"When the flood has subsided," Agueda had said to herself, "all will be as before. But stay! Would anything ever be as before? Well, what matter? Who would go back? Shall we not trust those whom we love? Life is the better for it. This was life. Life was all happiness, all joy. The future? There was to be no future but this. This life of hers and his should be the same until death claimed the one or the other. God grant that they might go together, rather than that one should be left behind. Let them go in a greater flood, perhaps, than the one which they had outspent upon the thatched roof in the shelter of the old chimenea."

Agueda knew not the meaning of those words of calculation—"the world." She had never known the world, she had never seen the world. She found herself living as many did about her. Only that they had heart-burnings, jealousies, disappointments, and sorrows. She was secure, and she pitied them that their lots had not been cast within so safe a fold as hers. Her nature, if ignorant, was undefiled and undepraved; and noble, in that she found no sacrifice too great for this splendid young god who claimed her. What else was her mission in life but to make his life as near Heaven as earthly existence could become? She stretched out her young arms to the sky with a glow of happiness that asked nothing further of God. There were the mountains, the fields, the forests, the plantations, the river, and the rambling, thatched casa. These made for her the world.

Sometimes she thought of and pitied Aneta at El Cuco. Poor Aneta, who had thought that a life-long happiness was hers, when suddenly one day Don Mateo had returned from the city with a bride.

"Poor Aneta!" Agueda used often to say, with a pitying smile through which her own contentment broke in ripples of joy. How could she trust a man like Don Mateo? As Agueda sat and thought, she mended with anxious but unskilled fingers the pile of linen which old Juana had brought in from the ironing room. Juana had clumped along the back veranda and set the basket down with a heavy thump. There were table linen and bed linen, there were the SeÑor's striped shirts of fine material from the North, and his dainty underwear, and Agueda's neat waists and collars keeping company with them in truly domestic manner. Agueda had never done menial work; Uncle Adan's position as manager of the plantation had secured something better for his niece.

If Uncle Adan knew the truth, he made no sign. The lax state of morals in the country had always been the same. In reality he saw no harm in it. Besides which, had he wished to, what change could he make—he, a simple manager and farming man, against the owner of the hacienda, a rich and powerful SeÑor from Adan's point of view.

Suddenly Agueda remembered that she had not seen Aneta for a long time. She would go now, this very minute, and pay the visit so long overdue. She arose at once. With characteristic carelessness she dropped the sheet upon which she had been engaged on the floor, took from its peg the old straw hat, and clapped it over her boyish curls. The hat was yellow, it had a peaked crown, and twisted round the crown was a handkerchief of pale blue. Agueda made no toilet; she hardly looked at her smiling image in the glass. From the corner of the room she took a time-worn umbrella, which had once been white, and started towards the door. A backward glance showed her the confusion of the room. For herself she did not care, but the SeÑor might come in perhaps before her return. He had gone to the mail-station across the bay; the post-office and the bank were both there. He was bringing home some bags of pesos with which to pay his men. Possibly he would bring a letter or two from the fruit agents, or the merchant to whom he sold the little coffee that he raised; but the pesos were more of a certainty than the letters. If he returned home before her, the sitting-room would have a disorderly appearance, and he disliked disorder. His mother, the DoÑa Maria, had been a very neat old lady.

There are some persons to whom order and neatness are inborn. With a touch of a deft finger here or there, an apartment becomes at once a place where the most critical may enter. To others it is a labor to make a room appear well cared for. It may be immaculate in all that pertains to dust or the thorough cleanliness of linen or woodwork, but the power to so impress the beholder is lacking. Agueda was one of these. She sighed as she gazed at the unkempt appearance of the room. There was not much the matter, and yet she did not know how to remedy it. She re-entered the room and picked up the sheet from the floor, together with a pillow-slip whose starched glossiness had caused it to slide down to keep the sheet company. Folding these, not any too precisely, she laid them upon the chair where she had lately sat. Then she glanced around the room again. Its careless air still offended her, but time was flying, and she had a long walk before her. Suddenly she put her hand to her ear and took from behind it the rose that had been there since early morning. It was the first that she had struggled to raise, and it had repaid her efforts, in that hot section of the country, by dwining and dwindling like a puny child. Still, it was a rose. She laid it on the badly folded sheet; it gave an air of habitation to the room. She smiled down at this, her messenger. She gave the linen a final pat and went out, closing the door softly. It was as if a young mother had left her sleeping child to be awakened by its father, should he be the first to return.

"It is something of me," thought Agueda. "It will be the first to greet him."

Agueda stepped out on the broad veranda. The loose old boards creaked even under her slight weight.

"Juana!" she called, "I'm going to see Aneta at El Cuco." She made no other explanation. He would ask as soon as he returned, and they would tell him.

"Youah neva fin youah roaad in dis yer fawg," squeaked Juana.

"The fog may lift," laughed Agueda.

The river, forgetful of its past turbulence, smiled and glanced and beckoned as it slipped tranquilly onward, but Agueda did not answer the summons. She turned abruptly to the right and crossed the well-known potrero path. This led her for a quarter of a mile through the mellow pasture-land, where horses were browsing. The grey was not there—sure sign of his master's absence, but the little chestnut was in evidence, and farther along, beyond the wire fence, were the great bulls, which had not been driven afield with the suckers. There stood CÆsar, the big brown bull with the great, irregular white spots. Agueda went close to the fence, and picked a handful of sweet herbs, such as CÆsar loved.

"CÆsar," she called, "CÆsar, it is I that have the sweet things for you."

CÆsar threw up his head quickly, tossing long strings of saliva into the air. He stood for a moment with hesitant look, then perceiving that it was Agueda, trotted, tail held stiff, to where she waited, her hand held out to him. He extended his thick neck, holding his wet, pink nostrils just over the barrier, wound his dripping tongue round the dainty, and then withdrew his head that he might eat with ease.

"Too bad, poor CÆsar, that the horses get all the sweets, and you none." With awkward arm held high, that she might not catch her sleeve upon the topmost wire, she patted the animal's nose; then thrust one more bunch of grass into the ready cavity, and turning, ran along toward the rise.

When Agueda had closed the rickety potrero gate, she started up the elevation which confronted her. Here the young bananas were just showing above the ground. She had deplored the fact that this pretty hill-forest had been sacrificed to banana culture, and had hated to see the great giants which she had known from childhood cut and slashed. At the fall of each one of them she had felt as if she had lost a friend. "I shall never sit under the gri-gri again," she had thought, "and eat my guavas as I look down on the river"; or, "I shall never again play house beneath the old mahogany that stood up there at the edge of the meadow." The face of nature was changed for her in this particular. It was the only thing that she had to make her unhappy. Who among us would think the world a sadder place because of the felling of a tree! The stumps stood even with Agueda's shoulder, for Natalio, that African giant, was the axe-man of the hacienda. His ringing strokes struck hip high. It was less work to cut through the trunk some distance above its spreading roots. There was no clearing up nor carrying away of branches or limbs. With all their massive foliage, the branches were hacked from the parent stem, and left to dry in the tropic sun. They were then placed in great piles about the mother tree, lighted, and left to burn. Sometimes these fallen denizens of the wood, whose life had seen generations of puny men fade and wither, and other generations spring up and die while they stood splendid and vigourous, refused to be annihilated. The fallen trunk remained for years, proof of the vandalism of man. More often, a long line of ashes marked the spot where the giant had blazed, then smouldered sullenly, to become wind-blown, intangible. This great woodland crematory having been made ready by death for the life that was to spring up through its vanquishment, the peons came with their machetes and dug the graves in which the bulbs, teeming with quiescent life, were to be planted, each sucker twelve feet from any one of its neighbors, there to be warmed and nurtured in the bosom of Mother Earth. Because exposed upon a windy hillside, the bulbs had been placed in their graves head and sprouting end downward, and at the depth of ten inches. This was a provision against hurricanes, which, with all their power, find it difficult to uproot so securely planted a stalk.

And now the field which she had helped to "avita"—for one gives in when the tide of circumstances flows too strong—the waste whose seed-graves she had seen dug, whose bulbs she had seen buried from sight, had suddenly become a field of life once more. Pale green spears were springing up in every direction—a light, wonderful green with a tinge of yellow. The spatulated leaves were handsomest, Agueda thought, when spotted or marked with brown, or a rich chocolate shade. In their tender infancy they were the loveliest things on earth, she thought, as she ran about the damp, hot hillside, comparing one with another; and as she again returned to the path, she nearly stumbled against the ebony giant, who, standing just at the edge of the field, was watching her.

"It is wonderful, Natalio," she said, "how quickly they have sprouted." She smiled upward.

"Si, SeÑorit'," said Natalio, smiling down. "It is the early rains that bring the life. Perhaps the good God may be thanked a little, too, but it is the good soil, and the rains most of all."

He stooped his great height, and took some of the earth in his fingers. "It is the caliche so the SeÑor says." He rubbed the disintegrated gravelly mass between his fingers. Some of it powdered away. The fine bits of stone that it contained dropped in a faint patter upon his feet.

"I never heard the SeÑor say that," said Agueda, with the air of one who would know what were the SeÑor's favourite convictions, "but of course he knows, the SeÑor."

"Bieng," said Natalio. "It is certain that the SeÑor knows."

Agueda moved on up the hill. She felt, crunching beneath her feet, the shells of the circular grub which had lost life and home in this terrific holocaust.

"It seems hard," mused Agueda, "that some things must die that other things may be created." She smiled as she said this. She need not die that other things might live. It had no personal application for her. At least it would not have for sixty or eighty years, and that was a whole lifetime. She might not be glad to die even then! Agueda had reached the summit of the hill. She turned to look back at Natalio. He was standing gazing after her. When he saw her turn he expanded his handsome lips into a smile, showing his white teeth. Then he uncovered his head, and swept the ground with his ragged Panama hat. He called; Agueda could not hear at first what he said.

"Que es eso?" she called back in answer.

Natalio approached a few feet with his great strides.

"I asked if the SeÑorit' would not ride the bull?"

"Pablo is away," said Agueda. "I cannot go alone. The SeÑor will not have me to ride the bull alone."

"El Caballo CastaÑo, SeÑorit'," said Natalio, suggestively, approaching nearer.

"Would you saddle him, Natalio?" asked Agueda, thinking this an excellent change of programme.

"It would give me pleasure, SeÑorit'," said Natalio.

Agueda turned and began to walk rapidly down the hill.

"The small man's saddle, Natalio," she called. "I will be ready in a moment." Agueda ran down the hill, keeping ahead of the giant, and sped across the potrero. She flew to her room. There lay the rose as she had left it upon the chair, but she had no time for sentiment. The horse would be at the door in a moment, and indeed, before she had changed her skirt for the cotton riding garment that she usually wore, and which our ladies have imported of late under the name of a divided skirt, Natalio was at the steps. Agueda buckled on her spur, and was out on the veranda in the twinkling of an eye. Uncle Adan was coming up from the river. He saw her stand upon the second step and throw her leg boy-fashion over the saddle, seize the whip from Natalio, and canter away again toward the hill. To his shout of "Where are you going?" she flung back the words, "To Aneta's," and was off.

Her easy seat astride the animal gave her a sense of freedom and independence. The top of the hill reached, she struck off toward Troja, on the other side of which lived Aneta, at El Cuco. Agueda galloped along the damp roads, and then clattered through the streets of the quiet little West Indian town. Arrived upon its further outskirts, she allowed the chestnut to walk, for he was warm and tired. She was passing at the back of Escobeda's casa, through a narrow lane shaded with coffee trees. The wall of the casa descended abruptly to this lane, the garden being in front, facing the broad camino. Agueda heard her name softly called. She halted and looked towards the casa. A shutter just at the side of the balcony moved almost imperceptibly, then was pushed open a trifle, and she saw a face, the face of Raquel, the niece of Escobeda. Raquel had her finger upon her lips. Agueda guided her horse near, in as cautious a manner as could be. When she was well under the opening, Raquel spoke again.

"It is Agueda, is it not? Agueda from San Isidro?"

Raquel whispered her words. Agueda, seeing that there was need for secrecy, also let her voice fall lower than was usual.

"Yes," she smiled, "I am certainly Agueda from San Isidro."

"Ah! you happy girl," said Raquel, in a cautious tone, "to be riding about alone." Agueda's head was almost on a level with Raquel's.

"I am a prisoner, Agueda," said Raquel. "My uncle has shut me up here. He means to take me away in a short time. It's a dreadful thing which is to happen. Can you carry a note for me, Agueda?"

"I will carry a note for you," said Agueda. "Is it ready, SeÑorita?"

"I will write it in a moment. Agueda, good girl, you know the plantation of the Silencios, do you not? Palmacristi?"

"I can find it," said Agueda. "It is down by the sea. It is not much out of my way."

"If it were miles and miles out of your way, Agueda, dear, you must take my letter."

"Give it to me, then," said Agueda.

There was a noise inside the room, at the door of the chamber.

"Ride on to the clump of coffee bushes where the roads meet," whispered Raquel. "The fog will help hide you, too. I will drop the note."

As she tried to guide the chestnut softly over the turf, Agueda heard a loud call from within. It was a man's coarse voice. She heard Raquel answer drowsily, "In a moment, uncle; I was just asleep. Wait until I—"

Agueda halted for some minutes behind the concealment of the coffee bushes. She grudged this delay, for she had still some distance to travel, and must make a detour because of Raquel's request. "But," she argued, "had I walked, I should have been much longer on the way." She watched the window at the back of Escobeda's house, then, presently, from the front, saw a man mount and ride away in the opposite direction. Then, as she still awaited the fluttering of the note, the shutter was flung wide, and an arm encased in a yellow sleeve beckoned desperately. Agueda struck her spur into the chestnut, and was soon under the window again.

"He has gone," said Raquel, "and I am locked in the house alone. All the servants have gone to the fair."

"You can climb down," said Agueda. "It is not high."

"Where should I go then, Agueda?" asked Raquel. "No, he would only bring me back. Now I will write my note, and I will ask you to take it to Don Gil." As Raquel said this name her voice trembled. She coloured all over her face.

"You are lovely that way," said Agueda. "What does he do to you, SeÑorita?—the SeÑor Escobeda. Does he starve you? Does he ill treat—I could tell the SeÑor Don Beltran—"

"You do not blush when you speak of him," said Raquel, who had heard some rumours.

"I have no cause to blush," said Agueda, with dignity. "But come, SeÑorita, the note!"

Raquel withdrew into the room. She scribbled a few words on a piece of blue paper, folded it, and encased it in a long thin envelope. This she sealed with a little pink wafer, on which were two turtle doves with their bills quite close together. She leaned out and handed the missive down to Agueda.

"Thank you, dear," she said. "I should like to kiss you."

"I should like much to have you," said Agueda. "Perhaps I can stand up." Agueda spurred her horse closer under the window. She raised herself as high as she could. The chestnut started.

"He will throw you," said Raquel. "I will lean out."

Raquel stretched her young form as far out of the window as possible. She could just reach Agueda's forehead. She kissed her gently.

"I thank you, SeÑorita," said Agueda. She felt the kiss upon her forehead all the way to the plantation; it seemed like a benediction. She did not reason out the cause of her feeling, but it was true that no one of Raquel's class had ever kissed her before.

Agueda rode along her way with quick gait. The plantation of Palmacristi was some miles farther on, and she wished still to see Aneta. On her way toward Palmacristi, and as she mounted the slope leading to the casa, she met no one. Arrived at that splendid estate by the sea, she spurred her horse over the hill and round to the counting-house. This was the place, she had heard, where the SeÑor was usually to be found. She had seen the SeÑor at a distance. She thought that she would know him.

At that same hour the SeÑor Don Gil Silencio-y-Estrada sat within his counting-house. The counting-house was constructed of the boards of the palm, the inner side plain, the outer side curved, as the tree had curved. The bark had not been removed. The roof of the building was also made of palm boards; it was thickly thatched with yagua.

Since the days of the old Don Gil the finca had enlarged and improved. The counting-house stood within its small enclosure, its back against the side of the casa, and though it communicated with the interior of the imposing mahogany mansion, it remained the same palm-board counting-house—that is, to the outside world—that the estate of Palmacristi had ever known.

Two tall palms stood like sentinels upon either side of the low step before the doorway. The palm trees were dead. They had been topped by no green plume of leaves since before the death of the old Don Gil. Now, as then, the carpenter birds made their homes in the decaying shaft. The round beak-made holes, from root to treetop, disclosed numberless heads, if so much as a tap were given the resounding stem of the palm.

No one wondered why Don Gil still used the ancient structure as a counting-house. No one ever wondered at anything at Palmacristi; everything was accepted with quiescence. "The good God wills it," a shrug of the shoulders accompanying the remark, made alike, if a tornado unroofed a house or a peon died of the wounds received at the last garito.[2]

The changes which had taken place at Palmacristi had nothing to say to the condition of the counting-house, or it to them, except that it acceded, somewhat slowly in some cases, to the payment of bills. Since his father's day Don Gil had added much to the estate. Upon the right he had bought more than twenty caballerias from Don Luis Salas—land which marched with his own to the seashore. This included a tall headland, with a sand spit at its base, which pushed itself a half mile out into the sea. This sand spit curved in a hook to the left, and formed a pleasant and safe harbour for boating.

To the north of his inheritance Don Gil had taken in the old estates of La Flor and Provedencia, and at the back of the casa, which already stood high up on the slope, he had extended his possessions over the crest of the hill. Had the original owner of Palmacristi returned on a visit to earth, he would have found his old plantation the center of a magnificent estate, with, however, the same shiftless, careless ways of master and servant that had obtained in his time. This would probably grow worse as his descendants succeeded each other in ownership.

The casa was built upon a level, where the hill ceased to be a hill just long enough to allow of a broad foundation for Don Gil's improvements. At the edge of the veranda the hill sloped gently again for the distance of a hundred yards, and then dropped in a short but steep declivity to the sand beach.

The old habitation had been built entirely of palm boards, but in its place, at the bidding of Don Gil, had arisen a new and more modern erection, whose only material was mahogany. Pilotijos, escaleras, ligazones, verandas, techos, all were hewn and formed of the fine red mahogany. The boards were unpolished, it is true, but dark and rich in tone. They made a cool interior, where, coming from the white glare outside, body and eye alike were at once at rest. The covering of the techos was the glazed tile of Italy. Perhaps one should speak of the roofs as tejados, as they were covered with tiles. This tiling proved a beacon by day, as it glittered in the blazing light of the sun of the tropics.

Agueda guided her horse up the path between the two dead palm trees, and rapped with the stock of her whip upon the counting-house door, which stood partly open.

"Entra," was the reply. She rapped again.

"It is I who cannot enter, SeÑor," she called in her clear, young voice. "I have not the time to dismount."

An inner door was opened and closed. A fine-looking young fellow stepped across the intervening space and appeared upon the threshold of the outer door. He raised his brows; he did not know Agueda. Don Beltran made various pretexts for her absence when he had visitors.

Agueda held out the note. It was crumpled and dusty from being held in her hand.

"I am sorry," she said; "the day is hot, and my CastaÑo is not quiet."

Don Gil gazed with interest at the boyish-looking figure riding astride the little chestnut. "What a handsome lad she would make!" he thought. "And you are from—"

"It makes no difference for me. I bring a message."

Silencio took the note which she reached out to him.

"You will dismount and let me send for some fruit, some coffee?"

"I thank you, SeÑor, I must hasten; I am going to El Cuco."

"That is not so far," said Don Gil, smiling.

"No, but I then have to ride a long way back to—"

"To—?"

"To San Isidro."

"The SeÑorita takes roundabout ways. Is she then carrying messages all about the country?"

"Oh, no, SeÑor," said Agueda, smiling frankly. "When I go back to San Isidro I go to my home. I live there."

"Ah!" What was there imperceptible in Don Gil's tone? "You live there? Is the SeÑorita perhaps the niece of the manager, SeÑor Adan?"

"Si, SeÑor," answered Agueda, flushing hotly, she knew not why.

She wheeled CastaÑo and paced down between the palm trees.

"And you will not take pity on my loneliness?"

Don Gil was still smiling, but there was something new, something of familiarity, it seemed to Agueda, in his tone.

"I cannot stop, SeÑor. A Dios!" she said, gravely.

As Agueda rode out of the enclosure the day seemed changed. Why was it? She had been so happy before she had delivered the note! Now she felt sad, depressed. The sun was still shining, though there were occasional showers of rain, and the birds were still singing. Nothing in nature had changed. Ah, stay! There was a cloud over there, hanging low down above the sea. It was coming to the westward, she thought. She hoped that it would come, and quickly. She hoped that it would burst in rain upon her, and make her ride for it, and struggle with it. Anything to drive away that unhappy impression.

Had Silencio been asked what he had said or done to cause this young girl to change suddenly from a thoughtless, happy creature to one who felt that she had reason for uneasiness, he could not have told. He had heard vague rumours of the girl, Adan's niece, who lived over at San Isidro. But that he had allowed any such impression to escape him in intonation or gesture he was quite unaware. At all events, he was entirely oblivious of Agueda the moment that she had ridden away, for he opened the little blue note that she had brought, and was lost in its contents.

[2] Cock-fight.