CARMELA
Among the many words borrowed by the Brazilians from their
Spanish-speaking neighbors, that for "to-morrow" is perhaps the most
popular. The Spaniard's _Mañana_ is so elastic that it covers any
period of time between the next twenty-four hours and the indefinite
future. When, therefore, Dom Sylva spoke of controlling Pernambuco
before the month of September was barely half sped, he was either too
sanguine, or too literal in his translation of easy-going Portuguese
into vigorous English.
His _quinta_, or country house, was situated on the upper watershed of
the river Moxoto. There he raised his standard, thither flocked rebels
galore, and in that direction, with due caution, President Barraca
pushed columns of troops by road and rail from Bahia, from Pernambuco,
and from Maceio itself. For Barraca held the sea, and the wealthy and
enterprising south was strongly opposed to war, while Dom Corria
trusted to the mountains and drew his partisans from the less energetic
north. This bald statement has an unconvincing sound in the ears of
races which dwell north of the equator, but it must be remembered that
Brazil, in more respects than one, is the land of topsy-turveydom.
Were it not that the mass of the people was heartily sick of a corrupt
regime, De Sylva would have been dead or in irons on his way back to
Fernando Noronha well within the time allotted for the consolidation of
his rule. As it was, minor insurrections were breaking out in the
southern provinces, the reigning President could trust only in the
navy, and the conservatism of commerce and society, as represented by
the great landowners of Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, and Minas Geraes,
alone stifled the upgrowth of an overwhelming national movement in Dom
Corria's favor.
In a word, De Sylva commanded public sympathy but small resources;
Barraca was unpopular but controlled the navy and part of the army.
Given such conditions--with the added absurdity that the troops on both
sides were most unwilling to face long-range rifle fire but would
cheerfully hack each other to mince-meat with knives--and a tedious,
indeterminate campaign is the certain outcome. De Sylva had said that
local conflicts were usually "short and fierce." Applied to such
upheavals as had taken place in the capital during recent years, the
phrase was strictly accurate. He himself had been bundled out of
office between Mass and Vespers on a memorable Sunday. But a convict
on a remote island cannot organize such a perfect example of a
successful revolt. He had done much in gaining a good foothold; the
rest must be left to time and chance.
A few indecisive but sanguinary engagements were fought in the
neighborhood of Pesqueira, a town in the hills about one hundred miles
from the seaboard. These proved that General Russo was a valiant
fighter but a poor tactician--and that was all. He was opposed by a
commander of little courage but singular skill in strategy. To restore
the balance, Dom Corria took the field in person, and Dom Miguel
Barraca hastened from Rio de Janeiro to witness the crushing of his
arch-enemy.
The position was complicated by the arrival at Pernambuco of a German
squadron bearing a telegraphic cartel from the Emperor. A German ship
had been seized on the high seas. Why? And by whom? And how could
anybody dare? Then Brazil quivered, for every South American knows in
his heart that the great navy of Germany is being created not so much
to destroy England as to dispute the proud doctrine of the United
States that no European power shall ever again be allowed to seize
territory on the American continent.
So there were strenuous days and anxious nights at Las Flores, where
President De Sylva sought to equip and discipline his levies, and at
Carugru, where President Barraca called on all the gods to witness that
De Sylva was a double-dyed traitor.
Under such circumstances it is not surprising that a grand display of
money and audacity, backed by sundry distant roars of the British lion,
should enable two elderly Britons and a young Brazilian lady to pass
through the lines of the Exercito Nacional, as Barraca had christened
his following, in opposition to De Sylva's army of Liberation. Lest
too many people should become interested, the adventure was essayed on
the night of October 2d. Early next day the travelers and their guides
reached the rebel outposts. The young lady, who seemed to be at home
in this wild country, at once urged her horse into a pace wholly beyond
the equestrian powers of her staid companions. They protested vainly.
She waved a farewell hand, cantered over several miles of a rough road,
and dashed up to the Liberationist headquarters about eight o'clock.
There was no hesitancy about her movements. She drew rein in approved
Gaucho style, bringing her mount to a dead stop from a gallop.
"Where is the President?" she asked breathlessly.
"There, senhora," said an orderly, pointing to a marquee, open on every
side, wherein De Sylva sat in conference with his staff.
So many officers and mounted soldiers were coming and going, so great
was the bustle of preparation for some important movement then in
train, that no one specially noted her arrival. She dismounted, and
drew the reins across the horse's head ere she tied him to a tree. She
saw a tall young man emerge from the tent, jump on a charger held by a
soldier, and ride off at a fast pace toward the house of Las Flores,
which stood in a large garden on the slope of a neighboring hill. His
appearance seemed to puzzle her momentarily. His attire was that of
Brazil, but neither his manner nor horsemanship was typical of the
Brasileiro. In walking, he moved with an air of purposeful
concentration that differed singularly from the languorous stroll of
the average Brazilian officer, while his seat in the saddle, though
confident enough, could not be mistaken for that of a man who never
walks a yard if there is an animal to bestride.
The new arrival was, however, at once too weary and too excited to give
further heed to one who was an utter stranger. She pushed her way
through knots of smoking loungers, entered the tent, and uttered a
little scream of delight when the President, who was writing at a big
table, happened to glance at her. De Sylva rose hastily, with an
amazed look on his usually unemotional face; forthwith the girl flung
herself into his arms.
"Father!"
"Carmela!"
San Benavides, whose back was turned, heard the joyous cries of the
reunited father and daughter. They were locked in each other's
embrace, and the eyes of every man present were drawn to a pathetic and
unexpected meeting. For that reason, and because none gave a thought
to him, the pallor that changed the bronze of his forehead and cheeks
into a particularly unhealthy-looking tint of olive green passed
unnoticed. He swallowed something. It must have been a curse, for it
seemed to taste bitter. But he managed to recover some shred of
self-control ere the Senhora De Sylva was able to answer her father's
first eager questions; then, with a charming timidity, she found breath
to say:
"And what of Salvador--is he not here?"
Yes, Salvador was there--by her side--striving most desperately to look
lover-like. They clasped hands. Brazilian etiquette forbade a more
demonstrative greeting, and Carmela attributed Salvador's manifest
sallowness to the hardships of campaigning no less than the shock of
her sudden appearance.
But the business of red war gave little scope for the many confidences
that a girl who had journeyed more than four thousand miles for this
reunion might naturally exchange with a father and a lover. Some
important move was toward, and the President and his chief-of-staff had
no time to spare.
"You have come to bring me luck, Carmela meu," said De Sylva, stroking
his daughter's hair affectionately. "To-day we make our first real
advance. Salvador and I are going to the front now, almost this
instant. But there will be no fighting--an affair of outposts at the
best--and when everything is in order we shall return here to sleep.
Expect us, then, soon after sunset. Meanwhile, at the _quinta_ you
will find the young English lady of whose presence you are aware. Give
her your friendship. She is worthy of it."
"Adeos, senhora!" echoed San Benavides, bringing his heels together
with a click, and saluting. He gathered a number of papers from the
table with nervous haste, and at once began to issue instructions to
several officers. De Sylva renewed the signing of documents. Russo
and he conversed in low tones. A buzz of talk broke out in the tent.
Carmela felt that she had no part in this activity, that her mere
presence was a positive hindrance to the work in hand. A trifle
disappointed, yet not without a thrill of high resolve to create for
herself an indispensable share in the movement of which her father was
the central figure, she went out, unhitched her tired horse, and walked
to the house.
In Brazil, a _quinta_, or farm, may range from a palace to a hovel.
Dom Corria was rich; consequently Las Flores attained the higher level.
It was a straggling, roomy structure, planned for comfort and
hospitality rather than display, and the gardens, to whose beauty and
extent was due the Spanish name, used to be famous throughout the
province. Carmela had not seen the place during five years; she
expected to find changes, but was hardly prepared for the ravages made
by neglect, aided by unchecked tropical growth, as the outcome of her
father's two years in prison. The flowers were gone, the rarer shrubs
choked by rank weeds, the trees disfigured by rampant climbers. But,
in front of the long, deep veranda, even the attention of a month had
restored much of its beauty to a widespread lawn. Here, at that early
hour, the air was cool and the shade abundant; indeed, so embossed in
towering trees was the wide greensward, that it seemed to flow abruptly
into the veranda without ever a path or garden gate to break the solid
walls of foliage.
Filled with tumultuous memories, her heart all throbbing at the
prospect of her father's fortunes being restored, the Senhora De Sylva
was entering a gate that led to the left front of the house, when the
young man came out whom she had seen leaving the headquarters tent.
Again he rode like one in a hurry, and she noted that he emerged from a
side path which gave access to the lawn. He gave her a sharp glance as
he passed. She received an impression of a strong face, with
stern-looking, bright, steel-blue eyes, a mouth tensely set, an aspect
at once confident yet self-contained. She was sure now he was not a
Brazilian, and he differed most materially from the mental picture of
Captain James Coke created by the many conversations in which he had
figured during her long voyage from Southampton in company with David
Verity and Dickey Bulmer.
So Carmela wondered now who he could be, nor was her wonder lessened
when she peered through the screen of trees, and saw a girl, whom she
recognized instantly as Iris, furtively dabbing her tear-stained face
with a handkerchief.
Unhappily, the President's daughter was not attractive in appearance.
She had fine eyes, and she moved with the natural elegance of her race,
but her features were somewhat angular for one of pure-blooded
Portuguese descent, and a too well-defined chin was more effectual as
an index of character than as an element of personal charm. Close
acquaintance with the cosmopolitan society of Paris and London had
familiarized her with many types of European and American beauty, and
her surprise that such an uncommonly good-looking girl should be the
niece of David Verity was not unmingled with pique at finding her
already installed in remote Las Flores.
The veranda seemed to be a hive of feminine industry. The Dona
Pondillo and her daughters, together with the female relatives of
several noted men among the insurgents, were cutting and stitching most
industriously. Iris Yorke's advice, perhaps her assistance, was
evidently in demand. Assuming that the young man who rode thither so
rapidly had gone to see her, she could not have been absent from the
sewing party more than five minutes, yet half a dozen ladies were
clamoring for her already. The truth was that many of them had never
plied a needle before in their lives. They had to be taught
everything. One peasant woman would have accomplished more real work
than any five of the Librationist _grandes dames_.
Despite her firm chin, Carmela De Sylva did not contemn the
meretricious aid of dress. Iris looked fresh and cool in soft muslin,
whereas the newcomer was travel-stained and disheveled. The pack-mules
were lagging on the road, but a wash and general tidying of
dust-covered garments would help the President's daughter to regain the
assurance, now sadly lacking, which would be necessary ere she won her
rightful place in a community largely composed of strangers. As she
led her horse back into the main avenue, she was sorry that her father
or Salvador could not spare even the few minutes that would have
sufficed for an introduction. At any rate, she would probably find an
old servant at the back of the house--some family retainer whose
welcome would charm away this displeasing sense of intrusion.
On the way to the stables she heard a man singing. The words were in
English. They were also quaint, for they dealt with life from a point
of view which differed widely from that presented by Dom Corria's
_finca_.
"Oh, it's fine to be a sailor" [sang Watts],
"an' to cross the ragin' main,
From Hooghly bar to New Orleens to roam,
But I 'ope that my old woman will put me on the chain
Next time I want to quit my 'umble 'ome."
Possibly the verse was an original effort, because there followed a
marked change in tune and meter.
"'Mid pleasures an' palaces----'" he began, when Senhora De Sylva came
upon him as he sat on a fence, pipe in hand, with his back braced
comfortably against a magnificent rosewood tree. He stopped, grinned
sheepishly, and, not recognizing the lady, tried to cover his confusion
by lighting the pipe.
"Are you one of the _Andromeda's_ men?" asked Carmela, speaking in the
clear and accurate English used by her father.
It was well for Watts that the tree prevented him from falling
backwards. He was quite sober, but cheerful withal, as he had nothing
to do but sleep, smoke, eat, and drink the light wine of the district,
of which his only complaint was that "one might mop up a barrel of it
an' get no forrarder." Nevertheless, he received a positive shock when
addressed in his own language by a young woman who was obviously of
Brazil. He stared at her so hard that he forgot the steady progress of
the slow-burning tand-stikkor match recently ignited. Its sulphurous
flame reached his fingers and reminded him.
"My godfather!" he howled, springing from the rail, and recovering his
wits instantly. "Beg pardon, mum, but you took me aback all standin'
as the saying is. Christopher, didn't that match wake me up!"
"I am afraid it is my fault," said Carmela, who could look sympathetic
where Iris would want to laugh. "I have just arrived here, and
everybody seems to be so full of troubles that I am glad to hear you
singing."
"Oh, that's just hummin', mum. If you're fond of music you ought to
'ear Schmidt, Captain Schmidt of the _Unser Fritz_----"
Carmela struck an attitude.
"Wot, d'ye know 'im?" asked Watts.
"No, it is something--rather important. I must go back to my father.
Ah, I ought to explain. I am the Senhora De Sylva, Dom Corria's
daughter."
"Are you really, mum,--miss?" exclaimed Watts, highly interested. "'Ow
in the world did ye manage to come up from the coast? Accordin' to all
accounts----"
"Yes, what were you going to say?" for the man hesitated.
"Well, some of our chaps will 'ave it that we're runnin' close-hauled
on a lee shore."
Carmela knit her brows. The Watts idioms were not those of her
governess.
"We had no great difficulty in passing through Dom Barraca's lines, if
that is what you mean," she said. "Mr. Verity and Mr. Bulmer had
obtained special permits, but in my case----"
"Mr. 'oo, did you say, miss?" demanded Watts, whose lower jaw actually
dropped from sheer amazement.
"Mr. Verity, the owner of the _Andromeda_. You are one of the crew, I
suppose?"
"I'm the chief officer. Watts is my name, miss. But d'you mean to
tell me that ole David Verity 'as come 'ere--to Brazil--to this rotten
. . . Sorry, miss, but you gev' me a turn, you did. An' Dickey
Bulmer--is _'e_ 'ere too?"
"Yes, or he soon will be here. I rode on in advance of the others."
"Well--there--if that don't beat cock-fightin'!" cried Watts. "Wot'll
Coke say? W'y, 'e'll 'ave a fit. An' Miss Iris! She's to marry ole
Dickey. Fancy 'im turnin' up! There'll be the deuce an' all to pay,
now, wot between 'im an' Hozier an' the dashin' colonel."
The horse, trying to nibble some grass at Carmela's feet, suddenly
threw his head up, for the cruel South American bit had tightened under
a jerk of the reins.
"Who is Mr. Hozier?" asked the girl calmly.
"He is, or was, our second mate, but since the colonel an' 'e got to
loggerheads 'e took an' raised a corps of scouts. Some of our fellows
joined, but not me. Killin' other folks don't agree with me a little
bit. I don't mind a shine in a snug or a friendly scrap over an extry
drink, but w'en it comes to them long knives----"
"And the colonel--what is _his_ name?" broke in Carmela, turning to
loosen the surcingle. She could control her voice but not her eyes,
and she did not wish to startle this open-mouthed gossip.
"San Benavides, miss. Captain 'e was on Fernando Noronha; 'e took a
mighty quick jump after we kem ashore. But I ax your pardon for
ramblin' on in this silly way. Won't you go inside? There's a useful
ole party there, name of Maria----"
"Ah, Maria--dear, good Maria--she at least will not have forgotten me,"
sobbed Carmela in her own tongue, and Watts afterwards informed Coke
that although the inhabitants of China were noted for their peculiar
ways, when it came to a show-down in that qualification, the average
woman could beat any Chinky ever born. Had he but known more, Watts
was also in a position to state that he had squared accounts with the
scornful President.
For the Senhora De Sylva might have been seized with mortal illness if
judged solely by the manner in which she staggered into her father's
house, threw her arms around the neck of an elderly woman whom she
petrified by her appearance, and almost fainted--not quite, but on the
verge, much nearer than such a strong-minded young lady would have
thought possible an hour earlier.
Maria screamed loudly. Tongue-tied at first, she was badly scared when
Carmela collapsed on her ample bosom. Restoratives and endearments
followed. Carmela asked to be taken to a room where she might wash and
shake the dust from her hair and clothes. Maria considered ways and
means. Every room in the big house was crowded.
"Who is in my own apartment?" demanded Carmela.
Even before the answer was forthcoming she guessed the truth. The
Senhora Ingleza, of course. Those fine eyes of hers flashed
dangerously.
"What, then? Does this woman come here and take all?" she cried.
"Ah, _pequinina_, do not be angry," said Maria. "Who save the good God
could tell that you would come from Paris to-day? And the Senhora
Ingleza will be glad to give place to you. She is so kind, so
unselfish. All the men adore her."
"So I hear," murmured Carmela, trying to still the passion that
throbbed in her heart, since she was aware that neither Maria nor any
other among the old domestics at Las Flores knew of her engagement, and
pride was now coming to her aid.
"She will have no word to say to any of them," gabbled Maria. "There
is a young Englishman--well, it is no affair of mine, but I am told she
loves him, yet is promised to another, an old man, too. _Santa Mãe_!
That would not suit me if I were her age!"
This home-coming of Carmela was quite an important event in its way.
At first sight it bore the semblance of a mere disillusionment such as
any girl might experience under like circumstances. She had been taken
from Las Flores to occupy a palace at Rio de Janeiro, and was driven
from the palace to the hotel life of the Continent. During two years
she had not seen either father or lover; and lovers of the San
Benavides ilk are apt to console themselves during these prolonged
intervals. Yet Carmela's shattered romance was the pivot on which
rested the future of Brazil.
Had she gone straight to Iris on leaving her father, and made known the
astounding tidings that Verity and Bulmer were riding up the Moxoto
Valley barely three miles away, Iris would surely have devised some
means of acquainting Philip Hozier with the fact. In that event,
assuming that he awaited their arrival, the first march of an extended
reconnaissance which he thought desirable would necessarily be
postponed. And then--well, the recent history of Brazil would have to
be re-written, since there cannot be the slightest doubt that Dom
Corria De Sylva would never have occupied the Presidential chair a
second time.
It would be idle now to inquire too closely into the springs of
Philip's resolve to take service under a foreign flag. Perhaps the
irksome state of affairs at Las Flores, where there was no mean between
loafing and soldiering, was intolerable to a spirited youngster.
Perhaps San Benavides, constantly riding in from the front, irritated
him beyond endurance by his superior airs. Or it may be that a growing
belief in Iris's determination to sacrifice herself by redeeming her
bond made him careless as to what happened in the near future. The
outcome of one or all of these influences was that he sought, and was
readily given, a commission in the Army of Liberation. Like all
sailors, he preferred the mounted arm, and De Sylva, having the highest
opinion of his thoroughness, actually appointed him to command a branch
of the Intelligence Department.
Philip, trained to pin his faith in maps and charts, came to the
conclusion that Las Flores could be attacked from the rear, which lay
to the northwest. The Brazilians laughed at the notion. Where were
the troops to come from? Barraca must bring all his men by sea. There
were none stationed in those wild mountains.
"Better go and make sure," quoth Philip.
He ascertained the President's intentions as to the next twenty-four
hours, assembled his little body of scouts, saw to their forage and
equipment, took leave of Iris, and hurried off.
When two stout and elderly fellow-countrymen of his climbed the last
mile of the rough valley beneath the Las Flores slope, Philip and his
troop were a league or more beyond the Moxoto's watershed.
Meanwhile, Carmela De Sylva proved that her resolute chin was not
deceptive as a guide to temperament. The Dona Pondillo deemed her a
spirit when she appeared on the veranda, but Carmela's impetuous kiss
soon disabused the worthy dame of her error.
Iris, wondering why the lively chatter of her Brazilian friends was so
suddenly stilled, to be succeeded by a hubbub of excited words as the
older ladies present gathered around the new-comer, asked one of the
Pondillo girls what had happened.
"It is Carmela, the President's daughter," giggled the other. "Mother
says she is engaged to San Benavides. What fun! But where has she
come from? When last I heard of her she was in Paris."
A month of close companionship with people who spoke Portuguese all day
long, and often far into the night, had familiarized Iris with many of
the common phrases. Thus, she gathered one fact as to Carmela, and
more than suspected another. For a reason that every woman will
understand, she felt a subtle thrill of fear. If San Benavides were
really Carmela's accepted lover, then, indeed, Iris had good cause for
foreboding. Though the Brazilian had never directly avowed his
passion, since he knew quite well that she would refuse to listen, she
could not be blind to his infatuation. Only the threat of her dire
displeasure had restrained Hozier from an open quarrel with him. Her
position, difficult enough already, would become intolerable if De
Sylva's daughter became jealous, and she had no doubt whatsoever that
San Benavides would seek to propitiate the woman he loved by callously
telling the woman he had promised to marry that his affections were
bestowed elsewhere.
Her heart sank when she discovered this new maelstrom in her sea of
troubles; but here was Carmela herself speaking to her, and in English:
"So you are Iris Yorke!" the girl was saying. "I have heard so much of
you, yet you are so utterly different from what I imagined."
"You have heard of _me_?" repeated Iris, and surprise helped her to
smile with something of her wonted self-possession.
"Yes, on board the steamer. We sailed from Southampton, and had little
else to talk of during the voyage. But, of course, you cannot
understand. Among my fellow-passengers were your uncle and Mr. Bulmer."
Iris had long relinquished any hope of communicating with Bootle until
the present deadlock in the operations of the two armies was a thing of
the past. Completely mystified now by Carmela's glib reference to the
two men whose names were so often in her thoughts though seldom on her
lips, she could only gaze at the Senhora De Sylva in silent
bewilderment.
Carmela, feeling that she was gaining ground rapidly, affected a note
of polite regret.
"Please forgive me for being so abrupt. Perhaps I ought to have
prepared you. But it is quite true. Mr. Verity and Mr. Bulmer came
with me from Europe. We all reached Pernambuco the day before
yesterday. Indeed, if it were not for them, and the assistance they
gave me, I would not be here now. No one recognized me, fortunately,
and--I hope you will not be vexed--I passed as Mr. Verity's niece. In
fact, I took your place for the time."
A notable feature of the De Sylva utterance was its clearness.
Carmela's concluding words could not possibly be mistaken for anything
else. Their meaning, on the other hand, was capable of varying shades
of significance; but Iris was far too amazed to seek depths beneath
their literalness.
"If Mr. Verity and Mr. Bulmer are in Brazil----" she began tremulously,
but Carmela broke in with a shrill laugh.
"There is no 'if.' Look below there, near my father's tent! They have
arrived. They are asking for you. Come, let us meet them! I must see
my father before he departs."
Iris's swimming eyes could not discern the figures to which Carmela was
pointing. But this strange girl's triumphant tone rang like a knell in
her heart. She was not thinking now of the complications that might
arise between San Benavides and his discarded flame. She only knew
that, by some miracle, her uncle had come to bring her home, and with
him was the man to whom she was plighted, while Philip, only half an
hour ago, had told her he would not see her again until the following
evening.
So this was the end of her dream. Bitter-sweet it had been, and long
drawn out, but forthwith she must awake to the gray actualities of life.
She felt Carmela dragging her onward, irresistibly, vindictively. She
saw, as through a mist, David Verity's fiery-hued face, and heard his
harsh accents. Yes, there was no mistake. Here was Bootle transported
to Brazil, Linden House to Las Flores!
"By gum, lass," he was bellowing, with a touch of real sentiment in his
voice, "you've given us a rare dance afore we caught up wi' you. But
'ere you are, bright as a cherry, an' 'ere is Dickey an' meself come to
fetch you. Dash my wig, there's life in the old dogs yet, or we'd
never ha' bin able to ride forty mile through this God-forgotten
country. An' damme if that isn't Coke, red as a lobster. Jimmie, me
boy, put it there! Man, but you're a dashed long way from port!"
Happily, Iris was too stunned to betray herself. She extended a hand
to the sun-browned, white-haired old man standing by her uncle's side.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Bulmer," she said simply. And, in that
hour of searing agony, she meant it, for it is easier to look back on
suffering than to await it, and she had been living in dread of this
meeting for many a weary day.