very well indeed. Ruis expressed himself enchanted with his new home.
The plantation was a wonder to him, the half-naked negroes and their
wholly nude progeny a surprise, and the brutality with which they were
treated caused him a transient emotion. In turtle fishing he found an
agreeable novelty, and in the shooting of doves and the blue-headed
partridge he became an immediate adept. But when a fortnight had come
and gone he felt vaguely bored; he grew tired of strange and sticky
fruits, the call of chromatic birds jarred, discordant, on his nerves,
the turtles lost their allurement, the weight of purple days oppressed
him. In brief, he thought he had quite enough of rural life in the
tropics. Aside from his father, there was not, on the estate, a soul of
his own race with whom he could exchange a word. And though he had
nothing whatever to say, yet such is the nature of youth that he
heartily wished himself back in Spain. The young girl that lived there
over the way he would have hailed as life's full delight, and two or
three of her scrappy letters, which through some oversight he had
neglected to turn into cigarette-lighters, he set to work to decipher
anew. The writer of them was an ethereal young person with a pretty
taste for fine sentiments, and as Ruis possessed himself of the candors
of her thought, he very much wished that he could kneel immediately at
her feet.
From the early forenoon until the sun has begun to set it is not at all
agreeable, or prudent either, for the unacclimated to be astir in that
part of the planet in which Don Jayme's hacienda was situated. But the
mornings are mellow indeed, the dusk is languorous in its beauty, and as
for the nights, none others in all the world can compare with them. The
stars are as lilies set in parterres of indigo. In the air is a perfume
and a caress.
And Ruis, out of sheer laziness, made the most of the dusk and the early
hours. At sunrise he was on horseback scouring the country, now over the
red road in the direction of the town, and again across the savannas,
past cool thin streams and ravines that were full of shadow, mystery,
and green. And when the sun had lost its ardor he would be off again,
and return in company with the moon. As a rule he met but few people,
sometimes a man or two conveying garden produce to the sea-port,
sometimes women with eggs and poultry, now and then a negro, and once a
priest. But practically the roads were unfrequented, and without
incident or surprise.
One morning, however, as his horse was bearing him homeward, he caught
sight of an object moving in the distance. At first he fancied that it
might be one of the men he was wont to meet, but soon he saw that it was
a woman, and as he drew nearer he noticed that she was young, and, in a
moment, that she was fair to see. By her side stood a horse. The saddle
was on the ground, and she was busying herself with the girth. At his
approach she turned her head. Her mouth was like a pomegranate filled
with pearls; her face was without color, innocent of the powdered
egg-shells with which Cuban damsels and dames whiten their cheeks; and
in her eyes was an Orient of dreams. She was lithe and graceful, not
tall; perhaps sixteen. About her waist a crimson sash was wound many
times, her gown was of gray Catalonian calico, and her sandalled feet
were stockingless.
"A Creole," thought Ruis; and raising his right hand to the left side of
his broad-brimmed hat, he made it describe a magnificent parabola
through the air, and as he replaced it, bowed.
"Your servant, Senorita," he said.
"And yours, Don Ruis," she replied.
"You know my name, Senorita! May I ask how you are called?"
"I am called Fausta," she answered; and as she spoke Ruis caught in her
voice an accent unknown to the Madridlenes of his acquaintance, the
accent of the New World, abrupt, disdainful of sibilants, and resolute.
He dismounted at once.
"You have had an accident, Dona Fausta; let me aid you."
But the girth was beyond aid; it was old and had worn itself in twain.
And as he examined it he noticed that the saddle was not of the kind
that women prefer.
"It is needless, Don Ruis. See, it is an easy matter." And with that she
unwound her crimson girdle, and in a moment, with dexterous skill, she
removed the broken girth, replaced the saddle on the horse, and bound it
to him with the sash. "But I thank you," she added, gravely.
Ruis was a little sceptical about the security of this arrangement, and
that scepticism he ventured to express. But the girl was on the horse,
unassisted, before he had finished the sentence.
"Have no fears, Don Ruis. Besides, our house is but a little bird's
flight from here. I could have walked, if need were."
Ruis remounted. "May I not accompany you?" he asked.
"To-morrow," she answered; and for the first time she smiled. For
to-morrow in a Cuban mouth means anything except what it expresses. And
as she said it, Ruis smiled too.
"How do you know my name?" he inquired.
"We--my mother and I--we are your neighbors."
"Ah, Dona Fausta, in that case, I pray you make my duty to the lady your
mother, and beg of her a permission that I may do so myself."
Again she smiled. "To-morrow," she lisped, and whipped her horse.
Ruis raised his hat as before, and bowed.
"God be with you, Dona Fausta."
"And with you, Don Ruis."
The next morning he was on the red road again, but no maiden in
distress was discoverable that day. The sun chased him home, and as he
lounged through high noon in the cool of the veranda, he marvelled at
his earlier boredom. Later on he sent for one of the overseers and
questioned him minutely. Whatever information he may have gleaned, it
was presumably satisfactory. He watched the sun expire in throes of
crimson and gamboge, and night unloose her leash of stars. Then he took
horse again, and, aided by information received, in ten minutes he was
at Dona Fausta's door. It was a shabby door, he noticed, the portal of a
still shabbier abode, and even in the starlight he divined that if ever
wealth had passed that way, it had long since taken flight. The noise of
hoofs brought the girl to the porch.
"At your feet, Dona Fausta," he said, and raised his hat. "I am come to
offer my homage to the lady your mother, and to you, if I may."
"Who is it?" called a voice from within; and then, for ampler
satisfaction of the inquiry, a lean old woman, gray of hair, unkempt,
wrinkled, and bent, appeared in the doorway and fastened on Ruis two
glittering, inquisitorial eyes.
"The son of Don Jayme," the girl answered; "he wishes you well." With a
perfectly perceptible shrug the woman turned and disappeared.
"She has suffered much," the girl explained. "Don Ruis, you are
welcome."
Ruis dismounted and gave the horse a lash with his whip. "It will be
pleasant to walk back," he said, as the horse started. "Mariquita can
find her way home unguided." He smiled; he was pleased with himself: and
the girl smiled too. "Tell me," he added, "do you live here always?"
"Always, Don Ruis."
"Ah, you should come to Spain. You would love Madrid, and more than
Madrid would you love Grenada and Seville. Santiago is a little, a very
little, like Seville. You go there often, do you not?"
"But seldom, Don Ruis."
"To the fiestas, surely."
"To go to the fiestas one needs a brave gown, and I have none."
"I," said Ruis, "I am tired of fiestas, and truly at Santiago they
cannot be very grand. After all, you miss little. Ah, Dona Fausta, you
should see them in Spain. And," he continued, in a tone that was almost
a whisper, "you should let Spain see you."
In this wise the two young people talked together. And when the
fractions of an hour had passed them by unmarked, the old woman appeared
again on the porch, and Ruis withdrew. On reaching the hacienda he went
to the room which he occupied, and tore into bits the scrappy letters of
his Madridlene. "To the deuce," he muttered, as he stretched himself out
beneath the mosquito netting, "to the deuce with thin women and the
communion of souls."
The day following Ruis did not venture to make a second visit, but he
loitered on the red road both in the clear forenoon and in the
slumbering dusk; but he loitered in vain. On the morrow his success was
not greater: yet on the succeeding day his heart gave an exultant throb;
she was there. It was not necessary for him to be verbose. His manner
was caressing as the air, and her eyes were eloquent, almost as eloquent
as his own. Before they parted they had agreed upon a tryst, a spot
wholly sheltered by cedars and tamarinds, through which a brook ran, and
where tendrils with a thousand coils embraced the willing trees as would
they smother them with flowers. And there each day they met. Love with
them was like the sumptuous vegetation in which they moved--swift of
growth. To Ruis, Fausta was the most perfect of playmates, a comrade
that each day brought him some fresh surprise. She was at once naive and
imperious, docile and self-willed. He noticed that she was friends with
the mimosa, for once, when she touched the sensitive leaves, they did
not shrink, the timidity was gone. And once, when she spoke of her
father, who had been shot as a conspirator, her anger was like a storm
on the coast, glorious and terrible to behold. She was sweet indeed, yet
heat sugar and abruptly it boils. To Fausta, Ruis was present and future
besides. As for the past she had none save in so far as it had been a
preparation for him. He had told her that she should be countess, though
for that she cared nothing, except that in being countess she would be
his wife as well. And so over constant meetings two months went by. In
their Eden, Ruis at first was usually the earliest to arrive, and when
he heard her footfall he would hasten to meet her and hold her in his
arms.
"Speak to me, Fausta," he would say; "I love your voice: look at me; I
love your eyes. How fair love is when we are together and alone! Is it
not exquisite to speak of love when all else is still?"
And Fausta, waist-encircled, would answer, "Ruis, I love you; I need to
see you, to see you again, and always. When you leave me it is as though
I fell asleep, to reawake only at your return."
It was with this duo and its infinite variations that they charmed two
months away. To Ruis, at first, no other months of all his life had been
so fertile in delight. To Fausta they were not months, but dreams
fulfilled.
Meanwhile, Don Jayme had not been idle. He had been much in Puerto
Principe, and he had made two journeys to Havana. Now from Santiago to
Havana the distance is 600 miles, and Don Jayme was not a man to
undertake such a journey without due and sufficient cause. Be this as
it may, it so happened that after his second visit to the capital he
enjoyed a memorable interview with his son. To him he had as yet said
nothing of his plans, but on this occasion he made no secret of them.
"Ruis," he said, leisurely, with the air of one engaging in conversation
solely for conversation's sake, "you know the House of Sandoval?"
"Surely: we are more or less related. A hundred years ago an Ixar
married a Sandoval--"
"Of the younger branch, however. We do not bear their arms."
"There was no bluer blood in all Castile."
"No, nor yet in Aragon. Don Jorge is in Havana."
"Don Jorge of Sandoval! I thought him dead."
"His credit was, but that has since revived. He came to Cuba the year
before I came myself. I am little richer now than then, but he has
garnered millions."
"Ah!"
"Yes, millions--three at least. In the Convent of Our Lady del Pilar is
his daughter, Dona Clarisa. We have agreed that you and she should wed."
Ruis laughed. "To-morrow," he answered; "I am not in haste for
matrimony;" and laughed again.
"Ruis, Don Jorge and I, we have agreed." There was something in the
father's face that banished the merriment of the son. "This night we
leave for Havana. See to it that you are in readiness."
In his perplexity Ruis twisted a cigarette.
"Have you understood me?" Don Jayme asked. "In a month we shall be in
Spain. You will like to be back there, will you not?" he continued, in
suaver tones. "You will like to be back there, rich, and--and the
husband of a beautiful girl. Eh, my son? You will like that, will you
not? Ruis, see, it is for you. You are all I have. It was for you I came
here; it was for you I made this match. For myself, nothing matters. I
have had my day. It is in you I live, in you only; and in our name to
which this marriage will give a new and needed lustre."
"And you say we leave to-night?"
Don Jayme nodded.
"That will be difficult. H'm." He hesitated, and as he hesitated his
father looked inquiringly at him. "It is this: there is one here who
thinks that name is to be hers."
"Then does she flatter herself. Who is she?"
"A neighbor."
"Bah! the Fausta? The Fausta is it?" Had Fausta been a negress Don Jayme
could not have displayed greater contempt. "Why, the Fausta is a Creole,
the daughter of a highwayman."
"Father, she is a flower."
"Of which you have enjoyed the perfume. Dona Clarisa is a bouquet. The
change should be pleasant. Come, Ruis, prepare yourself; in an hour we
must start."
"I have given my word."
Don Jayme coughed and examined his tapering, yellow fingers. "Then get
it back," he said at last.
"Ah yes, but how."
Don Jayme coughed again and shrugged his shoulders. Then suddenly he
filliped his forefinger and thumb together as were he counting coin.
"Send for your horse, Ruis. I will attend to that." When Ruis returned
Don Jayme placed two small yet heavy bags before him. "Offer one," he
said; "it is ample. But should she play the difficult, then give the
other too. And Ruis, the road is not always safe; are you armed? At
least take this dagger. There, I had forgotten; that there may be no
complications, get a receipt."
Ruis stuck the dirk in his belt and placed the bags in the holster. His
father stood watching him on the veranda. "I will wait for you here," he
said, as Ruis mounted; "do not be long." And as the young man touched
the horse with his heel, he called out, "I count on you, Ruis." He
waved his hand to him lovingly. He was in great good spirits; the goal
to which for five years he had striven was full in sight.
And Ruis from the saddle answered, "Count on your gold, Don Jayme."
In a moment he was out of sight, galloping down the road, with only
stars and fire-flys to light the way. But of the road the horse knew
every inch. And as Ruis galloped he thought of Madrid and its
allurements, of the corrida and its emotions, of the Dona Clarisa that
was to be his, and of other donas that he would meet. The future
certainly was very bright. As for the present, it was not entirely to
his liking. There was an awkward five minutes to pass, but once passed
he would shake the red dust from him and never set foot on that road
again. Fausta, truly, had been very sweet, and she had beguiled for him
many and many an otherwise wearisome hour. But she was like the fruit,
which on arriving he had relished. She had lost her savor. I will give
her the gold, he thought, the gold and a kiss. The gold will serve for
dower and the kiss for farewell.
So mused Don Ruis. He had reached her door, and, as before, at the noise
of hoofs she came out with a welcome.
"Ah, Ruis," she murmured, "I have watched for you the entire day. This
morning I went to our Eden, and again this afternoon. Where were you?
Ruis, I caught a butterfly, it was like a winged acacia, and I gathered
the jasmines you like, and waited, but you did not come. My Ruis, I
thought you ill perhaps, yet everything was so fair and still I knew
you could not be but well. And, Ruis, as I was leaving, a yellow-breast
began to sing. He seemed to bring a message from you. I know it now, it
was that you would come to-night. Ruis, forgive my foolish words, it is
because my heart is full of love for you. But why do you not dismount?
Come, we will stroll there beneath the stars. Do you know, Ruis, with
you I am so happy there are moments when I could die of joy. But why do
you not speak to me? Is it the night? My Ruis, your face seems changed."
"Fausta, I have come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye? Ruis, you jest."
"No, Fausta, it is not jest. Don Jayme and I return to Spain."
"To Spain! It cannot be! You said that when you went, we both should
go; that I should be your wife."
"Don Jayme has found another for me."
"And what of your word, Don Ruis?"
"There, Fausta, it is painful enough. Were it not for Don Jayme, you
know--naturally, you know--you know very well what I would do. But see,
what would you? It is painful, indeed."
"Painful? Painful to whom? Not to Don Jayme, nor seemingly to you."
"Ah, but it is; and see, I have brought you this, and this too." He took
the bags from the holster and held them to her. Yet she made no motion
to take them. She stepped back a little, and to the midnight of her eyes
came a sudden flash. "How much is in them," he continued, "I do not
know, but it must be like St. Peter's pence; you can see"--and he
affected a little laugh--"they are not light to hold. Truly they must
represent a pretty dower, for Don Jayme said--for pleasantry, no
doubt--'Ruis, you will do well to get an acknowledgment.'"
"Ruis! He called you Ruis! Your name is Judas." The girl's face was
always white, but now it was whiter than the moon. The red had left her
lips, and her voice, which had been melodious as the consonance of
citherns and guitars, grew abruptly harsh and strident. She was
trembling from head to foot.
"But will you not take them?" he asked, referring to the bags of money
which, awkwardly enough, he still held out to her.
"Get back, Spaniard, into the night from which you came. I gave you
love, you bring me gold. I gave my trust, you ask a receipt. You shall
have it." She had moved forward near to him again, and glared in his
face.
"But if you refuse the gold, what," he asked, almost piteously, "what
can I give?"
"Nothing save this dirk."
And before the intention could have been divined, she tore the dagger
from his belt and sheathed it in his heart.
"There is my receipt," she cried.
The bags fell heavily to the ground, and of one of them the canvas burst
open and scattered the contents on the ground. Ruis would have fallen
too, but with one steadying hand she held him on the saddle, and with
the other unwound her scarlet sash. In a moment's time she had tied him
fast; then she gave the affrighted horse a blow and stepped aside. And
as she did so the horse veered and rushed up the road, bearing the
lifeless Ruis, bound as Mazeppa was, with the dagger still in his heart,
to the father who waited his return.
For a little space she listened to the sound of retreating hoofs. She
was trembling still.
On the porch the old woman had tottered out. "What was it?" she asked.
"Death."
"_Ave Maria purissima!_" croned the hag.
And the girl, turning her back to the darkness in which the horse had
vanished, answered, as is the custom, "Who conceived without sin."
Fausta re-entered the house, but her mother loitered on the porch. The
next morning the gold had disappeared.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THE PACE THAT KILLS.
A TRANSACTION IN HEARTS.
EDEN.
THE TRUTH ABOUT TRISTREM VARICK.
MR. INCOUL'S MISADVENTURE.
THE ANATOMY OF NEGATION.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF DISENCHANTMENT.