HEROES AND HEROINES.
"Oh for a knight like Bayard,
Without reproach or fear!"
"How to support life on such a day as this?" demanded Rita, coming out
of her room, and confronting her cousins as they came upstairs. She had
been asleep, and her dark eyes were still misty and vague. The others,
on the contrary, had been running in the rain, and they were all
a-tingle with life and fresh air, and a-twinkle with rain-drops. The
moment was not a good one, and Rita's straight brows drew together
ominously.
"You have been--amusing yourselves, it appears," she said, in the old
withering tone that they were learning to forget. "Of course, here
nothing matters; one may as well be a savage as an _elegante_ in the
wilderness; but I should be sorry to meet you in Havana, my cousins!"
Peggy hung her head, and tried to keep her muddy feet out of sight.
Margaret only laughed, and held up her petticoats higher.
"You ought to have been with us, Rita!" she said. "We have had great
fun. The garden is one great shower-bath, and the brook is roaring like
a baby lion. I am really beginning to learn how to walk in wet feet, am
I not, Peggy? I used to think I should die if my feet were wet. It is
really delightful to feel the water go 'plop!' in and out of one's
boots. Now, my dear," she added, "I really cannot let you be cross,
because Peggy and I are in the most delightful good humour, and we came
in on purpose, because we thought you would be awake, and would want to
be amused. If you frown, Rita, I shall kiss you, all dripping wet, and
you know you could not bear that."
She advanced, holding up her rosy, shining face, down which the drops
were still streaming. Rita uttered a shriek and vanished.
"I don't see how you can talk to her that way," said Peggy admiringly.
"When she opens her eyes at me, and pulls her eyebrows together, I feel
about two inches high and three years old. You are brave in your own
way, Margaret, if you can't pull people out of bogs."
Margaret laughed again. "My dear, I found it was the only way," she
said. "If I let her ride over me--" Here she stopped suddenly, and with
a change of tone bade Peggy hasten to change her wet clothes. "It is all
very fine to get wet," she said, "and I am grateful for the lesson,
Peggy; but I know that one _must_ change when she comes in."
Peggy made a grimace, and said that at home she was often wet through
from morning till night, and nobody cared; but Margaret resolutely
pushed her into her room and shut the door, before going on to her own.
In a few minutes both girls, dry and freshly clad, knocked at Rita's
door; and though her "Come in" still sounded rather sullen, it was yet a
distinct invitation, and they entered. Rita had made this room over in
her own way, much to Elizabeth's inconvenience. The chintz curtains were
almost covered with little flags, emblems, feathery grasses, and the
like, pinned here and there in picturesque confusion. A large Cuban flag
draped the mantelpiece, and portraits of the Cuban leaders adorned the
walls. Over the dressing-table was the great scarlet fan which had
played such a conspicuous part in the drama of "_Cuba Libre_," and it
was pinned to the wall with a dagger of splendid and alarming
appearance. The mirror was completely framed in photographs, mostly of
dark-eyed senoritas in somewhat exaggerated toilets. Inscriptions in
every variety of sprawling hand testified to the undying love of
Conchita, Dolores, Manuela, and a dozen others, for their all-beautiful
Margarita, to part from whom was death.
If this were literally true, the youthful population of Cuba must have
been sensibly diminished by Rita's departure. There were black-browed
youths, too, some gazing tenderly, some scowling fiercely, all wearing
the Cuban ribbon with all possible ostentation. One of these youths was
manifestly Carlos Montfort, Rita's brother, for they were like enough to
have been twins; another had been pointed out to Margaret, in a whisper
charged with dramatic meaning, as "Fernando," the cousin on her mother's
side, the handsomest man in Havana, and the most fascinating. Margaret
looked coolly enough at this devastator of hearts, and thought that her
own cousin Carlos was far handsomer. Peggy thought so, too; indeed, her
susceptible sixteen-year-old heart was deeply impressed by Cousin
Carlos's appearance, and she would often steal into the room during
Rita's absence, to peep and sigh at the delicate, high-bred face, with
its flashing dark eyes, and the hair that grew low on the forehead, with
just the same tendril curls that made Rita's hair so lovely. Oh! Peggy
would think, if her own hair were only dark, or even brown,--anything
but this disgusting, wishy-washy flaxen. She had longed for dark eyes
and hair ever since she could remember. Poor Peggy! But she kept her
little romance to herself, and indeed it was a very harmless one, and
helped her a good deal about keeping her hair neat and her shoe-strings
tied.
When the girls went in now, they found Rita curled up on her sofa, with
the robe and pillow of chinchilla fur that had come with her from Cuba.
It was a bad sign, Margaret had learned, when the furs came out in warm
weather. It meant a headache generally, and at any rate a chilly state
of body, which was apt to be accompanied by a peevish state of mind.
Still, she looked so pretty, peeping out of the soft gray nest! She was
such a child, after all, in spite of her seventeen years,--decidedly,
she must be amused.
"Well," said Rita, half dolefully, half crossly, "I cannot command
solitude, it appears. I am desolated; I desire to die, while this
frightful rain pours down, but I cannot die alone; that is not suffered
me."
"Certainly not," replied Margaret cheerfully. "Don't die yet, please,
dear, but when you feel that you must, we will be at hand to take your
last wishes, won't we, Peggy?"
But Peggy thought Margaret cruel, and could only look at Rita
remorsefully, feeling that she had sinned, she knew not how.
"And how are we to amuse ourselves?" added Margaret, seating herself on
the couch at Rita's feet. "I think we must tell stories; it is a perfect
day for stories. Oh, Peggy, don't you want to get my knitting, like the
dear good child you are? I cannot listen well unless I have my
knitting."
Peggy brought the great pink and gray blanket which had been Margaret's
friend and companion for several months, and with it her own diminutive
piece of work, a doily that she was supposed to be embroidering. Rita
lay watching them with bright eyes, her eyebrows still nearer together
than was desirable. At last, "Well," she said again. There was
impatience and irritation in the tone, but there was interest, too.
"Well," replied Margaret, "I was only thinking what would be pleasantest
to do; there are so many things. How would it do for each of us to tell
a story,--a heroic story, such as will stand the rain, and not be afraid
of a wetting?"
"Of our own deeds?" inquired Rita.
"Oh, perhaps hardly that. If I waited to find a heroic deed of my own
performance, you might get tired, my dear. Somehow heroics do not come
every day, as they used in story times. But I can tell you one of my
father. Will you hear it?"
Rita nodded languidly; Peggy looked up eagerly.
"It was in the great Blankton fire," said Margaret. "I don't suppose
you know about it, Rita, but Peggy may have heard. No? Well, the country
is very big, after all. It seems as if all the world must have heard of
that fire. I was hardly more than a baby at the time, but I remember
seeing the red glare, and thinking that we were not going to have any
night that time, as the sun was getting up again as soon as he had gone
to bed. We were living in Blankton that winter, for papa had some work
that made it necessary for him to be near the Blankton libraries;
Historical Society work, you know, as so much of his work was." She
paused for some appreciative word, but none came. Apparently neither of
her cousins had heard of the Historical Society, which had played so
large a part in her father's life and her own.
"The whole sky was like blood!" she went on; "and when the smoke-clouds
that hung low over the city blew aside, we could see the flames darting
up, high, high, like pillars and spires. Oh! it was a beautiful,
dreadful sight! I watched it, baby as I was, with delight. I never
thought that my own father was in all that terrible glow and furnace,
and that he came near losing his precious life to save another's."
"How?" cried Peggy, roused at the mention of saving life. "Did he start
another fire to meet it?"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Margaret, in her turn failing to appreciate the
Western point of view. "He tried to help put it out at first in the
building where he was, and when he saw that was impossible, he went to
work getting out his books and papers. They were very, very valuable; no
money could have bought some of them, he said, for they were original
documents, and in some cases there were no duplicates. They were Papa's
treasures,--more to him than twenty fortunes. So he began taking them
out, slowly and carefully, thinking he had plenty of time. But after he
had taken out the first load, he heard cries and groans in a room near
his own office, and going in, he found an old man, a wretched old miser
that lived there all alone, in dirt and misery, though every one knew he
was immensely rich. He seemed to have gone out of his mind with fright,
and there he sat, his hands full of notes and bonds and things,
screaming and crying, and saying that he could not go out, for he would
be robbed, and he must stay there and burn to death. Papa tried to
reason with him, but he would not listen, only screamed louder, and
called Papa a robber when he tried to take the papers from him. Then
Papa called to the men who were passing by to help him, but they were
all so busy saving their own things, they could not stop, I suppose, or
at any rate, they did not; and all the time the fire was coming nearer,
and the smoke was getting thicker and thicker. Somebody who knew Papa
called to him that the fire had reached his entry, and that in five
minutes his office would be in flames. He started to run, thinking he
could get out a few precious books, and let the others go while he got
the old man out; but this time the poor old soul clung to him, and
begged not to be left to burn, and looking out into the hall, Papa saw
the smoke-cloud all shot with flame, and bright tongues licking along
the walls toward him. So he took the old man by the arm and tried to
lead him out, but he screamed that his box must go too, his precious
box, or he should die of grief. That was his strong-box, and it was too
heavy for him to lift, so he sat down beside it, hugging it, and saying
that he would never leave it. Poor Papa was at his wit's end, for at any
moment they might be surrounded and cut off from the stairs. So he
heaved up the box and threw it out of the window, and then he took the
old miser on his back and ran for his life. Oh, girls, there was only
just time! He had to run through the fire, and his hair and beard were
singed, and his clothes; but he got through, half blinded and choked,
and almost strangled, too, for the old miser was clutching his throat
all the time, and screaming out that he had murdered him."
"Why did he not drop him?" inquired Rita. "My faith, why should he be
saved, the old vegetable?"
"Oh, Rita, you don't know what you are saying. It was a human life, and
of course he _had_ to save it; but it did seem cruel that the precious
books and papers had to be sacrificed for just wretched money. That was
the heroic part of it,--Papa's leaving the things that meant more to him
than anything in the world, except me and his friends, and saving the
old miser's money."
"If he could have saved him and the books, and let the money go to
Jericho!" said Peggy; "but I suppose he couldn't."
"That was just it! The man was really out of his mind, you see, and if
Papa had left him he might have run into the fire, or jumped out of the
window, or done any other crazy thing. Well, that is my story, girls.
Who shall come next,--you, Rita?"
Rita had been only partly roused by the story of the fire. An uncle
saving a dirty old man and his money did not specially appeal to her;
the hero should have been young and ardent, and should have saved a lady
from the burning house. Peggy wanted to be responsive, but it seemed a
great fuss to make over musty old books and papers; probably they were
like those that Margaret made such a time about in the library here;
Peggy had looked at some of them, and they were as dry as dry could be.
If he had saved a dog, now, or a child,--and at the thought her eyes
brightened.
"Do heroines count," she asked; "or must it be a man?"
"Of course they count!" cried Margaret, bending over her work to hide
the tears that came to her eyes. She felt the glow checked in her
heart,--knew that her story, her beloved story, had not struck the note
that always thrilled her when she saw in thought her father, slender,
gray-haired, carrying out the strange man, and leaving behind him,
without a word, the fruits of years of toil.
"Of course heroines count, my dear! Have you one for us?"
"Ma did something nice once," said Peggy shyly; "she saved my life when
I was a baby."
"Tell us!" cried both girls, and Rita's eyes brightened, for this seemed
to promise better.
"It was when Pa first took up the claim," said Peggy. "The country was
pretty wild then,--Indians about, and a good many big beasts: panthers,
and mountain lions, and so on. I was the only girl, and I was two years
old. Pa used to be out on the claim all day, and the boys with him, all
except Hugh, and he was in bed at that time; and Ma used to work in the
garden, and keep me by her so that I wouldn't get into mischief.
"One day she was picking currants, and I had been sitting by her,
playing with some hollyhock flowers she had given me. She did not notice
when I crawled away, but suddenly she heard me give a queer sort of
scream. She turned round, and there was a big panther dragging me off
down the garden path by my dress. Ma felt as if she was dead for a
minute; but then she ran back to the seed-house--it was only a few steps
off--and got a hoe that she knew was there, and tore off after the
panther. It wasn't going very fast, for I was a pretty heavy baby, and
it didn't know at first that any one was after it. When it heard Ma
coming it started off quicker, and had almost got to the woods when she
caught up. Ma raised that hoe and brought it down on the beast's head as
hard as she knew how. It dropped me, and turned on her, grinning and
snarling, and curling its claws all ready for a spring. She never
stopped to draw breath; she raised the hoe again, and that time, she
says, she prayed to the swing of it; and she brought it down, and heard
the creature's skull go crash under it, and felt the hoe sink in. The
panther gave a scream and rolled over, and then Ma rolled over too; and
when Pa came home to dinner, a few minutes later, they were both lying
there still, and I was trying to pick up my hollyhock flowers. We have
never had hollyhocks since then; Ma can't bear 'em."
There was no doubt about the effect of Peggy's story. Before it was
finished Rita was sitting bolt upright, her chinchilla robe thrown back,
her hands clasped over her knee, her eyes alight with interest; and
Margaret cried, "Oh, Peggy, Peggy, what a splendid story!"
"Well, it's true!" said Peggy.
"Of course it is; that's the splendid part. Oh, I am so proud to have an
aunt so brave and strong. Aunt--why, Peggy, you have never told me your
mother's name!"
"You never asked," said Peggy. "Her name is Susan."
Margaret blushed, and mentally applied the scourge to herself. It was
true; she never had asked. Peggy had said that her mother had no
education, and had got along very well without it; this was all that
Margaret wanted to know. A shallow, ignorant woman, who had let her
child grow up in such ignorance as Peggy's; and now she learned, all in
a moment, of a strong, brave woman, helping her husband to clear the
waste where their home was to be, making that home, bringing up her
great family in love and rude plenty, and killing wild beasts with her
own hard, honest hand. Margaret was learning a good deal this summer,
and this was one of the most salutary lessons. She bowed her head and
accepted it, but she only said aloud:
"Aunt Susan! I hope I shall know her some day. I shall put her in my
heroine book, Peggy, from this minute." And the tone was so warm and
hearty that Peggy's eyes filled with tears, and she felt dimly that she,
too, had been neglectful of "Ma" of late, and resolved to write a good
long letter that very afternoon.
"And now it is your turn, Rita!" said Margaret. "I give you till I knit
to the end of this row to find a hero or heroine in your family. You
must have plenty of them."
Rita laughed, and curled herself into another graceful, sinuous
attitude. Her eyes shone. "My brother Carlos is in the mountains," she
said; "my cousin Fernando with him. Pouf! if I were with them!"
She was silent a moment, and then went on, speaking slowly, and pausing
every few minutes to blow little holes in her chinchilla robe, a
favourite amusement of hers.
"The San Reals have plenty of heroes, heroines too; my mother was a San
Real, you remember. What will you have, Marguerite? Far back, an
ancestor of mine was the most beautiful woman in Spain. Her lover was
seized by the Inquisition; she went to the Tribunal, accused herself,
and died in his place. Will you have her for a heroine? My
great-grandfather--he was a Grandee of Spain. The nephew of the king
insulted him to the death, and thought his rank made him safe. He was
found dead the next morning, and my great-grandfather lay dead beside
him, with the dagger in his heart that had first slain the prince. Is he
a hero such as you love, Marguerite?"
"No, not at all!" cried Margaret, "Rita, what dreadful tales! Those were
the dark days, when people did not know better; but surely you must
have some ancestors who were not murd--who did not die violent deaths."
"They are San Reals!" said Rita. "They had royal blood of Spain in their
veins. Cold, thin, Northern blood cannot warm to true heroism." She
sulked for some time after this, and refused to say anything more; but
desire of imparting was strong in her, and Margaret's smile could not be
resisted indefinitely.
"Come!" she said. "You meant no harm, Marguerite; you cannot understand
me or my people, but I should have known it, and your birth is not your
fault. Listen, then, and see if this will please you."
She seemed to meditate for some time, and when she spoke again it was
still more slowly, as if she were choosing her words.
"Once on a time,--no matter when,--there was a war. A cruel, unjust,
devilish war, when the people of--when my people were ground to the
earth, tortured, annihilated. All that was right and true and good was
on one side; on the other, all that was base and brutal and horrible.
There was no good, none! they are--they were devils, allowed to come to
earth,--who can tell why?
"The--the army of my people had suffered; they were in need of many
things, of food, of shoes, but most of all of arms. The whole nation
cried for bloodshed, and there were not arms for the half of them. How
to get weapons? Near by there was another country, but a short way
across the water--"
"Africa?" asked Peggy innocently. But Rita flashed at her with eyes and
teeth.
"If you will be silent, Calibana! Do I tell this story, or do you? have
I mentioned a name?"
"I beg pardon!" muttered poor Peggy. "I didn't mean to interrupt, Rita;
I only thought Africa was the nearest to Spain across the water."
Rita glowered at her, and continued. "This neighbour-country was rich,
great, powerful; but her people were greedy, slothful, asleep. They had
arms, they had food, money, everything. Did they help my people in their
need? I tell you, no!"
She almost shrieked the last words, and Margaret looked up in some
alarm, but concluding that Rita was merely working herself up to a
dramatic crisis, she went on with her knitting.
"To this rich, slothful country," Rita went on, dwelling on every
adjective with infinite relish, "came a girl, a daughter of the country
that was bleeding, dying. She was young; she had fire in her veins
instead of blood; she was a San Real. She stayed in a house--a
place--near the seashore, a house empty for the great part; full of
rooms, empty of persons. The thought came to her,--Here I could conceal
arms, could preserve them for my country, could deliver them to vessels
coming by sea. It is a night expedition, it is a little daring, a little
valour, the risk of my life,--what is that? I could arm my country, my
brothers, against the tyrants. I could--" Rita paused, and both girls
looked at her in amazement. She had risen from the couch, and now stood
in the middle of the room; her slender form quivered with emotion; her
great eyes shone with dark fire; her voice vibrated on their ears with
new and powerful cadences.
"This girl--was alone. She needed help. With her in the house were
others, her friends, but knowing little of her heart. Their blood
flowed slowly, coldly; they were good, they were kind, but--would they
help her? Would they brave danger for her sake, for the sake of the
country that was dearer to her than life? Alone she was but one, with
their aid--
"Listen! there came one day a letter to this house by the sea; it was
for--for the person of whom I speak. Her brother was near, in a city not
far off. He had come to collect arms, he had bought them, he must find a
place to conceal them. Her dream was about to come true. She turned to
her friends, the two whom she loved! She opened her arms, she opened her
soul; she cried to them--"
"Stop!" said Margaret. She, too, had risen to her feet, and her face was
very pale. Peggy looked from one to the other in alarm. Were they going
to quarrel? Margaret's eyes were as bright as Rita's, but their light
was calm and penetrating, not flashing and glowing with passion.
"Rita," she said, "I hope--I trust I am entirely wrong in what I cannot
help thinking. I trust this is a story, and nothing else. It cannot be
anything else!" she continued, her voice gaining firmness as she went
on. "We are here in our uncle's house. He is away, he has left us in
charge, having confidence in his brothers' daughters. If--if
anything--if anybody should plan such a thing as you suggest, it would
not only be ungrateful, it would be base. I could not harbour such a
thought for an instant. Oh, I hope I wrong you! I hope it was only a
dramatic fancy. Tell me that it was, my dear, and I will beg your pardon
most humbly."
She paused for an answer, but Rita made none for the moment.
She stood silent, the very soul of passion, her eyes dilating, her lips
apart, her breast heaving with the furious words that her will would not
suffer to escape. Margaret almost thought she would spring upon her,
like the wild creature she seemed. But presently a change came over the
Cuban girl. A veil gathered over the glowing eyes; her hands unclenched
themselves, opened softly; her whole frame seemed to relax its tension,
and in another moment she dropped on her couch with a low laugh.
"_Chere Marguerite_," she said, "you, too, were born for the stage. Your
climax, it was magnificent, _tres chere_; pity that you spoiled it with
an anti-climax." And she shrugged her shoulders. "My poor little story!
You would not even let me finish it. No matter; perhaps it has no end;
perhaps I was but trying to see if I could put life into you, statues
that you are. Ah, it was a pretty story, if I could have been permitted
to finish it!"
Margaret turned scarlet. "My dear, if I have been rude," she said, "I am
very sorry, Rita; I thought--"
"You thought!" said Rita, her full voice dropping the words scornfully,
in a way that was hard to bear. "Your thoughts are very valuable, _tres
chere_; I must not claim too many of them; they would be wasted on a
poor patriot like me. And thou, Peggy, how didst thou like my story,
eh?"
Rita turned so suddenly on Peggy that the poor child had not time to
shut her mouth, which had been open in sheer amazement.
"Shut it!" said Rita sharply. "Is it a whale, or the Gulf of Mexico? I
asked how you like my story, little stupid. Have you had sense to attend
to it?"
Peggy's eyes filled with tears. A month ago she would have answered
angrily, but now Rita was her goddess, and she could only weep at a
harsh word from her.
"I--I think it is fine for a story, Rita," she answered slowly. "I loved
to hear it. But--" Her blue eyes wandered helplessly for a moment, then
met Margaret's steady gaze, and settled. "But if such a thing were true,
Margaret would be right, wouldn't she?"
"And if you removed yourselves now?" queried Rita, turning her back to
them with a sudden fling of the fur robe over her shoulder. "One must
sleep in this place, or be talked to death, it appears. I choose sleep.
My ears ring at present as with the sound of the sea,--a sea of cold
babble! _Adios_, Senorita Calibana, Dona Fish-blood! I pray for relief!"
Margaret took Peggy's hand without a word, and they went out; but Peggy
cried till dinner-time, and would not be comforted.