"Man alive! of all the outlandish!" This was the unspoken phrase in
Minerva Poindexter's mind as she watched a little scene which was going
on near by. "I suppose it's peekin', but I don't care. What in the name
of all _creation_ are they at?"
Behind one of the old houses of Gracias there was a broad open space
which had once been a field. On the far edge of this sunny waste stood
some negro cabins, each brilliant with whitewash, and possessing a
shallow little garden of its own, gay with flowers; in almost every
case, above the low roof rose the clear green of a clump of bananas. A
path bordered by high bushes led from the town to this little
settlement, and here it was that Celestine, herself invisible, had
stopped to look through a rift in the foliage. A negro woman was coming
down the dusty track which passed in front of the cabins; on her head
she carried a large bundle tied up in a brightly colored patchwork
counterpane. As she drew near the first house she espied her friend Mrs.
Johnson sitting on her front step enjoying the air, with the last young
Johnson, Nando, on her knee. The first woman (Celestine knew that she
was called Jinny) stopped, put one arm akimbo, and, steadying her bundle
with the other hand, began to sway herself slightly from side to side at
the hips, while her bare feet, which were visible, together with a space
of bare ankle above, coming out below her short cotton skirt, moved
forward in a measured step, the heel of the right being placed
diagonally against the toes of the left, and then the heel of the left
in its turn advanced with a slow level sweep, and placed diagonally
across the toes of the right. There was little elevation of the sole,
the steps, though long, being kept as close as possible to the ground,
but without touching it, until the final down pressure, which was deep
and firm. There seemed to be no liberty allowed, it was a very exact
measure that Jinny was treading; the tracks made by her heel, the broad
spread of her foot, and the five toes in the white dust, followed each
other regularly in even zigzags which described half circles. Thus
swaying herself rhythmically, turning now a little to the right, now a
little to the left, Jinny slowly approached Mrs. Johnson, who regarded
her impassively, continuing to trot Nando without change of expression.
But when Jinny had come within a distance of fifteen feet, suddenly Mrs.
Johnson rose, dropped her offspring (who took it philosophically), and
began in her turn to sway herself gently from side to side, and then,
with arms akimbo, her bare feet performing the same slow, exact
evolutions, she advanced with gravity to meet Jinny, the two now joining
in a crooning song. They met, circled round each other three times with
the same deliberate step and motion, their song growing louder and
louder. Then Mrs. Johnson shook her skirts, flung out her arms with a
wild gesture, and stopped as suddenly as she had begun, walking back to
her door-step and picking up Nando, while Jinny, advancing and taking up
a comfortable position on one broad foot (idly stroking its ankle
meanwhile with the dust-whitened sole of the other), the two fell into
conversation, with no allusion either by word or look to the mystic
exercises of the moment before.
"Howdy, Mis' Johnson?" said Jinny, as though she had just come up.
"How's Mister Johnson dis mawnin'? Speck he's bettah; I year he wuz."
"Yessum, Miss Jinny More, yessum. He's bettah, dat's a fac'; he's mighty
nigh 'bout well agin, Mister Johnson is, tank de Lawd!"
"Save us! what mistering and missussing!" said Celestine to herself. She
watched them a moment longer, the colored people being still a profound
mystery to her. Then she emerged from her bush-bordered path, and making
her way to Mrs. Johnson, hurriedly delivered her message: Mrs. Harold
would like to have her come to the eyrie for a while, to act as nurse
for Mrs. Rutherford.
For that lady had met with an unfortunate accident; while stepping from
her phaeton she had fallen, no one knew how or why, and though the
phaeton was low and the ground soft, she had injured one of her knees so
seriously that it was feared that she would not be able to walk for some
time. Once fairly in bed and obliged to remain there, other symptoms had
developed themselves, so that she appeared to have, as the sympathetic
Betty (who had hurried up from East Angels) expressed it, "a little,
just a _little_, you know, of pretty much everything under the sun." In
this condition of affairs Katrina Rutherford naturally required a good
deal of waiting upon. And after the time had been divided between
Margaret and Celestine for several days and nights, Dr. Kirby
peremptorily intervened, and told Margaret to send for Looth Johnson,
"the best nurse in Gracias--the best, in fact, south of the city of
Charleston." Looth was Telano's mother: this was in her favor with
Celestine. But when the poor Vermont spinster was actually face to face
with her, it was difficult to believe that a person who danced with bare
black legs in the dusty road in the middle of the day could be either
the mother of the spotlessly attired Telano, or the sort of attendant
required by Mrs. Peter Rutherford. Dr. Kirby's orders, peremptory as
they were, Celestine would have freely disobeyed; but she did not dare
disobey them when they had been repeated by Margaret Harold.
"It's where your son is," she explained, desperately, forcing herself to
think of Telano's snowy jackets as she caught another glimpse of his
mother's toes.
"I knows whar 'tis," replied Looth, who had risen and dropped a
courtesy. And then, as Celestine departed, hurrying away with an almost
agitated step, "Telano 'lows she's a witch," she said to Jinny, in a low
voice, as the two looked after the spare erect figure in its black gown.
"_I_ 'lows, howsumebber, it's juss ribs an' bones an' all knucklely up
de back; nubbuddy 'ain't nebber _seed_ so many knucklelies! I say,
Jinny, 'tain't much honeyin' roun' _she's_ eber been boddered wid, I
reckon." And the two women laughed, though restraining themselves to low
tones, with the innate civility of their race.
Meanwhile it was taking Minerva Poindexter the entire distance of the
walk home to compose herself after that dancing, and more especially
after the unseemly amplitude of the two large, comely black women, an
amplitude which she would have confined immediately, if she had had the
power, in gowns of firm fibre made after a straight fashion she knew, in
which, by means of a system of restrictive seams in unexpectcd places,
the modeller was able to neutralize the effect of even the most
expansive redundancy.
At present Mrs. Rutherford was absorbing the time of Margaret,
Celestine, Evert Winthrop; of Betty Carew, who, sending Garda to stay
with the Moores, remained with dear Katrina; of Dr. Kirby, who paid
three visits a day; of Telano, Cyndy, Maum Jube, and Aunt Dinah-Jim, who
had transferred herself and her disorderly skill to the kitchen of the
eyrie. During the only other serious illness Katrina Rutherford had
known, one of her friends had remarked, "Oh, she's _such_ a
philanthropist!"
"Philanthropist?" said another, inquiringly.
"Yes; she has such a wonderful talent for employing people. That's
philanthropy nowadays, you know, and I _think_ Katrina could employ the
whole town."
Looth arriving, still redundant but spotlessly neat in a loose white
linen short-gown over a brilliant yellow cotton skirt, a red
handkerchief arranged as a turban, white stockings, and broad, low shoes
(which were soundless), supplied an element of color at the eyrie, as
well as abundant tact, a sweet, cooing voice, and soft strong arms for
lifting. She called Mrs. Rutherford "honey," and changed her position
skilfully and sympathetically twenty times a day. Mrs. Rutherford liked
the skill; even better she liked the sympathy; she had often complained
that there was very little true sensibility in either Margaret or
Celestine. To hear and see Looth persuade her patient to eat her dinner
was a daily entertainment to Winthrop. It was the most persuasive
coaxing ever heard, and Mrs. Rutherford, while never once losing her
martyr expression, greatly enjoyed it; there was some different method
of tender urging for each dish. Celestine, who was not a jealous person,
looked on with deep though concealed interest, never failing to be in
the room, apparently engaged with something else, when Looth appeared
with the tray. Though she understood her mistress's foibles perfectly,
she was at heart fond of her (she had dressed her too long not to be),
and would have felt her business in life at an end if separated from
her; yet she could no more have called her "my dove," and cooed over her
with soft enthusiasm when she had eaten a slice of venison, than she
could have danced at noon barelegged in the dusty road.
But in spite of all these helpers, Mrs. Rutherford did not improve; if
she did not grow worse, she did not grow better. At last she declared
that she should never grow better so long as she must hear, day and
night, the wash of the water on the beach; now it was only a teasing
ripple, which still she must listen for, now a long regular swell, to
which she found herself forced mentally to beat time. As they could not
take away the sea--even Looth could not coo it away--there was some
uneasiness at the eyrie as to what the result would be; they decided
that it was but a fancy, and that she would forget it. But Katrina
Rutherford did not forget. At length there came three nights in
succession during which she did not sleep "a moment;" she announced to
Winthrop that she should soon be in need of no more sleep, "save the
last long one." Dr. Kirby, who still profoundly admired her--she
continued to look very handsome after Celestine had attired her for the
day in a dressing-gown of delicate hue, covered with white lace, a
dainty little lace cap lightly resting on her soft hair--Dr. Kirby said
to Winthrop that unstrung nerves were a serious matter; and that though
her idea about the water was a fancy, of course, the loss of three
nights' sleep was anything but fanciful. They could not move the sea;
but they could move her, and they must. The next question was--where?
The Seminole being as near the water as the eyrie, there was nothing to
be gained by going there. Betty promptly offered her house, she was full
of plans for taking in their whole party under her hospitable roof. But
Mrs. Rutherford confided to her nephew that the constant sighing of the
pines round Betty's domicile would be as "maddening" as the water, if
not worse. "I'd much rather they'd howl!" she said.
Then came old Mrs. Kirby in her black silk visite, her parasol held high
above her head, and with mathematical precision directly over it, though
the afternoon sun, slanting from the west, shone steadily into her eyes
underneath, so that she was kept winking and blinking all the way. She
came to offer their residence; the full half of it stood empty, and,
needless to say that she and Reginald would be "right glad" if the
ladies would accept it. But Mrs. Rutherford confided, to Margaret this
time, that nothing would induce her to go there. "She would be sure to
come in every day with cookies hidden somewhere about her, and then
_nibble_."
"They're wafers, I think," said Margaret, laughing.
"Wafers or cookies, she crunches when she eats them; I've heard her,"
Mrs. Rutherford declared. "It's all very well for you to laugh,
Margaret; _you_ have no sensitiveness. I wish I had a cooky now," she
went on, irrelevantly--"a real one; or else a jumble, or a cruller, or
an oley-koek. But there's no getting anything in this desolate place;
their one idea is plum-cake--plum-cake!"
Mrs. Kirby was followed by Mr. Moore, who brought a note from his wife,
cordially placing at the disposal of the northern party "five pleasant
rooms at the rectory," which could be made ready for them at any time
upon shortest notice.
"They haven't more than six in all," commented Winthrop. "Does this
mean, do you suppose, that they intend to shut themselves up into one,
and give up to us all the rest?"
"Very probably," Margaret answered.
But the Moores were not obliged to make good their generous offer. Mrs.
Rutherford said that she could not possibly live in the house with an
invalid. "Always little messes being carried clinking up-stairs on
waiters, or left standing outside of doors for people to tumble
over;--cups, with dregs of tea in them, set into each other. Horrid!"
"But there are no stairs at the rectory," suggested Winthrop.
"Don't be owlish, Evert; one is even more apt to step into them on a
ground-floor," replied the aunt.
Meanwhile the sea still washed the beach under the eyrie, and now, too,
the nerves of almost everybody in it, for neither Margaret nor Celestine
could sleep when Mrs. Rutherford could not; even Winthrop, at the
Seminole, found himself wakeful, listening to the little soft sound,
and thinking of his suffering aunt. For in spite of her fancies and her
fairly good appetite, in spite of her rich dressing-gowns and carefully
arranged hair, Aunt Katrina undoubtedly did suffer. Already her eyes had
begun to have something of a sunken look; to Margaret and Winthrop she
appeared sometimes to be seeing them through a slight haze, and to be
trying, though ineffectually, to pierce it. "That dreadful water on the
beach! that dreadful water!" was still her constant complaint.
"Do you think she would like to go down to East Angels?" suggested Dr.
Kirby to Margaret one morning. "The motion of a carriage she couldn't
bear at present, but she could go down very well in the _Emperadora_."
But Margaret thought she would not like it at all.
"How do you know, without asking, what I shouldn't like at all?" Aunt
Katrina demanded when Margaret repeated to her this little conversation.
Aunt Katrina liked to have the little conversations repeated. "Don't
imagine, Margaret, I beg, that you know all my feelings by intuition."
Later in the day came Evert. "Dr. Kirby has a fantastic plan for your
going down to East Angels to stay for a while, Aunt Katrina. But I told
him that you didn't like East Angels."
"Where did you get that idea? But of course from Margaret, who thinks
she knows everything. East Angels is a charming old place."
"Oh!" said her nephew, rather astonished, remembering various adjectives
she had applied to it; "decayed" had been a favorite one.
"I have always thought it charming," pursued the lady. And then she
began to enumerate its good points. It was too far from the lagoon to be
troubled by that tiresome sound of the water; it had no pines near it to
tease people to death with their sighing; there would be no old ladies
to drop in with cookies, and nibble; and there were no invalids, with
teacups being sent clinking up-stairs (Mrs. Rutherford herself drank
chocolate). The one objection was that Dr. Reginald would have a long
ride every morning to get to her. But Dr. Reginald, coming in at this
moment, gallantly volunteered, in case she should go down there, to
spend a week with them by way of beginning; in the evenings they could
play cribbage until she should feel drowsy, for she certainly would feel
drowsy down there among the--he had almost said "pines," but stopped in
time; then he thought of live-oaks, but remembered that she considered
them "dreary." Among the--he had nearly brought out "magnolias," but
recollected that she disliked their perfume. "Among the andromedas," he
concluded at last, pronouncing the word firmly, determined not to
abandon it.
"Oh, andromedas. Aromatic?" inquired the patient, languidly.
"Immensely so," replied the Doctor. "Im--_mensely_!"
The next day, coming in again and finding that the poor lady had passed
another bad night, and that at half-past nine in the morning she had
burst into tears, and called Looth her "only friend," as that turbaned
handmaid was feeding her with toast and the softest sympathy, he took
Winthrop to the north piazza and seriously advised the change.
"But East Angels is still Garda's," said Winthrop. "I don't see how we
can go there."
"She will be delighted to have you. I don't think Garda is happy at
present when long separated from Mrs. Harold," went on the speaker,
candidly; "Mrs. Harold has had a wonderfully cheering influence over
her, poor child, since her mother's death. Garda has been so unlike
herself--I hardly know what to call it--passive, perhaps; I presume you
have not noticed the change, but ma and I have."
Winthrop thought he had noticed. But all he said was: "We should have to
send down the servants, and--and a good many other things, I'm afraid.
The party would be large, it would be like taking possession--so many of
us."
"Don't let that trouble you," said the Doctor, balancing himself in his
old way. "In the matter of guests, our feeling here has always been that
the more we had under our roof the better; yes, the better."
"It is true that the place is to be mine as soon as I can get a title.
You are the guardian; perhaps you will allow us to rent it until then?"
"Sir," said the Doctor, stopping his balancing, "we will not speak of
rent." (And in truth rent was not a word esteemed in Gracias. Nobody
"rented" there, and nobody "boarded;" each man lived in his own house,
and sat at his own table; the roof might be in need of repairs, and the
table bare, but they were at least his own.) "As you have remarked, I am
Miss Thorne's guardian, and as such I can assure you that she will be
right glad to entertain you all at East Angels, and for as long a time
as it will be agreeable to you to so favor her."
Thus it was arranged; they were all to pay Garda a visit. It was to be
ignored that workmen were to be sent down to the old house, and the
resources of Gracias-a-Dios strained to the utmost to make the rooms
accord with the many requirements of Mrs. Rutherford; it was to be
ignored that six servants and supplies of all kinds were to be added.
Garda appeared at the eyrie and gave her invitation. She seemed to think
of it in the same way that the Doctor did--it was a visit; she had all
the air of a hostess, though rather a listless one.
Nothing in this young girl had Margaret Harold admired more than the
untroubled way in which she had accepted her new friend's assistance.
Mrs. Rutherford, who was industrious in prodding for motive (she
considered it a praiseworthy industry), had long ago announced that
Garda's affection for Margaret was based upon her own pennilessness and
Margaret's fortune. If this were so, there was at least no eagerness
about it; the girl accepted all that Margaret did, simply; sweetly
enough, but as a matter of course. The funeral expenses had been paid by
the Gracias friends, they had claimed this as their privilege; but since
then Margaret had provided for everything, from Garda's new mourning
garb to the money for the daily house-keeping at East Angels--sums which
Betty Carew had disbursed with her nicest care, which was yet a mad
expenditure when compared with the economies of Mrs. Thorne. The lean,
clean larder of East Angels had had a sense of repletion that was almost
profligate, and had felt itself carried wildly back to the days of Old
Madam--who had spent the last of the Duero capital in making herself
comfortable, smiling back wickedly at the blue eyes of Melissa Whiting
when the latter had tried to save some of it.
Margaret could not but contrast Garda's simple way with the scruples,
the inward distress, which she herself should have been a victim to if
she had been placed at that age in such a situation, thrown entirely
upon the care of a comparative stranger, at best a new friend. But here
was a nature which could accept unreservedly; it seemed to her a noble
trait; she said this to Mrs. Rutherford in answer to one of that lady's
attacks.
"If the positions were to be reversed, Aunt Katrina, I am sure she would
be just the same, she would give in the way in which she now accepts;
she would share everything with me with the same unreserve, and without
a second thought."
"Give _me_ the second thoughts, then!" said Aunt Katrina. "I must say I
cannot see the nobility in it that you and Evert see." (This was quite
true; Aunt Katrina never saw nobility.) "The girl has always had what
she wanted, and she's got it now; that's all there is of it. Evert talks
about her being so contented; most of us are contented, I suppose, when
every wish is gratified, and if you would look at it fairly, without all
this decoration you have added to it, you would see that hers have
always been. Evert brings up their poverty--it has all come out, of
course, since the mother's death. But, poor or not poor, _Garda_ at
least always had what she wanted; there were always honey-cakes and
oranges for her, and those old servants would wait upon her when they
would not speak to her mother. She has never lifted her hand to do
anything in her life but swing in her hammock, smell her roses, and play
with that crane. Evert keeps harping--what simple things they were to
give her so much pleasure. But _somebody_ had to work to keep up even
the 'simple things;' and that somebody was her mother. Simple--of course
they were simple, she has been brought up in the country, and she is
only sixteen; she has had no opportunity to see anything else. But it
seems to me that the laziness which is shown by that hammock, and the
epicureanism which comes out in the honey-cakes and oranges, yes, and
the roses too, and the frivolity which makes her find amusement by the
hour in playing with that dreadful crane--all these are a very pretty
development of temperament in a girl of that age."
Over this dark picture Margaret was unable to resist a laugh.
"Laugh on," said Aunt Katrina, ominously. "You will live to come to my
opinion."
But Margaret continued to think Garda's free acceptance the sign of a
generous nature; the girl judged her benefactress by herself; if she had
been the one to bestow the kindness, she would not have liked effusive
thanks; Margaret therefore would not like them either.
But if Garda did not turn the conversation towards Margaret's material
gifts, she did turn it, and warmly, upon the delight it was to her that
her friend was to be at East Angels; upon that point she was effusive
enough. "_Now_ I can live," she said.
"There's something so tiresome in being with Aunt Betty Carew day after
day," she added, meditatively. "Don't you think so?"
"She has been extremely kind to you," Margaret answered.
"Yes, she's very kind, there's nobody kinder. That doesn't make her any
the less wandering in her conversation, does it? or any the less
flushed. Do you remember how pretty my dear little mother was? She had
such a nice straight little nose it was a pleasure to look at her. You
have a lovely nose too, Margaret; I wonder if I should have liked you so
well without it? Oh, won't you stay at East Angels until it is time to
go north? In that way, as I am to go with you, we shouldn't be separated
at all."
"Aunt Katrina may tire of East Angels in two days," Margaret answered.
"We won't allow it We'll amuse her!" Garda declared, with soft energy.
But something else was to amuse poor Aunt Katrina. She made the little
journey comfortably, one beautiful morning, on the _Emperadora_,
surrounded by her retinue, of which Betty was one; she enjoyed her
installation, and the novelty of the new rooms; she enjoyed the
congratulations of Dr. Kirby, when, later in the day, he came down for
his week's visit; and she played cribbage with him for a little while in
the evening. Her nephew too was there; she had required his presence.
"You must come, of course, Evert," she said; "I couldn't possibly stay
way down in that lonely place without you." So Evert had been obliged to
install himself as well as his aunt; he took up his abode not
unwillingly in the old house which he expected some day to own.
After the cribbage, Aunt Katrina went to bed, and passed a night of
blessed oblivion, unteased by the whining water: that had been her
latest term for it--that it whined. But after a few days of this
delightful rest, a fresh assortment of pains lifted their heads. The
Doctor at first alluded to them as rheumatic. But Aunt Katrina would not
accept that suggestion. He then called them "suppressed gout." This was
better; Aunt Katrina had always had a certain esteem for gout. Besides,
suppressed gout had no fixed habitation; Aunt Katrina, having very
shapely feet, took the opportunity, the very day she accepted the name,
to have herself lifted to the sofa, where these same members, in
delicate slippers, reposed upon a bear-skin, only half concealed by an
India shawl.
But these little vanities could be forgiven, they could even be
encouraged (and were by the quick-witted Looth), if they had the power
to make her forget her pain. This pain was of the kind she herself
described as "wearing." Fortunately it was not constant, there were many
free intervals; but during these intervals she was often tired, and
Katrina Rutherford had lived such an easy, comfortable life that she had
almost never been tired before. This fatigue after pain sometimes
extended to her mind, and made her irritable. On these days no one could
soothe her but Margaret, and it was soon discovered that no one must
try. Margaret must read to her, read her to sleep; Margaret must sit in
a certain place, and sit still; she must not leave the room; nobody must
speak to her but Margaret--the others could say what was necessary
through her. During one of her free intervals she explained to Winthrop
that it was Margaret's voice that soothed her; "it's so hard," she said.
"I shouldn't think that quality would be particularly soothing,"
Winthrop answered.
"On the contrary, it's the very one--that is, for me. I only need her
when I've been reduced to a pulp--like the pulp in the paper mills--by
pain; at such times that hard voice of hers is the first firm thing I
can take hold of; I crystallize round it by degrees, don't you know, and
gradually get back _some_ shape again."
Margaret's voice was not in the least hard; it was low and clear; when
it took on certain intonations, very sweet. But Winthrop did not remind
his aunt of this. She could crystallize round any adjectives that
pleased her in her moments of rest; her nephew's usual championship of
justice was postponed until she should be better.
During this time Celestine and Looth were often obliged to be
companions; there were certain things they each did which no one else
could do as well, and therefore neither one could be spared. To
Celestine it was a weird experience, this sitting up at night in the
large bare room of a strange old Spanish house (a house which had been
inhabited for generations by Papists), opposite a great black woman in a
red turban, who was in the habit of dancing barelegged in the roads in
the middle of the day; and all this on a winter night with roses
blooming outside in the garden, and the perfume of orange blossoms
coming in through the half-closed windows--a winter night which seemed
to have gone astray from some other world. The absence of cold in winter
climates abroad Celestine had accepted without opposition; it was only
part of their general outlandishness. But that such foreign
eccentricities should exist in the United States of America, under the
Stars and Stripes, this she by no means approved; like many other
persons, she could not help believing that frost-tipped noses were an
accompaniment of republican simplicity and virtue, and that a good
conscience and east wind could not be long separated without danger to
morals.
She had never alluded to the dance. But one night Looth herself alluded
to it. "Specks yer seen us, Miss Selsty, dat day you wuz firs' down dar
fur to ax me to come up yer to nuss--specks yer seen me an' Jinny?"
Celestine nodded grimly: a confession was evidently on the way.
"Yessum, Miss Selsty, I reckoned yer seen us. We wuz _shoutin_'," Looth
went on, with gentle satisfaction. "I's a very rilligeous 'oman, Miss
Selsty, yessum. An' so's Jinny too."
All the Gracias friends came down often to East Angels to inquire after
Mrs. Rutherford; Madam Ruiz and Madam Giron came over from their
respective plantations. Adolfo Torres, however, did not come; he
remained at home, and sent his respectful inquiries by his aunt. Neither
the Doctor nor Mr. Moore had betrayed his secret; these two gentlemen
were not in the habit of betraying anybody. Torres did not altogether
like their reticence upon this particular occasion, he could not see
that it was a subject upon which reticence was required. In the old days
(the only days he cared about) the position of suitor, devoted suppliant
for his lady's hand, was an honorable one, one distinctly recognized; he
should like to be recognized as occupying it now. But if these friends
would not tell, he could not; to tell would not accord with his present
posture. "Posture" was his own word, no one else would have dreamed of
applying it to anything connected with this self-controlled young man.
Gracias, too, was having veritable postures of another kind to look at.
These were the attitudes of Manuel Ruiz, which were very new and
surprising. After that first burst of fury (which Torres had witnessed)
he had taken to riding over the barren at headlong speed on his large,
thin black horse, with several knives stuck in his belt--a belt whose
presence (in itself brigandish) he had further emphasized by tying over
it a crimson sash. Next he had suddenly appeared as a man of
dissipations, a scoffer; he haunted the two small, rather sleepy
bar-rooms of Gracias, smoking large cigars, wearing his sombrero much on
one side, and in public places--the plaza for instance--made cynical
remarks about "the fair sex." This was worse even than the knives and
the galloping, and Gracias was considering what had better be done,
when, lo! Manuel appeared among them playing a third part. He was not
only himself, but more mellifluous even than he had ever been before;
his manner, indeed, when he met any of these ladies, had in it such a
delicate yet keenly personal admiration, such an appreciation of what
they had been as well as of what they were, that all of them, even
stout, honest Betty, and little Mrs. Kirby herself, under her high-held
parasol, were set to blushing a little, without knowing why, and to
vaguely adjusting their front hair with a touch or two, only to become
conscious of it later, and say to themselves, angrily, that that boy
ought to have a good horsewhipping! Manuel called upon all his friends
and all his mother's friends (except Garda at East Angels), and could
hardly sit in a chair. Upon seeing him, the idea was that he had been
accustomed to a divan; he seemed to have come from the sipping of
nectar, and to have touched nothing but rose-leaves. Having thus thrown
dust in the eyes of the town, he took his departure; as he had long
threatened, he was going to see the world. He mentioned to Mrs. Harold
that he should try to "take in" New York; and then he sailed on a
coasting schooner for Key West, with four dollars and twenty five-cents
in his pocket.
Gracias knew nothing of the real cause of all this. Madam Ruiz, Manuel's
broad-shouldered and martial-looking, but in reality sighingly gentle,
sentimental step-mother, was not in his confidence with regard to Garda.
But she would not have credited the story, even if she had been, for she
firmly believed her handsome step-son to be invincible from the
Everglades to the Altamaha. During the long, warm, mid-summer
afternoons, when flat Patricio, low in the blue sea, had not a shadow,
this lady, in her thick white house, the broad rooms darkened by the
closed shutters, was in the habit of amusing herself with many romances
about this; for your warm, still countries are ever the land of the
storyteller. Madam Ruiz now and then told her stories to her husband.
"Yes, yes," said that gentleman; "he inherits it all from me." He was
partially paralyzed, and sat all day in his chair; he did not like to
have Manuel about much, he envied him so. He took more comfort in the
children of this second marriage--a flock of brown-skinned, chattering
little girls, who would be sure to grow up dark, lovely, and gentle,
with serene, affectionate eyes, and the sweetest voices in the world, in
which to call him their "dearest papa."
Adolfo Torres meanwhile kept his friend's secret punctiliously, as it
was not to his credit; it was terribly against his credit to have gone
as he did to Garda herself,--so Adolfo thought.
As for Garda, she said, afterwards, that she did not mention it because
it was so much trouble; she did not like to tell things, she was not a
narrator (one of her mother's phrases); besides it was not interesting.
The girl had a very decided idea about what was and what was not
interesting. But she stopped there, she did not explain her idea to
others; she had the air of not even explaining it to herself.