Miss Fairfax of Virginia
A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND ADVENTURE UNDER THE PALMETTOS
BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE
AUTHOR OF
"Doctor Jack," "A Fair Revolutionist," "A Sailor's Sweetheart,"
"A Chase for a Bride," etc.
[Illustration: Publisher's stamp]
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
238 WILLIAM STREET
COPYRIGHT. 1899,
BY STREET & SMITH.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. PERHAPS LOVERS ONCE, STRANGERS NOW.
CHAPTER II. ALAS! FOR THE GAME THAT FAILED TO WORK.
CHAPTER III. AT DAGGERS' POINTS.
CHAPTER IV. MILLIONS MAY NOT PURCHASE LOVE.
CHAPTER V. RODERIC'S REPENTANCE.
CHAPTER VI. ON THE BORDERS OF PARADISE.
CHAPTER VII. THE SWORD DUEL IN THE EAST INDIAN BUNGALOW.
CHAPTER VIII. "ADIOS, BELOVED!"
CHAPTER IX. DOWN THE IRISH COAST.
CHAPTER X. FOR ONE NIGHT AT THE AZORES.
CHAPTER XI. THE LADY ON THE QUARTER DECK.
CHAPTER XII. THE MAN WHO MADE SIGNS.
CHAPTER XIII. ADONIS ON A NEW TACK.
CHAPTER XIV. A CHASE TO THE YACHT.
CHAPTER XV. CAPTAIN BOB GUESSES NOT.
CHAPTER XVI. THE INVASION OF SAN JUAN.
CHAPTER XVII. THE BOLERO DANCER WITH THE GYPSY BLOOD.
CHAPTER XVIII. JULIO DECLARES FOR WAR.
CHAPTER XIX. BY WAY OF THE BALCONY.
CHAPTER XX. A RENDEZVOUS AT THE TOBACCONIST'S.
CHAPTER XXI. THE MONSTER COMES AGAIN.
CHAPTER XXII. TO THE OLD FORTRESS.
CHAPTER XXIII. HOW THEY WENT IN.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE STRANGE MEETING IN THE DUNGEON.
CHAPTER XXV. WHEN THE OFFICER OF THE GUARD CAME.
CHAPTER XXVI. A RACE TO THE BOAT.
CHAPTER XXVII. WHEN THE SPANISH FLAG LEFT PORTO RICO FOREVER.
Miss Fairfax of Virginia
CHAPTER I.
PERHAPS LOVERS ONCE, STRANGERS NOW.
The genial summer sun had long since dropped behind the Irish hills,
and the glowing lights of old Dublin were set like rare jewels upon the
dark bosom of mother earth when Roderic Owen, with a fragrant cigar
between his teeth, walked to and fro under the shadow of Nelson's
column in historic Sackville street, now better known among loyal
citizens under the name of O'Connell.
Owen only arrived from Liverpool on the Holyhead steamer that very
day and had passed some hours upon various tramcars, surveying those
portions of the famous city they traversed.
It may have given him a thrill of satisfaction to realize that he once
more stood on his native heath, which land the exile had not seen
since, a child of tender years, he left it in company with his heart
broken parents; but two decades in the atmosphere of free America had
made a full-fledged Yankee out of him, and his heart was wholly pledged
to the interests of America.
Business had more to do with his flying visit across the Irish sea
than a desire to look upon the scenes of childhood--these tender
recollections might be all very good in their way, but when his country
was at war with one of the old world powers, young Owen's heart and
soul were wrapped up in the interests he represented, and the state
mission that had taken him over the Atlantic.
The public will never learn more than a small portion of the unwritten
history of the Hispano-American war, since these memoirs are snugly
reposing in the archives at Washington, where they will rest until
dusty with age.
Secret agents were employed in many European capitals in the endeavor
to discover the true sentiments of the powers most interested, so
that in case unhappy Spain seemed in a way to secure an ally, prompt
measures might be taken to head off the threatened blow by a sudden
_coup d'etat_, in which our good friend Great Britain stood ready to do
her part.
Roderic Owen, being peculiarly gifted by nature with rare abilities
in the line of diplomacy, had been remarkably useful in Berlin, Paris
and Vienna, and was now suddenly transferred to another famous capital
because it appeared as though Dublin might be the theatre of a little
gathering where matters of intense moment were to be discussed.
It was evident from his manner that he had made the Nelson column a
rendezvous. His eyes followed each tramcar that passed, and never a
jaunting-car jogged by that he did not survey with growing interest.
A hot blooded Spanish lover awaiting the coming of the black-eyed
senorita with whom he had made a tryst could hardly have appeared more
anxious.
He had just tossed away the remnant of his weed and was feeling for his
cigar case to draw out another when the expected happened.
"At last!" he muttered, with a sigh of relief.
Still he made no abrupt forward movement--caution had been one of
the fruits of long diplomatic service. "Everything comes to him who
waits--and works," is the leading maxim of their craft.
A woman dismounted from a Rathmines car that had just arrived at the
terminus of its journey. She was garbed in the sombre black habiliments
of a religious recluse belonging to one of the many orders in Dublin.
These nuns, serving often in the capacity of Sisters of Charity, come
and go with the utmost freedom, respected by the humble classes to whom
they are often angelic messengers in times of distress or sickness.
Just as he expected the sombre robed passenger came slowly toward him
as though endeavoring to make sure of his identity ere accosting him.
Owen could _feel_ a pair of eager eyes fastened upon his face, for
there is such a sensation, and it surprised him to experience it.
Then came a low voice breathing his name, and somehow it had never
before sounded just the same to him, nor had he known there was music
in its bare utterance.
"I have waited about half an hour for you," remarked the American,
complacently.
"Ah! senor, I am sorry. It was not my fault I assure you," she
exclaimed, eagerly.
"I am certain of that, lady. Besides, I have no right to complain when
one whom I do not even know goes to this great trouble in order to do
me a service."
She moved uneasily at his words, and as if fearful lest his ardent gaze
might penetrate beneath the veil she wore, one little white hand crept
out from the folds of her sable robe to rearrange the crepe.
Owen smiled, for this act of caution had revealed much to him--upon
those plump fingers shone rings set with flashing gems, such as no
member of a holy order would dare wear.
Thus, without asking a question, he knew his _vis-à-vis_ to be in
disguise.
More than this, the unconscious desire to make sure that her face was
concealed gave him the impression that they must have met before. As
yet her voice had only sounded in low, whispered cadence, but it was
rich and musical, and somehow seemed to arouse dim, uncertain memories
which in good time after much groping, he would doubtless be able to
place.
She looked around with some concern, for the locality being central was
never quiet, upon which he said:
"Let us walk toward O'Connell bridge, and you can explain more fully
the meaning of your note, as you promised. I assure you the interest
taken in my welfare is appreciated, and if I can return the favor you
have only to speak."
"You mistake, senor--I do not seek a reward. Chancing to know that you
were the object of a base plot, I thought it only my duty to warn you."
"Because your vows constrained you?"
She appeared somewhat annoyed.
"Because heaven inspires every honest heart to desire the confusion of
evil schemes."
"Pardon--I was foolish for an instant to believe my personality could
have anything to do with it. Undoubtedly your love of fair play must
have impelled you to do the same for any poor devil."
"Senor, you have no right to question my motives."
"I am a brute--you are an angel come to my assistance. Let us then
proceed to business. From whence does this threatening danger come--in
which quarter am I to guard against secret foes?"
"You do not seem to be alarmed?"
"Does that surprise you, lady? Surely then you are not well acquainted
with Anglo-Saxon blood. We who sup with danger, learn to despise it. I
say this deliberately and without boasting."
"Ah! yes, I had forgotten your mission abroad. Your government would
never have sent any but a brave cavalier to take such desperate
chances. _Hola!_ it is a pleasure to meet a man who does not shrink
from a hazard."
"Pardon the curiosity--but are you not Spanish?" he asked, steadily--it
was of considerable importance that he should know this fact, for the
most able diplomat may well look to his laurels when pitted against a
female Richelieu.
She answered frankly, almost eagerly.
"My people are of Spanish blood, but I have only once seen Spain. I am
_hija de Puerto Rico_."
How proudly she declared it.
"A daughter of Porto Rico--I am pleased to know it, for that lovely
island will soon rest beneath the starry banner. A grand future awaits
her under the new dispensation. I have been in San Juan myself, and
shall never cease to remember that quaint city."
Perhaps the evening breeze brought with it a breath of chilly fog from
off old Dublin bay--at any rate the wearer of the sombre nun's garb
shivered a little and seemed to shrink back from the American.
"Now," continued Owen, cheerily, as though his quick eye had not noted
with considerable surprise this peculiar action on her part, "we have
reached the bridge. Tell me whence comes this danger?"
"There is one whom you have believed a friend, Senor Owen. Trust him
not, for he has sworn to work your downfall."
"Which is very interesting, to say the least. Am I to be arrested as
a Fenian suspect, come over the big pond to duplicate the Burke and
Cavendish tragedy of Phœnix park? Or is this sly schemer a Spanish
sympathizer in the pay of Sagasta?"
"You have said it, senor--the last is the truth. But there is
more--another reason why he hates you."
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind mentioning it?"
"His name first--it is Jerome Wellington."
Owen seemed startled.
"Confusion--I never suspected that _he_ was in Sagasta's pay. Luckily
I have made it a rule to be as close mouthed as an oyster with regard
to all state secrets. So friend Jerome has a private grudge against me.
When have I trod upon his toes? Kindly enlighten me, good angel?"
"It is on her account--the dashing Senorita Cleo," came the muffled
answer, and again Owen knew the eyes back of the veil were fastened
intently upon him as though to read his secret.
Thereupon he pursed up his mustached lip and emitted a low, incredulous
whistle.
"Cleo Fairfax, my independent cousin, the daughter of ten millions,
what has she to do with the case? Is Jerome jealous--does he seek her
hand--well, let him sail in and win. I shall not stand in the way, for
it has never occurred to me to fall in love with my cousin."
"Ah! senor, that is very well, but this man who is as handsome as an
Adonis hates you because he knows the American senorita loves you."
"What! Cleo loves me--incredible--impossible."
"More, she adores you."
"Senorita, you surely jest or dream."
"I speak what I know, and the fact is patent to everyone that you have
but to declare a word to bring this lovely girl and her millions to
your arms."
"God forbid that I should ever speak that word, unless I truly loved
her as a man should the girl he means to make his wife. It is, I say
again, impossible that such a thing can be."
"Few things are impossible, senor."
"But--there are impediments in the way."
"Perhaps none that might not be swept aside."
"Above all, I do not love her--it is ridiculous, and never entered
into my mind. And so Jerome has conjured up a delightful hatred for
me because, by Jove, he chooses to _imagine_--you see I lay especial
emphasis on that word, for I can't believe it possible--that this
favored daughter of fortune gives me more than cousinly regard. Well,
if it pleases Jerome to indulge in such capers, I'm not the one to
cry quits. My duty as well as my privilege is to meet him half way. I
imagine you may be in a position to tell me how he means to strike. It
is awful kind of you to take such trouble."
The thought had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she might have
come from Cleo, and he winced at the verbatim report of his declaration
she must necessarily take back; but it was the truth, and Roderic Owen
had always made a point to stick to his guns in action.
She was growing uneasy, as though fearful lest he might allow his
curiosity respecting her identity get the better of his gentlemanly
instincts. So when she spoke again it was hurriedly, her manner
betraying a desire to end the interview.
"I have gone so far that it only remains for me to tell you the nature
of the plot whereby this jealous fortune seeker hopes not only to ruin
you in the eyes of the Senorita Cleo, but before your government as
well.
"You are staying at the Shelbourne hotel. Your room overlooks the
cascade in St. Stevens green. You have arranged to meet one at the park
gate at twelve to-night, expecting to receive information respecting
the clique of Spanish sympathizers at present sojourning in Dublin as
a city least suspected of harboring America's foes. They have come
here in the hope of arousing the slumbering Fenian spirit should Great
Britain join the states against France or Germany.
"Your expected informant is in their pay--he intends to suddenly pounce
upon you and, aided by allies in hiding carry you off. It will be made
to appear that you have abandoned your patriotic mission, and fled with
a well known adventuress to the gaming tables of Monte Carlo."
"The duse! This is a nice kettle of fish. And only for you I might have
fallen a victim of the plot. But forewarned is forearmed. Some one
shall take my place, since it would be a pity they should have their
labor for nothing. It shall be diamond cut diamond from this hour. And
now, believe me, I am duly sensible of the great service you had done
me, lady. God knows it would give me pleasure to reciprocate should the
occasion ever arise."
"I believe it--I know it, Senor Owen," she said, with some confusion.
"I do not ask your name--that you wish it to remain a secret is enough
for me. But at least you will shake hands before we part. It is a part
of an American's code, you know--add one more obligation to those you
have heaped upon me. Do not refuse, I beg."
She had shrunk back as though alarmed at the prospect, but his
_debonair_ manner, together with the absurdity of the fear that almost
overwhelmed her seemed to force her to meet his friendly advances, and
a little hand crept shyly out from among the dusky robes, advancing
half way.
Roderic Owen clasped it in his own, and was conscious of a most
remarkable sensation that seemed to flash along his arm until it
finally brought up in the region of his heart.
It may have been electricity, or some kindred element, but all the same
he considered it exceeding queer.
Perhaps in his warmth he pressed her hand so that the setting of her
rings inflicted pain. At any rate she gave a little exclamation.
"Forgive me; I forgot your rings, idiot that I am," and with a
gallantry he must have inherited from ancestors who once ruled in this
ever green isle he hastily raised the bruised digits to his lips.
This caused her to snatch away her hand and with a hasty "_buenos
noches_" hurry to meet a tramcar coming from the monument.
Before Owen could fully recover from his surprise she had entered the
double decked vehicle of transportation, and was lost to his sight.
He stood there, leaning against the stone railing of O'Connell bridge
and looking after the car, a very much puzzled man.
"Ah!" he ejaculated, as snatching out his handkerchief he waved it
vigorously in response to the one that fluttered from the open window
of the humble tramcar.
Then the man from over the sea mechanically drew out his cigar case,
selected a weed, struck a match on the stone coping of the bridge, and
began to puff away as though he might in this manner free his brain of
the mental cobwebs that seemed to clog his clear reasoning.
At the same time he started in the direction of Trinity College,
swinging a stout cane, and musing upon the singular events that had on
this night opened a new chapter in his experience.
And somehow it seemed to the adventurous Owen that they bore a definite
connection with his past--again he heard that voice sounding as with
the music of sweet birds--its dim echo, so familiar and yet eluding
his grasp like a fluttering will-o'-the-wisp, how exasperating it was.
Where had he met this seeming nun in the sable robe, and who was she?
Then suddenly he saw a great light--the confused memories drifted into
one clear vision. Again he stood on the brilliantly lighted Grand
Plaza of the Porto Rican capital with surging crowds of officers and
civilians around him, while a really excellent military band played
the beautiful, voluptuous airs of sunny Spain--again he heard a voice,
sweet as that of a lark, floating upon the night air from an open
window, and singing a serenade--Roderic was carried back two years in
his life to scenes that had been marked by stormy passion, and the
realization gave him a tremendous shock.
He had reached the vicinity of Trinity's bold Campanile when this bolt
went home, and the effect was so great as to actually bring him to a
full stop, with held breath.
"By Jove! to think I never suspected the amazing truth when talking
with her. Now I know it, I can swear to it--the same voice, which I
have never heard equaled. And she has done this thing for _me_, Roderic
Owen, whom possibly she has reason to hate. Heavens! there is some
fatality back of it all, and we are but puppets on life's great stage,
playing our little parts automatically. God alone sees the end. Yes,
that was Georgia de Brabant, the charming maid of San Juan, over whom
half the Spanish officers raved, about whom more than a few duels were
fought, and with whose fate my own life thread became entangled in
a way that has forever prevented my loving cousin Cleo or any other
woman. The past then is _not_ dead--again she enters my life--she comes
like an angel of light to save me from being made the victim of a
foul plot. That would indicate anything but hate. What lies before me
mortal cannot guess, but my duty is clear, and come weal come woe, I am
bound to serve my country first, last and always, no matter what the
sacrifice. And ye gods, I kissed the hand whereon perhaps dazzled _his_
rings."