CUBA LIBRE.
"But, Marguerite, when I tell you that I _know_!"
"But, Rita, my dear, how _can_ you know?"
"Look at me; listen to me! Have you your senses?"
"Most of them, I hope."
"Very well, then, attend! When stupid, stupid Peggy--I love her,
observe; she is my sister, but we must admit that she is stupid,--truth,
Marguerite, is the jewel of my soul--when she stumbled against the door,
when she screamed, we heard sounds, did we not?"
"We did!" Margaret admitted.
"Sounds,--and what sounds? Not the broom of a servant, not the rustle of
a dress,--no, we hear the step of a man! We enter, and a door closes at
the further end of the room; click, a lock snaps! I rush to the window;
a figure disappears around the corner of the house; I cannot see what
it is, but I would swear it was no woman. I return,--we look about us at
this room, which never have we seen before. A gentleman's room, as an
infant could perceive. A private library, study, what you will,
luxurious, enchanting. Books over which you sob with emotion,--or would
sob, if your temperament permitted you expression; pictures that fill my
soul with enchantment; a writing-table, and on it papers--heaps and
mounds of papers! Am I right? do I exaggerate? Alps, Pyrenees of papers!
You saw them?"
"I didn't see anything higher than Mt. Washington," said Margaret
soberly. "There were a good many, I confess."
"They burst from drawers," pursued Rita, enjoying herself immensely;
"they toppled like snow-drifts; they strewed the floor to a depth of--"
"Oh, Rita, Rita! do rein your Pegasus in, or he will fly away
altogether. There certainly were a great many papers, and they confirmed
our poor little Peggy in her belief that the man she had seen was Hugo
Montfort, making his ghostly search for the papers he lost. Whereas you
think--"
"Think! when I tell you that I _know_!"
"You think," Margaret went on calmly, "that it was John Strong, the
gardener. Well, and what if it was?"
"What if it was? Marguerite, you are impossible; you have the
intelligence of a babe new born. What! we find this man in his master's
room, spying upon his private things, _romaging_--what is that
word?--_romaging_ his papers, most likely making himself possessed of
what he will, and you say, what of this? _Caramba_, I will tell you what
of this it would be in Cuba! String him up to the wall and give him
quick fifty lashes; that would be of it!"
"Long Island is a good way from Cuba!" said Margaret. "I don't think we
will try anything of that sort here, Rita. And when you come to think of
it, my dear, we have been here a few weeks, and John Strong was here
before we were born; Aunt Faith told me so. Don't you think he may
perhaps know what he is about rather better than we do?"
"Know what he is about!" Rita protested, with a shower of nods, that he
knew very well what he was about. The question was, did their uncle
know? And the black velvet coat, what had Margaret to say to that? she
demanded. It was evident that this good man, this worthy servant, was in
the habit of wearing his master's clothes during his absence. Did
gardeners habitually appear in black velvet? Ha! tell her that!
Margaret did not know that they did, but it was perfectly possible that
Mr. Montfort might have given some of his old clothes, a cast-off
smoking-jacket, for example, to his gardener and confidential servant.
There would be nothing remarkable in that, surely. Besides, were they
absolutely certain that the mysterious individual was dressed in black
velvet? Poor, dear Peggy was in such a state of excitement, she might
well have fancied--and so on, and so on. The two cousins went over the
ground again and again, but could come to no decision.
"Say what you will, _tres chere_!" said Rita, finally; "glorify your
gardener, give him the family wardrobe, the family papers; I keep watch
on him, that is all! Let Master Strong beware! Not for nothing was I
brought up on a plantation. Have I not known overseers, to say nothing
of hosts of servants, white, black, yellow? Your books, _chere
Marguerite_, do they teach you the knowledge of persons? Let him beware!
he knows not a Cuban!" and she nodded, and bent her brows so tragically
that Margaret could hardly keep her countenance.
"Have you ever acted, Rita?" she asked, following the train of her
thoughts. "I am sure you must do it so well."
"_Mi alma!_" cried Rita, "it was my joy! Conchita and I--_ahi_! what
plays we have acted in the myrtle-bower in the garden! Will you see me
act? You shall."
John Strong and his iniquities were forgotten in a moment. Bidding
Margaret call Peggy, and make themselves into an audience in the lower
hall, Rita whirled away to her own room, where they could hear her
singing to herself, and pulling open drawers with reckless ardour. The
two other girls ensconced themselves in a window-seat of the hall and
waited.
"Do you know what she is going to do?" asked Peggy.
Margaret shook her head. "Something pretty and graceful, no doubt. She
is a born actress, you know."
"I never saw an actress," said Peggy. "She--she is awfully fascinating,
Margaret, isn't she?"
Margaret assented warmly. There was no tinge of jealousy in her
composition, or she might have felt a slight pang at the tone of
admiring awe in which Peggy now spoke of her Cuban cousin. Things were
changed indeed since the night of their arrival.
"It isn't only that she is so awfully pretty," Peggy went on, "but she
moves so--and her voice is so soft, and--oh, Margaret, do you suppose I
can ever be the least like her, just the least bit in the world?"
She looked anxiously at Margaret, who gazed back affectionately at her,
at the round, rosy childish face, the little tilted nose, the fluffy,
fair hair. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to stroke and
pat Peggy as if she were a kitten, but no one would think of patting
Rita.
"Dear," said Margaret softly, "dear Peggy! I like you better as you are.
Of course Rita is very beautiful, and neither you nor I could ever look
in the least like her, Peggy. But--it is a great deal better to look
like our own selves, isn't it, and learn to appear at our best in a way
that suits us? That is what I think. Now that you have learned to do
your hair so nicely, and to keep your dress neat--"
"You taught me that," said honest Peggy; "you taught me all that,
Margaret. I was a perfect pig when I came here; you know I was."
"Don't call my cousin names, miss! I cannot permit it. But if I have
taught you anything, Peggy, it is Rita who has given you the little
graces that you have been picking up. I never could have taught you to
bow,--and really, you are quite superb since the last lesson. Then,
these pretty dresses--"
"Oh, _do_ you think I ought to take them?" broke in Peggy. "Margaret, do
you think so? She brought them into my room, you know, and flung them
down in a heap, and said they were only fit for dust-cloths--you know
the way she talks, dear thing. The lovely brown crepon, she said it was
the most hideous thing she had ever seen, and that it was the deed of
an assassin to offer it to me. And when I said I couldn't take so many,
she snatched up the scissors, and was going to cut them all up--she
really was, Margaret. What could I do?"
"Nothing, dear child, except take them, I really think. It was a real
pleasure to Rita to give them to you, I am sure, and she could not
possibly wear a quarter of all the gowns she brought here. But see, here
comes our bird of paradise herself. Now we shall see something lovely!"
Rita came down the stairs, singing a little Spanish song. Her dress of
black gauze fluttered in wide breezy folds, a gauze scarf floated from
her shoulders; she was indeed a vision of beauty, and the two cousins
gazed at her with delight. Advancing into the middle of the hall, she
swept a splendid courtesy, and suddenly unfurled a huge scarlet fan.
With this, she proceeded to go through a series of astonishing
performances. She danced with it, she sang with it. She closed it, and
it was a dagger, and she swooped upon an invisible enemy, and stabbed
him to the heart; she flung it open, and it became the messenger of
love, over which her black eyes gleamed and glowed in irresistible
coquetry. All the time she kept up a dramatic chant, sometimes sinking
almost to a whisper, again rising to a shriek of joy or passion.
Suddenly she stopped.
"All this is play!" she said, turning to her rapt audience.
"Now you shall see the real thing: you shall see _Cuba libre_. But for
this I must have another person; it is impossible to do it alone.
Margaret,--no! Peggy can better do this! Peggy, come, and you shall be
Spain, the tyrant."
Peggy looked as if she would much rather be aspiring Cuba, but she came
forward obediently, and was bidden to put herself in an attitude of
insolent defiance. Peggy scowled and doubled up her fists, thinking of a
picture of a prizefighter that she had once seen.
"_Ahi!_" cried Rita, springing upon her. "Not thus! you have the air of
a cross child. Thus, do you see? Fold the arms upon the chest, abase the
head, bring the eyebrows down till you have to look through them! So!
that is better! Now gnaw your under lip, and draw in your breath with a
hiss, thus!" and Rita herself uttered a hiss so malignant that poor
Peggy started back in affright. "But be still!" cried Rita, "you are now
perfect. You are an object--is she not, Marguerite?--to turn cold the
blood." Margaret did not commit herself, being wholly occupied in
keeping back the smiles that Peggy's aspect called forth. She certainly
was an object, poor dear child, but Rita was so absorbed in her play
that she saw nothing absurd even in a tyrant scowling through flaxen
eyebrows with a pair of helpless, frightened blue eyes. She now drew
back, knelt, flung up her arms, and raised her eyes to heaven. Her lips
moved; she was praying for the success of her cause. Rising, she came
forward, and with noble earnestness demanded her freedom. The tyrant was
bidden to look about on the ruin and desolation that he had wrought; he
was implored by all that was holy, all that was just and noble, to
withdraw from the land where he had long ceased to have any real right
of ownership. Peggy, in obedience to whispered orders, shook her head
with stubborn violence, and stamped her foot. Cuba then, drawing herself
to her full height, threw down her gage of defiance (a tiny
pearl-covered glove) and declared war to extermination. The banner of
freedom (the fan) was unfurled and waved on high, the national song was
chanted, and the war began. Spain, the tyrant, now had a hard time of
it. She was pounced upon from one side, then from another; she was
surrounded, hustled this way and that; the fan was fluttered wide in her
face, poked sharply between her ribs. A single straightforward blow from
her strong young arm would have laid the slender Cuba at her feet, but
she could strike no blow. She was only to hiss, and clutch the air in
impotent fury, and when she did this, Margaret had such an
uncontrollable fit of coughing that it almost produced an armistice.
[Illustration: "CUBA LIBRE."]
Now Spain was told that she was growing weak, a decrepit, bleeding old
woman. Her fate was upon her; let her die!
Obeying the imperious gesture, Peggy sank on her knees, and had the
satisfaction of hearing that "the old serpent died bravely." The fan did
more and more dreadful execution, and now she lay gasping, dying, on the
floor. Standing above her was a triumphant young goddess, waving the
flag of _Cuba libre_, and declaring, with her foot on the neck of the
prostrate tyrant, that despotism was dead, and that Freedom was
descending from heaven, robed in the Cuban colours, and surrounded by a
choir of angels, all singing the national anthem. And here Rita actually
pulled from her bosom a small flag showing the Cuban colours, and waved
it, crying that the blood-red banner of war (the fan) was now furled
forever, and that Cuba and the United States, now twin sisters, would
proceed to rule the world after the most approved methods. This ended
the scene, and the two actors stood before Margaret, one very red and
sheepish, the other glowing like flame with pride and enthusiasm,
awaiting her plaudits. Margaret clapped and shouted as loud as she
could, and expressed her admiration warmly enough; but Rita shook her
head and sighed.
"Ah, for an audience!" she cried. "To pour out one's heart, to live the
life of one's country, and have but one to see it,--it is sad, it is
tragic. Do I exaggerate, Marguerite?--it is death-dealing!" Then she
praised Peggy, and told her that she had made a magnificent tyrant, and
had died as game as possible. "Ah!" she said. "What it would be if you
could only do something real for Cuba! I would shed my blood, would pour
out its ultimate drops (Rita's idioms were apt to become foreign when
she was excited), but if you also could do something, my cousins, what
glory, what joy for you; and it may be possible. No, hush! not a word!
At present, I breathe not a whisper, I am the grave. But there may come
a day, an hour, when I shall call to you with the voice of a trumpet;
and you,--you will awaken, halves of my heart; you will spring to my
side, you will--Marguerite, you are laughing! At what, I ask you?"
"I beg your pardon, dear," said Margaret. "I was only thinking that a
trumpet might really be needed, since a bell is not loud enough. The
dinner-bell rang five minutes ago, and Elizabeth has come to see what we
are about."
But at sight of Elizabeth, standing demurely in the doorway, _Cuba
libre_ vanished, and there remained only a very pretty young lady in
the sulks, who had to be coaxed for five minutes more before she would
come to her dinner.
"Am I seventeen, or thirty-seven?" thought Margaret, as she finally led
the way to the dining-room.