TO MARGARET.
CAMP OF THE SONS OF CUBA,
May the --, Midnight.
MY MARGUERITE:--What will you say when your eyes, those calm gray eyes,
rest upon the above heading? Will they open wider, I ask myself? Will
the breath come quicker between those cool rose-leaves of your lips? "It
is true!" you will murmur to yourself. "She has done as she said, as she
swore she would. My Rita, my wild pomegranate flower, has kept her vow;
she is in the mountains with Carlos; she has taken her place beside the
defenders of her country."
Ah! you thought it was play, Marguerite, confess it! You thought the
wild Cuban girl was uttering empty breath of nothingness; you have had
no real anxiety, you never dreamed that I should really find
myself--where now I am. Where is it? Listen, Marguerite! My house--once
Carlos's house, now mine by his brotherly gift--stands in a little glen
of the hills. An open space, once dry grass, now bare earth, baked by
the sun, trodden by many feet; a cluster of palms, a mountain spring
gushing from a rock hard by; on every side hills, the brown, rugged
hills of Cuba, fairer to me than cloudy Alps of Italy, or those other
great mountains of which never can I remember the barbarous names. To
teach me geography, Marguerite, you never could succeed, you will
remember; more than our poor Peggy history. Poor little Peggy! I could
wish she were here with me; it would be the greatest pleasure of her
life. For you, Marguerite, the scene is too wild, too stern; but Peggy
has a martial spirit under her somewhat clumsy exterior. But I wander,
and Peggy is without doubt sleeping at this moment under the stern eye
of her schoolmistress. I began to tell you about my house, Marguerite.
So small a house you saw never. Standing, I reach up my hand and touch
the roof, of brown canvas, less fresh than once it was. Sitting, I
stretch out my arms--here is one wall; there--almost, but a few feet
between--is the other. In a corner my bed--ah, Marguerite! on your white
couch there, with snowy draperies falling softly about you, consider my
bed! a pile of dried grasses and leaves, shaken and tossed anew every
morning, covered with a camp blanket. I tell you, the gods might sleep
on it, and ask no better. In another corner sleeps Manuela, my faithful
maid, my humble friend, the companion of my wanderings. Some day you
shall see Manuela; she is an excellent creature. Cultivated, no;
intellinctual--what is that for a word, Marguerite? Ah! when will you
learn Spanish, that I may pour my soul with freedom?--no; but a heart
of gold, a spirit of fire and crystal. She keeps my hut neat, she
arranges my toilet,--singular toilets, my dear, yet not wholly
unbecoming, I almost fancy,--she helps me in a thousand ways. She has a
little love-affair, that is a keen interest to me; Pepe, formerly the
servant of Carlos, adores her, and she casts tender eyes upon the young
soldier. For me, as you know, Marguerite, these things are for ever
past, buried in the grave of my hero, in the stately tomb that hides the
ashes of the Santillos. I take a sorrowful pleasure in watching the
budding happiness of these young creatures. More of this another time.
I sit, Marguerite, in the doorway of my little house. It is the middle
hour of the night, when tomb-yards gape, as your Shakespeare says. Am I
sleepy? No! The camp slumbers, but I--I am awake, and I watch. I had a
very long siesta, too. The moon is full, and the little glade is bathed
in silver light. Here in Cuba, Marguerite, the moon is other than with
you in the north. You call her pale moon, gentle moon, I know not what.
Here she shines fiercely, with passion, with palpitations of fiery
silver. The palms, the aloes, the tangled woods about the camp, are
black as night; all else is a flood of airy silver. I float, I swim in
this flood, entranced, enraptured. I ask myself, have I lived till now?
is not this the first real thrill of life I have ever experienced? I
alone wake, as I said; the others slumber profoundly. The General in his
tent; ah, that you could know him, Marguerite! that you and my uncle
could embrace this noble, this godlike figure! He is no longer young,
the snows of seventy winters have blanched his clustering locks; it is
the only sign of age. For the rest, erect, vigorous, a knight, a
paladin, a--in effect, a son of Cuba. The younger officers regard him as
a divinity; they live or die at his command. They are three, these
officers; Carlos is one; the others, Don Alonzo Ximenes, Don Uberto
Cortez. Don Alonzo is not interesting; he is fat, and rather stupid, but
most good-natured. Don Uberto is Carlos's friend, a noble young captain,
much admired formerly in Havana. I have danced with him, my cousin, in
halls of rose-wreathed marble; we meet here in the wilderness, I with my
shattered affections, he with his country's name written on his soul. It
is affecting; it is heart-stirring, Marguerite; yet think nothing of it;
romance is dead for Margarita Montfort. Carlos is my kind brother, as
ever. He was vexed at first at my coming here. Heavens! what was I to
do? My stepmother was dragging me to a convent; my days would have been
spent there, and in a short time my life would have gone out like a
flame. "Out, short candle!" You see I remember your Shakespeare
readings, my dearest. Can I forget anything that recalls you to me, half
of my heart? If there had been time, indeed, I might have written to my
uncle; I might even have come to you; but the hour descended like a
thunderbolt; I fled, Manuela with me. The manner of my flight? you will
ask. Marguerite, it was managed--I do not boast, I am the soul of
humility, you know it!--the manner of it was perfect. Listen, and you
shall hear all. You remember that in my last letter--written, alas! in
my beloved garden, which I may never see more--I spoke with a certain
restraint, even an approach to mystery. It was thus. At first, when that
woman proposed to take me to the convent, I was a creature distracted.
The fire of madness burned in my veins, and I could think of nothing
save death or revenge. But with time came reflection; came wisdom,
Marguerite, and inflexible resolve. To those she loves, Margarita
Montfort is wax, silk, down, anything the most soft and yielding that
can be figured. To her enemies, steel and adamant are her composition.
I had two friends in that house of Spaniards; one was Pasquale, good,
faithful Pasquale, an under gardener and helper; the other, Manuela, my
maid. I have described her to you--enough! I realised that action must
be of swiftness, the lightning flash, the volcano fire that I predicted.
Do not say that I did not warn you, Marguerite; knowing me, you must
have expected from my last letter what must come. I called Manuela to my
room, I made pretence that she should arrange my hair. My hair has grown
three inches, Marguerite, since I left you; it now veritably touches the
floor as I sit. Our holy religion tells us that it is a woman's crown,
yet how heavy a one at times! I closed the door, I locked it; I caused
to draw down the heavy Persians. Then, tiger-like, I sprang upon my
attendant, and laid my hand on her mouth. "Hush!" I tell her. "Not a
word, not a sound! dare but breathe, and you may be my death. My life,
I tell you, hangs by a thread. Hush! be silent, and tell me all. Tell me
who assists Geronimo in the stables since Pablo is ill." Manuela
struggles, she releases herself to reply--
"Pasquale!"
It is the answer from heaven. Pasquale, I have said, is my one friend
beside Manuela. I say to her, "Do thus, and thus! give these orders to
Pasquale; tell him that it imports of your life and mine, saying nothing
of his own; that if I am not obeyed, the evil eye will be the least of
his punishments, and death without the sacraments the end for him."
Manuela hears; she trembles; she flies to execute my commands. Then,
Marguerite--then, what does the daughter of Cuba do? She goes to the
wall, to the trophy I have described to you so often. She selects her
weapons. Ah, if you could see them! First, a long slender dagger, the
steel exquisitely inlaid with gold, in a sheath of green enamel; a
dagger for a prince, Marguerite, for your Lancelot or Tristram!
Another, short and keen, the blade plain but deadly, cased in wrought
leather of Cordova. Last, my machete, my pearl of destructiveness. It
was his, my Santayana's; he procured it from Toledo, from the master
sword-maker of the universe. The blade is so fine, the eye refuses to
tell where it melts into the air; a touch, and the hardest substance is
divided exactly in two pieces. The handle, gold, set with an ancestral
emerald, which for centuries has brought victory in the field to the arm
of the hero who wore it; the sheath--I forget myself; this weapon has no
sheath. When a Santillo de Santayana rides into battle, he has no
thought to sheathe his sword. These, Marguerite, are my armament; these,
and a tiny gold-mounted revolver, a gem, a toy, but a toy of deadly
purpose. Enough! I lay them apart, ready for the night. I go to my
stepmother, I smile, I make submission. I will do all she wishes; I am
a child; her age impresses me with the truth that I should not set my
will against hers. Concepcion is thirty on her next birthday; she tells
the world that she is twenty, but I know! it grinds her bones when I
remind her of her years, as they were revealed to me by a member of her
family. So! She is pleased, we embrace, the volantes are commanded, all
goes smoothly. I demand permission to take my parrot to the convent; it
is, to my surprise, accorded; I know she thought those savage sisters
would kill him the first time he uttered his noble and inspiring words.
The night comes, the hour of the departure. To accompany us goes my good
Don Miguel, the dear old man of whom I have told you, whom I revere as
my grandfather. My heart yearns to tell him all, to cast myself on his
venerable bosom and cry, "Come with me; take me yourself to my brother;
share with us the perils and glories of the tented field!" But no! he
is old, this dear friend; his hair is the snow, his step is feeble.
Hardships such as Rita must now endure would end his feeble life. I
speak no word; a marble smile is all I wear, though my heart is rent
with anguish. The carriages are at the door. Concepcion would have me
ride in the first, that she may have her eyes on me at each instant. She
suspects nothing, no; it is merely the base and suspicious nature which
reveals itself at every occasion. I refuse, I prodigate expressions of
my humility, of my determination to take the second place, leaving the
first to her; briefly, I take the second volante, Manuela springing to
my side. After some discontent, appeased by dear Don Miguel, who is
veritably an angel, and wants but death to transport him among the
saints, Concepcion mounts in the first volante. I have seen that
Pasquale is on the box of mine; I possess my soul, I lean back and count
the beats of my fevered pulse, as we ascend the steep road, winding
among hills and forests. The convent is at the top of a long, long hill,
very steep and rugged; the horses pant and strain; humanity demands that
they slacken their pace, that the carriages are slowly, slowly, drawn up
the rugged track. The night descends, I have told you, swiftly in our
southern climate; already it is dark. On either side of the road are
tall shrouded forms, which Manuela takes for sentinels, for Spanish
soldiers drawn up to watch, perhaps to arrest us. I laugh; I see they
are the aloes only, planted here in rows along the road. Presently, at a
turn of the road, a light! a fire burning by the roadside, and soldiers
running, real ones this time, to the horses' heads. "_Alerta! quien
va?_" It is the Spanish challenge, Marguerite; it is a piquette of the
Gringos, of the hated Spaniards. They peer into the carriages, faces of
savages, of brutes, devils; I feel their glances like poisoned arrows.
They demand, Don Miguel makes answer, shows his papers. Of the instant
these slaves are cringing, are bowing to the earth. "Pass, most
honourable and illustrious Senor Don Miguel Pietoso, with the heavenly
ladies under your charge!" It is over. The volantes roll on. I clasp
Manuela in my arms and whisper, "We are free!" We mingle our tears of
rapture, but for a moment only. We approach the steepest pitch of the
long hill (it is veritably a mountain), a place beyond conception rugged
and difficult. The horses strain and tug; they are at point of
exhaustion. I look at Pasquale; Pasquale has served me since my cradle.
Does his head move, a very little, the least imaginable motion? It is
too dark to see; the moon is not yet risen. But I feel the horses
checked, I feel the carriage pause, an instant, a breath only. I step
noiselessly to the ground; the volante is low, permitting this without
danger. Manuela follows. There is not a sound, not a creak, not the
rustle of a fold. Again it is over. The volante rolls on. Manuela and I
are alone, are free in the mountains of Cuba Libre.
I have but one thought: my country, my brother! Behold me here, in the
society of one, prepared to shed my blood for the other. You would never
guess who else is with us; Chiquito, our poor old friend the parrot, the
sacred legacy of that white saint, our departed aunt. Could I leave him
behind, to unfriendly, perhaps murderous, hands? Old Julio is a Spaniard
at heart; Chiquito is a Cuban bird; his very soul--do you doubt that a
bird has a soul, when I tell you that I have seen it in his eyes,
Marguerite?--his very soul speaks for his country. If you could hear him
cry, "_Viva Cuba Libre!_" The camp is on fire when they hear him. Ah,
they are such brave fellows, our soldiers! poor, in rags, half-fed--it
matters not! each one is a hero, and all are my brothers. Marguerite,
sleep hangs at last upon me. Good-night, beloved; good-night, cool white
soul of ivory and silver. I love thee always devotedly. Have no fear for
me. It is true that the Spaniards are all about us in these mountains,
that at any moment we may be attacked. What of that? If the daughter of
Cuba dies by her brother's side, in her country's cause, my Marguerite
will know that it is well with her. You will shed a tear over the lonely
grave among the Cuban hills; but you will plant a wreath for Rita, a
wreath of mingled laurel and immortelle, and it will bloom eternally.
Ever, and with a thousand greetings to my honoured and admired uncle,
your
MARGARITA DE SAN REAL MONTFORT.