first youth, they
made unfortunate matrimonial alliances.
There are so very many ways to put on binding-chains in human life;
there are so many changes common to most mortals, steadfastness and
truth are such rare qualities, that I sometimes wonder how men and women
manage even as well as they do.
Sometimes, we criticize our fellow-men and fellow-women pretty harshly,
but, then, perhaps, we only see one side, and if we could look down from
some great height, perhaps we, then, would marvel that they do as well
as they do, now, with human life.
There have been those who honestly expected that, when they would leave
their earthly tenements, they would go to sleep, when they had gone
across the unknown river that they knew as death's cold stream, and,
maybe, sleep a thousand years or so; they must have dreaded that last,
long sleep, especially if they, as might have happened, had never been
very sound or very quiet sleepers ... if they had always seemed to be on
guard and wakened at the slightest unfamiliar sound ... the thought that
they would just lie silently within the narrow grave they must have
known it was intended they should be put in must have been a most
unpleasant one; they must have edged around it all they could and seldom
mentioned it to anyone around them, and, yet, that horrid thought ...
that last, long sleep ... must have, often, been present in their waking
thoughts, and must have, even, sometimes, haunted them in their dreams.
But I believe that we go right on living when we leave the earth-plane;
I believe that most of us will be wide awake and conscious from the very
start of that larger life that we will, then, begin to live. I hope that
we will find that we do not have to sleep at all unless we choose to do
so.
Ruth Wakefield kept the memories of her parents in her heart and so she
always had them with her where she went, and, now, that she was going
back where they and she had spent so very many happy years together, it
was natural that she should think of them even more than common; a
feeling of deep sadness stole across her mind whenever she reflected on
her parents and their home, somehow; she could not account for this at
all ... she could not satisfy herself that she had any real reason for
this feeling of sadness ... but it would creep over her in spite of her
efforts to banish it from her mind; old Mage felt this and tried to
cheer her dear young lady up ... little Tid-i-wats felt it and rubbed
against her lovingly and purred her little happy song of comfort and
content ... and, yet, Ruth Wakefield dreaded, while she longed for, her
own home, and, as the vessel they were on drew near to Havana, this
feeling of unaccountable sadness deepened with the girl ... she drew her
breath in sharply and a deep and heart-felt sigh broke from her lips as
they reached the landing-place and left the wild and treacherous waters
far behind them.
Father Felix wondered if this evident sadness and dread were due, in
part, to the experiences through which they had both passed, and also,
the thought of the man whom Ruth had married surreptitiously would often
cross the mind of the good Priest, for he knew well she often must
remember him and his dashing, dark and manly beauty; old Mage almost
cursed him in her fierce old heart when she noticed that Ruth was sad
although she'd always been so glad to come back home.
"It's that fellow's fault!" she grumbled to herself. "It's all his
fault ... I hope he's good and dead by this time! I'm sure I'd help to
make him so, most willingly! What did he want to come into her young
life and almost ruin it for? The low-lived pup!"
They started out, as dusk was falling, the day they reached Havana, to
go to San Domingo, and, then, home; Father Felix went with them as far
as his refectory, and there he bade them a cheerful good-bye and said
he'd come up, soon, and see them in their home again.
Ruth, somehow, feared to say good-bye to the good Priest and kept his
hand in hers much longer than was her wont with any man ... he was a
bulwark for anyone who clung to him for strength ... his was a nature
strong and good and clean and kind.... Ruth felt this more than usually,
that evening, and dreaded to go on without him; he noticed this strange
mood in her and said with cheery acquiescence:
"Perhaps I'd better go on up the hill with you, my Daughter. I can as
well as not. No one awaits me except my little choir-boys and they have
managed a long time without me. If you will wait a moment while I look
about a bit, I'll just go on up with you and see you nicely settled in
your own old place and then I'll come back here and settle down
myself."
Suiting his actions to his words, the good Priest looked around and
climbed the hill with Ruth and her small retinue; the path seemed so
familiar with the shadows falling all around it, that she laughed and
said to Father Felix:
"I am a coward, after all ... afraid of friendly wind-mills like Don
Quixote ... having had to do so much with Spaniards may have made me
like them in some degree at least.... I wonder if Cervantes was afraid,
himself, of things that no one ought to be afraid of! I wonder if Sancho
Panza was afraid, too ... was Rozinante...."
And, then, she stopped, for they had reached what had been, once, the
outer gate of her palatial residence; there was no gate there ... there
was no residence ... there was no life there ... it was the tomb of hope
and home for her; the dwelling had been razed completely ... in its
stead were only smouldering ruins ... all her precious memories ... her
visible and tangible reminders of her parents ... had been swept
away ... she had paid an awful price for helping those who needed help
from her.
Father Felix stood beside her with his hand upon her shoulder ... he
could not say a word of consolation or of any sort of help ... he was
dumbfounded by it all; old Mage sunk down upon the ground and wept, and
Tid-i-wats came close to Ruth and rubbed against her garments; stooping,
then, she picked her little pet up and held her closely clasped within
her sheltering arms; then she went to her old nurse and said to her:
"Do not despair, my dear old Friend. God will provide for us, some way.
This is a dreadful thing, but we must make the very best of it that we
can possibly. I will try to think of some way whereby we may be
sheltered for this one night that is before us and then I hope to find
some way to rebuild a portion of the residence we used to have here on
this blessed spot. Let's bear this, dear old Friend. Let's think we gave
our home to save this country for the people who inhabit it and may
their homes be just as full of peace and comfort and joy and gladness as
this one that is gone has been for all who came beneath its friendly
roof."
The Father Felix stood beside her and said:
"My Daughter, come with me; I'll house you all for this one night at
least; I'll find a way tomorrow, somehow, for you, so that you may go on
in the path that you were meant to walk in. My Daughter, let us pray for
guidance in this unexpected sorrow. Let us pray."
They knelt there underneath the friendly stars and the good Priest
prayed, earnestly:
"Dear, kind and loving Father," then he said, "look down upon us as we
kneel before Thee, here; direct us with Thy holy Wisdom, for we falter
and are cast down with the burden of this day. Direct the feet of her
who has been sorely stricken, here, tonight; direct her feet so that she
may go on upon the path that Thou hast pointed out to her. Help her to
go on with courage and devotion to the cause for which she has made this
great and almost overpowering sacrifice. Help her to show in all her
acts, henceforth, the same sweet resignation to Thy Will that she has
shown so far. And help me, Father, help Thy humble servant who is but
feeble and who often fails in doing all he should for Thee and for Thy
children, help Thy humble and most unworthy servant to stand as if he
were a pillar, so that she may lean upon him if her courage falters, or
if she should stumble or grow weak in walking in the path that she was
meant by Thee to walk upon. Look down in mercy on Thy servants as we
kneel before Thee here. Amen."
Tid-i-wats endured this, patiently, until he went beyond the common run
of prayers for him when they had been together, then she squirmed and
twisted in Ruth's arms, and, finally, escaped her altogether; then old
Mage corraled her and the two of them had quite a little conversation on
the side:
"You naughty little thing! You must behave yourself and be a nice little
lady. Can't you see what's happened to us without making us a lot of
trouble, too?"
And Tid-i-wats said, plainly:
"I'll do just as I please, you mean old thing you! Don't you _dare_ to
hold me when I want to get away! I'll show you what my claws will do to
you, old Mage! You let me go this minute!"
Then she used some language only known to cats and those who know the
devious ways of little petted cats.
Then Ruth turned to her and whispered:
"Little Dadditts! Little Tid-i-wats! Be a nice lady, now ... be a very
nice little lady, now. Dadditts ... little bit of Dadditts...."
Then she held her close and tried to comfort her and gain some comfort
for herself, but her tears would come to think how happy they had always
or most always been in that fine home which seemed so much a part of
life to Ruth that, now that it was gone from her, life seemed a sordid
and a sorry thing.
But she went with Father Felix, quietly, to the refectory and there they
all found comfort and refreshment, for the good Priest always had
prepared himself to entertain some unexpected guests, and, with
returning security and peace, his parishioners had brought some supplies
to welcome him on his return; so they fared quite well considering what
had met them when they reached the place where Ruth had thought to find
rest from her arduous toil; instead, she had to meet renewed unrest and
many problems to be solved in her near future.