THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT.
“Whoa, Rozinante! If thou art as weary of this road as I, good beast, a
rest will not go against thy grain, or grass. What say you to a halt of
half an hour within the shade of this royal palm?”
It is the afternoon of the third day since Ashley’s return to Santiago,
and, having parted with Don Carlos and the escorting party on the edge
of Santos, this is the first opportunity Jack has had to ride out to La
Quinta de Quesada and pay his respects to Don Manuel’s beautiful
daughter; for the last three days have been busy ones for the newspaper
man. Truenos has arrived with his fleet from Havana, and the next week
promises to be big with the fate of Cuba Libre.
Ashley left Santiago an hour ago, and at the rate he has been
traveling—the heat precludes a gait faster than a moderate amble—he
judges that he has covered three of the four miles to Santos.
Hitching the amiable Rozinante, he throws himself upon the turf beneath
the foliage-massed branches of the royal palm, and lights a cigar; as he
smokes he grows thoughtful. And from rumination he drifts into
moralizing, addressing himself to Rozinante.
“Look here, Rozinante; if you have any horse sense that you’re not using
you might assist your master to extricate himself from somewhat of a
quandary. As you know, I came to Cuba principally on business for my
paper, incidentally to trail down a murder mystery and again
incidentally to follow a fair face belonging to the beautiful Louise
Hathaway. A good many chaps in my place would have fallen hopelessly in
love with Miss Hathaway at first sight, but I—well, that is not the
cause of my quandary. If it were, I could easily dismiss it with a
philosophical ‘there is no accounting for the tastes of most women.’ Ah,
no, Rozinante; it is something far more serious; for what I want to ask
you, Rozinante, is whether you believe that I, in my old age, have been
so indiscreet as to fall in love?”
But Rozinante, being a well-bred equine, declines to poke his nose into
young people’s affairs and continues his grass-cropping.
“See how the case stands, Rozinante,” continues Jack, tossing a pebble
at his four-footed companion to enforce attention. “On the one hand is
the Senorita Juanita de Quesada, the acknowledged Pearl of the Antilles,
the adored of all the beaux in Santiago; Juanita, the beautiful, the
accomplished, and the only child of the wealthy and elderly Don Manuel
de Quesada, who is likely to become the president de facto of this
cheerful country if the yellow fever continues to wilt the imported
flower of the chivalry of Spain. On the other hand, Rozinante, look at
me.”
At this moment Rozinante lifts his head and blinks comically at Ashley,
who grins back in the best of humors.
“Oh, I know what you are thinking about, Rozinante. You are saying to
yourself: ‘What a presumptuous fellow! But he is just like all
Americans.’ Well, you are not far from right, Rozzy. We Americans are a
bit fresh. But that is a digression. To return to our subject, which is
the always agreeable one of myself. Now, I am not a bad-looking chap.
You can see that, Roz, with one eye. And I am fairly bright and all
that. But hang it! I haven’t a bank account bigger than three figures,
and it will require nerve, my grass-eating friend, to step up to the
wealthy Don Quesada and say: ‘Don, old boy, I love your daughter. May I
ask your blessing?’ No one ever accused me of lacking in nerve, but have
I enough to supply the demand of such an occasion? Of course, if Don
Quesada becomes president of the republic of Cuba, and makes me his
cabinet-premier, I might buy a sugar plantation and become enormously
wealthy. But that, Rozinante, as you are probably aware, is a
twenty-to-one shot.
“The most perplexing feature of the whole affair is the fact that I have
no good reason to suppose that the dark-eyed Juanita returns in the
slightest degree the deep interest which I feel in her personal welfare.
I know that she likes me—why shouldn’t she?—but her maidenly reserve I
do not seem to be able to successfully penetrate. Again, my equine
friend, I am not so certain that she is not hopelessly in love with that
effeminate, downy-cheeked, pink-and-white and milk-and-water Don Carlos.
And how any woman can—But, pshaw! What is the use in quarreling with the
chap? And what is the use of my lounging longer here, talking at an
unappreciative audience? Ah, Juanita, if you would but encourage me a
bit I would soon solve my perplexity. Just a draught from this spring
back in the bushes, Rozinante, and then we will jog along toward
Santos.”
As Ashley bends over the spring the grating of carriage wheels sounds in
the road.
A volante flashes by at what seems reckless speed; but the Cuban volante
cannot upset. Two ladies are in the vehicle, and as they sweep by they
glance curiously at the tethered horse. An instant later they are gone,
and the young man who emerges hastily from the bushes and looks down the
dust-veiled road emits a long, low whistle.
“Juanita! And unless my usually correct vision is deceived, her
companion is my old friend Isabel Harding. The dove and the serpent!
What the deuce is the meaning of this unholy intimacy? By heaven,
Rozinante,” mutters Ashley, as he untethers his horse and vaults into
the saddle, “the presence of Isabel Harding at Santos augurs no good to
the house of Quesada. Don Manuel must be warned at once.” And kicking
Rozinante’s ample sides Ashley forces that amiable beast into a violent
canter.
The remainder of the journey is quickly covered, and as Jack reins up at
La Quinta de Quesada, Don Manuel comes out and greets him cordially.
“Welcome, Senor Ashley. You are quite a stranger. We had begun to fear
that the Spanish press censors had suppressed you.” Then, dropping his
voice to a cautious undertone: “Any news from the field?”
“Yes, and rather good news. It is reported in Santiago that your yacht,
the Pearl of the Antilles, engaged a Spanish ship of war yesterday, and
that El Terredo, after lying alongside, fought a desperate and winning
battle on the decks of the enemy’s vessel.”
“Bueno!” Don Quesada’s eyes light up with pleasure. “Ah, Senor Ashley,
there is a fighter after your own American heart. If we had a thousand
such men we should drive the Spanish into the sea and off our loved
island forever.”
“I was passed on the road from Santiago by your daughter,” remarks Jack,
as he sits down in front of a brimming glass. “Will she be absent long?”
“For the entire evening. Surely you have not overlooked the grand ball
to be given to-night by the new captain-general; a gathering of beauty
and of chivalry, to express his supreme contempt of the insignificance
of the Cuban cause,” says Don Quesada, with faint irony.
“By Jove! I had overlooked it. The senorita was accompanied by another
lady. May I inquire her name?”
“Certainly. She is Mrs. Isabel Harding.”
“I thought so,” mutters Jack. Then:
“What is her business here?”
“Mrs. Harding is my guest,” replies Don Quesada, rather curtly.
“She has been here long?”
“About ten days.”
Jack stares and bites his cigar viciously. “You will pardon my
questioning, Don Quesada. Believe me, I am not actuated by idle
curiosity.”
The Don bows and Jack leans over and asks, earnestly:
“During Mrs. Harding’s stay here has she learned anything that would
lead her to suspect that you are identified with the movement to free
Cuba?”
“Naturally. She is one of us,” replies the Don, dryly.
“One of us!” repeats Jack, in astonishment.
“Yes. An American, like yourself; she is an enthusiastic adherent of the
Cuban cause and is enabled to do us much service.”
“Then you have trusted her with some secrets?”
“She is at this moment the bearer of important dispatches to Captain
Francisco Guerra.”
“Great Scott!” Jack jumps to his feet. Don Quesada rises with him and
demands:
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I believe Mrs. Harding to be a spy in the employ of the
Spanish government, and that you have signed and given into her hands
your own death warrant and the utter ruin of your friends!”
It is a cruel blow. Don Quesada staggers under it and sinks helplessly
into his chair. Jack pours him out a draught of wine and then paces to
and fro on the veranda, his active mind intent on some path of escape
from the desperate situation.
“At what hour does the ball begin?” he demands.
“At eight, I believe,” replies Don Quesada, faintly. He is completely
crushed.
“It is now nearly six,” muses Jack, glancing at his watch. “And Guerra?
Where was he to receive the dispatches?”
“At the ball.”
“Quick! Pen and paper,” requests Jack. And as Don Quesada hurries away
to comply the young man murmurs: “There is only one chance in a
thousand, but I must take it.”
When the stationery is brought Jack inquires: “In what form were the
dispatches sent?”
“In a plain envelope, such as you have there.”
“Good.” Jack writes hurriedly a few moments, passes what he has written
over to Don Quesada, and commanding simply, “Copy that,” busies himself
over another letter.
Don Quesada follows the directions without question, but as he writes a
little of hope comes into his pale face, and he looks admiringly at
Jack, with the remark: “Can you do it?”
“Quien sabe? It’s a desperate chance.” Jack glances approvingly at the
letter which the Don has sealed, places it in his pocket and then
addresses and seals the second letter, which he gives to the Cuban
president.
“You must leave here at once. Where is Don Carlos?”
“He is here.”
“He must accompany you. You must make your way with all haste as
secretly as possible to Santiago and go aboard the United States cruiser
America. This letter will explain all, and make you welcome. Once under
the stars and stripes you will be safe when the storm breaks.”
“But my daughter!” cries the Don, suddenly recollecting the beautiful
Pearl of the Antilles. Jack’s eyes grow tender, and, gripping the older
man by the hand, he says proudly, as their eyes meet.
“Don Quesada, I love your daughter. I will answer for her safety with my
life. And now, I’m off. Remember—to Santiago at once. Adios!”
And without waiting to ascertain how his declaration of love affects the
father of his loved one, Jack springs into the saddle and clatters away.
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