Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

“ Good-night, beloved; good-night, cool white soul of ivory and silver. I love thee always devotedly. Have no fear for me. It is true that the Spaniards are all about us in these mountains, that at any moment we may be attacked. What of that? If the daughter of Cuba dies by her brother's side, in her country's cause, my Marguerite will know that it is well with her. You will shed a tear over the lonely grave among the Cuban hills; but you will plant a wreath for Rita, a wreath of mingled laurel and immortelle, and it will bloom eternally. ”

“ Hardships such as Rita must now endure would end his feeble life. I speak no word; a marble smile is all I wear, though my heart is rent with anguish. The carriages are at the door. Concepcion would have me ride in the first, that she may have her eyes on me at each instant. She suspects nothing, no; it is merely the base and suspicious nature which reveals itself at every occasion. I refuse, I prodigate expressions of my humility, of my determination to take the second place, leaving the first to her; briefly, I take the second volante, Manuela springing to my side. ”

“ On one side the woods rose black and still, on the other lay open fields crossed here and there by barbed wire fences. No living creature was to be seen on the road. No sound was heard save the muffled beat of the horse's hoofs on the sand, and behind, the shouts and cries of their pursuers. Were they growing louder, those shouts? Were they gaining, or was the distance between them widening? Rita turned her head once to look back. "I wouldn't do that!" said Delmonte, quietly. "Do you mind, Miss Montfort, if I swing you round in front of me? Don't be alarmed, Aquila is all right." ”

“ The moon is full, and the little glade is bathed in silver [81] light. Here in Cuba, Marguerite, the moon is other than with you in the north. You call her pale moon, gentle moon, I know not what. Here she shines fiercely, with passion, with palpitations of fiery silver. The palms, the aloes, the tangled woods about the camp, are black as night; all else is a flood of airy silver. ”

“ Poor little Peggy! How often I long to cut down a tree, to send her whole bunches of the fruit she delights in. The mangoes, too! I used to think I could not live without mangoes. When I went to you, it appeared that I must die without my fruits; now their rich pulp dries untasted by my lips: what have I to do with food, save the bare necessary to support what life remains? I am waiting now for my coffee; at this moment Manuela [20] brings it, with the grape-fruit and rolls, and places it here on the table of green marble, close by the fountain where I sit. ”

“ They are beautiful, Margaret, the Java sparrows, the little love-birds, the splendid macaw, the paroquets, and mocking-birds; but king among them all is Chiquito, our parrot, Marguerite, yours and mine, the one link here that binds me to my Northern home; for I may call Fernley my home, Uncle John has said it; the lonely orphan can think of one spot where tender hearts beat for her, not passionately, but with steadfast pulses. Chico is in superb health; he is—I tell you every time—a revelation in the animal kingdom. ”

“ In a prison, you see, it would be quite otherwise."
"But there are other ways of living, Pablo, beside scouting and going to prison," said Rita, much amused.
"Without doubt! Without doubt!" said Pablo, cheerfully. "And assuredly neither would befit the señorita. May she live as happy as she is beautiful, the sun being black beside her. Adios, señorita; adios, Señor Captain Don Carlos!"
"Adios, good Pablo! good luck to you and your crabs!" and laughing and waving a salute, they left the scout nodding his grass-crowned head like a transformed mandarin, and went back to the camp. ”

“ Rita.
Havana, May 1, 1898.
Not until afternoon goes the mail steamer, Marguerite, only pearl of my heart. I wrote you a few burning words last night; then I flung myself on my bed, hoping to lose my sorrows for a few minutes in sleep. I slept, a thing hardly known to me at present; it was the sleep of exhaustion, Marguerite. When I woke, Manuela was putting back the curtains to let in the light of dawn. It is still early morning, fresh and dewy, and I am here in the garden. At no time of the day is the garden more beautiful than now, in the purity of the day's birth. ”

“ It would be a pity to wake her from her first sweet sleep, poor Manuela. A year, perhaps a month ago, Rita would not have hesitated an instant; but now she murmured, "Sleep, little one! I myself will fetch the water."
She stepped out into the moonlight, with the jar in her hand. All was still as sleep itself. No sound or motion from huts or tent. Under the palms lay a number of brown bundles, motionless. Dry leaves, piled together for burning? no! soldiers of Cuba, wrapped in such covering as they could find, taking their rest. ”

“ Rita shook her head, and the tears came to her eyes again; but she drove them back bravely, and smiled, and laid her hand in her brother's; and they passed out together among the palm-trees.
Manuela looked after them, and laid her hand on her heart; it was a gesture that she had often seen her mistress use, and it seemed to her infinitely touching and beautiful. "Ohimé," sighed Manuela. "War is terrible, indeed! To think that we must go away, just when we are so comfortable. But where, then, is this idiot? Pepe! When I call you, will you come, animal? Pepe!" ”

“ Your wild, silly, foolish Rita, playing at emotions all her childish life: she wakes up, she begins to try to be a little like you, my best one; and all of a sudden she finds herself in Paradise, with a warrior angel—Marguerite, I did not think of it till this moment; my Jack is the express image of St. Michael. His nose tips up the least bit in the world—I don't mind it; it gives life, dash, to his wonderful face; otherwise there is no difference. My St. Michael! my soldier, my Star of Horsemen! Marguerite, no girl was ever so happy since the world was made. ”

“ It is the Spanish challenge, Marguerite; it is a piquette of the Gringos, of the hated Spaniards. They peer into the carriages, faces of savages, of brutes, devils; I feel their glances like poi [90] soned arrows. They demand, Don Miguel makes answer, shows his papers. Of the instant these slaves are cringing, are bowing to the earth. "Pass, most honourable and illustrious Señor Don Miguel Pietoso, with the heavenly ladies under your charge!" It is over. The volantes roll on. I clasp Manuela in my arms and whisper, "We are free!" We mingle our tears of rapture, but for a moment only. ”

“ Rita.
Beloved Marguerite:—I have written to our dear and honoured uncle of the perils which surround me. My life, my reason, are at stake. It may be that I have but a few weeks more to live. Every day, therefore, dearest, let me pour out my soul to you, now my one comfort on earth, since my heart was laid in the grave of my Santayana.
It is night; all the house is wrapped in slumber; I alone wake and weep. I seldom sleep now, save by fitful snatches. ”

“ Aquila would not rise again; his leg was shattered. Delmonte straightened himself and looked about him. If this had happened a hundred, fifty yards back! but now the woods were gone, and on either hand stretched a bare savannah, broken only by the hateful barbed wire fences. He drew his revolver quietly. The healthy brown of his face had gone gray; his eyes were like blue steel. He looked at Rita, and met her eyes fixed on him in a mute anguish of entreaty.
"Have no fear!" he said. "It shall be as it would with my own sister. I know these men; they shall not touch you alive." ”

“ Carlos drew his machete, and bent forward; whereupon a loud yell was heard, and the clump of grass shot up into the air, revealing a black face, and a pair of rolling eyes.
"What is it?" cried Rita, in terror. "Carlos, come back to me! It is a devil!"
"Only a scout!" said her brother, laughing. "One of our own men on outpost duty. Have peace, Pablo! your hour is not yet come."
"Caramba! I thought it was, my captain!" said the negro scout, grinning. "Better be a crab than a Cuban in these days." ”

“ Ah! what a wife you will make if you marry! But how can you marry, my poor darling? There is only one man in the world good enough for you, and he is mine. I cannot give him up, even to you, my saint. I have two saints now; I ought to be a Catholic. The second one is his mother, the Saint of Las Rosas, as she is called all through this part of the island. Marguerite, I must strive to grow like her, too, if such a thing were possible. [246] I have work enough for my life, but what blessed work! to try to make myself worthy of Jack Delmonte, my Jack, my own! ”

“ Donna Prudencia is a pearl, an empress among women, but rightly named; she complains that I talk too much on these subjects. But when one's heart is in the field, and one's legs refuse to follow,—again, what would you? No matter! silence is golden! Wait but a little, and you shall see. Who knows? It may be this very night."
Thus Don Annunzio, with many nods and winks, and gestures of dramatic caution. His words fanned the flame of Rita's zeal, and she longed for one of the promised nocturnal visits. ”

“ A sound of voices! eager voices of men, calling to one another. The tread of hasty feet, the noise of breaking bushes, of men sliding, jumping, running, hurrying, coming every instant nearer and nearer. What had Rita done, indeed? Manuela crouched on the mouldering floor at her mistress's feet, too terrified even to cry out now; Rita Montfort drew her dagger, and waited.
Next instant the narrow doorway was thronged with men; swarthy black-browed men, ragged, hatless, shoeless, but all armed, all with rifle cocked, all pressing forward with eager, wondering looks. ”

“ I possess my soul, I lean back and count the beats of my fevered [89] pulse, as we ascend the steep road, winding among hills and forests. The convent is at the top of a long, long hill, very steep and rugged; the horses pant and strain; humanity demands that they slacken their pace, that the carriages are slowly, slowly, drawn up the rugged track. The night descends, I have told you, swiftly in our southern climate; already it is dark. On either side of the road are tall shrouded forms, which Manuela takes for sentinels, for Spanish soldiers drawn up to watch, perhaps to arrest us. ”

“ Carlos is one; the others, Don Alonzo Ximenes, Don Uberto Cortez. Don Alonzo is not interesting; he is fat, and rather stupid, but most good-natured. Don Uberto is Carlos's friend, a noble young captain, much admired formerly in Havana. I have danced with him, my cousin, in halls of rose-wreathed marble; we meet here in the wilderness, I with my shattered affections, he with his country's name written on his soul. It is affecting; it is heart-stirring, Marguerite; yet think nothing of it; romance is dead for Margarita Montfort. Carlos is my kind brother, as ever. ”

“ Never will I go alive. I have daggers; here on my wall are many of them, beautifully arranged; I polish them daily, it is my one mournful pleasure; they are sharp as lightning, and their lustre dazzles the eye. I have poison also; a drop, and the daughter of your brother is white and cold at the feet of her murderess. Enough! she will be avenged. Carlos Montfort lives; and you, too, I know it, I feel it, would spring, would leap across the sea to avenge your Rita, who fondly loves you. Hear me swear, my uncle, on my [16] knees; never, never will I go alive to that place of death, the convent. ”