Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

it is traveled." Franciios and hoperly "and when it is the road to Carazio

Caxton was not livening He had 18y turned at the v od di fotsteps and instantly, at his fire lang. glance all his attention had been riveted to the far end of the patio. Two young men were drawing up chairs to a table for their companions, two elderly men. There was virrething almost ceremonial in their perform ance of the act, as there was in the studied formality of the older men as they took their places at the table and waited for

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small]

the young men to be seated. Don Miguel – beautiful daughters? Does one need to be Alvarez y Morny was one of the two Caxton's immediate thought

older men. was that for the first time in his impersonal acquaintance with him he saw him smile. The young men also were smiling, and the eyes of all three were deferentially turned toward the fourth member of the little group. His was an unpleasant face, Caxton thought, Spanish without doubt, grim and deeply lined, yet flaccid, too. The half closed eyes had both a somnolent and a shifty look, as though back of an inert body the spirit remained keenly alive. Fully sixty, from every facial aspect, his stiff, black hair might have been that of a man of twenty. Its youthfulness, crowning features that age had sadly ravaged, increased his measure of repellence.

Francisco, noting his patron's inattention, glanced toward the new-comers.

"Ah!" he softly murmured as he turned back to arrange the table with his deftly intimate touch; then briskly he added, "The usual wine for the señor?"

"Yes," Caxton replied. Then in a casual tone he asked, "Who are those men with Don Miguel?"

"The young men, his sons," Francisco replied: "the other is Don Pedro Matos. Has the señor heard of Don Pedro?"

"No," answered Caxton. "Who is he?" Francisco chuckled.

told everything? Always two and two make four."

"Oh, it can't be! That tottering old wreck!" said Caxton. hotly. He glanced toward the other table; its occupants were ceremoniously and gravely drinking a health.

"The señor thinks not?" said Francisco. "Doubtless, then, he is right. Who am I to dispute the señor's judgment?”

Yet Caxton had a foreboding that the man was right, and all his old romantic interest in the girl with the eyes flamed up anew. He inwardly stormed at himself for his folly, but the sickening depression of his heart remained. He saw again her wonderful eyes, their truth, their potentiality for devotion, and then his vivid imagination, rejecting every commonplace aspect of the case, saw them wide with unspoken grief.

Don Miguel and his companions were still at their table when, leaving his repast almost untouched, Caxton left the patio. and directed his steps toward the scene of his adventure. He stopped in the same shaded angle of the wall, and looked up, and the eyes of the girl met his. That they were changed he saw at once. He could see no more of her face than before, but now the warm ivory tint below her eyes was purple dark with weariness, and her eyes themselves had the stricken, be

"A widower, Señor," he said; "indeed, seeching look of a dog that suffers a mortal thrice a widower."

"But something else, too," Caxton said,

with a smile.

hurt. For a long moment they gazed at
each other; then the girl stirred slightly.
"The señor should not have come," she

"Caramba! is not that enough, seeing said. "He must go at once."

"Something has happened," he said. "What is it?"

"I am a week older," she replied, "and a week may be like a thousand years."

[ocr errors]

"Your eyes are heavy and sad to-day," he told her "so different! Tell me why." "Perhaps it is from staring at the dark,' she answered. "Has the señor ever watched the night pass-the slow, still night? It might be that. The watched night goes slow-oh, so slow! It is a great weariness, and it hurts. Yet it does not hurt like the dawn. Señor, the dawn is terrible. I know, who have watched it come. Even the first faint gray is terrible; it means that one must live another day. And the wind blowing in the trees is terrible. I used to love the sound, I remember. And, Señor, let me tell you. Juan, the water-carrier, is the first one of all the city to begin his day's work. It was not yet light when I heard him moving about in his patio, which lies beyond the wall there. And, Señor, I heard him beating his donkey, and I was wickedly glad. Something else was suffering in the wide world where men and women were quietly sleeping. It made me feel less alone. Señor, you said the day you saw me that I was good. Do you remember? Well, that is my goodness!" Her low laugh was more heartbreaking than tears.

"Señorita, what has happened?" he pleaded. "Tell me! Is it really true, then, that you are going-"

"Señor, stop! There are things that one cannot hear. Is it not enough to think them? And nothing can make them different. Listen. I went to the church this morning. It was very early. I thought to ask the Holy Mother for help; but when I knelt there, I could not pray. Would the Holy Mother come down from heaven and lead me back with her? I knew she would not; I was not so young and foolish as to believe that, and nothing less would suffice."

"I have watched at the church for you many hours," he told her; "but you never came."

"It was this morning that I went," she replied. "It was very early. And now

the señor must go away; he must come no more."

"Has it got to end like this?" he cried. "You can't go on, Señorita. There must be some way out. Would it help to know that I love you? I have not even seen your face; but it's you I love-your beautiful spirit. I ask nothing but the joy of helping you. Is there no way?"

"No, there is no way," she said gently. "I have not let you see my face that you may forget me the sooner. Not at first, though. It was from mischief at first, because of what you said- that you could see all in my eyes. That was very strange and amusing, and hardly to be believed. So I was perhaps a little bold, to tempt the señor to ask to see my face; but he did not. I felt then that the señor was speaking the truth. That is how I shall always think of him-as one who could be trusted. They are few. But now you must go." "I have not been here since that first day," he said, "at least until now. I thought you did not wish it. But-"

"It was good of the señor not to come before, but good of him to come to-day," she said gently, interrupting him; "for now it is good-by."

"Is this, then, to be the end?" he said. "Oh, it is hard!"

"It is the end," she answered. "But listen, Señor. Will it help a little to know that when I went to the church this morning I did not look at the picture of St. Michael? I could not. Always I kept my eyes turned toward the floor, never up. And I shall never look at it again. There are things that one must forget. Andand a Dios, dear Señor!" Then slowly she moved backward, and he saw her melt away, as it were, in the darkness of the

room.

He knew it was the end. Unhappy as he was, there was a certain relief in the mere acceptance of that fact. All the doubt, the uncertainty, was over, and his mind at once began to adjust itself to the inevitable. He wondered at his own calm as he went leisurely about his preparations for departure in the morning. That night he sat late in the café in the patio, finding

a certain comfort in a mere physical companionship that made no social demands upon him, and when at last he went to his room he fell asleep quickly. But long before day he awoke, and could not again. call up sleep. A return of his old restlessness drove him to rise long before the hour at which he was to take his train. He went down to the patio, deserted and still in disorder after the revelry of the night, and leaving orders that his luggage be sent at once to the train, he passed through the stone archway to the street and wandered forth into the city, scarcely aware of any leading as to his direction. But when presently he came in sight of the twin towers of the church of the St. Michael rising dark against the brightening eastern sky, he knew that he had continued to cherish a hope that he had not acknowledged even to himself.

Inside the church, which after a momentary hesitation he had entered, a single candle was burning in the chancel. In the faint suffusion of light from the coming dawn it made more intense the shadowless gloom of the interior, and for a long time. he stood at the door peering keenly about before a kneeling figure at the far eastern end of the church gradually took shape as merely a darker blotch on the dark stonework of the wall.

With his heart in his throat, he walked quickly toward it; but as he drew near, it rose and passed out. It was only a man in the dress of a muleteer, and with a quick falling away of all his hope, Caxton, too, went out to the porch. The figure of a woman was coming slowly across the plaza -a woman in the dress of the common people. Over her head and shoulders fell a striped rebozo, which she held close over her mouth with the native's precaution against breathing the night air; but as she drew near to the place where Caxton stood idly watching her approach, she let the rebozo fall to her shoulders. He saw a fair, delicate face, a slender, rounded neck, a small, well-shaped head carried proudly. Her eyes were downcast, and something in the rigidity of her carriage, her set lips, and the nervous tension of

her fingers as they clasped a fold of her rebozo struck him at once as signs of extreme emotion. As she slowly mounted the steps of the porch, she turned her eyes up to his face. Instantly he sprang to her side.

"You, Señorita! You!" he exclaimed. "No inglés," she said in a hoarse little voice.

He shook his head impatiently.

"Is it a time for that now?" he cried. "I know you, Señorita. I would know you at the end of the world. Speak to me!"

"No inglés," she repeated, and moved to pass him; but he caught her hand.

"Señorita," he pleaded, "I am going away in half an hour. Would you let me go without one word?"

At that she cast all pretense aside.

"Oh, the señor said he would know me, and he did!" she exclaimed, with wondering awe in her voice. "It is very wonderful. But now that he has seen my face, perhaps—perhaps—” she hesitated, looked down, and sighed deeply.

.

"It matches your eyes-the most wonderful eyes in the world," he declared. "Did I not say they would?"

"I came to the church alone, the first time in my life," she said hurriedly. "And like this!" She glanced down at her attire with a look half-shocked, half-mischievous. "Oh, my father is going to be angry if he hears! Perhaps he will send me to a convent. I shall know all soon. Already I am frightened."

"You will never know," he cried, "for now that I have seen you, I will never give you up. You are going with me, Señorita."

"But, Señor, I came to the church—' He swept aside all speech.

[ocr errors]

"There are other churches," he said; "we will go to them together. Listen, Señorita. You shall not marry that old man; you shall marry me. From the first we were meant for each other-the strange way we met-everything."

"I myself had thought that; and now I know it is as the señor wishes," she said, and shyly took his hand.

He had not expected so ready a yielding, and for an instant was at a loss as all the difficulties suddenly rose to confront him. Then he laughed, facing them down. "Then come, dear Señorita," he said, "for we have n't a minute to lose."

They hurried across the plaza, taking the road to the station. Here and there an early riser had begun to appear, and Caxton knew that they were noticeable. She, too, seemed suddenly aware of this, and nervously drew her rebozo more closely about her face as she said in a low voice:

"Señor, I am frightened."

"It will soon be over," he told her. "Once on the train, we shall surely be safe. I shall take you to dear friends of mine in Havana, and they will take you to the States, where we can marry at once; or even in Havana, perhaps, though of that I am not sure. The laws-"

"The señor will know best," she said. They entered the train almost unnoticed. Francisco, the waiter, was there with Caxton's luggage.

the tail of his eye Caxton saw her form shrink back in the apprehension he also felt. But no one came to disturb them, and presently, with a járring clank of the couplings, the frail little car began its leisurely journey out into their new world. Their eyes met.

"Señor," she whispered, "you will be good to me? Say that you will be good to me?"

"Always, dear," he promised.

"Then nothing else matters," she said"nothing."

"Dear Señorita," he said after a long silence, "do you know, I have never even learned your name-your given name."

"Nor I the señor's," she replied. "We have much to learn."

"But it was right," he said; "there was no other way."

She looked up and smiled.

"Last night," she said, "again I could not sleep for unhappiness. It is better to die than to marry where you hate; but, Señor, I am very young and afraid to die.

"Francisco," said Caxton, anxiously, "if What was there, then, to do? And at

any one-"

"Señor," the man interrupted, "I have seen nothing. The señor has been good to me. Perhaps I may be able to help. A Dios, Señor."

They entered the train, and seated themselves far from the door, on the side away from the station. They did not speak. With her rebozo hiding her face, she gazed steadily out of the window; he studied a map, holding it high to shield her from any curious eyes. So they waited in strained anxiety for the train to take its departure.

It was slow about it. The sun came up hot in a cloudless sky. A volante drove furiously up to the platform, and out of

last I knew.

Do you remember how I said I could not pray in the church because I knew that the Holy Mother would not come down and lead me away with her, and nothing less would help me?" "I remember," he answered.

"It was wrong not to pray, and wicked to doubt the Holy Mother. She has her own way. I thought that this morning, and so came again to the church, but alone. And all the way I prayed for a sign. And, Señor, you were waiting there, and when you said I should go with you, I was glad, having my answer. The Holy Mother might not come herself,-she has her own way, as I said,-but was it not as if she had sent St. Michael?"

[graphic]
[graphic]

HE

A Belgian postal card

[ocr errors]

"Chantons, Belges! Chantons!"

By ARTHUR GLEASON

Author of "Young Hilda at the Wars," "Les Travailleurs de la Guerre," etc.

ERE at home I am in a land where the wholesale martyrdom of Belgium is regarded as of doubtful authenticity. We who have witnessed widespread atrocities are subjected to a critical. process as cold as if we were advancing a new program of social reform. I begin to wonder if anything took place in Flanders. Is n't the wreck of Termonde, where I thought I spent three days, perhaps a figment of the fancy? Was the bayoneted girl child of Alost a pleasant dream creation? My people are critical and indifferent, generous and neutral, but yonder several races are living at a deeper level. In a time when beliefs are held lightly, with tricky words tearing at old values, they have recovered the ancient faiths of the race. Their lot, with all its pain, is choicer than ours. They at least have felt greatly and thrown themselves into action. It is a stern fight that is on in Europe, and few of our countrymen realize it is our

fight that the Allies are making on all those trench-threaded fields of the Old World.

Europe has made an old discovery. The Greek Anthology has it, and the ballads, but our busy little merchants and our clever talkers have never known it. The best discovery a man can make is that there is something inside him bigger than his fear, a belief in something more lasting than his individual life. When he discovers that, he knows he, too, is a man. It is as real for him as the experience of motherhood is for a woman. He comes out of it with self-respect and gladness.

The Belgians were a soft people, pleasure-loving little chaps, social and cheery, fond of comfort and the café brightness. They had no pride of race, because they lacked the intensity of blood of unmixed single strains. They were cosmopolitan, often with a command over three languages and snatches of several dialects. They were easy in their likes.

They

« AnkstesnisTęsti »