"No, no, Nan," I cried, "don't throw open the lattice!"
"Why not?" she asked, her hands on the latch.
"Flying things! Tropical night-birds! Bats!"
"Bats! Ugh-h-h!" cried Nan, and let the lattice alone.
"Let's sit here," I said, setting our chairs almost against the
lattice. Larry could not escape then if he wanted to, because it was a
twenty-foot drop onto a lot of marble vases or the spiked edges of some
cactus plants, and more than a twenty-foot drop to a marble walk or
into the depths of some kind of a spouting fountain in the patio.
He had to stay, and, being an officer and a gentleman, of course, he
was trying not to hear; but the lattice slats were loose-fitting and we
were sitting not two feet from them.
"Where did you hear of Larry last, Nan?" I began.
"Oh," said Nan, "I've been getting mamma to take all kinds of trips,
Nettie, and every trip with the one idea of seeing Larry somewhere.
Wherever I thought any of our war-ships came, there I'd specially get
mamma to go. I can draw a map of this coast-line with all its ports in
their proper places with my eyes shut. And the places in the different
ports I've peeked into, Nettie!--knowing how curious Larry always was
to see everything going on and hoping to run across him in that way. I
even got mamma to go to a bull-fight last Sunday."
"A bull-fight, Nan!" I said.
"Why not?" retorted Nan. "In our country we have prize-fights. And
which is worse--for men to maul beasts or to maul each other?"
"I know, Nan, but women who have seen them----"
"I know, Nettie--and their writing articles of the horror of it, but
always after they've satisfied their curiosity. The curse of our
training to-day, Nettie, is hypocrisy."
Which was just like Nan--straight from the shoulder! But we just have
to restrain those headstrong ones. "I wouldn't call it hypocrisy
altogether, Nan," I said.
"What else is it? And what else was it when every old hen in our town
went cackling from one house to another when the papers published that
story about Larry losing so much money at cards one night? And some of
these same women not able to afford a second maid and even doing their
own fine laundering in secret--some of them playing afternoon bridge,
Nettie, for a half of a cent a point, and all kinds of signalling to
win. It just makes me sick. How do we know how many of them wouldn't
gamble away ten thousand dollars in one night if they had it?"
And just then I heard "That's you, Nan!" in Larry's fervent voice, from
behind the lattice.
Nan leaped up. I could feel her heart beating when she fell against
me. "Did you hear that, Nettie?"
"I did hear something," I said--"a word from one of the cooks or maids
down-stairs it must have been. They take the air in the patio of an
evening when their work is done. Remember, voices carry far in the
tropics--especially when it is damp."
"I never knew that, Nettie," said innocent Nan--"that voices carry
farther in the tropics. And I'm sure it is clear and lovely out." And
she stood up to look through the lattice.
Now, the best defense to an attack, Ned always told me, is another
attack; so "But Larry did drink too much that time, Nan," I said.
"Why, Nettie Trench--from you!" cried Nan, and plumped back into her
chair. "When did he drink too much? Just once--when he knew so little
of wine that he had no idea how much would upset him. The trouble was
that poor Larry never knew how to hide anything he ever did. No
hypocrisy in him at any rate. And I'd a good deal rather have a man
who did what Larry did, and own to it and be sorry right out, than a
man that you never know when he is lying to you or not, or what he is
likely to be doing when he is out of sight. And he gave me his promise
in a letter that he would never touch another card or drink another
glass of wine until I said he might. Mother wouldn't let me answer the
letter. And he guessed how it was, and I don't blame him for writing
her as he did. Mamma was too harsh. She paid too much attention to
town gossip, and I told her that. And she said: 'I think, Nan, a
little travelling and discipline won't hurt you one bit'; and then
Larry went and got his appointment to the marine corps, thinking there
might be a war and some fighting for him down in this country."
Now, I always have held that women, even as men of any account, are
never so attractive as when they throw aside all affectation and stand
forth just as they are--that is, if they're wholesome and good to begin
with; and no surer way to hold the right kind of a boy to the line than
to let him know that the right girl has never lost faith in him. But
Nan was holding forth altogether too bravely--with the boy in the case
so handy. A few little reservations--a few--at this particular time, I
thought, would do no harm. And so "Sh-h, Nan!" I warned.
"I won't sh-h, Nettie Trench. It's so and you know it. I hate
superior people, Nettie. Father always did, too. And you know how he
liked Larry. Dear papa! One night, Nettie--I was never so
surprised--mamma all at once began to cry--imagine mamma crying! She
was crying for papa, who had to die, she said, before she could
appreciate the gentleness and warm heart that was in him. And papa
always said that no kind of people go further to the bad than those who
really think they're better than others. He used to say that such
beasts, for their punishment, ought to be forced to herd by themselves."
I believe in what Nan said myself, but also, thinking of the wily woman
waiting below, I decided that a little chastening of the spirit of
rebellious girlhood would now be in order. So I said: "But a long
record of the human race, Nan, proves that if we do not intend to try
to be better than the people we happen to be with, then we ought to
take care whom we are with."
"You and your sermons!" exclaimed Nan. "Nettie, dear, talk _with_ me,
not _at_ me. Oh, Nettie"--Nan threw herself on my shoulders--"I never
had a chance to tell him I'm not mad with him. And I'm afraid he'll do
something desperate. And if they get to fighting down here, as
everybody says, he will be killed! He's that kind, Nettie--he will be
killed!"
"And isn't my Ned likely to be killed at all?" I said, beginning to get
frightened too; and then, seeing her so tearful: "But it will be all
right, dear--don't you worry."
"But, Nettie, why shouldn't a woman let a man know--or give him a hint?
'What!' says mamma to me, 'would you run after him?' But why should I
be afraid to let him know that I do care for him?"
"I don't know why not, Nan. It depends on the man, perhaps."
"Did you ever let Ned know you cared for him before he asked--did you,
Nettie?"
She was so wistful I almost forgot Larry behind the lattice, but I
caught myself in time. "I hope, Nan Wedner, you don't think I proposed
to him?"--that was with such dignity as I could quickly assume.
"But, Nettie"--she switched her head on my shoulder--"do you suppose
Ned knew, Nettie?"
"I'm afraid," I sighed--I thought of Larry listening, but I had to tell
her the truth--"he would have been dull not to guess it."
"And Ned isn't dull, is he?" said Nan.
"Ned dull! I guess not!" I said.
And while I stood with Nan tearful and discouraged against my shoulder,
I could hear the patter of the fountain tinkling up from the patio, and
the voices of men and girls, and the music of some kind of a native
instrument; and the song was of home and love by a man to a girl. And
do you know?--no matter what we think of their politics and so
on--those men down that country do seem to be able to put something
terribly sad into their voices when they sing, and somebody somewhere
has said that no man who loves but is more often sad than gay. And it
made no difference--it may have been some low-built kitchen girl he was
singing to, and he one of the hotel porters loafing on his job--not a
mite of difference. The melody of it rose up and clutched me. And Nan
clinging to me--I could feel it clutching her, too. And I knew that
for Larry behind the lattice--it was hard work staying where he was;
and as for myself--I hadn't seen my Ned in almost a year, and, thinking
of Ned and his ways, I felt all at once terribly lonesome and like
crying with Nan. And then a vision of the arrogant beauty down-stairs
came suddenly to my mind. But now without my being so afraid. It
would be safe enough now, I thought, to have Larry and Nan meet in her
presence.
"Let us go down-stairs now, Nan," I said. "We can look at the dancing.
That Miss Whiffle, they say, is a wonderful dancer."
"Yes, but let me look at the children again, Nettie," said Nan. "I
love to see them asleep. Isn't it wonderful to you, Nettie, to think
of your having children of your own--nobody else's but your own?"
"And Ned's," I said.
"Of course. You wouldn't give them up for anything, would you, Nettie,
in all the world? Why, Nettie, I'd go down on my knees and scrub
floors like the old women in the office-buildings every night of my
life in thankfulness to have such lovely little babies of my own!"
"Hush, Nan!" I said, thinking of Larry in hiding.
"And Larry, Nettie--wouldn't Larry love to have children of his own!"
Before she could say any more I hurried her away to look at the
children, and also to give Larry time to make his escape. And after
Nan had cuddled them we headed for the stairs, I wondering just how I
could let Larry see us after we got there. And while descending the
stairs we heard a rifle-shot, and another, and another, and then dozens
of shots.
"Podesta! Podesta!" we heard everybody calling out then, and the
waiters dashed from under the portales to the corner of the plaza to
see what was doing. And as we hurried downstairs we heard a
voice--Larry's voice.
"This plaza is about the best-lighted place in town," Larry was saying
to a group of diners. "The most exposed, but also the safest place--on
the defense--in the city. Whatever they decide to do to us here, at
least we can see them coming to do it."
The stout majordomo was standing near Larry. "Truly, that is so," he
said.
"And these little marble-topped tables," said Larry, "won't be bad
little defenses against their rifle fire. We can set them up on edge
between the columns of the portales. And we will have our line of
retreat open through these big doors, which we can close behind us, and
so on in and back and up the stairs to the roof, if they're too strong
and the women in danger. Let's get busy with the tables now."
Everybody began to clear the little tables by sweeping whatever was on
them to the marble floor. The majordomo cried out: "Careful, if you
please, señors!" But no one minded him, and everybody then began to
pick up the marble-topped tables, Nan and I among them, and place them
between the portales columns.
Larry, if he saw us, paid no attention to us; neither did he pay any
attention to Carmen Whiffle when she stood at his elbow. "There's no
changing nature, Nan," I said--"the male in war time is a warrior first
and a lover afterward."
"Would you want him not to be?" said Nan, who had dropped grabbing
tables to stand off and admire Larry; and while she was at that, her
mother, in a dressing-gown of a chocolate shade, came down the wide
stairs.
"Mamma, there's Larry--look!" cried Nan. "And he won't pay the least
attention to us!"
"Why should he?" retorted auntie. "He has his work before him. Let
him do it in peace."
By this time the tables were all piled up as Larry had ordered, and
half the women in the hotel were clustering around him. You would
think they had a special claim on him. But he almost rudely waved them
away; among them Carmen Whiffle, who retired, I was pleased to see, in
some wonderment.
"Good for you, Larry!" I said; but was myself shocked a moment later
when he said, with both hands in the air warning us:
"Mesdames--señoras, señoritas, ladies, demoiselles--there probably
isn't the least danger, but no harm in standing clear. You, Nettie,"
he added, when I was going to rush over to him, in my pride to let the
others know who he was and I was--"you, too, Nettie, same as the rest!"
"Larry Trench, why, what--" I began, and "O Larry!" began Nan.
"And you, Nan--you know I'm not allowed to speak to you," said Larry.
"I promised your mother I wouldn't"; but he gave her a glance which
sent her trembling up against me, murmuring: "O Nettie, Nettie, I'm so
glad!"
"And you, too, Mrs. Wedner," said Larry--"all stand clear of the main
entrance. Perhaps you'd all better go up a flight--yes, two flights,
up out of the way--everybody!" And he began shooing us all toward the
stairs.
[Illustration: "All stand clear of the main entrance."]
"Why, Larry Trench!" I cried, "you'd think you'd been seeing us every
day for the last year, instead----"
"Don't be silly," said Nan's mother. "He is right. Ladies, I think we
would all do well to follow Lieutenant Trench's instructions." And she
always did look the born leader--all we women followed her when she led
the way up-stairs.
But we did not go up any two flights. At the head of the grand
staircase we stopped, and there waited to see what would happen next.
It soon happened. A man looked through between the tables and chairs
of the portales. Larry invited him in. He was one of Podesta's
officers, and he came in with a pistol in his belt, but very polite;
and Larry just as much so. They talked, and were still talking, when
we heard the tramping of men in shoes outside in the plaza, and then--I
couldn't believe my eyes--when I took another look there was my own Ned
in uniform; and he stepped past the chairs and tables to where Larry
and the native officer were; and there was a palavering all around.
And I felt pretty proud the way Ned could talk the lingo with so many
looking on.
"Ned, Ned!" I called out; and he heard me, but gave me a sign to be
quiet with his hand behind his back. And by and by Ned and Larry and
the native officer marched out, and then we rushed to the windows of
the rooms opening on the plaza, and we saw General Podesta order his
men to march off; and as they did our bluejackets and marines stacked
arms in the plaza, and then we knew everything was going to be all
right.
And Ned came back into the hotel with Larry to tell us that we need
have no further fear--that Podesta's men were to leave the city; and
Podesta came back and bowed to us, and said it was so.
And we came running down the stairs, and some of those women there
acted as if they would kiss Ned, but I soon let them know who I was,
especially Carmen Whiffle, who, after looking in surprise at us, turned
to Larry. But auntie and Nan and Larry were already strolling over to
the row of palmettos, at which Carmen Whiffle, tossing her head and
swaying her waist like every Carmen of every Carmen opera I ever saw,
walked over to where Podesta had sat down at a table by himself.
"Will you tell me," I asked Ned on our way up-stairs, "how Larry ever
came to know Carmen Whiffle?"
"If there is a young officer in port who doesn't know Carmen Whiffle, I
have not met him. She takes care of that."
"But he didn't have to talk with her by the hour--and dance with her."
"In the service, Nettie," said Ned, "we sometimes have to find out
things that have nothing to do with the main engine or the turret-guns.
And Carmen Whiffle knows General Podesta very well. And Larry, if
somewhat young and innocent, is not without brains. Now don't ask any
more."
And I did not; but I went on to tell Ned how I had planned the balcony
interview. Ned could not keep it to himself--he told auntie.
"Yes," said auntie, when he had finished, "it was very clever. Nettie
always is. My door was ajar when I saw Neddo running for down-stairs,
and I stopped him to learn what in the world he was doing. And he told
me the secret that I wasn't to tell Nan."
She is the most annoying woman. "If you knew so much, why didn't you
stop it?" I asked.
"Why should I stop it?" she answered, with the most exasperating calm.
"I always wanted Nan and Larry to marry. But I always believed in a
little discipline, too. When young people have merely to cry for a
thing to get it--it doesn't do them any lasting good."
To escape the quizzical eyes of auntie, I looked back down the stairs;
and if there weren't Carmen Whiffle and General Podesta sitting at a
table and the fat majordomo himself opening a bottle of wine for them!
"Well!" I gasped to Ned.
"Yes," said Ned. "The rumor is that she may be the Señora Podesta any
time she pleases. And if she had learned from Ned or some other
indiscreet young or old officer that we were to land to-night--it would
have saved Podesta from making a rather ridiculous entry into the city,
wouldn't it?"
"What a schemer!" I cried.
"Yes," smiled Ned--"everybody schemers but our own selves. I spoke a
word to the flag-lieutenant to-day--he's a classmate--to put in a word
for me for the landing party to the Old Man."
"Your courage and your brains," I began--"or was it your knowledge of
the language----"
"The fleet," interrupted Ned, "is crowded with officers of courage and
brains. And I am not alone on the language end of it. But I was the
only officer with a wife and two children ashore. And, as we hadn't
seen each other for a year, the Old Man thought it mightn't be a bad
idea for me to come ashore and have an eye out for them."
By this time Nan and Larry had passed onto the latticed balcony, and
Nan's mother to her room; and Ned was hugging Neddo and Anna together.
"Perhaps," I said, "I'm not such a strategist after all!"
"Nettie," said Ned, "cheer up. You have your share of brains. I, your
husband, say it. And if your husband admits it, it must be so. But,
Nettie dear, don't forget that here with the children is your bidding
suit. Lead the play up to the children, Nettie, and they will sure
have to hold some cards to set you."
"I haven't seen you in a year--go ahead and laugh at me," I said. But
I didn't care--he was my own Ned, and I had him, and told him so.
"And haven't I you!" said Ned--and swept me with the children into his
arms.
And Nan and Larry were sitting out on the balcony--I could hear their
murmuring voices through an open window; and from the patio below I
could make out the tinkle of a fountain and some kind of a native
instrument, and a voice chanting--not of pride or glory or riches, but
of love--human, humble, eternal love. And before I even knew I was
crying Ned was kissing the tears from my eyes.