It was in the heat of the afternoon Mrs. Hatherly and Muriel drove into old-world Laguna, which stands high upon the hill slopes above Santa Cruz. It was built four hundred years ago, and remains but little changed, for its early prosperity ebbed away with the trade in the once famous vintages of Canary, so that it stood until a few years ago with the grass in its streets, a place of drowsy stillness, picturesque in its decay, cool, and by no means over clean. Beneath it the hillside drops, dusty and sun-scorched, to the sea; but on the plateau behind it are fields of tall sugar-cane, walnuts, eucalyptus, and vines, beyond which again the shoulders of the great peak are seamed by straggling pines. Still, when Mrs. Hatherly drove into it, Laguna was once more awakening, for the British tourist had arrived, with his wife and daughters, in blue veils and inartistic raiment that roused the peasants' wonder, besides cameras, and baggage by the carriage load; and when the tourist comes, quietness and the dignified simplicity of olden Spain melt before him.

The SeÑora Anasona, with whom Jacinta was then residing, however, belonged to the ancient order, and she had also placed herself and all her possessions at Mrs. Hatherly's disposal. The latter had already discovered that to be a friend of Jacinta's counted for a good deal in those islands. It secured one consideration in unexpected places, and opened doors at which the tweed-clad tourists' wives might knock in vain. The Castilian is somewhat behind the times, and, perhaps because he is seldom troubled with much of it, attaches rather less importance than some other people do to the possession of money. Muriel, however, was not certain why her aunt had undertaken that hot and dusty drive, although she had informed her that if there was a comfortable hotel in Laguna she might stay there a day or two, because she was not sure that Santa Cruz suited her, and she had been troubled with certain premonitory twinges in one shoulder.

In any case, she faced the scorching sun uncomplainingly, and arriving at last before an iron-bound door in a blank white wall, was led through an ill-kept garden, where flowers rioted, a chaos of blazing colour, at their will, into a big, cool house, which seemed filled with slumbrous quietness. She was received by a very reposeful lady of middle age in inconveniently tight-fitting black silk, with the powder thick upon her pallid face. The SeÑora Anasona was, as is usual with Spanish women who have passed their third decade, somnolent in expression, and portly; but though they could only muster a very little indifferent French between them, she promptly set her guests at ease.

"This poor house and all there is in it are yours," she said. "The friends of the SeÑorita Jacinta are also mine. Since you have known this for some time, why have you stayed away so long?"

It was the usual conventional formula in Spain, but there was a certain stately graciousness in her gesture which Mrs. Hatherly had never seen quite equalled before. The latter attempted an appropriate reply in French, and then inquired for Jacinta, whereupon her hostess smiled.

"She is in the patio, and, perhaps, asleep," she said. "If not, it is likely that she will come in. I do not know. One does what one pleases always in this house of mine, and here one usually sleeps by the afternoon. What would you? It is a custom of the country, and there is nothing else to do. One can dream of the times when it was different with us and Spain."

"One could fancy in this island that those days have not altogether passed away, or, at least, that they had left something behind," said Mrs. Hatherly. "One sees it in even your peons' courtesy, and the modesty of the women."

"You did not feel that in Las Palmas?"

"No," said Mrs. Hatherly. "I don't think I did."

The seÑora laughed. "Las Palmas is not Spanish now, my friend. They have coal wharves and harbour works, and heap up the pesetas there. There are, however, things we others would not exchange for silver. This house, for example. An Englishman would buy it and make it an hotel."

"Of course, you would not sell it him?"

The seÑora shook her head. "It is not mine," she said. "It belongs to the Anasonas who are dead. One of them built it four hundred years ago, and one of them has lived here always, until my husband, Colonel of Cazadores, died in Cuba. Now I live alone, and remember, until by and by my nephew comes here after me. The past is all we have in Spain, but one feels that, after all, it may be worth more than the present—when one goes to Las Palmas."

Then a maid brought in a basket of grapes and a little wine, and it was some time later when the seÑora turned to Muriel.

"It seems that Jacinta is not coming in," she said. "Perhaps she would sooner see you alone in the patio. I do not know. Jacinta does not care about the conventions. She does what pleases her, and it is also very often the right thing. One descends from the veranda outside that window."

Muriel smiled as she went out, for she was acquainted with Jacinta's habits, and was beginning to comprehend the customs of the land she lived in, where time is not considered, and it is always drowsy afternoon. Then, though she was not an imaginative person, she trod softly as she went down the steps to the patio, for the influence of the place laid hold on her. The little white town lay silent under the cloudless heavens, and had there been any movement of busy life there, which very seldom happened, the high white walls of the garden would have shut out the sound. The house was also built round the patio in a hollow square, and interposed a double barrier between the outer world and that space of flowers.

Over it hung bronze-railed balconies, and quaint verandas with old carved pillars and rich trellises smothered in purple bougainvilla, while there were oleanders and heavy scented heliotrope in the little square below. A fountain twinkled in the midst of it, and fat goldfish from Palma swam slowly round its marble basin; but all was old, artistic, ill cared for, and steeped in a silence which seemed filled with the reminiscences of bygone years. Even Jacinta, who lay in a big cane chair near the fountain, appeared in keeping with the atmosphere of the place, for she was dressed in gauzy Castilian black, which added a suggestion of old-fashioned stateliness to her somewhat slender figure, and an ebony fan of a kind not made nowadays lay across an open book she had apparently been reading. She looked up with a little smile when she saw Muriel, and languidly pointed to the canvas lounge beside her.

"It's comfortable, and I think it's strong," she said. "Any way, the seÑora regularly goes to sleep in it. I brought the lounges with me, because they don't have such things in Spain. I shall probably leave them here, and if they break down with the seÑora it is quite certain nobody will ever think of mending them. One folds one's hands and says that it doesn't matter at Laguna. You will begin to understand it if you stay here."

Muriel laughed. "It's often a little hard to tell what you mean," she said. "You have been reading?"

"Mr. Prescott's history of the Spanish occupation of Mexico—you will, no doubt, be astonished at that?"

"I am. Still, I have read it, too."

Jacinta smiled as she unfolded her fan. "I have my moments of relaxation, and can be sentimental now and then. Sentiment, you see, is in the atmosphere here. One feels mediÆval, as if all the old things of the olden days had come back again, miracles, and crowned virgins that fell from the clouds, valour and knightliness, and man's faith in woman. No doubt there were more, but I don't remember them. They have, of course, gone out of fashion long ago."

She spoke lightly, but there was a trace of bitterness in her voice that Muriel noticed.

"One doesn't find that atmosphere in the book. The men who went with Cortez were cruel as well as brutal."

"They certainly seem to have been so, which is one reason why they interest me. You see, the Spaniards seized these islands a little before they discovered Cuba, and I wanted to find out what the men who built these beautiful homes here were really like when they had work on hand. As one would have fancied, the grave, ceremonious Don who posed as a most punctilious gentleman at home became a very different kind of person when he went to Mexico. The original Adam showed up there. It's a useful lesson to any one silly enough to idealise the man she is going to marry."

Muriel flushed a little. "I think I know what you mean. Mr. Austin tried to convey the same impression when he told me what they were doing on board the Cumbria. Still, he went a good deal further than you do. He made me understand that, though there are things that could only be done rudely and almost brutally, it was often only what was ideal in the men who did them that sent them to the work at all."

"Yes," said Jacinta drily. "I fancy he would do it rather well. Mr. Austin is not much of an artist, and would never be a great one; but he has the capacity of understanding, or, perhaps, I should say imagining things. Still, the pity is that he usually stops there. He doesn't want to do them, and though he once very rashly tried, he was not long in discovering that the work was a good deal too hard for him. I really think you should be glad there is a trace of primitive—we'll be candid, and call it brutality—in Harry Jefferson."

Again the colour showed in Muriel's face. "It isn't," she said. "It's only natural forcefulness; but we needn't go into that. I wonder why you are so angry with Mr. Austin?"

"Angry?" and Jacinta raised her brows. "Oh, dear no! Still, there are points on which he did not quite come up to my expectations, and after the admonitions I have wasted on him I feel a little annoyed with him."

"Still, isn't that a trifle unreasonable? What could he have done that he hasn't done? He was ill and worn out, but he wouldn't even stay a day after he got the money."

"What money?" and there was a sharp insistency in Jacinta's tone."The money to buy the coal with. They found they hadn't enough, you know."

"I don't."

"Well," said Muriel, "it is really your own fault. You wouldn't let me tell you about it in the plaza. Mr. Austin had to borrow the money from his English relatives, though I think it hurt him horribly to ask them. When he found they would send it he had to catch the first African steamer."

Jacinta straightened herself suddenly, and gazed at Muriel with astonishment and dismay in her face.

"So he meant to go back all the time?" she said.

"Of course," said Muriel, and Jacinta, sitting back again, sat very still, though her companion noticed that one hand had closed tightly on her fan.

"When was he to go?" she asked, with a curious quietness.

"In a day or two. He is in Las Palmas now."

Then there was a curious silence for almost a minute, and Jacinta, who could not rouse herself to break it, was glad to see that Muriel had evidently not remembered that her only information about Austin's doings was that contained in her father's message. There was no sound but the soft splashing of the fountain, and Jacinta found the stillness becoming intolerable. It was a relief when Muriel, who felt that her company was not appreciated, rose.

"Perhaps the seÑora will expect me to go back," she said. "Are you coming?"

"I am not," said Jacinta. "I have no doubt your aunt will come out to see me presently."

Muriel looked a little puzzled. "You will not mind my going?"

"Of course not," and Jacinta laughed somewhat curiously. "I have, as you see, a work on Mexico to keep me company."

Muriel left her, and she lay still in the chair listening to the fountain and gazing straight in front of her, until Mrs. Hatherly came down the veranda stairs alone half an hour later. She sat down and looked at Jacinta steadily.

"I suppose you know why I have come to Laguna to-day?" she said.

"Yes," said Jacinta quietly. "Still, I hadn't the faintest notion a little while ago. I shall try to bear anything you may think fit to say to me. Mr. Austin, I understand, is a friend of yours."

The little lady smiled, for she saw that Jacinta was clever enough to make no excuses, and she appreciated her candour as well as her good sense.

"Well," she said, "I want you to tell me why you sent him to Africa."

"For one thing, because Muriel was once very kind to me. Mr. Jefferson was down with fever, and I fancied that, in any case, he could do a good deal more with a comrade there. Still, that was not all. There were other reasons."

"Naturally. It is gratifying to discover how far a man's devotion will carry him."

A little flash crept into Jacinta's eyes, but it faded again. "I suppose I deserve that, but you are wrong. It wasn't to soothe my vanity."

"No?" and there was a suggestion of incredulity in Mrs. Hatherly's smile. "Still, one may be excused for pointing out that it really looks very like it."

Jacinta made a little movement with her fan. "You can't think worse of me than I do of myself; but I scarcely fancy I did wrong in sending him. He was wasting his life here, and I thought I knew what there was in him. I wanted to rouse it—to waken him. You see, I am talking very frankly."

"In that case it must have cost you something to send him to Africa?"

The colour showed plainly in Jacinta's face. "I think that is another question. One, too, which you could scarcely expect me to answer you."

"I'm afraid it was not very delicate," and Mrs. Hatherly's eyes grew gentler. "Still, didn't you feel that you were presumptuous?"

"Of course; but I have always done what pleased me, and made others do it, too. It usually turned out well, you know. I have, however, come to grief this time, and it would almost be a relief if somebody would shake me."

Mrs. Hatherly smiled. "I fancy the feeling will do you good. Still, if you were right in sending Mr. Austin out, it is just a little incomprehensible."

"Then you don't know how I treated him?"

"No," said Mrs. Hatherly. "At least, not exactly. He only admitted that you did not seem very pleased to see him. Still, I am an old woman, and that naturally conveyed a good deal to me. Perhaps you do deserve shaking, but I want to be kind."

Jacinta turned to her with the colour in her cheeks and a haziness in her eyes.

"I taunted him with being a coward and finding the work too hard for him. The man was ill and jaded, but I had no mercy on him. He said nothing; he never told me he was going back. How was I to know? The night my father's message came I felt I could have struck him. If I had done so, he would probably not have felt it half so much as the bitterness I heaped upon him."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Hatherly. "It was, perhaps, natural under the circumstances, but there is a good deal that you are responsible for."

"What do you mean by under the circumstances?"

Mrs. Hatherly smiled. "I have not the slightest doubt that you quite understand, my dear. The question, however, is how you are going to set it right?"

Jacinta shivered a little. The colour had already ebbed from her face, which was a trifle more pallid than usual.

"It is a thing I may never be able to do," she said. "That is what makes it so hard. You see, a good many men go out to Africa, and so few come back again. If it hadn't been for that I don't think I should have admitted what I have done, but I feel I must have somebody's comprehension—if I can't expect sympathy."

"You have mine, my dear," and Mrs. Hatherly laid a beautiful thin hand gently upon her arm. "Besides, I think Mr. Austin will understand how it came about when he goes back to Africa."

Jacinta straightened herself slowly. "Well," she said, "that may happen, and in any case I know that I sent him, and he was glad to go."

She met the little lady's sympathetic gaze steadily. "Still, that is so very little, after all."

Mrs. Hatherly smiled reassuringly. "My dear," she said, "I think you do not quite understand all that man is yet. In spite of the climate he and his comrade are going to be successful."

Then she turned, and Jacinta rose, for the SeÑora Anasona and Muriel were coming down the stairway.