DOM CLEMENTE LOOKS ON
A little breeze blew in between the slender pillars delightfully fresh
and cool, and Dom Clemente Figuera, who had taken off his heavy kepi,
lay in a cane chair with a smile in his half-closed eyes. The ten
o'clock breakfast had just been cleared away, but two cups of bitter
black coffee still stood upon the table beside a bundle of cigars and
a flask of light red wine. He was, as he now and then laughingly
admitted, usually in an excellent humor after breakfast, and one could
have fancied just then that he had not a care in the world. There
were, however, men who said that in the case of Dom Clemente
tranquillity was not always a favorable sign.
Opposite him sat the trader Herrero, who was not quite so much at ease
as he desired to be. His manners were usually characterized by a
certain truculence, which as a rule served him well in the bush, but
he had sense enough to realize that it was not likely to have much
effect upon his companion. There was something about the little
smiling gentleman in the immaculate white uniform on the other side of
the table which would have made it difficult for one to adopt an
aggressive attitude towards him, even if he had not been one who held
authority. Herrero had therefore laid a somewhat unusual restraint
upon himself while he expressed his views, and now sat watching his
companion anxiously. Dom Clemente lighted a cigar before he answered
him.
"This Englishman," he said, "is apparently a turbulent person. I have
just received a letter concerning him from the Chefe at San Roque, as
you are, no doubt, aware."
There was a question in his glance which Herrero could not ignore,
though he would have liked to do so. He felt it was unfortunate that
he did not know exactly what was in the letter.
"I addressed my complaint to the Chefe in the first case," he said.
"Since Ormsgill is believed to have traveled towards the coast it was
to be expected that Dom Erminio should communicate with you."
"Exactly!" and Dom Clemente smiled. "The complaint, it seems, is a
double one. The Englishman Ormsgill has, I am informed, abducted a
native girl who was in your company, but one can not quite understand
how he has offended in this, since it appears that she was content to
go with him. In one case only you have a remedy. If you have any
record of a marriage with this woman the affair shall be looked into."
"I have none," and Herrero made a little gesture. "There are, you
understand, certain customs in the bush."
Dom Clemente reproachfully shook his head. "They are," he said, "not
recognized by the law, and that being so your grievance against the
Englishman is a purely personal one. It is no doubt exasperating that
the woman should prefer him, and she is probably unwise in this, but
it is not a matter that concerns any one else."
"It is not alleged that she preferred him," and the trader's face
flushed a trifle.
"Still," said his companion, "she went with him. Now you do not wish
to tell me that you had laid any restraint upon her to keep her with
you, or that there was anything to warrant you doing so. For instance,
you do not wish me to believe that you had bought her?"
Herrero did not, at least, consider it prudent. The law, as he was
aware, did not countenance such transactions, and while he sat silent
his companion smiled at him.
"Then," he said, "I am afraid I can only offer you my sympathy, and we
will proceed to the next complaint. This Englishman, it is alleged,
has also stolen certain boys from Domingo. Now the law allows a native
to bind himself to labor for a specified time, and while the
engagement lasts he is in a sense the property of the man he makes it
with. The engagement, of course, can only be made in due form on the
coast, but the man who brings the boys down and feeds them on the
strength of their promise may be considered to have some claim on
them. It seems to me that person was Domingo. Why did he not make the
complaint himself?"
"He is busy, and it would necessitate a long journey. Besides, I have
a share in his business ventures."
"That," said Dom Clemente reflectively, "is a sufficient reason. This
Domingo seems to be an enterprising man. One wonders if he has many
business associates up yonder."
Again Herrero did not answer. He did not like the little shrewd smile
in his companion's eyes, for, as he was aware, the only white men in
the forests Domingo frequented were missionaries and administrators,
who were, at least, not supposed to participate in purely commercial
ventures. He could not understand Dom Clemente at all, for it was very
natural that it should not occur to him that he was an honest man, as
well as an astute one who had been entrusted with a difficult task. He
would, in fact, have been startled had he known what was in his
companion's mind. Seeing he did not speak, Dom Clemente waved his
hand.
"It seems," he said, "that Ormsgill will make for the coast with the
boys in question, and you have come to warn me, partly because it is
to your interest, and partly from the sense of duty. Well, with this
knowledge in my possession it should be difficult for him to get them
away."
He stopped a moment, but Herrero saw nothing significant in the fact
that he glanced languidly towards the _Palestrina_. She lay gleaming
white like ivory on the glittering stretch of water he could see
across the roofs of the city, and, as it happened, he was going off
that evening to a function which Desmond, who had brought her in the
day before, had arranged.
"Steps will be taken to intercept him when we have news of his
whereabouts, and in the meanwhile I have another question," he said.
"There is discontent up yonder among the bushmen?"
His manner was indifferent, but Herrero was on his guard. "A little,"
he said. "If it becomes more serious it will be due to this Ormsgill,
and, perhaps, to the missionaries. He and the American are teaching
the bushmen to be mutinous."
Dom Clemente took up a letter which had, as it happened, been sent him
by Father Tiebout, from the table, and read it meditatively. Then he
rose with a little smile.
"The affair shall be looked into," he said.
Herrero withdrew, not altogether satisfied. Dom Clemente had been
uniformly courteous, but now and then a just perceptible hardness had
crept into his eyes. The latter, however, smiled as he poured himself
out another glass of wine, and then turned quietly, as his daughter
appeared in the doorway. She came nearer, and stood looking down at
him.
"That man has gone away?" she said. "He is an infamous person."
Dom Clemente glanced at the little green lattice on the white wall
behind her with a faint twinkle in his eyes. It was not very far away,
and he remembered that Herrero had spoken distinctly.
"One would admit that he is not a particularly estimable man, but he
has, like most of us, his little rôle to play," he said. "He does not,
however, play it brilliantly."
Benicia made a gesture of impatience. "The Englishman is on his way
to the coast. You are going to arrest him?"
"When we know where he is. What would you have me do? A man in
authority has his duty."
"Is it a duty to bring trouble on a man who has done no wrong?"
Dom Clemente leaned forward with his arms on the table, and looked at
her with a curious little smile.
"I almost think," he said reflectively, "if I was a great friend of
this Englishman's I would prefer him to fall into the hands of--such a
man as I am. In that case, he would, at least, be prevented from going
back to the bush, which is just now unsafe for him."
Benicia felt her face grow hot under his steady gaze. "The difficulty
is that there are men without scruples who would blame him for
whatever trouble may be going on up yonder in the forest," she said.
"You would have to listen to them. If their complaints were serious
what would you do?"
"Ah," said Dom Clemente, "that is rather more than I can tell. When
one is young one feels that he is always expected to do something.
Afterwards, however, one becomes content to leave it to the others now
and then. It is sometimes wiser to--look on. That may be my attitude
in this case, but I am not sure that the affair is one that concerns
you."
He made a little deprecatory gesture as he turned to the papers in
front of him, and Benicia went out quietly. It was an affair that
concerned her very much indeed, but she knew that Dom Clemente could
be reticent, and she fancied that he had something in his mind. As it
happened, this was the case with her. In the meanwhile he sat still,
gazing thoughtfully at the sun-scorched town while he smoked another
cigar. Then he rose with a little jerk of his shoulders, and buckling
on his big sword went down the stairway.
When evening came he went off to the _Palestrina_ with his daughter,
her attendant Señora Castro, and one or two officials and their wives,
and enjoyed an excellent dinner on board the yacht. He fancied Benicia
was rather silent during part of it, and glanced at her once or twice,
which she naturally noticed, and as the result of it roused herself to
join in the conversation. Still, she was a trifle relieved when the
dinner was over and Desmond led them up on deck. Clear moonlight
streamed in between the awnings, and, as it happened, Desmond seated
himself beside the rail at some distance from her Madeira chair. Twice
she ventured to make him a little sign, which he apparently
disregarded, but at last he rose and walked forward, and she turned to
the black-robed Señora Castro, who had clung persistently to her side.
"The dew is rather heavy. I brought a wrap or two, but I think I left
them in the saloon," she said.
The little portly lady waddled away, and a minute or two later Benicia
rose languidly, and moved towards the companion door through which she
had disappeared. Instead of descending the stairway, the girl slipped
out by the other door, and flitted forward in the shadow of the
deckhouse until she came upon Desmond standing beneath the bridge.
"You do not seem to notice things to-night. I signed to you twice,"
she said.
Desmond smiled. "I saw you," he said. "Still, I wasn't quite sure that
another of my guests did not do so, too. You have something to say to
me."
Benicia turned and glanced down the long deck. There was nobody
visible on that part of it.
"Yes," she said a trifle breathlessly. "But nobody must know that I
have talked to you alone."
Desmond opened the door of the little room beneath the bridge. A lamp
burned in it, and he flung a shade across the port before he drew the
girl in, and then closing the door, leaned with his back against it.
"I do not think we shall be disturbed," he said.
Benicia stood still a moment looking at him. It was in the case of a
young woman from The Peninsula a very unusual thing she had done, but
there was inconsequent courage in her, and a certain quiet
imperiousness in her manner.
"You have coal and water on board?" she said.
"I have," said Desmond. "I have also clearance papers for British
Nigeria, but we haven't steam up. You see, I expected to stay here at
least a day or two."
"Then you must raise it. You must sail for the Bahia Santiago before
to-morrow."
"You have word of Ormsgill?" and Desmond became suddenly intent. "He
is a man who is never late, but on this occasion he is a week or two
before his time. Well, I dare say we can sail to-morrow. You will tell
me what you know?"
He leaned against the door with a quiet thoughtful face while she did
so, and then the Celtic temperament revealed itself in the flash in
his eyes.
"It will evidently be a tight fit, but we'll get him if I have to arm
every man on board and bring him off," he said. "That there may be
complications afterwards doesn't in the least matter."
"Ah," said Benicia, "you are one who would do a good deal for a
friend."
Desmond looked at her with a little wry smile. "Miss Figuera," he said
slowly, "I think I would gladly do a very great deal for you."
A just perceptible flicker of color crept into the girl's face. "But
what you are about to do now is for your friend Ormsgill."
"Yes," said Desmond, still with the curious little smile. "In one way,
at least, I suppose it is."
Benicia turned and faced him, with the color growing plainer in her
cheeks, and for a moment there was hot anger in her, for she knew what
he meant. Then the fierce resentment vanished suddenly, as she once
more met his eyes. There was something that suggested a deep regret in
them, and his manner was wholly deferential.
"I only wish you to understand that if I fail it will not be because I
have not done all I can," he said. "You see, I would, at least, like
to keep your good opinion, and in spite of every effort one can't
always be successful. Still, if it is possible, I will bring Ormsgill
safely off. As you say, he is my friend."
There was silence for, perhaps, half a minute, and during it each knew
what the other was thinking. Then Benicia made this clear.
"Ah," she said, "you are a very generous man." She stopped a moment,
and there was a faint tremble in her voice when she turned to him
again. "You have come from Las Palmas?"
"I have," said Desmond. "I saw Miss Ratcliffe there. I think I may
venture to tell you that Ormsgill will never marry her."
Benicia's face flamed, but the color died out of it again, and she
looked at him quietly. "To no one else could I have forgiven that.
Still, one can forgive everything to one who has your courage--and
devotion."
Desmond made a little gesture. "Well," he said simply, "we sail before
to-morrow, and I will do what I can. There is this in my favor--your
friends probably don't know where Ormsgill is heading for."
Then the girl started suddenly with consternation in her eyes, for
there was a tapping at the door, but Desmond's hand fell on her
shoulder and she felt that he would do what was most advisable. Next
moment he leaned forward and turned the lamp out before he threw the
door open.
"Well," he said, "what do you want? I am, as you see, just coming
out."
There was moonlight outside, though the awnings dimmed it, and just
there the bridge flung a shadow on the deck, and he recognized with
the first glance that it was one of his guests who had tapped upon
the door which he flung carelessly to behind him.
"One wondered where you had gone to," said the man.
Desmond laughed, and slipping his hand beneath the inquirer's arm
strolled aft with him, but he sighed with relief when, as they joined
the others on the opposite side of the deck-house, he saw Benicia
already sitting there. He did not know how she had contrived it, until
he remembered that to slip through the companion would shorten the
distance. It was, however, half an hour later when she found an
opportunity of standing beside him for a moment or two.
"It seems that one is watched," she said. "You must be careful."
Desmond was on the whole not sorry when his guests took themselves
away, and he laughed as he stood at the gangway shaking hands with
them.
"I am afraid I shall not be ashore to-morrow," he said. "It is very
likely that we shall be out at sea by then."
One or two of them expressed their regret, and the boat slid away,
while some little time afterwards Dom Clemente glanced at his daughter
as they stood on the outer stairway of his house. Beneath them they
could see the _Palestrina_ dotted here and there with blinking lights,
and a dingy smear of smoke was steaming from her funnel.
"So he is going away again to-morrow," he said reflectively. "Well, I
suppose one is always permitted to change his mind."
Benicia made no answer, and Dom Clemente stood still, glancing
towards the steamer with a somewhat curious expression when she went
into the house. Then he made a little abrupt gesture, as of one who
resigns himself, before he turned away and went in after her.
"In the meanwhile I look on," he said.