ORMSGILL BEARS THE TEST
The black troops were coming home again when they halted at a
coffee-planter's fazienda within easy march of the coast to allow the
rear guard to come up. They had met with no resistance since they
crossed the river. The rebels had melted away before them and vanished
into the forests and marshes of the interior, and the troops had
pushed on into a waste and empty country finding only a few deserted
villages here and there. This was, however, very much what their
leader had expected, for he knew that in an affair of this kind
everything usually turns upon the first success, and he had made his
plans with that fact in view. Dom Clemente Figuera was, at least, a
capable soldier.
The fazienda was old and somewhat ruinous. Its prosperity had
departed, though plantations of coffee and cocoa still stretched about
the rambling white house and dusky laborers' sheds, and a little
coarse sugar was made chiefly for the sake of the resultant rum. Cocoa
could no longer be grown there by antiquated methods at a profit, and
there had of late been trouble about the labor supply. Standing where
it did within easy reach of the coast, the fazienda was open to
inspection, and the rulers of that colony had of late been making
inquiries as to the way in which the legislation that permitted the
planters to engage the negroes brought down from the bush was carried
out. Indeed, its owners realized with concern that there was likely to
be a change in their ruler's views. Dom Clemente had, in fact, issued
one or two proclamations which filled them with alarm, for they knew
that what he said was usually done.
Still, during the few days the troops halted there the white planters
had many guests, men who had, for the most part, axes to grind. They
wished to discover how the changes Dom Clemente appeared to be
contemplating might affect their trade, which like everything else in
that country depended upon the labor supply. Some of them wanted
concessions, and to be the first to benefit by any reprisals that
might be made upon the rebels, and others had grievances against the
inland officials whom they supposed Dom Clemente was not altogether
satisfied with. It was also, they felt, desirable to gain his ear, or,
at least, those of his subordinates, before affairs were debated
officially when he reached the coast, but perhaps, Dom Clemente was
aware of this, for he had most vexatiously remained behind, and those
under him had, it seemed, instructions to observe a judicious
reticence. In this case, at least, they also considered it advisable
to carry their instructions out.
Ormsgill, however, knew very little about what was going on, and late
on the second afternoon after he reached the fazienda he sat
listlessly in a half-ruinous shed which was partly filled with bags
of coarse sugar. The door was shut, and he fancied there was a sentry
on guard outside it, but from where he sat he could look out through
an unglazed window across the tall green cane towards the wooded ridge
that shut the plantation in. It is also possible that he could have
got out that way and slipped into the cane without anybody noticing
him, for black sentries are not invariably watchful, but he had given
Dom Clemente his parole, and he would have had to leave behind the
boys he had brought down. Besides, he was utterly listless. He had for
several months overtaxed his physical strength, and the fever of the
country had rudely shaken him, and left behind it an apathetic
lassitude, as it frequently does.
It was very hot in the shed which had lain since morning under a
scorching sun, and the glare that still streamed in through the window
hurt his heavy eyes. He sat on an empty case, ragged and
travel-stained, brooding heavily while the perspiration trickled from
his worn face. Nothing seemed to matter, and it would have afforded
him little pleasure had he been offered his liberty. He would, he
knew, leave all he valued behind him when he left that country, and
worn out in body as he was, and enervated in will, he shrank from the
duty that awaited him, for if he ever reached Las Palmas, which seemed
somewhat doubtful, Mrs. Ratcliffe would certainly expect him to carry
out his promise. He was in one way sorry for Ada Ratcliffe, but he
fancied that she would, after all, probably be satisfied with the
things he could offer her. Since that was the case, and she had kept
faith with him, it was evident that he could not draw back now.
Perhaps he was foolish, but he was one who kept his word, and at least
endeavored to live up to his severely simple code.
At last the glare outside the window commenced to die away, and he
could see an odd palm tuft cut with a restful greenness against the
paling sky. It was very hot still, but evening was at hand and by and
by one of the younger lieutenants who had shown him some kindness on
the march would probably come in and talk to him. He fancied he heard
the man's footsteps when another half hour had slipped away, and then
his voice rose sharply as he said something to the black sentry, but
he did not come in, and Ormsgill rose with every nerve quivering when
he heard another voice he recognized. Still, he contrived to lay a
restraint upon himself when the door opened and Benicia Figuera stood
in the entrance.
She was clad in thin draperies that gleamed immaculately white, and
the fine lines of the figure they flowed about were silhouetted
sharply against the light. Her face was in shadow, but Ormsgill saw
the sudden compassion in her eyes, and the blood crept to his
forehead. Then she turned for a moment towards the portly, black-robed
lady who appeared behind her, and apparently addressed the invisible
lieutenant.
"It is very hot here, and I think the Señora Castro would find it more
comfortable if you brought her a chair outside," she said. "You can
leave the door open. It is scarcely likely that I shall run away with
your prisoner."
The man outside apparently made no demur and when the portly lady
disappeared Benicia turned towards Ormsgill.
"Now we can talk," she said. "You are looking very ill."
Ormsgill drew forward the empty case, and laid some matting on it. "A
prisoner's quarters are not usually very sumptuous, and that is the
only seat I can offer you," he said. "I was a little astonished when I
saw you."
Benicia sat down, and smiled when he found a place among the sugar
bags.
"Astonished--that was all?" she said.
The man felt his forehead grow warm, but he laughed. "Well," he said,
"I'm not sure that quite expresses everything. Still, I certainly was
astonished. I wonder if one could ask what brought you here?"
"I came to meet my father--for one thing," and the little pause might
have had its significance, though Benicia who unrolled her fan was
handicapped by the fact that she was speaking English and had to
choose her words carefully. "I am told that he is expected here some
time to-night--but you are ill. It is needless to say--is it
not?--that I am sorry."
She looked sorry. In fact, her manner was exquisitely expressive of
sympathy, but Ormsgill contrived to answer lightly.
"The thing is not altogether unnatural," he said. "A good many of your
father's troops are sick, too. After all, there are worse troubles
than a slight attack of African fever, and I shall no doubt get well
again presently."
"And you are still--a very little--lame."
It did not strike Ormsgill as significant that she should have noticed
this, though he had only moved a pace or two when she came in. Indeed,
nothing of that kind would have occurred to him then, for while his
blood stirred within him he was struggling fiercely to retain his
self-control.
"It is possible that I shall always be a little lame," he said, and
laughed somewhat bitterly. "Still, I'm not sure that it matters. You
see, I don't even know what will be done with me when we reach the
coast."
"You have certainly enemies there--as well as friends. There are
gentlemen of some influence who had an interest in Herrero's business,
and it seems they have made rather serious complaints against you. It
is even suggested that you brought about his death. We, of course,
know that such complaints are absurd."
"I wonder why?"
Benicia leaned forward a little with her eyes fixed on him. "It is
only strangers one wastes compliments upon," she said. "I think you
and I are friends."
She had, it seemed to Ormsgill, not gone far enough, and there was an
elusive something in her manner which conveyed the impression that she
realized it. He felt his heart beat unpleasantly fast, but he
controlled himself, and while he sat silent Benicia's fan closed with
a curious little snap. One could have fancied that she had expected
him to speak.
"Still," she said, "there are others who might believe those
complaints, and--though you have friends--justice is not always
certain in this country. Are you wise in staying here?"
"I'm not sure that I can help it. You see there is a sentry yonder."
Benicia laughed a little. "Pshaw!" she said, "that could be arranged
without any great difficulty. One could require, perhaps, two minutes
to slip away into the cane, and I think nothing would be discovered
until the morning."
"On the contrary, there are several difficulties. For instance, it
would probably become evident that the thing had been--arranged. Could
I allow you to involve yourself in an affair of that kind?"
"It is by no means certain that I should involve myself. In fact, it
is most unlikely," and Benicia laughed again, though she fixed her
eyes on him with a curious intentness. "Is it not worth the hazard,
Señor, if it set you at liberty to go back to--Las Palmas?"
"No," said Ormsgill with sudden vehemence, while the veins showed
swollen on his forehead. "It certainly isn't."
A little gleam of exultation sprang into the girl's eyes, for she
recognized the thrill of passion in his voice, and she already knew it
was not the woman who awaited him at Las Palmas that he loved. Still,
it was, perhaps, fortunate he had answered her in that decisive
fashion, for the Latin nature is curiously complex and always a trifle
unstable. Though she could not have told exactly why she had led him
on, it is just possible that had he shown any eagerness to profit by
the suggestion she had made her tenderness would have changed to
vindictive anger. That she would be willing to restore him to the
other woman at her peril was, after all, rather more than one could
reasonably have expected from her. Benicia Figuera was in several
respects very human.
"Ah," she said, with a curious slow incisiveness, "then you are not so
very anxious to go back--to her?"
Ormsgill sat still for almost a minute with set lips while the
perspiration dewed his lined face. He read what the girl thought in
her eyes, and his passion came near shaking the resolution he strove
to cling to out of him. Ada Ratcliffe, who did not love him, was far
away, and this girl who he felt would, as Desmond had said, stand by
the man she loved through everything, sat within a yard of him. He
seemed to realize that if he flung aside every consideration that
restrained him and boldly claimed her she would listen. Her mere
physical beauty had also an almost overwhelming effect on him, and the
tinge of color in her cheeks and the softness in her eyes was very
suggestive. Then with a little strenuous effort he straightened
himself.
"After all," he said, "that is scarcely the question?"
"Still," the girl insisted, "I have offered you liberty, and you do
not seem to want it. Since that is so, one could almost fancy it would
not grieve you very much if you never went back."
Ormsgill stood up. "Señorita, that is a thing I can not very well
answer you. Besides, it does not seem to count. You see, I have
pledged myself to go."
"Ah," said the girl, and, though this was no news to her, her fan
snapped to again. "Would nothing warrant one breaking such a pledge?"
Then for a few seconds they looked at one another with no disguise
between them, and all their thoughts in their eyes. The girl's face
was white and intent, the man's drawn and furrowed, and the passion
that was fast overmastering all restraint was awake in both alike. It
is more than likely that Benicia did not remember that her companion
had borne as heavy a stress once before at least. When she came in she
had no intention of subjecting him to it again. She had possibly only
meant to do him a kindness, perhaps merely wished to see him, though
this was a point on which she was never sure; but the fiery Latin
nature had been too strong for her. Restraint is, after all, not a
characteristic of the people of the South. At length Ormsgill made an
effort.
"The thing would be impossible," he said. "I am guarded. There is a
sentry at the door."
The girl saw that his control was slackening, for she knew it was not
the pledge she had mentioned but the hazard she would run in setting
him at liberty he was referring to, and she laughed, almost
exultantly.
"No," she said, "it would be so easy. The sentry is called away for a
few minutes. As I said--it could be arranged. Then you slip away into
the cane. It is not difficult to reach the city--and you have friends
there."
She broke off abruptly, but Ormsgill saw that she had flung her pride
away, and, since it was clear that it was not that he might go back to
Las Palmas she was willing to connive at his escape, he felt it only
remained for him to supply what she had left unsaid. The desire to do
so shook him until he closed one hand in an intensity of effort, and
for almost half a minute there was a silence that grew almost
intolerable.
Then the girl slowly straightened herself, and her eyes gleamed
curiously, though her face was very pale.
"The hazard appears too great for you, Señor?" she said.
"Yes," said Ormsgill quietly, noticing the sudden change in her
attitude, "in one way it does." Then he made a little abrupt gesture.
"As I said, I am pledged to go back to Las Palmas if I am set at
liberty--but it is a matter in which I can not permit you to do
anything for me."
Benicia stood up very straight, and her eyes had still a curious gleam
in them. "Then there is nothing more to be said. It seems you will not
listen to any suggestion I can make--and, perhaps, you are right."
She spread out her hands in a vaguely forceful fashion as she turned
from him and moved towards the door, but before she reached it she
stopped and glanced at him again. Ormsgill who set his lips tight said
nothing at all. Then there was a sound of footsteps outside, and Dom
Clemente, who appeared in the entrance, stood still looking at them
curiously. It was a moment or two before he turned to Benicia.
"Ah," he said, "I did not know you were here until a few minutes ago
and I will not keep you now. I think the Señora is waiting for you."
He stood aside when she swept past him and vanished with a rustle of
filmy draperies. Then he turned to Ormsgill.
"Señor," he said, "I am inclined to fancy that you have something to
say to me."
The blood rose to Ormsgill's face, and his voice was strained. It was
an almost intolerable duty that was laid upon him.
"I am afraid your surmise is not correct," he said. "I have nothing to
say."
Dom Clemente let one hand drop on the hilt of his sword. "Señor," he
said, "I am informed by my Secretary that the Señorita Benicia Figuera
has obtained certain concessions concerning you from a man whose
authority we submit to. You are, it seems, to be treated with every
consideration, and he will investigate the complaints made against you
personally. That," and he made a little impressive gesture, "is
evidently the result of the Señorita Benicia's efforts on your behalf.
I am here to ask you why she has made them?"
Ormsgill looked at him steadily, though it cost him an effort to
answer.
"I have the honor of the Señorita's acquaintance," he said. "It seems
she is one who does what she can for her friends. I can offer no other
explanation."
"Ah," said Dom Clemente with incisive quietness, "I once informed you
that it seemed to me you were doing a perilous thing in going back to
Africa. It is possible you will shortly realize that what I said was
warranted."
Then he turned and went out, and Ormsgill sat down again with a little
gasp, for the tension of the last few minutes had been almost
insupportable.