Kitabı oku: «The Coast of Adventure», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XXIII
THE INTERCEPTED NOTE

When she was able to think calmly, Evelyn found herself confronted by familiar troubles. She was not a prisoner and yet she could not run away, because she had no money and could not understand the barbarous Castilian spoken among the hills. Moreover, she could not appeal, even by signs, for help, for it was generally believed that she had eloped with Gomez. His friends would, no doubt, send her back to him. His enemies would treat her with rude contempt. Sooner than be forced to marry him, she would steal away and starve; but she had a conviction that things would not come to the worst. It would suit Gomez best to break down her resistance by moral pressure.

She was young, but not altogether inexperienced, and during the past week her mental powers had suddenly developed; besides, she was supported by a deep-rooted national pride. It was a privilege to be an American, or, as her countrymen sometimes expressed it, to be white. The sentiment might not be quite free from prejudice, but it was founded on truth and carried an obligation. One must respect one's birthright and never submit to be trampled on by a foreigner.

It was, however, obvious that she must seek outside help, and in her need she thought of Grahame. He would come if she sent for him, and she knew now that he would be welcome if he came as her lover. He was a white man; it was an unspeakable relief to dwell upon his fine, athletic symmetry and his strong, brown face with its stamp of semi-ascetic restraint, after the tainted grossness of her persecutor. She had thought of him often, and had indeed found it hard not to do so oftener, but the turning-point had come and, flinging aside ambition, she opened her heart to the love that had been waiting. This was not because she was in danger, although danger had hastened the crisis.

For a time she forgot Gomez, and listened vacantly to the patter of feet in the hot streets while she sat quietly in a corner of the shaded room, lost in alluring dreams. Then she roused herself, and going to her apartment wrote a short message, stating that she needed help. She could not find an envelope and dare not ask for one, so she folded the note and wrote across it the address Grahame had given her. Then she stole from the house.

No one interfered with her as she went up a street that led to the outskirts of the town, where she was less likely to be watched. The unsealed note could not be posted, because it would no doubt be given to Gomez, but she might find somebody who would arrange for its conveyance by hand. It would be better if the person were a revolutionary, but she imagined that the President's enemies would not make themselves conspicuous. Some risk must be taken, but, after all, very few people could read English.

After a time she met a peon and showed him the note. He seemed surprised to see the Spanish name on the back, and at first vigorously shook his head, but when Evelyn held out two or three coins he began to ponder, and presently made a sign of understanding and took the note. Evelyn felt reckless as he moved away, for she had given him all her money and had no resource left.

Returning by a different way, she entered the house. Gomez did not seem to be about, but the building was large and she seldom saw him except when he paid her a formal visit. The man was a ruffian, but it was her money he wanted, and he would act discreetly. His boast had thrown some light upon his treacherous schemes: he meant to make himself President, if he could compel her father to provide the necessary funds.

The peon carrying the note set out on foot for the next village, where he had a friend who sometimes went to the coast. The friend, however, was not at home, and Evelyn's messenger, being tired and in possession of more money than usual, entered a little wine-shop and ordered refreshment. The caña was strong and after drinking more than was good for him he forgot his caution when one of the villagers asked what had brought him there. To satisfy the fellow's curiosity, he produced the note, and the loungers in the wine-shop grew interested, for the man to whom it was addressed was known as an enemy of the Government.

One tried to take it from the peon, another interfered, and as both political parties were represented, a tumult broke out. It was stopped by the arrival of two rural guards, the note was seized, and one of the guards set off for Rio Frio at dawn the next morning.

Gomez started when he was given the note, for Evelyn had made an unexpected move; but he saw the importance of what it implied and lighted a cigarette while he thought the matter out. He had suspected the Enchantress for some time and knew that Grahame was her owner. Since the yanqui was in communication with a dangerous revolutionist, he must be engaged in smuggling arms, and if he had landed many, the rebels would be ready to fight. For all that, Gomez was puzzled. Grahame was a friend of the señorita Cliffe's – perhaps even her lover – and he was helping the rebels, while her father had spent a good deal of money to support the President. This suggested that Cliffe might be playing a crooked game, and bore out some suspicions Gomez had entertained. The President must be informed at once; but in the meantime Gomez saw how the note could be made use of.

After some thought, he summoned a confidential clerk who had learned English in the United States, and gave him the note.

"It seems that the señorita does not like Rio Frio and means to leave us," he remarked.

The clerk discreetly contented himself with a sign of agreement.

"Well," Gomez resumed, "I think we will let her message go."

"Would that be wise?" the other ventured. "We do not know when and which way the Englishman will come, and he may be joined by some of Sarmiento's followers."

Gomez smiled.

"The señorita Cliffe is artless and has made a mistake. Her note covers only half the paper and leaves room for something to be added underneath."

"Ah!" The clerk was a skillful penman and had once or twice successfully imitated the signatures of hostile politicians.

"You understand!" said Gomez. "The writing must not look different and you must use the same kind of pencil. Now give me some paper."

He smoked a cigarette before he began to write, for the space at the foot of Evelyn's note was limited. Grahame probably knew the girl's hand, but would be deceived by a clever imitation of it in the form of a postscript under her signature. The note was dated at Rio Frio and left it to be understood that Evelyn expected him there, but the postscript directed him to land on the beach near Valverde, where a guide would look out for him for several nights.

"There are two words we had better alter; the Americans do not often use them," said the clerk cautiously, and Gomez agreed to the change.

"You will have it sent off and make arrangements for the Englishman to be met," he added with a smile. "And now I must start for Villa Paz to tell the President."

Half an hour later he mounted in the patio, and Evelyn, hearing the clatter of hoofs, looked out through the half-opened lattice and watched him ride away. As he had an armed escort and a spare mule, she imagined he meant to make a long journey, and Grahame might arrive before he returned.

Soon after the party had gone, the señora Garcia came in and stood looking at the girl as if she had something to say. Her air of sullen dislike was less marked than usual, and Evelyn, remembering the sound she had heard during her interview with Gomez, suspected that she had listened at the door. Now the woman looked anxious and embarrassed, and while she hesitated Evelyn studied her. The señora must have possessed unusual beauty and was handsome yet, although she was getting stout and losing her freshness, as women of Spanish blood do at an early age in hot climates. Her skin had been spoiled by cosmetics and her face was clumsily touched with paint and powder. Evelyn felt a half contemptuous pity; there was something pathetic in her crude attempts to preserve her vanishing charm.

The señora made signs which Evelyn supposed to mean that Gomez had gone away, and then she took out some silver and paper currency. Putting it into the girl's hand, she pointed to the door.

Evelyn started, for the hint was plain; the señora was anxious to get rid of her rival. Evelyn grasped at the chance to go. The money could be repaid; it might be some time before Grahame arrived, and the woman could be trusted to convey a note to him, because she could not give it to Gomez without betraying her complicity in the girl's escape.

For a time they struggled to grasp each other's meaning, but at last the señora Garcia showed she understood that she was to deliver a note to an Englishman who would come in search of the girl. Evelyn was to find a peon who lived outside the town and would put her on the way to Villa Paz. It would, no doubt, prove a difficult journey, but she was determined to make it.

She was soon ready, and walked carelessly across the plaza as if she had no object. The townspeople knew her, and she met with no troublesome curiosity. After a time, she entered a shady street, where she stopped once or twice to look into a shop. Leaving it at the other end, she came out into a hot, stony waste, dotted with tall aloes and clumps of cactus, and presently reached a dilapidated adobe hut.

As she stood, hesitating, before it a man came out to meet her and she felt her heart beat fast, for she was now confronted by her first danger. The fellow might rob her or perhaps take her back. His white clothes were threadbare, but they were clean, and on the whole she liked his look; and the sight of a woman peeping through the door was somehow reassuring.

It was not easy to make him understand what she wanted, but he looked thoughtful when she repeated a word the señora Garcia had taught her. Then he went in, apparently to consult the woman, and, returning, signified that he would do what she wished. She must, however, go on alone to a village some distance off; on the way he would overtake her with a mule. Evelyn thought it curious that he had not asked for money, but as he seemed anxious that she should not delay she set off. So far, her escape had proved easier than she had imagined.

The sun was at its highest, and it was very hot; the road was a rough track where loose stones lay among the heavy dust. Where water ran down the hillside in artificial channels, there were palms and belts of foliage; elsewhere outcropping rock and stones flung up a dazzling brightness. In the background, rugged peaks rose against a sky of intense blue, and far off on the opposite hand a misty gleam indicated the sea.

Evelyn soon began to get tired, and she found her thin shoes badly suited to the roughness of the ground. The dust that rose about her gathered on her skin; she got hot and thirsty; but the water she tried to drink was slimy and she toiled on. It seemed wiser to press forward while she could, for there was nobody at work in the scattered fields. Her eyes ached with the glare and her feet were sore, but the peon did not come, and when she looked back the road wound along the hillside, white and empty. Here and there tall trees filled the hollows among the rocks, but the country seemed deserted and she could not see a house anywhere.

At last, when the sun was low and the shadows were long and cool, she saw a cluster of small white patches shining amid a belt of green ahead, and supposed this was the aldea the peon had meant. Limping on wearily, she came within half a mile of it, and then, finding a place where she was hidden by a clump of cactus, she sat down to watch the road. She might run some risk of being robbed or stopped if she entered the village alone, for it was obvious that a well-dressed foreigner traveling on foot could not hope to escape notice, and the hill peasants would probably not understand her few words of Castilian.

The shadows lengthened until they covered the hillside, and the air got cool, but her guide did not come, and Evelyn began to wonder what had delayed him. He had seemed willing to assist in her escape, and she suspected that he must sympathize with the revolutionaries; but, if so, it was strange that the señora Garcia should have known the password which had apparently decided him. She had, however, been told that these people were fond of intrigue, and that a general plot was often accompanied by minor conspiracies, so to speak, one inside the other. The señora Garcia had perhaps some object of her own to serve; but this did not matter – it was more important that the peon did not arrive.

It began to get dark. The dew soaked Evelyn's thin dress, and she felt hungry and achingly tired. Then a light or two twinkled among the trees and some one began to sing to a guitar. The lights and the music, with their suggestions of home and rest after the day's toil, troubled the girl. She was alone and apparently deserted, with enemies behind her and the way ahead unknown. For a few minutes her courage failed and she was in danger of breaking down; then, with a determined effort, she recovered her calm and roused herself to listen.

The music had grown plainer, and she recognized an air she had heard when she sat with Grahame in the patio of the International. The contrast was too great, and brought her poignant memories. She was no longer a person of consequence, indulged in every wish, but a homeless fugitive. Then she thought of Grahame, who had translated the song they were singing, for the plaintive refrain of Las Aves Marinas carried clearly through the cooling air. Had the wild sea-hawk got her message, and was he already coming to her rescue? But even this was not of first consequence. What about the peon? Had he betrayed her?

Everything was silent upon the hillside, but a faint breeze was getting up and sighed among the stones. There was a splash of water in the distance, but no sound came from the road. It ran back, a dim white streak, into the deepening gloom, and then faded out of sight upon the shoulder of a hill. There was no movement on it as far as the girl could see.

She waited what seemed an interminable time, and then a faint drumming caught her attention, and grew into a welcome beat of hoofs. Some one was coming along the road. She watched eagerly, straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of the rider. At last an object emerged from the shadow, and as it drew nearer she could see that it was a man riding a mule.

With her nerves at high tension and her heart beating fast, Evelyn left her hiding place in the cacti and stepped out into the middle of the road. The man must see her now, and she had involved herself in fresh difficulties if he were not the peon she expected.

He came on fast; he had caught sight of her and was urging his mule. When he pulled up beside her and dropped from the animal, muttering exclamations in an unknown tongue, Evelyn staggered. It was an Indian from the hills.

CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE CAMP OF THE HILLSMEN

Evelyn instinctively drew back a few paces. Through her brain was beating insistently the admonition that had helped her much in the past few days:

"Keep calm! Don't let him think you are afraid!"

Her first thought had been flight, to the village; but reason told her that was impossible. Here alone on the silent hillside, in the early night, a white woman with this strange Indian, there came over her again a pride in her American blood. She felt that she was a match for him, in wits if not in strength. And with the thought came courage.

She pointed to the mule, then to herself, then to the village; and explained in Spanish.

The Indian shook his head, and stood stolidly beside his mount. After his first exclamations he had remained silent, watching Evelyn intently; but she felt reassured when he made no move to approach her. As a matter of fact, his mind at that moment was a chaos of conjectures and possibilities; and while he hesitated Evelyn gasped with relief. Down the road, carrying distinctly over the night air, came the sound of furious riding – faint at first and then growing nearer, quickly nearer. Even if it were not the peon, at least two strangers would be safer than one.

With a guttural grunt that might have meant anything, the Indian jumped upon his mule and started off toward the village, urging the animal along; and Evelyn stepped farther back into the shadow of the cacti. She felt that she had reached the breaking-point. Yet she must nerve herself this once more, for without her guide she could not go on.

The hoof-beats drew near; in a minute they would pass and the rider be swallowed up in the gloom beyond. Evelyn opened her mouth and tried to call to him; but her voice failed her. Her worn-out body and her overtaxed nerves were holding her powerless to move or cry. She could only stand, helpless, and watch him sweep past.

But the peon's keen eyes had caught sight of the white dress fluttering against the dark outline of the cacti, and even as he passed he reined in his mule. A few moments later he was beside her, holding his battered hat in his hand.

"Your servant, señorita," he said courteously.

Evelyn never could remember distinctly what happened after that. She had only a hazy recollection of climbing upon the mule and trying to cling there, while the man trotted beside her carrying a long, iron-pointed staff. Somewhere near the village they had turned off the main road and followed a rough path that led up into the hills. And there they had stopped at a small hacienda, where Evelyn was hospitably received.

When she woke the next morning, in a clean little adobe room, and found a neat-looking Spanish woman smiling upon her, Evelyn smiled in return. Every muscle in her body ached, and the soles of her feet were blistered, but, for the first time in many days, she felt a sense of perfect security. Still smiling, she murmured the password of the revolutionaries. It meant much to her now.

"Confianza!"

They had a hasty breakfast and started again, but rested for some time in a belt of forest during the heat of the day. In the early evening they approached a white aldea perched high upon the edge of a ravine. Evelyn's guide made her understand that they might not be allowed to pass. He implied that she was in no danger, but it was with some anxiety that she rode toward the village.

They skirted the side of the ravine, which was fretted with tumbling cataracts. Steep rocks ran up from the edge of the trail and were lost in climbing forest a hundred feet above, but after a time the chasm began to widen, and small, square houses straggled about its slopes. A barricade of logs, however, closed the road, and as Evelyn approached two men stepped out from behind it. They were ragged and unkempt, but they carried good modern rifles.

"Halt!" ordered one of them.

"Confianza!" the guide answered, smiling, and they let him pass.

Beyond the barricade, the guide stopped in front of an adobe building that seemed to be an inn, for a number of saddled mules were tied around it. Men were entering and leaving and a hum of voices came from the shadowy interior, but the peon motioned to Evelyn that she must get down and wait. Finding a stone bench where she was left undisturbed, she sat there for half an hour while it grew dark, and then a man came up and beckoned her to enter. She went with some misgivings, and was shown into a room with rough mud walls, where a man sat under a smoky lamp at a table upon which a map and a number of papers were spread. He wore plain, white clothes, with a wide red sash; and two others, dressed in the same way, stood near, as if awaiting his orders. Evelyn knew the man, for she had seen him at the International.

"Confianza!" she said. "I believe you are Don Martin Sarmiento."

He gave her a quick glance, and answered in good English:

"It is a surprise to receive a visit from Miss Cliffe. But I must ask who gave you the password?"

"Señora Garcia at Rio Frio."

"That sounds strange. But sit down. There is something we must talk about."

He waited until one of the men brought her a chair.

"I understand you were going to Villa Paz," he then said.

"Yes; I am anxious to join my father."

"I am not sure that will be possible; but we will speak of it again. First of all, I must know why you left Valverde." Sarmiento indicated the others. "These are officers of mine, but they do not speak English, and it is not necessary that you should know their names. You have nothing to fear from us, but I must urge you to be frank."

Evelyn tried to think calmly. She was in the man's power, and he wore the stamp of command, but she liked his look and did not feel afraid of him. It might be wiser to be candid; but she had an embarrassing story to tell and she began with some hesitation. Sarmiento helped her, now with a nod of comprehension as she slurred over an awkward passage, and now with a look of sympathy, while the others stood silent with expressionless faces.

"Gomez is, of course, a scoundrel, and you were wise to run away," he commented when she stopped. "There are, however, matters I do not quite understand. For example, it would not be to the President's interest that he should quarrel with your father; nor do I think Altiera would approve of an alliance between his secretary and you."

Evelyn blushed and tried to meet the man's searching look.

"I cannot explain these things. I have told you what happened, and I came to you with – confidence."

Sarmiento bowed.

"We respect our password. You are safe with us; but you cannot continue your journey. The roads will be closed before you get through, and there will be fighting in the next few days. When it seems less dangerous, we must try to send you on, but in the meantime I must put you into my daughter's hands."

He gave one of the officers some instructions, and the man beckoned Evelyn, but she hesitated.

"I must pay my guide and send him back."

"We will give him the money, but he will not go back. We shall, no doubt, find a use for him." Sarmiento smiled meaningly as he added: "It looks as if he could be trusted."

Evelyn followed the officer to the back of the house where creepers trailed about a rude pergola. A sheet of cotton had been stretched among the poles, making a tent in which a light burned. Her companion, saying a few words in Castilian, motioned to Evelyn to go in. She did so, and then stopped abruptly.

The lamp was small and the light was dim; loops of vines falling about it cast puzzling shadows, but Evelyn knew the girl who rose to meet her. She had seen her talking confidentially to Grahame at the International, and was seized by jealous suspicion. A stout, elderly lady in a black dress, who was apparently the girl's duenna, sat farther back in the shadow. Blanca gave Evelyn a friendly smile of recognition, but it cost her an effort to respond. The Spanish girl seemed to understand that something was wrong, and there was an awkward silence while they stood with their eyes fixed on each other. Then Blanca said with a touch of haughtiness:

"I have been told to make you as comfortable as possible, but I am sorry there is not much comfort here. One cannot expect it in a camp."

She presented Evelyn to her duenna, and the señora Morales indicated a folding chair.

"You come at a bad time," she remarked in awkward French, languidly opening a fan. "It seems we are to have more fighting; it is the way of men."

"They must fight," said Blanca. "The cause is good."

The señora Morales waved her fan. She wore a black silk mantilla fastened tightly round her head like a cowl, and her dark, fleshy face was thickly smeared with powder. Her eyes were lazily contemptuous.

"There are two causes, niña, and it is hard to see how both can be right. But, since men quarrel about them, it is not impossible that both may be wrong."

Evelyn smiled. The duenna's remarks saved the situation from becoming strained; the woman was obviously shrewd in spite of her heavy face.

"They are always quarreling in this country," the señora continued. "Those who will not pay their taxes call themselves Liberators; those who expect favors from the President are Patriots. If he does not give them enough, they conspire with the others to turn him out. Since everybody cannot be satisfied, there is always trouble."

"But our friends are not fighting for rewards!" Blanca objected indignantly.

"A few are disinterested," the señora conceded. She paused, and turned to Evelyn with an authoritative air. "You must tell me why you ran away from Rio Frio. I can guess something, but want to know the rest."

After a moment's hesitation, Evelyn thought it prudent to comply, and the señora seemed to listen with sympathy.

"To run away was the simplest plan, but sometimes the simplest plan is not the best," she said. "Did you think of nothing else?"

"I sent a message to Mr. Grahame of the Enchantress, telling him I was in difficulties," Evelyn replied, watching Blanca.

The girl looked up with quick interest, but there was no hint of jealousy in her expression.

"You thought he would come to help you?"

"I knew he would come if it was possible," Evelyn answered.

Blanca looked her in the face with a smile of understanding, and Evelyn saw that her suspicions had been unfounded. Grahame was nothing to the girl.

"My father must know this at once!" she said, and hurried away.

Don Martin came back with her and questioned Evelyn, and then he stood thoughtfully silent for some moments.

"It is fortunate I heard this news," he said. "Your message may be intercepted, and we must try to warn Grahame that you are in our hands." He gave Evelyn a steady look. "I believe he will be satisfied with that."

"You can tell him that I feel safe," Evelyn answered.

Don Martin left her with a bow, and shortly afterward they heard somebody riding hard along the edge of the ravine. When the beat of hoofs died away Blanca touched Evelyn's arm.

"There will be some supper after a while, but let us walk a little way up the path."

They went out into the dark, passing slowly between shadowy rows of bushes which Evelyn thought were young coffee plants. She waited, believing that her companion meant to take her into her confidence.

"You were rash in sending for Mr. Grahame," Blanca began. "We must hope our messenger arrives in time to stop him, but for all that – "

"Do you wish him to come?" Evelyn asked.

Blanca smiled.

"In a sense, it does not matter to me whether he comes or not, though I would not wish him to run into danger. But he would not come alone."

Evelyn started. It was not Grahame, but Walthew, in whom Blanca was interested. Somehow she had not thought of that.

"Of course, you met Mr. Walthew in Havana," she said.

"And at Rio Frio!" There was a hint of triumphant coquetry and something deeper in Blanca's voice. "Indeed, Mr. Grahame should be grateful to me, because it was I who kept him his companion. Mr. Walthew had been dangerously ill, and was thinking of going home – though of course he did not tell me this – "

"But if he did not tell you!"

"How did I know?" Blanca laughed. "Cariña mia, how do we know such things? Is a man's face a mask? Have we no guide except what he says?"

Evelyn thought of Carmen, for Blanca had something of the great coquette's allurement and power. It was not an unconscious attraction she exercised, but the skill with which it was directed was primitive and instinctive rather than intelligent.

"And you persuaded Mr. Walthew to stay!" she said. "Did you find it hard?"

"Hard? Oh, no! It is not hard to persuade a young man, unless one is a fool. A word or two is enough, and I told him he might become a great libertador like Bolívar and Garibaldi."

Evelyn laughed. She liked Walthew, but he was a very modern American, and the thought of his emulating Garibaldi tickled her. Then, although it was dark, she was aware of a change in her companion's mood. Blanca's pose was different, it had somehow hardened, and her head was lifted high.

"You find this amusing?" she asked in a haughty tone.

"I suppose I do, in a way," Evelyn admitted deprecatingly. "You see, I know my countrymen, and we're not romantic, as a rule."

"Then it is clear you do not know Mr. Walthew. He is young, but he has the spirit of these others, the great libertadores."

"I've no doubt that's true," Evelyn agreed, putting her hand on Blanca's arm. "Indeed, I like and admire him very much."

They turned back to the house presently, on friendly terms, for the Spaniard's anger flares up quickly but soon burns down. Evelyn, however, saw that matters had gone farther than she thought, and she imagined that Walthew would have some trouble with his relatives when he went home.

"But how did you and your father come to meet Mr. Walthew, and what is the Enchantress doing on the coast?" she asked.

"You do not know?" There was a hint of gratified superiority in the girl's tone. "She is bringing us the rifles that we need."

Evelyn asked no more questions, because her talk with Blanca had given her much to think about, and when supper was over she sat outside the tent alone. The moon was rising above the tall sierra that ran in a rugged line across the sky. The air was warm and still, and she could hear water splashing down in the bottom of the ravine. Now and then there was a clatter of hoofs as a messenger rode up, and sometimes an order was followed by a patter of feet. Then for a time everything was silent except for a murmur of voices in the inn.

The girl noticed this vacantly, for her mind was busy, and she was filled with a strange excitement. For the last week or two she had borne a heavy strain, and her thoughts had been concentrated on finding a means of escape. Now they were free to dwell upon a greater matter. The struggle that began when she boarded the Enchantress was ended, and she could rejoice in her own defeat, as she had not been quite able to do when, on first surrendering, she had written her note at Rio Frio. Prudence, ambition, and self-interest were driven from the field; love had utterly routed them. She loved Grahame, and she knew that he loved her, though he had not avowed it yet. Blanca had spoken truly: words were not needed: it was easy to read a man's heart.