The Doctor admitted that Garda could converse in Spanish. He suggested
that they should walk on and join her; joining her, of course, meant
joining Torres. The Cuban proved to be a dark-skinned youth, with dull
black eyes, a thin face, and black hair, closely cut, that stood up in
straight thickness all over his head, defying parting. He was tall,
gaunt, with a great want of breadth in the long expanse of his person;
he was deliberate in all his motions; ungainly. Yet he could not have
been described as insignificant exactly; a certain deep reticent
consciousness of his own importance, which was visible in every one of
his slow, stiff movements, in every glance of his dull, reserved eyes,
saved him from that. He bowed profoundly when introduced to the
northerner, but said nothing. He did not speak after the others came up.
When Garda addressed him, he contented himself with another bow.
They all walked on together, and after some minutes the little ridge,
winding with its sentinel bayonets across old fields, brought them to
the main avenue of the place. This old road, broad as it was, was
completely overarched by the great live-oaks which bordered it on each
side; the boughs rose high in the air, met, interlaced, and passed on,
each stretching completely over the centre of the roadway and curving
downward on the opposite side; looking east and looking west was like
looking through a Gothic aisle, vaulted in gray-green. The little party
entered this avenue; Garda, after a few moments, again separated herself
from Winthrop and Dr. Kirby, and walked on in advance with Torres. The
Doctor looked after them, discomfited.
"We should have spoken Spanish," said Winthrop, smiling.
"I do not know a word of the language!" declared the Doctor, with
something of the exasperation of fatigue in his voice.
For the Doctor was not in the habit of walking, and he did not like to
walk; the plump convexes of his comfortable person formed, indeed,
rather too heavy a weight for his small feet in their little boots. But
he was far too devoted a family friend to be turned back from obvious
duty by the mere trifle of physical fatigue; he therefore waved his hand
towards the live-oaks, and (keeping one eye well upon Garda and her
companion in front) resumed with grace his descriptive discourse. "These
majestic old trees, Mr. Winthrop, were set out to adorn the main avenue
of the place, leading from the river landing up to the mansion-house.
You will find a few of these old avenues in this neighborhood; but far
finer ones--the finest in the world--at the old places on the Ashley
and Cooper rivers, near the city of Charleston."
"But there are no trees near the house," said Winthrop; "I noticed that
particularly."
"The road goes to the door, the trees stop at the edge of the open
space; that space was left, as you have probably divined, as a
protection against surprises by Indians."
The younger man laughed. "I confess I was thinking more of the
traditional Spanish jealousy than of Indians. You are right, of course;
I must not allow my fancies, which are, after all, rather operatic in
their origin, to lead me astray down here."
"You will find, I think, very little that is operatic among us," said
Kirby, a trace of sombreness making itself felt for the first time
through the courteous optimism of his tone. Truly there had been little
that was operatic in their life at the South for some years past.
"I don't know," said Winthrop. "Isn't that rather an operatic personage
who has just stopped Miss Thorne? The Tenor himself, I should say."
The spectacles were safely in their case, and back in the Doctor's
pocket. But he now made haste to take them out a second time, he knew of
no Tenors in Gracias. When he had adjusted them, "It's only Manuel
Ruiz," he said, with both relief and vexation in his tone. He was
relieved that it was only Manuel, but vexed that he should have been
led, even for a moment, to suppose that it might be some one else, some
one who was objectionable (as though objectionable persons could
penetrate into their society!); and he asked himself inwardly what the
deuce this northerner meant by calling their arrangement of their land
"operatic," and their young gentlemen "Tenors." "Manuel Ruiz is the son
of an old friend of ours; their place is on Patricio, opposite," he
said, frigidly. "The Ruiz family were almost as well known here in the
old Spanish days as the Dueros."
He had no time for more, for, as Garda had stopped, they now came up
with the little party in front.
Manuel Ruiz was older than Torres. Manuel was twenty-one. He was a tall,
graceful youth, with a mobile face, eloquent dark eyes, and a manner
adorned with much gesture and animation. He undoubtedly cherished an
excellent opinion of Manuel Ruiz; but undoubtedly also there was good
ground for that opinion, Manuel Ruiz being a remarkably handsome young
man. That Winthrop should have called him operatic was perhaps
inevitable. He wore a short black cloak, an end of which was tossed over
one shoulder after the approved manner of the operatic young gentleman
when about to begin, under the balcony of his lady-love, a serenade; on
his head was a picturesque sombrero, and he carried, or rather
flourished, a slender cane, which might have been a rapier; these
properties, together with his meridional eyes, his gestures, and the
slight tendency to attitude visible in his graceful movements, made him
much like the ideal young Tenor of the Italian stage, as he comes down
to the foot-lights to sing in deepest confidence, to the sympathetic
audience, of his loves and his woes.
That the ideal young Tenor has often encountered wide-spreading
admiration, no one would venture to deny. Still, there have been, now
and then, those among his audiences who have not altogether shared this
feeling. They have generally been men; not infrequently they have been
men of a somewhat lighter complexion, with visual orbs paler, perhaps,
and not so expressive; a grace in attitude less evident. Evert Winthrop
cared nothing for Tenors, real or imitative. But he was a man made with
more pretensions to strength than to sinuousness; he had no gestures;
his complexion, where not bronzed by exposure, was fair; his eyes were
light. They were gray eyes, with, for the most part, a calm expression.
But they easily became keen, and they could, upon occasion, become
stern. He opposed a short, thick, brown beard to Manuel's pointed
mustache, and thick, straight hair, closely cut, of the true American
brown, to the little luxuriant rings, blue-black in color, short also,
but curling in spite of shortness, which the breeze stirred slightly on
the head of the handsome young Floridian as he stood, sombrero in hand,
beside Garda Thorne.
Manuel was not another Torres; he was an American, and spoke English
perfectly. Upon this occasion, after his introduction, he offered to
the northerner with courtesy several well-turned sentences as the
beginning of an acquaintance, and then they all walked on together up
the old road.
"I believe we have now finished our little tour, Miss Garda, have we
not?" said the Doctor, in a cheerful voice. Though very tired, he was
walking onward with his usual trim step, his toes well turned out, his
shoulders thrown back, his head erect, but having no perception of the
fact (plump men never have) that, as seen from behind, his round person
appeared to be projected forward into space as he walked with something
of an overweight in front, and his little legs and feet to have been set
on rather too far back to balance this weight properly, so that there
seemed to be always some slight danger of an overthrow.
"Oh no," answered Garda; "I have promised to take Mr. Winthrop over the
entire place, and we have still the orange walk, the rose garden, the
edge of the swamp, the wild cattle, and the crane."
"I doubt whether Mr. Wintup will find much to amuse him in the wild
cattle," remarked Manuel, laughing.
It was certainly a slight offence: Manuel had never been north, and did
not know the name; in addition, owing to the mixture of races, much
liberty of pronunciation was allowed in Gracias, Manuel himself seldom
hearing his own name in proper form, the Spanish names of Florida, like
the Huguenot names of South Carolina, having undergone more than one
metamorphosis on New World shores. Winthrop walked on without replying,
he seemed not to have heard the remark.
"You do want to see the wild cattle, don't you, Mr. Winthrop?" said
Garda. "They're beautiful--in glimpses."
"If--ah--somebody should ride one of them--in glimpses--it might be
entertaining," answered Winthrop. "Perhaps one of these young gentlemen
would favor us?"
Garda's laugh pealed forth; Manuel looked angry, Torres watched the
scene, but prudently gave no smile to what he did not understand. Even
the Doctor joined in Garda's laugh.
"What in the world are you thinking of?" he said to Winthrop.
"Bull-fighting? I am afraid we shall not be able to gratify you in that
way just now."
At this moment, round a bend in the road, appeared the small figure of
Mrs. Thorne; she was advancing towards them, accompanied by a gentleman
in clerical attire.
"Here is mamma, with Mr. Moore," said Garda. She left the others, and
went across to Winthrop. "The whole four," she murmured; "my four
persons about here."
"So I supposed," Winthrop answered, in the same tone.
The two parties now met, and it was decided that the wild cattle and the
swamp should be postponed for the present, and that they would all go
together to the rose-garden, where, at this hour, Carlos Mateo was
generally to be found disporting himself. Garda explained that he was
disporting himself with the roses--he was very fond of roses, he was
often observed gazing with fixed interest at unclosing buds. When they
were fully opened, he ate them; this, however, was not gluttony, but
appreciation; it was his only way of showing his admiration, and a very
expressive one, Garda thought.
"Remarkably," observed the Doctor. "Captain Cook was of the same
opinion."
The live-oak avenue brought them to the open space which surrounded the
house; crossing this space, they took a path that came up to its border
from the opposite direction. This second avenue was a green arched walk,
whose roof of leaves seemed, as one looked down it, sure to touch the
head; but it never did, it was an illusion produced by the stretching
vista of the long aisle. The same illusion made the opposite entrance at
the far end--a half-circle of yellow light shining in from outside--seem
so low, so near the ground, that one would inevitably be forced to creep
through it on one's hands and knees when one had reached it, there would
be no other way. This, again, was an illusion, the aisle was eight feet
in height throughout its length. This long arbor had been formed by
bitter-sweet orange-trees. Not a ray of the sunshine without could
penetrate the thick foliage; but the clear light color of the shining
leaves themselves, with the sunshine touching them everywhere outside,
made a cheerful radiance within, and the aisle was further illuminated
by the large, warm-looking globes of the fruit, thickly hanging like
golden lamps from the roof of branches. There was an indescribably
fresh youthfulness in this golden-green light, it was as different from
the rich dark shade cast by the magnolias as from the gray stillness
under the old live-oaks.
Through this orange aisle it pleased Miss Thorne to walk with Evert
Winthrop. Mrs. Thorne came next, with the Rev. Dr. Moore; Dr. Kirby
followed at a little distance, walking alone, and resting, if not his
feet, at least his conversational powers. The two younger men were last,
and some yards behind the others, Torres advancing with his usual
woodenness of joint, not indulging in much conversation, but giving a
guarded Spanish monosyllable now and then to his New World compatriot,
who, still angry, let his slender cane strike the trunks of the
orange-trees as they passed along, these strokes being carefully watched
by Torres, who turned his thin neck stiffly each time, like an
automaton, to see if the bark had received injury.
"We make quite a little procession," said Winthrop, looking back. "We
have four divisions."
"What do you think of them?" inquired Garda.
"The divisions?"
"No; my four persons about here."
"Dr. Kirby is delightful, I don't know when I have met any one so much
so."
"Delightful," said Garda, meditatively. "I am very fond of Dr. Reginald,
he is almost the best friend I have in the world; but delightful?--does
delightful mean--mean--" She paused, leaving her sentence unfinished.
"Does delightful mean Dr. Kirby?" said Winthrop, finishing it for her.
"Dr. Kirby is certainly delightful, but he doesn't exhaust the capacity
of the adjective; it has branches in other directions."
"And the others?"
"The other directions?"
"No; the other persons about here."
"I have seen Mr. Moore so few times that I have had scarcely opportunity
to form an opinion."
"You formed one of Dr. Reginald the first time you saw him. But I was
not speaking of Mr. Moore, I meant the others still."
"Those young natives? Really, I have not observed them."
"Now, there, I do not believe you," said Garda; "you have observed them,
you observe everything. You say that to put them down--why should you
put them down? You are very imperious, why should you be imperious?" And
she looked at him, not vexed but frankly curious.
"Imperious," said Winthrop; "what extraordinary words you use? I am not
imperious, as you call it, with you."
"No; but you would be if it were allowable," said the girl, nodding her
head shrewdly. "Fortunately it isn't."
"Make the experiment--allow it; I might do better than you think."
"There is room for improvement, certainly," she answered, laughing. They
had reached the end of the orange aisle, she passed under the green
archway (which proved to be quite high enough), and went out into the
sunshine beyond, calling "Carlos Mateo? Carlos, dear?" Then, in Spanish,
"Angel of my heart, come to me."
The old garden had long been left untended. It was large, but seemed
larger even than it was, because it had wandered out into the forest,
and wild growths from there had come back with it; these had jumped
boldly across the once well-guarded boundaries and overrun the
cultivated verdure with their lawless green; oleanders were lost in
thickets, fig-trees, pomegranates, and guavas were bound together in a
tangle of vines; flower beds had become miniature jungles in which the
descendants of the high-born blossoms that had once held sway there had
forgotten their manners in the crowd of lusty plebeian plants that
jostled against them. Even the saw-palmetto had pushed his way in from
the barrens, and now clogged the paths with his rough red legs, holding
up his stiff fans in the very faces of the lilies, who, being southern
lilies, longed for the sun. A few paths had been kept open, however,
round the great rose-tree, the pride of the place, a patriarch fifteen
feet high, its branches covered with beautiful tea-roses, whose petals
of soft creamy hue were touched at the edges with an exquisite pink. A
little space of garden beds in comparative order encircled this tree;
here, too, on the right, opened out the sweet-orange grove.
This grove was by no means in good condition, many of its trees were
ancient, some were dead; still, work had been done there, and the
attempt, such as it was, had been persisted in, though never
effectually. The persistence had been due to the will of Mrs. Thorne,
the ineffectualness to the will of old Pablo. His mistress, by a system
of serene determination, had been able to triumph, to a certain extent,
over the ancient and well-organized contrariness of this old man--a dumb
opposition whose existence she never in the least recognized, though its
force she well knew. Each season the obstinate old servant began by
disapproving regularly of everything she ordered; next, he carried out
her orders slowly, and with as many delays as possible--this not so much
from any reasonable objection to her ideas as from his general
principles of resistance, founded upon family pride. For Pablo, who was
Raquel's husband--a bent little negro of advanced age--could never
forget that "Marse Edgar's wife" was but an interloper after all, an
importation from New England, and not "ob de fambly c'nection," not even
of southern birth. The memory of majestic "Old Madam," Edgar Thorne's
Spanish aunt, kept her "Young Miss" still in the estimation of the two
old slaves, though "Ole Miss" had now been for a number of years safely
in her coquina tomb--"let us hope enjoying rest and peace--as that poor
little Mistress Thorne will now enjoy them too, _at last_," as an old
friend of the family, Mrs. Betty Carew, had remarked with much feeling,
though some ambiguity of phrase (the latter quite unintentional), the
day after the funeral.
"Young Miss 'lows dese yere's _yappul_-trees," Pablo said to Raquel,
with a fine scorn, as he dug objectingly round their roots. "An' 'lowing
it, '_lowing_ it, Raquel, she orders accordin'!"
But the southern trees had lived, and had even, some of them, thrived a
little under the unwonted northern methods applied to them; Mrs. Thorne,
therefore, was able to rise above old Pablo's disapprovals--a feat,
indeed, which she had been obliged to perform almost daily, and with
regard to many other things than oranges, ever since her first arrival
at East Angels, seventeen years before.
This lady now seated herself on a bench under the rose-tree. She had
tied on, over her neat little widow's cap, the broad-brimmed palmetto
hat which she usually wore in the garden; this hat had fallen slightly
back, and now its broad yellow brim, standing out in a circle round her
small face, looked not unlike the dull nimbus with which the heads of
the stiff, sweet little angels in the early Italian paintings are
weighted down. The clergyman, Mr. Moore, stood beside her.
The Rev. Middleton Moore, rector of St. Philip and St. James's,
Gracias-a-Dios, was a tall gentleman, with narrow, slightly stooping
shoulders, long thin hands, a long smooth face, and thin dry brown hair
which always looked long (though it was not), because it grew from the
top of his head down to his ears in straight flat smoothness, the ends
being there cut across horizontally. His features were delicately
moulded. His long feet were slender and well-shaped. There was a
charming expression of purity and goodness in his small, mild blue eyes.
He was attired in clerical black, all save his hat, which was brown--a
low-crowned, brown straw hat adorned with a brown ribbon. Mrs. Penelope
Moore, his wife, profound as was her appreciation of the dignity of his
position as rector of the parish, could yet never quite resist the
temptation of getting for him, now and then, a straw hat, and a straw
hat, too, which was not black; to her sense a straw hat was youth, and
to her sense the rector was young. It was in a straw hat that she had
first beheld and admired him as the handsomest, as well as the most
perfect, of men; and so in a straw hat she still occasionally sent him
forth, gazing at the back view of it and him, from the rickety windows
of her Gothic rectory, with much satisfaction, as he went down the path
towards the gate on his way to some of the gentle Gracias
entertainments. For of course he wore it only on such light, unofficial
occasions.
Dr. Kirby, meanwhile, was making the circuit of the orange grove. He
stopped and peered up sidewise into each tree, his head now on one
shoulder, now on the other; then he came back, his hands and pockets
filled with oranges, which he offered to all; seating himself on the low
curb of an old well, he began to peel one with the little silver knife
which he kept for the purpose, doing it so deftly that not a drop of the
juice escaped, and looking on calmly meanwhile as the other bird,
Carlos Mateo, went through his dance for the entertainment of the
assembled company. Carlos Mateo was a tall gray crane of aged and severe
aspect; at Garda's call he had come forward with long, dignified steps
and stalked twice round the little open space before the rose-tree,
following her with grave exactitude as she walked before him. She then
called him to a path bordered with low bushes, and here, after a moment,
the company beheld him jumping slowly up and down, aiding himself with
his wings, sometimes rising several feet above the ground, and sometimes
only hopping on his long thin legs; he advanced in this manner down the
path to its end, and then back again, Garda walking in front, and
raising her hand as he rose and fell, as though beating time. Nothing
could have been more comical than the solemnity of the old fellow as he
went through these antics; it was as if a gray-bearded patriarch should
suddenly attempt a hornpipe.
His performance ended, he followed his mistress back to the company, to
receive their congratulations.
"What can we give him?" said Winthrop. "What does he like?"
"He will not take anything except from me," answered Garda; she gathered
a rose, and stood holding it by the stem while Carlos Mateo pecked
gravely at the petals. The sun was sinking, his horizontal rays shone
across her bright hair; she had taken off her hat, which was hanging by
its ribbon from her arm; Winthrop looked at her, at the rose-laden
branches above her head, at the odd figure of the crane by her side, at
the background of the wild old garden behind her. He was thinking that
he would give a good deal for a picture of the scene.
But while he was thinking it, Manuel had spoken it. "Miss Garda, I would
give a year out of my life for a picture of you as you are at this
moment!" he said, ardently. Winthrop turned away.
He went to look at some camellias, whose glossy leaves formed a thicket
at a little distance; on the other side of this thicket he discovered a
crape-myrtle avenue, the delicate trees so choked and hustled by the
ruder foliage which had grown up about them that they stood like
captives in the midst of a rabble, broken-hearted and dumb; with some
pushing he made his way within, and followed the lost path. It brought
him to a mound of tangled shrubbery which rose like a small hill at this
end of the garden, decked here and there, in what seemed inaccessible
places, with brilliant flowers. But the places had not been inaccessible
to Torres. Winthrop met him returning from the thorny conflict with a
magnificent stalk of blossoms which he had captured there, and was now
bringing back in triumph; it was a long wand of gorgeous spurred bells,
each two inches in length, crimson without, cream-color within, the lip
of the flaring lower petal lined with purple, and spotted with gold.
Torres carried his prize to Garda, and offered it in silence. She
thanked him prettily in Spanish, and he stood beside her, his dark face
in a dull glow from pleasure.
"Perhaps it is poisonous," murmured Manuel, taking good care, however,
to murmur in English.
"Oh, my dearest child! pray put it down," said Mrs. Thorne, anxiously.
"It is quite harmless," said the clergyman, "I know the family to which
it belongs. It is not indigenous here; probably the original shrub was
planted in the garden many years ago, and has run wild."
Garda took the stalk in her right hand, extended her left rigidly, and,
stiffening her light figure in a wooden attitude, looked meekly upward.
"Bravo! bravo!" said the Doctor from his well-curb, laughing, and
beginning on a second orange.
She stood thus for a few instants only. But it was very well done--an
exact copy of a dark, grim old picture in the little Spanish cathedral
of Gracias, a St. Catherine with a stalk of lilies in her hand.
Winthrop, who had returned, was standing on the other side of the open
space. Apparently he had not noticed this little pantomime. Garda looked
at him for a moment. Then she left her place, went across, and gravely
decorated him with her stalk of blossoms, the large stem going through
three of the button-holes of his coat before it could hold itself
firmly; the brilliant flowers extended diagonally across his breast,
past his chin, and above one ear.
"Your hat will break the top buds," said Garda, surveying her handiwork.
"Please take it off."
He obeyed. "For what sacrifice am I thus adorned?" he asked.
"It's no sacrifice," answered Garda, "it's a rebellion--a rebellion
against your constant objections to everything in the world!"
"But I haven't opened my lips."
"That is the very thing; you object silently--which is much worse. I'm
not accustomed to people who object silently. Everybody here talks; why
don't you talk?"
This little dialogue went on apart, the others could not hear it.
"I do--when you give me an opportunity," Winthrop answered.
"I'll give you one now," responded Garda; "we'll go back to the house,
we'll go through the orange-walk as we came, and the others can follow
as _they_ came." Without waiting for reply, she went towards the garden
gate. Winthrop followed her; and then Carlos Mateo, stalking across the
open space, followed Winthrop. He followed him so closely that Winthrop
declared he could feel his beak on his back. When they reached the house
they paused; Carlos then took up his station a little apart, and stood
on one leg to rest himself, watching Winthrop meanwhile with a
suspicious eye.
Mrs. Thorne was crossing the level with the Rev. Mr. Moore. Following
them, at a little distance, came Dr. Kirby, with his hands behind him.
Manuel and Torres, forced to be companions a second time, formed the
rear-guard of the returning procession. But as it approached the house,
Manuel, raising his hat to Mrs. Thorne, turned away; he went down the
live-oak avenue to the river landing, where his skiff was waiting.
Manuel had his ideas, he did not care to be one of five. Torres, who
also had his ideas, and many more of them than Manuel had, was not
troubled by considerations of this sort; in his mind a Torres was never
one of five, or one of anything, but always a Torres, and alone. Left to
himself, he now took longer steps, passed the others, and came first to
the doorway where Garda was standing.
"Why do you always look so serious, Mr. Torres?" she said, in Spanish,
as he came up.
"It is of small consequence how I look, while the senorita herself
remains so beautiful," answered the young man, bowing ceremoniously.
"Isn't that pretty?" said Garda to Winthrop.
"Immensely so," replied that decorated personage.
"But he does not look half so serious as you look comical--with all
those brilliant flowers by the side of your immovable face," she went
on, breaking into a laugh.
"It is of small consequence how I look, seeing that the senorita herself
placed them where they are," answered Winthrop, in tolerable if rather
labored Spanish, turning with a half-smile to Torres as he borrowed his
phrase.
"You did not like it? You thought it childish?" said Garda. She drew the
stalk quickly from its place. She was now speaking English, and Torres
watched to see the fate of his gift; she had taken the flowers with the
intention of throwing them away, but noticing that the Cuban's eyes were
fixed upon them, she slipped the end of the stem under her belt, letting
the long brilliant spray hang down over her dark skirt.
"I am now more honored than ever," said Winthrop.
"But it is Mr. Torres whom I am honoring this time," answered the girl.
Torres, hearing his name in her English sentence, drew the heels of his
polished boots together with a little click, and made another low bow.
The rest of the party now came up, and soon after, the visitors took
leave; Winthrop rode back across the pine-barrens to Gracias. Dr. Kirby
bore him company on his stout black horse Osceola, glad indeed to be
there and off his own feet; on the way he related a large portion of
that history of the Spaniards in Florida which Garda, their descendant,
had interrupted at the mill.
As they left East Angels, and rode out on the barren, this descendant
was being addressed impressively by her mother. "That, Garda, is my idea
of a cultivated gentleman: to have had such wide opportunities, and to
have improved them; to be so agreeable, and yet so kind; so quiet, and
yet so evidently a man of distinction, of mark--it's a rare
combination."
"Very," replied Garda, giving the crane her gloves to carry in his beak.
They were still standing in the lower doorway; Mrs. Thorne surveyed her
daughter for a moment, one of her states of uncertainty seemed to have
seized her. "I hope you appreciate that Mr. Winthrop is not another
Manuel or Torres," she said at last, in her most amiable tone.
"Perfectly, mamma; I could never make such a mistake as that. Mr.
Winthrop inspires respect."
"He does--he does," said Mrs. Thorne, with conviction.
"I respect him already as a father," continued Garda. "Manuel and
Ernesto also respect him as a father. Come, Carlos, my angel, let us go
down to the landing, and see if we can call Manuel back."