AT BAY IN THE CONSUL’S HOUSE.
“There is something very odd in Mr. Van Zandt’s actions,” remarks Miss
Hathaway, as she and Mr. Felton follow the winding trail down the
hillside to the sea. The latter offers no explanation. He has aged
fearfully in the last half-hour, and it is now a bowed, feeble, old man
whom his companion more than once has to assist over the obstacles in
their rough path.
“To the consul’s. To the consul’s,” is all he says, and the journey is
finished in silence.
The residence of William Atwood, United States consul, is situated about
two hundred yards back from the shore, about a half a mile below the
mole at Santiago. The nearest neighbor is a quarter of a mile away,
toward the city. It is a plain, square, two-storied structure. A broad
veranda fronts both stories and ivy very nearly conceals three of the
walls of the building. An innovation, to the Cuban view absurd, is an
electric door bell, put in by the consul himself. It is this bell that
Mr. Felton presses, with the remark: “I begin to feel at home already.”
The summons are answered by a porter who tells them that the consul is
gone.
“Gone? Gone where?” demands Mr. Felton, with a start of uneasiness that
is inexplicable to Miss Hathaway.
The consul is at the city. Where, quien sabe? Probably at his office in
the city.
“We can do nothing except await his return or the arrival of Mr. Van
Zandt,” Louise says, as they step into the hall.
At the right of the entrance is the library. On the desk is pen and
paper, and here Cyrus Felton seats himself and writes, while Louise
stands in the doorway and watches him with troubled eyes.
Suddenly she hears the sound of footsteps hurrying up the walk. The door
is thrown open, and Van Zandt, breathing hard from the exertion of his
run, stands before her.
“Thank God, you are safe!” he cries, fervently.
“What danger threatens?” asks Louise, laying one hand upon Van Zandt’s
arm.
For answer he leads the way out upon the veranda. “Look!” he says; and
Miss Hathaway beholds the Semiramis, resting quietly upon the still
bosom of the bay.
“We must reach that yacht, or I fear we may not leave Cuba alive!” he
tells her.
Louise gazes at him in questioning dismay.
“Ah, there comes the enemy,” says Van Zandt, pointing up the beach
toward the city. A small troop of horsemen is approaching at a lively
canter.
“What is all this mystery? Why do you fear those men?” asks Louise, as
they re-enter the house.
“It is not for myself that I tremble,” replies Van Zandt, who is
critically examining his pistols.
“Then it is I whom they seek. Your silence answers yes,” says Louise
quietly. She is very white, but her voice does not tremble. Like a true
heroine she has grown calm in the face of danger.
“By heaven!” Van Zandt bursts forth; “my life stands between you and
those Spanish devils, and gladly do I place it there. As for you,”
turning to Cyrus Felton, who has risen from the library table and stands
near them, “I would not lift a finger to save your worthless existence.
For the wrongs which I have suffered, for the misery which you and your
son have caused me, I meant to have exacted a bitter reparation, but
fate has otherwise decreed. Ah, you know me!”
“Spare me your reproaches,” says the old man, lifting his hand in
protest. “I know you. You are Ernest Stanley. What I have dreaded, yet
for nearly a year expected, has come at last. My sin has found me out.”
“Ah, that it has. But you are safe from my hands now, and maybe from
that of the law before this day is ended. Out of the way, unless you
wish your miserable life cut short by a Spanish bullet. Miss Hathaway, I
must ask you to step into the library, as our visitors have arrived.”
And, throwing open the door, Van Zandt stands upon the threshold,
waiting.
Lieutenant Sanchez and his men rein their horses within a dozen paces of
the house. The leader dismounts and comes leisurely up the walk,
apparently oblivious of the presence of Van Zandt, whose watchful eyes
are covering every movement of the scoundrelly band.
“One moment,” commands the American, holding up his hand. But the
Spaniard pays not the slightest attention.
“Halt!”
This time Sanchez pauses and strokes his mustachios with exasperating
calmness. “I would advise the senor to make no opposition if he values
his life,” he says.
“What is your errand here?”
“The American senorita, to whom I am indebted for this token.” Sanchez
indicates the long, dull-red scratch upon his unamiable visage. “I have
no time or inclination to parley with you, senor. Out of the way, or I
shall order my men to fire upon you.” The troopers half-raise their
carbines.
Van Zandt tears down a worn edition of the stars and stripes that decks
the wall above his head, and as he throws it across his breast and
shoulder his voice rings out defiantly:
“Fire upon the American flag, if you dare!”
The answer is a volley that splinters the woodwork about him and brings
down the glass above the door in a shower. Van Zandt feels a sharp
twinge in his left arm, and with an exclamation of rage and pain he
lifts his revolver and fires.
Lieutenant Sanchez falls dead in his tracks and there is an instant
scattering out of range on the part of his followers.
As Van Zandt closes the door and slips the bolt he turns to see Cyrus
Felton lying upon the floor, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in
his side.
“Fool! I cautioned him to keep out of range,” he exclaims, as he bends
over the old man.
“Is he badly hurt?” asks the voice of Louise.
“I fear so. We must retreat upstairs, as we may expect an assault at any
instant. Quick!”
As Louise ascends to the floor above, Van Zandt follows with his
unconscious burden. In the rear room is a sofa, and upon this Mr. Felton
is laid.
“I have but a few minutes to live. Forgive me,” he gasps.
“God may forgive you,” replies Van Zandt, turning bitterly away. Louise
takes his hand in hers.
“Surely, Mr. Van Zandt, you can forgive the past in this awful moment,”
she says, softly. “Remember, he was a father and he loved his son.”
At the contact of that little hand Van Zandt feels a thrill creep over
him.
“You know now who I am,” he says, dully. The blue eyes meet the dark
ones unwaveringly.
“I know that I believe in your innocence and that I trust you,” is the
quiet response. “Listen, he is speaking again.” They bend their heads to
catch the sinking man’s last words.
“In my—coat—papers,” gasps Mr. Felton, with his fast-glazing eyes fixed
on Van Zandt. “They—will—clear—your—name,” he finishes and sinks back,
exhausted by his effort.
“Cyrus Felton,” says Van Zandt, gravely, “if any forgiveness of mine
will afford you an iota of comfort on your journey to the other world,
it is yours.”
The dying man acknowledges the absolution with a glance. An instant
later his spirit passes to his Maker, to be judged by his deeds in this
world of sorrow and sin, of hope and happiness.
* * * * *
Again the Cafe de Almendras. The boisterous troopers are gone and in
their place a dozen or so quiet-appearing men in civilian dress are
grouped about the tables, drinking little and talking less.
It has been a noisy day, the patron tells a tall man with black eyes and
fierce mustachios, who lounges in the doorway and sweeps the street with
his keen gaze.
But the tall man heeds not the chatter of the patron; his gaze is fixed
curiously upon an approaching soldier, who bears across his shoulder the
limp form of a man in the uniform of a Spanish captain. The face of the
latter is hidden.
Barker brushes by into the cafe with the body of Ralph Felton, and meets
the contemptuous glance of the tall man with a searching look that the
latter does not fancy.
“Ho, there, patron! A room and a doctor at once!” orders the detective,
and he gives the patron a handful of coin and effectually silences his
grumbling protest about making a hospital of the place.
Having deposited his burden above stairs, Barker returns to the
drinking-room and astonishes the tall man with the black eyes by tapping
him on the shoulder and remarking:
“I think I have met you before.”
“The mischief you have!” is the curt rejoinder.
“Now I am sure of it,” grins Barker. “Your voice has not changed, but
your mustachios do not fit you. Pardon me,” he adds, just in season to
prevent an outbreak, “I am indebted to you for this slash,” indicating
the scar across his forehead, “but I do not lay up any hard feelings.
I’ll call it quits if you will lend some friends of mine a helping hand.
I have got my hands full upstairs. Listen.” Barker briefly recounts the
episodes narrated in the previous chapter.
As the tall man listens his brow grows black as night, and when the tale
is finished his voice rings through the cafe in a sharp command:
“Haste, my comrades! To the American consul’s to save my friends!”
The quiet-appearing civilians about the tables leap to their feet as one
man, and, leaving the unpaid patron standing in hopeless astonishment
amid the ruins of the glassware he has dropped, the little band sweeps
out of the cafe.
“There will be music at the consul’s this afternoon, unless I am greatly
mistaken,” mutters Barker, as he looks down the dust-veiled road. “And
now for my patient. If he dies with his secret unrevealed I’ll never
forgive him!”
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