HIS BENEFICENT INFLUENCE
There is a certain aldea, a little straggling village of flat-topped
houses, among the black volcanic hills of Grand Canary which has like
one or two others of its kind a good deal to offer the discerning
traveler who will take the trouble to visit it. It is certainly a
trifle difficult to reach, which is, perhaps, in one sense not
altogether a misfortune, since the Englishmen and Englishwomen who
visit that island in the winter seldom leave such places exactly as
they find them. One goes up by slippery bridle paths on horse or mule
back over hot sand and wastes of dust and ashes into a rift between
the hills, and when once the tremendous gateway of fire-rent rock has
been passed discovers that it costs one an effort to go away again.
In the bottom of the barranco lie maize-fields and vines. Tall green
palms fling streaks of shadow over them, and close beneath the black
crags stands a little ancient church and odd cubes of lava houses
tinted with delicate pink or ochre or whitewashed dazzlingly. They
nestle among their fig trees shut in by tall aloes, and oleanders, and
a drowsy quietness which is intensified by the murmur of running water
pervades the rock-walled hollow. It is the stillness of a land where
nothing matters greatly, and there is in it the essence of the
resignation which regards haste and effort and protest as futile, that
is characteristic of old world Spain, for Spain was never until lately
bounded by the confines of the Peninsula.
Las Palmas down beside the smoking beach is no longer Spanish. It is
filled with bustle and a rampant commercialism, and English is spoken
there; but the quietness of the ages lingers among the hills where the
grapes of Moscatel are still trodden in the winepress by barelegged
men in unstarched linen who live very much as one fancies the
patriarchs did, plowing with oxen and wooden plows, and beating out
their corn on wind-swept threshing floors. They also comport
themselves, even towards the wandering Briton, who does not always
deserve it, with an almost stately courtesy, and seldom trouble
themselves about the morrow. All that is essentially Spanish is
Eastern, too. The life in the hill pueblos is that portrayed in the
Jewish scriptures, and the olive-skinned men whose forefathers once
ruled half the world have also like the Hebrew the remembrance of
their departed glory to sadden them.
It is, however, scarcely probable that any fancies of this kind
occurred to Mrs. Ratcliffe as she lay in a somewhat rickety chair
under a vine-draped pergola outside a pink-washed house in that aldea
one afternoon. She was essentially modern, and usually practical, in
which respects Ada, who sat not far away, was not unlike her. A man,
at least, seldom expects to find the commercial instinct and a shrewd
capacity for estimating and balancing worldly advantages in a young
woman of prepossessing appearance with innocent eyes, which is,
perhaps, a pity, since it now and then happens that the fact that she
possesses a reasonable share of both of them is made clear to him in
due time. Then it is apt to cause him pain, for man being vain prefers
to believe that it is personal merit that counts for most where he is
concerned.
Ada Ratcliffe was listening to the drowsy splash of falling water, and
looking down through the rocky gateway over tall palms and creeping
vines, blackened hillslopes, and gleaming sands, on the vast plain of
the Atlantic which lay, a sheet of turquoise, very far below. Above
her, tremendous fire-rent pinnacles ran up into the upper sweep of
ethereal blue, but all this scarcely roused her interest. She had seen
it already, and had said it was very pretty. Besides, she was thinking
of other things which appealed to her considerably more, a London
house, an acknowledged station in smart society, and the command of
money. These were things she greatly desired to have, and it was
evident that Thomas Ormsgill could only offer her them in a certain
measure. It was, in some respects, only natural that her mother should
set a high value on them too, and desire them for her daughter. She
had made a long and gallant fight against adverse circumstances since
her husband died, and there was in her face the hardness of one who
has more than once been almost beaten. There were, she knew, women who
would freely give themselves with all that had been given them to the
man they loved, but Mrs. Ratcliffe had never had much sympathy with
them. It was, she felt, a much more sensible thing to make a bargain,
and secure something in return.
Still, nobody would have fancied that Ada Ratcliffe had any such ideas
just then. Her face was quietly tranquil, and the pose she had fallen
into in the big basket chair was, if not quite unstudied, a singularly
graceful one. In her hands lay a Spanish fan, a beautiful, costly
thing of silk and feathers and fretted ebony which Lister had given
her a few days earlier. He sat on a block of lava watching her with a
little significant gleam that she was perfectly conscious of in his
usually apathetic eyes. Still, though he had a heavy face of the kind
one seldom associates with self-restraint, there was nothing in his
expression which could have jarred upon a woman of the most sensitive
temperament. There were not many things which Albert Lister had much
reverence for, but during the last few weeks a change had been going
on in him, and it was a blind, unreasoning devotion which none of his
friends would have believed him capable of that he offered this girl.
His pleasures had been coarse ones, and there was much in him that she
might have shrunk from, but he had, at least, of late fought with the
desires of his lower nature, and, for the time being, trampled on one
or two of them. Slow of thought, and of very moderate intelligence, as
he was, he had yet endeavored to purge himself of grossness before he
ventured into her presence. He had not spoken for awhile when Mrs.
Ratcliffe turned to him.
"You were not in the drawing-room last night," she said, and her
manner subtly conveyed the impression that she had expected him. "No
doubt you had something more interesting on hand?"
"No," said Lister slowly, "I don't think I had. In fact, I was playing
cards!"
Mrs. Ratcliffe was a trifle perplexed, for she had now and then
ventured to express her disapproval of one or two of his favorite
distractions in a motherly fashion, and she could not quite understand
his candor. It was, perhaps, natural that she should not credit him
with a simple desire for honesty, since this was a motive which would
not have had much weight with her.
"Ah," she said, with an air of playful reproach, "everybody plays
cards nowadays, and I suppose one must not be too hard on you. Still,
I think you know what my views are upon that subject."
They were scarcely likely to be very charitable ones, since she owed
her own long struggle to the fact that there were few forms of gaming
her husband had not unsuccessfully experimented with, and she
continued feelingly, "If one had no graver objections, it is apt to
prove expensive."
Lister laughed a little. "It proved so--to the other people--last
night, but I think you are right. In fact, it's scarcely likely I'll
touch a card again. In one way,"--and he appeared to reflect
laboriously, "it's a waste of life."
His companions were both a trifle astonished. They had scarcely
expected a sentiment of this kind from him, and though the elder lady
would probably not have admitted it, gaming did not appear to her so
objectionable a thing provided that one won and had the sense to leave
off when that was the case. Ada Ratcliffe, however, smiled.
"To be candid, one would hardly have fancied you would look at it in
that light," she said. "Still, you seem to have been changing your
views lately."
"I have," said the man slowly, with a faint flush in his heavy face.
"After all, one comes to look at these things differently, and I dare
say those fellows are right who lay it down that one ought to do
something for his country or his living. Once I had the opportunity,
but I let it go, or rather I flung it away. I often wish I hadn't, but
I'm not quite sure it's altogether too late now."
He spoke with an awkward diffidence, for though he was very young,
ideas of this kind were quite new to him. The love of the girl he
looked at appealingly had stirred his slow coarse nature, and
something that had sprung up in its depths was growing towards the
light. It might have grown to grace and beauty had the light been a
benignant one, for, after all, it is not upon the soil alone that
growth of any kind depends. Ada Ratcliffe, however, did not recognize
in the least that this laid upon her a heavy responsibility.
"No," she said with an encouraging smile, "there is no reason why you
shouldn't make a career yet. I almost think you could if you wanted
to."
It was a bold assertion, but she made it unblushingly, and Lister
appeared to consider.
"There are not many things I'm good at--that is, useful ones," he
said. "You have to be able to talk sensibly, anyway, before you can
make your mark at politics, and some of them don't do it under twenty
years."
He stopped for a moment with a little sigh. "Still, I suppose there
must be something worth while for one to do, even if it's not exactly
what one would like."
"One's duty is usually made clear to one," said Mrs. Ratcliffe
encouragingly.
"Well," said Lister, "I'm not sure it is, though it's probably his own
fault if he doesn't want to recognize it. As I mentioned, you can look
at the same thing differently. There was Desmond's friend Ormsgill. A
little while ago I thought he was a trifle crazy. Now I begin to see
it's a big thing he's doing, something to look back on afterwards even
if he never does anything worth while again."
He saw the faint flush of color in Ada Ratcliffe's face, though he did
not in the least understand it. There was a good deal this man could
give her, and she knew that he would in due time press it upon her,
but she was naturally aware that his mental capacity was painfully
small. This made the fact that he should look upon Ormsgill's errand
as one a man could take pride in a reproach to her. Mrs. Ratcliffe's
face was, however, if anything, expressive of anxiety, for she had
asked herself frequently if Lister could by any chance have heard that
the girl's pledge to Ormsgill had never been retracted. She did not
think he had, but this was a point it was well to be sure upon.
"I didn't think you had met him," she said.
"I haven't. You see, I stayed behind in Madeira while the _Palestrina_
came on, and when I got here Ormsgill had gone. Desmond told me about
him. I understood he was to marry somebody when he had done his
errand, though, if he knew, Desmond never mentioned who she was."
He stopped, and Mrs. Ratcliffe sighed with sheer relief when he turned
and looked eastwards towards Africa across the vast stretch of sea
with a vague longing in his eyes.
"Well," he said, "when he comes back again he will have done something
that should make the girl look up to him."
Again the flicker of color crept into Ada Ratcliffe's cheek, for she
was conscious just then of a curious resentment against the man who
had gone to Africa for an idea. It was singularly galling that a man
of Lister's caliber should make her ashamed. Still, she smiled at him.
"I believe we have all more than one opportunity, and another one will
no doubt present itself," she said.
Lister sat still looking at her in a fashion she found almost
embarrassing, and for a moment or two none of them spoke. Then there
were footsteps on the lava blocks outside the pergola, and a man
appeared in an opening between the vines. He was dressed in white
duck, and his face was bronzed by wind and spray, while Mrs.
Ratcliffe found it difficult to refrain from starting at the sight of
him. He stood where he was for a moment looking at the group with
grave inquiry, and Ada Ratcliffe felt that she hated him for the
little smile of comprehension that crept into his eyes. Then he moved
quietly forward, and Lister rose with a faint flush in his face.
"I'm glad to see you, Desmond. I mean it, in spite of what passed the
night you packed me off," he said.
It was an awkward meeting, though Lister was the only one whose
embarrassment was noticeable. His companions were watching Desmond
quietly, though Mrs. Ratcliffe was sensible that this was the last man
she would have desired to see. He had come back from Africa and might
spoil everything, for at the back of her mind she was not quite sure
of her daughter. Still, though it cost her an effort, she asked him a
few questions.
"Ormsgill didn't want me for some time and I ran across for coal and
other things. That coast isn't one it's judicious to stay on," he
said, and looked at Ada steadily. "You will be pleased to hear that he
was in excellent health--though he was still bent on carrying out his
purpose--when he left me."
The girl's gesture was apparently expressive of relief, and Desmond
who sat down on the lava parapet proceeded to relate what he knew of
Ormsgill's projects and adventures. He felt the constraint that was
upon all of them except Lister, whose embarrassment was rapidly
disappearing, and though it afforded him certain grim satisfaction he
talked to dissipate it.
"We ran in this morning, and as the folks at the hotel told me you
were here I came on," he said at length.
They asked him a few more questions, and it said a good deal for Mrs.
Ratcliffe's courage that she invited him to stay there for comida and
then to ride back to their hotel with them. Still it would, as she
recognized, be useless to separate the men, since they would come
across each other continually in Las Palmas, and she was one who knew
that the boldest course is now and then the wisest. Desmond stayed,
and it was some little time later when he sat alone with Lister among
the tumbled lava by the watercourse. Feathery palm tufts drooped above
them, and looking out between the fringed and fretted greenery they
could see the blue expanse of sea. Beyond its sharp-cut eastern rim,
as both of them were conscious, lay the shadowy land. Desmond turned
from its contemplation and regarded his companion with a little smile.
"I heard a good deal about you in the hotel smoking room," he said. "I
suppose I ought to compliment you on the possession of a certain
amount of sense. Presumably you have now a motive for going steady?"
Lister flushed, but he met his companion's gaze without wavering. "As
a matter of fact you are quite correct," he said. "Anyway, the motive
is a sufficient one."
"Ah," said Desmond dryly, "it is in that case a lady, Miss Ratcliffe
most probably? You no doubt recognize that she is several years older
than you, and that it is more than possible her affections have been
engaged before?"
His companion resolutely straightened himself. "It isn't as a rule
advisable to go too far, but I don't mind informing you that they are
not engaged now."
"You seem sure," said Desmond with more than a trace of his former
dryness. "She has presumably told you so?"
"She has not," said Lister. "That is, however, quite sufficient in
itself, because if there had been anyone else with the slightest claim
on her she and her mother would certainly have found means of making
it clear to me."
Desmond saw the glint in the lad's eyes, and could not quite repress a
little sardonic smile. What he had heard in the hotel had at first
been almost incomprehensible to him, but, as he listened to what the
men he met there had to tell, it became clear that Lister had in
reality turned from his former courses. Then came his own admission
that it was Ada Ratcliffe who had inspired him. Desmond could have
found it a relief to laugh. The woman who, it seemed, was willing to
throw over his comrade and break her pledge to him that she might be
free to marry a richer man was the one who had stirred the lad to what
was probably a stern and valiant encounter with his baser nature. It
seemed that she could not even be honest with him.
"Am I to understand that you have made up your mind to marry Miss
Ratcliffe?" he asked.
"Yes," said Lister slowly, "I have; that is, if she will have me,
which is doubtful. It is, however, in no sense your business, and you
needn't trouble to remind me that it would be a very indifferent match
for her."
Desmond sat still for several minutes, and thought as hard as he had
in all probability ever done in his life. He had given Ormsgill a hint
which had not been taken, and now he found it had been fully
warranted, he had ventured on giving Lister another which had also
been disregarded. The lad's faith in the woman who was deceiving both
of them was evidently sincere and generous, as well as in one respect
pitiable, and under the circumstances Desmond could not tell what
course he ought to take. He was aware that the man who rashly meddles
in his friends' affairs seldom either confers any real benefit upon
them or earns their thanks, and he doubted if Lister would listen to
any advice or information he might offer him. To say nothing meant
that he must leave Mrs. Ratcliffe a free hand, but he had sufficient
knowledge of that lady's capabilities to feel reasonably sure that she
would succeed in marrying the girl to one of the men in spite of him.
That being so, it seemed to him preferable that the one in question
should not be his friend. Then he looked at Lister gravely.
"Well," he said, "I almost think she'll have you, and I'm not sure
that you need worry yourself too much about not being good enough for
her. That's a point you could be content with her mother's opinion
on."
He left the lad, and five minutes later came upon Ada Ratcliffe in the
patio of the adjacent house. "You will make my excuses to your
mother," he said. "After all, I think I had better ride back to Las
Palmas alone."
The girl met his eyes, but for a moment her face flushed crimson. She
said nothing, and he quietly turned away, while in another few minutes
she heard his horse stumbling down the slippery path beside the
watercourse. When they reached the hotel that evening they were also
told that he did not intend to live ashore while the yacht was in the
harbor, which was a piece of information that afforded Mrs. Ratcliffe
considerable relief.