ORMSGILL ASKS A FAVOR
A silver lamp burned on the little table where two diminutive cups of
bitter coffee were set out, but its indifferent light was scarcely
needed in the open-fronted upper room of Dom Clemente's house. A full
moon hung above the Atlantic, and the clear radiance that rested on
the glittering harbor streamed in between the fretted arches and
slender pillars. Throughout tropical Africa all there is of grace and
beauty in man's handiwork bears the stamp of the unchanging East, and
one finds something faintly suggestive of the art of olden days where
the eye rests with pleasure on any of its sweltering towns, which is,
however, not often the case. It is incontrovertible that most of the
towns are characterized by native squalor and that some of them are
unpleasantly filthy, but, after all, filth and squalor are usual in
the East, and serve by contrast to enhance the elusive beauty of its
cities.
It was almost cool that evening, and Ormsgill, looking down between
the slim pillars across the white walls and flat roofs, though some
were ridged and tiled, towards the blaze of moonlight on the harbor,
was well content to be where he was after his journey through the
steamy bush and across the sun-scorched littoral. He had arrived that
afternoon, and had spent the last hour with Benicia Figuera, who had
shown herself gracious to him. She lay not far away from him in a big
Madeira chair, loosely draped in diaphanous white attire which
enhanced the violet depths of her eyes and the duskiness of her hair,
and her face showed in the moonlight the clear pallor of ivory.
Ormsgill fancied that her attendant the Señora Castro sat in the room
behind them from which a soft light streamed out through quaintly
patterned wooden lattices, though he had seen nothing of the latter
lady since the comida had been cleared away.
He had said very little about his journey, though he intended to tell
Dom Clemente rather more, but he presently became conscious that
Benicia was regarding him with a little smile. He also noticed, and
was somewhat annoyed with himself for thinking of it, that she had
lips like the crimson pulp of the pomegranate, the grandadilla which
figures in the imagery of the Iberian Peninsula as well as in that of
parts of Africa, where it is seldom grown. Ormsgill was quite aware of
this, and it had its associations of Eastern mysticism and sensuality,
for he was a man of education and the outcasts he had lived with had
not all been of low degree. Among them there had been a certain
green-turbaned Moslem who had taught him things unknown to his kind at
home. He felt that it was advisable to put a restraint upon himself.
"You are not sorry you have come back to us?" said Benicia.
Ormsgill was by no means sorry, and permitted himself to admit as
much. He had accomplished part, at least, of his purpose
successfully, and that in itself had a tranquilizing effect on him,
while after the weary marches through tall grass and tangled bush
under scorching heat it was distinctly pleasant to sit there cleanly
clad, in the cool air with such a companion. Benicia, it almost
seemed, guessed his thoughts, for she laughed softly.
"It is comforting to feel that one has done what he has undertaken,"
she said. "Still, you were, at least, not alone by those campfires in
the bush."
Ormsgill flushed a little, though he contrived not to start. He had
naturally not considered it necessary to tell Miss Figuera anything
about Anita.
"No," he said simply. "I don't know how you could have heard about it,
but I was not alone."
It was characteristic of him that he offered no explanation, and was
content to leave what he had done open to misconception. In fact, he
had a vague but unpleasant feeling that the latter course might be the
wiser one. Benicia turned her dark eyes full upon him, and there was a
faint sparkle in the depths of them.
"My friend, I hear of almost everything," she said. "As it happens, I
know what you went up into the bush for."
"Well," said Ormsgill reflectively, "perhaps, I should not be
surprised at that. It was only natural that I should be watched."
He met her gaze without wavering, and, though he was not aware of
this, his eyes had a question in them. It was one he could not have
asked directly even if he had wished, but remembering that Anita was
to live in that city he took a bold course.
"I wonder if one could venture to mention that your interest in the
woman I brought down from the bush would go a long way?" he said. "It
is, I think, deserved, and in case of any difficulty would ensure her
being left in quietness here, though, perhaps, the favor is too much
to expect."
"No," said the girl, "not when you make the request. Frankly, in the
case of others I should have found what I have heard incredible. It
suggests the Knight of La Mancha. Are there many in your country who
would do such things?"
Ormsgill felt his face grow a trifle hot. After all, Benicia Figuera
was, in that land, at least, a great lady, and he remembered that his
own people had doubted him. He laughed somewhat bitterly.
"If I remember correctly, the famous cavalier was more or less crazy,"
he said.
The girl turned a trifle in her chair, and he saw a little gleam
kindle in her dark eyes.
"Ah," she said, "perhaps it is a pity there are so many who are wholly
sensible."
She sat very close to him, dressed in filmy white which flowed in
sweeping lines about a form of the statuesque modeling that is one of
the characteristics of the women of The Peninsula, but it was
something in her eyes which held Ormsgill's attention. They were Irish
eyes, with the inconsequent daring of the Celt in them, though she had
also the lips of the Iberian, full and red and passionate. The hot
blood of the South was in her, and, though she never forgot wholly
who and what she was, and there was a certain elusive stateliness in
her pose, it was clear to the man that she was one who could on
occasion fling petty prudence to the winds and ride as reckless a tilt
at conventionalities and cramping customs as he had done. Such a woman
he felt would not expect to be safeguarded by a man, but would bear
the stress of the conflict with him, if she loved him, not because his
quarrel might be an honorable one but because it was his. Then she
made him a little grave inclination.
"I venture to make you my compliments, Señor Ormsgill," she said.
The man set his lips for a moment, and she saw it with a little thrill
of triumph. It was borne in upon her that she desired the love of this
quiet Englishman who for a whimsical idea had undertaken such a task.
She also felt that she could take it, for she had seen the woman he
was pledged to, and knew, if he did not, that he would never be
satisfied with her. Then she suddenly remembered her pride, and
quietly straightened herself again. Ormsgill sat still looking at her,
and though the signs of restraint were plain on his lined face, she
saw a curious little glint creep into his eyes. Still, she felt that
he did not know it was there.
"What shall I say?" he asked. "I don't think there are many people who
would see anything commendable in what I have done. In fact, those who
heard about it would probably consider it a piece of futile rashness,
and it is very likely that they would be right. After all, the
restraints of the city may become intolerable to the girl."
"Then why did you undertake it?"
Ormsgill laughed, though there was a faint ring in his voice, for he
saw that she had not asked out of idle curiosity. "I don't exactly
know. For one thing, I had made a promise, but to be candid I think
there were other reasons. You see, I have borne the burden myself. I
have been plundered of my earnings, driven to exhaustion, and have
fought against long odds for my life. It left me with a bitterness
against any custom which makes the grinding of the helpless possible.
One can't help a natural longing to strike back now and then."
Benicia nodded. It was not surprising that there was a certain vein of
vindictiveness in her, which rendered it easy for her to sympathize
with him, and once more the man noticed that where Ada Ratcliffe would
in all probability have listened with half-disdainful impatience she
showed comprehension.
"Still," she said, "in a struggle of this kind you have so much
against you. After all, you are only one man."
"I almost think there are a few more of us even in Africa and, as
Father Tiebout says, it is, perhaps, possible that one man may be
permitted to do--something--here and there."
He spoke with a grave simplicity which curiously stirred the girl. It
is possible that the sorrows of the oppressed did not in themselves
greatly interest her, for she had certainly never borne the burden,
but the attitude of this quiet man who, it seemed, had taken up their
cause, and was ready to ride a tilt against the powers that be,
appealed to her. She had, at least, courage and imagination, and there
was Irish blood in her.
"Ah," she said, "the fight is an unequal one, but though there will be
so many against you I think you have also a few good friends--as well
as the Señor Desmond."
Ormsgill started. Her knowledge of his affairs was disconcerting, but
he forgot his annoyance at it when she leaned forward a trifle looking
at him. Her mere physical beauty had its effect on him, and the soft
moonlight and her clinging white draperies enhanced and etherealized
it, but it was not that which set his heart beating a trifle faster
and sent a faint thrill through him. It was once more her eyes he
looked at, and what he saw there made it clear that the reckless,
all-daring something that was in her nature was wholly in sympathy
with him. He also understood that she had asked him to count her as
one of his friends. His manner was, however, a little quieter than
usual.
"It is a matter of gratification to me to feel that I have," he said.
"Still, what do you know about Desmond?"
Benicia laughed. "Not a great deal, but I can guess rather more.
Still, I do not think you need fear that I will betray you. In the
meantime I venture to believe that this is another of your friends."
She rose and turned towards the door as her father came in. He shook
hands with Ormsgill, and then taking off his kepi drew forward a
chair. Benicia said nothing further, but went out and left them
together. Dom Clemente lighted a cigarette before he turned to his
guest with a little dry smile.
"Trade," he said, "is not brisk up yonder?"
"I do not know if it is or not," said Ormsgill simply.
"Then, perhaps, you have accomplished the purpose that took you
there?"
"A part of it. Because I have ventured to ask your daughter's interest
in a native woman I brought down I will tell you what it was."
He did so, and the olive-faced soldier nodded. "I think you have done
wisely in making me your confidant," he said. "At least, the woman
will be safe here. It is also possible that I shall have a few words
to speak to our friend Herrero some day." Then his tone grew a trifle
sharper. "I have heard that there are rifles in the hands of some of
the bushmen up yonder."
Ormsgill took a cartridge from his pocket and pointed to the dint in
the rim. "One might consider this as a proof of it. You will notice
the caliber, and I fancy I should recognize the rifle it was fired out
of. In that case the man who carries it will have an account to render
me."
"Ah," said the little soldier quietly, "it is a confirmation of
several things I have heard of lately. I think I mentioned that the
bush was not a desirable place for you to wander in. Still, you are
probably going back there again?"
"I believe I am."
His companion looked at him with a little smile. "It is what one would
expect from you. One may, perhaps, venture to recall the circumstances
under which I first met you. Two soldiers brought you before me--and,
as it happened, I had, fortunately, finished breakfast. You made
certain damaging admissions with a candor which, though it might have
had a different effect a little earlier, saved you a good deal of
unpleasantness. I said here is an unwise man whose word can be
depended on. You know what the people of this city say of me?"
"That you are a great soldier."
Dom Clemente's eyes twinkled. "Also that like the rest I am willing to
abuse my office if it will line my pockets. The latter, it seems, is
the purpose which influences me in the unpopular things I do. I make
no protestations, but after all it is possible that I may have another
one. In any case, I have received you into my house, and admitted a
certain indebtedness to you. In return, I ask for your usual
frankness. You have heard of a native rising up yonder?"
The question was sharp and incisive, and Ormsgill nodded.
"To be precise," he said, "I heard of two."
"Then we will have your views about the first one. It is not what one
could call spontaneous?"
"At least, it is scarcely likely to take place without a little
judicious encouragement. The results, it is expected, would be
repression and reprisal. It seems that a lenient native policy does
not please everybody."
This time Dom Clemente nodded with the twinkle a trifle plainer in his
eyes. "There are, one may admit, certain trading gentlemen in this
city who do not like it, but I will tell you a secret," he said.
"There are also a few well meaning people of some influence in my
country who can not be brought to believe that commercial interests
should count for everything. They seem to consider one has a certain
responsibility towards the negro. I do not say how far my views
coincide with theirs. That may become apparent some day. But the
second rising?"
"Will, at least, be genuine, and, I almost fancy, formidable. It is a
little curious that the people who are most interested in the other do
not seem to foresee it. It may break upon them before they are quite
ready with the bogus one."
Dom Clemente smoked out his cigarette before he answered, and then he
waved one of his hands.
"Now and then," he said, "things happen that way. Perhaps, the Powers
who direct our little comedy can smile on occasion. At least, we
frequently afford them the opportunity. It is certain that there is no
fool like the over-cunning man. But we will talk of something else. In
the meantime, and while you stay here, you will consider this house of
mine your home, and those in it your friends and servants."
"Thanks," said Ormsgill. "And when I go away?"
His host made a little gesture. "Then it will depend upon where you go
and what you do. We may be friends still, or our ideas of what is
expected from us may render that impossible. Perhaps, it is
unfortunate when one has any ideas upon that point at all. Still, that
is a subject one must leave to the priests and those who reckon our
work up afterwards. Being simply a soldier, I do not know."