Project Gutenberg Australia
Title: The Man and his Kingdom
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim
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Language: English
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Title: The Man and his Kingdom
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim
*
Author of "A Maker of History," "The Master Mummer,"
"A Prince of Sinners," "Mysterious Mr. Sabin,"
"Anna the Adventuress," etc.
*
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1906
*
CONTENTS
I. FELLOW-TRAVELLERS
II. A DEAL WITH THE REPUBLIC
III. THE PRESIDENT AT HOME
IV. THE GREEN CARMENITA
V. A MEETING AT THE HOTEL
VI. FOR A MAN'S LIFE
VII. THE PRESIDENT IS FIRM
VIII. BY ORDER OF THE STATE
IX. A DINNER PARTY AT THE PRESIDENCY
X. SAGASTA
XI. A RESCUE
XII. THE WARNING GUN
XIII. THE CRY OF THE PEOPLE
XIV. THE SHOT ACROSS THE SQUARE
XV. AN AMBASSADOR
XVI. BEAU DESIR
XVII. A STRANGER FROM THE MOUNTAINS
XVIII. THE TEMPTER
XIX. THE COMING OF GREGORY DENE
XX. THE SENORA HAS PLANS
XXI. THE RIFLE-SHOT AT DAWN
XXII. A FACE AMONGST THE SHADOWS
XXIII. A YELLOW RIBBON
XXIV. A TRAGEDY ON THE MOUNTAIN
XXV. THE DICTATOR
XXVI. A MAN AND HIS WIFE
XXVII. THE THWARTING OF RIMAREZ
XXVIII. THE CONFESSION OF TERNISSA
XXIX. DOM PEDRO'S SCHEME
XXX. THE DAYS OF TOIL
XXXI. THE TREASURE IN THE SCHOOL-HOUSE
XXXII. THE PRESIDENT AND LUCIA
XXXIII. THE SONG OF DEATH
XXXIV. A NIGHT OF DREAMS
XXV. THE SALVATION OF RIMAREZ
XXXVI. TERNISSA IN PERIL
XXXVII. THE PRESIDENT'S SUSPICION
XXXVIII. THE SECRET PATH
XXXIX. THE BLACK FEVER
XL. A WONDERFUL VISIT
XLI. SAN MARTINA EN FÊTE
XLII. POLITICS AND LOVE
XLIII. DENE'S LOVEMAKING
XLIV. A DRAMATIC ELOPEMENT
*
CHAPTER I. FELLOW-TRAVELLERS
"This is," he remarked cheerfully, "our last morning."
"I suppose so," she answered, without enthusiasm.
"In a few hours," he continued, "you will be receiving your first
impressions of your new home. I think I understood you to say. Miss
Denison, that you were going to live, for some time at any rate, in San
Martina?"
She assented, but without raising her eyes, and with certain indications
of uneasiness.
"It is probable," she said. "My plans are very unsettled, however. It
will depend largely upon--upon--"
He waited patiently, but she did not conclude her sentence. Throughout
that long voyage from England he had noticed on her part a marked and
singular avoidance of any discussion as to her destination or future.
Until this last hour he had respected her obvious wishes--he had,
indeed, very little curiosity in his nature, and her avoidance of the
subject was quite sufficient for him. But latterly another idea had
occurred to him. San Martina was the last place in the world likely to
attract chance visitors or tourists; it was also one of the least
suitable spots on earth for a woman to find herself in, alone and
unprotected. Had she by any chance been deceived in her reports of the
place?
"I wonder," he said, "if you understand the sort of country you are
going to--what you will think of the life."
The sun was very hot, even under their awning. Yet she shivered as she
answered him, and he caught a strange gleam in her eyes which he had
noticed there once before when some reference had been made to their
journey's end.
"If you do not mind," she answered slowly, "I would rather not think
about it I would rather talk about something else."
The man's face was clouded. Yet he turned towards her with a certain air
of resolution.
"Every day throughout this long voyage," he said, "you have avoided all
mention of the future. You have talked as though the day of our arrival
at San Martina was the natural end of all intercourse between us."
"That is--what it must be," she murmured.
He smiled indulgently.
"That," he said, "is impossible. It is a proof to me that you know
nothing of San Martina. It calls itself a city--it ranks as a state. Yet
it contains only eight thousand inhabitants, and there are not half a
dozen European families there. Now, how can you expect that we shall not
meet in such a place as this. We--"
She stopped him with a little gesture.
"You do not understand," she said. "It is impossible for me to make you
understand."
"Perhaps," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "I am not quite so much
in the dark as you imagine. You may remember that on the first day of
our voyage I picked up a letter which you had dropped, and restored it
to you."
She gave a little gasp. He could see the colour slowly fading from her
cheeks.
"You--you did not read it?" she faltered.
"I need not tell you that I did not," he answered. "But curiously enough
as I stooped to pick it up I saw my own name on the open page. Of course
I looked at it for a moment. The sentence in which my own name occurred
stared me in the face. That was all I saw. But it struck me as being
curious."
"Tell me," she begged, "exactly what you read."
"I think that this was the sentence," he continued. "'If by any evil
chance Gregory Dene is your fellow-passenger,--remember.' That is every
word I saw, but you will admit that it read oddly to me."
"You read no more--no more than that?"
"I pledge you my word," he answered gravely. "If I could have seen less,
I would."
She sat quite still for several moments with half-closed eyes. Gregory
Dene began to fed a little uncomfortable.
"At any rate," he said, "we have had a pleasant voyage. It has been
something to remember."
"It has been something--to remember--always." she murmured.
"I had hoped," he continued, "that our friendship would become a
permanent thing--that you would allow me to visit you when we landed."
She opened her eyes and fixed them upon him. He felt that he had never
before understood how beautiful grey eyes may be.
"In a few hours," she said, "this voyage comes to an end. With it our
friendship--if you will call it so--also terminates."
"You mean that--seriously?"
"I mean it."
"Of your own will?"
She paused for a moment. Then she answered him.
"Of necessity."
Gregory Dene rose slowly to his feet and walked away to the rail of the
little steamer; For some little time he remained with his back to her,
thinking. The thing was so incomprehensible that the more he thought the
more bewildered he became. It was one of the furthermost corners of the
world for which he was bound, a tiny little Republic without history or
any possible attraction for travellers or chance visitors. The girl who
had been his fellow-traveller from England had not mentioned her
destination to him until they had left the great Ocean Liner at Buenos
Ayres, only to meet again on the little tramp steamer in which they were
completing their journey. His surprise at seeing her had been great. Of
all places in the world San Martina was one of the most impossible for a
woman of her age and looks, to arrive at alone and without powerful
friends. Had she been deceived in any way--misled? Her voice broke in
upon his wondering.
"Mr. Dene."
He stooped once more beneath the shabby little stretch of awning, and
returned to her side. There was a slight nervous flush on her cheeks.
Her soft eyes sought his appealingly.
"Won't you be reasonable, please?" she begged. "Don't spoil the memory
of these last six weeks. They will always remain to me the pleasantest
part of my life--to look back upon. I am a very unhappy and a very
unfortunate woman. You will not add to my troubles, will you?"
"God forbid," he answered fervently. "Indeed, I am very foolish, perhaps
you may think impertinent, to ask you so many questions. Only I
sincerely trust that you know the sort of place you are going to."
She shuddered a little.
"My voyage," she said, "is not one of pleasure."
"At least," he remarked, "we must meet."
"That will be," she said softly, "as fate directs. Who can tell what is
in store for us?"
He strolled away with a shrug of the shoulders, and a sensation of
annoyance. She was altogether too sentimental and enigmatic. He was not
in the least in love with her--he was only a little disturbed by the
fear lest she might in some way have been deceived as to the nature of
the life which lay before her. He had done his best to warn her.
The rest was no matter of his. There was a mystery about her journey and
her destination in which he himself, according to that letter which he
had picked up, seemed to figure in some hidden and mysterious way.
Whatever it was, a few days must make it all clear. Till then he could
leave it.
He climbed the steps on to the bridge and entered into conversation with
the fat little Portuguese captain, who was dad in a white linen suit,
and who held above his perspiring head a green umbrella. He had
relinquished the care of his ship to the pilot who stood by his side.
Already they were drawing very close to the harbour of San Martina. The
captain was disposed for conversation, and accepted Dene's agar with a
florid little outburst of thanks.
"The voyage?--yes, it had seemed long to Senor Dene, no doubt Four days
and three nights--yes, it was tedious without doubt after the sixteen
knots of the great English steamer which had brought them from
Liverpool. But, after all, was it a matter for wonder? San Martina was
but a hole, a veritable hole--a home for dogs, no more. Few people
indeed went there save dealers in horses and grain, and they for the
most part were half-breeds, and far from being desirable companions for
one holding"--the little man drew himself up--"an official position. It
was many voyages since he had carried an Englishman, certainly never
before an Englishwoman so young and so beautiful as the Senorita.
Without doubt, the Senor knew her destination and the object of her
visit to San Martina. She would be going, of course, to the
President's--whose house else was fit to receive her?" The little man's
black bead-like eyes were twinkling with curiosity, but Dene's
amiability had vanished. He answered curtly, and turned upon his heel.
He walked down the deck of the narrow evil-smelling little steamer, and
stood once more before the girl.
She had not moved. The book had fallen from her lap, and her eyes were
fixed steadily seaward. Dene noticed that she had chosen the side of the
steamer remote from the shore which they were nearing, and that she kept
her face always turned along the ocean path by which they had come. She
moved a few of her belongings from his empty chair by her side, and
looked up at him with a ghost of a smile upon her lips.
"Come," she said, "we have an hour or two longer. Talk to me. I want to
escape from my thoughts. Tell me once more of this strange colony of
yours. Let us talk of Beau Desir."
He saw that she was on the point of a nervous breakdown, and perhaps for
the first time he appreciated the tragedy of her pale, terror-stricken
face. He was ashamed of certain half-formed suspicions which had crept
into his mind, and sitting down by her side they fell easily enough into
one of their long talks. It was a subject which she seemed never weary
of discussing with him. In the little state of San Martina, a day's ride
from the city, was a colony of his own founding, consisting chiefly of
men who in more thickly populated countries had found the struggles of
life too great for them. There were men and women there whom he had
rescued from starvation, from despair, even from crime. In the valley of
Beau Desir they had started life afresh. There was the land, fruitful
and virgin soil most of it, and their labour. He had brought them to it,
supplied the machinery, and there all suggestions of charity ended. From
the very first, the scheme had proved successful. They were easily able
to raise from the land more than enough for their own subsistence. The
profits of the great horse ranche which was Dene's especial hobby
sufficed for all their extraneous needs. Dene had been to England to buy
more machinery and stock, and to fetch money to purchase the valley
outright from the Republic.
The increasing noise on deck broke in upon their conversation. They were
in the bay of San Martina, and rapidly nearing the dock. Then Dene made
his last effort.
"It is the end of our journey. Miss Denison," he said quietly. "I am not
going to ask you any more questions. I do not wish to say anything
likely to give you pain, but I cannot let you go without asking you to
remember one thing. You are coming as a stranger to a wild, unformed
country where I am afraid you will find what we are used to reckon as
civilisation an unknown quantity. I do not know what connections you may
have here, but I want you to remember that at any time a single word or
message will bring you a friend."
He held out his hand. She looked into his face with streaming eyes.
"Thank you," she said. "I will remember."
Then she hurried from him with a strange look of pain in her face and
disappeared down the companion way. Dene looked after her with a puzzled
expression. The situation was altogether beyond him. Ternissa Denison he
had recognised during the first few hours of their acquaintance as
belonging outwardly at least to one of the best types of English
womanhood. She was young, certainly not more than twenty-five, obviously
well-bred, and without the shadow of a doubt belonging to the same
little world as Dene himself, before he had shaken himself free from the
environment of social life. She was dressed always with the spotless and
tasteful simplicity of her class, her deportment throughout the voyage
had been irreproachable. From the first they had been friends. They had
been neighbours at the captain's table. Their after-dinner walks and
moonlight téte-à-têtes on deck had been accepted by their
fellow-voyagers as a natural and reasonable thing. Once or twice they
had certainly come very near to a flirtation. Perhaps it was only Dene's
inexperience--for, as a rule, women were outside his scheme of
life--which had kept them from embarking upon something of the sort. Yet
every little action and speech had clearly denoted that fastidiousness
of mind and person which is the one irradicable trait of the best of her
sex. She was a well-bred, a charming, and a beautiful young woman. All
these things made her present position the more extraordinary. She was
travelling alone to an out-of-the-way little State where there was not a
single English family, where law and order were certainly conspicuous by
their absence, and where morals were distinctly upon the laissez faire
order. Not only this, but as they approached their destination she
showed every Symptom of unhappiness and nervous strain. She firmly but
tearfully refused to answer his questions, however delicately put, and
she had a correspondent in San Martina who regarded the fact of his
being her fellow-traveller as an "evil chance." No wonder Dene was
bewildered.
He walked away presently to the other side of the steamer, and looked
out upon the town which was now well in sight. The quay was crowded as
usual with a motley throng of half-breeds, natives, and planters in
their white clothes and huge broad hats. Behind was the little
amphitheatre of wooden houses, painted green and white, dotted
irregularly about upon the hillside, and in the centre of the place the
more solid buildings, square and white, with flat roofs and sunblinds.
In the background were the towering mountains of the Andiguan range,
between which and the town stretched the valley of Beau Desir.
As they slowly backed against the quay, and the bridge was thrown over
and made fast, a young man passed on to the steamer before whom every
one gave way with servility if not with deference. He was dressed in
military uniform, a long blue coat, and white trousers tucked into
riding-boots. He was undersized, he wore a small black moustache curled
upwards, his eyes were black and his complexion dusky. He came face to
face with Dene, whose presence seemed to cause him some uneasiness.
"Back again, Senor Dene," he said, with an attempt at suaveness. "I
shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the Presidency. For the
present, will you excuse me? Out of the way, you rascal," he added,
kicking a sailor who had momentarily impeded his progress, and hastening
on across the gangway.
Dene looked after him in surprise. Then he saw a sight which for a
moment deprived him of his self-possession. Ternissa Denison was
standing on the deck as white as a ghost, her lips parted id the
feeblest and most tremulous of smiles, and Rimarez, with outstretched
hands, was welcoming her with all the warmth and volubility which seemed
to belong to the man--the heritage of his French descent. Dene turned
away with a savage imprecation upon his lips. This was worse even than
anything which he had feared.
CHAPTER II. A DEAL WITH THE REPUBLIC
The President of the Republic of San Martina paused for a moment with
the pen in his fingers. At his right hand stood Colonel Juan Sanarez,
second in command of the army and a man of note in San Martina. On his
other side was Senor Mopez, secretary and general adviser to the
President himself, and the principal attorney of his dominion. In a
chair on the opposite side of the table was Dene.
"Before I sign this deed, Senor Dene," the President said, laying down
his pen and taking the long black cigar from his mouth, "there is a
clause which, if it be acceptable to you, I should desire to add. Mine
is a small dominion. My army, brave and well-disciplined though it
certainly is, numbers but a few hundreds. The population of San Martina
has in it many troublesome elements; it is necessary to keep always a
firm hand over them."
Dene, who a few months ago had seen a policeman hung from a lamp-post to
commemorate a Saint's day, felt himself able to agree with the President
so far. He signified the same gravely and waited for more.
"Now by this deed," the President continued, tapping it with a plump
forefinger, "I yield to you on lease for nine hundred and ninety-nine
years the valley of Beau Desir. It is very well. Now you have there
already dependents of yours over two hundred, English most of them I
believe. Their numbers will increase. You will become a power in my
country. Is it not so, Senor?"
"It is more than likely," Dene answered, comparing for a moment in his
mind the heterogeneous mob who thronged the streets of San Martina with
the sturdy hard-working kind of men who were making fertile the valley
of Beau Desir.
"To-day," the President continued, "San Martina is at peace and free
from dissensions owing to our judicious arrest and imprisonment of the
most troublesome miscreant who ever cursed an unfortunate country by
making it his place of residence. But, how long will this continue? Who
can say?"
"Who can say?" echoed Sanarez.
"Who, indeed, can say?" repeated Mopez gloomily.
"If I did my duty," the President declared solemnly, "I should have that
man shot. But I am too merciful Is it not so, my friends? I am too
merciful. I shrink from taking human life."
Sanarez and Mopez exchanged glances, and a covert smile lurked for a
moment on the lips of both of them. They knew very well that if
President Rimarez dared, he would order this traitor to be shot that
very instant without hesitation, and with a light heart--that he was
even now engaged in completing arrangements for his secret
assassination. But the ways of small Republics in the southern
hemisphere are peculiar, and they held their peace.
"No," President Rimarez continued with a sigh, "it is a weakness, Senor,
for which I trust you will not despise me, but I cannot bring myself to
sign this man's death-warrant. At the same time, he has stirred up a
troublesome spirit amongst my people, closely though he is confined.
Whilst he lives, he is a source of secret danger to the Republic. A
rising is not probable, but as time goes on, who can say? One must be
prepared. The clause, Senor, which I propose to add to our agreement is
simply this, that in the event of any insurrection in my dominion you
engage yourself to bear arms for the government who grants you this
charter."
Dene moved uneasily in his chair, and looked thoughtful. The prospect
opened up by the President's words, carefully guarded though they had
been, was not a pleasant one. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully.
"This comes rather as a surprise to me. President," he said. "My men are
men of peace, farm labourers and artisans most of them. I doubt whether
one in twenty of them can even handle a revolver."
The President smiled indulgently.
"They are mostly English," he said, "and Englishmen with their fists
alone are a match for most of these low half-breeds with their shoddy
weapons. Do not let that concern you. If there should be an insurrection
it would be an insurrection of ill-armed cowards whom my few brave
soldiers would scatter like chaff. Yet it is well to make provision.
Some such clause, as this should, I think, be inserted."
Dene remained silent.
"I must admit," he said, after a lengthy pause, "that this opens up to
me a fresh view of the matter before us. If civil war is a possibility
here, am I wise to invest so much money in land whose crops and cattle
might be liable to destruction at any moment by a raid on the part of
the rebels? To tell you the truth, I had fancied that your state was too
small for any trouble of this sort."
A shade of anxiety crossed the President's face. He stole a glance at
the great pile of bills which lay between them on the table. The
Republic, and particularly its President, was in urgent need of
funds--this money was like a godsend. An uncomfortable sensation chilled
him at the bare idea of any hitch in the negotiations.
"Civil war," he said slowly, "is possible anywhere. At the same time, I
do not wish to give you a false impression. I say it is possible
anywhere, but I think I may add that I could think of no spot in Central
or South America where it is so unlikely to occur as here."
The Colonel and the Secretary exchanged glances of admiration. Truly
President Rimarez was a great man. Their morning had been pleasantly
spent in trying and shooting two of the secret agents of the popular
party in San Martina, and the disclosures which they had elicited by
means not altogether in vogue amongst civilised nations, had greatly
increased the President's desire to obtain possession of this very
useful sum of money.
"Then why insert it at all?" Dene asked.
The President shrugged his shoulders.
"In a document of this nature," he said, tapping with his forefinger the
sheets of folded paper, "many contingencies have to be provided for,
which are, to say the least of it, very unlikely to occur. I look upon
civil war, under our present administration, as about as improbable as
an earthquake. Yet, as our friend Senor Mopez will tell us, some mention
of such an event is legally a necessity. But come, we shall not quarrel.
Bah! the idea is absurd. This suggestion is not welcome to you? Very
good. I will amend it. We will insert a clause by which you guarantee to
supply with neither food or shelter, arms or men any person or persons
engaged in rebellion against or outlawed from the State of San Martina.
This you cannot object to, for you take the oath of allegiance to the
Republic and to myself as President when you take possession of Beau
Desir."
"That," Dene said, "I agree to. But I will be frank with you. The mere
suggestion of war here has made me a little uneasy. It is most
distasteful to me. Now, I shall ask you to insert some such clause as
this--that in the event of any of the possessions, crops, machinery or
domiciles of myself or any of my people being destroyed or damaged by
any insurrection in San Martina, that we are at liberty to claim
compensation from the Government."
The President and his two advisers exchanged rapid glances. The same
thought was in the minds of each of them. A claim for compensation in
their courts would be rather a joke. The ghost of a smile flickered upon
the lips of the Secretary. They conferred for a moment in whispers. Then
the President turned round and gravely announced that they had decided
to waive their natural objections to such a clause.
"We have given you, Senor Dene," the President said, "a very favourable
charter because we believe in you and your system, and because we know
that where Englishmen are, prosperity follows. We are now agreed."
He dipped his pen in the ink, and with a magnificent splutter wrote his
name with many flourishes across the great red seal. Dene followed his
example. The notary took the pile of bills to another table, and
carefully counted them.
"You have made, Senor Dene," the President said, leaning back in his
chair and lighting a fresh cigar, "a very excellent bargain. I will not
conceal it from you that we have yielded to your wishes on many points,
because your money comes to us at a time when it can very profitably be
made use of."
"In the extension of our new system of schools," the notary put in
quietly, glancing up from his task.
"Precisely," the President remarked, thinking of that little French
schooner laden with rifles and revolvers which lay in the bay waiting
for the money before she would consent to land her cargo.
"We are anxious," he continued, "to establish a scheme of free education
throughout San Martina on a broad and sound basis."
"A very excellent thing," said Dene, rising and thrusting the charter
into his pocket.
The President laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"You must come with me," he said, "and be presented to my wife and
daughter. They await us now. In your honour they have, I believe,
prepared your national refreshment; afternoon tea--is it not--you call
it?"
Dene expressed his delight, and the President took his arm. They left
the room together.
Colonel Sanarez and the Secretary exchanged glances as soon as they
found themselves alone.
"What an imbecile!" exclaimed the former.
"It is the folly of his thick-skulled nation," agreed the Secretary.
"The money is all right, is it not?" the Colonel asked eagerly.
The other nodded.
"Yes--except that I wish it had been all in bills. The draft here we
must send to Buenos Ayres. It cannot be paid into the National Bank."
"And why not?" demanded the Colonel.
Mopez smiled.
"Unfortunately, as our most distinguished President remarked, the
finances of San Martina are scarcely in that condition which one would
expect in so admirably governed a State. The National Bank have refused
to honour our bonds, and the Manager is at this moment hiding in the
cellar and expecting to be hauled out and shot. As a matter of fact, the
Republic of San Martina is to-day without a banking account."
"I will tell you," the Colonel said, "how we can dispose of the draft.
We can pay it to the Frenchman for that cargo of arms."
"It would be," the notary said thoughtfully, "a scandalous waste of
public money to pay cash for the whole shipment."
"He will never leave them without," the Colonel replied gloomily. "He is
a person without breeding or any sense of delicacy. We sent a boat this
morning for a hundred rifles, with an order signed by the Government,
and he refused--positively refused to send them."
"Miscreant."
"He was worse. He sent back a message which was an insult. He said the
money with the order, or no rifles. He had been here before. The
rascal!"
The Secretary smiled softly.
"We must see, my friend," he said, "whether it may not be possible for
us to give him a lesson in manners. Meanwhile, a cigarette."
CHAPTER III. THE PRESIDENT AT HOME
"It was by a chance, my child, the veriest chance, that your father
discovered it," the Senora Rimarez explained, folding her plump little
hands together in ecstasy. "But it is as I say. He is noble, rich, and
eccentric. You are indeed fortunate, my Lucia. It is a gift from the
Saints to you."
The girl who was lounging on the broad piazza by her mother's side
looked languidly up. She had the big black eyes and hair of the Senora,
but otherwise there was little likeness between them. The President's
wife was plump, short, and possessed an amiable air of contentment.
Lucia was tall and slim, almost to frailty, her complexion and features
were perfect, but her dark eyebrows were contracted in a perpetual
frown. She was handsome, but morose.
"A gift," she exclaimed scornfully. "Why, as yet I have not even seen
the man, and I am very sure that I do not want to. He must be a fool to
come and live in a country like this, and I detest fools."
The Senora smiled placidly.
"As for that, my child," she said, "he is an Englishman, and all
Englishmen are fools until they are married, and then they are what
their wives choose to make of them. What was it that you said--'that as
yet he had not looked at you'? Bah! The poor man, he has not had the
chance. This afternoon he will be here. He will see you as you are now.
Who is there in this little country to compare with you? Bah! We know!
There is no one. Are you not, too, the daughter of the President? You
will look at him, and he will be your slave. Come, I foretell it. We
shall see. Oh, we shall see."
The Senora nodded her head vigorously, and used her fan. Lucia yawned
and leaned back in her chair with half-closed eyes.
"Englishmen," the Senora continued, "are not, it is true, the most
charming of lovers, but as husbands--oh! they are excellent. Do I not
know, for have I not met many of them in the old days at Paris? You were
right, my dear Lucia, to have nothing to do with that bold young Senor
Sagasta. Alas! I fear that he was a bad friend for Eugène. But all
Englishmen are not like that. This Sagasta, he was nobody. He is where
he deserves to be. But the Senor Dene, he is different. He is noble, he
is rich, he is the fitting husband for you."
Lucia lifted her great eyes, and looked steadily across the gardens
below towards a great stone building a mile or more away. It was the
prison of San Martina. She looked at it for several moments steadily,
and then she sighed. Her voice grew softer.
"In a moment or two," the Senora continued, a note of excitement
creeping into her complacent voice, "he will be here. You are adorable
to-day, my Lucia, in that white gown, but you will look more amiable,
will you not? He will be shy, this Englishman--all big Englishmen are
shy--and if you look at him like that he will forget that your eyes are
beautiful, he will be frightened. You must smile, my Lucia. You smile
too seldom."
The girl gave vent to a little exclamation of contempt
"How can one smile who lives here, I wonder," she cried. "Oh, with you
it is different, I know. You can sit and fan yourself and drink lemonade
with that old Mopez woman for ever. For you it is life sufficient. For
me it is slavery. I hate it."
A shade of genuine astonishment passed across the elder woman's plump
good-natured features.
"But, Lucia," she said, "what would you have? You are a child. You have
not yet a husband. When that is settled--well, your liberty will come
then. You will do what you choose. Why are you impatient? You are very
young. All your life is before you."
The girl looked steadily away. Her face was black as night, but she made
no answer. What was the use? One might as well seek to effect by speech
an opening in those thick stone walls as make this fat, contented little
woman understand So she remained silent, only she wondered, as she sat
there listening to the murmuring of insects in the garden below and the
far-off clamour of tongues in the Plaza, whether indeed the day of her
release would ever come--whether she would ever really be able to step
out from her enervating environment and take her life into her own
hands. She sighed, and then she turned round with a frown as the sound
of voices in the room beyond announced the arrival of the visitor for
whose sake she had been bidden to wear that newest and most "chic" of
her white muslin gowns, whom she had been told, if not in words at least
with nods and veiled hints, that it was her business to captivate.
She looked at him with a certain half-sullen curiosity, as he stepped
out on to the broad piazza by her father's side. Dene, if he was not,
judged by the usual standards, a good-looking man, was at least a man
whom it was good to look upon. He was tall and fair and grave, with
wonderfully broad shoulders, well-shaped features and clear grey eyes.
His riding suit was plainly made, but it was cut by one of the best
English tailors, and he had always that peculiar neatness and freshness
of appearance which goes to the making of a well-groomed man. He carried
himself with distinction, and his face, fortunately for him, showed not
the least appearance of interest at the introduction which her father
was making.
"The Senor Gregory Dene, my dear," he said, "wishes to renew the
acquaintance which he formed with you here at a previous visit. I have
also the honour, Senor Dene, to present you to my daughter, who was, I
believe, away on the previous occasion when you favoured us with a
call."
Dene shook hands with the President's wife, and bowed quietly to Lucia,
who was looking at him languidly with her great black eyes half closed.
He accepted the chair to which the President courteously motioned him,
and made some remark as to the beauty of the garden which stretched away
below. The Senora, who understood flowers and flowers only outside the
culinary art, engaged him at once in a horticultural conversation.
Lucia, without even the pretence of apparent interest, yawned and picked
up her book.
But the Senora was too good a mother to be carried away even by the
pleasure of discussing this her chief interest in life with a stranger
who certainly knew something about orchids. She watched for her
opportunity and grasped it.
"So it is possible that you who have seen so much, you have really never
seen a green carmenita?" she exclaimed with animation. "Ah well, to-day
you shall see such a specimen as there is not in the whole of Europe.
Lucia, my dear, I want you to take Senor Dene into the orchid garden.
You know exactly where the green carmenita is. It is only a few steps,
Senor Dene."
Dene glanced towards the girl, and rose to his feet. She looked up from
her book, but kept her finger in the place.
"What is it that you wish me to show Senor Dene, mother?" she asked.
"The green carmenita, my love. You know where it is."
Lucia laid down her book, but she did not rise at once.
"It is a small green flower, Senor Dene, whose only distinction is a
most appalling ugliness. Is it worth braving this terrible heat for?"
she asked.
In his heart he did not think so, but he wished to be polite, and the
girl's indolence amused him.
"It seems too bad to disturb you," he said, "but you must remember that
I am a mild enthusiast, and a green carmenita is a very wonderful thing.
Perhaps if you are tired one of the gardeners could show it to me."
The Senora made a sign at her daughter, and waved them away.
"It is folly," she declared. "The heat is little and the distance is
nothing. Besides, they are so seldom in flower. Lucia, my love, see that
the sun does not reach your head. Senor Dene, when you return I shall
give you an English cup of tea."
Lucia rose slowly, and opening a parasol of white lace, pushed aside the
mosquito netting and swept down the broad steps. Then, as though
repenting an abruptness which bordered upon discourtesy, she turned
suddenly round and addressed him.
"It is only a few yards, Senor Dene. Will you come this way."
He followed her across a brown burnt lawn and into a winding shrubbery.
He had already decided that she was a particularly sulky and
disagreeable young woman, and having no desire to make himself agreeable
he did not attempt to start a conversation.
They remained silent until they reached a little opening, in the centre
of which was another lawn and a brilliant little bed of flowers. Here
she paused.
"That," she said, pointing downwards with her parasol towards a little
cluster of blossoms in the centre of the bed, "is the green carmenita."
CHAPTER IV. THE GREEN CARMENITA
Dene looked gravely down at a particularly insignificant specimen of a
rare but unlovely orchid, and then some impulse prompted him to glance
quickly into Lucia's face. Her eyes were slightly contracted, the shadow
of a smile was twitching at the corners of her lips. His own sense of
humour was swiftly aroused. He laughed outright, and, to his surprise,
she joined in.
"How shocking!" she remarked, a moment later. "After all, then, you are
not an enthusiast!"
"On the contrary," he assured her, "I dislike orchids."
She lowered her parasol and glanced, doubtless by accident, towards a
wooden seat which encircled a gigantic tropical shrub.
"You have brought me out," she said demurely, "under false pretences.
And I was so comfortable."
"Your trees at least are magnificent," he said. "May we not sit down for
a few moments? It seems cooler to me out here than on the piazza."
"Just as you like," she answered, with a touch of her old
ungraciousness. "This is the coolest part of the garden."
They moved slowly towards the seat and sat down. Her manner showed no
signs of relaxation; the smile, after all, seemed to have been merely an
interlude. She relapsed for a moment or two into cold silence. Then, as
Dene ventured upon some conventional remark, she brushed it away and
turned to him abruptly.
"Will you tell me," she said, "about your people at Beau Desir? I have
heard so many strange things, and I want to know the truth."
He smiled.
"I will tell you all about them, with pleasure," he said, "if you are
sure that it will interest you."
She twirled her parasol for a moment and then looked from the clear blue
sky into his face.
"It may," she said. "It probably will I have only met one man yet in all
my life who thought about anything but his own pleasure. They say that
you are rich and yet that you are a worker, that you live simply and
study the welfare of other people. It sounds like a fairy tale. I should
like to know why you do it--why you consider it worth while to think of
anything else but yourself."
"That sounds," he said gravely, "a little cynical."
"Oh, I am purely a negative quantity," she said. "I have no
individuality--it is a luxury which is denied me. I am not allowed to
live for myself at all My ideas are only echoes. You must not consider
me as a responsible person. Only I should like to hear."
"And where," he asked, having made up his mind to humour her, "am I to
begin?"
"At the very beginning, if you please," she answered.
"If we are interrupted before you have finished you can tell me the rest
another time."
He smiled.
"I am afraid that as a story it is not very interesting," he said, "but
I will tell you all about it with pleasure. It is nearly five years ago
when I first made up my mind to attempt something of this sort A friend
of mine took me one night to a meeting of working men somewhere in
London. I think it was the first time I had ever heard our social
conditions discussed from their point of view, and I was interested.
Although they did not know it at the time, I was one of those against
whom they were most bitter. I was a capitalist, and my money came to me
from my father, who was one of the largest employers of labour in
England. Well, what I heard made a great impression upon me from the
first. I saw that there was truth in it. Of course they suffered, as the
cause of socialism always has suffered, from exaggeration and
indiscretions on the part of their leaders, but it took me a very short
time to see that at the root of the matter they had right and justice on
their side. I wanted to help them, but at first I was doubtful what
course to take. I allowed myself to be persuaded to go in to Parliament
as a Radical, and the representative of a working men's constituency.
Well, I soon had enough of that. I came to the conclusion that if I
could have kept my seat and lived to be a hundred, I should have made
very little real progress."
"You called yourself a Socialist, then?" she remarked
"The term is so ill-defined," he answered. "I came at least to belong to
a party of men who think that the religion of life consists rather in
the brotherhood of man than in the worship of an unknown God. Of course,
we realise that mankind, as a whole, must live out their lives in the
place and order in which they are from, but our doctrine is that the
strong should help the weak, the rich the poor. Where this religion is
neglected very great misery results. Starvation and great wealth were
never meant to flourish side by side. That is what we think it our duty
to try and modify. We want every one to have a chance for development. I
wonder if you can understand what I mean?"
"Perfectly," she said. "It is very simple and very interesting. Go on,
please."
"Well," he continued, "it is one thing to have theories, of course, and
another to find the proper means of putting them into practice. I tried
Parliament, as I told you, and I used to write a little and speak a
little, but I could not persuade myself that a single man or woman was
appreciably the better for the trifle I was able to do. Well, I got
impatient at last, and I altered my tactics. I left off trying to aid
great changes by theorising, and determined to do a little practical and
personal good I had got to know a great many of my constituents
personally, and I was able to collect easily a hundred or so who for
various reasons were going under in the struggle for life. I brought
them out here to the Valley of Beau Desir, which I have just purchased
from your father. There I have established a sort of little colony. We
grow corn and breed horses, and the profits are divided amongst all in a
fair proportion. The men enjoy the dignity of earning their living
healthily and without humiliation, and the women, of course, share in
their prosperity. They have no sense of injustice to make fanatics of
them--they have every opportunity of living out their lives fully, and,
so far as possible, every one does that for which he is best fitted. Of
course it is a very small thing really to help a few hundreds when
millions are suffering--yet I was weary of generalities, of seeing the
same tired faces day by day, and so little result from all our work. I
have at least made a tangible start, if it is only in a very small way."
He glanced towards her tentatively. He scarcely expected to find her
interested. What he saw in her face surprised him.
"You are a very fortunate man," she said. "You have opportunities."
"Every one has opportunities," he answered. "It is the desire and the
energy which is generally lacking."
She shook her head. The old sullen gloom was upon her.
"It is not so," she said coldly. "Every one has not the opportunity. The
inequalities in this way are quite as bad as the inequalities of wealth
and fortune."
"I cannot agree with you," Dene declared. "I believe that every single
person in the world has the opportunity of shaping their life towards
some practical and good purpose if they desire it."
"Such a speech, Senor," she answered bitterly, "shows only how limited
is your experience."
"I am always willing to enlarge it," he answered. "Do I understand that
you disagree with me?"
"Disagree?" She shrugged her shoulders and looked at him scornfully.
"Why not? Am I not myself a proof that it is not so? You do not believe
it? Very well, Senor. Perhaps you will tell me of your great wisdom what
good to any one can I accomplish?"
He saw something which interested him struggling with the dark gloom of
her face and he answered her gently.
"Am I," he said, "to take the desire for granted?"
"You can do that," she answered ungraciously.
"Good. Well, then, to begin with, there is only one wretched little
hospital in San Martina, and that, I understand, is about to be closed
for want of funds. A thorough system of trained nurses is required--"
"The first thing which occurred to me was this," she interrupted.
"Months ago I sent for some books on nursing, and when I thought that I
had gained some little knowledge about it, I asked my father to allow me
to have a meeting of the women of San Martina here, and organise a band
of amateur nurses under the direction of the doctor. I proposed--but
never mind about that It is no matter, for my father flatly refused to
allow me to do anything of the sort."
"And your mother?"
"Agreed with him thoroughly. She was profoundly shocked Do you not
understand that my father and mother are a mixture of French and
Spanish, and they have imbibed the imbecility of both nations as regards
the position of their children? Do you not understand that I am
practically doomed to consider myself unborn--uncreated--until my
marriage? I may not put my hand to any useful work. I may not assume any
position whatever. I am worse off really than those poor creatures whom
you have brought out here and set free."
Dene was silent for a moment. He felt vaguely that there was a good deal
which he ought to say to her concerning home duties and personal
development, and at the same time he felt an absolute inability to say
it. The appearance of a negro servant summoning them to tea was almost a
relief to him.
The Senora was smiling placidly at them from behind a small table, at
which were many small cups and an impossible teapot.
"You have seen it," she cried. "You agree with me. It is unrivalled."
Dene for a moment was bewildered. Lucia, who was still by his side,
laughed and whispered in his ear--
"The green Carmenita!"
CHAPTER V. A MEETING AT THE HOTEL
Notwithstanding Lucia's silence and apparent abstraction, her mother
found several encouraging symptoms in her demeanour towards Dene during
tea-time and the half-hour which followed. She seldom addressed him, or
answered any of his remarks save in monosyllables, but more than once
the Senora had found her watching and listening to him with a newly
awakened interest in her manner. Dene's behaviour, too, was in a sense
satisfactory. He showed no signs of moving for some time after the tea
equipage had been removed, and he asked twice after Eugène Rimarez, who
had not put in an appearance all day. When at last he rose, the
President felt that he could without any suspicion of over-cordiality
invite him to remain to dinner.
"You are not going on to Beau Desir to-night, Senor Dene?" he inquired.
Dene shook his head.
"I shall not get away before to-morrow at the earliest," he answered. "I
have brought a great deal of machinery over with me which I want to see
unloaded. They will not be able to commence it till to-morrow morning."
"Then will you do us the honour," the President asked, "of dining with
us?"
Dene could scarcely have explained to himself why at that moment he
should have glanced towards Lucia, but he did so, and, much to his
surprise, she met his eyes frankly and with a surprisingly winning
smile.
"Do come, Senor Dene, if you can," she said.
Both the President and his wife were amazed at a forwardness on the part
of their daughter for which her bringing up was certainly not
responsible. But, as the recipient of such marked and unusual favour was
Gregory Dene, she escaped that expression of disapproval which would
certainly in any other case have been forthcoming. Dene did not hesitate
for a moment to accept the invitation.
The President walked with him into the hall. Dene paused upon the
topmost of the broad flight of steps.
"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing your son this evening, President?"
he asked.
The President bowed.
"Without doubt, Senor Dene. He should have been here to meet you this
afternoon. I do not understand his absence."
Dene was thoughtful for a moment. They did not know then how Eugène
Rimarez had spent his morning, or of the arrival of. Ternissa Denison.
He ventured upon one more question.
"By the bye," he said, "I had a fellow-passenger from Buenos Ayres
here--a Miss Denison. Is she by any chance a friend of yours?"
The President shook his head.
"She must be a stranger here," he said "The name is English surely."
Dene assented.
"Yes. She came from Liverpool."
The President was mildly surprised.
"Did she say whom she was coming to visit here?" he asked.
"She was curiously reserved as to her plans," Dene said. "She would tell
me nothing. I asked you about her because she was met at the docks by
your son."
"By Eugène?" the President exclaimed.
"By your son, Eugène," Dene repeated.
The President was thoughtful for a moment. His face grew graver.
"My son has many acquaintances," he said quietly, "whom we know nothing
of. I fear that this is one of them. We shall see you at seven o'clock,
Senor Dene."
Dene bowed, and made his way out on to the Plaza with a heavy heart. He
threaded his way amongst the little knots of saunterers--no one in San
Martina seemed ever to have anything particular to do--and made his way
to the hotel Several people stopped him on the way, for already the tall
young Englishman, who had brought so many of his countrymen out to San
Martina, was a well-known figure in the cosmopolitan little city. There
was Almarez, who owned a string of pack mules and wanted to transport
the Senor's stores through the mountain to Beau Desir, and his brother,
who dealt in horses and was a likely buyer for the Northern governments.
But Dene lingered only a moment or two on the way. He was not in the
humour to make bargains or to talk business. He was not leaving, he
said, for a day at least. To-morrow morning he would speak of these
things with them. So he passed on and entered the hotel, and there in
the little square hall he came face to face with Eugène Rimarez, the
very man he was most anxious to meet.
It was evident that the pleasure was not mutual. Rimarez returned his
greeting coldly, and although he had been engaged in nothing more
momentous than a languid examination of some bills upon the walls,
showed every inclination to avoid an encounter. But Dene would not be
denied.
"I have been spending the afternoon at the Presidency," he remarked,
offering his cigarette case.
Rimarez helped himself mechanically, and nodded.
"And Beau Desir?" he asked, with a momentary show of interest
"Is mine," Dene answered, drawing the charter from his pocket. "I have
become, I believe, the largest landed proprietor in your country. Come
into the bar, and we will drink a bottle of wine in honour of the
occasion."
It was an offer which Rimarez was not accustomed to refuse. He did so
with obvious regret.
"It must be a pleasure reserved for another day," he said. "I am
waiting--for a friend."
Dene glanced at him keenly.
Rimarez was flushed and ill-at-ease. As usual. Dene supposed, he had
been drinking more than was good for him.
"I am going back to dine with your people," he said. "Shall I see you?"
"Most likely," Rimarez answered vaguely. "I am due up at the barracks
shortly. In fact--I must go now."
Dene nodded and turned away. He had scarcely taken half a dozen steps,
however, when he stopped short. He was face to face with Ternissa
Denison. She was dressed in a plain white linen suit for walking, and
she wore a thick veil. Nevertheless, he could see her start, and the
deep colour flush into her cheeks, as her eyes met his.
He raised his broad-brimmed hat gravely, and stood on one side. He was
not at first inclined to say anything to her at all. He was both
bewildered and anxious. Then something in her face, some mute expression
of appeal in the grey eyes which fell so swiftly before his, rekindled
his hopes. It was impossible that there was not some explanation of her
position. She had half stopped, and he spoke to her more kindly than he
had meant to.
"You have found your friends, I trust. Miss Denison?"
"Did I tell you that I had any friends here?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"Perhaps," he said, "I took that for granted."
He saw a sudden whitening in her face, and turning round found Rimarez
watching them closely. Her gesture--it was instinctive, and certainly
one of aversion--inspired him with a sudden determination. He was not
content any longer to fence with her. He spoke out.
"You are in trouble," he said. "I cannot believe that it is impossible
for me to help you. You have met with some disappointment, or perhaps
you have been misled. Come! I am a fellow-countryman. Let me be your
friend."
She drew a sharp little breath, and she answered hurriedly--
"You mean to be kind, I am sure, Mr. Dene--but--you are making a
mistake. I do not require--any one's help. I have not been misled or
disappointed. You must let me go now, please. Captain Rimarez is waiting
for me."
But Dene did not at once stand aside.
"Let me finish what I was going to say," he begged. "You told me on the
steamer that you were poor, that you wished for work. I have a position
to offer you. I want a schoolmistress for my children at Beau Desir.
Come there with me to-morrow and try it."
"You are very kind," she said. "At present I am not able even to
consider your offer. I have something very important to do. Goodbye."
She passed him so swiftly that even if he had wished it he could have
said nothing. Rimarez, whose face was sullen and dark, raised his hat to
her, and they left the hotel together. Dene went slowly up to his room.
CHAPTER VI. FOR A MAN'S LIFE
They were scarcely across the Square before Rimarez turned upon his
companion with an ugly frown.
"What was it he was saying to you--that clown of an Englishman?" he
demanded.
She looked down at him, and smiled.
"Do you mean Mr. Dene?" she inquired.
"Whom else? What was he saying to you?"
"Couldn't you hear?" she asked. "You seemed to be listening very
intently."
He twirled his black moustache fiercely.
"Listen to me, Ternissa--"
She interrupted him.
"You have not my permission," she said coldly, "to make use of my
Christian name."
He swore under his breath.
"Miss Denison, then. I will call you what you choose, so long as you
listen. I am weary of your irresolution. Santa Maria, I am weary to
death of it. For what did you come here if you are not prepared?"
"My irresolution, as you term it," she answered, "shall be ended
directly I have seen Arnold. Why don't you take me to him? You should be
able to do that."
"You will be very fortunate," he said grimly, "if ever you see Arnold
again."
She stopped short.
"What do you mean?" she demanded. "Has anything fresh happened?"
"Something fresh will happen before many hours have passed," he
answered. "The people are getting restless about him. As usual, it will
be his friends who will work his destruction. They will clamour for him,
and he will be shot. Oh, I know my father well. I can read him. I have
seen what he has in his mind."
"Then why don't you do something?" she exclaimed. "What are you his
friend for? Why don't you set him free?"
"I am not President of San Martina," he answered sullenly.
"You can do it if you will."
"It is possible."
"And you hesitate. You, who have called yourself his friend his ally,
his companion."
"It is dangerous. There are many risks."
She flashed a look of bitter scorn upon him.
"Oh. I know what you mean. You want to make your bargain beforehand."
"It is reasonable."
"I wonder," she said quietly, "that you dare to run the risk. I wonder
if you would if you knew how much I loathed you."
He was white with passion, but he controlled himself.
"Up to now," he said, "you have managed to conceal that loathing. You
have acted as though it were otherwise."
"In England," she said, "I tried to treat you as Arnold's friend.
Besides, you were harmless then. Here you have shown yourself for what
you are. You are bargaining with me for my brother's life. Who would not
hate a creature who stooped to such a thing?"
"It is not such a bad bargain for you," he exclaimed, stifling his
anger. "I am the son of the President. You would be the most important
woman in San Martina."
She laughed outright. He was furious.
"How you dazzle me," she declared. "What a pinnacle."
He stopped short. They had climbed the hill which overlooked San
Martina. Before them was the prison--below the sea.
"Very well," he said. "You ridicule me. I have had enough. I withdraw.
Do as you choose without me. Get your Arnold out of there," he motioned
fiercely towards the prison, "if you can. Before eight to-morrow he will
be shot. I have but to pass the word, and it is done."
If a look could have killed him Rimarez would have been a dead man. She
caught his arm and held him.
"You little fiend," she muttered. "If you were half a man you would have
had him out from there before now. You needn't go away. Get me in there.
You can do it, can't you? I want to see him."
"I will try," he said. "I cannot be sure. Come!"
They reached the prison, a gaunt and bare brick building. Outside the
massive door, a sentry in shabby uniform was standing. He saluted, and
allowed them to pass. Inside a score of soldiers were sitting on stools,
some playing cards, all smoking cigarettes. At Rimarez' entrance there
was some commotion. He glanced fiercely around.
"Lieutenant," he exclaimed, "this is strange discipline. There are
prisoners here who need better guarding than this."
An officer came forward and entered into an animated conversation with
Rimarez in Portuguese. Meanwhile, the soldiers one and all twirled their
moustaches and stared at. Ternissa, whispering to each other and
laughing. Not one of them offered her a stool, although they all
remained seated. Her cheeks grew slowly scarlet with anger. She turned
her back upon them, and waited for Rimarez.
He rejoined her in about a quarter of an hour. In answer to her look of
interrogation, he shook his head, and drew her towards the door.
"I cannot even see him myself," he whispered. "Outside I will explain it
to you."
They passed out again on to the brown hillside.
"Well?" she exclaimed.
"If you ever wish to see him again alive," he said solemnly, "you must
accept my terms, and quickly. Yesterday an interview with him would have
been easy. He was an ordinary prisoner. To-day I myself should have to
get an order to see him. This morning he was transferred to the
condemned cell."
She gave a little cry, and stopped short
"You mean that he is actually in danger, immediate danger?"
"I mean that he will probably be shot within the next twenty-four hours.
This is something fresh since I was at headquarters. Evidently they fear
a disturbance."
"And you," she cried. "What are you going to do? He was your friend, you
were his confederate. If everything was known you would be sharing his
cell."
"Hush! hush!" Rimarez cried, glancing nervously around. "We are within
earshot of the prison. As to that, you are mistaken. He went too far.
But even now I will help him if I can."
"What will you do?" she demanded.
He hesitated.
"I can go to the President, my father," he said, "and beg for his
liberty. I can tell him that I fear a rising--that the people will never
take the news of his death calmly."
"And if your father refuses to listen to you'?" she asked.
"The other means," he said, "are dangerous, and if I failed, why it
would be ruin to me."
They turned a corner, and began the descent into the town. Below, a
little glare of lights glittered around the Plaza. Inside, little crowds
of people were standing about talking. To. Ternissa there was nothing
unusual in their appearance. Rimarez, better used to San Martina and its
ways, saw something significant in those gesticulating groups. A moment
before he had been hastening forwards; now he slackened his pace.
"You have only a very few moments," he said, "in which to make up your
mind."
"I have made it up," she answered quietly. "I will accept your terms."
He made a quick movement towards her, but she repulsed him with a little
shudder.
"I must see Arnold free," she said, "and through you. Then--as you
will."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"You are as cold," he said, "as your miserable country, where the sun
never shines and one never sees a gay face. Never mind. As you will.
Listen. There is no time to be lost. This path leads into the Presidency
garden. I shall take it, and see my father at once. I must know what has
been determined upon, and make my effort with him. Afterwards, I shall
come to the hotel, and let you know. You will not mind going on alone?"
She shook her head. Rimarez raised his hat and disappeared to the right.
Ternissa descended into the town, and crossed to the hotel, followed by
many curious eyes.
CHAPTER VII. THE PRESIDENT IS FIRM
"Josè dear."
The President paused, and looked back over his shoulder.
"My love."
"You are in a hurry. I wished to speak with you."
"I was going," he said, "to invite Colonel Sanarez and Mopez to dinner."
"And why?"
The President returned to his wife's side. In small matters he had great
faith in her sagacity.
"I should like," he explained, "to impress our guest favourably. He has
just relieved the Treasury from a position of--er--considerable
embarrassment."
"You will be able then," she said, "to let me send something to those
tiresome people in Paris?"
The President looked doubtful.
"Well," he said, "it is not an inexhaustible sum. I am afraid it would
not be wise to attempt to pay any private accounts. It might create
jealousy."
"Worth will send Lucia no more dresses," his wife continued placidly.
"In fact, he said that he was sending a legal summons out."
The President grinned.
"If he does we will hang the fellow," he declared. "About the account,
my dear. We will see. Lucia must have her dresses, of course. In the
meantime, I must hurry, or Sanarez will have left."
"One moment, Josè," she cried, detaining him. "It is concerning your
invitation of these men that I desired to speak with you. Do not ask
them. Let it be a family party."
The President stroked his grey moustache.
"I scarcely see any advantage in that," he remarked. "Mopez is a most
marvellous and magnificent liar. When he talks, I begin to wonder myself
whether I am not the President of the wealthiest and most prosperous
country in the world. He will impress our visitor, and in confidence, my
dear Julia, I have reason to believe that this Gregory Dene is a man of
great wealth in his own country. He might be very useful to us.
Something in the nature of a loan secured by the revenues of the
Republic might be suggested. One cannot tell what might come of it."
The lady raised two fat fingers.
"You are very clever in your own way, my dear Josè," she said, "but
there are some things into which you can see no further than your own
nose. Bah! Let the money be. It is for Lucia I speak. It is for Lucia I
say let this be a family party--you and I, Eugène and Lucia, and the
Senor Dene."
The President looked doubtful.
"You think that there is really any chance of that?" he said.
"Who can tell?" she answered. "Yet consider the time they spent together
in the garden, and the colour in Lucia's cheeks when they returned. You
were not noticing, but!--bah! it was I who sent them there. I can assure
you of this, my dear Josè--never in all her days has our Lucia changed
colour for a man, or looked at him as she looked at the Senor Dene."
"She had not much to say to him," the President remarked.
"It is the dear child's way," the Senora answered contentedly. "She is
ever thus in our presence. Yet they must have talked of many things in
the garden, and did you not hear her ask him to come to dinner? In
another it would have been unmaidenly; with Lucia it is not so. She is
always so proud and so self-contained."
"The Senor Dene," the President remarked, "does not present himself as a
man of gallantry."
The fat little lady leaned back in her chair, and waved her hand
contemptuously.
"Bah! In all San Martina, who is there like Lucia? Already she has
interested him. In his loneliness at Beau Desir, he will think of her.
To-night she will wear her white dress, and she will talk to him. He
will go away, he will carry with him the picture of her as she will be
to-night, and he will be restless. Then one fine morning there will be
business in San Martina, he will ride in--and after that, he will come
as often as she wills. Bah! do I not know?"
The President moved to the side window, and looked moodily out across
the Place to the prison.
"Well, if you are right," he said, "so much the better. If Lucia were
safely disposed of, I should feel all the more comfortable."
"The affairs of the State," she inquired--"are they not flourishing?"
"They are," he answered, "about as unflourishing as affairs can be. In
fact, they are fast approaching a crisis. Everybody is robbing the
Treasury, and everybody is discontented. The bank has refused to cash
government bonds this afternoon."
"The miscreants," she exclaimed "What shall you do?"
"Oh, we shall probably shoot the bank manager," he answered. "But even
then the mischief is done. They have either sent away or hidden the
specie. Sanarez, with half a dozen soldiers, searched the place, and
found the manager in the cellar. If it were not for this money of Senor
Dene's, I believe that San Martina would be in a state of insurrection
at this moment As it is, it will not go far."
The Senora had turned pale, and ceased to wave her fan.
"An insurrection," she exclaimed. "Oh, how detestable that word is. Do
not frighten me please, Josè. I can think only of poor Maria Da Costa."
The President shrugged his shoulders, but he was not altogether at his
ease. His predecessor and his wife had both been shot during a little
difference with the inhabitants, and it was not exactly a pleasant
memory.
"If only I dared shoot Sagasta," he said, looking gloomily at the
prison. "Unfortunately I have given my word not to until he has had a
fair trial, or the people would have had him out before now."
"You could have him tried and found guilty," the Senora suggested "You
could be the judge yourself. You have managed these things before."
"The people would be up in an hour," he said. "They are greatly incensed
now at his detention. You cannot walk in the streets without hearing his
name. I am not sure that I dare trust even my soldiers if they were
ordered to shoot him."
The Senora's fat little face was wrinkled up with thought
"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "Are there not secret ways of disposing of such
pests? It could be given out that he had died."
The President shook his head gloomily.
"The people would never believe that he had died a natural death," he
said, with a sigh. "They are so miserably suspicious. No. So far as I
can see there is one thing, and one thing only, which can pull us
through."
"And that?" the Senora asked.
"The suggestion came from you. If Gregory Dene were to ask me for Lucia,
it would be salvation."
The Senora fluttered her fan, and her black eyes twinkled.
"Explain," she demanded.
"Dene would be an excellent ally. He is popular with the people. He is
rich, and an Englishman. If he could be persuaded to take office with
me, all immediate danger would be at an end."
"Immediate danger," the Senora repeated, half closing her eyes. "Ugh."
"Well, I mean it," the President declared. "In the event of a rising, I
would not give much for the lives of any of us. There is one consolation
only. Sanarez and Mopez are more hated even than we are. They would go
first. Would it not be as well, Julie, to give Lucia a hint?"
The Senora protested most vigorously.
"Do not dream of it, my dear Josè," she begged. "It would spoil
everything. Lucia is the most extraordinary, the most peculiar girl in
the world. I alone can manage her--and I--even I am sometimes puzzled.
If you were to tell her of our desire she would not speak a word to him
all the evening. Why, Josè, let me tell you this. If she had any idea as
to the real state of affairs here, she would disclose everything to him,
and he would be wanting his money back again. If you speak of Senor Dene
to her at all, let it be slightingly. Do not praise him, or make much of
him before her. It would be fatal. All would be undone."
The President smiled.
"In your way, my dear," he said, "you are a clever woman. I leave all to
you. Only remember that the affair is of vital importance to us."
She nodded her head--a slow, mysterious gesture. It was an enterprise
which commended itself to her.
"You will see," she exclaimed. "You will see how I shall manage it But
Eugène--where is he? The Senor Dene asked twice for him. He must dine
with us to-night."
The President's face darkened.
"Concerning Eugène," he said, "there is a great deal which I should like
to say to you. My patience has a limit, and Eugène is fast approaching
it."
"Is it anything more than I know?--anything new?" she asked anxiously.
"Anything new," he repeated impatiently. "What need is there of anything
new? He has all the vices. The saints know that our discipline is lax
enough, but his colonel has complained to me repeatedly. He is but an
indifferent soldier, and he makes no effort to improve. All his time he
wastes in the hotels or worse places. He is my son, and my only son, but
my patience has its limits. He is on the point of overstepping them. I
have told him in plain words that the next time he is discovered drunk
he will be put under arrest, tried, and degraded. Yesterday he escaped
by the skin of his teeth only. To-day no one knows where he is, but I
heard by chance that he is at the hotel with a companion--of the usual
sort."
The Senora dabbed her eyes with a small handkerchief. Suddenly she half
rose from her chair and waved her hand frantically to some one out of
the window.
"It is he--Eugène!" she cried. "Eugène, my son, come hither! At least
to-day he is sober. See how well he looks."
The young man turned round with manifest distinction, and, waving his
hat, was on the point of hurrying off. But the President, who had joined
his wife at the window, summoned him back with an imperious gesture.
"Where were you going, Eugène?" he asked.
"To your room, sir," Eugène answered.
"You wished to speak to me?"
"Yes."
"You can do so here."
The young man came slowly up the piazza steps, and, taking off his white
cap, began to fan himself with it. He was obviously ill-at-ease.
"It b about him," he said, inclining his head towards the prison.
"Sagasta?"
"Yes."
"What have you to say?"
"I think," Eugène said slowly, "that I would have him shot."
His father looked at him coldly.
"Why?"
"The people are beginning to get excited. They may storm the prison at
any moment."
"And if we have him shot, what then? Will they not storm the Presidency
instead?"
Eugène shook his head.
"No. They will have no leader. They are like sheep; without Sagasta they
are not dangerous."
The President regarded his son for a moment with cold contempt.
"You called yourself his friend, Eugène," he said slowly. "What you were
planning with him you two alone know. It answered your purpose to betray
him, and you did so. Now you come to me and calmly recommend his
assassination. You give crafty reasons enough, but I think I know your
real one. You are afraid to meet him face to face. You fear that if he
were free, vengeance upon you would be his first instinct."
Eugène flushed up to the temples.
"What I did," he said, "was for all our good."
The President sighed.
"We are all poor creatures enough out here," he said, "but as I live,
Eugène, I would rather have seen you up like a man with your sword in
your hand side by side with Sagasta in open rebellion against me than
have had you first betray him and then come whining for his
assassination. Now, listen to me. Sagasta shall not be harmed unless the
people rise. So long as they remain quiet he is safe. And listen to me
further. If the time comes, as I hope it may, when I can set him free, I
will put a sword into your hand and a sword into his, and for once, at
any rate, you shall quit yourself like a man, or he shall avenge himself
for your treachery."
"Josè, Josè! how cruel you are!" the Senora cried. "Eugène is our son.
You would not see him butchered!"
The President's eyes blazed fiercely.
"He is our son," he answered sternly, "but--"
He stopped short. In his heart there was a weak spot for that fat,
honest little lady who had at least been a loyal companion to him. There
was something in her face just then as she sat with her tearful eyes
fastened upon Eugène which suddenly touched him. He would not let her
know all that he suspected. He was silent--he did not attempt to finish
his sentence. Eugène, who was pale now with fear, turned to leave them.
"Where are you going, Eugène?" his mother asked tearfully.
"I have an engagement," he muttered. "Some friends at the hotel."
"You must send them an excuse, then," his father said drily. "I require
you to dine here to-night to meet Senor Dene."
The young man's face became white with passion. A half-smothered oath
escaped from his lips.
"But it is impossible," he protested in a low tone. "I have guests."
"You will dine here to-night, Eugène," his father repeated. "And
remember, when you choose to entertain your friends you can do so here.
Explain my wishes to your friends, if necessary."
Eugène drew a quick little breath. He was horribly afraid of his father,
especially just now, but it was altogether too vexatious. He could not
give in without a struggle.
"If you will excuse me for this once only--" he pleaded.
The President interrupted him.
"Eugène," he said coldly, "I know of your guest. Let that be sufficient
for you. Do not dare to obtrude your vices upon our notice. Report
yourself in my dressing-room at seven o'clock."
Eugène made an effort to submit gracefully, but the smile which showed
his yellow teeth was not a pleasant one. He raised his hat to his mother
and turned away.
"That is another account," he muttered under his breath, "which I shall
have to settle with the Senor Dene."
CHAPTER VIII. BY ORDER OF THE STATE
"You are back again--so soon!"
Eugène Rimarez closed the door of her sitting-room behind him and threw
his cap upon the table. He had come straight from the interview with his
father, and he was in an evil humour.
"Yes, I am back. You need not show quite so plainly how unwelcome my
coming is. You look at me as though I were your worst enemy."
"That is precisely," she answered, "how I do regard you."
His eyes were lit with a wicked fire. He stretched out his hand as
though to take his cap from the table.
"It is enough," he declared. "I have an errand at the prison; I hasten to
execute it."
Her looks showed plainly how glad she was to have him go. Yet he
lingered.
"It is a mournful duty," he said. "It is hard that it should have fallen
to my lot, for, after all, Arnold and I have been friends."
She rose to her feet quickly.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
He drew a document from his pocket and spread it out before her.
"You can read it," he said "It is very clear. I went to my father and
pleaded my hardest for Arnold. He listened in silence. When I had
finished he simply handed me this paper. You can see what it is. I am to
take a file of soldiers to the prison and have him shot immediately. It
is an order signed by my father, and to it is affixed the seal of the
Republic of San Martina."
"What are you going to do?" she asked breathlessly.
"It depends," he answered, "upon you."
"Upon me!"
Her tone was one of despair. Rimarez laid down his cap and moved closer
to her side.
"Ternissa," he said softly, "why all this fear? Is it that you doubt my
affection for you? You cannot do that. You must believe that I adore
you. See what I am willing to do--to risk for your sake. I will tear
into pieces this parchment."
She withdrew herself from his too close proximity, and thrust his hand
from her wrist.
"If you really cared for me," she said slowly, "if you understood in the
least what love was, you would not for ever be trying to make a bargain
with me; you would not be content to make me miserable; you would not
seek to constrain me to do a thing I loathe. If, indeed, you loved me,"
she added in a lower key, "you would tear up that paper before my eyes
instead of seeking to use it as a bribe."
"It is not my way," he answered. "Any means which will gain my end are
welcome to me."
"No," she answered; "it is not your way."
Then there was a silence. On the table between them laid the parchment
with its red seal uppermost. It was the life of the man who was dearer
to her than any one else on earth.
"You must keep it back," she said at last, "until to-morrow."
"And when to-morrow comes," he exclaimed impatiently, "you will not have
made up your mind. Again you will seek more delay. You will say, as you
say now, 'Wait a little; wait a little.' It is so all the time. No; I
say there has been enough putting off. It shall be now."
"You had better be careful," she murmured. "If you press me just now I
may say no."
"You may," he admitted "but I do not think that you will. Listen."
A clock struck the hour. Eugène swore softly as he remembered the
necessity for his appearance at the Presidency. At least, however, he
might obtain some credit for his forced absence.
"Come!" he exclaimed. "I will be generous. I will go away now; I will
not come to you again until to-morrow. You shall have your own way. I am
too weak; a woman can do anything with me. A woman like you, Ternissa,
can make me--her slave."
His arm was suddenly around her waist. She whirled herself away with an
exclamation of anger.
"Have I not told you," she protested passionately, "that I will not be
touched? I detest it."
"But consider," he pleaded, "that I love you."
"Consider also," she retorted, "that I hate you."
An oath broke from Eugène's lips. He was shaking with anger.
"You will have to be more civil some day," he said in a low, hoarse
tone. "Meanwhile, I leave you. It is--until to-morrow."
Ternissa was left to herself only for a few minutes. She was still
standing at the window gazing towards the gaunt-looking prison on the
hill when she heard the door of her room opened without even a
preliminary knock. She looked hastily round. It was the landlord of the
hotel, who stood there holding in his hand a sheet of paper.
"It is the bill of mademoiselle," he explained, tendering it to her.
"I do not require it at present," she answered. "I am not leaving
to-day, at any rate."
The landlord--a little Frenchman--shrugged his shoulders.
"Nevertheless," he repeated, "it is the bill of mademoiselle. I regret
that these rooms are required. I cannot possibly accommodate
mademoiselle."
She looked at him in amazement
"What do you mean?" she demanded. "The hotel is almost empty. If you
require these rooms particularly others will do for me."
"I regret," he repeated, "that I cannot accommodate mademoiselle."
The colour rose slowly into her cheeks. The man's bearing was insolent
and offensive. His black eyes sought hers boldly. His smile was an
insult. He was a very different person to the cringing little man who
had welcomed her all politeness and bows.
"Do you mean," she said, "that you wish to turn me out?"
"I mean," he said, "that it would be well for mademoiselle to seek more
suitable quarters. Mine is a respectable family hotel. You should take
rooms in the quarter St. Michael--Mais monsieur! monsieur!"
The door had been suddenly thrown open, and Dene, who was in a towering
rage, had stretched forth a great hand, and, lifting the little man up
by the collar, had shaken him as though he were a rat. When he set him
down his cheeks were livid and his teeth were chattering. Dene was still
beside himself with anger.
"Now tell me what you mean, sir, by insulting this lady," he said
fiercely.
Monsieur Legrasse was cringing, but quite ready to justify himself.
"Indeed, monsieur," he explained, "I have not the desire to insult
mademoiselle. I have merely obeyed orders which I dared not ignore. It
is Monsieur the President who has written to me himself. Will Monsieur
Dene but read his note?"
Dene glanced through the note which Legrasse handed to him, and which
was certainly signed by the President; then, with an angry exclamation,
he tore it into pieces.
"The President has been misinformed," Dene declared shortly. "I shall
see him in a few minutes, and I will set matters straight In the
meantime, get out, and take your bill with you!"
The landlord withdrew, but with considerably less than his usual
politeness. Dene closed the door after him. Then he turned to Ternissa.
Her first expression on seeing him had been one of glad relief; since
then her face had clouded over. She addressed him coldly.
"I have given you no permission to come here, or to interfere in my
affairs, Mr. Dene," she said "Please explain your visit at once, and
leave me."
"Mine," he said bluntly, "is the next room, and the hotel is like a
great match-box. I heard a few words of your conversation with Eugène
Rimarez--also I heard what Legrasse had the effrontery to say to you."
She looked at him steadily.
"You mean," she said, "that you have been listening."
"I heard what Legrasse said to you," he repeated.
"You are aware, I suppose, in what light such conduct must appear to
me?" she remarked coldly.
"I cannot help it," he answered. "I heard the man's insolence, and it
was more than flesh and blood could stand. Listen to me, Miss Denison.
You are alone in this outlandish place, and I claim the right to be your
friend. You hold me all the while at arm's length. It is not reasonable.
Come! I have a bargain to make with you. I simply say that I know you
are in some trouble and you must let me help you. I am a
fellow-countryman and I am not powerless here. The President is
favourably disposed towards me. I have money and some influence; they
are at your service. I want to extricate you from your present dilemma,
whatever it may be. Afterwards we can be friends or not, as you choose."
"Mr. Dene," she answered firmly, "I know that you mean to be kind, I
should have ordered you out of the room before. I will not say what I
think of your conduct in playing the eavesdropper; I will try to forget
it, and I will think of you as a friend if you will only do as I ask
you. I am in great trouble and in a great difficulty; I admit that, but
there is only one man who can help me, and that man is not you. Every
time you thrust yourself--forgive my plain speaking--upon me, you only
enhance my difficulties. Now please to leave me."
"You do not wish me, then, even to speak of you to the President?" he
asked.
"Most certainly not. I only wish you to go away."
"You leave me," he said, with a sudden cold fear at his heart, "no
alternative. Only remember that my offer of a home at Beau Desir is
still open to you. You will be welcome there whenever you choose to
come."
Dene turned and left the room. Outside on the landing Mons. Legrasse was
waiting.
CHAPTER IX. A DINNER PARTY AT THE PRESIDENCY
Dene, as he made his way across the Square to the President's house,
found every corner blocked with little groups of gesticulating and
excited men talking eagerly together and pointing often to the
dingy-looking prison on the hill. One name he heard continually upon
their lips--"Sagasta"--and the same name had just been pronounced by the
Senora Rimarez when the black footman in resplendent livery opened the
drawing-room door and announced his arrival to the President and his
wife.
"Sagasta!" Dene repeated as he bowed to the Senora. "Is it a man's name,
or a new orchid, or the name of a country? I heard it a dozen times as I
crossed the Plaza, and again from your lips as I entered the room."
"Sagasta," said a voice from behind him, "is the name of a man who is
most unjustly kept in the prison of San Martina."
Dene turned round, and had some difficulty in restraining the
exclamation which rose to his lips. Lucia had glided out from the
conservatory, looking like a beautiful picture in the white muslin gown
which hung so softly and gracefully about her straight, slim figure. A
necklace of pearls gleamed upon her white throat, a single scarlet
flower seemed somehow to have entwined itself amongst the dark coils of
her jet-black hair. She welcomed Dene with a brilliant smile, and for
the first time he realised how charming her natural expression was. But
almost as he bent over her fingers some shadow of the old sullenness
fell upon her face.
"Is that possible?" Dene remarked a little absently, with his eyes still
fixed upon Lucia, "in so admirably governed a State as San Martina?"
"My daughter," the President said stiffly, with a disapproving glance
towards her, "is naturally wholly ignorant of the politics of the State.
Sagasta was at one time a very clever and a very useful citizen, and no
one regretted more than I the--er--ill-advised behaviour which compelled
us to take severe measures."
Lucia shrugged her beautiful shoulders, but her eyes were lit with fire.
"Sagasta was ill-advised, it is true," she said. "He was ill-advised to
trust in those who betrayed him. Yet he was honest, and there are few
like him in San Martina. If there were more we should have a peaceful
and happy time, instead of trembling day by day lest some one or other
should proclaim a revolution."
"Is it really as bad as that?" Dene asked gravely.
The President was white with rage, but he kept his dignity.
"I trust you will remember, Senor Dene," he said, "that my daughter is
young and impressionable, and also that she is speaking of a matter
concerning which she is wholly ignorant."
Lucia's lip curled, but she answered nothing. Dinner was announced, and
Dene gave his arm to the Senora. For a few minutes conversation was
abandoned; but as they crossed the great stone hall Dene could hear the
President talking to Lucia in a low, severe tone. The girl took her seat
with a hard, defiant look upon her face--her whole expression for the
moment was changed.
Dinner was served at a round table in the centre of a great, somewhat
bare-looking apartment. Four negro servants, in handsome livery and
superintended by an English butler, waited at table, and two more worked
the great fans which hung from the ceiling. The cooking and wines were
alike excellent. As the dinner progressed Dene grew a little thoughtful
He had seen so much poverty during the day amongst the half-breeds and
lower classes of the town, that the contrast with such magnificence as
this was rather unpleasantly suggestive. There were no guests, but
Eugène came in late and took his seat after a constrained greeting with
Dene.
There was at first but little conversation. Lucia, who ate very little
and drank water, was taciturn and almost morose; her mother, who ate a
great deal, beamed on everybody, and only attempted monosyllables. The
President was for a while severely silent. As the entries were brought
in, however, he thawed a little, and returned to the former subject of
conversation.
"You must not allow yourself to think, Senor Dene," he said, "that my
daughter's very ill-advised remark has any real significance. Of course,
in San Martina the population is so mixed that there is a great deal of
racial feeling, and this leads at times to much wild talk. But, taken as
a whole, I believe that the present Government is popular. We work for
the people, and taxation is very light. There has been no such thing as
a revolution for years now, nor are there any present signs of one."
Lucia listened with scornful face and Dene with polite attention. And
then through the wide balcony hung with light mosquito netting, but
otherwise open to the street, there came floating up a low muttering
cry--
"Sagasta!"
"What has been done to Sagasta?"
"Give him up to us."
"Sagasta!"
The President controlled his features admirably, but Senora Rimarez
turned pale. Eugène muttered something beneath his breath and turned
with a look of inquiry to his father. The President nodded, and Eugène
left the room.
"This man Sagasta," Dene remarked, proceeding with his dinner, "appears
to be popular."
The President poured out and drank a full glass of champagne.
"Amongst the idlers and the scum of the city," he said sternly. "He is
what you would call in England an anarchist, or a socialist."
"There is a considerable difference," Dene remarked, smiling. "I am
generally supposed to be some sort of a socialist myself, but God
preserve us from anarchists!"
Lucia flashed upon him a softer look.
"It is true," she said. "What you have done for your people at Beau
Desir proves it. It is what Sagasta would like to do for San Martina."
The President kept his temper admirably. He even smiled indulgently at
his daughter.
"The Senor Dene," he said, "has bought and paid for his land like a man
of honour and justice. What he does with it is his own concern. Sagasta,
from the most charitable point of view, would rob and pillage the rich
for the sake of the poor. The inequalities of states which exist are
perhaps to be deplored, but while one man has brains and another muscle
they are inevitable. We who are called upon to govern cannot fail to
realise this."
"Sagasta personally--" Dene began.
"I do not believe in," the President interrupted. "I take the liberty
there, you see, of differing even from my daughter." He bowed to her
sarcastically. "He is a man of parts and intelligence, but what he
desires is power and position for himself. He would rise to these on the
shoulders of the people."
"Is he," Dene asked, "a Spaniard?"
The President and his wife exchanged swift glances, and almost
simultaneously both frowned at Lucia. But she only smiled.
"Senor Sagasta," she said, "is an English gentleman."
Dene looked up with amazement. The President groaned to himself. Here
was another complication. Dene would very likely interfere now and
protest against his being shot.
"Why, I was at collie with a Sagasta!" Dene exclaimed. "It would not by
any possible chance be the same man."
"It is very likely indeed," Lucia continued, much interested "He was at
Magdalen College, Oxford."
Dene set down his glass.
"Arnold Sagasta, as I live!" he declared. "This is a most extraordinary
thing. After all, how small the world is. Sagasta was once an
acquaintance of mine. How long has he been out here?"
The President waved his hand, and the servants fell back out of hearing.
"Sagasta," he said, "has been here in San Martina for ten years. For the
first part of the time he was a very valuable inhabitant, who took his
place in our counsels, was highly respected, and was looked upon as one
of our most prominent citizens. He was a guest in my house continually,
and but for his own folly he might to-day have occupied the post of my
secretary and chief adviser."
Lucia shrugged her white shoulders and opened her lips as though to
speak. A glance from her father, however, kept her silent. There were
times when the President was a dangerous man.
"Five years ago," the President continued calmly, "he became associated
with a party of the State who have ruined him as they have ruined many a
better man. Since then his downfall has been slow but sure. His business
has declined; he spent all his time discussing anarchy and rebellion
with all the riff-raff of the place, who are too lazy to work and too
mischievous to permit others to do so. Two months ago I found him
implicated in a proposed rebellion against me, and I was compelled to
have him arrested and thrust into prison. He is there now, and his fate
is undecided."
"I am sorry to hear this," Dene said gravely. "I should like very much
to see him, if you could arrange it."
"We will talk further of it over a cigar," the President said.
"Meanwhile--"
He raised his hand and the service of dinner was continued. In a few
minutes the Senora arose, and Lucia followed her. Dene, as he stood
behind his chair, felt the girl's dark eyes challenge his, and looked
steadily into them. It was only a momentary glance, but it thrilled him.
There was something which she had to say to him. He resumed his seat
most unwillingly.
CHAPTER X. SAGASTA
"To return," the President said, carefully choosing himself a cigar, "to
the subject of Sagasta. Will you take a glass of Chateau-y-quem or a
liqueur?"
Dene helped himself mechanically.
"Poor Sagasta!" he murmured.
"No one," the President continued, "regrets his downfall more than I do,
for he might have become my most useful and trusted helper in the State.
He preferred to ally himself with the disreputable party, the scum of
the whole place, and actually to become the organiser of an attempted
rising against us. He is bound, of course, to pay the penalty. What that
may be I am not at present absolutely prepared to state. I myself am on
the side of mercy, but I am somewhat awkwardly situated. On the one hand
I have to deal with a very dangerous sub-population of half-breeds--low
caste Portuguese and natives, who are all on his side; on the other, all
the more respectable inhabitants of the place will listen to nothing but
the very firmest measures."
"Do you mean by that--death?" Dene asked.
The President assented gravely. As a matter of fact, his nod to Eugène
had been Sagasta's death warrant.
"If it were not for my personal influence," the President continued,
"Sagasta would have been shot any day during the last month. If there is
much more of this"--he held up his finger, and Dene caught the sound of
many voices in the Place below--"he must die! I cannot possibly hold out
much longer."
"I should like very much to see him," Dene said. "Don't you think that
he might be got out of the country quite quietly? If we had his word not
to return, that would end the difficulty, would it not?"
"It would end it in a manner which would be most agreeable to me," the
President said thoughtfully. "I am no lover of bloodshed, although in a
young unformed country like this strong measures have often to be taken.
I shall give you an order to see him, Senor Dene, but I want you to
remember this: I send you openly and without reservation to see my worst
enemy. You will find him very bitter against me. He will abuse me
personally, my government, and the whole country. I place no obstacle in
the way of your free intercourse with him, but I am sure that you will
not allow yourself to be prejudiced by a fanatic."
"I will remember all that you have said," Dene answered. "Sagasta was
always hot-headed and impetuous, and I daresay his imprisonment will
have made him sore."
"Very well then," the President said, rising. "We will go into my study,
Senor Dene, and I will write you the order. But, first of all--you hear
that murmuring under the windows? Step outside cautiously--do not show
yourself, but gain a view of the Place below, and see for yourself what
manner of people these are who clamour for Sagasta."
Dene walked carefully out on to the broad verandah, and, keeping in the
shadow of one of the white pillars, peered downward through the mosquito
netting. Little groups of men were dotted about all over the Place
talking together eagerly, and directly below a much larger crowd were
gathered together standing for the most part in sullen silence. Dene
noticed that all the shops which fronted the Plaza were secured with
boarding, and the lower windows of the Government house itself were
barred with iron shutters. A double row of sentries stood motionless
against the wall, armed with rifles which were obviously ready for
immediate use. There was an undeniable tinge of excitement in the air.
The faces of the men were certainly not prepossessing. They were a bad
lot as a whole--that Dene could, readily believe; but they were also a
dangerous lot. Then there happened something which was to altogether
convince him of it. He moved a step forward to see further down the
Square; almost immediately there was a loud report from below, a
blinding sheet of flame, and Dene felt his right cheek suddenly hot. The
President rushed forward and dragged him into the room.
"Did I not tell you not to show yourself, Senor Dene?" he said coolly.
"They mistook you for me. There is always an assassin in an excited
crowd like that, every one of whom is armed. You have had a narrow
escape."
Dene dabbed his cheek with his handkerchief, and was surprised to find
no blood there. The bullet must have passed within an inch of him.
"Yours must be a somewhat unpleasant position," he remarked to the
President "Does this sort of thing happen often?"
The President shook his head.
"Not so often, Senor, as you might imagine," he answered. "You see I
know them, and I know how to deal with them. It is at night, when they
have been drinking, that they are most desperate. I never show myself
then. I am sorry that I did not warn you more definitely."
There was the sound of a scuffle, a hoarse cry, and the report of a
rifle. They approached the window and looked carefully out. The body of
a man was being carried away by two of the sentries, surrounded by a
little escort.
"They have shot the fellow," the President remarked. "It is summary
justice, but he deserved it."
Dene drew back with a little shudder. He was not used to this light
regarding of human life. The President watched him with some anxiety.
"You must not imagine, Senor Dene," he said, "that this is exactly an
everyday occurrence. Do not think us any worse than we are. There is a
good deal of agitation just now about Sagasta; otherwise my citizens, as
a rule, are a law-biding body, and we have little real trouble. Come! I
have written out your order; it is here. We will, if you are ready, join
my wife and daughter. Take a liqueur and light another cigarette. Good!
We will go now and look for some coffee."
They found the Senora alone in the drawing-room, and half asleep. She
woke up at their coming, smiled placidly, and dispensed some coffee in
tiny Dresden cups. Lucia was nowhere to be seen, but when Dene mentioned
her name, the Senora inclined her head towards the conservatory.
"Lucia is amongst the palms," she said. "Will you go and talk to her? It
is very cool there, but I am always lazy after dinner."
Dene rose at once and went in search of her. She was in one of the
darkest corners of the conservatory, herself something like a beautiful
exotic flower in her white gown, standing upon the marble pavement with
her bands clasped together, and her dark eyes flashing and glowing upon
him like stars as he came towards her. It was not until he stood by her
side that she spoke.
"How long you have been," she said softly. "I began to think that you
were not coming at all--that I should not see you again. You understood
that I had something to say to you?"
Her voice was almost a whisper in his ears, and he was conscious of a
distinct thrill of admiration as he looked at her. She was so slim, and
white, and graceful, and there was no longer any frown. Her lips were
parted in a dazzling smile. She seemed to draw him to her, and he was
bewildered at the effect her beauty had upon him.
"I came," he answered with an attempt at lightness, "as soon as your
father would permit me. That I am able to at all is owing to the
wretched shooting of your charming townspeople."
The smile died from her lips.
"I heard a shot," she said. "Was it fired at you?"
He nodded.
"I was mistaken," he explained, "for your father. It was one of
Sagasta's friends who was trying his skill."
She sighed.
"If anything happens to Sagasta," she remarked, "there will be more than
a little wild shooting, My father has been talking to you about him?"
"Yes."
"I wonder," she said thoughtfully, "how much he has told you."
"For instance?"
"Did he tell you that Sagasta was once Eugène's friend, and mine?"
"I understood," Dene answered, "that he had been on friendly terms with
you all."
"Did he tell you," she continued, looking down and breaking off a
scarlet flower which hung down from the roof, "that he went with Eugène
to Europe, that he was our constant companion, that he almost lived
here?"
He received suddenly an odd little shock. He looked down at her, and for
a moment their eyes met. The rich colour streamed into her face.
"Was he anything more than a companion to you?" he asked gravely.
She laughed softly and gaily, such a laugh that drove away every vestige
of the curious fear which for a moment had seized him.
"Poor Arnold," she said. "No, he has never made love to me, if that is
what you mean. Yet we were friends and he trusted me. He told me his
very sad history, and I pitied him. At least, I do not mean him to die.
If no one else can save him, I shall."
She spoke simply but firmly. He regarded her with admiration.
"What can you do?"
"Do not ask me," she answered. "It is much better for you not to know.
You are going to help me, but it will be unknown even to yourself."
"Well," he said, "there was a time when I rather liked Arnold Sagasta. I
meant to try what I could do."
"I wonder," she asked, dropping her voice a little, "have you received
permission to visit him?"
"Yes."
"You have a written order?"
"Yes."
"Signed by my father?"
Again he assented.
"Which pocket is it in?"
He shoved it her in her breast pocket She calmly took it out and read
it.
"The bearer may have a private interview with the prisoner,
Sagasta.--RIMAREZ."
She folded it up, and before he could stop her she had thrust it into
the bosom of her gown.
"Listen," she said. "This has been stolen from you. Remember that you do
not know by whom; or if even that little white lie is too much for you,
keep your own counsel. It has been stolen from you. There is just a
chance. That is all!"
"You are going to make use of it?" he asked.
"Never mind. Now please take me back into the drawing-room, and would
you mind making a little effort--for Sagasta's sake?"
Again the dark eyes were mischievously raised to his. Her head was so
close that the perfume from that single scarlet flower in her hair
seemed to fill the air with a peculiar fragrance.
"For the sake of--Sagasta," he answered. "I am your servant. Only you
must tell me what I am to do."
She broke off an orchid, and thrust it through his buttonhole.
"Well, I do not want them to think that we have been talking seriously
at all. That is why I am decorating you. Now, will you please make a
great effort and be very attentive--that is the word, is it not?--to me
for about ten minutes. Then I shall release you, for it is getting
late."
She laid her hand upon his coat sleeve, and they entered the
drawing-room together. The Senora beamed graciously upon them. Rimarez,
who was writing at a table, paused for a moment to marvel at his wife's
forethought as he noted the air of confidence between them. Lucia drew
him towards a huge lounge at the further end of the room, and picked up
a mandolin.
"I shall sing you now," she said, "a little song! Then I shall go away."
She sang a little French chanson, a Breton love-song, very sweetly and
very softly. The music was so dainty, and her voice so delicate, that
long after she had struck the last bar he sat there hoping for more.
Then he heard the rustling of her gown. He looked up. Her place was
empty, she had reached the door. He sprang to his feet, and she waved
him a laughing good-night. The President and his wife exchanged glances
and a smile.
"The thing was already," the Senora thought, "as good as settled."
CHAPTER XI. A RESCUE
A man was sitting alone in a room of the prison of San Martina. It was
scarcely a cell in which he had been placed, yet it was hard to conceive
a more miserable apartment. The floor was bare, the walls had once been
whitewashed, but were now thickly encrusted with all manner of dirt and
cobwebs. There was no furniture save a chair, a wooden bed, and a table,
all of the plainest and most wretched description. No wonder that the
man who sat there was miserable.
He was neither young nor old, handsome or ugly--yet here ended all
kinship with the nonentity. He was slim and dark, with mobile features,
and a mouth whose humorous and sensitive proclivities made it the most
marked feature of his face. He sat with his hollow eyes fixed steadfastly
upon the little level patch of deep-blue sky visible through the iron bars
of his prison window. Dimly he could see the lights of the town, faintly
he could hear the echoes of many voices from the people thronging the
Square, and neither the sight nor the hearing seemed pleasant to him.
He drew his cigarette from his mouth, and holding it between his fingers,
began to talk softly to himself.
"A pack of cowardly scum after all," he muttered. "Not a man amongst
them, or they would have had me out of this before now. If Rimarez can
keep them quiet a little longer he will be safe. They will forget me,
and what I have taught them. He can use the iron heel again, and down
the poor cowards will go, cringing and suffering in silence. What a race
it is. What a race of liars and cravens! But, oh, my friend Eugène, what
would I not give for ten minutes, five minutes even, here alone with
you. It would repay me for everything. If ever again I am a free man,
there is a heavy reckoning for you and for me."
He relit his cigarette, which had gone out, and began to walk leisurely
up and down the room, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed moodily
upon the floor. Suddenly he stopped short, and listened. Footsteps were
at hand, approaching with measured beat along the narrow corridor. There
was the jailer's heavy tramp, but he was not alone. Whilst Sagasta was
wondering who his companion might be, the great key turned in the lock,
the door was thrown open, and a young man in a familiar uniform and
military cap slouched over his eyes was ushered in.
Sagasta gazed at him for a moment with contracted brows and an
expression of blank wonderment.
"Eugène," he cried. "Why, what in the name of all that is sinful brings
you--here?"
The young man shrugged his shoulders and looked behind. When he was
quite sure that the door had been dosed, and that they were alone, he
turned round and removed his cap. Sagasta's first surprise was as
nothing compared with his subsequent amazement. He seemed bereft for the
moment of words. He went up to his visitor, and laid his hands upon his
shoulders.
"If I am not dreaming," he exclaimed, "it's--why, I'm hanged if it is
not Lucia."
The girl shook herself gently free from his clasps and drew her cloak
around her.
"Of course it is Lucia," she answered a little pettishly. "As I have
suffered the annoyance and inconvenience of assuming this most
uncomfortable disguise, the least you can do is to pretend that you do
not see me."
"It is assumed already," Sagasta answered. "If one might venture to
inquire--"
"Oh, there is no time to waste," she interrupted. "Listen to me. I have
come, if I can, to save your life. The President has signed your
death-warrant; Eugène is now endeavouring to get a file of soldiers whom
he can rely upon to shoot you. They have made up their minds to get rid
of you."
"I am exceedingly obliged to them," he said, "but I shall object very
strongly to anything of the sort."
"Nevertheless," she continued, "it is as I say. Your death-warrant is
signed, the soldiers may arrive at any moment."
"This is the work, I presume," he said, "of your delightful brother?"
She nodded.
"Chiefly. My father, too, has a very bad opinion of you. He has quite
decided to have you shot."
Sagasta smiled grimly.
"I may find a way to cheat their bullets yet," he remarked. "Tell me,
now, why you have come here."
"To save you, if I can."
He looked at her admiringly.
"What a thoroughbred little brick you are, Lucia!" he exclaimed. "I only
hope you won't get into trouble."
"Not if you do exactly as I say," she answered, "without delay, without
hesitation. Listen! Take my cap and cloak. March boldly out of the
place. The password is, 'Glorious San Martina,' and the countersign,
'Long life to President Rimarez.' Keep your coat buttoned up to your
throat I have told every one that I have neuralgia."
"But you," he objected. "What is to become of you?"
"I have made all my plans," she answered. "I shall slip across the
passage there into the governor's room. I have had him summoned to the
Presidency, but, as Captain Rimarez, I have the entree to his rooms.
Then I shall leave the prison a little after you by his private door.
You have only to reach the town, and you are safe. The people will not
let you be retaken."
"They have not as yet," he remarked drily, "shown themselves much
concerned about me."
"You would not have said so," she answered, "if you could have heard
them this evening. Your name has been on their lips hour by hour. As we
sat at dinner to-night we heard them in the Place shouting for Sagasta.
What they need is a leader. They are a flimsy race--they have no
backbone. If one had stood up before them and had said, 'Sagasta is our
friend. Let us rescue him. Let us storm the prison!' the thing would
have been done. I know this, for I have watched and listened to them."
"And you alone, Lucia," he said admirably, "have had the pluck to try
and save me. You are a wonderful girl."
"Try and remember that, my friend," she said, smiling, "next time you
launch one of your terrible thunderbolts against my sex."
"I will launch no more," he answered. "I told you once that your sex was
incapable of friendship. I retract! You have proved the contrary. I hope
that we shall always be friends, Lucia--that nothing will ever come
between us."
"Something will come between us, and that something will be your death,
if you linger here," she interrupted quickly. "But first I require a
promise from you, the price of your freedom."
"Well?"
"I cannot stay your hand in whatever you may choose to do politically.
That is a matter in which I do not interfere. But if there is a rising
of the people, and you are engaged in it, I ask you now that the lives
of my father and mother shall be preserved. It would be better perhaps
if I made you promise to leave the country, but I am not asking that It
is only folly to interfere with destiny, and I believe that you are
destined to lead a revolution here."
"The better things," he said, "must in the end prevail, and the days of
corrupt government, even in such an out-of-the-way spot as this, are
numbered. For the lives of your people I pledge my own. I cannot do
more."
He flung the cloak over his shoulders, and they moved to the door. There
was no one about, but the jailer's steady tramp could be heard close at
hand. Sagasta walked boldly away down the dimly-lit passage, and Lucia,
locking the door behind her, slipped down another corridor and into the
governor's apartments.
CHAPTER XII. THE WARNING GUN
All night long San Martina was in a state of suppressed uproar. Dene,
when he returned to the hotel, found it packed with people, and the very
walls of the place shook with the mingled clamour of revelry and excited
speeches. The hall was blocked with men shouting their orders; they were
sitting upon the banister, overturned cases, even upon the stairs to the
topmost flight. The waiters, sworn at and threatened whenever they
appeared with their trays upon their heads, were making only feeble
efforts to cope with this invasion. Dene, who had just returned from the
Presidency, stood for a moment looking upon the scene in wonderment
Then, realising the impossibility of reaching his room, and the further
impossibility of sleep if ever he should reach it, he stepped back again
into the street almost unnoticed.
The hotel had become for the moment the headquarters of the malcontents,
and outside, the crowd in the Place was thinning fast Dene lit his pipe
and strolled aimlessly along. Then a breath of sea air and a vision of
twinkling lights set in a black gulf directed his footsteps. He turned
to the left and climbed the hill of San Martina, on the top of which
stood the fort and prison.
Soon he reached a little iron seat, with several of which a former
President had adorned the crest of the hill. He sat down and relit his
pipe, which had gone out during the ascent Below him on his right the
lights of uneasy San Martina flared up to the deep, soft sky; in front
was the ocean; above the sullen, grim-looking prison, casting a long,
frowning shadow downwards. Dene drew a little sigh of relief. He had
found a spot where he could be alone for a few moments and think over
calmly the events of a day which had certainly been one of the most
momentous of his life.
For now that he had actually parted with the money for Beau Desir, and
committed himself to this one spot on the earth for the carrying out of
his experiment, he began to see that he had done a somewhat unwise and
certainly a hasty thing. When he had been in San Martina before there
had been no signs of a political crisis; the little state indeed had
appeared to him, so far as he could judge, to be in a sound and
prosperous condition. He had formed his conclusions too hastily. Yet,
after all, had he so much to fear? Beau Desir was well outside the
feverish influences of a rebellion if one should take place. He could
scarcely be dragged into it; and it was very unlikely that the
conquering party would seek to dispossess him. There was a British
consul within a few days' journey. It could be the policy of no one to
make enemies of him and his men. Only he must do his best to be away
before the flame was kindled. The wisest course for him was to leave San
Martina at daybreak with such of his possessions as were unshipped, and
let the other things follow...
What a change in her appearance when she was not peevish or frowning.
Dene wondered whether he had ever seen a more beautiful face than the
one which was smiling at him through the clouds of his tobacco smoke.
His thoughts had suddenly taken an abrupt turn. He was back again in the
Presidency talking to Lucia. Her absolute frankness and sincerity had
appealed to him; she was a wonderfully picturesque figure in his memory.
The delicious coquettishness which seemed to be a part of her
cosmopolitanism, the legacy of what was French in her mother and what
was Spanish in her father, gave her a certain airy, delicate charm which
no other woman whom he had ever met had possessed in the least degree.
She stood quite alone; there was no one with whom he could compare her.
When he thought of her in the conservatory, with the lights gleaming on
her dark, burnished hair and her wonderful eyes raised to his, he was
conscious that the memory brought with it a distinct and curiously
pleasant thrill.
Suddenly he was recalled from a train of thought which was not without
its own peculiar fascinations to the grim and uninteresting present. He
pulled himself together and turned round with a start. He had heard
nothing, but he had received a swift and strong impression that he was
not alone. To his amazement he found a stranger was sharing his seat. A
man in a long military coat, whose approach must have been absolutely
noiseless and who must further have come from the summit of the hill and
not from the town, was sitting on the other corner of the bench.
The new-comer turned his head at Dene's movement. His cloak and a
peaked-hat, worn over his forehead, concealed most of his face; but from
the first Dene felt some instinct of recognition. When he spoke the
instinct became a certainty.
"Gregory Dene, by the shades of Alma Mater!" the new-comer exclaimed.
"Sagasta!" Dene replied, in blank wonderment "Why, I thought that you
were in prison!"
"So I was, twenty minutes ago. I have just escaped!"
"Bravo!" Dene said, still a little dazed. "Tell me how you managed it
But are you safe so near? Why don't you get into the town and hide?"
Sagasta paused to light a cigarette.
"When they discover," he said, "that I have given them the slip they
will fire a gun. I shall have plenty of time when I hear that to get
into the town. I paused here to reflect I am not sure what to do."
"The whole place," Dene said, "is in a most excited state. The shops are
barricaded and the standing army is drawn up around the Presidency. The
people here are the most excitable I ever saw in all my life."
"And that rascal, the President?"
"I have been dining with him this evening," Dene answered, with a smile.
"He is in perfect health, and apparently excellent spirits. He professes
to have no anxiety for the future, but I fancy that he is reckoning upon
your early decease."
Sagasta knocked the ash from his cigarette, and replacing it in his
mouth, folded his arms and leaned back.
"I am pausing here," he said, "because I am not quite sure whether
destiny may not have something more in store for me than to become
President of San Martina, and to build up in the future a model state.
If I show myself in the town below, the thing is settled. I cannot
escape from it. The people are all with me and half the military. The
revolution would not last an hour. There are half a dozen whom I should
hang--otherwise it would be bloodless. But then, I have to ask myself
this question: is it worth while? After all, I am chiefly a theorist. As
a practical man I might be a failure; and in any case it would bore me
terribly."
"The old Sagasta!" Dene murmured.
"I should have to work hard, and to meet with disappointments," Sagasta
continued. "I should meet with ingratitude and with crass stupidity. I
should have to imbue with a sense of morality and order a people who do
not possess either. Probably I should become in a month as unpopular as
Rimarez, which would be a great blow to my vanity, besides placing me in
a somewhat painful position."
"I speak," Dene remarked, "as a man wholly ignorant of such matters, but
I detest force as a factor in any readjustment of things. Cannot you
work politically?"
"Not," Sagasta answered drily, "in San Martina. I have tried that, and I
have narrowly escaped hanging. It is a penal offence here to protest
against the President paying for his wife's clothes out of the public
coffers. The fact is that every one who has any position at all has a
dip in, and I am not at all sure that half my supporters might not
expect to be placed in a somewhat similar position if they made me
President. I find it hard, Dene, to make up my mind absolutely what to
do."
Crack! Whizz! Bang!
Both men turned suddenly round. From the prison above came the dull
booming of a gun, followed by the reports of several rifles. They had
discovered the escape of the prisoner.
Sagasta sprang to his feet.
"I am for the town," he cried. "There is one man whom I cannot bear to
leave alive here. Dene, a word with you. You will see the President and
that hound Sanarez! Tell them this from me. If harm comes to the person
who set me free, I will hang them both from the flagstaff of the prison
before sundown to-morrow."
"When I see them, and if it is necessary," Dene answered, knocking out
the ashes of his pipe, "I will not fail to give them your agreeable
message!"
CHAPTER XIII. THE CRY OF THE PBOPLE
The path which led from the prison down into the town curled round and
round in corkscrew fashion above the seat on which Dene had been
sitting. He stood up and listened. Light, flying footsteps were coming
towards him, followed close behind by heavier ones. Wonderfully light
footsteps they were for a man's, Dene thought, as he moved a little on
one side to let the chase go by him, and listened to their flying beat.
It must be a boy who was the fugitive. Nearer and nearer they came; at
every stride the pursuer seemed to be gaining ground. The capture would
probably take place within a few yards of him. Dene glanced down towards
the town. So far all was still. There was no hope for the runaway from
there, if his captor felt in the mood for summary vengeance. At that
moment Dene was not sure whether he meant to interfere or not.
But, as it happened, that was decided for him in very unexpected
fashion. The chase at that moment came in sight A slim, dark figure came
flying round the corner, with uncertain footsteps and evidently failing
strength. Almost immediately behind was a man in uniform, and no sooner
had they appeared in sight than the race was over. With a sudden leap
forward the pursuing man threw his arm around the neck of his quarry.
They came to an abrupt and breathless standstill within a few feet of
Dene. He could see them both distinctly in the faint moonlight. The
captured man wore the uniform of an officer in the army of San Martina,
and at first glance Dene had no doubt whatever but that it was Eugène
Rimarez. The man in whose grasp he was appeared to be one of the
sentries from the prison. The two looked at one another, panting and
speechless, the sentry with blank amazement, his prisoner with face
which seemed ablaze with passion, and with a frown which reminded Dene
wonderfully of Lucia's.
"You beast! How dare you touch me! Take your hands away!"
The sentry looked more and more mystified. Slowly his hand went up to
the military salute.
"The Senor Capitan must forgive," he began; "but it was my duty. It was
surely the Senor Capitan who has just paid Sagasta a visit, and he must
know that the prisoner had escaped. It was all most unaccountable, most
mysterious--"
The man broke suddenly off in the string of his apologies. He took a
quick step nearer to the prisoner whom he had a moment before released,
and as though by accident knocked his cap off. Then he burst out
laughing, for Lucia's dark hair, suddenly escaped from its bonds, fell
about her shoulders.
"By the Holy Saints!" he cried, "it's a girl, and a beauty too! Come,
come! No temper! The game is up, little one. You must return with me,
but you shall be well treated. Oh, never fear that, for I will look
after you myself. Santa Maria! but what eyes! Come, just one kiss; it is
well to be friends with your jailer, little one, and if you are
reasonable--well, who knows!"
He made an effort to embrace her, but stopped short with a cry of pain.
Lucia had struck him across the cheek with all the strength of her
outstretched palm, and her diamond rings had cut into his flesh.
"You beast!" she exclaimed passionately. "Let me alone!"
The man recovered himself, and before she could escape she was in his
arms.
"You shall repay me many times for that blow, dear little one," he said
mockingly, "many times indeed. Come, I will have a few kisses to start
with. Just to whet the appetite, you understand. I must be quick, too,
for soon my comrades will be here, and they will demand a share. But
first come first served. This is--Holy Maria!"
He went over like a log, inert and lifeless. Dene stood between them,
cool but angry. Lucia recognised him at once and a light broke across
her face.
"You!" she exclaimed, with a breathless little sob of relief. "You! Oh,
what fortune! You will protect me!"
She clasped her hands around his arm, and then suddenly she remembered.
Her cheeks became scarlet Dene looked at her half in amusement, half in
pity.
"You are quite safe now," he said. "I will see to that. I suppose it was
you who helped Sagasta to escape. He is safe in the town by now."
He glanced toward the man who lay groaning upon the ground; but Lucia
dragged him away.
"Come," she cried, "come! There are more of them behind. We have but a
few minutes to escape."
"The man may die," Dene said, lingering still. "I hit him hard. I spoke
first, but he did not hear, and I was angry."
"If he dies," she exclaimed scornfully, "what matter? He is only a
half-breed. If I had had the strength or a weapon I would have killed
him myself."
Dene looked at her a little gravely. It was the first suggestion of
kinship with her father which had escaped her. After all, then, there
was fierce blood there. Yet above them he could hear distant voices, and
it was not safe to linger. He turned and followed her down the hill.
"Can you get back to the Presidency without going through the town?" he
asked. "There should be a shorter way."
She nodded.
"Yes. At the turn there we make for the river. The gardens run down to
the bank, and I have the key of a little gate. It is not far. Inside
there I shall be safe."
"You are a brave girl," he said. "I never dreamed that you were going to
use that order yourself."
"I did not choose," she answered, "that Arnold Sagasta should be shot I
know that Eugène betrayed him, and I am bitterly ashamed of my brother.
I made up my mind to save him."
Dene sighed.
"I am afraid San Martina is in for some rough times," he said. "Do you
hear the shouting. It is Sagasta who has reached the town. He is safe
now."
"We deserve rough times," she answered shortly. "If I were one of the
people I would not submit to such miserable misgovernment If I were a
man I would be a patriot and a reformer."
"Well, you have done more for them to-night," he said, "than any man
could do. You have given them a leader. Do you know that it may mean a
revolution against your father?"
"I did only what was right," she answered doggedly. "I would rather see
my father deposed and in prison than have him kill an innocent man."
Dene looked at her curiously. Then he made a remark which was unlike
himself and of which he repented immediately afterwards.
"Especially an innocent man in whom you are so greatly interested!"
She flashed an angry glance upon him.
"You have no right to assume that, Senor Dene," she exclaimed. "At least
I did hope that you would not have misunderstood me. I see that I was
mistaken."
"It was a remark which I had no right to make." he declared. "Please
forgive me!"
Their eyes met for a moment She was no longer angry, but a vivid blush
burned in her cheeks. She had suddenly remembered her unusual attire.
"At least," she faltered, "do not look at me. I am very uncomfortable,
and--"
It was a little sob which checked her speech, but Dene, with an effort,
pretended not to notice it. He walked steadily on, and she recovered her
composure.
"I wonder," she murmured, "what he will do now that he is free?"
"When I saw him," Dene answered, "he seemed undecided. He spoke of
flight, he spoke also of casting in his lot with the patriots. He was
just the same as ever--half cynic, half enthusiast. Listen! What is
that?"
They both stopped short. A sound of voices, swelling and swelling until
it became almost a roar, came travelling up to them. It was one man
whose name seemed to have let loose a sudden, wild enthusiasm.
"Sagasta! Sagasta! Sagasta!"
Dene and Lucia exchanged glances quickened into a mutual intelligence.
"He has decided," Dene said. "He has no longer any choice. He cannot
draw back. He has declared himself!"
The girl looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she sighed.
"I am very sorry for my poor mother," she said. "She has no nerves, and
she will be frightened to death!"
CHAPTER XIV. THE SHOT ACROSS THE SQUARE
They were on the outskirts of the town now, and Dene paused. The last
turn in the path had brought them suddenly into clear view of all that
was passing below. The whole place was in an uproar. Every one was
running towards the Square, and the smashing of lamps, the shouting of
the people, and the cracking of rifles made up a din which, from where
Dene and Lucia stood, was positively deafening.
"How on earth," he said, "am I to get you into the Presidency?"
"Not across the Plaza," she answered, laughing. "Come, and I will show
you the way I spoke of."
She turned to the left, and he followed her closely. Soon they reached a
high white wall overhung with drooping shrubs. Keeping in its shadow for
a few minutes, they came to a small iron gate spiked at the top and
solidly built. Lucia took a key from her pocket and unlocked it.
"I am quite safe now," she said. "You had better get back to your hotel
as quickly as you can."
He seemed in no great hurry.
"So far as I am concerned," he said, "I am safe anywhere. But how about
you. There are your own people to evade."
"I have no fear about that," she answered. "I have an excellent plan for
reaching my room unobserved. You have been very good indeed to me, Senor
Dene. May I give you a little word of advice?"
"It was a very fortunate chance," Dene answered heartily, "which brought
it within my power to help you."
"It was very fortunate for me," she declared. "I want you to do what I
know is the wisest thing. Leave San Martina to-night Go straight to your
home at Beau Desir. Have nothing whatever to do with the quarrels of
this wretched place. Do not let Sagasta persuade you into helping him,
and, Senor Dene, above all things, do not let my father keep you here.
Their miserable squabbling has nothing to do with you. If you linger
here you will be dragged into it. Oh, I know you will. They will
contrive it somehow!"
He looked at her searchingly.
"You would not have me join Sagasta then?"
"Certainly not," she answered promptly. "You would have nothing to gain
by it, and you might lose your property, perhaps your life. Goodbye!"
She held out her hand, a little shyly, and lifted her dark eyes to his.
They were very soft and very bright A long cloak, which she had
evidently left behind one of the shrubs before starting on her
excursion, covered her now from head to foot. She folded it around her
with a sigh of relief. There was nothing to remind her any more of her
unusual attire.
"Goodbye," he said. "You are very good to think of me. I believe you are
quite right. The best thing I can do is to get away to Beau Desir. You
at least will be in no danger. Sagasta will see to that!"
She snatched her hand away from him; the old frown darkened her face.
Her black eyes, which flashed into his for a moment, were lit with
passionate reproach. She was gone before he could ask himself the reason
of this sudden change in her. He looked after her wondering. Already she
was out of sight down one of the winding paths. He turned away towards
the town.
"She is a strange girl," he said to himself softly as he stopped to
light a cigar. "I wonder how I could have offended her."
He had scarcely taken a dozen steps when he became aware of a most
remarkable change in the aspect of affairs. A sudden breathless and
portentous calm hung over the town, a silence which, following so
closely upon the babel and uproar of a few minutes before, was in a
sense gruesome. Every now and then there was the sharp crack of a rifle,
but the tumult of voices and the sound of the moving throngs of people
had ceased. When at last he came to the Plaza he could scarcely believe
his eyes. There was not a soul in sight. The great empty space and the
stillness were curiously ominous. Here and there across the Square lay
the bodies of dead men--close to him, propped up against the railing
with ghastly face and blood still trickling from a wound in the
forehead, was the corpse of one of the President's bodyguard. Dene
shuddered as he met the fixed hideous stare of the unseeing eyes.
He started to cross the Plaza obliquely, making his way towards the
hotel. Suddenly a warning cry from one of the windows caused him to
start, and immediately afterwards a bullet whistled past his ear. It
seemed as though that slight movement had saved his life. For a moment
he stood perfectly motionless, then he turned and looked in the
direction from whence it had come. He understood at once the reason for
this strange stillness. The north end of the Square was occupied by a
solid phalanx of soldiers, and it was from there that the shot had come.
The townspeople had all retired within their doors; they were waiting
for orders from Sagasta. Dene, who was in a towering rage, turned round
and walked straight up to where the moonlight fell upon the gleaming
rifles of the President's bodyguard.
Eugène Rimarez was there talking earnestly with several of the officers.
When he saw Dene his face darkened. He greeted him with scant civility.
"Do you know," Dene said, "that I was fired upon by one of your men a
minute ago as I was crossing the Square?"
Captain Rimarez twirled his black moustache.
"You are mistaken," he declared coolly. "The shot was fired by one of
these drunken rebels. My men would not fire without orders, and none
have been given."
"The shot came from here," Dene persisted "If you doubt me, examine your
men's rifles."
Captain Rimarez turned upon his heel.
"We have no time," he said. "Take my advice, Senor Dene, and get back to
your hotel, or better still to Beau Desir, at once. If you linger around
here you will learn to think less of a chance shot or two. There is
going to be some warm work before these devils have had all they
deserve."
"There is going to be some d----d butchery," Dene answered warmly. "You
know quite well that one of your men fired at me. Captain Rimarez. I
shall report the matter to the President."
Dene walked away uneasy, even alarmed. Circumstances seemed to be
conspiring to drive him into sympathy with Sagasta and the townspeople.
He knew quite well that he was an easy mark for any of their rifles as
he passed along the pavement, but not a shot was fired. The hotel door
stood open as usual. He walked into the hall and looked around. Almost
as he crossed the threshold he was covered by a dozen revolvers.
He stood quite still, thinking that it was perhaps his wisest course.
Then he heard a voice from the stairs.
"It is the Englishman, Gregory Dene of Beau Desir. Let him pass. He is a
friend!"
Instantly every revolver was lowered. The babel of conversation was
resumed. To Dene's surprise the ordinary business of the hotel was
scarcely interrupted. Waiters were rushing about with trays full of
glasses, men were sitting or standing everywhere, drinking and smoking.
To all appearance a revolt in San Martina was an everyday occurrence.
Only, piled up against the wall, was a heap of rifles, and in place of
the white linen coats and trousers which was the usual costume of the
men of San Martina, every one was dad in dark coloured clothes and wore
cartridge belts. Dene passed unchallenged up the stairs and entered his
room.
Nothing apparently had been disturbed, only throughout the upper portion
of the hotel reigned a profound silence. He walked immediately to the
partition which separated Ternissa Denison's room from his and listened
intently. There was no sound. After a while he knocked upon the wooden
wall, softly at first and then louder. Still no answer. He left the room
and tried the handle of her door. It opened without difficulty, and he
stood upon the threshold. The room was in darkness. He struck a match
and held it over his head. She was not there.
He stepped back into the passage and remained there for a moment or two
thinking. The momentary glimpse which he had had into her room showed
all the signs of a hurried departure. Articles of wearing apparel were
all scattered about, her trunk was open, and her dressing-case lay
overturned upon the floor. Dene descended the stairs again, and after
some trouble discovered the proprietor of the hotel, who had locked
himself in one of the back rooms, and who was in a state of hopeless
panic Dene plied him with questions, but the man rambled on
incoherently. He was simply prostrate with fear.
"Ah, it was a terrible country this! If only the great country of the
Senor would send a warship. For all of them it was bloodshed, for him it
was ruin also. They were drinking his dollars away like water; and for
payment--well, who could compel them? The demoiselle? Ah, he knew
nothing. It was true that he told her to leave--the order came from the
President, so what could he do but obey? She had gone. Doubtless yes.
Had she paid her bill? No. But what was it? A bagatelle. Meanwhile
Sagasta and those terrible men were drinking his dollars dry. It was
champagne--champagne of the best which they were ordering so freely;
champagne which as he lived, a poor man but honest, had cost him thirty
dollars a dozen--and they were drinking it like water, and for
payment--well--"
Dene stopped him firmly.
"I am not interested in you or your losses," he said. "I am interested
only in the young English lady who was staying here. Did any one in the
hotel see her go out?"
"I myself, Senor," cried a feminine voice. Dene looked around. It was
the wife of the wretched little man who was cowering before him. She had
just come in from the bar, her face flushed and her bosom heaving. She
fanned herself vigorously as she spoke, and cast every now and then
glances of furious contempt at her abject spouse.
"I saw her, Senor. It was before the firing commenced, and that coward,"
she shook her fan threateningly at him, "had shut himself up. Imagine
it, Senor! To be married to such a creature, such a hound, a rascal so
beneath contempt. It was she, a woman, who had to face the furious men
and serve them. Pay. Of course they would pay fast enough if one were
only firm. But to think that it was she who had had to deal with them
alone. Well, they were men of gallantry, brave men all of them, and as
for Senor Sagasta, well, if her husband was not enough to protect her--"
Dene broke in at last with difficulty upon what had threatened to
develop into a domestic storm of the first water, and succeeded in
bringing the lady back to the point. Yes, she could tell him of the
Senorita. It was when the news of the escape of Sagasta reached the
town. The people were shouting and Sagasta himself was in their midst.
She had come then to her, the wretched wife of that cur, and in one
great tremble had cried out to know if It were true that Sagasta were
free. "And when I told her that, thanks be to all the Saints," the lady
continued, "that brave man had escaped, she clasped her hands and shed
tears of joy--I myself saw her. She left the hotel a few minutes later,
and brought in a man from the street who carried away some luggage for
her. Since then, I know nothing."
Dene waited to hear no more. He thanked madame with scant courtesy, and
ascended into the hall of the hotel. Here he came face to face with
Sagasta, who greeted him with a little cry of triumph.
"The very man we want," he cried. "Who better, friends, than Gregory
Dene, the Englishman?"
CHAPTER XV. AN AMBASSADOR
Dene stopped short. He was not in a very amiable temper.
"What do you want with me?" he asked. "I tell you plainly that I intend
to have nothing whatever to do with affairs here. I am off to Beau Desir
at once."
"In an hour," Sagasta said, "you can go to Beau Desir or anywhere else
you like. But before you start we want you to take a message from us to
President Rimarez."
"I'll be shot if I do," Dene exclaimed heartily.
"You need not fear," Sagasta continued coolly, "that you will commit
yourself in any way by doing so. As a matter of fact the President is a
man of such uncertain temper that it would not be safe for us to send an
envoy at all from amongst our own party. He would probably refuse to
recognise our status as belligerents, and hang our messenger. What we
require is a neutral person of reasonable intelligence, and you, my dear
Dene, are the only being in the city who thoroughly fulfills such
conditions."
"It is no affair of mine," Dene said shortly. "I am sick of the place
and its squabbles, and this wretched bloodshed. I am going back to Beau
Desir, and I am going to stay there."
"You are going back," Sagasta said, "in an hour's time if you like, but
you will go to the President first. Listen. If you do not go I must give
the signal for the rising, for they are bringing up guns to bombard us.
If I do that, San Martina will be in flames in an hour, and this matter
will be fought out to the death. The lives of hundreds will lie at your
door."
Dene was silent for a moment. There was reason in what Sagasta was
saying.
"What is the message," he asked, "which you wish me to take?"
"The conditions of our disarmament," Sagasta answered. "My liberty is
one; the publication of State accounts and revision of taxation the next
The others are trifles. We ask nothing which any decently conducted
government in the world would not grant as a matter of course."
"I will take the letter," Dene said shortly, "but it must be clearly
understood that my doing so does not commit me to any partisanship in
the matter. I am entirely neutral."
"We admit that," Sagasta answered. "As a matter of fact, it is your lack
of sympathy with either side which so admirably qualifies you to be our
representative. You will neither be shot or bribed. Here is the letter."
Dene took it and left the hotel at once amongst a little chorus of
cheers. With a white flag which some one had thrust into his hand he
crossed the Plaza towards the Presidency.
The night had passed now, and a peculiar violet light in the sky seemed
to have come like an interlude between the darkness and the dawn. A few
of the electric lamps were still burning with a sad ghostly flicker, but
the fronts of the white houses were all wrapped in shadows. A faint salt
breeze came stealing in from the harbour, and as Dene passed the little
enclosed space in the centre of the Square where a plantation of
tropical shrubs surrounded a tall fountain, a heavy sweet odour of musk
and orange flowers came floating out to him.
In a few moments he was at the Presidency. From the street it presented
a brilliant appearance, for it was lit up from the long line of windows
on the ground floor to the third storey, and a double row of guards
challenged Dene as he approached. Colonel Sanarez, however, who was in
command, recognised him and held up his hand.
"Senor Dene!" he exclaimed in a tone of surprise. "Is it indeed you? Do
I understand from that flag that you are an emissary from the rebels?"
Dene assented curtly.
"Something of the sort, I suppose," he answered. "I wish it to be
understood that I am strictly neutral so far as regards this rising, but
Sagasta is a countryman of mine, and he has induced me to become the
bearer of a letter to the President. Can I see him?"
"You can see him, certainly, Senor Dene," the Colonel answered gravely.
"Without doubt you can see him, but whether he will accept any
communication from the rebels or not, I do not know. Will you come this
way?"
Once more Dene entered the Presidency, and was shown into the room where
only a few hours ago he had paid over the money which had made him
master of Beau Desir. The President was seated there in earnest
consultation with Mopez, his Secretary, and several others who were
unknown to Dene. He had changed his clothes for a military uniform, and
his sword and revolver lay upon the table before him. Through the high
window on his left hand, from which the curtain and mosquito netting had
been swept away, he commanded a perfect view of the whole city.
He received Dene amiably, but with surprise, and listened carefully to
his explanation.
"Sagasta," he remarked, "was certainly well advised If he or any of his
known abettors had ventured here under cover of a flag of truce, I
should have had them shot in the courtyard."
"Wouldn't that be rather summary treatment?" Dene remarked.
"It would be the treatment which all rebels merit," President Rimarez
answered calmly. "However, since the letter is here, and especially
since you, Senor Dene, have been its bearer, we may as well see what it
is that they propose."
He tore open the envelope, and as he read his face grew black with
anger. When he had finished the first page he looked up at Dene.
"You have some idea, perhaps, as to the contents of this precious
epistle?" he asked searchingly.
"Only the vaguest," Dene answered, "Sagasta would perhaps have told me,
but I did not wish to know. I am not interested. The affair does not
concern me."
The President read on with darkening face. When he had finished he
handed the letter to Mopez to read, and leaving his seat, began to pace
up and down the room, wrapped in thought.
"I would give," he said, "a thousand dollars to know who it was that set
free this pestilence. There are absurd rumours that it was some one
disguised in Eugène's uniform."
"It was," Dene remarked, "a plucky rescue."
"Plucky or not," the President answered savagely, "if I discover the
rescuer he will have short shift."
Dene turned away to hide the smile at his lips. If only the President
could know who had done him this evil turn--that it was Lucia, his
carefully chaperoned and beautiful young daughter, who had planned and
carried out this thing which not one of Sagasta's friends in the city
had had the wit or the pluck to attempt!
There was a short conversation carried on in whispers between the
President and his little council. Then the former turned to Dene, who
had discreetly withdrawn to the window and was watching the daybreak.
"Senor Dene," he said, "you will do us the favour of taking back to
those who entrusted you with this letter a verbal message. Tell them
this--that my whole council of the State of San Martina has been
summoned to meet this day at noon. Let Arnold Sagasta and his friends
present themselves as peaceful citizens before us, and make known their
desires, and I give you my word that they shall be carefully considered.
But, in the meantime, let him understand this--that any gathering
together whatsoever of the people or any indications of an attempted
gathering will be considered as an act of war, and my troops, whose
rifles now are charged with ball cartridges, have orders to disperse
such at once and at all costs. They must come to us unarmed, and as
peaceful citizens. At eight o'clock this morning I shall expect the
stores and public places of the city open. I will not have this
barricading and skulking behind closed doors. Can I trust to your
memory, Senor Dene, to convey this to Sagasta?"
"Certainly," Dene answered. "Of course, if I were an emissary from them
I should require some pledge or safe conduct for them. As, however, that
is a position which I naturally declined to occupy, I shall simply
repeat your message without comment."
The President took him by the arm.
"This way, Dene," he said. "I will let you out by my private door, for
there is just another word I want to have with you."
He led the way down a long corridor and out into the cool dawn-lit
gardens. They crossed the turf, and stood together in the shadow of the
high wall.
"Senor Dene," the President said earnestly, "I am going to offer you
some excellent advice which I trust you will not hesitate to take. You
are a man of common sense, I know. Good. I need say no more. In an hour
it will be sunrise. Before then I want you to be on your way to Beau
Desir."
Dene smiled.
"It is strange," he said, "but it is advice which has been given to me
before, not many hours ago. I can assure you that I have no wish to
linger in San Martina. I should have been out of the city before now,
but for my errand here."
The President held out his hand
"You have proved yourself," he said solemnly, "a man of sense. Do not
misunderstand me. This little affair will be over in a week, and all
will be quiet again. But until then you are better out of the way.
Afterwards you will be a very welcome guest here whenever you choose.
Beau Desir is not far away. My wife and daughter will be charmed to see
you whenever you feel disposed to give us the honour of your company."
Dene bowed his acknowledgments, and took advantage of the opportunity to
satisfy himself concerning Lucia.
"I trust," he said, "that neither of the ladies have been alarmed by the
disturbance in the town."
The President glanced upwards. At two of the windows looking over the
gardens lights were still burning.
"I am afraid," he said, "that they have had sleepless nights. Lucia is
so sensitive--over-sensitive almost. There are times, Senor Dene, when I
am sorry that I brought her from Paris. But come, I am going to let you
out this way."
They approached a little door let into the wall. The President felt in
his pocket and gave vent to a little exclamation of annoyance.
"The key," he said, "is in my other pocket If you will wait here for a
moment, Senor Dene, I will fetch it."
He hastened away, and Dene stood alone. The breeze from the sea had
grown stronger. The tops of the tall shrubs were gently bowed, there was
a faint soft rustling of leaves, all around him the air was heavy with
languorous tropical perfumes. Then something prompted him suddenly to
glance upwards at the nearer of those two windows to which the President
had pointed. Almost as he raised his eyes the light was extinguished, a
white arm was slowly extended, and something came fluttering down to his
feet. He stooped and picked it up hurriedly, It was a soft piece of
yellow ribbon tied around a scarlet rose.
CHAPTER XVI. BEXAU DESIR
"Heaven be praised! It is the wind of night!
"Santa Maria! How good!"
"Ah. How sweet! How fresh!"
"Phew! At last she comes!"
A little group of men in picturesque undress moved slowly from the
shadow of the long wooden barn, against which they had been leaning, out
on to the edge of the great open plain, and turned their faces to the
chain of mountains which towered over their heads westward. Through the
mighty deft which split the mountain from peak to base, deep, narrow,
fringed with hanging pine-trees, came sweeping in that nightly wind from
the sea beyond which followed ever upon the sundown as regularly as the
tinkling of the little bell from the mission chapel announced the hour
of evensong. The murmur of voices reached the loiterers within their
homes or stretched in some lazy corner enjoying the luxury of rest and
gossip and countless cigarettes. The little settlement of brown wooden
houses became suddenly alive. Men came out into the open; the women,
dark-haired and dark-skinned most of them, with children in their arms
and at their skirts, leaned over their wooden piazzas and cooled their
heated faces. A fire of cheerful greetings and neighbourly remarks broke
in upon the silence which the last hour of tropical heat had set like a
seal upon their lips. They were a motley community--mostly English, but
with a sprinkling of Brazilians, Portuguese, half-breeds, a few Chinese,
and here and there a dark-eyed Spaniard and Cuban. The sound of their
conversation was like the babel of many tongues; their costume varied
from the sombrero and riding-breeches of the cowboy to the white ducks
and planter's hat of John Angus, the overseer. Between them and the high
enclosing wall of mountains was a sea of gold, a great ocean of
deep-yellow corn, higher than the heads of the tallest of them, with
ears fall almost to the bursting; and with that breath of wind which
came first in little puffs and then in a long, grateful sweep, the
murmur of their nightly music came to the ears of the little colony. It
was a rustle at first, scarcely more, growing at each vibration sweeter
and more melodious, until the tall stalks were bent in long, rippling
waves, and the rustling became like the Vox Humana of a cathedral organ.
The dwellers in the valley of Beau Desir had grown to look upon that
nightly melody as the signal for the hour of their recreation--the air
was suddenly filled with laughter, the babel of mingled tongues grew
louder. The younger ones told stories, chaffed and made love; the elders
talked in little groups of the mighty task before them, and of the
expected return of Gregory Dene, their master and yet their voluntary
equal, the owner of Beau Desir.
For these were great days in the valley of Beau Desir--days for
strenuous toil from early mom until the darkness fell, for toil even
through the great heat of the Southern noon. All day long the deep
silence of the place had been broken by the whir of machinery; far away
across the yellow plain men like insects had been crawling slowly along,
and whirling blades, flashing like silver in the sunlight, had lain low
the great cornstalks in a long level line. These were great days indeed,
these days of harvest for the dwellers in the valley of Beau Desir.
Thousands of miles away the two giant powers of the world, labour and
capital, had already closed in the grim struggle for life or death. Here
the great principle for which they fought, the heart's desire of the
toiler, the jest of the capitalist, was already a thing established and
flourishing. The fruit of his labour was the measure of the man's
reward. Here communism, or whatever fancy name the world might choose to
give it, was something more than an empty name. Every man and woman had
something to hope for from the crops. Prosperity to John Angus, the
overseer, meant the sending home for his sister, whose heart was
breaking with the struggle for life amongst the stones of Scotland. It
meant that Pietro, the Portuguese, the olive-skinned hard-working tender
of the cattle, would be married to Maria, daughter of old Juan Velitga,
the horse doctor; that Ralph Morrison, the engineer whose skill kept in
order the whole machinery of the little place--Ralph, who had come here
a dying man from a Yorkshire furnace and was now a great strapping
fellow with bronzed cheeks and giant shoulders, would $end home for his
pallid, heartsick brother, fighting with despair amongst the gloom and
sorrows of a dreary manufacturing town, that he, too, might breathe the
air of freedom, might reckon himself no longer a purposeless unit, a
mere link in the chain which held together the great wealth of the
unwholesomely rich, but a man, a creature of God's making, whose limbs
and brain were his own to use for the common good and his own freedom.
And all these things were good for the dwellers in Beau Desir. It made
joyous men and women of them. It led them to watch the result of their
toil with kindling eyes and eager hearts. It made self-respecting,
intelligent creatures of them--of many divers races and nationalities it
taught them all the great laws of brotherhood and good-fellowship. As
they worked they sang, and laughter was a thing good to hear amongst
them. What matter though the sweat poured from their faces? though their
hands were hard, and their cheeks as brown as autumn leaves? They worked
for their homes and their women and their children---and such work is
the poetry of labour.
Tinkle! tinkle I tinkle! Ping! ping! ping!
Pietro was out leaning against the palisading with his guitar, and they
all stopped to listen.
"Cara Melita! (Tinkle! tinkle! tinkle! ping! ping!)
Mia Sposa! (Tinkle,
tinkle, ping!)
Cara! cara!
Mia Sposa! (Tinkle, tinkle, ping!)"
Clear and fresh as a lad's the man's voice rang out upon the slowly
gathering dusk. The talk was hushed, the listeners gathered in a circle.
Pietro passed on from verse to verse without hesitation, always with the
same refrain.
"Cara Melita!
Mia Sposa!
Cara! cara!
Mia Sposa!"
(Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! Ping, ping, ping!)
Down went the guitar! Bravos were many. "Encore!" shouted an
enthusiastic Frenchman. But Pietro laughed, showing all his white teeth,
and lit a cigarette. No more just now. He would sing for them another
time. Meanwhile there was Morrison with his violin--he would play for
the asking!
Pietro had been riding far and had scarcely spoken to his Melita all
day. He leaned over the wooden fence whispering to the dark-haired girl
who had come shyly out from the next house at the sound of his voice.
Pietro could make love as well as sing. The music of their Southern
voices raised scarcely above a whisper was almost as sweet as the words
of his song. For after the harvest there was to be a wedding, and the
love-light in Maria's dark eyes, raised only now and then to his, was a
very fair thing to see, and Pietro counted himself a lucky fellow
indeed. One, two, three weeks from the Senor's return--it need be no
longer than that; and only yesterday had come the news that the Senor
was actually in San Martina unloading his stores. He had arrived, he
might be with them at any moment. What happiness. Pietro talked proudly
of the little house which his own hands had built and fashioned, and of
the scarlet creepers which he had brought down that day from the
mountains; how well the blossoms would look in her glossy hair--such
beautiful hair! Pietro was a foolish fellow. But it was all very
pleasant to listen to.
Suddenly a clear far-away sound broke in upon the musical murmurings of
cheerful voices and languid laughter. There was a puff of white smoke
high up on the mountain's side--the thousand rolling echoes of a single
rifle-shot came travelling down to them. For a few moments there was
breathless silence--then every one began to speak at once. A second and
a third report followed quickly after; a little cloud of white smoke
floated out across the dark background of the pine-dad pass. Then there
was a ringing shout of joy.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!
"It is the master!"
"The Senor, the Senor!"
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!"
CHAPTER XVII. A STRANGER FROM THE MOUNTAINS
The light merriment of the evening had suddenly become a pandemonium of
joy. There were cheers from the men and exclamations of shrill delight
from the women. It was the master who was coming. All was well with him,
then. Out they trooped one and all along the winding road, with their
faces turned upwards towards the pass. There was much shouting and much
straining of the eyes, for the twilight passed swiftly into darkness at
Beau Desir. In the midst of it all the door of the schoolhouse opened
and a woman came slowly out.
It was a long wooden building, embosomed with flowers and creepers
which, springing up from the ground, wound themselves round the rude
supports of the Piazza and reached even to the roof. It was roughly
built of untrimmed logs hewn from the mountain's side, whose crest was
black with pines, and the fresh resinous odour still lingered about the
place, more aromatic yet fainter than the perfume of the roses. Within
were rows of bare forms, a carpetless floor, copybooks and a
blackboard--in the doorway Ternissa Denison!
The shouts of the children not so long ago dismissed were fast dying
away in the distance as they made their way--ignoring on this particular
evening the settlement playground--to where all the men and a great many
of the women were assembling. The woman who lingered in the porch of the
schoolhouse was almost the only living person who had not hastened to
join one or other of those distant groups.
She hesitated for a moment, then she advanced to the paling which, after
the English fashion, enclosed a little scrap of garden, and took up her
stand there. Opposite was another building very similar to the
schoolhouse, but with a little iron bell fixed upon the roof. It was the
mission chapel, and in a moment or two a tall, spare man, wearing a
garment which might possibly once have been a cassock, came leisurely
out, locked up the door, and stopped outside to light a cigarette.
She leaned over and spoke to him timidly.
"Is it true what they are saying, sir?" she asked. "Is this the owner
of Beau Desir who is coming back?"
He stopped short and doffed his hat. His face was dark and furrowed, and
on one side was the scar of what seemed to have been a sabre cut. His
appearance was in every way the reverse of sacerdotal. Nevertheless his
smile and his voice were alike pleasant.
"Good evening, schoolmistress," he said. "Your little cottage has been
empty so long that I have ceased to glance even towards it. Yes, it is
Gregory Dene whom they are all expecting. The rifle-shot was the signal
by means of which Muria, who keeps the pass, agreed to let us know of
his arrival."
The distant clamour of joyous voices were still unabated. The woman and
her companion alone were silent. The woman was very pale.
"They are glad indeed," she murmured. "How they love him."
"They would be more than commonly ungrateful," he remarked pleasantly,
"if they did not. There are not many people who would take the trouble
to do for their fellow-creatures what this Englishman has done. He is a
man with very fine social ideals. No wonder they are glad to see him.
Besides, Angus is a hard taskmaster."
She looked at him curiously.
"Forgive me," she said, "but you also talk like an Englishman."
He was silent for a moment. Then he turned towards her and the smile had
left his lips.
"I have no country," he said, "nor any name. I am called here Dom Pedro,
and although I belong to no recognised church Gregory Dene has given me
permission to play the part of priest here. I do the people no harm, at
any rate--and I tell them no lies. Sometimes I think, though, that they
only accept me on sufferance--I believe that the women in their hearts
would prefer a Romish priest."
"I, at least," she said heartily, "would not, and I shall like to come
to your next service. The last time I was in a church--oh, may God keep
the memory of it from me!" she burst out passionately.
He came so close that the dusky light hid from him no longer her
features. He sighed.
"You have suffered," he said gently. "So have many who have come here.
You are young, and you will forget."
"Never!" she murmured "The fear of it will remain. It is in my heart
always."
"Nevertheless," he repeated, "you are young, and to the young
forgetfulness is always possible. You have many years before you--and
hope at your age is spelt with letters of gold."
He passed on with a little courteous gesture of leave-taking, and the
woman remained looking after him. Her eyes travelled past the little
groups of picturesque-looking men and women, and rested upon the distant
mountain-side wreathed now in mists and gloom. It was very beautiful
still, though the colours had gone--the gold from the cornfields and the
blue from the Andiguas, but she gazed with blind, unseeing eyes. It was
one of those rare moments wherein she permitted herself the luxury of
thought, and her fancy had carried her back into a world very remote
indeed, whose echoes barely even sounded in this little corner of the
universe. Only a few hours ago she had drawn the first grey hair from
her head, and had noticed with a curious heartache the coming of a very
palpable wrinkle. With a sudden thrill of horror she, to whom her beauty
had always afforded a sort of delicate pleasure wholly distinct from
vanity, realised that she was no longer a girl. She would be thirty
years old very soon now. She, to whose lips the cup of life had scarcely
been lifted, was growing old. It was passing her by. The tears stood in
her eyes as she gazed vacantly at the darkening hills; it seemed to her
then that, contrasting her misery with this universal joyfulness, she
was realising more mournfully than ever she had done the bitterness of
her lot. For after all she was a woman as other women, fashioned for
love and life and joy--nay, she was even more of kin to these things,
for she had the rare and wonderful gift of beauty. Even the plain grey
dress which she wore--carefully chosen as being the most suited to her
new position--could not conceal the elegance of her figure. She was
still as lithe and graceful in her movements as in the days when she had
made her curtsey at Buckingham Palace, and had held her own amongst the
great ladies of her country. Her eyes were still as soft, her hair as
fine and silky, and her mouth, that wonderfully seductive and most
distracting of her features, had still its old charm, when--as seldom
happened now--her lips parted in one of those bewildering smiles. She
had been esteemed a beautiful woman in a country of beautiful women, but
those days seemed to her now to lie very far back in the past. Of what
profit had it all been to her? Behind lay many evil and sorrowful
things; the deadly monotony of the present was fast eating its way into
her soul. And her future--well, it was of the future she dreaded most to
think, for across her path lay for ever that deep, black shadow. She
pressed her hands to her temples, and a little moan sobbed its way out
into the darkness.
Her solitude was suddenly broken. A man had climbed softly up from a
deep gully which yawned a few yards away from her cottage. Seeing her
standing there alone he hesitated. He looked cautiously around. There
was no one else in sight. He advanced and spoke to her.
"I beg your pardon, but could you tell me--"
At the sound of his voice she turned round and faced him.
Instantly the words died away upon his lips. He drew a quick breath
which was almost a sob.
"Ternissa," he cried faintly, "am I dreaming?"
She held out both her hands.
"Arnold!"
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TEMPTER
There was a few moments' breathless silence. Of the two, it was
obviously the man who was most surprised. The look on her face became
one of silent appeal Slowly his brows contracted, his face became as
black as night. Her hands dropped to her sides.
"You here! In San Martina, Ternissa," he said slowly. "You have come--to
him!"
"It is false," she answered passionately. "It is cruel of you to say so.
You do not believe it."
"He sent for you."
"I came," she said slowly, "because your life was in danger."
He laughed bitterly.
"My life! Of what account was that to you?"
She sighed.
"Will you never believe that I was duped, shamefully tricked. That--"
He interrupted her.
"I have heard it all," he said, a little more kindly. "In a sense I
believe you. Only--the pity of it is so great."
"Every hour in which you have suffered," she murmured, "has been an hour
of agony to me."
Then there was another silence. There was so much they both had to say.
Through the twilight there floated up to them the strains of a violin
and laughing voices. She drew him further back under the shadow of her
piazza.
"Have you made your peace with the President?" she asked anxiously. "How
is it that you are here?"
His black eyes flashed fiercely. He seemed scarcely able to restrain his
anger.
"We have been disgracefully tricked," he said. "San Martina was in my
hands. The people were all with me. We were invited, ten of us, to
appear before the council and state our grievances under cover of a flag
of truce. We did so, and I was the only one who escaped. The other nine
were simply butchered, and in our absence the army took the people by
surprise and massacred the bravest of them. Oh, President Rimarez has
scored this time, but I shall live yet to shoot him like a dog."
"And you?" she cried.
"I am in hiding with half a dozen others in the mountains. I came
here--"
He stopped short.
"Never mind. You had better know nothing. Tell me what you are doing at
Beau Desir?"
"I came from England with Gregory Dene," she said. "I am schoolmistress
to the children here. It is my first day. Do you know," she continued,
"that he and the President are friends? You must not be seen here. It is
most unwise. He might give you up."
"Most of the things one does in this world," he answered bitterly, "are
unwise."
"It surely is not worth while," she said anxiously, "for you to run any
useless risks. It is scarcely dark yet, and every one is about
to-night."
"You are not," he remarked, "in a hospitable frame of mind."
She laid her hand upon his arm.
"Don't be unkind, Arnold," she said. "You know that it is for your
safety only that I am concerned."
He looked at her searchingly.
"Is that true, Ternissa?"
"You know that it is," she answered.
He continued in a milder tone.
"You can help me--if you will."
"God knows," she murmured, "that the will is there."
"You can help me," he repeated, "more than any one in the world. When is
Gregory Dene expected?"
"To-night. Did you not hear the signal from the pass?"
"You must let me have food," he said. "All that you can spare, and you
must be on the look out for me at nights. I shall have to come down
often."
"I can do that," she murmured.
"My hiding place is inaccessible," he said, "except from this side. If
any attempt is made to capture me from here I will teach you how to
communicate with me."
"I am ready to learn," she said.
"We want arms," he continued slowly. "Dene is bringing rifles and
ammunition for all his men."
"I do not think," she said, "that he will let you have any. I do not
think that he will help you in any way."
"I must have them," he declared. "I must have them, if necessary,
without his knowledge."
She looked doubtful.
"Remember," she said, "that I am only here on sufferance. Gregory Dene's
offer was made--well, he may have repented of it. I shall hate meeting
him. I shall hate his surprise when he sees me here."
"You will be able to twist him round your little finger," the man said
contemptuously. "He is a crank and a fool."
She shook her head.
"Are you sure of that? The people here do not think so. Neither do I."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"In their hearts," he murmured, "who can say? Their lips speak of his
generosity, for he is their benefactor. He gives them the bread they
eat, and they lick his fingers for it. But how much does that count for,
I wonder? I know this class of people, and I know in how much esteem
they hold a philanthropist. They take all he has to give, and they hate
him for giving. Depend upon it. Dene is easily befooled. I know him, and
I can answer for it."
She sighed a little.
"It is a pity," she said.
"What is a pity?"
"Oh, that there should be any good men at all. It is always they who
suffer and are imposed upon."
He looked at her keenly. Would she fail him, he wondered. There was so
much that she could do: her presence here might prove his salvation.
"You are growing cynical, Ternissa."
"There are many things," she answered dreamily, "to account for that."
For a while they were silent. The man leaned over and touched her hand
caressingly.
"Ternissa!"
She did not move or draw away her hand. His dark eyes glowed with a new
fire. He drew her gently to him.
"What has passed," he murmured, "no one can alter. But there is the
future."
She gently disengaged herself from him.
"Yes, there is the future," she repeated. "For God's sake do not remind
me of it."
"We are not children," he said. "We are not altogether of the stuff
whereof these others are fashioned. You have courage. You have proved
it. Whatever the past may have been, the future is ours. Come! hold out
your hands to me. I am not yet a beaten man. With your help I may turn
the tables upon Rimarez and his cursed crew."
She looked at him very tenderly. Her eyes were soft with tears.
"And afterwards?"
"There can only be one afterwards for you and for me," he cried, with a
note of passion in his tone. "No human power can keep the wind from the
trees, or the waves from beating upon the shore. Our destinies are
engraven side by side upon the book of life."
She stood in a silence which was almost trance-like.
Was there indeed something prophetic in his words? He leaned towards
her--his hot breath was upon her cheek, and a sudden sense of yielding
glided like a sweet narcotic through her veins. Suddenly the whole
situation was dissolved. A little murmur of voices swelling at once into
shouts and cheers rose from all sides. The whole settlement sprang into
life. Ternissa came to herself with a little throb of fear.
"You must go," she whispered hurriedly. "Gregory Dene is coming. Wait
one instant under the broken fir there."
She vanished into the house, and reappeared almost immediately with a
basket.
"It is all I have," she said. "Quick, the moon is rising and they will
see you."
He smiled.
"I have a way of my own up into the mountains," he said. "Some day I
will show it to you. I am quite safe. To-morrow or the next night I
shall come again."
He glided away, slim, dark and graceful Even as he turned, the rising
moon touched the fringe of pine trees on the mountain's side, and the
shouts of welcome woke a hundred echoes in the quiet valley.
CHAPTER XIX. THE COMING OF GREGORY DENE
Dene had arrived, and the evening's idleness was at an end. There were
all the packages on the backs of the long train of mules to be examined
and carried away into the storehouses, the mules themselves to be fed,
Dene's horse to be cared for. Fortunately, the moon had risen up from
behind the dark-crested hills, and every moment its light was growing
stronger. There was no lack of willing workers. The little open space
round which the houses of the settlement had been built was suddenly
transformed into a scene of bustle and cheerful energy. Men went
backwards and forwards carrying all manner of packages, and a fire of
cheerful conversation was flashing all over the place. Dene himself,
head and shoulders above them all, moved about with outstretched hand,
everywhere welcomed with enthusiasm, hearing all the news of the place,
frankly and unaffectedly delighted at the joy which his coming had
evoked. There were no complaints, no discordant voices. The horses had
done wonderfully; the harvest--well, never had Beau Desir seen such a
one before. He, too, had great tidings for them. A whisper began to
creep around that their dream was realised. A sadden torrent of
questions assailed him. He held up his hand, and every one paused in
their tasks. Packages were laid down, eager faces were turned towards
him. There was intense silence. He was going to speak to them. Every man
and woman in the place was there except the schoolmistress, and she,
too, was within earshot, standing back amongst the shadows of the
verandah, her face turned towards him.
"My friends," he said, "the news which I have brought to you is mostly
good. I have succeeded in the object for which I went to England, and I
found President Rimarez upon my return last week prepared to conclude
the arrangements which I made with him before starting. Beau Desir is
ours. I have the charter in my pocket, and the money has been paid."
There was a burst of cheering. They would have crowded around him, but
he waved them back. He had something more to say to them.
"My friends," he continued, "this is the pleasant part of my news. What
is to follow is not quite such good hearing. The State of San Martina to
which we now belong is politically in anything but a satisfactory
condition. On the very evening after I had paid the purchase-money and
received the charter of Beau Desir a rebellion broke out in the city.
For a time, I must, confess, the result seemed doubtful. When I left--I
came by sea to run no risk of losing my stores--the place was in a state
of anarchy. I received tidings yesterday, however, of a more reassuring
nature. The rioters were in the end dispersed, and their leader, Sagasta
by name, had fled from the city. Of course it is possible that a new
government and President might recognise the charter which has been
granted to us, but, on the other hand, they might decide to ignore it.
Hence, it becomes not only our duty but our policy to support President
Rimarez. Neutrality would be, of course, the best position for us, but
it is a position which we should find impossible. I want to prepare you
for all this. It is possible that we may have to fight for our homes. If
so, I know that you will fight like brave men."
"Will it be with our fists?" asked a quiet voice from the crowd.
Dene smiled.
"Not exactly, Angus," he answered. "I brought out with me from England a
cargo of rifles, knowing that they would be very saleable in San Martina
and would yield a handsome profit. I had intended to offer them to the
government there, but on reflection I decided that the wisest course
would be to keep them for ourselves. Accordingly, I brought them down by
sea to the other side of the mountains, and they are amongst the goods
which you are now unpacking. I propose to form a defence corps from
amongst you and to give an hour a day to drill. Let us hope that our
preparations will be needless, but I think you will all agree with me
that we should not be unprepared."
They cheered him again to the echo. On the whole, the notion of a little
fighting was exhilarating. Even the women were not greatly discomposed;
it was, after all, a far-of! contingency. It would very likely never
come to anything. The few moments' seriousness passed away. Laughter and
gaiety reigned again. Once more the little open space was full of bustle
and good-humoured activity.
The man who called himself Dom Pedro and John Angus the overseer were
standing with Dene, and it was the former who first spoke to him of the
latest comer to the settlement. Ternissa, whose eyes had followed them
everywhere as they moved about amongst the throng, was conscious of the
exact moment when her name was mentioned. She saw Dom Pedro raise his
finger and point towards her cottage; she even heard Dene's quick
exclamation of surprise. She moved out from the shadows, and the
moonlight which had gradually been growing stronger showed her clearly
standing in the little strip of garden which had been fenced in around
her wooden house. Tall and graceful, with her white-clad figure clearly
outlined against the darkness of the house behind, it seemed to Dene
that there was something unreal, almost ghostlike, about her unexpected
appearance here. He left the two men at once and went hurriedly towards
her.
The moment or two during which they stood face to face, during which the
man looked at the woman and the woman at the man, was brief enough in
actual space of time, yet in themselves they constituted an epoch. For
the first time Dene realised how beautiful this woman really
was--realised too that he was in some measure drifting beneath the spell
of her curiously attractive personality. Her appearance here was
sufficiently amazing. He had left her under circumstances which he could
only recall with horror. All last night, when they had lain upon the
sands waiting for the dawn to continue their journey, he had thought of
her.
He had seen her white sad face gleaming through the darkness, and had
tormented his brain with many purposeless speculations as to the nature
of that mystery which undoubtedly surrounded her. And all the time she
was at Beau Desir. She had been in such dire straits that she was
content to throw in her lot with his little handful of colonists. He was
puzzled beyond measure. They stood within a few feet of one another, and
Gregory Dene, a man of sound common sense and very deficient in ordinary
sentiment, did not fail to realise the psychological importance of that
magnetic moment. It was something more than their eyes which had met.
They two, the man and the woman, were kin to each other in a very
different sense to that which led Dene, a thorough communist in such
matters, to speak sometimes of his colonists at Beau Desir as brothers
and sisters. Curiously enough, the instinct which told him this was not
altogether a pleasant one. He was not in the least in love with her--he
did not desire to be. Yet she exercised easily an influence over him
that no other woman had ever acquired.
It was she who broke that eloquent silence. She leaned over towards him
with a faint smile upon her lips.
"You see," she said, "after all, I have dared to take you at your word.
I have come to teach your children for a little while."
"You are very welcome to Beau Desir," he answered.
"It is good of you to offer me a refuge."
"It is very wonderful," he said, looking into her eyes, "that you should
care to accept such a one."
"I wanted rest," she murmured, "and absolute solitude. My short stay in
San Martina was like a hideous nightmare to me."
"Beau Desir has not much to offer," he replied, "but I think that we can
give you those two things."
She sighed, and looked for a moment thoughtfully at the little crowd of
lighthearted men and women who thronged the open space round which the
settlement was built, at the dark shapes of their little wooden houses
standing out very clearly now in the moonlit air, and away over the
rolling plain of golden corn to the hills rising abruptly like a
towering wall, shutting them out from the whole outside world. She
listened to the clamour of gay voices, to the peals of laughter from the
women, the badinage with which the men lightened their tasks.
"I think," she said softly, "that Beau Desir has very much to offer. You
have beautiful surroundings, you are free from the evils, of cities,
your people have every opportunity of leading a natural and a simple
life. Happiness is there waiting at their doors. What fortune for them!"
The wistfulness in her tone stirred his heart to fresh pity, but he
banished all traces of it from his voice. He spoke to her in a
matter-of-fact way.
"Many people," he remarked, "would find it very monotonous."
"Then they would not deserve," she answered dreamily, "ever to know
happiness or content."
He smiled at her.
"The minds of many men and women," he said, "are too restless to find
happiness in a life without events. Many would consider existence here a
life of negations."
She shook her head.
"You have men and women here," she said, "and therefore you must have
events. Don't you think that events are evolved? Outside influences are
only a secondary factor."
"Psychologically I suppose you are right," he admitted.
"To-night," she continued, "Pietro played his guitar to Marie, and
afterwards they walked together to the cornfield to look at what I heard
him call the Sea of Gold. What do they want more? Is not their life full
enough? They have love. Is not that a great thing?"
CHAPTER XX. THE SENORA HAS PLANS
The President of San Martina lit an after-breakfast cigar, and stretched
himself out in a wicker chair with a little grunt of satisfaction. The
meal had been served, as was usual during the hot months, on the balcony
of one of the smaller rooms at the back of the Presidential abode. Over
his head was an awning; through the fine mosquito netting which waved
softly in front of him was a pleasing vista of cool green shrubs and
shaded walks; on the horizon a blue haze hung around the Andiguan hills,
behind which lay Beau Desir. To judge from the deep quietness, it was
very difficult indeed to believe that only a day or two ago a revolution
had been raging in this exceedingly well-ordered city. The faint hum of
voices which came from the Plaza was far from being of a disturbing
nature; the floating cries of the fruit-seller and the ice-man were
mingled with the still lighter greetings of the idlers in the Square.
The President sipped his liqueur, and being a man used to the ups and
downs of life, congratulated himself with admirable philosophy upon
being where he was instead of in the cemetery. It was indeed a domestic
scene, and one which should have pleased the hearts of his people could
their eyes have penetrated that thick screen of trees and flowering
shrubs which adorned the Presidential garden. They would have had the
unspeakable privilege of beholding their ruler in the bosom of his
family. Opposite to him sat the Senora, his wife. She wore a pink
dressing-gown and slippers not usually seen in such exalted circles
beyond the precincts of the bedchamber. Her hair was loosely coiled on
the top of her head and secured with a much-bejewelled pin. Her
complexion was a little yellow, and seemed to lack that freshness which
apparently came with the completion of her toilet. But, as though to
atone for these slight defects on the part of her mother, Lucia, as
fresh as a rose, occupied the third seat at the table. She wore a plain
white muslin gown, and there was a band of white ribbon in her hair. Her
complexion suggested a recent acquaintance with the "Paphian Wells," of
Aphrodite, and her dark eyes were wonderfully soft and bright. Only the
Senora, with the jealous eye of a closely watching mother, detected a
listlessness in her manner and a lack of interest in her surroundings
which afforded her some concern.
"Lucia, my love," she said, with a sidelong glance at her, "you are
thoughtful this morning."
Lucia yawned openly.
"No," she answered, "I am not thoughtful, because there is nothing to
think about I am simply bored."
The Senora smiled, a fat, good-humoured smile.
"It is natural," she said. "The dear girl wants a change. Now that
everything is quiet again, Gustave, could we not give a ball?"
The President looked at his cigar thoughtfully.
"I should have liked," he said, "to have shot Sagasta first. But, after
all, if you and the child desire it, I think that it would be safe. It
would be popular with the townspeople, and the money b in the Exchequer.
What does Lucia say?"
Lucia was not in the least enthusiastic. She merely shrugged her
shoulders.
"I thought that all the money was required for public works," she
remarked. "You tell every one so who comes here."
The President coughed.
"The army," he said, "has been squared. All arrears have been paid up.
That was the most important thing."
"And as a consequence," Lucia remarked, "there has not been a sober
soldier in San Martina for a week. They have run riot all over the
place, and no one has dared to interfere. It would have been better if
the army had received their back pay a little at a time."
"You are perhaps right, Lucia," her father agreed, "although the matter
is no concern of yours. But what was I to do? They were on the point of
mutiny, and without them Sagasta and his rebels could march in here and
murder us all without the slightest hindrance."
"Drunken soldiers," Lucia remarked, "are a poor protection."
The President smiled.
"Pardon me," he said, "but you are talking like a child. My soldiers
fight better drunk than sober. While we can keep them in good humour we
are as safe here as in Paris. To return to your mother's scheme. I am
inclined to think that the suggestion is a good one. The townspeople are
a little sullen. They have had property destroyed and trade is bad with
them. A ball would provide them with amusement and the majority would
profit by it."
"We could send," the Senora remarked, with a glance at Lucia, "for Senor
Dene."
The girl's cheeks were certainly flushed. The Senora and her husband
exchanged rapid glances.
"He would not come," Lucia said. "I am sure that he would not come."
"On the contrary," the Senora remarked, with an air of mystery, "I am
quite sure that he would come."
The girl's cheeks were burning now, but she spoke quite calmly.
"Why should he? I do not believe it."
Again the President and his wife exchanged covert glances. The Senora
smiled upon her daughter with amiability.
"At present, little one," she said, "it is not for you to know. But rest
assured that he would come. Your father and I know that. Presently we
may have something to say to you. But not yet. Be patient."
Lucia said no more, but in a few minutes she moved her chair a little
and sat with her face turned from them, looking over the gardens. From
where she was now she could see the walk down which they had wandered on
his first visit to the Presidency, and beyond the little gate where they
had parted after her visit to the prison. Her cheeks grew slowly hot as
she thought of that night.
What must he think of her? What could he? And he had seen her in Eugène's
clothes. It was horrible. Yet--had he really said anything to her father
and mother? She resolved to believe, just for a moment, that he had,
and it was wonderful how everything in life seemed to change. The
weariness was all gone. She was suddenly glad that she was young. There
was so much to enjoy and be thankful for. And all the while she was
conscious that she wanted to be alone. She was longing to steal off into
her room where the sound of those muffled voices would not reach her,
to sit down by the window and think in her favourite corner where she
was quite free from any chance of disturbance. It was a very great
change this.
Meanwhile the President and his wife were talking almost in a whisper.
"Are you sure," he ventured doubtfully, "that that was wise?"
The Senora shrugged her shoulders. It was done, and it was doubtless for
the best.
"You know Lucia," she said. "She is so odd and cold that she would
attract no man. Now she will be different. She will encourage him. She
will be gracious, and who could resist Lucia when she smiles? Already
she is less moody."
The President stroked his little grey imperial
"Dene, without doubt, admired her," he said, "but these Englishmen are
slow wooers. Then, too, I am not quite sure how Dene may regard my
method of ending the revolution. I was obliged to use a little
strategy."
The Senora looked at him thoughtfully. She was well aware that the ways
of Republics in that hemisphere were a little strange, and her
sympathies were entirely with her lord and master. But she was also
aware that Dene's point of view would be a very different one.
"Strategy," she repeated thoughtfully. "Was it anything very--very--?"
The President took his cigar from his mouth and looked at its white ash
thoughtfully.
"There were one or two," he said apologetically, "whom I was forced to
shoot. It was for the good of the Republic."
"After they had given up their arms?"
The President nodded.
"It was really necessary," he said. "Every one insisted upon it. The
unfortunate part of it is that as Dene brought the message to me, he may
consider himself in some manner responsible. It sounds far-fetched," he
continued, "but these Englishmen are so terribly punctilious, and Dene,
of course, is not accustomed to the--er--exigencies of politics in San
Martina. You understand, my love?"
The Senora understood quite well. When she chose to take an interest in
affairs outside her wardrobe she was as keen-witted as the President
himself.
"Have you any idea," she asked, "where Sagasta is hiding?"
Her husband shook his head gloomily.
"The city has been ransacked," he declared. "He must have taken to the
open country. We are organising a search party."
"Have you thought of Beau Desir?" she asked.
He stroked his imperial and reflected. "I had not--definitely," he
admitted. "Now that you mention it, the thing seems possible."
"I have heard you say," she continued, "that it is these English always
who are so faithful to one another in strange countries. So cold ever at
home, so devoted in foreign lands. To whom, then, would Sagasta fly save
to Gregory Dene? And ah! there is more. Listen. Sagasta would say to
Dene, 'It was you who brought the terms of peace from the President, it
was through you that I disbanded my men, and now it is my life they are
seeking. You must hide or defend me. I appeal to you as a brother
Englishman.' Behold!"
The President bestowed upon his wife a glance of admiration.
"You should have been a man and a councillor," he said, "great though
would have been my loss. To-day I shall send to Beau Desir."
She held up two stumpy fingers of her bejewelled hand. "Be careful," she
said, "whom you send. Above everything in the world, Gregory Dene must
not be offended. Let us suppose that he espouses the cause of Sagasta.
It is possible. Then Sagasta may be taken by stealth and scheming. It is
Lucia who will help us with Dene. If Sagasta is under his protection,
surround him, let him not communicate with his friends, keep him hemmed
in--and wait."
The President rose from his chair. "You are wonderful, my love!" he
said. "I will go and despatch a messenger to Beau Desir."
Again she had a suggestion. A wonderful woman this in her tawdry gown
and blazing jewellery--a wonderful woman when she chose to think.
"Send Eugène," she said.
The President hesitated.
"Eugène is not pleasing me just now," he said. "I do not know whether I
could consider him a thoroughly trustworthy messenger."
"Gustave! Our own son. How detestable!"
"He is not taking care of himself," the President hastened to explain.
"I have heard of him, Julie, again as being the worse for wine."
She nodded her head vigorously.
"Leave him to me, Gustave. I will speak to him. But it is he and he only
who must go to Beau Desir. I wish him to become friendly with this Senor
Dene. He will talk to him, he will hear him speak--of our dear girl. Let
Eugène be sent to me."
The President rose and lit a fresh cigar. His hour had arrived for
audiences, and he was forced to tear himself from the domestic circle.
"It shall be as you wish, Julie," he said, "but if Eugène bungles this I
shall never forgive him. Gregory Dene must be conciliated. He is the
most useful ally we could have, or the most dangerous enemy."
Once more the Senora nodded her head vigorously, and glanced over her
shoulder to where Lucia was sitting absorbed.
"Have no fear, my dear Gustave," she said. "Think of our daughter and
rest easy. Gregory Dene will be our relative and our very good friend.
It is certain. Then when the next revolution comes--well, just a
telegram, and behold a British man-of-war. The President's daughter is
an English lady. She must be protected. Ah, it is so simple. Hasten and
send Eugène to me."
CHAPTER XXI. THE RIFLB-SHOT AT DAWN
A single rifle-shot rang out through the dun grey dawn, travelling down
the hillside and along the valley of Beau Desir to the ears of one man
at least in the little settlement.
Gregory Dene opened the door of his house, and standing upon the wooden
floor of his piazza, looked out towards the hills. A little wreath of
white smoke was floating downwards; in the clear silence of the unrisen
day he could hear distinctly the sound of a galloping horse coming
towards him down the winding road. Angus joined him in a moment,
half-dressed and with grave face. He was a man of peace, and Dene's
words had been a trouble to him. All night long he had lain awake
wondering how long it might be before the first blow would fall. The
sound of this rifle-shot in the early dawn had seemed like an answer to
him.
Dene and he exchanged glances.
"It is probably a messenger from San Martina," Dene said. "But I do not
understand the shot. Listen."
The thunder of horse's hoofs was distinctly audible now. Soon a man,
hatless, and swaying a little in his seat, mounted upon a small native
horse, came galloping round the corner. He wore the yellow uniform of a
staff officer in President Rimarez' army, and his face, when he checked
his horse and dismounted, was pale with fear. Dene stepped forward to
greet him, and at the same moment recognised him with an exclamation of
surprise.
"Captain Rimarez! Why, what has happened? There is no bad news, I hope?"
Rimarez, being now on his feet and safe, began slowly to recover his
self-possession.
"There is no bad news--from San Martina," he said, "but I have had a
narrow escape from assassination upon your territory, Mr. Dene. I was
shot at not a mile away by a man in hiding. The bullet passed through my
hat It was a villainous attempt."
"Did you see the man who fired the shot?" Dene asked, quietly. "Can you
identify him?"
Captain Rimarez shook his head.
"No. He was hiding behind some bushes. The coward! He would shoot only
from cover--he would not show himself. My mare bolted, or I would have
risked everything and gone for him."
"Can you point out the exact spot from which the shot was fired?" Dene
asked quickly.
Rimarez lifted his finger.
"You see the bend in the plantation there?" he said. "The man must have
been just inside there, or behind a great boulder nearer the road."
Dene's face was dark with anger. He laid his hand upon the bridle of the
young man's horse.
"Angus," he said, "show Captain Rimarez into my house, and wake Brown
up. Let him get breakfast and some wine. I shall be back within an
hour."
He swung himself upon the horse and cantered up the steep road. In a few
minutes he reached the plantation which Rimarez had pointed out. With
his revolver in his hand, he dismounted and plunged into the
semi-darkness of the closely growing pine trees.
"If the man had half the pluck of his sister," he muttered to himself,
"he would have searched this place. It's only a few yards deep."
It took him scarcely five minutes to assure himself that there was no
one lurking there. The traces of recent occupation were evident
enough--there was even a faint flavour of gunpowder in the sweet morning
air delicately redolent with the odour of the pines and many
sweet-smelling shrubs. But whomever the would-be assassin might have
been, he had got clear away. . Dene, after a careful examination of the
place, was puzzled to imagine by what means he could have made his
egress. From where he had dismounted there was a fine view of the open
country, and higher up on the mountains there was little or no cover
near. The further end of the plantation terminated in a precipice,
sheer, and apparently inaccessible. Below was the valley of Beau Desir;
leaning over with his arm around a young pine sapling. Dene could see
the roofs of the settlement houses, below, so directly underneath that a
pine-cone which he kicked with his foot fell nearly upon the corrugated
roof of the little mission church. He looked all round for any means of
descent. Apparently there were none. To climb down was a thing
absolutely impossible. Nevertheless, Dene was thoughtful and left the
place with reluctance.
He rode down the hillside and back into the settlement. Instead,
however, of entering at once his own house, he handed over the little
mare to Pietro and knocked at the door of Dom Pedro's cottage. It was
opened after scarcely a minute's hesitation by Pedro himself, but not
before Dene had softly tried the latch and found the door locked.
"You are up early, Pedro," Dene remarked.
"Not so early but that you yourself are astir," was the prompt and
cheerful answer. "It was a rifle-shot which disturbed me."
Dene nodded.
"Come out into the Plaza, Pedro," he said. "I have something to ask
you."
Pedro followed without hesitation. Dene waited till the plantation was
well in view. Then he pointed towards it.
"The shot," he remarked, "was fired from there. The man who fired it
must have been concealed amongst those trees. Now you have the
reputation of knowing every inch of country round here, Pedro. Can you
tell me where, in the space of a quarter of an hour, the man who fired
that shot could have hidden himself?"
Pedro looked all around, and shook his head.
"I can see no hiding place," he declared.
"There is no way down into the settlement?"
"With wings," Pedro answered, "or a parachute."
"You know of no path?"
"It would need to be an aerial one," Pedro answered grimly. "No, there
is no way down there save at a fearful risk of life."
"Do you know who our early visitor is?" Dene asked.
Pedro made no answer, but for a moment there was a strange look in his
eyes.
"It is Captain Rimarez," Dene continued. "He seems to have had a narrow
escape of his life. Pedro, your boots are very wet. Have you been out
before this morning?"
"To my potato patch," Pedro answered. "The dew was heavy upon the
leaves."
Dene was more thoughtful than ever.
"Pedro," he said seriously, "I ask no more questions. The young man is
unhurt, or within five minutes I would have every rifle in the place
brought here for my examination. But listen. If harm comes to him, or
any of his family or friends, at the hands of any of my people, I will
hang the guilty man upon the nearest tree, even though it be John Angus
or you, Pedro. That is my word to you, and you know that I am one who is
faithful to my threats and promises."
He nodded and walked away. Pedro, with a queer little smile upon his
lips, turned on his heel and re-entered his cottage. Opening a cupboard
he took down a rifle. With a touch of the ejector a spent cartridge came
out from the left-hand barrel. He replaced it with a new one, and sat
down to breakfast.
CHAPTER XXII. A FACE AMONGST THE SHADOWS
Captain Eugene Rimarez, having drunk nearly a bottle of excellent
claret, and done full justice in other ways to an exceptionally
well-spread breakfast table, was beginning to feel himself again. His
cheeks were no longer pale, and he could hold his knife and fork with
hands that had ceased to tremble. Despite his uniform and commission the
man was a coward, and the fact of his narrow escape had completely
unnerved him.
He looked up on Dene's entrance, and greeted him with an affectation of
carelessness.
"Well," he inquired, "have you made any discoveries?"
Dene shook his head.
"No such luck," he declared. "I examined the place thoroughly, however,
and I discovered this--that your assailant could not have returned here
except by the road, and that we know he has not done. In ten minutes I
shall know whether any one is missing from Beau Desir, or not If every
one can answer to their names, you must hold my people guiltless of
this. Captain Rimarez."
The young man shrugged his shoulders, and helped himself to more claret
"If not one of your people, Senor Dene," he said, "who could it have
been? I have ridden unmolested through the darkest part of the night. I
am within ten minutes ride of your headquarters when this shot is fired.
If not as I say, one of your people, where are we to look for the
dastard?"
Dene took his seat at the table, and proceeded to the discussion of his
own more modest meal.
"You have had trouble in San Martina," he said, "and you have made
outlaws. Some of them may be hiding around here. The sight of your
uniform would be quite sufficient for them. Then again, it may have been
a matter of personal enmity. In any case, I trust you will believe that
I sincerely regret the occurrence."
"We will dismiss it," Rimarez said magnanimously. "We will hear the
result of your roll-call, and if it is satisfactory--well, we will say
that the shot was fired by a stranger."
Dene leaned forward, and called to Angus, who was waiting outside. He
came at once up on to the Piazza. As yet the day's work was not begun,
so his task had been easy. He had even exceeded Dene's instructions.
Every dwelling-house in Beau Desir had been ransacked; the roll call,
from beginning to end, had been satisfactorily answered. Dene's face
grew lighter as Angus concluded his report.
"You hear, sir," he remarked, turning to Rimarez. "Not a single one of
my people is absent."
"I will answer for that," Angus affirmed, "with my life."
Rimarez nodded.
"It is good," he declared. "We will take it for granted, then, that your
people are guiltless. You see I am not unreasonable or hard to convince.
Now you made two other suggestions. Let us consider them."
Dene signed to Angus to withdraw, and produced cigars. Captain Rimarez
lit one, and continued--
"In the first place, you suggested a personal enemy. Well, I know of
none such to whom my death would be pleasing, save--save--to a woman."
The flush faded for a moment from his sallow cheeks, and he frowned
heavily. His prominent white teeth met together, there was a wicked
gleam in his eyes. At that moment, the face of Captain Rimarez was an
evil thing to look upon.
He recovered himself very shortly, shaking himself free with a little
gesture of relief from such untoward memories.
"That possibility then," he said, "we may dismiss. Your next suggestion
embraces the reason of my visit to you."
He looked sharply at Dene, who met his gaze without comprehension. He
did not, indeed, understand at what the other was aiming.
"You spoke," Rimarez explained, "of the rebellion--of outlaws. It is
true. There are outlaws from San Martina, and chief amongst them all is
Sagasta."
"I understood," Dene put in, "that his pardon was one of the conditions
of peace."
"Every condition that was made," Captain Rimarez declared, "Sagasta
broke. The whole matter is not one, Mr. Dene, which you would
understand. But I can tell you this amongst other things. Sagasta
presented himself at the Presidency declaring himself unarmed, was shown
into my father's presence, who was really anxious to understand his
grievances. Whereupon he produced a revolver, and holding him, as he
thought, at his mercy, tried to force him to sign certain documents.
Fortunately the guards rushed in, and Sagasta, owing to my father's
ill-timed clemency, was allowed to escape. He then again endeavoured to
effect a rising, and to have himself proclaimed President. The people,
however, were scarcely ready for another rebellion quite so soon, and he
had hard work to escape from the city. But he managed it by some
means--he is a clever fellow, and no one has seen or heard of him
since."
"I am very sorry to hear this," Dene said. "Sagasta is a good fellow at
heart, and was once a friend of mine."
"So," Captain Rimarez said slowly, "we understood. I come here, Mr.
Dene, on a mission of some difficulty. I am charged by my father to
remind you that you are now a citizen, and one of the chief citizens of
San Martina, and as such you are amenable to its laws and to the
authority of the State."
"I admit it," Dene declared. "Go on."
"Is Sagasta in hiding here, Mr. Dene?"
"On my oath, no," Dene answered heartily. "I began to wonder what on
earth you were driving at."
"You have not seen him since you left San Martina?"
"Certainly not."
"Or heard of him?"
"No."
Captain Rimarez waved his hand lightly.
"It is enough," he said. "Between men of honour it is sufficient. What I
have to say, then, will be a surprise to you. Sagasta did not escape by
sea. In San Martina people smile when his name is mentioned, and they
point ever one way--yonder."
Dene followed the yellow-stained slender finger. It was lifted to the
hills which overtopped the valley.
"In the Andiguan hills," Rimarez continued, "there are secret passes and
many hiding places. Somewhere there Sagasta lies concealed. I would
wager a thousand dollars that it was his hand which fired this infernal
shot."
Rimarez took off his hat and contemplated it ruefully. Even now, after a
full bottle of that most excellent claret, he felt uncomfortable when he
reflected how near, how very near, that shot had come to ending his most
disreputable life.
Dene was thoughtful for several minutes. He began to understand the
purport of this young man's visit.
"You have more to say to me, I suppose," he remarked, after a short
pause. "You have a definite mission here?"
Captain Rimarez arranged his mustachios to his satisfaction and
assented.
"Yes. I have come to ask you to join with me in a search for Sagasta, to
secure him if possible, and to provide me with an escort to take him
back to San Martina."
"It is a military task," Dene answered frowning. "I and my people here
are men of peace. We do not wish to interfere in political or military
matters at all. Bring your soldiers and do as you will upon my land."
"It was my father's particular desire," Rimarez answered, "that I should
bring no soldiers into Beau Desir, and I may say that his feeling was
one of courtesy and consideration towards you. I leave the arrangements
quite in your hands. Only, I have come here to seek for Sagasta, and I
require your aid."
"Which you shall have," Dene declared promptly. "You and I will go
together."
"A most unnecessary risk," Rimarez protested. "We ought to have an
escort of half a dozen at least."
"Sagasta is probably alone," Dene said contemptuously. "You and I could
take him by force easily, if necessary."
"I really protest. I--Great God!"
Captain Rimarez had risen to his feet and strolled towards the wide-open
window. He was standing there during the commencement of his last
sentence. Suddenly the words seemed to die away upon his lips. His eyes
were riveted upon the space in front of the schoolhouse window, and his
face was like the face of a man stricken with a sudden deadly illness.
Dene, startled at his appearance, hastened to his side.
"What on earth is the matter, Rimarez?" he cried. "Are you ill?"
But Rimarez could do no more than lift that unprepossessing forefinger
and point towards the schoolroom window.
CHAPTER XXIII. A YELLOW RIBBON
It was several moments before Rimarez could collect himself sufficiently
to speak. He had meanwhile all the appearance of a man suffering from a
paroxysm of fear. His sallow cheeks were blanched and livid, and he
swayed unsteadily upon his feet like a drunken man. All the time his
eyes never moved from a certain spot across the Square, and they were as
the eyes of a man who sees into another world. When he spoke, it was to
himself. He seemed unconscious or oblivious of the fact that he was not
alone.
"It was a shadow," he muttered. "A dream! But I saw her. Great God, I
saw her!"
Then he turned round, and finding Dene by his side, laughed in a hollow,
affected way.
"I am afraid I frightened you," he said. "I am not quite myself
to-day--it is the night ride--and I had a most ridiculous fancy. By the
bye, who lives in the cottage opposite--the one with the flowers?"
Then Dene began to reflect, and with an effort he lied.
"Our schoolmistress," he said.
"How long--has she been with you?"
"Since we first came."
"And her name?"
"Merder. She is a French Canadian."
It was evidently unfamiliar to Rimarez, but although reassured, he was
not altogether satisfied.
"Has she any relations amongst you?" he asked. "A brother by any
chance?"
Dene shook his head.
"She is," he answered, "a stranger to us all."
Rimarez drew a little breath.
"I am tormented," he said, "by a most extraordinary hallucination. I am
going to ask your permission to speak for one moment with the woman
whose face I saw just now."
"There could be no objection to that," Dene said slowly. "I will send
over and ask her to come across for a moment."
He took up a sheet of paper from his desk and scribbled across it in
pencil.
"Rimarez is here. Fancies he has seen you. Insists upon coming across."
He twisted it up and gave it to Brown. The man crossed the Place with it
and returned almost immediately.
"Miss Mercier will have finished dressing in five minutes, when she will
be pleased if you will step across, sir," was the answer.
The two men heard the message with equal relief.
Dene, wholly ignorant of the relations between these people, began to
wonder whether his falsehood had been unnecessary. He left Rimarez for a
moment whilst he ordered their horses and saw to the loading of his
revolver. When he came back, Rimarez was walking swiftly across the open
space towards the opposite cottage. With a sudden apprehension of evil
he turned sharply round and followed him.
Rimarez, recovering in some measure from his shock, had told himself
that it was impossible for him to have been mistaken. He was sober; an
illusion so complete was not possible. He would know the truth; he would
run no risk of being outwitted. But when he entered the little room into
which he had seen it was surely a stranger who turned to face him with
mild wonderment She was grey-haired, and on her face were many wrinkles.
She wore glasses, and her figure had already attained the robustness of
middle age. Dene, who was looking over his shoulder and who saw a
complete stranger, was no whit less surprised than Rimarez himself.
"I beg your pardon," Rimarez faltered. "I thought that I recognised a
face at the window here just now."
"It was mine, if anybody's," the lady answered. "It's too early for
visitors yet awhile in these parts, anyway."
It was well for Rimarez that he could not see the look of mingled
amazement and admiration on Dene's face. He himself was completely
mystified.
"I was mistaken, evidently," he said. "I beg your pardon, madam."
He withdrew, and found Dene with the horses outside.
"I have been dreaming this morning, or else your claret was marvellously
potent," he said shortly. "You are determined, then, to start on this
search alone?"
"I am sure that we do not need aid," Dene answered "Besides, we are
harvesting, and I need every man on the place. I can ill-afford to be
away myself."
"You are quite sure of your own people?" Rimarez asked nervously. ".You
fully appreciate the consequences to yourself and them of any
treachery?"
"There is nothing of that sort to fear," Dene answered stiffly. "I hold
my charter from your father, President Rimarez, and if Sagasta is a
traitor I shall forget that he is my countryman and was once my friend.
This way."
The two men cantered off. From behind her window a woman watched them,
with a faint smile upon her lips, until they became black specks upon
the hillside. Dene reined in his horse for a moment and looked downwards
at his possessions.
"There is no finer field of corn than that," he said, "in the new world
or the old. If only we can get it all safely housed we are sure of a
prosperous year."
Captain Rimarez followed the outstretched whip with his eyes. Below them
was a solid plain of deep-yellow corn stretching away in one glorious
sweep to the eastern horizon. Already half a dozen machines, with men
like insects at their sides, were at work, but the path of fallen corn
was like a thin insignificant line across the golden sea.
"It will take you a month to get it all in," Rimarez said
Dene smiled.
"Not quite so long, I hope," he said "Yet when you see such a harvest
waiting for the reaping, you can understand what I mean when I say that
my men are men of peace. We want to be disturbed by no political
troubles. We want to be left to ourselves to work out our own destiny."
Captain Rimarez shrugged his shoulders.
"For them, your men, it is well," he said. "But you, surely you should
have ambitions! You are not content to spend the rest of your life as an
agriculturist?"
"It is the greatest desire I have that I may be allowed to do so," Dene
answered. "I have many ambitions, but they have no kinship with politics
or the life of cities."
"It is a pity," Rimarez answered. "My father has been much impressed by
you. He would give you a place in his government to-morrow if you would
accept it."
Dene laughed.
"He would soon repent it," he declared. "I have no head for making laws.
By the way, I trust that the ladies of your family are well?"
Rimarez bowed, and produced an envelope from his pocket.
"Your question reminds me," he said, "that I am the bearer of a message
from them. They are giving a fancy dress ball. This, I think, is your
invitation."
Dene opened his lips to utter some formal regret that his dancing days
were over. Then as he received the envelope into his hands he was
conscious of receiving something very much like a thrill. It was tied up
with a yellow ribbon, and from the envelope there floated out on to the
clear morning air a breath of very sweet perfume--and Denewas back again
in the conservatory at the Presidency looking into Lucia's dark sweet
eyes, watching the scarlet blossoms flash about her blue-black hair. It
was a little vista, the dream of a moment. But Dene took the invitation
and murmured his thanks.
CHAPTER XXIV. A TRAGEDY ON THE MOUNTAIN
As the sun rose higher in the heavens, the heat upon the bare hillside
became almost unbearable. Rimarez, although he had taken off his coat
and was riding only in his shirt and trousers, announced every moment
his intention of going no further. He was in evil condition for any
physical strain. The perspiration rolled from his forehead like water,
and there were dark marks under his eyes. At midday he turned upon Dene
with an oath.
"You want to kill me," he said savagely. "Did you not say that up here
there was always a breeze? I never felt heat like it. My throat is as
dry as a lime-kiln. Sagasta or no Sagasta, let us find some shade where
we can rest."
Even Dene, in his white linen clothes and with his frame hardened by all
manner of out-door sports and labour, was beginning to feel the effect
of the merciless sun.
"It is hotter than I have ever known it here," he admitted "There is
generally a breeze from the sea at this height."
"Have you any idea at all where we are?" Rimarez asked impatiently. "How
far off is the pass of Montinastre?"
Dene pointed with his riding-whip to where a belt of pine trees ran down
the mountain's side.
"I believe," he said, "that it is there. At any rate we shall find shade
and a stream."
"Then for heaven's sake on!" cried Rimarez, urging his horse with the
spurs. "Another hour of this would kill me."
Dene followed a yard or two behind. Rimarez rose several times in his
saddle and examined the surrounding country.
"As I live, I believe that is the pass," he muttered. "See how those
trees rise one above the other. There is a cleft somewhere."
Dene nodded.
"This is the pass right enough," he said. "Whether we shall find any
traces of Sagasta or not is a different matter, though."
Together they rode over the rough ground until they reached the opening
of the pinewood. They then dismounted and tethered their horses.
Rimarez, with a groan, threw himself upon the ground and lit a
cigarette. Dene filled his pipe, and leaned against a tree trunk a few
yards away.
"I cannot make out any path," he remarked, looking upwards, "but one can
see from the shelving tops that there is a cleft, and probably a deep
one. We had better try and get up to the top as soon as you are rested."
"I shall not move," Rimarez declared sullenly, "for an hour."
"Then I will go on alone," Dene said coolly. "I really cannot afford to
give much time to what I fed sure will turn out to be a wild-goose
chase. If I discover anything I will fire my revolver."
Rimarez looked around and shivered a little. He hated solitude, and the
deep silence of these altitudes oppressed him. He rose sullenly to his
feet.
"We will remain together," he said. "We should only lose more time if we
missed one another. What we want to do is to look for some signs of--the
blessed Saints, there it is--the path!"
Dene strode over to his side. There was no doubt about it. A path had
been hewn through the pine trees and brushwood only a few yards below
where they were. They swung easily down to it through the bushes. Not
only was there a path, but there were traces of a man's recent progress
along it. It led, from where they stood, upwards through the mountain
and downwards to the valley of Beau Desir.
"Come along," Dene cried, bending low and plunging into the cool soft
darkness of the wood. "We must see where this leads to."
But Rimarez hesitated. There was something a little uncanny about this
deep twilight silence into which they had suddenly passed after the
glare of the morning. He found himself listening for sounds, and peering
anxiously about at suspicious-looking shrubs.
"There is no need for us to explore further to-day," he said. "Let us go
back to Beau Desir and get some men. If Sagasta is in hiding here he
probably has friends. You and I alone could never take him."
Dene laughed scornfully.
"We are armed," he said, "and they will be unprepared Besides, I have an
account of my own to settle with Sagusta."
Rimarez halted irresolute. He was very much averse to being left alone;
he was a little more averse to following up that footpath to its
probable termination. Suddenly he held up his finger.
"Listen!" he cried nervously. "Hush!"
Dene stopped short, and the two men held their breath. There was nothing
to be heard. The deep silence seemed absolutely unbroken save by the
faintest of breezes which shook the dark tree-tops and the far-off
trickling of a watercourse.
"There is nothing to be afraid of," Dene said quietly. "This path seems
to me to run right down to Beau Desir, and I am going to find out about
it."
"I thought that I heard voices," Rimarez faltered. "Remember, Sagasta is
my personal enemy. If he should have friends with him--"
Dene turned impatiently away, and Rimarez, after a moment's hesitation,
followed him. The path had evidently been made with great difficulty,
for the ascent was steep and the pines grew closer and closer together.
Nevertheless, they made good progress, and in less than half an hour
they could see light in front Dene pointed to it.
"We are near the top," he said. "Follow me carefully."
As they reached the last few yards of their climb the path became almost
perpendicular. They had to pull themselves up by means of tree stumps,
apparently left jutting out of the soil for that purpose. Dene was
leading, and he first swung himself up, and turning round half lifted
Rimarez to his side. Breathless, they stood upright and looked eagerly
around. Then a strange thing happened. From every side there flashed out
a long shining rifle-barrel. A tall figure loomed up against the empty
background of sky, and a quick| imperative voice rang out with a brief
command--
"Throw down your revolvers!"
Quick as lightning Dene's hand was in his hip pocket, but before he
could withdraw it a rifle-bullet whistled past his ear at so short a
range that his face was blackened with the powder. He cast a swift
glance around. It was not one man, but seven or eight who surrounded
them. He accepted the inevitable and threw his revolver on to the
ground, where his companion's weapon already lay.
It was Sagasta who had confronted them. He was looking straight past
Dene into Rimarez's face, and the light in his countenance was not a
pleasant thing to look upon.
"You are very welcome, gentlemen," he said, with an evil sweetness in his
tone. "You, Mr. Dene, I am always glad to entertain, for I fear that I
am in some measure a trespasser upon your land--and you. Captain
Rimarez, well, you know how accounts stand between us. You are the most
welcome visitor whom chance has ever sent me."
Rimarez' face was livid with fear, and Dene himself was uneasy.
"I want a word with you, Sagasta," he said.
Sagasta waved his hand.
"These gentlemen," he said, "are my friends, and have my whole
confidence; you can speak without reserve."
Dene glanced around. There were several faces there which he had seen in
San Martina.
"I went to President Rimarez," Dene said, "at your request, and made
with him on your behalf certain definite arrangements. Now, I am given
to understand that you treacherously departed from these, and under
false pretences entered the President's house and attempted his
assassination. I--"
"You have been given to understand," Sagasta interrupted, with flashing
eyes, "a pack of infernal falsehoods. The boot is on the other leg. The
falsehood and treachery lie at the door of that man," pointing to
Rimarez, "and his cursed father. I went unarmed into their house: that I
left it alive is even now a matter of wonder to me. Ask him yourself for
the truth. The coward! He has no words."
Dene turned to his companion.
It was true. He was speechless with fear. There was a sinister smile
upon Sagasta's face. He evidently meant mischief.
"If I have been misled," Dene said slowly, "I must apologise to you,
Sagasta, for my hasty judgment."
"I have no quarrel with you," Sagasta answered significantly. "You are
welcome to leave when you choose. As to your companion--he can guess, I
think, what is in store for him. Manuel, bring a rope and knot it to the
tallest of those trees."
Rimarez sunk to the ground. His face was blanched with fear. Dene
stepped hastily forward.
"Sagasta," he exclaimed, "What are you going to do?"
"We are going to hang him," was the fierce reply.
Rimarez started moaning to his feet
"Why, it is barbarous!" he cried, "For the love of heaven, say that you
are not in earnest I will see my father. Your sentence shall be revoked.
Senor Dene, you will not let them murder me!"
"I sincerely hope, Sagasta," Dene said, "that you will not attempt
anything so horrible."
Sagasta smiled grimly, and unslung a pair of field-glasses from his
shoulders.
"You call it horrible. Step this way, Mr. Dene," he said.
The two men walked together for several yards towards the further side
of the mountain. Suddenly Dene uttered a little exclamation of surprise.
As they emerged from the trees a marvellous panorama unfolded itself.
Below was a narrow belt of wooded country, and beyond the sea. Looking
northwards, San Martina seemed to lie almost at then: feet, its white
houses with their luxurious gardens, its terraced heights and the
shipping in the large harbour all clearly visible through the hot, still
air. Sagasta thrust the glasses into Dene's hands.
"Look steadily towards the Plaza," he said.
Dene looked, and his face became grave.
"You see gallows there?" Sagasta asked.
"Yes."
"And men hanging from them?"
Again Dene assented with a little shudder.
"Those," Sagasta said, "are the bodies of my friends butchered to death
by Rimarez--men who like myself trusted to the peaceful message which
you brought back to us from the President Do you realise what this
means? They were young men, three of them, whose only crime was a hatred
of corrupt government, and a desire to see the affairs of the State
administered according to the laws of the country and ordinary
civilisation. Young men, Dene like you and I were years ago, who had
ideals and dared to proclaim them, even as they have dared to use
stronger weapons than speech. You have shown that the love of freedom
and the love of your fellow-men is still with you, for you have given
some portion of your life and career for that handful of downtrodden men
and women whom you brought out from England to this new country. You can
not help but sympathise with me--and them!"
He pointed a grim forefinger downwards to where San Martina lay smiling
in the tropical sunshine all unconscious of the black spot which she
carried in her bosom. Then he looked into Dene's face, and he saw that
his words had told.
"I do sympathise with you, and with them," Dene said earnestly.
"Further, I will go myself to the President and demand an explanation of
these things. If I was made the bearer of a bogus message of peace I
will insist upon redress. But I do most heartily beg of you to refrain
from this most hideous reprisal. Remember, that for cruelty and
disregard of social laws it puts you on the same footing as them. You
will have lost your grievance. You will probably alienate popular
sympathy."
Sagasta smiled.
"You do not know the man for whom you are pleading," he said. "There is
not a man or woman in San Martina who would lament his death. He is a
blackguard many degrees worse than the President, his father."
"He is at any rate the brother of the woman who set you free."
Sagasta shrugged his shoulders.
"So you know of that. Well, I am sorry for Lucia, but I should be very
weak if I allowed any sentimental objections to stand in the way of
justice."
"Justice," Dene exclaimed. "Who made you his judge, Sagasta? If his life
has been what you say, there is a harvest of sorrows before him. Let him
live to reap it."
Sagasta shook his head
"The justice of Heaven," he said, "may be sure, but ii is too slow for
me. No. Rimarez dies. As for you, Dene, you are welcome to go or stay."
Sagasta turned on his heel and walked back towards the little group of
men. Dene, with his hand upon his arm, made a last appeal.
"Sagasta," he said, "the man is my guest. He is travelling here under my
protection. I warn you that if you proceed to extremes you make an enemy
of me. Come, be reasonable. Keep him a prisoner until the morning, at
any rate."
Sagasta was apparently deaf. He shook himself free from Dene's grasp.
"He will never see another morning," he said grimly.
"Rebault, are you ready?"
There was a chorus of assent.
"Pinion him," Sagasta ordered.
There was a little rush towards the prisoner, who had sunk upon his
knees. Their hatred of him was emphasised by the haste with which each
one strove to bear a hand in the task. At that moment an inspiration
came to Dene. He stooped suddenly down and picked up the two revolvers
which lay almost at his feet. Then he set his back against a tree.
"The first man who stirs," he said quietly, "I will shoot."
CHAPTER XXV. THE DICTATOR
It was an odd turn of the tables, but a complete one. For the moment
Dene certainly held the whole party at his mercy. Sagasta's companions
had one and all thrown down their weapons when they had rushed forward
to hold and bind Rimarez. Sagasta himself was, or appeared to be,
unarmed. Dene, with a revolver in each hand, stood at a convenient
distance from the little group, too far away to be rushed, too near for
any chance of missing his mark should he fire. In the momentary
confusion Rimarez wrestled himself free from his captors and made his
way to Dene's side. He stood there, a trembling, shrunken figure--even
Dene looked at him in contempt.
Sagasta's face was as black as night, but neither he nor any of the
others stirred from their places. The long-delayed breeze from the ocean
below crept up and shook the leaves of the trees around them. From the
cornfield came floating up the whirr of the distant reaping-machines.
The rope, with its noose already fashioned, swayed gently to and fro.
Dene faced Sagasta and spoke. The hands which grasped those two
revolvers were rigid and firm.
"Captain Rimarez," he said, "is an envoy to me from his father, the
President of San Martina, and is under my protection. I am not concerned
in the internal dissensions of this State, and as regards your quarrels,
I am neutral. But to-day I am responsible for the safety of my guest,
and I will shoot the first man who lays a hand upon him. Apart from
this, you are trespassers at this moment upon my land, and I will not
for one moment sanction such a barbarism as you have dared to propose."
Sagasta smiled bitterly.
"I do not admit your landlordship," he said, "but we are certainly under
the power of your revolver."
A word from Dene, and Rimarez slunk off. There was a little movement as
though to intercept him, but Sagasta raised his hand.
"Let him go," he directed. "I have lost too many friends already. His
life is not worth the risk of one of yours."
Down the hillside they could hear him crashing blindly through the
bushes and undergrowth, madly anxious to reach the spot where they had
tethered their horses before Dene's mastery over the little party should
cease. Many angry eyes were flashing upon Dene. Even then at a single
gesture from their leader they were willing to throw themselves upon
him. But Sagasta gave no signal. He knew his man too well.
"For the moment, Dene," he said quietly, "you have triumphed. Have you
counted the cost? When my whereabouts is known, my followers will flock
out here to me. What is to prevent my raiding your settlement and
burning your crops?"
"Come when you choose," Dene answered. "We shall be ready for you. There
is not a man in Beau Desir who will not fight to the death for his home
and his womenkind."
Sagasta stood for a moment irresolute. Then he came over to Dene's side
and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Dene," he said earnestly, "we should be friends. We are
fellow-countrymen, and I think that our aims are very much the same. Put
down your revolver. We have no horses, so we cannot pursue Rimarez, and
we have no quarrel with you."
Dene thrust his revolver into his pocket, and lit a agar. Along the
mountain path they could hear the muffled thud of a galloping horse.
Rimarez was safe.
"I have no desire," Dene said, "to quarrel with any one."
"Come over to our side," Sagasta continued. "Let me explain to you at
least the cause which I represent, and the grievances which have made
the free men of the State hate the name of Rimarez."
Dene shook his head slowly but firmly.
"You forget," he said, "that I have not myself alone to consider. I am
responsible for the welfare and safety ol all those who have thrown
their lot in with me. It is from President Rimarez that I hold my
charter, and it is to him I must look as the head of this State. My
individual sympathies are nothing. If they counted I might be with you.
As it is, I am neutral."
Sagasta shook his head.
"Neutrality," he said, "is an impossible position for you. Even now you
were helping the son of President Rimarez to discover our hiding place."
"Then you must write me down," Dene said, "as an enemy."
"That is a bold speech for a prisoner," Sagasta exclaimed, with a note
of menace in his tone.
"I am not your prisoner," Dene answered calmly. "In the first place, you
have guaranteed my safety, apart from which as a matter of fact your
life is entirely at my mercy. If any of your men lay a hand upon me they
will be leaderless, for I should shoot you."
Sagasta regarded him with a smile.
"If I had a dozen like you. Dene," he said, "I would make this little
State the freest in the world. Now go as quickly as you can."
Dene held out his hand.
"Take my advice, and leave this country, Sagasta," he said. "You will
fritter your life away here to no purpose. There is better work to be
done elsewhere."
But Sagasta shook his head slowly.
"Better work for better men, perhaps," he said. "For me there is no
looking back."
Rimarez had ridden fast, and Dene cantered up to his side only as they
entered Beau Desir. He was smoking, but his hands were trembling, and
his face was still ashen white.
"That was a tolerably close shave," Dene remarked. "For a few minutes we
were in a very awkward fix."
Rimarez looked over his shoulder and scowled.
"That fellow Sagasta shall pay for this," he muttered savagely. "Ill see
him hung yet."
"According to him," Dene remarked, "it was your father who started the
hanging."
"And a d----d good thing too," Rimarez exclaimed, with evil emphasis. "I'd
hang Sagasta and every man of them if I could. Cursed rebels."
"There is a question which I should like to ask you. Captain Rimarez,"
Dene said coldly. "You will remember that I was the bearer of a message
from Sagasta and his friends to your father?"
Rimarez nodded.
"Very surprised we were," he said, "to think that you should mix
yourself up in such a business."
"It was an errand of mercy," Dene said, "and I was very willing to
undertake it. Your father's reply was pacific. Sagasta and his friends
were invited to the Presidency. I want to know whether it is true that
upon their arrival unarmed some of them were arrested and hanged?"
"It is wholly false," Rimarez answered. "They came and made some absurd
propositions which were promptly declined. They were allowed to leave
the Presidency unharmed. It was not until the next morning that the men
in question were arrested."
"I am relieved to hear it," Dene said shortly. "Sagasta gave me to
understand that the arrests were effected in spite of the safe conduct
promised through me."
"Sagasta is a notorious and scandalous liar," Rimarez declared. "From
this moment I shall not rest until he is hung."
Dene touched his horse with the spurs, and maintained for the rest of
the way a contemptuous silence. Once as they turned the last corner
Rimarez moved in his saddle and gazed up at the mountain's summit down
which they had come. In the haze of the afternoon heat a dim blue mist
seemed to hang about the dark ravine; higher up the deep green of the
pines melted softly into sunlit space. It was a very beautiful view, but
Rimarez was blind to it. There was venom in his white face, and an evil
light in his eyes.
"You shall hang for this, Sagasta, my friend," he muttered. "I will see
to it. You will cry for mercy, and I shall laugh. It will be my turn
then. You shall hang for it if it costs us a regiment."
CHAPTER XXVI. A MAN AND HIS WIFB
"Sagasta--silly fellow--great coward. He's--hic--afraid of me. I was
always--hic--too clever for him. Like you, Dene. You very good chap.
Governor, mater, Lucia, all like you. Saved my life. Like you, Dene.
Like your claret. Tell that--hic--Johnny, bring up another bottle."
Dene rose from his seat with a little gesture of disgust, and passed out
into the soft, velvety darkness. The faintly stirring breeze cooled his
forehead, and he gave a little sigh of relief. Inside, Rimarez, with
broken voice, was essaying the last verse of a ribald song.
It was late, and the people of Beau Desir, wearied with the long day's
harvesting, were sleeping as one man. Not a light burned in any of the
windows. Dene stood in the centre of the little open space in front of
his house bareheaded, and drinking in the cool sweetness of the night
Suddenly something white gleamed through the darkness, and a voice,
raised scarcely above a whisper yet very distinct in that stillness,
called to him.
"Mr. Dene."
He was by her side in a moment She was leaning against the wooden pillar
in front of her little house, and he noticed that she had chosen a
position from which she could see into his sitting-room. She pointed
towards Rimarez, who was lying upon three chairs, a tumbler of claret in
his hand, singing still old snatches of his evil song.
"You have a guest," she remarked.
His face darkened.
"An uninvited one," he answered, "but one whom I am forced to receive. I
am afraid that his presence here is not welcome to you."
She did not answer him at once. Her eyes were fixed upon the window. The
sight of that half-drunken man seemed to have fascinated her.
"What is his errand? What does he want here?"
"There is a report in San Martina," Dene answered, "that a man named
Sagasta, who is an outlaw from the city, is hiding in the mountains.
Captain Rimarez was sent to discover his whereabouts, if possible."
"You have been out together nearly all day," she said. "Have you been up
in the mountains?"
"Yes."
"Looking for Sagasta?"
Again Dene assented.
"Did you find him?"
Dene nodded.
"We found Sagasta," he said, "but unfortunately for us he was not alone.
We were taken by surprise, and Captain Rimarez had a very narrow escape
of hanging."
"Tell me about it," she begged, breathlessly.
He paused for a moment, wondering at her deep interest. Then in a few
words he told her what had happened. She half closed her eyes, and her
face seemed very white in the dim moonlight. Was it anxiety on Eugène
Rimarez's account? he wondered.
"Do you know why this man Sagasta was so incensed against Captain
Rimarez?"
"The reason he gave," Dene answered, "was because the President had hung
some men who went to him under cover of a flag of truce. He also seemed
to have a fairly bad opinion of him all round."
"He made no other--specific charges?"
Dene shook his head.
"No."
"And he would really have hung him but for your interference?"
"Without a doubt."
"You have made an enemy of Sagasta, then?"
Dene shrugged his shoulders.
"I cannot tell. Perhaps when he reflects he will be grateful to me."
She motioned him to look across through the darkness into his lamp-lit
room. Rimarez was leaning back in his chair apparently in a state of
drunken collapse. His right hand still grasped a tumbler from which the
last few drops of liquor were falling to the ground. His dress was
disarranged, and his face ghastly. He was altogether a repulsive object
to look upon.
"After all," she said bitterly, "don't you think that you may have done
society an evil turn?"
Dene looked at her gravely.
"I did my duty," he said. "The man was my guest, and whatever he is,
neither Sagasta or myself may be his judge."
She was silent for a while. When she spoke again it was in a different
tone. It was as though she had dismissed an unpleasant matter from her
mind.
"You were right about San Martina," she said. "It is worse than I had
any idea of."
"It seems very wonderful to me," he remarked gravely, "that you should
ever have come here."
"I had no alternative," she answered.
"At least," he persisted, "you cannot be thinking of making your home
here."
She raised her eyes to his and looked at him earnestly.
"Are you so anxious," she said softly, "to get rid of me?"
He did not answer her at once. It was the first time she had ever
imparted to their conversations any note of personal tenderness. He
looked at her thoughtfully. She was very beautiful, and she was of the
type which he had always most admired. She was leaning a little towards
him, her attitude was perfectly graceful. The softer light in her eyes,
the faint smile ready to break from her lips amounted almost to an
invitation. He felt that if he had taken her into his arms she would
scarcely have resisted. Her words only the last time he had spoken with
her came back to him like a flash. "They had love," she had whispered.
"Is not that a great thing?"
They stood side by side in a silence which seemed perfectly natural and
free from all awkwardness. Dene was conscious of a sense of unwonted
excitement stealing through his veins and a peculiar exhilaration
stirring his heart. After all, was she not right? It was Pietro who had
found the royal road to happiness; he too might follow. He stooped and
picked up a flower which had fallen from her bosom. Just then he did not
care to look at her. He felt her eyes following his movements; he felt
that in a sense she was waiting for him to speak. Still he remained
silent, and the moment passed away.
"This is such a beautiful country," she said, with a little sigh. "What
a pity that there should be such wretched government, so much
bloodshed."
"Its politics," he remarked, with a sense of relief which he found it
hard to account for, "remind one of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. What
Sagasta and his followers want no one seems to definitely know."
"I have heard it said," she murmured, "that the whole family of Rimarez
are detested everywhere."
"Yet they elected him President," Dene said.
"It was his influence with the army," she declared. "Sagasta, they tell
me, was once his secretary, and it was the knowledge which he gained
there of the utter corruptness of Rimarez' government which induced him
to join the patriots. Somehow, do you know, I should have thought that
your sympathies would have been with him. He is the friend of the
people--he is anxious, they say, for better laws and freedom. Rimarez
has ruled as an autocrat and an evil one."
Dene looked into her face with some surprise. Her tone was low, but very
earnest--almost passionate.
"You seem," he remarked, "to have found out a good deal about the place
in a very short time."
"I think," she said, "that one cannot be in San Martina a day, scarcely
an hour, without realising how evil the state of things is."
"It is bad," Dene admitted, "but then consider what an extraordinarily
cosmopolitan population Rimarez has to deal with. It would be impossible
to satisfy all of them."
"As a matter of fact," she said, "he satisfies none except his soldiers,
who are over-fed and over-paid, and who are allowed to get drunk in the
street and indulge in any form of license they choose. They are paid by
huge taxes levied upon the people, and they exist only to terrorise
them."
"It appears to me," Dene said, with some surprise, "that you know more
of these matters than I do. In a certain sense I feel that it is useless
my being concerned in them. I could not interfere, for my people's sake.
I hold my charter from President Rimarez, and when it was granted to me
I signed a promise to assist in no way in any insurrection against him."
The woman sighed. She had turned her face towards the mountains from
which came stealing downwards a cool night breeze delicately fragrant
with the odour of the pines. Up there, somewhere above the gorge, a
night bird was singing--the far-away sweetness of its song was the only
living sound which broke the deep, solemn stillness. Dene was conscious
that he was fast drifting into an emotional frame of mind. The woman by
his side had twined her long, graceful arms around her head, and he saw
for the first time that her upturned face, very fair and delicate in the
ghostly light, was stained with tears.
"Some day," he said, with a sudden impulse, "I want you to tell me the
story of your life, and what brought you out here. Will you?"
She looked at him wistfully, paler a little even than before, and
without the vestige of a smile upon her quivering lips.
"Sometimes," she said, "one's history belongs more to others than to
oneself. It is so with mine. I trust you now, but I could never tell you
my sorrows--or my secret."
"You are young," he said, "to have either."
A sudden weariness stole into her face, a grey shadow dimming even the
brightness of her eyes.
"Was I ever young? I am twenty-six years old. Confess that I look
forty."
"I decline to perjure myself," he answered, smiling. "As a matter of
fact you know perfectly well that you look nothing of the sort. A week
or two here and you will be yourself again. Only you must not let those
children tease you. They have run almost wild, and I am afraid you will
find them a harum-scarum lot."
"I shall do my best with them," she answered. "I mean, like the rest of
your great family here, to earn my living."
"Yours, I am afraid, will be one of the hardest tasks," he protested,
"and I don't believe that you are used to anything of the sort. Let them
have short hours and plenty of holiday. It will be well for them and for
you."
She shook her head.
"I think that hard work is what I want," she said. "I am like so many
other people in the world. I want to forget."
"Dene. Where the devil are you? Dene."
They both started round. The moon had just risen from behind a black
patch of fir trees, and a long shaft of yellow light lay across the open
space along and around which had been built the houses of Beau Desir.
Into the centre of it came Eugène Rimarez, his face inflamed with drink,
staggering from side to side, his eyes bloodshot, his voice thick with
drunken anger.
"Dene, come in and--hic--help me thrash that--hic--impertinent
jackan--an--apes of a servant of yours. What--you think. He won't give
me--hic--the brandy. The rascal refused me--refused to give it me. Said
I'd had enough. Told me so to my face. Where are you. Dene? Ha! you sly
old dog. Got a woman there, eh!"
Dene and Ternissa had stood without moving at first, Dene hoping that
his companion's presence would be unnoticed. But at Rimarez' last words
she left the shadow of the piazza shrinking back towards the door, and
Dene, as she slipped away, heard a low moan break from her lips. He
turned to raise the latch for her, but in the act of doing so he was
startled by a sound so unexpected that for a moment he lost his presence
of mind. The whole air seemed full of Rimarez' drunken laughter. "Hal
ha! ha!"
Rimarez had staggered up close to them and was actually leaning over the
palisading which enclosed the little garden. His sallow, flushed face
was distorted by a satyr-like merriment--he showed his protruding teeth
and his bloodshot eyes were gleaming fiercely.
"Ternissa, by all the saints," he cried, pointing a shaking finger at
her. "Pass her over. Dene--hic--pass her over. She's mine--hic--belongs
to me."
He lifted one leg over the palisading. Dene seized him by the
coat-collar and thrust him easily backwards. Ternissa stood upon the
threshold of her cottage, pale as death in the faint moonlight.
"Let me alone," Rimarez cried, struggling. "Hands off, I tell you. How
dare you--hic--interfere between man and his--hic--wife?"
Dene shook him like a rat.
"You drunken liar," he said. "Get back where you came from."
"You do not believe it," Rimarez cried. "I tell you, man, that she is
mine--belongs to me. She came out from England to--hic--join me. She's
my wife--is it not true, Ternissa? Come and give me a kiss, dear. Let us
be friends again. Curse you--hic--you interfering idiot. How dare you
keep a man and his wife apart? Eh! eh!"
Ternissa turned slowly round towards Dene. He knew then that some part
of this story at least was true, for her face was white to the lips, and
her eyes were full of dumb horror.
"Keep him away, keep him away," she moaned. "Don't let him come near me.
For pity's sake keep him away."
"You are perfectly safe," Dene assured her. "You need not have the
slightest fear."
She passed inside the house with bent head. Dene kept a firm grasp upon
Rimarez' collar.
"Come back, and we will see about that brandy," he said. "I want a drink
myself."
Rimarez turned a scowling face to the door through which Ternissa had
passed.
"All right, my girl, all right," he cried. "I have found you now, and I
will--hic--have you. I will have you if I bring my regiment here and bum
the whole place. You are mine--mine. Curse all your airs and pride. You
are my wife and I will have you."
Dene lifted him bodily off his feet and dragged him shrieking across the
open space. He opened the door of his own room and threw him in.
"I will have--hic--satisfaction for this," Rimarez cried, livid with
rage. "You shall fight me. By all the saints, you shall fight me."
Dene vouchsafed no answer. He turned the key in the lock and threw
himself upon the couch in his sitting-room.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE THWARTING OF RIMAREZ
In the soft white twilight before the dawn, Dene was out amongst the
harvesters watching the great machines which had been at work since the
first shaft of faint light had pierced the eastern sky. Almost half of
the yellow plain had gone; the corn in great sheaves lay bound upon the
close-shorn earth. Such a harvest as this had never been known in Beau
Desir. Already the carpenters were busy building another great barn.
Dene, who had meant to devote some part of the day towards the drilling
of the younger men, had not the heart to take them from their tasks.
Every one was so light-hearted, that by degrees Dene, as he rode
backwards and forwards on his little mustang, forgot in a certain
measure his own anxieties. Pietro was singing like a bird, and every now
and then a deep chorus to his song came sweeping up the valley from the
throats of a hundred stooping men. Even Angus, whose gloom was
proverbial, and whose eyes seemed ever fixed upon the darker side of
life, went about with an unaccustomed smile upon his lips, and gave his
orders with positive cheerfulness. The hard lines upon his face had
relaxed, his stoop had gone, and he carried himself almost like a young
man. Dene pulled up by his side with a cheerful greeting.
"It's a grand morning, Angus. If we get it all in we shall have enough
to feed San Martina."
"And get it all in we shall, sir," was the cheerful answer. "It's the
grandest spell o' weather we've had for sure. I'm thinking a month o'
sunshine like this would warm old Scotland up, sir."
Dene laughed.
"It'll warm some of our young men up before the day is over, Angus. Look
after them, and see they have a rest at midday. I don't want any
sunstrokes."
Angus chuckled to himself, and passed on his way. He had the reputation
of being a hard taskmaster, and he enjoyed it Dene rode on, but pulled
up suddenly as he came upon a man binding into sheaves the fallen corn.
"What. Dom Pedro!" he exclaimed. "How long have you turned harvestman?"
Dom Pedro straightened himself, and laughed.
"Every man's labour is wanted here to-day," he said. "Why should I be an
idler? After all, I am not sure that there is any work in the world so
satisfactory as the exercise of manual force. I am hungrier already than
I have been for months, and as for thirst--well, there are no words in
my vocabulary to fit my condition."
"Come down and have some breakfast with me," Dene said. "I must get back
directly."
Dom Pedro shook his head.
"I am very hungry, it is true," he said, "and the sound of breakfast is
pleasant enough. But I go no nearer to Beau Desir than I can help, until
your guest has left."
"Do you mean Bimarez?" Dene asked.
"Yes."
"You do know him, then?"
Dom Pedro drew himself up, and his eyes flashed fire.
"For an unutterable blackguard--yes. For a poisonous, slanderous
cur--yes. Know him. I know him so well, that if we met I should spit in
his face."
Dene looked at his companion in amazement.
"Is it as bad as that, Dom Pedro?" he said, gently.
"It is worse," was the grim reply. "There are no words to apply to such
cattle. The Saints send that he keeps out of my path while he remains in
Beau Desir."
Dene rode off thoughtfully. Here was a man, then, who hated Rimarez so
that the very mention of his name moved him to passion. Was it not
probable that he had fired that shot? Only a moment before he had
uttered what amounted to a threat If they had met face to face, who
could tell what might not have happened? He looked behind as he cantered
down the broad green path. Dom Pedro had not yet resumed his labours. He
was standing very still and very rigid--was it a coincidence that his
white face, with its bright, deep-set eyes, was turned towards that bend
in the road from which Rimarez had galloped down, pale and trembling,
with a bullet through his hat? Was it a coincidence, Dene wondered; or
could Dom Pedro, if he chose, tell the story of that little accident?
Bimarez was sitting in the piazza as Dene rode up, shaven and carefully
dressed, showing little signs of his carouse save for a slight redness
of the eyes and a pallor a little more intense than usual. He greeted
Dene with a nod, and they went in to breakfast together.
"You are up earlier than I expected to see you," Dene remarked drily.
Rimarez asked for strong tea, and sipped it slowly.
"I am afraid, Mr. Dene," he said deliberately, "that my behaviour last
night was scarcely what it should have been. I--"
"Please don't refer to it," Dene interrupted hastily. But Rimarez waved
his words aside.
"I was drunk," he said calmly. "I sometimes am. It was an unfortunate
combination of this cursed climate and that magnificent claret of yours.
Further, I was excited and upset to see a certain lady in your company."
"The lady," Dene said, "was scarcely in my company. She is our
schoolmistress, and a new arrival here. I know nothing more than
this--nor do I desire to know more. Will you allow me to suggest that we
abandon the subject."
"I regret," Rimarez answered, "that that is not possible. I have
something very definite to say to you concerning it. I wish you to
understand that the lady in question is my property. I take it that you
have no desire for any particulars as regards--"
"Certainly not," Dene interrupted hotly.
"Precisely. It will be sufficient, I trust, for me to assure you as a
gentleman that I have a prior claim upon the lady. Your acquaintance
with her I was aware of. I saw you together--you may remember it--at the
hotel at San Martina. Now, I have not the desire to ask you needless
questions as to her presence here, which last night you evidently tried
to conceal from me. I simply make this request to you. The lady must be
handed over to me without delay."
"The matter," Dene remarked coolly, "remains, entirely with the lady
herself. She will remain where she is, or accompany you, at her own
pleasure."
Rimarez' face grew darker, and he leaned over the table towards Dene
with scowling face.
"To the devil with any reservations," he said savagely. "I wish you no
harm, Senor Dene, and I have no quarrel with you. But this is a matter
on which I am going to have my own way. I tell you that she belongs to
me. She will not deny it I can prove it if you like."
"Your relationship with her is not my concern," Dene answered. "All I
have to say is this. So long as she chooses to remain here she certainly
shall. I will not have her interfered with or troubled. She shall do
exactly as she pleases."
Rimarez rolled and lit a cigarette. "There are other ways," he said
quietly. ". If you force me to make use of them--well, you have yourself
alone to blame. I have no desire to be your enemy. You helped me out of
a very awkward position yesterday. Although I can scarcely believe it
possible that those rascals would have dared to go to such lengths, it
is just possible, of course, that you saved my life."
Dene smiled to himself, but said nothing. The contrast between the
Rimarez who lounged in the wicker chair very much at his ease, slightly
patronising, with the obvious air of being master of the situation, and
the Rimarez who had grovelled on his knees a few hours ago before
Sagasta, white-faced, terror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, was
almost ludicrous.
"I do not like to make enemies," Dene said, "but no threats would have
the slightest effect upon me. The lady remains, or not, as she chooses."
"Let me remind you," Rimarez said slowly, "of my position here. I am an
envoy. I am sent to report upon the friendliness of you and your people,
and the possibility of your being induced to harbour outlaws--such as
Sagasta. Sagasta, as you know, we found on your domain, possibly without
your knowledge, but still he was there. He appeared to have no stores or
provisions--he left San Martina too hurriedly to arrange for any. How is
he living? Presumably some one in Beau Desir is helping him. You see the
evidence is that way. Why did he retreat on to your land unless he was
depending on your help?"
"I am in no way responsible for his movements," Dene answered. "I--"
"You say so," Rimarez continued quickly, "but who is to prove it? The
attitude of the Government towards you will depend solely upon my
report. At present my father is well disposed towards you. He is even
anxious to count you amongst his friends. I was unfortunate enough to be
absent most of the evening of your visit to the Presidency, but I
returned to find you established as--a friend of the family."
He looked up at Dene with meaning in his dark eyes, and Dene thought of
that fragment of yellow ribbon still in his pocket, and knew quite well
what he meant.
"Your father was very hospitable," Dene said drily. "May I ask why you
are--to put it plainly--indulging in this digression? I am a busy man
to-day, and I want to get to my work. Will you come to the point?"
Rimarez shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes. I want that giri."
"If she is willing--then take her."
"She will not be willing."
"Then you certainly will have to leave her here."
"That is to say that you decline to give her up to me?"
"Certainly."
Rimarez rose to his feet.
"Very well. You want plain speech. You shall have it. I shall return to
San Martina, and report that I found Sagasta in hiding on your land,
that you evidently are a sympathiser with him, and that your people are
with you. Further, that your household here is not of such a character
that you should be any more welcomed at the Presidency as a guest. The
result--well, it is simple. I shall return with a regiment of soldiers
and fetch the lady myself. Your charter will be cancelled, and your
goods confiscated."
Dene laughed out loud and contemptuously.
"After that," he said, "you had better get out of Beau Desir as fast as
your horse's legs will carry you. As to your lies, you can tell any you
think fit. I bought Beau Desir, and paid for it in hard cash, and I have
sent the title deeds to the British Consul at Buenos Ayres. I am no rebel,
and I have broken no part of my contract. If you overrun my land with your
soldiers, or attempt any act of force upon me or my people, you will wake
up one morning to find an English warship shelling San Martina, and your
tinpot little city in ruins about your ears. As for the lady, understand
me clearly. She is an Englishwoman, and I will take her under my
protection. You touch her at your peril."
Rimarez, with clenched teeth, walked towards the door.
"It is to be war, then," he said, with quiet fury. "Very well. We will
at least hear what the lady has to say."
"We will hear that," Dene said, also rising, "together. I shall come
with you."
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CONFESSION OF TERNISSA
They crossed the open space together. Dene laid his hand upon his
companion's arm.
"Understand this," he said shortly. "I am coming with you to hear from
her own lips whether or no she desires to see you. If she is willing, I
have no more to say; if she is unwilling, you mount your horse and ride
away."
Rimarez laughed unpleasantly.
"Oh, she'll see me fast enough," he declared. "You need have no fear of
that. I have the right. She will admit it."
"Her attitude towards you last night justified such a fear," Dene
remarked. "At any rate, I shall hear what she has to say."
They had reached the door, and Rimarez knocked upon it with his
riding-whip. For a moment there was no answer. Dene, who was standing by
his side, fancied that he heard voices within her little sitting-room.
But when in response to Rimarez' second and louder summons the door
opened, she was alone.
She looked doubtfully from one to the other, and Dene, marking the
instinctive apprehension with which she regarded the man who stood by
his side, was glad that he had come. She ignored Rimarez after that
first glance, and spoke directly to him.
"You wished to see me?" she asked softly. "Will you come inside?"
"It is Captain Rimarez," Dene answered, "who wished to speak with you. I
was not sure whether his visit would be welcome to you. If you are
content to receive him I will go away."
"I do not wish to have anything whatever to say to Captain Rimarez," she
declared firmly. "I am very much obliged to you for your consideration,
Mr. Dene. I hope that you will save me from the--insult of that man's
presence."
Rimarez swore softly under his breath.
"A nice dutiful way to speak of your husband," he remarked quietly.
She flashed upon him a look of ineffable scorn. Dene stood still--for a
moment, indeed, sensation seemed almost to have left him. It was true,
then, this hideous thing. He had looked upon Rimarez' words last night
as a mere piece of drunken folly, but his assurance this morning, and
his calm repetition of them, now left him scarcely any room for doubt
Rimarez, of all men, to be her husband--drunkard, coward, bully! He was
feverishly anxious to hear her deny it, but she was silent. There was a
strange fire in her eyes and her bosom was heaving. But there was no
denial.
"Come," Rimarez said, "tell Mr. Dene that he need not wait any longer.
It is no one's place to interfere between husband and wife. I have
something to say to you."
He moved forward, but she remained standing upon the threshold. She
looked Dene steadily in the face.
"I want you both to come inside," she said. "I have something to say to
Mr. Dene."
Rimarez flashed a black look upon her, but she was unconscious of it.
They passed together into her sitting-room. To Dene's surprise it was
empty. Yet he had certainly heard voices. He glanced around, puzzled.
There was a door on the opposite side of the room, but it was closed. He
looked away from it into Ternissa's face, and found that she was
watching him.
If she divined his curiosity, she took no means to gratify it, and
indeed the matter seemed altogether dwarfed into insignificance when he
thought of that wonderful statement to which he had just listened.
Ternissa did not ask them to sit down. She stood in the place to which
she had moved on their first entrance, her hands hanging straight down,
her head thrown back, and her lips quivering with emotion. Rimarez and
Dene were standing as far away as possible, the former with a cynical
smile upon his thin lips, but with certain signs of uneasiness in his
restless eyes and nervously twitching fingers. Dene was very still and
quiet, for the shock of this disclosure had been great.
"Mr. Dene," she said quietly, "I want to offer you a word or two of
explanation. I want to do so in Captain Rimarez' presence."
"Unless you desire to do so," Dene answered, "it is not necessary."
"But I do desire it," she continued, with some vehemence. "I desire it
very much. I want you to understand how it was that I ever made what
would seem to be so pitiful a mistake."
She paused for a moment, and her eyes kindled as though with fire.
Neither of them took any notice of the little sneer to which Rimarez had
given utterance.
"He has told you," she continued, "that he is my husband. It is the
truth. But fortunately for me I found out what manner of man he was even
before we left the church. He has never since that moment held my
hand--he never will."
"As to that," Rimarez interrupted fiercely, "we shall see."
"Captain Rimarez," she continued, "was introduced to me by the man who
brought him to England, the man whose friend he professed to be--by
Arnold Sagasta."
Dene gave vent to a little exclamation of surprise. Strangely enough, he
had never thought of Sagasta in connection with her.
"He did me the very doubtful compliment," Ternissa continued, "of making
love to me from the moment we met. It was a matter of indifference to
him that I was betrothed to his friend. He set himself from the first to
the task of creating misunderstandings between us. The means he used
were beneath contempt; they were as hackneyed as they were sickening. I
do not mean to dwell upon them. I am ashamed of having been deluded, but
I was. I broke off my engagement with Arnold in such terms that he would
not even ask me for an explanation. Even now, though, I cannot
understand myself what induced me to listen for a moment to that
creature's pleadings"--she inclined her head scornfully in Rimarez'
direction. "My life at the time was exceedingly uncomfortable. I was
living with an aunt who had daughters of her own, and who looked upon me
as a very inconvenient incubus. Then I am thankful to remember that he
was, or appeared to be, a very different person in those days; and
finally, I was still smarting bitterly under what I believed to be
Arnold's treachery--I agreed to marry him, and we were married. But the
ceremony was barely over before a trifling incident made everything
clear to me. I drove from the church to my aunt's house, and until I
landed at San Martina I had seen no more of Captain Rimarez. That is the
story of my marriage."
"I admit all that my wife has said," Rimarez remarked coolly. "It is
more or less true. I was very much in love with her, and I schemed a
little to win her. This, however, does not alter the fact that she is my
wife."
Ternissa ignored him altogether, and turned once more to Dene, whose
eyes were fixed upon her full of grave sympathy.
"Now I want to tell you," she continued, "why I came to San Martina.
That, too, is the result of Captain Rimarez' scheming, as he calls it.
On their return to San Martina, he contrived to have Arnold arrested'
and imprisoned. Then he wrote me to England. Arnold, he said, was a
prisoner under sentence of death. He was the only man who could save
him, and he would do so on one condition only--that I came out to San
Martina secretly and alone and took up my position as his wife. I wrote
that I would come, for by some means or other I had determined that
Arnold must be saved. He had suffered enough through my folly, and I had
made up my mind to go to any lengths to save him and get him out of the
country. I made no promises, but I said that I would come, and I did. I
arrived at San Martina, and I found that apparently it was as Captain
Rimarez had said. I had made up my mind that if it were necessary for me
to carry out my part of the sacrifice, it should be at the cost of my
life. Whilst I was hesitating, making inquiries, and putting the end off
as long as I could, Arnold Sagasta escaped. It was my release. I
remembered your offer, and I came here."
Dene turned towards Rimarez. There was a steely glitter in his eyes, and
a note of suppressed passion in his tone.
"I give you ten minutes, Captain Rimarez," he said, "to leave Beau
Desir. I am a man of my word, mind. If you remain beyond that time it
must be at your own risk."
Eugène Rimarez shrugged his shoulders. There was an evil look in his
white face.
"I am quite ready to go now," he said; "but I am going to take my
property away with me."
Dene faced him with a heavy frown.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
Rimarez pointed to Ternissa. He had summoned up what little stock of
courage he possessed, but his outstretched forefinger was shaking
nervously.
"My wife," he said. "If I used a little art to gain her, what matter?
She belongs to me now. I insist upon it, that she comes with me. I
decline to leave the place without her."
CHAPTER XXIX. DOM PEDRO'S SCHEME
Ternissa was clearly disconcerted at Eugène Rimarez' unexpected
firmness. Yet in a moment or two she regained her composure. She looked
towards him scornfully, and her eyes flashed with anger. Her tall figure
seemed dilated with passion.
"You know very well," she cried, "that you are only wasting your breath.
Nothing on this earth would induce me to go with you."
He laughed--a harsh, unpleasant little laugh, with more than a note of
menace in it Something new had crept into his manner. He had arrived at
a determination. Ternissa was certainly very beautiful. He looked at her
with ugly admiration.
"As to that," he said, "we will see. You are, after all, my wife. We
were properly and legally married. You will save trouble to yourself and
to your friends if you do at once as I bid you."
"Absolutely and for ever," she answered firmly, "I refuse."
He was not unduly depressed. He was slowly beginning to see his way
before him. With his hands in his pockets he lounged against the wall.
"Come," he said, "you had better be reasonable. You have given me the
right to compel you to come. It is well. If you make me I shall use it.
I mean what I say. Come, is it not reasonable? I cannot marry any one
else. I am not content to be--what is it you call it,--a grass widower,
nor will I permit my wife to be a schoolmistress in such a hole as this.
Now prepare yourself. You are coming away with me."
"I am not," she cried passionately. "Oh, go away, go away!"
Then she turned to Dene, and he who had been waiting for a word or a
look from her stepped forward.
"Captain Rimarez," he said, "you have already exceeded the limit of time
I gave you. This lady is at liberty to do exactly as she chooses. She
has chosen to remain here. That is sufficient."
"And I declare that she shall not remain here," Rimarez answered hotly.
"She is my wife, and you have no right to interfere."
"I have at least the right to order you out of Beau Desir," Dene
answered, "and for the third and last time I tell you to go."
Rimarez was white to the lips, but he turned towards the door.
"You are doing a very foolish thing," he said, pausing and looking at
Ternissa. "You have chosen to defy me. You compel me to use force. Later
you shall suffer for it. You would have found it better to have yielded
quietly."
Dene was between them with fire flashing from his eyes.
"If you lay your little finger upon her," he said in a low tone, "I
shall thrash you like a dog."
Rimarez laughed uneasily. He edged away a little nearer to the door.
"It is not," he said, "that sort of force which I propose to use. I will
admit that you are too many for me single-handed. I shall return to San
Martina, and when I come again it will be at the head of my regiment,
and the man who hinders me shall be shot for a traitor. You like plain
speaking. Is that plain enough for you?"
Dene opened the door with a gesture which made words unnecessary.
Rimarez passed out. Ternissa followed him on to the piazza.
"Listen," she cried. "You see what I have here. It is a pistol. Sooner
than suffer even the touch of your fingers I would use it. It may be for
you or it may be for myself--perhaps for both. Mind, you are warned."
He laughed and mounted his horse, which one of Dene's men had brought
round.
"I will risk even that," he said. "Anything, rather than leave you
here--for him."
He touched his horse with the spurs and galloped away. Ternissa, whose
cheeks were burning, stepped past Dene into her cottage. On the
threshold she paused. She looked round at Dene and held out her hands to
him.
"You are very good to me," she said. "You have done more for me than I
deserve. I only hope that you will not suffer for it."
Dene took her hands in his and looked down upon her with a smile.
"There is no fear of that," he answered her. "It is not within the power
of that rascal to work any harm upon us."
"He means to try," she said anxiously.
Dene shrugged his shoulders.
"He may try if he likes," he said. "He is foolish enough, and he is
hot-headed. But, after all, it is no matter. We can look very well after
our own safety and yours."
"I shall owe you more than I can ever repay," she said gratefully.
"You will do nothing of the sort," he answered promptly. "Leaving out
every personal consideration, you are our countrywoman, and there is not
one of my men who would not count it his duty to protect you. Remember,
please, that you are perfectly safe here so long as you choose to stay."
She was married to Eugène Rimarez--braggart, coward, and drunkard. That
was the thought which Dene carried about with him everywhere throughout
that busy day. He was astonished to find in how small a degree his
discovery seemed to depress him. His chief sensation was one of genuine
pity. She was a very beautiful woman, and the fact of her propinquity
had certainly produced a certain effect upon him. He had admired her;
the fact of her coming to Beau Desir had been a pleasure to him. Beyond
that she had certainly attained no dominance over his thoughts. He was
prepared to stand by her, to risk the safety of his people, if
necessary, for her protection. She was an English lady, and her
nationality and sex were alike obligations upon him. Apart from this, he
was aware of a certain fascination which she had exercised over him,
against which he had chafed, but which he had nevertheless experienced.
These disclosures of Rimarez would at least definitely determine their
relations. He told himself this with a certain amount of relief. It was
a proof to him that he had never seriously been the least in love with
her. He was glad of it. He brushed the subject away from his mind with
an undoubted sense of relief.
All day long he was in the saddle. He rode from point to point of the
great harvest plain, prompt with his orders, as keen a watcher as Angus
himself over the small army of toilers. Higher and higher mounted the
sun, but Dene knew no fatigue. The great wheels whirled, and the field
of gold grew smaller and smaller. Long ribbons of fallen corn stretched
from end to end. There was not a spot which Dene did not himself visit.
Only once did a word fall from his lips which had no reference to the
day's labours, and that was when he found the place where Dom Pedro had
been working empty, and Dom Pedro himself nowhere to be seen. He called
to Angus, who was only a few yards off.
"Where is Dom Pedro?" he asked. "He was working here this morning."
The foreman shook his head.
"Gone clean daft, I'm thinking," he answered. "He was talking to himself
for an hour or more, with a face as black as night, and at last he went
clean away with ne'er a word to nobody. He'll be somewhere in the
settlement for sure, but he's no' here. Every mon's work is worth gold
to-day."
"Perhaps," Dene suggested, "he has gone to help the new schoolmistress. I
told him to do so if he thought it necessary."
"Maybe," Angus answered, "but I'm thinking that she'll not need much
help. She's the face of a scholar, and a taking way with the children."
"If you hear of Dom Pedro," Dene said, wheeling round his horse, "let me
know."
But neither man nor woman in Beau Desir saw the face of Dom Pedro any
more that day.
He was miles away up in the mountains with Sagasta. They had met as old
friends, and Dom Pedro, wearied with his climb, yet full of his mission,
lay under the pine trees and smoked a long black cigar.
"There are five hundred rifles," he was saying, "all of the best
pattern, and cartridges enough for an army. Not a soul in Beau Desir
knows of the river-bed pass; they are to be had for the asking. There is
only one person to be won over, the schoolmistress; and I think, my
friend, that you can find the means."
Sagasta looked through a little cloud of blue smoke down into the
valley.
"She can scarcely refuse me," he murmured. "Yet she will hate to deceive
Dene."
"It is no time for us," Dom Pedro said, "to consider other people. It is
our only hope. To-night you must see her."
"They are in the schoolroom," Sagasta said thoughtfully.
"They are in the schoolroom, and she has the key," Dom Pedro said. "Now
I must go, or Dene will be searching for me. I have told you of Eugène
Rimarez and of the rifles. It is for you to act."
CHAPTER XXX. THE DAYS OF TOIL
The days which followed were the hardest which the dwellers in Beau
Desir had ever known. Of leisure they had none. When darkness came and
labour out of doors was impossible, a very brief rest now took the place
of those long dreamy evenings of song and love-making, which to Ternissa
had seemed so idyllic. Marie grew pale, and a wistful light shone in
Pietro's dark eyes. His guitar hung idle upon the shelf. The hours which
had been so sweet to both of them were spent now by Pietro with a
cartridge-belt around his waist and a rifle over his shoulder. Dene was
not slow to recognise the fact that his position might at any moment
become a dangerous one. Rimarez was a virulent enemy; if he carried out
his threat and attempted to take Ternissa by force, Dene's resistance
would become an act of open rebellion against the State. At any rate, if
there was to be fighting, Dene made up his mind to provide a little
surprise for his assailants. The cases of rifles were unpacked and
ammunition served out; every night till the moon rose Dene drilled his
men on part of the stubbly plain which had so lately been a sea of gold.
There were one or two old soldiers amongst them who entered eagerly into
the spirit of the thing, and made excellent Serjeants. The men
themselves, tired though they were with their day's labour, did their
best, and their best was good. A week passed, and there were no signs of
molestation.
All the time Dene avoided Ternissa. Sometimes at night he had seen her
come out from her little wooden house and stand upon the piazza with her
white face turned towards the hills. Once he had watched her change her
position so that she could see right into the little room where he was
sitting. He was near enough then to see that her cheeks were hollow, and
that her eyes were more than ordinarily brilliant, with a wistful,
haunting light She was suffering, without a doubt. Yet he made no
movement towards her.
One night as he rode homeward after the nightly drill he came face to
face with a stranger, who had apparently issued from her house. The man
wore a slouch-hat with wide brim and a short riding-cloak; and at first
Dene, who had pulled up his horse to intercept him, had no idea who it
was. He accosted him, in fact, as a stranger.
"Have you business with ma?" he asked. "I am Gregory Dene of Beau
Desir."
The man took off his hat, and a stray gleam of moonlight lit up his
face.
"Known in the old days," he remarked, smiling, "as Greg of Magdalen. No;
I have no business with you. I have been to see Miss Denison."
Dene frowned heavily.
"I cannot have you here at all, Sagasta," he said firmly. "Personally I
have no quarrel with you, but you know how you stand with President
Rimarez, and I have no mind to see my lands confiscated and my people
cast adrift. I do not wish to make use of any threats towards you, but
you must keep clear of Beau Desir."
Sagasta turned upon Dene a face as dark as his own.
"Your hospitality, Dene," he remarked bitterly, "overpowers me. I should
like you to clearly understand that I do not come to see you or any of
your people. I scarcely see that I am involving you in any risk in
paying an occasional visit to Miss Denison."
"I am the best judge of that," Dene answered, "and I forbid your
presence here."
Sagasta leaned against the tree under which they had met and lit a
cigarette. He was heedless alike of Dene's outstretched finger pointing
towards the hills and of the growing impatience in his manner.
"This evening," he said, "I must admit that my visit had a special
object. I wanted to be perfectly assured that Eugène Rimarez had left
you."
"He has gone to San Martina," Dene answered shortly. "He will never
return here."
"But," Sagasta remarked, "for your stupid obstinacy--and permit me to
add pluck--he would never have returned anywhere. As it is, his days are
most certainly numbered. His death is a solemn charge upon my
conscience."
For a moment Dene was silent. After all, was not the death of Rimarez a
thing rather to be desired? Then he became conscious of Sagasta's close
but half-covert observation, and he stifled the feeling.
"His murder has been attempted before," Dene said. "Understand me, that
if he is killed on my land and I discover his assailant, I shall hang
him forthwith--even though that man should be you."
Sagasta laughed bitterly.
"You are not in a pleasant temper this evening, my dear Dene," he said.
"It is no matter of temper, I assure you, Sagasta," was the prompt
reply. "Only understand me thus far, if you can. My whole life is bound
up in the success of this enterprise of mine. I will not have it
endangered. Already Rimarez is our bitter enemy because I refused to
give Ternissa up to him. I am not going to make an enemy also of his
father by harbouring you. I know nothing of the politics of San Martina,
and I care less. Revolt if you like, start a revolution if you want to,
but don't drag me into it."
"Amongst your people," Sagasta said, "are some outcasts from San
Martina. I should like to speak with them."
"You shall not."
Sagasta, who up till now had reserved a sort of cynical equanimity,
turned upon Dene with a momentary burst of scorn.
"Dene," he cried, "you are a renegade and a turncoat. You were always a
friend of liberty in the old days. You have talked socialism in your
time. You have professed yourself to be the friend of the democracy. It
was I who brought you into touch with the people. It was I who showed
you where the great heart of the world was beating. In those days you
were my disciple. You were as eager for reform, as keen for liberty as
the most ardent of us. Yet here in this country you range yourself on
the side of a rotten and corrupt Government. You have the chance to
strike a blow for freedom, and self-interest restrains you. The
Government of San Martina is a base and despicable sham. The public
offices are sold; the people are cruelly taxed to support an army to
overawe them and to provide luxuries for a few idle, dissolute men."
Dene's face was troubled. He answered slowly--
"There may be some truth in what you say, Sagasta, but I am sure that it
is not so bad as all that. I do not believe that the President is wholly
to blame either."
"What do you suppose," Sagasta asked, "became of the money which you
paid for Beau Desir?"
"I can tell you that," Dene answered. "It has gone to make a Government
grant towards a scheme for free education."
"It is a lie," Sagasta declared. "One-third of it went to buy rifles and
ammunition, which could only be bought for cash down, and the remainder
was divided between settling up the back pay of the army, and the
private purse of Rimarez and his creatures. This I know for a fact. You
are the ally of one of the rottenest administrations which ever
misgoverned a people."
"These things may be," Dene answered, "and even then, whichever way my
own sympathies might point, I decide to remain neutral unless I am
attacked by either side."
"You have not the heart of a man!" Sagasta cried bitterly. "You do not
dare to strike a single blow for a just cause."
"I have a duty above even that," Dene answered. "Supposing for a moment
that all you have told me is true. I have brought these people out here,
and their welfare is absolutely my first thought. They have given
themselves into my keeping. They themselves represent in their own
persons long years of oppression and injustice. There may lie upon me a
general responsibility to resist tyranny wherever I may find it, but I
have also a more direct and personal responsibility as regards the
welfare of those who have trusted me. That is my answer to you, Sagasta,
and it is final."
"Our friendship, then," Sagasta cried, "is at an end."
"For the present," Dene answered, "we had better consider it so. I
believe you to be honest, Arnold, and I am sorry that I should be forced
to say these things to you. But understand me clearly: I do not want you
in Beau Desir, and I will not have you here. Now I have finished all I
have to say. Will you go, or shall I have to use other means?"
Sagasta laughed scornfully.
"You are an old woman. Dene, without the heart of a chicken. Come! What
if I decide to stay here?"
"This," Dene answered. "I shall make a prisoner of you and send you
under escort to San Martina. It would be the wisest course for me in any
case, for it would settle your revolution, and it would ensure peace in
San Martina."
Sagasta moved a few steps away to where a small mountain pony was
tethered and swung his leg over the saddle.
"You have had your chance, Dene," he said briefly. "I give you notice
that from henceforth the memory of our friendship is dead. You are my
enemy, and I shall treat you as such."
He galloped away up the steep slope, and Dene turned towards the
settlement. But almost immediately he pulled his mare on to her
haunches. There was the rustling of a woman's gown through the bushes;
Ternissa stood by his side.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE TREASURE IN THE SCHOOL-HOUSE
Dene dismounted at once, and greeted her with some surprise. The last
few days seemed to have effected a curious change in her. The reserve
with which she had treated him was gone. Her eyes, as she raised them to
his, were appealing for his sympathy. A slight flush came into her pale
cheeks as he touched her fingers.
"I have not seen you," she said, "since--that night."
"We have been so busy with the harvest," he explained, with an attempt
at cheerfulness. "Besides--"
"Never mind," she interrupted. "I have wanted to see you to ask you one
thing. I waited for you to-night I must know it. You must answer me
truthfully."
She seemed consumed by a sort of nervous anxiety. Her eyes never left
his face. He remained silent, waiting for her to proceed.
"Since you heard--my story, you have avoided me. You have not been near;
you have left me wholly to myself. Is it because you despise me?"
"You know me better than that," he answered reproachfully.
"Indeed!" she murmured; "I thought so. Yet--you have avoided me."
"You have had another visitor," he remarked gravely.
"Yes. Arnold has been down here twice. I heard you talking to him just
now."
"I am very sorry," he said, "to have to stop his visits."
"You need not be," she answered, "if you will accept the responsibility
of keeping him away."
"I am afraid," he said, "that I do not understand."
"It is so simple. I cannot exist without a single soul to speak to. You
must come and talk to me sometimes."
"That I shall be very glad to do," he assured her. "To tell you the
truth, I imagined that I should be obeying your wishes by keeping away."
"You were wrong," she said softy. "I like to have you come. You have
been kinder to me than any one else in the world."
He looked at her doubtfully; her tone and whole bearing towards him had
changed so completely since that day in San Martina. She raised her eyes
to his, and he experienced a curious little thrill of emotion. For the
moment he forgot everything except that she was a marvellously beautiful
woman, that in the dim light her hair glimmered like threads of deep
gold, that the perfume from those flowers in her waistband was very
sweet He held out his hand. She took it and leaned over towards him; her
other hand was upon his coat-sleeve. For a full moment he hesitated. The
light in her eyes was very soft and very inviting. Then he pulled
himself together and dropped her fingers.
"It has made me very happy," he said quietly, "to help you in any way."
A swift change passed across her face; her lips trembled and her eyes
flashed. If Dene had been watching her altered expression it would have
puzzled him.
"You have done more for me," she said, "than I have the least right to
expect. You have done so much that I cannot accept anything more."
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed cheerfully.
"I heard what you said to Arnold Sagasta," she went on, "about the
danger of sheltering him. The same applies to me. Eugène Rimarez will
work some mischief upon you if I remain here. I heard him threaten it,
and he means to keep his word."
"We are not afraid of Eugène Rimarez," he answered promptly. "You are
perfectly safe here. Every countryman of yours in Beau Desir is your
natural protector here. You may trust to us."
She shook her head.
"I am not going to bring trouble upon you," she said. "I have been too
selfish already. I shall go away."
He smiled.
"May I ask--in what direction?"
She pointed vaguely to the shadowy pine-crested Andiguas.
"Up there--in the mountains," she said.
"To Sagasta?"
"Yes."
He looked at her gravely. She met his eyes defiantly.
"Why not? I have been betrothed to him for years. My marriage with
Rimarez was a ceremony only. It could never be anything else. Would you
have me bound by it all my life?"
"I do not know," he answered gravely. "At least, I think that you would
be very unwise to go to Sagasta at present."
"Perhaps so. Perhaps--I do not want to go. But on the other hand, I have
a claim on him. I have none on you, and if I stay here I am a source of
danger to Beau Desir, and to you."
"You are," he murmured under his breath.
She might have heard him, for her eyes softened and she laughed in his
face.
"You know what it will mean," she continued. "Eugène will bring
soldiers--if you resist there will be bloodshed. You may be treated as
rebels. I heard you talking to Arnold; I know how you feel about your
people. I will not remain here to bring this danger upon you."
He interrupted her.
"Arnold Sagasta is one person," he said; "you are another. Nothing is of
any account against your safety--not even my people's welfare; not even
my life."
And again there was that dangerous silence broken once more by the music
of her laughter; only the laughter was not quite natural, and the
electricity lingered in the air.
"You are delightful," she said, "but you are not honest. I am no more to
you than any one of your people. I am merely a unit In your heart you
cannot think it worth while to risk the safety of the whole for one."
"You are at least," he answered, "a countrywoman, and I will see Beau
Desir in flames before I give you up."
She looked at him long and searchingly, and he met her gaze without
flinching. Then she sighed a little impatiently.
"Ah well!" she said, "at present we will not speak ol this again."
"You have made up your mind to go," he exclaimed.
"Not to-night, at any rate. I shall wait for developments.
To-morrow--well, we shall see."
"You are talking lightly," he said, "but I know what you mean. You will
go to-morrow or the first opportunity. Listen. Sagasta is in danger up
there. He has few followers, and his hiding-place is known. Rimarez is
certain to send out men to capture him. If you are discovered there you
would be in terrible danger. It is not to be thought of."
She shrugged her shoulders. Behind them came the sound of footsteps and
voices. It was the hour for labour to cease, and already the workers
were hastening home from the fields.
"You must go," she said. "You will only just have time for dinner and a
rest if you are going to drill to-night By the bye, what an odd place
you have found for your rifles and ammunition in my schoolroom."
"I hope they are not in your way," Dene remarked. "We really had no
other safe place for them. It was a question of there or in the chapel."
"I am glad," she said, "that you have chosen the lesser sacrilege!"
"Rifles out here," Dene continued, "are like gold in more civilised
places. The schoolroom is in the centre of the place, and has a strong
lock on the door. Besides, the windows are so high that it cannot be
broken into except through your house."
"Surely there are no burglars amongst the elect of Beau Desir," she
laughed.
Dene shook his head.
"Scarcely. No, I was not concerned about any one in Beau Desir."
She waited as though for him to explain, but he abandoned the subject
"I want you to promise me something," he said.
"Well?"
"You will not leave Beau Desir without letting me know?"
She lifted her eyes to his.
"Do you really wish roe to promise that?"
"Of course I do," he insisted.
"You are sure--that you care?"
"It is obvious that I do," he answered gravely.
"Then I promise."
CHAPTER XXXII. THE PRESIDENT AND LVCIA
On the next day it seemed certain to Dene that what he had been fearing
had come to pass. The alarm was given early in the evening. He had just
returned from a long day's work, and, after a bath and change of
clothes, was smoking a pipe on the piazza, when a little movement in the
place attracted his notice. Juan was pointing towards the pass--others
were following with their eyes his outstretched fingers. There was a
murmur of tongues, in which was apparent a note of anxiety. Dene stood
up, and, reaching for his glasses, looked steadily along the mountain
road towards San Martina.
Almost at the same moment there was a puff of white smoke and a
rifle-shot--the sentry at the pass was announcing the arrival of strangers.
It was a company of soldiers, as Dene had feared from the first. The red
and yellow uniforms were only too easily to be distinguished--the
colours of Rimarez' regiment, the bodyguard of the President. They were
as yet too far off for him to tell whether Rimarez himself was there,
but he knew at once that they were the men of his own especial regiment.
Dene laid down his glasses and strode out into the place. Dom Pedro,
whose eyes were on fire with the lust and joy of fighting, met him
there.
"Many of our men are still abroad and lingering on their homeward way,"
he said. "Shall I ring the bell to hurry them in?"
Dene nodded.
"Yes. Ring it at once, and let me have the keys of the schoolhouse. I
want every man to be within call."
Then he turned to Angus and old Serjeant Stewart, who stood close at
hand.
"There must be no signs of any hostile reception," he said quickly. "Let
every man, so far as possible, be prepared, but let him keep inside his
own house. There is no need for a muster; we do not know yet what their
errand may be. It is not at all certain that they mean fighting at all
Let no arms be shown."
He crossed the Place again and stood before Ternissa's door. She opened
it at once; apparently she was ready for flight.
"There is no cause for immediate alarm," he said quickly. "There are
soldiers coming, but only a handful It may be a message from the
President."
"They have come," she said, "for me. If you refuse to give me up they
will send for reinforcements. Beau Desir will be sacked and ruined. No;
I will not have you resist. I ought to have gone away before. I am going
now."
"You will go--to Sagasta?" he cried.
"Yes."
The mournfulness of her answer fired him with a sudden passion.
"You shall not," he exclaimed. "We are strong enough to hold you, and we
will. I would rather see you dead."
Her eyes flashed with a wonderful fire. She held out her hands.
"Now you speak like a man," she said softly. "I am not afraid of death.
I will stay and see what befalls."
He drew a long breath. Such moments as this seemed to him to be bringing
them closer together. Yet even then there was something about her manner
which perplexed him. A thought had come to him of which he was ashamed.
The sound of hurrying feet behind reminded him that the crisis must now
be close at hand.
"Lock yourself up," he said. "I will come back to you with the news."
The little cavalcade was close at hand. Dene took up the glasses which
he had left hanging over the verandah, anxious only to see whether one
man was there. Almost as he raised them to his eyes a little murmur
filled the air from those around him.
"A woman. There is a woman riding there."
"It is the beautiful young Signorina."
Dene, whose relief was great, threw away his glasses and waved his hat.
"Pass the word round to disarm," he cried. "Tell every one to come out.
And, Angus, go and tell Dom Pedro to $top that infernal clanging. It is
the President and his daughter. There will be no fighting. It is a
friendly visit."
He sprang upon the nearest horse and galloped up the steep ascent
towards the advancing party. It was indeed the President and Lucia who
rode a few yards in front of the small body of soldiers, and the visit
was obviously a pacific one. The President was not even in uniform. He
wore a riding-suit of brown holland and a broad-brimmed planter's hat.
He was smoking, as usual, a long cigar, and his appearance was more that
of an English country gentleman making a leisurely tour around the world
than the much maligned dictator of a bankrupt and insurgent State. By
his side rode Lucia in a white serge habit and English straw hat,
mounted on a small thoroughbred horse which she managed with consummate
ease and grace. As Dene rode up to them, hat in hand, her dark eyes met
his face, anxious to see whether indeed he was glad to see them. She had
secretly been delighted at the prospect of coming, but none the less,
the excursion had not been of her planning. Dene's welcome left no
possible doubt as to its genuineness. Lucia gave him her hand with a
little sigh of relief, and a very eloquent gleam in her dark eyes.
"This is kind indeed of you. President," Dene exclaimed. "Welcome most
heartily to Beau Desir. You could not have given me a more pleasant
surprise."
Consciously or unconsciously, it was at this moment that he glanced
towards Lucia, whose dark eyes fell for a moment before his and who
blushed with pleasure. Dene, whose joy at seeing his visitors sprung
chiefly from another cause, still found himself once more experiencing
that curious thrill of interest which Lucia had from the first awakened
in him. She was most wonderfully fresh and handsome. Usually, too, she
was so self-possessed that the slight shyness with which she raised her
eyes to his and returned his greeting was more than ever attractive. The
President was contemplating his crushed fingers, smiling affably enough,
but secretly wishing that this young Englishman's grip was a shade less
hearty.
"You are very kind, Senor Dene," he said "I have for some time desired
to see your little domain which you have, I am told, made so very
productive. I trust that my daughter's coming will not inconvenience you
in any way?"
"On the contrary," Dene declared, "the coming of Miss Lucia is the
greatest pleasure which you could have afforded me."
Lucia's eyes were soft with delight She flashed a quick sweet glance at
him, and rode on with a smile parting her lips.
"I suppose though," Dene continued, "I ought to remind you that I have
no luxuries to offer. It will be very much like camping out, I am
afraid. You are an old soldier. President, so I know that I need offer
you no apologies."
"And I am his daughter," Lucia exclaimed quickly. "Besides," she added
in a lower tone, "you know that I like simple things best."
"Then I am quite sure," Dene said smiling, "that we can please you.
Don't you think our situation beautiful?"
"I thine that it is altogether the most picturesque place I have ever
seen." she answered. "You have those lovely blue mountains to look at
all day long. I never saw such colouring."
The President laughed.
"My daughter," he remarked, "is before anything else an artist Beauty is
what first appeals to her. She forgets that for you and your people at
least there are more important things in life than gazing at mountains
and watching colour effects. But apart from the picturesque point of
view, Senor Dene, I must admit that the situation of your settlement is
admirably chosen. A few field pieces and plenty of ammunition and you
could defy an army."
Dene smiled. The President had somewhat exposed himself. His visit had
doubtless other motives save those of pure friendliness.
"Neither of those things unfortunately," he remarked, "do we possess.
But, indeed, I hope that there may never be any occasion for anything of
that sort. My men are workers, not fighting men."
"You have, I suppose, no arms for them?" the President remarked.
"There are a few rifles about, I believe," Dene rejoined carelessly,
"but I doubt if one out of ten of my men could hit a haystack. By the
way. President, how are things in San Martina? Quieter, I hope?"
"The rising is suppressed and everything proceeds as before," the
President answered, with satisfaction. "The revolution is at an end.
There is only one thing I desire to ensure a permanent peace."
"And that is?"
"The hanging of Sagasta," the President said firmly. "The fact that he
is alive and in hiding unsettles some of the people."
Lucia shuddered and Dene's face clouded over.
"Do not let us talk about anything so unpleasant before Miss Lucia!" he
said lightly. "This is to be a holiday visit. In Beau Desir we have no
politics."
"By the bye," the President asked abruptly, "why were we greeted with
such an extraordinary clamour of bells from that little chapel of yours?
The steeple almost rocked, and your men came in from the fields like
creatures possessed."
"Oh, it--was the Vespers bell," Dene said coolly. "We have a great many
Roman Catholics here."
The President smiled and stroked his grey imperial thoughtfully.
"Your priest," he remarked, "is a man of energy. It was more like an
alarm bell or a call to arms."
Dene did not pursue the subject. Fortunately for him it was scarcely
possible, for they were entering the Place, thronged now with the entire
population of Beau Desir. Many curious faces were turned towards the
little company. The men were not quite certain what to do. Dene rose in
his stirrups.
"My friends," he said, in a clear, firm tone, "the President of San
Martina and his daughter have honoured us with a visit. Will you not let
them hear what an English greeting is like?"
A storm of cheers and hurrahs broke forth. The President sat bareheaded
upon his horse. Lucia bent forward with a brilliant smile upon her lips,
very happy to be there with Dene by her side. There was a little murmur
of something like admiration from amongst the womenkind. The sullenness
seemed to have passed altogether from the girl's face, and she was
radiantly beautiful. Even Dene, as he swung her lightly from the saddle,
felt that life in San Martina had suddenly become a more interesting
thing.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SONG OF DEATH
A man had halted in the centre of a little grove of pine trees to listen
to the singing of a bird. It was late in the evening, and the breeze
which had stolen down from the Andiguas a few hours before had gradually
died away. The tops of the trees were absolutely motionless--through the
canopy of delicately interlaced leaves the moonlight came streaming down
and lay all about him in brilliant yellow patches. The undergrowth
around was alive with insect noises; a yard or two behind, hidden away
snugly amongst the bushes, a landrail was filling the air with his own
peculiar ideas of melody. The man had just lit a cigarette, and a great
black and yellow moth came fluttering around the match which burned
still in his long white fingers. He held it carefully at arm's length
until the insect with singed wings fell to the ground at his feet, then
he set his foot upon it with a faint smile. The night bird was singing
all the time. Captain Eugène Rimarez leaned with his back against a
tree listening. He was, after all, in the ordinary sense of the word by
no means an ill-looking man. He was of medium height only, but he was
slim and well shaped. Just now the flush of wine--which he chanced to
have been drinking in moderation only--upon his usually pale cheeks gave
him a not unbecoming colour. He was wearing the picturesque uniform of
his regiment without an overcoat, for the night was hot and he had left
his servant a mile or so away on the road to lead down into Beau Desir a
lamed horse and his baggage.
As the bird's song grew louder his eyes became softer. He came almost to
a standstill. Below him through the trees twinkled the lights of Beau
Desir. He listened, and the cruel curl of his lips relaxed--he was
giving himself up to the aesthetic delight of the little stream of
melody so delicately in accord with his surroundings. He was so
absorbed, indeed, that he did not hear a dry twig snap in the path a few
yards away. He was absolutely unconscious that he was not alone until a
voice almost in his ear greeted him.
"Good evening, Captain Rimarez."
Rimarez thought no more of the beauty of the night. He turned round with
face as white as a sheet and found himself confronted with the one man
on earth whom least of any other he desired to see. It was Sagasta who
had broken in upon his reverie.
"Arnold," he exclaimed breathlessly. "Santa Maria."
He looked around uneasy and desperate, cursing the chance which had
brought him here into the presence of his worst enemy unarmed and
defenceless. Sagasta's smile was pleasant and he was perfectly at his
ease, but Bimarez had a quick instinct and he knew at once that he was
in grievous straits.
"You are surprised to see me, Eugène. Well, that is natural. It is this
wonderful moonlight which showed you to me when you left the track by
the pass. I scarcely dared to hope," Sagasta added grimly, "that we
might meet again so soon."
Rimarez looked around and cursed the loneliness of the spot, cursed his
empty hip pocket and his infernal luck. Then he made an effort to carry
matters with a high hand.
"You had better stand aside and let me pass, Sagasta," he said. "There
is no need for us to quarrel My business in Beau Desir has nothing to do
with you."
But Sagasta did not move from the centre of the path, and Rimarez, after
a glance into his face, felt something akin to despair. His knees began
to shake together and his heart to beat with most unaccustomed violence.
He gave a little gasp for breath.
"Arnold," he cried, "you are too bitter against me. You are indeed. It
was not I who betrayed you to the President. He found a letter of yours.
I had the narrowest escape myself. When you escaped I was busy making
plans to set you free. You are mistaken when you think that it was I who
betrayed you. It was not indeed. I can prove it."
Sagasta listened, but remained unimpressed. He turned his cigar round in
his fingers and finally, as though not finding it to his liking, he
threw it away into the thicket.
"Anything else?" he asked tersely.
The flush of wine faded away from the cheeks of his listener and a cold
sweat broke out upon his forehead.
"I know--what it is," he faltered. "You are thinking--of Ternissa?"
No answer. Rimarez laughed a hollow little laugh.
"What is it you say in England--that all is fair in war and love. Well,
I played you a mean trick. I know it. I confess. But I loved her. I
could never have won her--any other way. Come. I cannot undo it She is
mine. Be reasonable. I could not give her up. She is mine. I married
her. She is my wife."
"To-night," Sagasta remarked pleasantly, "she will be your widow.
Anything else?"
Rimarez' face was livid now with fear. His eyes seemed starting out of
his head. He opened his lips to cry out, but a hand was suddenly set
like a seal upon his mouth.
"Are you going--to murder me?" he spluttered.
Sagasta shook his head.
"Well, no," he said. "I object to that term in any case. It is no murder
to shoot vermin, and that is about what you represent in humanity. I did
mean, I must confess, to shoot you on sight, as I meant to hang you last
time we met, and should have done but for that fool Gregory Dene. It
would be only justice, but it goes against the grain. I'm used to all
sorts of fighting, and I like it on the square. You are going to have a
chance for your life--the chance of taking mine."
"I do not want your life," Rimarez faltered, "and for myself, I am not
fit to die."
"You are not fit to live, Eugène Rimarez," was the stern reply. "You
have deceived and lied to women who trusted you. You have played the
traitor to your friends. You have never spared the innocent or
considered anything else under the sun except your own selfish pleasure,
and for these things, my Mend, you are about to die."
"Arnold--Glisten," Rimarez pleaded. "I will get a divorce."
"Heaven itself will proclaim that divorce before many minutes are past,"
Sagasta answered. "Now listen. I am not going to shoot you like a dog.
Here is a spare pistol and some cartridges. I am going to walk to that
tree over yonder. When I see that you are loaded and you raise your arm
I shall fire--not before. You need not hurry. I shall wait for you."
Rimarez' hands were trembling so that he held the pistol like a dazed
thing. Sagasta retreated for about ten paces to the place at which he
had pointed, and then wheeled round. Rimarez had made no movement.
"If you are not ready in thirty seconds," Sagasta said, in a still, cold
voice, "I shall fire. At least if you have lived like a cur, try to die
like a man."
Rimarez fumbled with his pistol. The night bird, who had paused in his
song, suddenly recommenced to sing. The breathless air was full once
more of melody. White and gasping, the man whose death sentence had been
pronounced lifted his left hand to his forehead and wiped away the
sweat. He thought how contented he had been only half an hour ago,
steeped in the sensuous enjoyment of his surroundings and with the warm
exhilaration of a flask of fine claret still in his veins. The world,
after all, was such a fair place, pleasure was so sweet, and
death--death--who so unfit to die as he? A mist swam before his eyes.
"Mercy!" he cried. "Mercy! I will make amends. I will begin a new life."
"When I count three I fire," came the clear answer. "One!"
"I never harmed you willingly. I dare not die. Give me half an hour at
least."
"Two!"
Sagasta's tone was smooth and merciless--he stood there like an image of
fate. The despair of death had already seized his victim.
"You fiend," he cried, and raised his pistol.
"Three!"
The two shots rang out almost together. There was a line of yellow fire
between the men and a little cloud of white smoke. Sagasta took off his
peaked hat and looked at the hole in it with a faint smile.
"The fellow pulled himself together," he muttered. "That was a close
thing."
Then with the smoking pistol still in his hand he walked over to the
huddled-up figure lying across the path. There was a small bullet hole
through his coat exactly over his heart. A single spot of blood was
slowly welling its way out Sagasta looked down at him thoughtfully,
looked down into the white convulsed features and livid face.
"Straight into your false heart as God's vengeance, Eugène Rimarez," he
said softly. "I thought that my hand could never fail when you and I
stood face to face at last."
He touched the body with his feet as though it were an unclean thing.
Then he threw his pistol into the thicket and stood listening intently.
There was no sound of any human voice or movement, but from deeper in
the plantation came the fainter note of the night bird, beginning a new
song to the white morning.
CHAPTER XXXIV. A NIGHT OF DREAMS
"I think," Lucia said, softly, "that this is the most peaceful place on
earth. Would one ever believe that San Martina was less than a day's
journey away!"
They were sitting out on the piazza watching the moon rise slowly over
the crest of the dark Andiguas. A table by their side was piled with
fruit, and Brown had just handed round little Dresden cups of perfectly
made coffee. Dene was by no means a sybarite, but his establishment had
proved quite equal to the unexpected demands upon it. Dinner had been
served in such a manner as to inspire the President with considerably
more respect than he had yet felt for this eccentric Englishman. After
all, the man, whose cellar was evidently chosen with nice taste and who
possessed in this out-of-the-way spot a cook equal to his own, was not
altogether a fool. Lucia, more indifferent to these things, was yet
extremely happy. Dene had been thoughtfulness itself so far as regards
her comfort, and his pleasure at entertaining them was apparent.
Perhaps, though, the acme of her enjoyment was reached during the last
few minutes. Out here the air was so cool and soft.
There was so much that was pleasant to look upon and sweet to hear. Away
on the first ridge of the mountains the fireflies were swarming, little
specks of gold darting backwards and forwards, "glowing and fading and
glowing," like shooting stars across a black cloud. Up higher was the
rim of a yellow moon slowly gathering strength, and all around was the
pleasant hum of voices, the tinkling of Pietro's guitar, and the light
badinage of all the young people in the place, rejoicing in this
unexpected holiday from their nightly drill. Very soft and very sweet
were many of those voices. Lucia half closed her eyes, and San Martina
seemed far away indeed,--San Martina with its hateful babel of night
sounds, the wrangling and the cursing the tramp of patrolling soldiers,
and an occasional revolver shot, followed by that shrill,
heart-sickening cry--grim and significant. This was so different a life.
Her delicately shaped white hand, flashing with jewels, was hanging over
the side of her chair nearest to Dene. Accidentally he touched it with
his own. Attracted by its soft, quivering magnetism, he found his
fingers almost involuntarily closing over it. The pressure was faintly
returned. She half opened her eyes and they smiled up at him. She was
perfectly happy.
Meanwhile the President smoked his excellent cigar, and pondered over
many matters not in the least sentimental. He wondered how much it would
cost to live in some small continental place within easy reach of Paris,
where there were no revolutions, no discontented ministers, nor any
stray bullets crashing through the windows or flying about the streets.
He wondered how much could be squeezed out of the treasury at a pinch,
how much corn those mighty sheds across the yellow plain there held, and
whether if it were tactfully proposed to his host, he might be inclined
to consider the matter of a loan of the Government Money must be raised
somehow, and the means were not exactly clear to him. There were taxes
which he had promised should be remitted, treasury bills which he had
been forced to give, but which he had not the faintest idea how to meet,
and other such uncomfortable matters which he felt must soon, unless
some Providence intervened, bring matters to a crisis. But as he sipped
his very excellent liqueur and became more subject to the soothing
influences of one of Dene's finest cigars, he gradually began to take a
more roseate view of things. After all, these things were little
inconveniences to which Presidents of bankrupt States are obviously
liable. It was not wise for him just now to assume too gloomy a mien. He
was a man, curiously enough, of some latent humour, and there was a
certain amount of piquancy in his position. He shook himself free from
forebodings, and decided that it was an opportune moment to broach the
principal object of his visit.
"You will be glad to hear, Senor Dene," he began, "that San Martina is
now perfectly quiet."
"I am very pleased to hear it indeed," Dene answered.
"You come," the President continued, "fresh from such a highly civilised
and law-abiding country that your recent impressions of San Martina must
have been, to say the least of it, disturbing."
"Things were certainly--a little lively there when I left," Dene
murmured.
"I would like you to understand," the President declared, "that the
normal state of the city is--very different. The recent disturbances
have been due to the evil influence of one man, and one man only. Up
there," he continued, pointing with his cigar towards the mountains,
"lies concealed the only man who is still a source of danger to us."
Dene pulled himself together quickly. It was necessary to be on his
guard.
"Sagasta," he remarked.
The President nodded.
"Yes. Eugène has told me of your expedition there in search of him. He
has found a strong hiding-place, I understand."
"Very," Dene assented. "Your son and I had a narrow escape. I daresay he
has told you about it?"
"Eugène himself had a narrow escape," the President answered, "but there
was no danger for you, surely! Sagasta is a fellow countryman of yours,
and an old acquaintance, I believe?"
"He is a fellow-countryman, and we were once on terms of friendship,"
Dene admitted slowly. "I will be frank with you. President. I do not
believe that I was in any particular danger on the occasion to which we
were referring. At the same time, I saved your son's life at the risk of
my own."
"Eugène did not mention it," he said slowly.
"You will permit me then, in fairness to myself, to recount the whole
affair," Dene said.
The President's face darkened as he listened. Eugène's story had been a
different one. He was by no means blinded as to his son's character, and
he knew quite well which was the true version.
"I have told you this," Dene wound up, "because I want you to have
confidence in me. It is true that Sagasta was my friend, but he is
perfectly aware that I have no sympathy with his present position. I
should not help him in any way, or shelter him."
The President looked thoughtfully at Dene for several moments. He was
surely an honest man this!
"We have arrived," the President said, still watching Dene's face, "at
the principal object of my visit to you. So far as you are concerned,
understand that I do not doubt you. But, none the less, I fear that
Sagasta has secret friends amongst your people."
"Have you any reason for saying this?" Dene asked.
"I have proof," the President answered. "Only two days ago one of his
followers came back to San Martina and voluntarily surrendered himself.
From him we learned that Sagasta and his friends were subsisting upon
supplies obtained secretly from Beau Desir."
"Impossible," Dene exclaimed.
"Further," the President continued, "Sagasta is on the point of
obtaining a supply of rifles and ammunition from the same source."
"I cannot believe this," Dene declared firmly. "There are no traitors
here, I am sure. What you say distresses me very much. President, but I
am certain that you must have been misinformed."
"So far as you are concerned, Senor Dene," the President said, "will you
allow me to say that I do not in the slightest degree mistrust you,
although I am bound to place a certain amount of credence in my
information. I hope that you will not misunderstand the nature of my
visit to you. I have not come as a spy."
"Such a thought," Dene exclaimed hastily, "never for a moment occurred
to me. I look upon your visit as a great honour, and an extreme
pleasure."
The President nodded his head gravely, and pinched a fresh cigar which
he had taken from the box by his side.
"At the same time," he continued, "you and I must lay our heads
together. My information is such, that I cannot possibly ignore it.
To-morrow we must make strict investigation. My son, who is following me
here, will have arrived by then, and I believe he has some suspicions as
to the guilty person. For the present, let us say no more. So far as I
am concerned, this visit is for me a holiday, and the first I have had
for years. For many reasons I am glad that I have come. There are
affairs, Senor Dene, connected with the administration of my government,
in which your sympathy and aid would be of great assistance to me. I
will not allude to them now. I will only say that I am happy to believe
that this visit may lead to a better understanding between us. For my
part, I am able to appreciate in some measure for the first time the
real advantage of a more retired life such as you have chosen. I feel, I
must admit, more in sympathy with you, Dene than I have hitherto been."
"I am very glad," Dene said absently. His thoughts had wandered, and a
sense of coming trouble was strong upon him.
There was a short silence. Lucia's hand was hanging once more in its old
position. Dene had an uneasy consciousness, which was still not without
some sensations of pleasure, that she was expecting him to repeat that
half involuntary caress of a moment before. He looked towards her, and
pointed to the mountains.
"Do you see how the moonlight is travelling down the hillside?" he said.
"In a few minutes it will be as light as day."
"It b very beautiful," Lucia answered, "and the quiet is delightful."
Almost as she spoke, the stillness was broken by a discordant sound. The
sharp report of a pistol, followed immediately by another, rang out from
a spur of the hills about a mile above them. They all three looked at
one another. Dene rose to his feet.
"I must go and see what that means," he said gravely. "We do not allow
firearms here."
The President followed his example.
"If you will allow me," he said, "I should like to accompany you."
CHAPTER XXXV. THE SALVATION OF RIMAREZ
"It is my son," the President cried bitterly, "and he is dead."
They were all gathered round the prostrate form which they had found
underneath the deep shadow of the pine trees. Dene looked with grave
pity at the man by his side. The President's head was bent, and he stood
for a moment motionless. Rimarez was not pleasant to look upon. He was
lying upon his back, and his face was like the face of a man who had
died in mortal fear. There was no wound of any sort upon him, save a
small hole just above his heart where the bullet had entered, nor were
there any signs of disturbance on the cone-strewn sandy turf on which he
lay. A slight smell of gunpowder still lingered upon the air. Deeper in
the woods a bird was singing.
They made a litter and carried him down to the settlement, into Dene's
room. Once or twice the men who carried it paused and whispered to Dene.
He shook his head incredulously. Yet before long even he was puzzled.
They laid him upon a couch and summoned a long, lanky Scotchman who, on
the strength of a year at St. Bartholomew's, was usually called the
Doctor. Lucia was with them, pale, but quite calm.
The young man of medicine looked up perplexed after a few moments' brief
examination.
"There is no blood," he whispered, "and the mon is alive. Yet the bullet
has gone through the coat just over the heart. Give me a knife, Mr.
Dene."
Some one handed him a clasp-knife, and he deftly cut through the coat
and waistcoat. Then he thrust his hand in, and a gleam of excitement lit
up his pale spectacled face. He felt about for a moment, and then
suddenly withdrawing his hand, held up a little round ball in triumph.
"Eh," he cried, in excitement, "this is a clever mon this, and used to
the ways of a bloodthirsty country. There's a solid sheet of zinc over
his heart. He's no wounded even."
There was a cry of joy from Lucia, and an exclamation of wonder from all
the rest. Dene's nerves relaxed. He drew a long breath, and the blood
began once more to run freely through his veins. The President turned
towards the Doctor.
"Do you mean to say that he is not wounded?"
"He is absolutely unhurt, sir," the young Scotchman answered. "Here is
the bullet. I have just picked it out from the sheet of zinc under his
shirt. A grand idea, mon, for these troublesome countries."
"Has he fainted then?" Dene asked.
"He is in a state of collapse from the fright. He will come to
presently," the Scotchman answered. "I darena' give him any brandy, for,
to tell the truth, I should judge him to have been over-indulgent with
the stimulants."
"I should like to observe," the President said, "that it is his mother
to whom Eugène owes his escape. I must confess, although I am not proud
of it, that I myself am in the habit of wearing a somewhat similar
apparatus. The Senora procured the zinc herself, made the holes in the
corners with her scissors and attached tapes to them. She has evidently
equipped Eugène in the same way. Doctor, we will leave my son in your
hands for the present Senor Dene, I should like a word with you." Dene
followed him into another room. "You picked up something near my son's
body in the plantation, Senor Dene. I should like to see it."
Dene clenched his teeth and cursed himself for a fool. Nevertheless, he
had no alternative. He thrust his hand into his pocket and produced a
small ivory-handled pistol. "This is the only clue I could find," he
said. "I have given orders that the roll shall be called at once. Any
one whose whereabouts during the last hour cannot be positively vouched
for, shall be examined separately."
The President nodded, and continued to turn the pistol over in his hand,
examining it curiously.
"This is more like a toy," he remarked. "It is a strange weapon for an
assassin."
Lucia came gliding softly into the room. She leant for a moment over the
pistol and examined it carefully.
"Whoever it may be," she said in a low, intense tone, "I hope they will
be found and shot."
Dene shuddered a little. He looked at her gravely. Lucia continued half
apologetically.
"It was so happy and peaceful here," she said. "We were all enjoying it
so much and it seemed so different from San Martina. Oh, it was a vile
thing to attempt. Fancy any one crouching down there in the thicket,
waiting and waiting until they felt sure of their aim, and then
deliberately killing a man who was not prepared--one who had no thoughts
of fighting. There is something so cowardly about it. When one pictures
it, and that miserable creature slinking off into the darkness, I feel
that I would gladly stand by and see him hanged."
Again Dene shuddered. Yet he too was in sympathy with her. The
hideousness of the thing was like a nightmare before his eyes.
"It was terrible," he said; "but I fed that I can never be sufficiently
grateful to the Senora, your mother. It is she who has spared us from
what would have been a terrible tragedy."
The President lit a cigar with fingers that were perfectly steady. Dene
wondered from whence came his son's cowardice and flabby nerves.
"I am quite sure, Senor Dene," the President said, "that you are not
wilfully harbouring any rebels. Yet I imagine that this circumstance may
have satisfied you that you have some dangerous neighbours. You will
understand, I am sure, that out of no lack of respect to you, but for
all our sakes, I shall be compelled to take this matter into my own
hands."
"I cannot complain," Dene said, "at anything you may choose to do."
"Sagasta." the President continued, "is the man on whom I want to lay my
hand Sagasta, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was the instigator of that
attempted murder if he was not the man who actually fired the shot.
Sagasta has one or more accomplices amongst your people. To-morrow I
shall endeavour to discover them. Through them I may reach Sagasta."
Dene was walking restlessly up and down the room. Outside was the murmur
of many tongues. Every door was open; every person in the settlement
seemed crowded together there. Only Ternissa's house was dark and silent
Lucia glided up to his side.
"You know who it was," she whispered. "I can see it in your face!"
He opened his lips to deny it, but her hand fell softly upon his arm.
"Let there be nothing but truth between you and me at least," she
pleaded, with her soft brilliant eyes raised to his. "Listen. If it was
he, he is a traitor and an ingrate. Will you let him know something from
me?"
"I am not in communication with him," Dene said. "I know nothing of
him."
"Not this minute--not now," she whispered, "but who can tell? He is not
far away. When you see him tell him this. I set him free because I hated
bloodshed, because I believed in him, because he taught me to think--for
no other reason. If it was he or one of his creatures who fired that
cowardly shot, then I wish that I had died before I had reached out my
hand to help him."
"You set him free," Dene answered, "for no other reason than that?"
Her fingers seemed woven around his arm. Her voice was soft and
thrilling. To Dene it was like a little throb of sweet, passionate
music.
"For no other reason," she murmured. "Only because I pitied him. You
know it. You know it very well. Is it not so?"
Her face was close to his, the perfume of her hair was very faint and
delicate. He made a half movement towards her. He was never quite sure
how it happened, but with a little murmur of content she was in his
arms.
CHAPTER XXXVI. TERNISSA IN PERIL
With the first breath of dawn Dene, who had spent a sleepless night,
dressed softly, and stole outside. He had given up his room to Eugène
Rimarez, and had slept in a smaller chamber at the back of the house.
Consequently, what he saw when he descended the verandah steps came as a
surprise to him. A cordon of the President's bodyguard surrounded
Ternissa's cottage, and a sentry stood at her door.
Dene, after a moment's hesitation, crossed the Place as though to enter
the cottage. The nearest soldier saluted, but barred the way.
"What is the meaning of this?" Dene asked. "By whose orders are you
here?"
"The President's, Senor," was the reply. "I am unable to let you pass."
"I am the master of the place--Mr. Dene."
The man was quite unmoved.
"Our orders are positive, Senor, and include even you. No one may enter
or pass from this cottage without the special permission of the
President."
"When did you get your instructions?" Dene asked, with sinking heart.
"Last night, Senor. It was soon after the attempted assassination of
Captain Rimarez."
Dene turned away to find himself face to face with Angus and Dom Pedro.
They drew him a little on one side.
"This is a verra serious business yonder, Mr. Dene," the former said.
"I'm afraid there's trouble about for that young lassie. She was trying
to escape last night, I'm told, and they politely sent her in again. Are
you thinking, Mr. Dene, that it was she who fired that wicked shot?"
"I can't," Dene said hoarsely. "God knows I can't think that of her. Yet
it's a terrible position."
"What will the President do, do you think?" Angus asked, "if there
should be evidence against her?"
"He will have her shot," Dom Pedro said fiercely, "if we are cowards
enough to stand by and allow it."
"Nonsense," Dene said firmly. "The President is incapable of such a
thing."
"The question is," Dom Pedro said, "what steps are we going to take if
he should attempt this? Let us be prepared."
Dene looked at him curiously.
"You are very interested, Dom Pedro. I thought that she was a stranger
to you."
A curious smile hovered for a minute upon Dom Pedro's lips.
"She is a woman," he said. "That is enough. I know the cruelty of this
gang of cut-throats who call themselves the Government of San Martina.
They have no respect for age or sex, guilt or innocence. I speak of what
I know. Unless we play the part of men now that woman's life is
lost--maybe there will be worse things happen to her. Mr. Dene, Beau
Desir is yours, bought and paid for, and those soldiers are trespassing
upon your property. Let us have a single word from you, and they shall
ga Pietro and Stewart and half a dozen of us will see to it."
Dene shook his head.
"For the present," he said, "I will not have them interfered with. If
the President knows as much as I fear he knows, he has not stationed
them there without a reason. Beau Desir is mine, it is true, but with
possession comes responsibility, and it is very certain that a murder
was attempted here last night. We must remember that, and be prepared to
deal with the matter calmly. The President has the right to protect
himself and to do him justice, I have not heard him utter anything of a
vindictive nature. For the present let everything go on as usual. Let no
one take any notice of the soldiers. Angus, I will ride with you as far
as the Watercourse hill."
For an hour or more Dene worked at his ordinary morning routine of
overseeing without even a glance at the guarded cottage. At the time
which he had appointed he rode homewards, and found his guests awaiting
him.
Lucia met him on the verandah. She was wearing an English white serge
dress, and the soft wind from the mountains went rustling through her
hair. The manner of her greeting him was significant. There was a new
colour in her cheeks, and an added brightness in her eyes.
"At least," she cried gaily, "you might have asked me to ride with you
this morning."
"I have been up," he continued, smiling, "since four o'clock."
"The sun woke me at five, and I have been up on the hill watching you
all at work." she said. "This place is more beautiful even in the
morning than at night If it were not for my father, Mr. Dene, you would
find me a very troublesome guest to be got rid of."
She was looking him full in the face with laughing eyes, and Dene knew
that something gallant was expected of him in the shape of an answer.
But at that moment he caught sight of a white face at the window of that
guarded house, and his heart sank. He felt like a traitor to have
forgotten her plight for a moment.
"How is your brother?" he asked lamely.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"If he were not my brother?" she answered, "I should say that he was
suffering from the effects of being frightened almost to death. Your
very droll Scotch physician uses long words and prescribes rest."
"And the President?"
She looked over her shoulder into the room.
"He will answer for himself," she said. "He has just come down, and is
inquiring anxiously for breakfast. Now, please to say good-morning in
the English fashion. It is what I am waiting here for."
She leaned over the verandah and held out her hand. Dene took it in his
a little awkwardly. He stood bareheaded, looking up at her. She was
marvellously fresh and sweet in the clear sunlight, her lips parted, her
eyes full of laughter. His own gravity melted for a moment away. She was
irresistible.
"You are early abroad, Senor Dene," said a voice from behind her
shoulder.
They both started round. Dene had been a little uncertain what to do
with the soft white hand which had lain so unresistingly in his, but at
the sound of his guest's voice he dropped it at once. The President was
standing immediately behind his daughter, a good-humoured smile upon his
lips and a gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes. They had been
standing hand in hand, these foolish young people. It was well. His
arrival had been most opportune.
"We commence work in Beau Desir at sunrise. President," Dene answered.
"And that reminds me," he continued, "the school-bell should be ringing
in a few minutes, and our schoolmistress is a prisoner. Is there not
some mistake?"
The President came out on to the verandah and gazed curiously across at
the little cottage in front of which his sentry was posted.
"So your schoolmistress lives there, does she?" he remarked.
Dene nodded.
"Yes. She is a new arrival, and almost a stranger in the country."
"Does she live, alone?"
"Certainly," Dene answered.
"And her name is?"
"Ternissa Denison."
The President looked thoughtfully across at the cottage.
"Well," he said, "I will take the liberty of paying her a visit after
breakfast In the meantime things had better, perhaps, remain as they
are."
Dene bit his lip. It was not what he desired.
"Would there be any objection," he asked, "to my telling her the reason
of this--patrol at her door? She must be very much mystified."
The President laid his hand upon Dene's shoulder.
"We will let things remain as they are," he said, "until after
breakfast. Then I will have a little talk with you, and we will see. As
for the young lady--well, she is probably not so much surprised as you
imagine. Your coffee, Senor Dene, has even a more delightful odour than
your English flowers."
Dene had no alternative but to accept the hint. He led the way into his
morning room, where breakfast was prepared. Lucia took her seat at the
head of the table with a little laugh.
"All my life," she said, "I have longed to see a real English breakfast
table. Do you know, Senor Dene, I have actually wasted upon you much
sympathy which was needless. I pictured you out here 'roughing it,' as
you English say. How amusing. Why, you are a positive sybarite."
"In a very small way then," Dene answered, smiling. "Come, I will be
frank with you. My breakfast, when I am alone, consists of porridge and
bacon. The present condition of things is unusual, and I am afraid even
Brown could not keep it up for long."
"But your etceteras," Lucia said. "Fruit and flowers, silver and Dresden
china, cut glass and white linen. Oh, yours is a wonderful bachelor's
abode. Beau Desir is not what I thought it was, I can assure you."
"It is nevertheless," the President said drily, belong himself to
omelette, "a very charming place."
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE PRESIDENT'S SUSPICION
"And now," Dene said, with the air of a man who, against all hazards
approaches a perilous subject, "about my schoolmistress."
The President lit his cigar, and looked thoughtfully across at the
guarded cottage. He smoked for a few seconds in silence. Then he waved
away the little cloud of white smoke which hung before him almost
motionless in the breathless air, and turned to his host.
"I am afraid, Senor Dene," he said, "that the young lady is not all that
she appears to you to be."
"In what respect?"
"May I ask you first, Senor Dene, how long you have known her?"
"We came out on the same boat from England," Dene answered.
"Exactly. You knew nothing of her previously? Now, without any wish to
disparage my own possessions, at the risk however, Senor Dene, of being
considered by you unpatriotic, I will ask you what possible attractions
San Martina could offer to a young and, I believe, a beautiful
Englishwoman?"
Dene was silent. The conversation was drifting into awkward channels.
"None, you will agree with me," the President continued drily.
"However, the young lady has, I find, connections in this part of the
world. My son Eugène, it appears, knew her in England. He was introduced
to her by--Arnold Sagasta."
Still Dene was silent. He dared not say a word.
"You will see," the President added, "that my information is good. But
it goes further. I understand that the young lady is my
daughter-in-law."
"You know that?" Dene exclaimed.
"From my son himself. Further, I know that she accuses him of having
gained her consent to their marriage by a trick, that she has never
lived with him, that she is passionately anxious to free herself from
him. Now, Senor Dene, you will understand why I look with a certain
amount of suspicion upon this young lady. You will, I think, admit I am
not altogether unreasonable."
"I am quite sure," Dene said warmly, "that it was not she who attempted
your son's life."
The President shrugged his shoulders.
"You know her," he remarked, "and I do not. Only, if it were not she, it
was Sagasta."
"Ternissa Denison at least is incapable of anything of the sort," Dene
declared. "I will go and speak to her. If she knows anything of the
matter she will tell us."
The President rose to his feet
"She shall tell us together," he said. "If she is innocent and speaks
the truth she has nothing to fear. It is justice I require, not
vengeance. Come, my friend, we will speak to her together."
They crossed the Place. At the gate of her little house Dene paused.
"Allow me," he said, "to go in and announce your visit to her. If you
will take this chair upon the piazza I will bring her out to you."
But the President retained his friendly clasp of Dene's hand.
"Pardon me, Senor," he said, "but I too will enter. We will pay our
respects to the young lady with the Madonna face together."
Dene still hesitated, but his companion, although he spoke lightly, was
evidently in earnest. There was no escaping from his insistence. Whilst
they stood there the door opened, and Ternissa herself appeared. She was
pale, but quite composed and at her ease. She returned the President's
bow gravely, and smiled at Dene.
"The President," Dene said, "wishes to explain to you personally why he
has thought it necessary to place your cottage under--surveillance."
"Will you come inside?" she asked, "or shall we sit upon the piazza? It
is cooler out here, and I can send for some chairs."
The President waved his hand.
"Do not trouble, my clear young lady," he begged. "I have weak eyes, and
the glare of the sun distresses me. May we not be privileged to enter
for a few minutes your little sitting-room?"
"By all means," she answered cheerfully, "if you really prefer it."
Dene's warning glance was disregarded. She ushered them without
hesitation into the little sitting-room, which, by some occult and
feminine means, she had contrived to furnish from the slenderest of
resources in a very dainty and original manner. Dene's eyes swept the
wall, and his heart stood still It was true then. He had been deceived
by no chance resemblance. He cursed himself silently that he had not had
the wit to somehow avoid this most untoward visit. Then with an effort
he pulled himself together. There was yet a chance. The President was
solely occupied in looking at Ternissa. He had not, during those first
few seconds, glanced round the room. Dene, as though affected by the
heat, moved towards the window, and stood there with one hand resting
upon a small table, silent and nervous.
"My visit," the President said, addressing Ternissa, "is not altogether
a pleasant one. You will doubtless have gathered as much from the fact
that I have considered it necessary to have your house guarded."
"I have been waiting," she said coolly, "for some explanation."
"The explanation is simple," the President continued. "Last night,
within a quarter of a mile from here--on that hill in fact, at the back
of your cottage--my son was fired at, and only escaped death by a
miracle."
"I heard the report," she said. "What has that to do with me?"
The President stroked his grey imperial. His keen eyes seemed fastened
upon her face.
"So far," he said, "the question of motive alone has weighed with me.
You are the only person in Beau Desir, so far as I know, to whom my
son's death would be welcome."
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"You are, I understand," the President continued, "his wife."
She was clearly staggered.
"Did he tell you so?"
"Yes," the President admitted. "He told me also that there were
differences between you. One of the objects of my visit here was to make
your acquaintance. Eugène is not altogether, perhaps, a satisfactory
son, but both his mother and myself were impressed by the wonderful
earnestness with which he spoke of you. I decided to come to Beau Desir
and see whether I could not effect something in the nature of a
reconciliation."
"It is useless," she murmured. "I was most cruelly deceived."
"Nothing," the President said sternly, "could justify you in seeking to
obtain your freedom by assassination."
A look of horror passed across her face.
"You do not believe," she cried, "that it was I who fired the shot?"
"It is possible," the President continued, changing his position
somewhat, but keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed upon Ternissa's face,
"that you did not actually fire it yourself. I am glad to be able to
think so. But it is almost impossible that you should not know who did
fire it. No, do not answer me for a moment. Let me tell you this. I have
wonderful eyesight I saw you sitting in the dark corner of your piazza
for half an hour before. You imagined yourself unseen; you were, I
believe, unseen except by me. You were--forgive me--a somewhat
interesting person to see in a settlement such as Beau Desir. Besides, I
felt sure from the first that you were the woman whom I had come to see.
I watched you with so much interest that my eyes became accustomed to
the gloom. I could see the outline of your face. I could watch your
movements. Presently I saw you start and-look round. Then you rose
hurriedly. Some one had come into the room behind--some one whose
presence you seemed to find disturbing. You disappeared--a few minutes
before the shot was fired. I caught the fluttering of your gown upon the
hillside at the back of your cottage. I heard some stones fall as though
some one were clambering up."
The President's short, stumpy fingers were engaged in twirling his grey
moustache, his whole attention seemed absorbed in watching the woman who
stood before him. Dene's hand was silently stretched out. It reached now
across the little table to the wall. Suddenly the President looked
towards him. Dene was hot and cold by turns. There was suspicion in the
President's face, but Dene's fingers were already covering the object he
desired. The President looked back to Ternissa, and Dene drew a long
sigh of relief.
"Young lady," he said quietly, "I am waiting to see if you have anything
to say to me. I have told you what I saw, I have told you what I know; I
might add that the pistol from which the shot was fired was evidently a
woman's. Sagasta, my son's enemy, is lurking in these parts, and I am
told that he is the man for whose sake you came out to this country.
Now, have you anything to say to me? Can you give me any reason why I
should not order your immediate arrest?"
"Except that I am innocent," she answered, "nothing."
"You have no explanation to offer?"
"None."
The President's face darkened. He walked to the window as though about
to summon one of the soldiers from outside. Dene laid his hand upon his
shoulder.
"Give her a little time," he pleaded hoarsely. "Remember that she is
your son's wife."
The President came back into the room. He addressed Ternissa.
"Senor Dene," he said, "has suggested that a little reflection may
induce you to be more open with us. We will leave you for a time. But I
must ask you, Senorita, to remember this. I am a father, and my son's
happiness is much to his mother and myself. I do not believe that you
fired that shot. Tell us who did, show us how to secure him, and I
pledge you my word that the Senora Rimarez and myself will gladly
receive you as our daughter, and we will do our best to make you both
happy. Eugène has faults, but he is a good fellow at heart, and I
believe that he would make you an excellent husband."
He paused. Ternissa made no answer. The President continued, and his
voice grew sterner.
"On the other hand, Senorita, forgive me if I remind you also that I am
a soldier as well as President of San Martina, and, as a matter of duty,
if you remain obstinate I shall be compelled to pass upon you the only
sentence which cowards and assassins and their accomplices deserve. I
regret your sex, but I respect the law."
The two men passed out into the hot sunshine together, leaving Ternissa
alone, dumb and white. The President lit a cigarette, and looked
curiously into Dene's grave face.
"I very much regret this occurrence, my clear Senor Dene," he said. "I
trust you will understand that I am actuated by no vindictive spirit. At
least I think that we need not trouble to make any inquiries now as to
who is Sagasta's secret friend amongst your people."
Lucia leaned over the balcony, half laughing, half pouting.
"You are detestable," she cried. "For more than an hour I have been
waiting for you, Senor Dene. I want you to show me everything."
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SECRET PATH
"Ternissa, is that you?"
She came softly out from the deep shadows of the piazza, out into the
black velvety darkness, so intense that even when they stood side by
side she laid her hand tremblingly upon his arm to assure herself of his
presence.
"Is that really you?" she repeated.
"Yes."
He said no more for the moment. She tried to look into his face, but
even as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she could only see its
outline. Yet his silence somehow chilled her.
"Come inside where I can see you," she said abruptly.
He shook his head.
"I suffered enough in there this morning," he said. "Let us go to the
Watercourse hill. There will be no one there to overhear us."
She peered through the darkness into his face, more than ever anxious to
read his expression. To the Watercourse hill. Was it by chance that he
had mentioned that place? She could only judge of his attitude towards
her from his tone, and that was very grave indeed.
"I did not know," she said, "that I was permitted to go outside. There
is a soldier at the gate still."
"I have given my word that you shall not leave the place," Dene
answered. "He will not interfere with us."
They walked slowly up the rough path, passing in and out amongst the
pine trees, until they reached the ledge overlooking the great hollow,
where a long since dried-up river had once come out of the mountain's
bosom. They stood for a moment drinking in the cooler air. Ternissa
leaned back against a young pine tree. Dene stood by her side, trying to
look into her white face.
"You are very solemn," she said.
"Do you not think," he answered, "that I have cause to be?"
Then to his surprise she laughed softly, and he caught a gleam from her
eyes flashing at him through the darkness.
"It is I, surely," she declared, "who should be serious. For am I not a
prisoner, with brave soldiers of the republic to guard my doors? And yet
I am not afraid--not one little bit."
Suddenly she felt the firm grasp of his hands upon her shoulders. Her
face was drawn close to his. She knew quite well beforehand what this
thing was which he was preparing to ask her.
"What had you to do with that shot?"
"Nothing. Less than nothing. If I could I would have prevented it."
The grasp of his hands became like the pressure of iron bands upon her
shoulders, and she nearly cried out with the pain. His eyes had mastered
the darkness now, and he asked her his question again.
"You had nothing whatever to do with it?"
"Nothing."
Then he let her go and a long-drawn sigh of relief went up from his
heart.
"Thank God!" he exclaimed
His whole expression had changed. He seemed for a moment too overcome
for speech. Then she knew that he had believed this thing of her.
"You condemned me unheard," she murmured.
"Do not be angry with me," he answered. "I had what seemed to me to be
proof. Look."
He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a shining pistol.
"Do you know this?" he asked.
She recognised it at once.
"It is mine," she answered. "It is one of a pair I keep in my
sitting-room."
"Do you know where the other one is?" he asked.
She looked at him perplexed.
"I have not missed either of them," she said.
"One," Dene said, "was picked up last night a few feet from where Eugène
Rimarez was lying. The President has it now. It is the clue by which he
expects to trace the would-be murderer. This one I took from your table
and secreted it whilst we were there together this morning."
Her hands fell to her side. She looked at him intently.
"I understand now," she exclaimed. "Of course you believed then that I
had dropped it there?"
"I knew at least," he replied, "that if the President had found its
fellow in your room he would have accepted it as quite sufficient
proof."
He shuddered.
"It was a narrow escape."
"It was the most terrible few minutes of my life," he declared. "You are
not safe yet, Ternissa. I want you to give me your whole confidence."
She looked at him and sighed.
"What is it--that you want to know?"
"First of all--you had a visitor that night?"
"Yes."
"It was he who borrowed your pistol?"
"I suppose so. I did not know that he had taken it."
"Was it one of my people? Was it any one in Beau Desir?"
She did not answer immediately. His face grew sterner.
"Ternissa," he said, "you are still in danger. Unless you will trust me,
how can I help you?"
She remained silent. Over their heads the pine tree tops were rustling
faintly as the night breeze grew stronger. From below came the far away
tinkling of Pietro's guitar. Suddenly the deep stillness around
them--the stillness which had been all the more perceptible for those
faint, distant sounds--was broken. From somewhere amongst the scrubby
undergrowth and single trees which overhung the watercourse came the
stealthy sound of footsteps. There was the snapping of a dry twig. Dene
even fancied that he could hear the quick breathing of a man descending
the hill rapidly.
They started a little apart Ternissa, in moving, touched a loose stone
with her foot and sent it rolling down the chasm. After that they both
stood perfectly still. The footsteps also had ceased. The silence became
positively breathless.
Dene, moving cautiously and on tiptoe, stepped to the edge of the chasm,
and, passing his arm round a young fir sapling, leaned over the edge,
looking down into the rocky bed below. It seemed to him that the
footsteps had come from some one scrambling either up or down the bank
on the other side, but though he listened intently, there was no sound
to be heard, and the darkness was impenetrable.
"Who is there?" Dene cried.
There was no answer.
Then Dene set his teeth and felt for the handle of his revolver.
"Once more," he cried, "who is there? If you do not answer I shall
fire."
Not a sound came back save the hollow echoes of his own voice. He waited
for a moment. Then he stretched his hand out in the direction from which
the footsteps had come, and fired. The flash of light, a long yellow
line of streaming fire, lit up for a second the gloomy ravine, and Dene
fancied that on the other side he could see a dark crouching figure. Then
there was black darkness again, greater than before, and there came back
to them no cry nor any answering fire.
"Somehow," Dene muttered, between his teeth, "I must get to the bottom
of this. Wait here for a moment, Ternissa."
He took a step forward, but Ternissa laid her hands upon his arm.
"Please do not leave me. I am frightened," she pleaded.
"There is some one down below, and I must find out who it is," he
answered fiercely. "He was either spying upon us or trying to cross the
mountain. I want to know whether it is one of my own people. There is
something strange going on amongst us."
"The mountain is inaccessible here," she whispered, "and at the Pass you
have a sentry. It was one of President Rimarez' soldiers following us.
They are watching me."
"When we get back," he answered, "we shall see. Ternissa, I am going to
whisper to you. I am afraid to speak out. Such darkness is intolerable.
One could believe that there were listeners everywhere. Listen. I am
going to whisper. Who took that pistol from your room?"
She was silent. In a moment he continued.
"Ternissa," he said, "I want to know whether it was indeed any one in
Beau Desir who was your visitor, or whether it was Arnold Sagasta. You
must tell me this."
Still she was silent. Only Dene, who was striving to see her face
through the darkness, heard a little gasp.
"I cannot," she faltered. "I cannot tell you."
Then for the first time Dene felt his faith in her shaken. For the last
week he had had a watchman posted at the pass which led through to
Sagasta's hiding-place. Each day he had reported that no one had passed
within sight of him. Was there a secret way up to the mountains? or had
he indeed traitors amongst his very midst?
"Tell me," he said, with a new note of irony in his tone, "have you
invisible friends who visit you by night-time and fade away into thin
air with the dawn? For, I tell you, Ternissa, that I know every man and
woman in Beau Desir, and I do not know one who would be base and
disloyal enough to stoop to murder. Now, I will know the truth."
"Very well," she cried fiercely. "You shall know all you wish to know.
Just now you heard a sound. You thought you saw a figure. Well, you were
right. Along the bed of that river is a hidden path up the mountains.
You could never find it, but it is there. Dom Pedro showed it to
Sagasta, and it was Sagasta whom you saw just now and fired at. Now will
you let me go. I have told you the truth. I have imposed upon you and
broken my oath to Sagasta. I would that I had died before I had ever
come to this miserable country."
She covered her face with her hands, and the sound of her sobs mingled
with a low moaning breeze which had just sprung up amongst the pine
trees. Dene stood by her side, motionless and silent.
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE BLACK FEVER
It was long past midnight, and save for Ternissa every man and woman in
Beau Desir was sleeping. The two soldiers who had been left to watch her
were not only asleep, but happily and completely drunk. During the
evening they had mixed with the people of Beau Desir, had danced and
sung songs, had made maudlin love to the women, and had narrowly escaped
several thrashings from the men. Happily it had occurred to Angus that
the safest way of avoiding quarrels, and perhaps bloodshed, was to
present them each with a bottle of liqueur brandy. The two soldiers had
retired apart, each hugging his treasure. At first a few snatches of
ribald song and an occasional shout had testified to their happiness,
then the sound of a quarrel--which, however, neither of them seemed to
be in a position to follow up--and finally, the inevitable stupor. Beau
Desir spent the remainder of the evening in peace, and when night came
Ternissa's cottage was unguarded. There had crept up since the afternoon
a change in the unbroken magnificence of the rich Southern summer. The
sky was covered with black clouds, and a wind was wailing down the
valley. Outside was thick darkness--darkness almost to be felt Ternissa
sat alone in her little back room waiting.
Soon there came a slight sound outside, the faint scratching as though
of some animal against the window-pane. She rose with pale face and
opened the door. A dark figure passed silently inside. It was Sagasta.
Almost without speech he threw aside his cloak and sat down at the
table. She went to a cupboard and brought him food. He attacked it
silently and ravenously, eating with all the unrestraint of a starving
man. His cheeks were white and thin, and black rims were engraven under
his hollow eyes. She looked at him and shuddered. There was something
wolfish in his whole appearance.
When he had eaten he stood up for a moment and listened. Then he lit a
cigarette, and spoke to her in a hoarse, feverish whisper.
"News came to us last night from San Martina," he said. "Young Andrew
Valjean, whose father was hung last week, has joined us. Three hundred
others are on their way. They may arrive at any moment."
"Three hundred," she repeated mechanically. "The army of the republic is
over a thousand."
"With three hundred men," he continued, "we can hold the mountains
against as many thousands. Our men can lie behind the bushes and pick
them off one by one. Oh, the joy of seeing them fall. We shall make the
mountains hideous with their bodies. We shall crucify them to trees, and
hang them over the ravines. Oh, they will soon be weary of it."
She looked at him with shuddering fear; a new alarm, too, suddenly
seizing her. Since she had seen him last there was a curious change in
the man. A certain measure of virility seemed to have left him. The
droop of his mouth, the gleam in his black eyes were almost bestial.
"You frighten me, Arnold," she said. "You are not yourself to-night."
"I shall be myself," he muttered, "when the father has gone where I have
sent the son--to hell. I shall be myself when the whole brood is wiped
off the face of the earth."
He did not know, then, that Eugène Rimarez was still alive. She kept
silence, devoutly thankful that no word of this had escaped her. She
rose and laid her hand upon his.
"Arnold," she said, "I--don't think me false, but I cannot help you any
longer. I cannot live here and deceive the people who are sheltering me.
Gregory Dene suspects, the President suspects me. I am threatened even
now with imprisonment, and even death. I have risked a good deal for
you, Arnold, for the sake of the past I want you to leave me alone now.
Oh, if you would only take my advice--leave all this wretched bloodshed,
and go back to England. There is nothing to be gained by it Believe--"
"Nothing to be gained by it," he hissed, "when a Rimarez is alive. But
you don't mean it. You are raving."
"I am in sober, solemn earnest," she protested.
"You care no more--for me," he cried
"Nor you for me," she answered, looking him in the face. "There was a
time when we cared for one another. It was the memory of that time which
brought me out to San Martina when Eugène Rimarez wrote that your life
was in danger and its price was my coming."
"You do not care any more then," he muttered. "You are free now. We
could be married."
She shook her head sadly. He looked at her with a cunning gleam in his
eyes.
"I know," he exclaimed. "It is Gregory Dene, the Englishman. It is he
who has taken my place."
She turned away from him and made no answer. Then he caught her by the
wrist.
"Listen," he said hoarsely. "We have no time for philandering. Perhaps
you are right. The time when I cared for any woman seems far enough off
now. What I want is revenge--and freedom for San Martina. Come, you
shall help me to-night, and afterwards you can go your way and marry the
Englishman or any one else."
"What do you want--to-night?" she asked fearfully.
The pressure of his fingers was like the burning of hot coals upon her
wrist. He bent closer over her, and her terror increased.
"We want arms--rifles and ammunition. They are here in your schoolhouse.
We want them."
"You are going to rob Gregory Dene?" she exclaimed.
"Ay, if you like to call it robbery. We are going to rob him of his
rifles, and we are going to rob him of Beau Desir. Oh, it has been well
planned. The fool should have joined us. I asked him--he refused. He
ordered me away. He dared me to come here. He has made himself an enemy.
He has become a parasite of that devil, the President But I have them
both in the hollow of my hand. Listen. To-night Dene and his guests are
away. They are sleeping on the horse-ranche--they will not return till
dawn. Ten of my men are outside in a line between here and the
Watercourse hole. The rifles are in the schoolhouse. We shall get them
quietly and hand them out two at a time. In an hour we shall have them
all. It is a dark night. The schoolhouse stands apart. They will be
passed from one to the other. Then do you not see, Beau Desir will be
ours when we choose. Dene and his men may go and live in San Martina if
they choose, or in holes up in the mountains as they have forced us to."
"And how," she asked, with a sort of desperate quietness, "are you going
to get into the schoolhouse silently?"
"With the keys," he exclaimed, "which you have. It is time now. Where
are they?"
"I shall not give them to you," she said.
A spasm of fierce anger darkened his face. For a moment he was
speechless with passion. His teeth chattered, and his lips twitched.
"I have lied to Gregory Dene," she said slowly, "and I have deceived him
for your sake. I will do so no more. You shall not have the keys."
She did not doubt any longer but that he was mad or going mad. He sprang
upon her with a little laugh.
"If you do not show, or tell me, where those keys are," he said, "I
shall kill you. I mean it I shall kill you. You can shout if you like.
They sleep hard in Beau Desir, and there is no one to hear you. Give me
the keys."
"Arnold," she pleaded, "think of what you are doing, what you are
saying to me. We cared for one another once. Indeed, I would do anything
now that was not utterly despicable to save you. But I cannot betray the
man who has trusted and the people who have been kind to me. You would
not hurt me, Arnold! I am only a woman, and I am defenceless."
"Give me the keys," he muttered doggedly.
"Never," she answered firmly.
He raised his hand and struck her. She fell sobbing upon the little
sofa, and a cry that was half a moan broke from her lips.
"That is to show that I am in earnest," he cried. "Now look."
He drew a long knife from a sheath in his inner pocket and held it over
her.
"You see it. Now give me the keys, or I shall kill you--with this. You
see. It is sharp. It will be very easy. I will kill you, and then if I
do not find the keys I will set fire to the whole place. Look at me,
Ternissa. It is not pleasant to die. Oh, I have been near it, and I
know. For the last time--give me the keys."
There was only a little moan from her lips. She was praying for
unconsciousness, but she had no power to close her eyes. She saw the
knife raised higher and higher, and--then--her ears were quicker than
his--she heard the latch of her front door lifted and her name called in
a weak voice.
She gave a hysterical little cry. The knife was poised quivering in the
air. Then the door between the two rooms was suddenly pushed open, and a
white ghastly figure stood for a moment upon the threshold. He glanced
from the crouching woman to the man, then with a cry of rage he flung
himself unarmed upon Sagasta.
The two men rolled over on the floor, but there was no contest. Eugène
Rimarez' fingers were fastened upon Sagasta's throat, and Sagasta made
no effort to escape. The whole place was awakened by his hideous cries.
Even after they had torn the two men apart, and Sagasta with his limbs
securely bound lay grovelling in a corner, he kept pointing at Eugène
Rimarez and muttering to himself.
"What use to kill a Rimarez," he moaned, "when they come back from
hell?"
CHAPTER XL. A WONDERFUL VISIT
Four and twenty hours later the President, with Lucia by his side, stood
upon the piazza of Dene's house, waiting only for their horses to begin
the return journey to San Martina. Pietro was playing his guitar out in
the Square, and most of the dwellers in Beau Desir were about, eager to
catch a parting glimpse of the President and his beautiful daughter.
"It is the end of a very pleasant holiday," the President remarked,
drawing on his gloves. "You have enjoyed it, Lucia?"
"More than any other holiday in my life," she answered truthfully.
"He is hospitable, is he not--this Englishman?" her father remarked,
watching her covertly.
"They say that his countrymen always are," she answered, gathering her
skirts into her hand. "It is what they call a national characteristic."
"Gregory Dene is a very fine man," the President said. "There is no one
whom I have ever met who has attracted me more, or in whom I would place
more implicit confidence. He is honest and brave and rich. In his
country I believe that he is noble. You have--nothing to tell me,
Lucia?"
She turned away from him with a hot blush upon her cheeks.
"Nothing, father."
The President sighed.
"Well, there is no harm at least in saying that nothing in this world
would make your mother and me more happy."
She looked at him with large, frightened eyes.
"You will not--you must not say anything to him. It is not the custom
with English people. If you did I would go away. I would never see him
again."
Her father smiled at her gently.
"Never fear, little one. If he does not know a jewel when he sees it,
his must be the loss. And indeed I am not sure whether it would be for
the best. We have talked, your mother and I, of leaving this country
some time, of, making an effort to end our days in Europe. If so, life
would be very different for you. You would meet those who are your
equals, and Gregory Dene would soon be forgotten."
The girl looked up at the dark line of hills with a very soft light in
her eyes and a little sob catching in her throat. There was nothing at
all attractive to her in the thought of Europe. Just then it seemed to
her that there was no place in the world where happiness was possible
save at Beau Desir. For a moment she was sad. Then the music of Pietro's
guitar came floating to her out of the darkness and a smile parted her
lips. She remembered--ah, well, she would always have that to remember.
Soon Dene came out to them. Their horses were brought round, and amidst
a little chorus of farewell cheers, they rode off. It was full moon in a
few hours, and they had decided to make their journey by night and so
avoid the great heat of the midday sun. Dene was to ride with them as
far as the Pass, and very soon, in obedience to a gesture from her
father, Lucia fell a little behind.
"We have enjoyed our visit to you, Senor Dene," he said, "extremely. I
beg to thank you most heartily for your hospitality."
"It has been a pleasure to have you and your daughter," Dene declared
heartily. "I only hope that I shall have the opportunity of welcoming
you here many more times."
The President bowed.
"The events of last night," he continued, "were somewhat tragical, it is
true, but on the whole I cannot regret them."
"Poor Sagasta," Dene murmured.
"He is to be heartily pitied," the President said, "and in his present
state he is of course safe from those measures which I should most
certainly have otherwise taken against him. Your opinion, I believe, is
the same as mine."
"He is hopelessly insane," Dene answered sorrowfully. "There does not
seem to me to be the slightest hope for him."
The President nodded gravely.
"I am bound to admit," he said, "that Eugène's plucky rescue of the lady
whom he would certainly have murdered has been a source of delight to
me. My son has disappointed me in many ways. To find him capable of an
act of real heroism has been one of the pleasantest surprises of my
life."
"I believe," Dene said, "that it will make a different man of him. There
was no doubt as to the heroism. He threw himself upon Sagasta in his
weak state absolutely unarmed. It was a splendid act, and it has won for
him what I believe nothing else in the world would have done."
"Are you sure that she will keep her word?"
"I am absolutely sure," Dene answered firmly. "Ternissa is a woman who
knows her own mind. She has looked at him with different eyes ever since
that moment. I left them sitting together like an old married couple.
You will find that they will be very happy together. As soon as he is
strong enough she has promised to come to San Martina with him."
The President glanced over his shoulder to where the lights of Beau
Desir lay twinkling in the valley.
"Well," he said, "these have been eventful days. My most dangerous enemy
is disposed of and my son is a changed man. I shall begin to think,
Senor Dene, that you are one of those who carry with them the amulet of
good fortune."
"I shall be only too glad," Dene said, "if the removal of Sagasta means
the pacification of San Martina. To tell you the truth, the appearance
of the place last time I was there thoroughly alarmed me."
"It will mean," the President said, "the gradual calming down of all the
elements, which, as you say, alarmed you. In a few years I trust that San
Martina will be an altered place. There are many ways, Senor Dene, in
which I myself have perhaps failed as the head of a very turbulent
people. But they will be amended. Yes, I think that they will be amended."
They rode on for a few minutes In silence. Dene spurred his horse and
rode for awhile by Lucia's side.
"You must look round," he said, "to see the last of Beau Desir. May I
hope that it will not be long before you come again."
She turned in her saddle and looked downwards to where Beau Desir seemed
but a little cluster of farm-buildings and the great fields but
patchwork at their feet She looked long and earnestly. The country was
very fair in the full flood of moonlight which was going stronger every
moment.
"Farewell, Beau Desir," she murmured softly. "You named your valley
well, Senor Dene. It is a very happy and a very beautiful little corner
of the earth."
"You may say all the nice things in the world about it," he said gently,
"but not farewell. I am hoping that you may see Beau Desir again before
many months have passed."
"I do not think so," she answered gravely. "To-night I feel that I shall
never see it again."
Dene opened his lips to speak, but the President rode up to them.
"You will not forget, Senor Dene, our fete next week. We are relying
upon your presence, and you will stay, of course, at the Presidency?"
"I will come," Dene answered, "with all the pleasure in the world--"
He reined in his horse, for they had reached the Pass, and before them
now stretched the plain which rolled up to the gates of San Martina.
Suddenly the President paused in the act of framing a farewell
sentence. Below them in the pine-wood a night bird had commenced to
sing. Soft and sweet and pure, every note as it reached them through the
moonlit silence seemed quivering with melody. But Lucia, after those
first few moments of delight, turned away with a vague look of trouble
in her face.
"You know what the natives say," she murmured. "It is the song of
death."
But Dene took her hand and laughed cheerfully.
"Never believe it," he cried. "Never believe that anything so beautiful
could be of ill omen. My children at Beau Desir tell me that the night
bird sings only to God, and that is why it sings at night when there is
no one else to listen."
"It is a pretty fancy," she murmured.
Another glad little burst of song reached them. Dene wheeled round his
horse and waved his hand.
"Never believe your natives," he cried. "That little bird is singing of
life and of love and of hope. There is nothing of death in that song."
And Lucia rode homewards with a faint smile upon her lips and the song
of the bird still in her ears.
CHAPTER XLI. SAN MARTINA EN FÊTE
It was a very different San Martina into which Dene rode late in the
afternoon of the day of the President's fancy-dress ball. The whole
place seemed to be en fete. The shops were closed, not this time for
fear of stray bullets, but in order that everybody should have time to
prepare for the evening. It was a general holiday. The saloons were
full, the streets for the most part were empty. The usual array of flags
generally visible on holidays, saints' days, and revolutions were in
evidence. Dene rode through the heart of the place with a smile upon his
lips. After all, it was hard to take life seriously here. Through the
opened windows of the houses he could hear light feminine voices and gay
laughter. Once or twice a handkerchief was waved at him, a pair of black
eyes flashed invitingly from an oval Spanish face and a little challenge
in broken English was thrown out to him.
"Au revoir, Senor--until this evening!"
And Dene waved his hand and laughed back in response, accepting all the
challenges and making numberless vague appointments. Everywhere was the
same gaiety. The men and the women were all filled with the spirit of
it. Dene thought of Sagasta and his ravings with a grim smile. There
were no signs of his three hundred malcontents. How utterly out of
place, after all, that white-faced, anxious enthusiast had been
amongst so mercurial and pleasure-loving a nation. He rode on past
the high wall which bordered the President's garden, rode in the
shadow of the flowering shrubs which drooped over and brushed
against his cheek. From the other side came every now and then
a waft of faint fragrance; the soft sunny air seemed laden with the
perfume of roses and orange blossom. As he neared the house he rose in
his stirrups and gazed towards the wide piazza. There were many people
there spreading out an awning, but the gleam of a white dress for which
he looked was nowhere to be seen.
He dismounted in front of the broad steps of the house, and his horse
and the mule which had followed with his baggage were led away to the
stables. Inside the building everything was in confusion. The great
square hall, hung with banners and flags, was being fitted with
numberless small round tables, and beyond, the dining-room had been
treated in the same way. Magnificent palms and ferns from the
conservatory lined the walls, the window-sashes had been removed, and
the whole place was delightfully cool. There was no one to meet him or
any one who seemed to regard his presence, so Dene strolled about until
he came to the great ball-room. Here a small army of men were at work
strengthening and enlarging the bandstand; the floor shone like
polished glass, and the whole of one side of the room had been
bodily removed, so that one walked straight out into the beautiful
gardens, where there was a vista of green trees and brilliant beds of
flowers, and here and there more small tables. In the midst of it all
was Lucia.
She was standing with her hands behind her, giving weary instructions to
one of the workmen, and some shadow of the old discontent lay upon her
pale face. But when she saw Dene the cloud for a moment was lifted. Her
eyes, softened, the half-scornful curve of her lips was gone. She came
towards him with outstretched hands and a delicate colour in her
cheeks--as delicate and as fresh, Dene thought, as the cluster of pink
roses in her waist-band.
"You have come then," she exclaimed, with what sounded like a sigh of
relief. "I am so glad!"
"My doming was not a matter of uncertainty, was it?" he asked, smiling
and taking her hands in his. "I promised."
"Ah, but I did not know," she answered, with a little sigh. "I thought
that you would probably disapprove so much of the whole thing, that when
you reflected you would decide to stay away."
"And why should I disapprove?" he inquired, smiling.
"It seems such a shameful waste of money when everyone is so poor.
Surely you must feel that?" she said.
"It is scarcely my business," he answered gravely. "I think your father
is likely to know best what he is doing. He understands the people whom
he has to govern. It is possible that many of them would rather have one
such night as this than anything which you or I could suggest for their
benefit. Then, after all, the money which is being spent is all
distributed in San Martina."
"Well, you may be right," she said. "At least what you say sounds
comforting. Will you not come outside for a few minutes? It is deafening
here. One cannot speak."
He followed her out into the shaded part of the garden where she had
taken him on that first visit of his to the Presidency. He looked down
at her, remembering it,--wondering, too, how greatly in that short space
of time he had altered his opinion concerning her. He had thought of her
then as she had walked by his side, unwilling and morose, as merely a
petulant and a spoilt child. He had not even considered her then more
than ordinarily pretty. She led the way to the little seat where they
had sat before, and looked up at him with a smile.
"The green carmenita," she remarked, "still flourishes. You are very
neglectful for such an enthusiast. You have not even examined the new
blooms."
"The green carmenita," he answered, "fulfilled a useful purpose, and I
am properly grateful to it. Beyond that, I think you know the measure of
my interest in it."
"Well," she said, "I must admit that this time I brought you here for a
different purpose. I have something to say to you, and I wished it to be
here. I wished it to be here that I should say farewell to you."
"Farewell," he repeated wonderingly. "What do you mean?"
She drew from her pocket a letter and smoothed it out upon her knee.
"I am going away," she said softly, "in three days. I am going to the
English hospital at Buenos Ayres. You will see that this is from the
principal. I am to be what they call a probationer."
She was watching his face eagerly, wondering a little at--vaguely
disappointed at his expression. For Dene was conscious that her news had
affected him in an unexpected way. What she had planned was just what
might have been expected from a girl of character and ideals. Her little
rebellion against the mental and moral lassitude of the place was a very
brave and a very praiseworthy thing. He felt that he should have met
that eager gaze of hers with a smile of downright approval,--that he
ought really to congratulate her warmly on having dared to take her life
into her own hands that she might make of it a better thing. And he did
none of these things. He looked at her a little blankly, then he read
through the formal letter from the matron of the hospital, with a glance
at the list of arduous rules enclosed, and then back again at the
daintily dad beautiful girl by his side, without a single spark of
enthusiasm. He appreciated at that moment more even than he had ever
done the delicacy of her shapely hands and skin, the spotlessness of her
white muslin gown, the general air of well-bred and self-respecting
elegance 80 perfectly realised in the most trifling details of her
toilette and person. He thought of her in the ward of a hospital
attempting work for which she was obviously unsuited, and he was
conscious of a very strong antagonism to this scheme of hers.
"Have you quite made up your mind?" he asked doubtfully. "Are you sure
that--that you will like it?"
A deeper colour flushed into her dusky cheeks. She drew a little away
from him. Her disappointment was bravely but not altogether concealed.
There was a little choking in her throat and her eyes were dim with
tears.
"You--you think that I shall not persevere. That I shall give it
up--that it is a whim. And I hoped that you would be pleased. I hoped
that you at least would approve."
Dene was himself again in a measure, although so far as regarded her
project he felt more averse to it every moment.
"Lucia," he said, "do not believe for a moment that I thought any such
thing. It is a very brave and a very womanly thing that you are going to
do. I can't explain for a moment what I fed--against it. Tell me, what
do your people say?"
"They do not know," she answered calmly. "No, do not interrupt me, Senor
Dene. You know them--they have those ideas about the bringing up of a
girl which you and I know to be false. They would keep from me, if they
could, every chance for development. They would dress me in pretty gowns
and give me sweets to eat and novels to read until one of these
detestable, hateful young men here decided that he would like to marry
me, and then--oh, it is too hideous, too sickening. I have had trouble
already of this sort. More, I will not endure. I have made up my mind. I
am doing what is right and honest. They would never believe it, and it
is useless to attempt to convince them."
"But how can you leave without their knowledge?" Dene asked, with an
uncomfortable feeling that the girl was in the right and that he had no
arguments to use against her. "It is not easy for any one so well known
as you to leave San Martina."
"There is a small steamer in the harbour now, sailing for Buenos Ayres
to-morrow," she answered. "I am going by her; my things are already on
board. My maid was leaving. The passage has been taken in her name. Only
it will be I who will go."
"To-morrow," he remarked, a little dazed, "is very soon."
"The sooner the better," she declared. "I am weary to death of my life
here. Do you know that those two days at Beau Desir were the only ones I
have cared for since I left school."
"You--liked them?" Dene asked.
"Very much," she answered softly. "I was very happy at Beau Desir."
A soft dreamy light filled her eyes. They sat in silence for several
minutes. Then Dene bent over and suddenly imprisoned one of her hands.
She snatched it away and looked up at him startled and flushed. The
tears were in her eyes.
"Senor Dene," she said reproachfully. "Oh--"
A little sob choked her speech. She sprang to her feet and ran swiftly
down the path. Dene started to follow her, but she was too quick for
him. He caught the gleam of her white dress through the shrubbery, but
when he turned the corner she had disappeared. Instead he came face to
face with the President.
CHAPTER XLII. POLITICS AND LOVE
"You are the very man, Senor Dene," the President said, "whom I most
desired to see. I heard that you had arrived and I was looking for you."
"I am," Dene said, recovering his breath, "quite at your service."
The President led the way to a more retired part of the garden. In fact
they returned to the very seat on which Dene and Lucia had been sitting.
"How is Eugène?" the President asked, lifting the tails of his
frock-coat and sitting down.
"He is much better," Dene answered. "In a week or two I think that he
will be quite recovered. His wife is nursing him, and I really believe.
President, that your son is a changed man."
"I am glad to hear it, Senor," Rimarez declared. "And Sagasta?"
"He will never give you any more trouble," Dene said gravely. "His
reason is altogether gone. He is quiet and perfectly harmless."
The President was silent for a moment. Then he took a black cigar from
his pocket and began to smoke.
"It is about my daughter, Lucia, that I wished to speak with you," he
said at length. "I want to ask your advice on a certain matter
concerning her."
"I shall be very glad to give it," Dene murmured.
"Her mother and I," the President continued, "have just made a very
curious and disturbing discovery. A person from Buenos Ayres who appears
to be the matron of a hospital there, has written to us, as Lucia's
parents, and acquainted us with a fact which has been a severe shock to
both of us. To be brief, it appears that Lucia, without our knowledge or
consent, has engaged herself to go to this hospital and undergo a course
of training there with a view of becoming a professional nurse."
"So," Dene remarked, "she has just been telling me."
The President looked honestly amazed.
"You have seen her since your arrival then?"
"She left me," Dene said, "as you approached."
There was a short pause.
"And she told you," the President repeated slowly. "She told you herself
of her own accord, and to us, her parents, she has never breathed a
word."
"I think," Dene explained, "that in a general way she felt sure of
sympathy. On the other hand, as regards yourself and the Senora Rimarez,
she was equally certain of your disapproval."
The President stiffened visibly. He turned to Dene with a frown upon his
face.
"Am I to understand, Senor Dene, that you have encouraged my daughter in
this mad scheme? That you could for a moment regard it as a fitting
occupation for her?"
"Not altogether," Dene admitted. "I must confess to an entire sympathy
with the spirit which made her discontented with her lot here and seek
to alter it. Apart from that, I would rather, very much rather, that she
did not go to Buenos Ayres."
The President unbent a little.
"I am glad to hear you say that," he declared heartily. "I have spoken
to you upon this matter because you are the only person I know who seems
to possess the smallest amount of influence over my daughter. I must
confess that my ideas as to the bringing up and the province of young
women are of the old world. I believe that in European countries, in
England especially, there are new opinions in vogue, in which you, I
have no doubt, are in sympathy. I might perhaps be inclined to modify my
own views if I were convinced that it was for my daughter's happiness,
but I could not for one moment tolerate the thought of Lucia's having
anything to do with this Buenos Ayres scheme. She has been very
carefully and very delicately brought up. All her instincts are refined
to a fault. The routine work of a hospital would be hideous to think of
in connection with her. She has not even the physical strength for it
She would be disappointed and her health would suffer. I beg of you,
Senor Dene, to talk with her, to endeavour to dissuade her of her own
accord from such madness."
"I had intended doing so--on my own account," Dene answered slowly. "In
fact, if you will give me your permission. President, I want her to be
my wife."
The President's affectation of complete surprise was admirable. His joy
and relief were discreetly concealed.
"You have taken my breath away, Senor Dene," he declared. "I may say at
once, however, and without hesitation--yes. There is no man whom I would
so soon have for a son-in-law. But about Lucia. She is not like other
girls, and she has already refused peremptorily the two best matches in
San Martina."
"My proposal is of course only subject to her consent," Dene said. "I
shall ask her to-night."
"She likes you," the President remarked thoughtfully. "I am sure of
that."
"I hope so," Dene answered. "I believe that I can make her happy."
"With regard," the President began, clearing his throat, "to her dowry.
I regret very much that--"
"Please do not mention it," Dene interrupted. "I have the fortune, or
misfortune, to be a very rich man. I do not require any money with Lucia
at all In fact it would be an embarrassment to me."
The President concealed his feelings by lighting another cigar. What a
son-in-law!
"Dene," he said, "if Lucia accepts you, you should take some interest in
San Martina. If you have money to spare, I believe that the development
of this place would pay you."
"I have thought of it," Dene admitted. "There are several schemes in my
mind which I should like to talk over with you."
The President sighed.
"For myself," he said, "I am getting an old man, and I am looking for
rest. The government of this State, without finances, without credit,
and in hourly fear of assassination, has aged me terribly. I admit
frankly, Senor Dene, that I have made mistakes, but I have had fearful
difficulties to contend with. My tenure of office now is nearly at an
end, but I see better times in store for San Martina."
"You want schools," Dene said, "a thoroughly representative assembly, a
strong police force, hospitals, and a revised code of laws."
"Just so," the President murmured. "Let us go and see my wife. This news
will delight her."
"There must be no constraint put upon Lucia," Dene said, rising.
"Accept my word, Senor," the President said, "that there shall be none.
In fact, you yourself shall be the first to mention the matter to her.
Come with me into the house."
They found the Senora resting in a quiet corner of the piazza. All the
morning she had been busy superintending a small army of servants. The
President laid his hand upon Dene's shoulder.
"Julie," he said, "after all, I think that Lucia's future need trouble
us no longer. Senor Dene has just asked me for her."
The Senora wiped her eyes. Then she held out both her hands.
"Lucia is very fortunate," she said, "and you also, Senor. You will be
happy. Yes--I know it."
"If Lucia will have me," Dene answered, "I too, am sure of it."
CHAPTER XLIII. DENE'S LOVEMAKING
It is certain that San Martina had never before witnessed anything so
brilliant as that memorable fete. The suite of reception and official
rooms, which covered the whole of the ground-floor of the Presidency,
were packed with men and women of all kinds and degrees, dressed for the
most part in strange and picturesque garb, and all bent upon enjoyment.
The means were ready enough at hand. The great ball-room could
accommodate them all, and when they were weary of dancing there were the
gardens, where another band was playing, which seemed to have been
converted for the night into a European al fresco cafe. Coloured
lanterns hung down in the breathless air like yellow moons; from every
little table and every shaded walk came the sound of gay voices and the
musical laughter of women. San Martina had suddenly become a paradise,
even to the discontented. Even those men who had hailed Sagasta as a
deliverer and who only a few days ago had been under arms against the
public, were there, drinking the President's health, waltzing over the
smooth floors, and smoking cigarettes in the garden between the dances.
On a raised dais at the end of the ball-room was the Presidential party.
The President was there, plainly dressed in evening clothes, and with
his only decoration, the blue sash which was the badge of his office.
The Senora was very handsome in black satin and many diamonds. Dene wore
the uniform of a captain in the yeomanry of his country. Close to him,
although as yet he had scarcely exchanged a word with her, was Lucia, a
little pale, but looking more beautiful than ever in a simple white gown
and without a single jewel. Each guest, as he or she arrived, presented
themselves before the dais and was greeted by the President according to
their standing, with either a handshake or a bow. Every one of
importance the President made a point of introducing to Dene, and for an
hour or more the rush of arrivals was so great that they were waiting
three or four deep. When at last there was a pause. Dene leant over and
spoke to Lucia.
"You must be tired," he said. "Come into the fresh air and get cool. I
think we have earned a few minutes rest."
She hesitated. There was a curious nervousness about the way she leant
over the fastening of her bracelet. She had the appearance of desiring
to refuse, but Dene drew her hand through his arm, and led her away.
As they crossed the room she looked up at him suddenly.
"I should like," she said, "to be quiet for a moment and to say goodbye
to you. But if I come, will you promise--you offended me this morning--"
"I will promise anything," he declared, looking down at her.
She glanced at him doubtfully, saw that he was smiling and suddenly
withdrew her hand.
"I will not come," she said. "You treat me like a child. Do not follow
me."
She glided away, but the crush was too great. Dene caught her in the
corridor. She turned upon him with scarlet cheeks and brightly flashing
eyes, but he anticipated her anger.
"Lucia," he said softly, "I will promise--seriously not to offend you. I
did not mean to this morning, but you ran away so quickly that I had no
time to tell you--"
"To tell me what?" she cried fiercely.
He drew her a single step further out on to the balcony.
"To tell you that I loved you, Lucia. To ask you to be my wife," he
said. "I do not want you to go to Buenos Ayres. I want you to stay here
with me--will you?"
She was trembling from head to foot. Her great eyes were slowly raised
and fixed steadfastly upon his.
"Why do you ask me?" she whispered. "Is it because you are--sorry for
me?"
He glanced around. It was a risk, but they were in a retired corner. He
took her into his arms and kissed her.
"It is because I love you, Lucia," he said.
When they re-entered the ball-room Lucia's face was no longer pale nor
her eyes dim. She was perfectly and radiantly happy. She moved as one
walking upon air, and as she passed across the room there was a little
murmur of admiration. Dene led her up on to the dais and turned at once
to the President and his wife.
"Lucia has made me very happy," he said. "She has promised to be my
wife."
There was a new and a strange nervousness in the President's face and
the Senora's manner as they greeted Lucia. Her mother kissed her fondly.
Her father held both her hands and looked for long into her face. Then
he sighed, but it was a sigh of content.
"This is a great happiness to us both," he said simply. "We shall always
think of to-night. Be very good to her, Senor Dene. Some day she may
need it."
Then he turned to the friends who were gathered around them.
"Permit me, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "to announce to you the
betrothal of my daughter, Lucia, to Senor Gregory Dene."
A flow of congratulations followed. Champagne was sent for. The news
spread. From the floor of the ball-room and from outside came the sound
of cheering, and a great cry for wine. The people trooped from the
gardens to the room, and raised their glasses over their heads.
"Good health to the Senor Dene!" they cried. "Good health to the
Senorita! Long life and happiness!"
Lucia turned, and with blushing face curtsied to the eager,
good-humoured crowd. Dene raised his glass with theirs and bowed his
thanks. The bandmaster had a sudden inspiration. He waved his baton, and
amidst loud cheering they played "God save the Queen."
And outside, from table to table, from group to group, passed a tall man
in dark clothes and a closely fitting domino, rebuking, entreating,
expostulating. It was Dom Pedro, who had waited in vain upon the
mountains for the men whom Sagasta had told him were coming, and who had
stolen into San Martina to find them here perfectly happy and
contented--to all appearance model citizens. They pushed him on one side
impatiently. He might be Sagasta's agent or successor, or whatever he
chose to call himself, but to-night they wanted none of him. To-night
they wanted no politics, nor any fighting. It was a night, this, for
enjoyment, for love-making, for the dance. Let Dom Pedro be sensible and
enjoy himself also. Sagasta was ill. Well, there was no hurry. They must
wait for his recovery. Such a chance as this for pleasure came rarely in
a man's way. To-morrow they would see, but at present not a word would
they listen to from him. As to a rising now at once--bah, it was child's
talk! Dom Pedro found himself repulsed on all hands.
He stood apart for a while, consumed with anger. Then the first little
murmur of applause from the ball-room reached him; the sensation of the
news was spreading. He pushed forward with the others to hear what it
might be. He saw Dene and Lucia together upon the platform, and the
truth flashed in upon him. Dene was going to ally himself with this
hateful brood, these cursed Rimarez! Under his mask he was as pale as
death.
A perfect demon of fury seized him. With it all he remained calm. The
figures on the platform were like figures in a dream; only himself he
was sure of. He thrust his hand into his pocket and his fingers closed
upon the butt of a revolver. Then a cold pang of disappointment chilled
him. He had forgotten his cartridges--only one chamber of his revolver
was loaded. He looked towards the platform and hesitated. For whom
should he use that one? For Dene, who had had it in his power to sweep
away this corrupt government, and had preferred to ally himself with
them? For the President, the father of the man who had robbed him of the
girl he loved many years ago, and who was also the type of all he
detested in life? At that moment Lucia looked up at her father and
smiled. An evil thought crept through Dom Pedro's distorted brain.
Through Lucia he could strike them both. It should be Lucia whom he
would kill.
He elbowed his way to the front of the platform, and stood there for a
moment waiting for a favourable opportunity. It came very soon. He took
a deliberate aim and fired. There was a loud report, a blinding flame
and Lucia, with a little moan, sank into Dene's arms. On the front of
her white corsage was a single spot of blood, but she looked up at him
and smiled as he held her.
They went for Dom Pedro like a pack of wild animals, but he was fleet of
foot and he had a start. He tore down the path towards the river, fifty
people in pursuit. Some one found a revolver and covered him carefully.
Then there was a flash, a report, a cry, but he ran on. On the river's
brink he had a moment's respite. He looked first into the dark waters
and then up to the brilliant sky. Then he plunged in, and the waters
closed above his head. There was a gurgling in his ears, and the cries
of his pursuers seemed to die away--to belong, indeed, to another world.
When they reached the river bank there were a few ripples upon the
water, but no signs of Dom Pedro. They stood about for a while wondering
eagerly whether escape was possible. Months afterwards they knew that he
had gone at once to the bottom with a bullet in his lung.
They laid Lucia upon a couch, but in a moment she opened her eyes and
smiled.
"No one need be anxious about me," she said, with her eyes seeking
Dene's. "I am quite sure that I am not hurt. The bullet only grazed my
shoulder."
Dene, who had a pocket-knife in his hand, deftly cut open the strap of
her gown and gave a great sigh of relief.
"It is true," he said. "There is only a slight scratch."
The news spread. Lucia, who was now sitting up, called to her father and
whispered in his ear. He nodded, and stepped forward in front of the
dais.
"My friends," he said, amidst a breathless silence, "I am thankful to
tell you that my daughter is unhurt It is her particular wish that these
festivities should not be interrupted. She will join us again as soon as
she has changed her gown."
The room was rent with cheering. The men, who had been watching the
river where Dom Pedro had disappeared, heard it and returned. The news
of his end was passed around with fierce joy. Then the wonderfully
mercurial temperament of this people came to their aid. They rose in
their places and cheered frantically as Lucia passed out upon her
father's arm. Then they took up the thread of the evening's festivities
exactly where it had been so rudely broken in upon. It is probable that
never before in the history of the Republic had a President been so
popular as President Rimarez was that night.
CHAPTER XLIV. A DRAMATIC ELOPEMENT
It seemed to Dene that he had been sleeping only a few minutes when he
was awakened by a great shouting in the Square below, and much commotion
within the walls of the Presidency itself. He leaped out of bed and
slipped on some clothing, peering the while out of the window. The
Square was full of people, all of whom were crowding round large white
placards with which every wall seemed to be hung. Some were still in
their fancy dress of the night before; others were half dressed, as he
was. Every one was very busy gesticulating and talking. Then there came
the sound of voices closer at hand, and a knock at his own door. Dene
threw it open. Signer Mopez and half a dozen of the principal
inhabitants of the place were there.
"What is it?" Dene cried. "A revolution?"
Mopez thrust one of the placards into his hands.
"Read, Senor," he said. "It is most marvellous. The whole city is wild
with excitement."
Dene took the placard and read it. It was headed:
"To the inhabitants of San Martina.
"MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Last night there was a single word which I omitted
to say to you on behalf of the Senora, my wife, and myself. It was
farewell. I have been your President now for five years, during which
time you will permit me to remind you that I have subdued eleven
revolutions, and my assassination has been attempted nine times. I have
had to maintain an army without resources, and to carry on the public
works without means or credit Do you wonder that I have found it an
arduous task? Do you wonder that I say to myself and you, I am growing
old, let another bear the burden? Three times I have tried to abdicate;
each time you have prevented me. Hence this present and somewhat
unceremonious leave-taking. By the time you read this I shall be far
away. This time my abdication is a thing accomplished. I go to spend my
remaining years in the country of my birth, from which I can assure you
I shall always take a sincere interest in the politics and progress of
San Martina.
"One last word of advice to you. You will look amongst yourselves for my
successor. There is but one man who can make of San Martina a prosperous
and a happy country. That man is Gregory Dene, of Beau Desir. He is an
Englishman, and he can be trusted. He is English, and you would
therefore make yourself secure against any affront from any nation in
the world. Elect him your President, and you may yet become a tranquil
and a prosperous State.
"Once more, my friends, accept the good wishes and the farewell of
GUSTAVE RIMAREZ."
Dene read the placard through to the end, and looked into the faces of
the men who crowded respectfully around him.
"Do you mean to say that he has gone?" Dene gasped out.
Mopez drew him to the window. Far out at sea was the black trail of a
departing steamer.
"He is gone," Mopez said, "and the Senora, his wife, with him. It is
veritably true."
Dene's sense of humour was suddenly irresistibly aroused. He sat on the
edge of his bed and laughed till the tears stood in his eyes. They all
stared at him in wonderment.
"Well, gentlemen," he said at last, "I need scarcely tell you that
President Rimarez' kind idea has never so much as been hinted to me. It
is quite impossible that I should entertain it for a moment."
The faces of all of them dropped visibly.
"There is no one else," Mopez said, "to whom the people would even
listen. If you refuse, in an hour there will be a riot. We who have
property will lose it. Worse things even than that may happen. San
Martina will be a ruined country."
"Why not yourself, Mopez?" Dene asked.
"I am not man enough for them," was the simple answer. "I am a coward,
and the sight of firearms makes me tremble. The people would jeer at
me."
"The General," Dene suggested.
"He would be the nominee of the army. The civilians would oppose him
tooth and nail."
"Senor Mallito, then."
"He would be a civilian, and the army would never accept him."
Dene was thoughtful for a moment.
"Where is the Signorina Lucia?" he asked.
"In her room. She has been inquiring for you. She, too, was utterly
unprepared."
"I will consult with her," Dene said, "and give you my answer in an
hour."
In less than the time which he had stated, Dene stood on the balcony of
the Presidency, with Lucia by his side. The Place below was packed with
people. Every man in San Martina was there. Dene's appearance was the
signal for a burst of cheering which lasted for several minutes. Then he
lifted his hand, and there followed a breathless silence.
"My friends," he said. "I should like first to tell you that the
departure of your President and the contents of that placard, which I
see you have all been reading, came to me wholly and altogether as a
surprise. This time yesterday I had as little idea of being asked to
become your President as any of you. I want you to know that first of
all."
A little murmur of assent filled the air. They were quite willing to
believe that the Englishman had known nothing of an event which had come
upon them as such a tremendous surprise. Then they waited anxiously for
him to go on.
"I want you also to understand," Dene continued, with some hesitancy,
"that I have had no experience at this sort of thing, and I cannot quite
see why you should consider me competent to assume such a position.
However, that is your responsibility. If you are willing to have me for
President, I accept the office--listen--on certain conditions."
There was a storm of applause, and the waving of many handkerchiefs, but
Dene held out his hand for silence.
"I have said, on certain conditions. Let me tell you at once that Signor
Mopez, and those who have come to me on your behalf, find those
conditions so serious that they have not dared to accept them. They have
left the decision to you yourselves. I very much prefer that it should
be so. You and I can make our bargain like honest men, face to face, and
if my terms do not suit you, you have only to say so, and the matter is
at an end.
"Now, men of San Martina, here is plain-speaking for you. You are a
bankrupt State. Your Treasury is empty and your credit has gone. Do you
know what has become of the money? Some of it, no doubt, has been wasted
by mal-administration; the bulk of it has gone in the maintenance of an
unnecessary and burdensome luxury. I mean your army."
For the first time there was dissension in the crowd below. There were
murmurs of perplexity, a few angry cries. But when Dene held up his hand
they were quite ready to let him continue.
"Now, ask yourselves," he continued, "what practical use has your army
been to you? You may say that it has kept you safe from foreign
invasion. Very well I am an Englishman, and I promise you the protection
of my country against any unprovoked attack upon you by any nation in
the world. Then you say for the suppression of revolutions. But if I am
your President, I am going to arrange matters so that there are no
revolutions. Very well, then. Of what use is your army? None at all. Now
I will tell you what I propose. First of all, the disbandment of your
army. There is work for every man on the soil and in the quarries here,
and the additional labour you will gain will be a great boon. Secondly,
the establishment of a court of justice, with a revised and reasonable
code of laws. Thirdly, the enrolment of a strong police force. Fourthly,
the imposing of a fine for the carrying of loaded firearms anywhere near
the city. Fifthly, the readjustment of your House of Assembly on the
lines of every man one vote. These are the chief things on which I must
insist If you accept--listen to what I offer you. I am fortunately a
rich man, and I am willing to make a loan to the Treasury sufficient to
wipe out the deficit, and meet all bonds now current I will also advance
the money to build a hospital, a town hall, and other needed buildings.
I will inaugurate a system of volunteering which shall, I promise you,
in the course of a few years produce an army fully equal to the one
which you are now disbanding. There is the bargain, my fiends. Accept or
decline it at your will I want to make a contented and prosperous people
of you, and if you trust me I will do it What do you say?"
A storm of applause rose from the crowd as from one great throat. There
was scarcely a single dissentient, scarcely a man who did not see the
saviour of his country in the young Englishman who stood on the balcony
above them. Dene held out his hand to Lucia, and drew her forward.
"I thank you very much," he said simply, during a momentary hush. "I
think you will find that all I have promised I will perform, and that
brighter days are in store for San Martina."
It was many months before Dene and his wife could even pay a flying
visit to Beau Desir, but at last, one evening, they rode together
through the Pass, and looked down upon the prosperous little settlement
decked out now with flags and flowers. Behind them all was well. San
Martina had entered upon a marvellous epoch of prosperity, and the young
President and his wife were almost worshipped. Already her trade had
increased threefold. The harbour was thronged now with merchant vessels
flying the flag of every nation in the world. The whole place had been
rebuilt. Handsome public buildings were fast being erected; lawlessness
and rioting were things of the past. It was a metamorphosis which, to
the older residents, seemed almost like a miracle.
This was Dene's first holiday, and all Beau Desir was astir with
excitement and joy. Angus and Eugène Rimarez came galloping up the slope
on their little ponies. From below, the children's clear voices singing
a hymn of welcome came floating up through the still, sweet air. They
drew rein, and waited for a moment.
"Beau Desir is as beautiful as ever," Lucia murmured. "I almost wish
that we could live here always."
Dene smiled.
"At least," he said, "we will never have any other summer home. Do you
see how well Eugène looks? Angus tells me that he is making the horse
ranche a great success. In a year or two it will be one of the largest
in South America."
"Ternissa," she said, "has transformed him."
"Ternissa," he answered, smiling, "is a very wonderful woman."
An elderly lady and gentleman, well preserved and of prosperous
appearance, were lounging in comfortable wicker chairs on the terrace of
the Hotel Leon d'Or, Monte Carlo, the lady knitting, her husband reading
an English newspaper. Suddenly he uttered a little exclamation.
"Julie, listen."
She laid down her work. He began to read aloud the paragraph which had
attracted his attention.
"Amongst those who have been honoured with special invitations to this
country in connection with the forthcoming celebrations are Sir Gregory
and Lady Dene of San Martina, South America. Sir Gregory, who has only
recently succeeded to the title, left England many years ago to settle
in San Martina, of which country he was elected President the year
before last. He has succeeded in the difficult task of reconciling South
American apathy with English commercial genius, and since his accession
to power San Martina, although one of the smallest, has become one of
the richest and most progressive States of South America. Lady Dene, who
was the daughter of his predecessor, will easily take a leading place
amongst the beauties of the forthcoming season."
The Senora beamed with pleasure and excitement.
"The dear child!" she murmured. "To think that we shall see her so
soon!"
The ex-President laid down the paper and lit a black cigar.
"A cynic," he remarked drily, "would say that I never served my country
so well as in the leaving it."
THE END
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