with the comandante when I learned the truth. Through friendship I
prevailed upon him to give you an hour's grace."
"What do you mean, Don Mario?" inquired the girl.
"Come, come!" the planter cried, impatiently. "Don't you see you can
trust me? God! The recklessness, the folly of young people! Could you
not leave this insurrection to your elders? Or perhaps you thought it a
matter of no great importance, an amusing thing--"
"Don Mario!" Rosa interrupted. "I don't know what you are talking
about."
"You don't, eh?" The caller's wet cheeks grew redder; he blew like a
porpoise. "Then call Esteban quickly! There is not a moment to lose."
When the brother appeared De Castano blurted out at him accusingly:
"Well, sir! A fine fix you've put yourself in. I came here to warn you,
but Rosa pretends ignorance. Perhaps you will be interested to learn
that Colonel Fernandez has issued orders to arrest you and your sister
as agents of the Insurrectos."
"What?" Esteban drew back. Rosa turned white as a lily and laid a
fluttering hand upon her throat.
"You two will sleep to-night in San Severino," grimly announced the
rotund visitor. "You know what that means. Cubans who enter the
Castillo seldom come out. Have you noticed the big sharks that swim
about under the walls of it? Do you know what bait keeps them there?
Well, I'll tell you! It's the bodies of rebel sympathizers--foolish
people like you who call themselves patriots."
Rosa uttered a smothered cry.
"Colonel Fernandez," Don Mario proceeded, impressively, "did me this
favor, knowing me to be a suitor for Rosa's hand. In spite of his duty
and the evidence he--"
"Evidence? What evidence?" Esteban asked, sharply.
"For one thing, your own letter to Lopez, the rebel, warning him to
beware of the trap prepared for him in Santa Clara, and advising him of
the Government force at Sabanilla. Oh, don't try to deny it! I read it
with my own eyes, and it means--death."
In the ensuing silence the fat man's asthmatic breathing sounded
loudly; it was like the respirations of an excited eavesdropper.
At last Rosa said, faintly: "Esteban! I warned you."
Esteban was taken aback, but it was plain that he was not in the least
frightened. "They haven't caught me yet," he laughed.
"You say they intend to arrest me also?" Rosa eyed the caller anxiously.
"Exactly!"
"But why?"
"Yes! Who accuses her, and of what?" Esteban indignantly demanded.
"That also I have discovered through the courtesy of Colonel Fernandez.
Your accuser is none other than Pancho Cueto."
"Cueto!"
"Yes, he has denounced both of you as rebels, and the letter is only
part of his proof, I believe. I don't know what other evidence he has,
but, take my word for it, the Government does not require much proof
these days. Suspicion is enough. Now, then, you can guess why I am
here. I am not without influence; I can save Rosa, but for you,
Esteban, I fear I can do nothing. You must look out for yourself. Well?
What do you say? We're wasting precious time standing here with our
mouths open."
When Esteban saw how pale his sister had grown, he took her in his
arms, saying, gently: "I'm sorry, dear. It's all my fault." Then to the
merchant, "It was very good of you to warn us."
"Ha!" Don Mario fanned himself. "I'm glad you appreciate my efforts.
It's a good thing to have the right kind of a friend. I'll marry Rosa
within an hour, and I fancy my name will be a sufficient shield--"
Rosa turned to her elderly suitor and made a deep courtesy. "I am
unworthy of the honor," said she. "You see, I--I do not love you, Don
Mario."
"Love!" exploded the visitor. "God bless you! What has love to do with
the matter? Esteban will have to ride for his life in ten minutes and
your property will be seized. So you had better make yourself ready to
go with me." But Rosa shook her head.
"Eh? What ails you? What do you expect to do?"
"I shall go with Esteban," said the girl.
This calm announcement seemed to stupefy De Castano. He sat down
heavily in the nearest chair, and with his wet handkerchief poised in
one pudgy hand he stared fixedly at the speaker. His eyes were round
and bulging, the sweat streamed unheeded from his temples. He resembled
some queer bloated marine monster just emerged from the sea and
momentarily dazzled by the light.
"You--You're mad," he finally gasped. "Esteban, tell her what it means."
But this Esteban could not do, for he himself had not the faintest
notion of what was in store for him. War seemed to him a glorious
thing; he had been told that the hills were peopled with patriots. He
was very young, his heart was ablaze with hatred for the Spaniards and
for Pancho Cueto. He longed to risk his life for a free Cuba. Therefore
he said: "Rosa shall do as she pleases. If we must be exiles we shall
share each other's hardships. It will not be for long."
"Idiot!" stormed the fat man. "Better that you gave her to the sharks
below San Severino. There is no law, no safety for women outside of the
cities. The island is in anarchy. These patriots you talk about are the
blacks, the mulattoes, the--lowest, laziest savages in Cuba."
"Please! Don Mario!" the girl pleaded. "I cannot marry you, for--I love
another."
"Eh?"
"I love another. I'm betrothed to O'Reilly, the American--and he's
coming back to marry me."
De Castano twisted himself laboriously out of his chair and waddled
toward the door. He was purple with rage and mortification. On the
threshold he paused to wheeze: "Very well, then. Go! I'm done with both
of you. I would have lent you a hand with this rascal Cueto, but now he
will fall heir to your entire property. Well, it is a time for bandits!
I--I--" Unable to think of a parting speech sufficiently bitter to
match his disappointment, Don Mario plunged out into the sunlight,
muttering and stammering to himself.
Within an hour the twins were on their way up the Yumuri, toward the
home of Asensio and Evangelina; for it was thither that they naturally
turned. It was well that they had made haste, for as they rode down
into the valley, up the other side of the hill from Matanzas came a
squad of the Guardia Civil, and at its head rode Pancho Cueto.
V
A CRY FROM THE WILDERNESS
New York seemed almost like a foreign city to Johnnie O'Reilly when he
stepped out into it on the morning after his arrival. For one thing it
was bleak and cold: the north wind, hailing direct from Baffin's Bay,
had teeth, and it bit so cruelly that he was glad when he found shelter
in the building which housed the offices of the Carter Importing
Company. The tropics had thinned O'Reilly's blood, for the Cuban winds
bear a kiss instead of a sting; therefore he paused in the lower
hallway, jostled by the morning crowds, and tried to warm himself. The
truth is O'Reilly was not only cold, but frightened.
He was far from weak-hearted. In fact, few O'Reillys were that, and
Johnnie had an ingrained self-assurance which might have been mistaken
for impudence, but for the winning smile that went with it. Yet all the
way from Havana he had seen in his mind's eye old Sam Carter intrenched
behind his flat-topped desk, and that picture had more than once caused
him to forget the carefully rehearsed speech in which he intended to
resign his position as an employee and his prospects as a son-in-law.
That desk of Mr. Carter's was always bare and orderly, cleared for
action, like the deck of a battle-ship, and over it many engagements
had been fought, for the man behind it never shirked a conflict. His
was a vigorous and irascible temperament, compounded of old-fashioned,
slow-burning black powder and nitroglycerine--a combination of
incalculable destructive power. It was a perilously unstable mixture,
tool, at times nothing less than a flame served to ignite it; on other
occasions the office force pussy-footed past Carter's door on felt
soles, and even then the slightest jar often caused the untoward thing
to let go. In either event there was a deafening roar, much smoke, and
a deal of damage. O'Reilly felt sure that whatever the condition of Mr.
Carter's digestion or the serenity of his mind at the beginning of
their interview, the news he had to impart would serve as an effective
detonator, after which it would be every man for himself. It was not
the effect of his report concerning the firm's unprofitable Cuban
connections which O'Reilly feared would cause the decks to heave and
the ship to rock--Samuel Carter could take calmly the most disturbing
financial reverse--it was the blow to his pride at learning that
anybody could prefer another girl to his daughter. Johnnie shook his
shoulders and stamped his feet, but the chill in his bones refused to
go.
He did gain courage, however, by thinking of Rosa Varona as he had last
seen her, with arms outstretched, with eyes tear-filled, with yearning
lips aquiver at his going. The picture warmed him magically, and it was
with a restored determination to make a clean breast of the matter and
face the worst that he took the elevator.
The office force of the Carter Importing Company looked up when the
firm's Cuban representative entered the door, but its personnel having
changed as the result of one of those periodical disruptions that
occurred in the inner office, he was not recognized until he presented
himself to Mr. Slack, Samuel Carter's private and intimidated secretary.
Mr. Slack smiled wanly, and extended a clammy, nerveless hand as cold
and limber as a dead fish.
"You're expected," said he. "Mr. Carter is waiting to see you before
leaving for California."
"Seeing me won't make his trip any pleasanter," O'Reilly said, somberly.
"We were afraid you wouldn't get out of Cuba; thought we might have to
get the American consul at work."
"Really? I didn't know I was so important."
"Oh, you're the office pet, and well you know it." Mr. Slack's
pleasantry was tinged with envy, for he had never been able to
appreciate O'Reilly. "Conditions are bad, eh?"
"Yes. Anybody can leave," the other told him. "It's getting back that's
difficult. The Spaniards don't like us, and I dare say they have good
reason, with all this talk of intervention and the secret help we're
lending the Insurrectos. They held me up in Havana; tried to prove I
was a spy. They were positively peeved when they failed. Snippy people,
those Spaniards."
"Well, I'll tell Mr. Carter you're here." The secretary glided
unobtrusively toward the private office, disappeared, glided softly
into view again, and waggled a boneless forefinger invitingly. O'Reilly
went to meet his employer as a man marches to execution.
His heart sank further at the welcome he received, for the importer
gave him a veritable embrace; he patted him on the back and inquired
three times as to his health. O'Reilly was anything but cold now; he
was perspiring profusely, and he felt his collar growing limp. To
shatter this old man's eager hopes would be like kicking a child in the
face. Carter had never been so enthusiastic, so demonstrative; there
was something almost theatrical in his greeting. It dismayed O'Reilly
immensely to realize what a hold he must have upon his employer's
affections. Although the latter had a reputation for self-control, he
appeared to be in a perfect flutter now. He assumed a boisterousness
which seemed strained and wholly out of keeping with the circumstances.
His actions vaguely reminded the younger man of an ambling draft-horse
trying to gallop; and when, for the fourth time, Mr. Carter inquired
solicitously concerning his visitor's well-being, Johnnie's dismay
turned to amazement. With a heavy playfulness Mr. Carter at length
remarked:
"Well, my boy, you made a fizzle of it, didn't you?" The tone was
almost complimentary.
"Yes, sir, I'm a bright and shining failure," O'Reilly acknowledged,
hopefully.
"Now, don't 'yes, sir' me. We're friends, aren't we? Good! Understand,
I don't blame you in the least--it's that idiotic revolution that
spoiled our business. I can't understand those people. Lord! You did
splendidly, under the circumstances."
"They have reason enough to revolt--oppression, tyranny, corruption."
O'Reilly mumbled the familiar words in a numb paralysis at Mr. Carter's
jovial familiarity.
"All Latin countries are corrupt," announced the importer--"always have
been and always will be. They thrive under oppression. Politics is
purely a business proposition with those people. However, I dare say
this uprising won't last long."
O'Reilly welcomed this trend of the conversation; anything was better
than fulsome praise, and the discussion would delay the coming crash.
It seemed strange, however, that Samuel Carter should take time to
discourse about generalities. Johnnie wondered why the old man didn't
get down to cases.
"It's more than an uprising, sir," he said. "The rebels have overrun
the eastern end of the island, and when I left Maceo and Gomez were
sweeping west."
"Bah! It takes money to run a war."
"They have money," desperately argued O'Reilly. "Marti raised more than
a million dollars, and every Cuban cigar-maker in the United States
gives a part of his wages every week to the cause. The best blood of
Cuba is in the fight. The rebels are poorly armed, but if our
Government recognizes their belligerency they'll soon fix that. Spain
is about busted; she can't stand the strain."
"I predict they'll quit fighting as soon as they get hungry. The
Government is starving them out. However, they've wound up our affairs
for the time being, and--" Mr. Carter carefully shifted the position of
an ink-well, a calendar, and a paper-knife--"that brings us to a
consideration of your and my affairs, doesn't it? Ahem! You remember
our bargain? I was to give you a chance and you were to make good
before you--er--planned any--er--matrimonial foolishness with my
daughter."
"Yes, sir." O'Reilly felt that the moment had come for his carefully
rehearsed speech, but, unhappily, he could not remember how the
swan-song started. He racked his brain for the opening words.
Mr. Carter, too, was unaccountably silent. He opened his lips, then
closed them. Both men, after an awkward pause, cleared their throats in
unison and eyed each other expectantly. Another moment dragged past,
then they chorused:
"I have an unpleasant--"
Each broke off at the echo of his own words.
"What's that?" inquired the importer.
"N-nothing. You were saying--"
"I was thinking how lucky it is that you and Elsa waited. Hm-m! Very
fortunate." Again Mr. Carter rearranged his desk fittings. "She has
deep feelings--got a conscience, too. Conscience is a fine thing in a
woman--so few of 'em have it. We sometimes differ, Elsa and I, but when
she sets her heart on a thing I see that she gets it, even if I think
she oughtn't to have it. What's the use of having children if you can't
spoil 'em, eh?" He looked up with a sort of resentful challenge, and
when his listener appeared to agree with him he sighed with
satisfaction. "Early marriages are silly--but she seems to think
otherwise. Maybe she's right. Anyhow, she's licked me. I'm done. She
wants to be married right away, before we go West. That's why I waited
to see you at once. You're a sensible fellow, Johnnie--no foolishness
about you. You won't object, will you? We men have to take our
medicine."
"It's quite out of the question," stammered the unhappy O'Reilly.
"Come, come! It's tough on you, I know, but--" The fuse had begun to
sputter. Johnnie had a horrified vision of himself being dragged
unwillingly to the altar. "Elsa is going to have what she wants, if I
have to break something. If you'll be sensible I'll stand behind you
like a father and teach you the business. I'm getting old, and
Ethelbert could never learn it. Otherwise--" The old man's jaw set; his
eyes began to gleam angrily.
"Who is--Ethelbert?" faintly inquired O'Reilly.
"Why, dammit! He's the fellow I've been telling you about. He's not so
bad as he sounds; he's really a nice boy--"
"Elsa is in love with another man? Is that what you mean?"
"Good Lord, yes! Don't you understand English? I didn't think you'd
take it so hard--I was going to make a place for you here in the
office, but of course if--Say! What the deuce ails you?"
Samuel Carter stared with amazement, for the injured victim of his
daughter's fickleness had leaped to his feet and was shaking his hand
vigorously, meanwhile uttering unintelligible sounds that seemed to
signify relief, pleasure, delight--anything except what the old man
expected.
"Are you crazy, or am I?" he queried.
"Yes, sir; delirious. It's this way, sir; I've changed my mind, too."
"Oh--! You have?"
"I've met the dearest, sweetest"--O'Reilly choked, then began
again--"the dearest, loveliest--"
"Never mind the bird-calls--don't coo! I get enough of that at home.
Don't tell me she's dearer and sweeter than Elsa. Another girl! Well,
I'll be damned! Young man, you're a fool."
"Yes, sir."
Slightly mollified by this ready acknowledgment, Mr. Carter grunted
with relief. "Humph! It turned out better than I thought. Why, I--I was
positively terrified when you walked in. And to think you didn't need
any sympathy!"
"I do need that job, though. It will enable me to get married."
"Nonsense! Better wait. I don't believe in early engagements."
"Oh yes, you do."
"Well, that depends. But, say--you're a pretty nervy youth to turn down
my daughter and then hold me up for a job, all in the same breath.
Here! Don't dance on my rug. I ought to be offended, and I am, but--Get
out while I telephone Elsa, so she can dance, too."
O'Reilly spent that evening in writing a long letter to Rosa Varona.
During the next few days his high spirits proved a trial and an affront
to Mr. Slack, who, now that his employer had departed for the West, had
assumed a subdued and gloomy dignity to match the somber
responsibilities of his position.
Other letters went forward by succeeding posts, and there was no doubt
now, that O'Reilly's pen was tipped with magic! He tingled when he
reread what he had written. He bade Rosa prepare for his return and
their immediate marriage. The fun and the excitement of planning their
future caused him to fill page after page with thrilling details of the
flat-hunting, home-fitting excursions they would take upon their return
to New York. He wrote her ecstatic descriptions of a suite of Grand
Rapids furniture he had priced; he wasted a thousand emotional words
over a set of china he had picked out, and the results of a preliminary
trip into the apartment-house district required a convulsive three-part
letter to relate. It is remarkable with what poetic fervor, what
strength of feeling, a lover can describe a five-room flat; with what
glories he can furnish it out of a modest salary and still leave enough
for a life of luxury.
But O'Reilly's letters did not always touch upon practical things;
there was a wide streak of romance in him, and much of what he wrote
was the sort of thing which romantic lovers always write--tender,
foolish, worshipful thoughts which half abashed him when he read them
over. But that Rosa would thrill to them he had no doubt, nor had he
any fear that she would hesitate to leave her native land for him.
O'Reilly's love was unlimited; his trust in the girl was absolute. He
knew, moreover, that she loved and trusted him. This, to be sure, was a
miracle--a unique phenomenon which never ceased to amaze him. He did
not dream that every man had felt the same vague wonder.
And so the time passed rapidly. But, strange to say, there came no
answer to those letters. O'Reilly chafed: he cursed the revolution
which had made communication so uncertain; at length he cabled, but
still the days dragged on with no result. Gradually his impatience gave
way to apprehension. Unreasonable conjectures besieged his mind and
destroyed his peace.
Great was his relief, therefore, when one day a worn, stained envelope
addressed in Rosa's hand was laid upon his desk. The American stamp,
the Key West postmark, looked strange, but--Her first letter! O'Reilly
wondered if his first letter to her could possibly have moved her as
this moved him. He kissed the envelope where her lips had caressed it
in the sealing. Then with eager fingers he broke it open.
It was a generous epistle, long and closely written, but as he read his
keen delight turned to dismay, and when he had turned the last thin
page his brain was in wildest turmoil. He thought he must be dreaming.
He turned sick, aching eyes upon his surroundings to prove this thing a
nightmare, but the prosaic clink of a typewriter and the drone of a
voice dictating quotations on Brazilian coffee were conclusive evidence
to the contrary. Those pages between his thumb and finger were real.
Yes, and that was Rosa's writing. Could it be that he had misunderstood
anything? He turned to the beginning and attempted to read, but his
hands shook so that he was obliged to lay the letter flat upon his desk.
Rosa's Spanish training had been severely tried. The stiff, quaint
formality of her opening paragraphs only served to emphasize her final
frightened cry for help.
MY DEARLY BELOVED,--It is with diffidence and hesitation that I take my
pen in hand, for I fear you may consider me unduly forward in writing
to you without solicitation. Believe me, I appreciate the reserve which
a young lady of refinement should practise even in her correspondence
with the gentleman who has honored her with his promise of marriage,
but my circumstances are such as to banish consideration of the social
niceties.
Alas! What events have followed your departure from Matanzas! What
misfortunes have overtaken Esteban and me. That happiness could be so
swiftly succeeded by misery, that want could follow plenty, that peril
could tread so closely upon the heels of safety! Where to begin, how to
tell you, I scarcely know; my hand shakes, my eyes are blinded--nor
dare I trust myself to believe that this letter will ever reach you,
for we are refugees, Esteban and I--fugitives, outcasts, living in the
manigua with Asensio and Evangelina, former slaves of our father. Such
poverty, such indescribable circumstances! But they were our only
friends and they took us in when we were homeless, so we love them.
I see you stare at these words. I hear you say, "That Rosa has gone
mad, like her wicked stepmother!" Indeed, sometimes I think I have.
But, no. I write facts. It is a relief to put them down, even though
you never read them. Good Asensio will take this letter on his horse to
the Insurrecto camp, many miles away, and there give it to Colonel
Lopez, our only friend, who promises that in some mysterious way it
will escape the eyes of our enemies and reach your country. Yes, we
have enemies! We, who have harmed no one. Wait until I tell you.
But if this letter reaches you--and I send it with a prayer--what then?
I dare not think too long of that, for the hearts of men are not like
the hearts of women. What will you say when you learn that the Rosa
Varona whom you favored with your admiration is not the Rosa of to-day?
I hear you murmur, "The girl forgets herself!" But, oh, the standards
of yesterday are gone and my reserve is gone, too! I am a hunted
creature.
O'Reilly felt a great pain in his breast at the thought that Rosa had
for an instant doubted him. But she did not really doubt; those
misgivings were but momentary; the abandon of her appeal showed that in
her heart of hearts she knew his love to be unshakable.
She had compelled herself to start with the death of Dona Isabel and to
give him a succinct account of all that had followed. O'Reilly read the
story, fascinated. Here, amid these surroundings, with the rattle of
typewriters and the tinkle of telephone-bells in his ears, it all
seemed wholly improbable, fancifully unreal--like the workings of some
turgid melodrama.