Pancho Cueto, her administrador, was robbing her, she had never
mustered courage to call him to a reckoning. And there was a reason for
her cowardice. Nevertheless, De Castano's blunt accusation, coupled
with her own urgent needs, served to fix her resolution, and on the day
after the merchant's visit she sent for the overseer, who at the time
was living on one of the plantations.
Once the message was on its way, Isabel fell into a condition bordering
upon panic, and was half minded to countermand her order. She spent an
evening of suspense, and a miserable night. This last, however, was
nothing unusual with her; she was accustomed to unpleasant dreams, and
she was not surprised when old familiar shapes came to harass her. Nor,
in view of her somnambulistic vagaries, was she greatly concerned to
find, when she woke in the morning, that her slippers were stained and
that her skirt was bedraggled with dew and filled with burs.
Scarcely a month passed that she did not walk in her sleep.
Cueto was plainly curious to learn why he had been sent for, but since
he asked no questions, his employer was forced to open the subject
herself. Several times he led up to it unsuccessfully; then she took
the plunge. Through dry, white lips she began:
"My dear Pancho, times are hard. The plantations are failing, and so--"
Pancho Cueto's eyes were set close to his nose, his face was long and
thin and harsh; he regarded the speaker with such a sinister,
unblinking stare that she could scarcely finish: "--and so I--can no
longer afford to retain you as administrador."
"Times will improve," he said.
"Impossible! This war threatens to bring utter ruin; and now that
Esteban and Rosa are home they spend money like water. I groan with
poverty."
"Yes, they are extravagant. It is the more reason for me to remain in
your service."
"No, no! I tell you I'm bankrupt."
"So? Then the remedy is simple--sell a part of your land."
Although this suggestion came naturally enough, Dona Isabel turned
cold, and felt her smile stiffen into a grimace. She wondered if Cueto
could be feeling her out deliberately. "Sell the Varona lands?" she
queried, after a momentary struggle with herself. "Esteban would rise
from his grave. No. It was his wish that the plantations go to his
children intact."
"And his wish is sacred to you, eh?" Cueto nodded his approval,
although his smile was disconcerting. "An admirable sentiment! It does
you honor! But speaking on this subject, I am reminded of that dispute
with Jose Oroz over the boundary to La Joya. He is a rascal, that Oroz;
he would steal the sap out of your standing cane if he could. I have
promised to show him the original deed to La Joya and to furnish him
with the proofs about the boundary line. That would be better than a
lawsuit, wouldn't it?"
"Decidedly! But--I will settle with him myself."
Cueto lifted an admonitory hand, his face alight with the faintest
glimmer of ironic mirth. "I couldn't trust you to the mercies of that
rascal," he said, piously. "No, I shall go on as I am, even at a
sacrifice to myself. I love Don Esteban's children as my very own; and
you, senora--"
Isabel knew that she must win a complete victory at once or accept
irretrievable defeat.
"Never!" she interrupted, with a tone of finality. "I can't accept your
sacrifice. I am not worthy. Kindly arrange to turn over your books of
account at once. I shall make you as handsome a present as my
circumstances will permit in recognition of your long and faithful
service."
Then Pancho Cueto did an unexpected thing: he laughed shortly and shook
his head.
Dona Isabel was ready to faint and her voice quavered as she went on:
"Understand me, we part the best of friends despite all I have heard
against you. I do not believe these stories people tell, for you
probably have enemies. Even if all they say were true I should force
myself to be lenient because of your affection for my husband."
The man rose, still smiling. "It is I who have been lenient," said he.
"Eh? Speak plainly."
"Gladly. I have long suspected that Don Esteban hid the deeds of his
property with the rest of his valuables, and now that you admit--"
Dona Isabel recoiled sharply. "Admit! Are you mad? Deeds! What are you
talking about?" Her eyes met his bravely enough, but she could feel her
lips trembling loosely.
Casting aside all pretense, the overseer exclaimed: "Por el amor de
Dios! An end to this! I know why you sent for me. You think I have been
robbing you. Well, to be honest, so I have. Why should I toil as I do
while you and those twins live here in luxury and idleness, squandering
money to which you have no right?"
"Have I lost my reason?" gasped the widow. "No right?"
"At least no better right than I. Don't you understand? You have no
title to those plantations! They are mine, for I have paid the taxes
out of my own pockets now these many years."
"Taxes! What do you mean?"
"I paid them. The receipts are in my name."
"God! Such perfidy! And you who knew him!"
"The deeds have been lost for so long that the property would have
reverted to the crown had it not been for me. You doubt that, eh? Well,
appeal to the court and you will find that it is true. For that matter,
the officials make new laws to fit each case, and should they learn
that Esteban Varona died intestate they would arrange somehow to seize
all his property and leave you without a roof over your head.
Fortunately I can prevent that, for I have a title that will stand, in
want of a better one."
There was a momentary silence while the unhappy woman struggled with
herself. Then:
"You took advantage of my ignorance of business to rob me," she
declared. "Well, I know something about the Government officials: if
they would make a law to fit my case they will make one to fit yours.
When I tell them what you have done perhaps you will not fare so well
with them as you expect." She was fighting now with the desperation of
one cornered.
"Perhaps." Cueto shrugged. "That is what I want to talk to you about,
if only you will be sensible. Now then, let us be frank. Inasmuch as
we're both in much the same fix, hadn't we better continue our present
arrangements?" He stared unblinkingly at his listener. "Oh, I mean it!
Is it not better for you to be content with what my generosity prompts
me to give, rather than to risk ruin for both of us by grasping for too
much?"
"Merciful God! The outrage! I warrant you have grown rich through your
stealing." Isabel's voice had gone flat with consternation.
"Rich? Well, not exactly, but comfortably well off." Cueto actually
smiled again. "No doubt my frankness is a shock to you. You are angry
at my proposition, eh? Never mind. You will think better of it in time,
if you are a sensible woman."
"What a fiend! Have you no sentiment?"
"Oh, senora! I am all sentiment. Don Esteban was my benefactor. I
revere his memory, and I feel it my duty to see that his family does
not want. That is why I have provided for you, and will continue to
provide--in proper measure. But now, since at last we enjoy such
confidential relations, let us have no more of these miserable
suspicions of each other. Let us entirely forget this unpleasant
misunderstanding and be the same good friends as before."
Having said this, Pancho Cueto stood silent a moment in polite
expectancy; then receiving no intelligible reply, he bowed low and left
the room.
To the avaricious Dona Isabel Cueto's frank acknowledgment of theft was
maddening, and the realization that she was helpless, nay, dependent
upon his charity for her living, fairly crucified her proud spirit.
All day she brooded, and by the time evening came she had worked
herself into such a state of nerves that she could eat no dinner.
Locking herself into her room, she paced the floor, now wringing her
hands, now twisting in agony upon her bed, now biting her wrists in an
endeavor to clear her head and to devise some means of outwitting this
treacherous overseer. But mere thought of the law frightened her; the
longer she pondered her situation the more she realized her own
impotence. There was no doubt that the courts were corrupt: they were
notoriously venal at best, and this war had made them worse. Graft was
rampant everywhere. To confess publicly that Esteban Varona had left no
deeds, no title to his property, would indeed be the sheerest folly.
No, Cueto had her at his mercy.
Sometime during the course of the evening a wild idea came to Isabel.
Knowing that the manager would spend the night beneath her roof, she
planned to kill him. At first it seemed a simple thing to do--merely a
matter of a dagger or a pistol, while he slept--but further thought
revealed appalling risks and difficulties, and she decided to wait.
Poison was far safer.
That night she lay awake a long time putting her scheme into final
shape, and then for an interval that seemed longer she hung poised in
those penumbral regions midway between wakefulness and slumber. Through
her mind meanwhile there passed a whirling phantasmagoria, an
interminable procession of figures, of memories, real yet unreal,
convincing yet unconvincing. When she did at last lose all awareness of
reality the effect was merely to enhance the vividness of those
phantoms, to lend substance to her vaporous visions. Constant brooding
over the treasure had long since affected Dona Isabel's brain, and as a
consequence she often dreamed about it. She dreamed about it again
to-night, and, strangely enough, her dreams were pleasant. Sebastian
appeared, but for once he neither cursed nor threatened her; and
Esteban, when he came, was again the lover who had courted her in
Habana. It was all very wonderful, very exciting, very real. Dona
Isabel found herself robed for him in her wedding-gown of white, and
realized that she was beautiful. It seemed also as if her powers of
attraction were magically enhanced, for she exercised a potent
influence over him. Her senses were quickened a thousandfold, too. For
instance, she could see great distances--a novel and agreeable
sensation; she enjoyed strange, unsuspected perfumes; she heard the
music of distant waterfalls and understood the whispered language of
the breeze. It was amazing, delightful. Esteban and she were walking
through the grounds of the quinta and he was telling her about his
casks of Spanish sovereigns, about those boxes bound with iron, about
the gold and silver ornaments of heavenly, beauty and the pearls as
large as plums. As he talked, Isabel felt herself grow hot and cold
with anticipation; she experienced spasms of delight. She felt that she
must dance, must run, must cast her arms aloft in ecstasy. Never had
she experienced so keen an intoxication of joy as now, while Esteban
was leading her toward the treasure and wooing her with youthful ardor.
Then of a sudden Isabel's whole dream-world dissolved. She awoke, or
thought she did, at hearing her name shouted. But although she
underwent the mental and the physical shock of being startled from
slumber, although she felt the first swift fright of a person aroused
to strange surroundings, she knew on the instant that she must still be
asleep; for everything about her was dim and dark, the air was cold and
damp, wet grass rose to her knees. It flashed through her mind that she
had simply been whirled from a pleasant dream into one of terror. As
she fought with herself to throw off the illusion of this nightmare its
reality became overwhelming. Warring, incongruous sensations, far too
swift for her mind to compass, were crowded into the minutest fraction
of time. Before she could half realize her own condition she felt
herself plunged into space. Now the sensation of falling was not
strange to Isabel--it is common to all sufferers from
nightmare--nevertheless, she experienced the dawn of a horror such as
she had never guessed. She heard herself scream hoarsely, fearfully,
and knew, too late, that she was indeed awake. Then--whirling chaos--A
sudden, blinding crash of lights and sounds--Nothing more!
Esteban Varona sat until a late hour that night over a letter which
required the utmost care in its composition. It was written upon the
thinnest of paper, and when it was finished the writer inclosed it in
an envelope of the same material. Esteban put the letter in his pocket
without addressing it. Then he extinguished his light, tip-toed to the
door connecting his and Rosa's rooms, and listened. No sound whatever
came to his ears, for his sister slept like a kitten. Reassured, he
stole out into the hall. Here he paused a moment with his ear first to
Pancho Cueto's door, and then to the door of his step-mother's room. He
could hear the overseer's heavy breathing and Isabel's senseless
babbling--the latter was moaning and muttering ceaselessly, but, being
accustomed to her restlessness, Esteban paid no heed.
Letting himself out into the night, he took the path that led to the
old sunken garden. Nocturnal birds were chirruping; his way was barred
with spider-webs, heavy with dew and gleaming in the moonlight like
tiny ropes of jewels; the odor of gardenias was overpowering. He passed
close by the well, and its gaping black mouth, only half protected by
the broken coping, reminded him that he had promised Rosa to cover it
with planks. In its present condition it was a menace to animals, if
not to human beings who were unaware of its presence. He told himself
he would attend to it on the morrow.
Seating himself on one of the old stone benches, the young man lit a
cigarette and composed himself to wait. He sat there for a long time,
grumbling inwardly, for the night was damp and he was sleepy; but at
last a figure stole out of the gloom and joined him. The new-comer was
a ragged negro, dressed in the fashion of the poorer country people.
"Well, Asensio, I thought you'd never come. I'll get a fever from
this!" Esteban said, irritably.
"It is a long way, Don Esteban, and Evangelina made me wait until dark.
I tell you we have to be careful these days."
"What is the news? What did you hear?"
Asensio sighed gratefully as he seated himself. "One hears a great
deal, but one never knows what to believe, There is fighting in Santa
Clara, and Maceo sweeps westward."
Taking the unaddressed letter from his pocket, Esteban said, "I have
another message for Colonel Lopez."
"That Lopez! He's here to-day and there to-morrow; one can never find
him."
"Well, you must find him, and immediately, Asensio. This letter
contains important news--so important, in fact"--Esteban laughed
lightly--"that if you find yourself in danger from the Spaniards I'd
advise you to chew it up and swallow it as quickly as you can."
"I'll remember that," said the negro, "for there's danger enough.
Still, I fear these Spaniards less than the guerrilleros: they are
everywhere. They call themselves patriots, but they are nothing more
than robbers. They--"
Asensio paused abruptly. He seized his companion by the arm and,
leaning forward, stared across the level garden into the shadows
opposite. Something was moving there, under the trees; the men could
see that it was white and formless, and that it pursued an erratic
course.
"What's that?" gasped the negro. He began to tremble violently and his
breath became audible. Esteban was compelled to hold him down by main
force. "Jesus Cristo! It's old Don Esteban, your father. They say he
walks at midnight, carrying his head in his two hands."
Young Varona managed to whisper, with some show of courage: "Hush!
Wait! I don't believe in ghosts." Nevertheless, he was on the point of
setting Asensio an example of undignified flight when the mysterious
object emerged from the shadows into the open moonlight; then he sighed
with relief: "Ah-h! Now I see! It is my stepmother. She is asleep."
"Asleep?" Asensio was incredulous. He was still so unnerved by his
first fright that Esteban dared not release him.
"Yes; her eyes are open, but she sees nothing."
"I don't like such things," the negro confessed in a shaky voice. "How
can she walk if she is asleep? If her eyes are open, how can she help
seeing us? You know she hates Evangelina and me."
"I tell you she sees nothing, knows nothing--" For a moment or two they
watched the progress of the white-robed figure; then Esteban stirred
and rose from his seat. "She's too close to that well. There is--" He
started forward a pace or two. "They say people who walk at night go
mad if they're awakened too suddenly, and yet--"
Dona Isabel was talking in a low, throaty, unnatural tone. Her words
were meaningless, but the effect, at that hour and in those
surroundings, was bizarre and fearsome. Esteban felt his scalp
prickling uncomfortably. This was very creepy.
When the somnambulist's deliberate progress toward the mouth of the
well continued he called her name softly. "Dona Isabel!" Then he
repeated it louder. "Dona Isabel! Wake up."
The woman seemed to hear and yet not to hear. She turned her head to
listen, but continued to walk.
"Don't be alarmed," he said, reassuringly. "It is only Esteban--DONA
ISABEL! STOP!" Esteban sprang forward, shouting at the top of his
voice, for at the sound of his name Isabel had abruptly swerved to her
right, a movement which brought her dangerously close to the lip of the
well.
"STOP! GO BACK!" screamed the young man.
Above his warning there came a shriek, shrill and agonized--a wail of
such abysmal terror as to shock the night birds and the insects into
stillness. Dona Isabel slipped, or stumbled, to her knees, she balanced
briefly, clutching at random while the earth and crumbling cement gave
way beneath her; then she slid forward and disappeared, almost out from
between Esteban's hands. There was a noisy rattle of rock and pebble
and a great splash far below; a chuckle of little stones striking the
water, then a faint bubbling. Nothing more. The stepson stood in his
tracks, sick, blind with horror; he was swaying over the opening when
Asensio dragged him back.
Pancho Cueto, being a heavy sleeper, was the last to be roused by
Esteban's outcries. When he had hurriedly slipped into his clothes in
response to the pounding on his door, the few servants that the
establishment supported had been thoroughly awakened. Esteban was
shouting at them, explaining that Dona Isabel had met with an accident.
He was calling for a lantern, too, and a stout rope. Cueto thought they
must all be out of their minds until he learned what had befallen the
mistress of the house. Then, being a man of action, he, too, issued
swift orders, with the result that by the time he and Esteban had run
to the well both rope and lantern were ready for their use. Before
Esteban could form and fit a loop for his shoulders there was
sufficient help on hand to lower him into the treacherous abyss.
It was a commentary upon Dona Isabel's character that during the long,
slow moments of uncertainty while Esteban was being lowered the negroes
exhibited more curiosity than concern over her fate. In half-pleased
excitement they whispered and giggled and muttered together, while
Pancho lay prone at the edge of the orifice, directing them how to
manipulate the rope.
That was a gruesome task which fell to Esteban, for the well had been
long unused, its sides were oozing slime, its waters were stale and
black. He was on the point of fainting when he finally climbed out,
leaving the negroes to hoist the dripping, inert weight which he had
found at the bottom.
Old Sebastian's curse had come true; Dona Isabel had met the fate he
had called down upon her that day when he hung exhausted in his chains
and when the flies tormented him. The treasure for which the woman had
intrigued so tirelessly had been her death. Like an ignis fatuus, it
had lured her to destruction. Furthermore, as if in orirnmest irony,
she had been permitted at the very last to find it. Living, she had
searched to no purpose whatsoever; dying, she had almost grasped it in
her arms.
Once the first excitement had abated and a messenger had been sent to
town, Cueto drew Esteban aside and questioned him.
"A shocking tragedy and most peculiar," said the overseer. "Nothing
could amaze me more."
"Exactly! And all because of her sleep-walking. I'm all in a tremble."
"She was asleep? You are sure?"
"Have I not told you so?" Esteban was impatient.
"But it is said that people given to that peculiarity never come to
grief. They say some sixth sense guides them--gives them warning of
pitfalls and dangers. I--I can't understand--"
"That well was a menace to a waking person. I didn't realize how near
to it she was; and when I cried out to her it seemed only to hasten her
steps." The young man shuddered, for the horror of the thing was still
in his mind.
"Tell me, how did you come to be there at such an hour, eh?"
Esteban saw the malevolent curiosity in Cueto's face and started.
"I--That is my affair. Surely you don't think--"
"Come, come! You can trust me." The overseer winked and smiled.
"I had business that took me there," stiffly declared the younger man.
"Exactly! And a profitable business it proved!" Cueto laughed openly
now. "Well, I don't mind telling you, Dona Isabel's death is no
disappointment to any one. Anybody could see--"
"Stop!" Esteban was turning alternately red and white. "You seem to
imply something outrageous."
"Now let us be sensible. I understand you perfectly, my boy. But an
officer of the Guardia Civil may arrive at any moment and he will want
to know how you came to be with your stepmother when she plunged into
that trap. So prepare yourself. If only you had not given the alarm. If
only you had waited until morning. But--in the dead of night! Alone! He
will think it queer. Suppose, too, he learns that you and Dona Isabel
quarreled the other day over money matters?"
Young Varona recovered himself quickly. He was watching his inquisitor
now with a faintly speculative frown. When Cueto had finished, Esteban
said:
"Dona Isabel and I frequently quarreled over money matters, so there is
nothing strange in that. You would like me to confess to some black
iniquity that would make us better friends, eh? Well, it so happens
that I was not alone to-night, but that another person saw the poor
woman's death and can bear me out in everything I say. No, Pancho, you
overreach yourself. Now then"--Esteban was quick-tempered, and for
years he had struggled against an instinctive distrust and dislike of
the plantation manager--"remember that I have become the head of this
house, and your employer. You will do better to think of your own
affairs than of mine. Do you understand me? I have long suspected that
certain matters of yours need attention, and at the first opportunity I
intend to have a careful reckoning with you. I think you know I have a
good head for figures." Turning his back upon the elder man, he walked
away.
Now it did not occur to Cueto really to doubt the boy's innocence,
though the circumstances of Dona Isabel's death were suspicious enough
to raise a question in any mind; but in view of Esteban's threat he
thought it wise to protect himself by setting a back-fire. It was with
some such vague idea in his head that he turned to the sunken garden as
the first gray light of dawn appeared. He hoped to gain some
inspiration by examining the place again, and, as it proved, he
succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations.
As he sat on an old stone bench, moodily repicturing the catastrophe as
Esteban had described it, his attention fell upon an envelope at his
feet. It was sealed; it was unaddressed. Cueto idly broke it open and
began to read. Before he had gone far he started; then he cast a
furtive glance about. But the place was secluded; he was unobserved.
When he finished reading he rose, smiling. He no longer feared Esteban.
On the contrary, he rather pitied the young fool; for here between his
fingers was that which not only promised to remove the boy from his
path forever, but to place in his hands the entire Varona estates. Fate
was kind. After years of patient scheming Cueto had obtained his reward.
One afternoon, perhaps a week later, Don Mario de Castano came puffing
and blowing up to the quinta, demanding to see Rosa without a moment's
delay. The girl appeared before her caller had managed to dry up the
streams of perspiration resulting from his exertions. With a directness
unusual even in him Don Mario began: