A MODERN DON QUIXOTE
The dining-room of the International Hotel was modern, but while noisy,
power-driven fans stirred the heavy air and the decoration was profuse,
traces of more austere ancient art remained. Stone pillars and the
fretted arch at one end had an Eastern grace and lightness; among the
gaudy modern lamps hung one or two finely-modeled in copper and burning
scented oil. The glass and nickeled knives were American, but curious
old carafes filled with red and yellow wine stood among the flowers and
fruit on the long table.
Evelyn, looking down the room from its opposite end, was conscious of
faint displeasure when Grahame entered with a very attractive girl. The
feeling could not be jealousy, but she studied Blanca with a curiosity
that was half hostile. The girl was dressed in Parisian fashion, but she
walked with a grace that only Spanish women show. There was no fault to
be found with her supple figure, but her black hair was rather coarse
and her blue eyes too languishing. Yet she was well bred, and the man in
dark clothes who followed and was, no doubt, her father had an air of
dignity. Grahame seemed to be on friendly terms with them, for they
talked and laughed when they sat down and Evelyn noticed that the girl
sometimes touched him coquettishly with her fan.
Walthew sat opposite with a thoughtful expression; and soon Macallister
joined in the talk. It was obvious that he was amusing, for Evelyn saw
those who sat near smile and then hearty laughter rose from his end of
the table. The Spanish girl and Grahame no longer spoke to each other,
and the engineer's voice came up through the clink of glass and the hum
of conversation, sometimes in broad Scots and sometimes in stumbling and
uncouth Castilian.
When the guests were leaving the dining-room Grahame met Cliffe in the
corridor.
"Glad to see you. I didn't expect to find you in Havana," the American
said cordially. "I want a smoke. Will you come along?"
They found a seat in the _patio_, and Cliffe gave Grahame a cigar.
"How's business?" he asked.
"We can't complain, so far," Grahame answered cautiously. "The boat, of
course, does not carry much, but her light draught allows her to get
into harbors that larger vessels can only enter on big tides, and we
sold our last cargo at a satisfactory price. Just now I'm looking out
for a few passengers to Kingston; there's no boat across for some time."
"I might go with you, if you have two good rooms to spare. There's a
fruit-growing estate I want to look at in Jamaica."
The suggestion was welcome to Grahame. He promised to give Cliffe part
of the deckhouse, and they afterward talked of something else.
In the meanwhile, Walthew was sitting with Blanca Sarmiento. He was
quiet, for he still felt languid and the _patio_ was hot; but he was
conscious of his companion's charm. Indeed, he had thought of her often
since he left Rio Frio, and she had had a place in the fantastic dreams
the fever brought him.
"You do not speak much, but you have been ill," she said presently, with
a sympathetic glance. "It was a grief to us to hear it; but you have
suffered in a good cause."
"I'm not sure of that," Walthew answered. "You see I was out for money."
"And that was all!" Blanca exclaimed in a half-contemptuous tone.
"I think so," Walthew admitted. "My people are traders and I suppose
money-making runs in the family. Still, I might claim to be a soldier of
fortune, if you like that better. It's more romantic, anyhow."
"Ah!" she said with a sparkle in her eyes. "There were great soldiers of
fortune among the liberators; one thinks of Bolivar, Lafayette, and
Garibaldi. But the brave Italian had wounds and prison, not money, for
his reward."
"These fellows are too near the top notch for me to follow. I know my
limits," Walthew modestly owned.
"One should follow the highest, and chivalry is not dead; even commerce
cannot kill it. There are still knights errant, who see visions and
leave everything, to right the wrong and help the downtrodden. It has
been my good fortune to meet one or two."
"Your Cervantes wrote about one such. Seems to me that although he meant
well, Don Quixote did more harm than good."
"Ah, the sad, sad book! But you think like Cervantes? You sneer at
romance?"
"I'm young, senorita, but I try to keep my head." He gave her a steady
glance. "Sometimes I find it difficult."
She laughed with a sparkle of coquetry, and touched him with her fan.
"Then there is hope for you, and we will labor for your conversion. The
man who always keeps his head never does anything great; the power that
moves the world comes from the heart." Lowering her voice, she went on:
"Our cause is just, senor, but we need trustworthy friends, even if they
are not idealists. Quixote failed because he used rusty armor and the
lance; we will use rifles."
Walthew was trying to be cautious, but was swept away. He had been
attracted by the girl at their first meeting, though he had then felt
something of the Anglo-Saxon's prejudice against the southern races,
which is not unmarked in the United States. This had gone, however, and
he now wondered whether Blanca meant to use him only to further her
father's objects, or if she had any personal interest in him. Her
patriotism was, he thought, a burning flame, and she would not stick at
trifles where she saw a chance of serving her country. Still, it would
be his fault if she were willing to get rid of him when he had done his
work.
"I wonder why you thought I could be trusted?" he said.
"It is difficult to explain, senor, but one can tell, perhaps by
instinct, when a man rings true."
"It would hurt to find you had been deceived?"
"It might be so," she answered slowly.
Walthew wondered if this were mere flirtation, designed to gain an end.
Blanca was playing with her fan, which lay in her lap. He could not see
her eyes. He felt that he had been given an opportunity, however, and he
meant to seize it. Leaning forward toward her, he waited until she
raised her eyes to his, and then he spoke in a low, tense voice.
"When I was leaving Rio Frio, I found a crimson rose on the pavement. I
picked it up because I ventured to think it was meant for me."
Blanca was again playing with her fan, opening and shutting it slowly.
"Senor, it is possible the flower was dropped by mistake," she said,
giving him a sidewise glance that made his heart beat fast.
"How--if it was really meant for me?"
She hesitated a moment, and then, raising her head, she met his
insistent look with a curious smile.
"It was given because I thought you were perhaps, in a way, and as far
as it was possible for you, like the great soldiers of fortune we talked
about."
Walthew made her a ceremonious bow.
"You set me a pretty big task, senorita, but, as far as it's possible
for me, I will try to make good."
He was thrilled by the look she gave him as she rose and held out her
hand.
"Your conversion begins," she said, with a strange, new note in her
voice. "It is a chivalrous resolve, and--you will live up to it, senor."
When she left him, Walthew found Grahame alone in the hotel lounge.
"I promised to let you know whether the malaria would send me home or
not," he said. "I've made up my mind to see the business through."
Grahame grasped his hand cordially.
"I don't know that you are wise, old man; but I am glad to have you,
just the same." He gave Walthew a whimsical look. "Haven't you come to a
decision rather suddenly?"
"That doesn't matter," said Walthew, "I mean to stick to it."