The shadows were growing long when Agueda cantered down the path that
ran alongside of the banana walk. She crossed the potrero at a slow
pace, for Castaño was tired and warm. As she slowly rounded the corner
of the veranda, a figure caught her eye. It was Don Beltran, cool and
immaculate in his white linen suit. He was smoking, and seemed to be
enjoying the sunset hour.
"Ah! are you here at last, child! I was just about to send your uncle to
look for you. Have you had dinner?"
"Not a mouthful," laughed Agueda, at the remembrance of the Señora at El
Cuco. It was cruel to laugh while Aneta wept, but it was so hard not to
be happy.
"Tell Juana to bring you some dinner. There was a san coche, very good,
and a pilauf of chicken. Did you see Don Mateo?"
"No, Señor," said Agueda, looking down.
"Why will you persist in calling me Señor, Agueda? I am Beltran. Say it
at once--Beltran!"
"Beltran," said Agueda, with a happy smile. Poor Aneta! Poor everybody
in the world who did not have a Beltran to love her!
As Agueda told Beltran the history of her long day, he listened with
interest. When she spoke of Aneta's changed life, "The brute!" said
Beltran, "the damned brute!"
While Agueda was changing her dress for the dark blue skirt and white
waist, Beltran sat and thought upon the veranda. When she came out
again, he spoke.
"Agueda," said he, "it is time that you and I were married."
Agueda blushed.
"I see no cause for haste," said Agueda.
"It is right," said Beltran, "and why should we wait? What is there to
wait for? I want you for my wife. I have never seen any one who could
take me from you, and there is no such person in all the world. All the
same, you must be my wife."
"I think the padre is away," said Agueda, looking down.
"He will be back before long, and then, if the river is still low, we
will go to Haldez some fine morning and be married. Your uncle can give
you away. He will be very glad, doubtless!" Don Beltran laughed as he
spoke. He was not unconscious of Uncle Adan's plans, but as they
happened to fall in with his own, he took them good-naturedly.
"Do you know, Agueda," he said presently, looking steadily at her, "that
you are better born than I?"
"What does the Señor mean?" laughed Agueda.
"The Señor?"
"Well, then, Señor--Beltran. What do you mean by that?"
"I mean what I say, Agueda. Your grandfather, Don Estevan, is a count in
his own country--in old Spain. That is where you get your pretty slim
figure, child, your height, and your arched instep. You are descended
from a long line of noble ladies, Agueda. I have seen many a Spanish
gran' Señora darker than you, my Agueda. When shall our wedding-day be,
child?"
Agueda shook her head and looked down at the little garment which she
was stitching. She had no wish to bind him. That was not the way to
treat a noble nature like his. Agueda had no calculation in her
composition. Beltran could never love her better were they fifty times
married. She was happy as the day. What could make her more so?
"Did the Señor enjoy his sail across the bay?" asked Agueda.
"It was well enough, child. I got the draft cashed, and, strange to
say, I found a letter at the post-office at Saltona."
"From the coffee merchant, I suppose, Señor?"
"No, not from the coffee merchant, Señora," Beltran laughed, teasingly.
"Guess from whom, Agueda; but how should you be able to guess? It is
from my uncle, Agueda. My mother's brother. You know that he married in
the States."
"I have heard the Señor say that the Señor his uncle married in the
es-States," said Agueda, threading her fine needle with care, and making
a tiny knot. Beltran drew his chair close. He twitched the small garment
from her hands. She uttered a slight exclamation. The needle had pricked
her finger. Beltran bent towards her with remorseful words, took the
slender finger between his own, and put it to his lips. His other hand
lay upon her shoulder. She smiled up at him with a glance of inquiry
mixed with shyness. Agueda had never got over her shy little manner. The
pressure of his fingers upon her shoulder thrilled her. She felt as ever
that dear sense of intimacy which usage had not dulled.
Beltran again consulted the letter which he held.
"Uncle Nóe will arrive in a week's time," he said. "He is a very
particular gentleman, is my Uncle Nóe. Quite young to be my uncle. Look
at my two grey hairs, Agueda."
She released her hand from his, and tried to twist her short hair into
a knot. It looked much more womanly so. She must try to make it grow if
a new grand Señor was coming to San Isidro. Don Beltran was still
consulting the letter.
"He brings his child--his little daughter. Now, Agueda, how can we amuse
the little thing?"
Agueda, with work dropped, finger still pressed between her small white
teeth, answered, wonderingly:
"A little child? Let me think, Señor."
"Ah!"
"Well, then, again I say Beltran, if you will. We have not much." How
dear and natural the plural of the personal pronoun! "We have not much,
I fear. There is the little cart that the Señora gave the Señor when he
was muchachito. That is a good little plaything. I have cleaned it well
since the last flood. The water washed even into the cupboard. Then
there is--there is--ah, yes, the diamond cross. She will laugh, the
little thing, when it flashes in the sunshine. Children love brilliant
things. I remember well that the little Cristina, from the conuco, up
there, used to love to see the sparkle of the jewels. But the little one
will like the toy best."
"That is not much, dear heart."
"And then--and then--there may be rides on the bulls, and punting on
the river in the flatboat, and the little chestnut--she can ride
Castaño, the little thing!"
"Not the chestnut; I trained him for you, Agueda, child."
"And why should not the little one ride him, also? We can take her into
the deep woods to gather the mamey apples, and to the bushes down in the
river pasture to gather the aguacate. Only the little thing must be
taught to keep away from the prickly branches, and--sometimes,
Don--Beltran, we might take the child as far as Haldez, if some acrobats
or circus men should arrive. We have not been there since Dondy-Jeem
walked the rope that bright Sunday. Oh, yes! we shall find something to
amuse her, certainly. A little child! We are to have a child in the
house!" It was always a happy "we" with Agueda. "How old is the little
thing?"
"I have not heard from my uncle for many years. I do not know when he
married; but he is a young man still, Uncle Nóe. Full of affectation,
speaking French in preference to Spanish and English, which are equally
his mother tongues--I might say his mother and father tongue--but with
all his affectations, delightful."
"A little child in the house! A little child in the house," murmured
Agueda over and over to herself.
Now it was all bustle at the casa. San Isidro took on a holiday air.
There was no more talk of marriage. Not because Don Beltran did not
think of it and wish it, but because there was no time. A room down the
veranda must be beautified for the little child. She was to be placed
next her father, that if she should want anything at night, he could
attend her.
"Where shall we put the nurse?" said Don Beltran.
"I am afraid the nurse will have to sleep in the rancho, Beltran. These
two rooms take all that we have." Agueda looked up wistfully. "I wonder
how soon she will come," she said. "The little thing! the little thing!"