Agueda saw all the plans which they had made together for the coming of the little child carried out by Beltran alone. She could not accompany Don Beltran and his cousin upon their different expeditions; she could not go as an equal, she would not go as an inferior. Besides which, there was never any question as to her joining them. The bull rides, the search for mamey apples, the gathering of the aguacate pears, all of which she had suggested, were taken part in by two only; so was the lingering upon the river, until Agueda shuddered to think of the miasmata which arise after nightfall and envelop the unwary in their unseen though no less deadly clutches. The walks in the moonlight, ending in a lingering beneath the old mahogany tree for a few last confidences before the return to the home-light of the casa, left no place for a third member, because of the close intimacy which naturally was part and parcel of the whole.

All had come about as Agueda had planned, with the exception that she herself was missing from plain, hill, and river. She had heard Beltran say: "Yes, I will take you down to the potrero, little girl, to gather the aguacates, but you must not approach the bushes, for the thorns would sting your tender hands." Agueda recalled the day when she had suggested this as one of the cautious pleasures open to the little thing for whom they two were looking; but she, Agueda, who was to have been the central figure, she, the one to whose forethought had been entrusted the planning and carrying out of these small amusements, was excluded. As the days passed by, Beltran and Agueda seldom met, except in the presence of others. She addressed him now in the third person, as "If the Don Beltran allow," or "If the Don Beltran wishes." When by chance the two stumbled upon one another, neither could get out of the way quickly enough.

It was on a day when she was forced to speak to him as to the disposition of some furniture, that her utter dejection and spiritless tone appealed to him. As he glanced at her, he noticed for the first time how large her eyes were, what hollows showed beneath them, how shrunken and thin was her cheek.

"What is it, Agueda? You treat me as a culprit."

"No, oh, no!" She shook her head sadly; then threw off the feeling apparently with a quick turn of the head. "The SeÑor is within his rights." Beltran's heart was touched. He drew near to her, and laid his arm about her shoulder, as he had not done now for a long time. She stooped her fine height, and drew her shoulder out from under his arm. She had no right now to feel that answering thrill; he was hers no longer. A sob, which she had tried to smother in her throat, struck him remorsefully.

"They will soon be gone, Agueda; then all will be as before."

"Nothing can ever be as before, SeÑor. I see it now, either for you or for me."

The wall within which she had encased herself, that dignity which silence under wrong gives to the oppressed, once broken, the flood of her words poured forth. The terrible sense of injustice overwhelmed and broke down her well-maintained reserve. She looked up at Beltran with reproach in her eyes, interrogation shining from their depths.

"Why could you not have told me, warned me, cautioned me? Ah, Nada! Nada knew." Her helplessness overcame her. Beltran had been her salvation, her teacher, her reliance. She felt wrecked, lost; she was drifting rudderless upon an ocean whose shores she could not discern. Where could she turn? Her only prop and stay withdrawn, what was there to count upon?

"I do not know the world, Beltran. My people never know the world. I have never known any world but this—but this." She stretched out her despairing arms to the grey square which she had called home. "Ah! Nada, dear Nada, you knew, you knew! I never dreamt that she meant you, Beltran, you!"

Hark! It was Felisa's voice calling to him. Soon she would be here. She would see them; she would suspect. Beltran shrugged his shoulders, he pursed out his lips. The Agueda whom he had known was ever smiling, ever ready to be bent to his will. This girl was complaining, reproachful; besides which, her looks were going. How could he ever have thought her even pretty? He contrasted her in a flash with the little white thing, all soft filmy lawn and laces, and turned away to rejoin that other sweeter creature who had never given him a discontented look.

It had come to this then! Her misery could wring from him nothing more than a careless shrug of the shoulders!

She stood gazing afar off at the hillside, where the bulls were toiling upward with their loads of suckers for the planting. Some fields were yet being cleared, and the thin lines of smoke arose and poured straight upward in the still atmosphere. A faint odor of burning bark filled the air. Near by the banana leaves drooped motionless. There were no sounds except the occasional stamp of a hoof in the stable. The silence was phenomenal. Suddenly a shrill voice broke the stillness.

"Cousin, are you coming?"

A welcome summons! He would go to the hills with Felisa, as he had promised. She should see the fields "avita"-ed. He would forget Agueda's reproaches in the light of Felisa's smiles. He shook his tall frame, as if to throw off something which had settled like a cloud upon him; he hurried along the veranda with a quick stride. The excursion to-day was to be to the palm grove upon the hill. Uncle NoÉ was to be one of the party. The peons were to burn the great comahen nest, for in this remote quarter of the world such simple duties made amusement for the chance guest at the coloÑia.

Agueda had prepared a dainty basket over-night. The old indented spoons, the forks with twisted and bent tines, but bearing the glory and pride of the Balatrez family in the crest upon the handle, were laid in the bottom of the basket. Nothing was forgotten, from the old SeÑora's silver coffee pot, carefully wrapped in a soft cloth, to the worn napkins on the top with the crest in the corner, which was wearing thin and pulling away from the foundation linen. The coffee, planted, raised, picked, dried, roasted, and ground upon the plantation of San Isidro, was ready for the making; the cassava bread was toasted ready for heating at the woodland fire; the thick cream into which it was to be dipped was poured into the well-scoured can; the fresh-laid eggs were safely packed in a small basket; the mamey apples and the guavas would be picked by the peons upon the ground, and the san-coche was still bubbling in the oven. Juana, like one of Shakespeare's witches, bent over the fragrant stew, and ever, when no one was looking, she put the pewter spoon to her withered and critical lips. Where is the cook who does not taste in secret?

Palandrez would start an hour hence, taking the fast little roan, to get to the hill in time to serve the san-coche hot and savory.

CastaÑo, the horse which it had been Don Beltran's pleasure to break for Agueda, stood at the foot of the veranda steps. Agueda's saddle was upon its back; no other would fit CastaÑo. Indeed, there was no other. But there was no sentiment to Agueda about the lady's saddle. She had always ridden like the boy that she looked. Agueda walked with dragging step to her solitary chamber; she would not remain to witness Felisa's hateful affectations. She could bear it no longer; she could be neither generous nor charitable. She had seen and heard so much of Felisa's clinging to Beltran's arm, her little cries of fear, Beltran's soothing responses, that her heart was sick. She closed her door to shut out the sounds, and threw herself into her low sewing chair by the window. They would be gone presently, and then she would wander forth in an opposite direction, down by the river perhaps, or over to—where? Where could she go?

A large pile of linen lay in the basket. She had not touched it of late. Ah, no! There was no one now to make the duty a pastime, no one to come in with ringing step, and lay upon the welcoming shoulder a kindly hand—no one to twitch the tiresome sewing impatiently from her grasp, and bid her come away, to the river or to the potrero; no one to stoop and kiss the roughened finger. It was as if she had emerged into a strange and horrible land, a land of dreams whose name is nightmare, and had left behind her in that other dim world all that had been most dear. She could not awake, no matter how hard she tried.

She sat looking dully out to where the flecks of sunshine touched here and there the tropic shadows. She saw nothing. Nature was no longer a book whose every leaf held some new beauty, each page printed with ink from the great mother's alembic, telling a tale of joy that never palls.

Suddenly Agueda turned from the scene and clasped her hands over her eyes, for into her landscape had passed two figures. She had thought that they would go by the river path, but they were passing along the winding way which ran through the banana walk, one seated delicate and graceful upon the accustomed chestnut, shrinking somewhat and swaying a little as if in fear, the other bent close to her and gazing into her eyes as if he could never look his fill. The old story, her story, the part of heroine played by a fresher, newer actress, the leading personality unchanged. They made a picture as they rode, one which an artist would love to paint; the flanks of the brave grey side by side with the little chestnut, the handsome lover leaning toward the pretty bundle of summer draperies, the red parasol held in his hand and shading her form from the sun making the one bit of brilliant colour in the picture. It was worthy of Vibert, but Agueda had never heard of Vibert, and the picturesqueness of the scene did not appeal to her.

"This way?" questioned the high voice. "It is the longest way, cousin, so you said this morning."

"Yes," was Beltran's answer. How plainly she heard it as the breeze blew toward the casa. "The longest way to others, but—" He bent his head and spoke lower. One had to imagine the rest. Agueda closed the shutter and threw herself upon the bed, as if she could as easily forget the picture as she could shut out the shrill voice of Felisa.

The day passed, as such days do, like an eternity. At noon-time a stranger rode down the hill toward the casa. He brought a letter for Don Beltran.

"The SeÑor is up in the woods," said Agueda. "I will give it to him when he returns."

"It is from the SeÑor Silencio. He hopes that the SeÑor will read it at once. The message admits of no delay."

"Do you know the palm grove up on the far hill, on the other side of the grand camino?"

"I think that I might find it," said Andres, for it was he, "but I have matters of importance at home. My little boy—El Rey—"

Andres turned away his head. Stupid Andres! Only one thing could make him turn away his head.

"Are you, then, the father of that little El Rey?"

Andres nodded.

"Give me the letter," said Agueda. "I will send it to the palm grove."

Not waiting to see Andres depart, Agueda hurried to the home potrero. There Uncle Adan was keeping tally at the sucker pile.

"Uncle Adan," she said, "is there a man who can take a message to the SeÑor?"

"I cannot spare another peon, Agueda—that the good God knows. What with Garcia Garcito and the Palandrez off all the morning at the palm grove, and Eduardo Juan hurrying away but a half-hour ago with the san-coche, I am very short of hands. What is it that you want? Do not load the little white bull so heavily, Anito; it is these heavy weights that take the life out of them. What is it that you want, Agueda, child?"

"It is a message for the SeÑor, Uncle Adan. It comes from the SeÑor Silencio. It may be of importance."

"Very well, then; it is I who cannot go. The SeÑor should be at home sometimes, like other SeÑors. Since these visitors came I cannot get a word with him."

"The SeÑor is not always away, Uncle Adan," protested Agueda, faintly.

"It is true that he is not always away," said Uncle Adan, tossing a sprouted sucker into a waste pile, "but his head is, and that is as bad. He seems to take no interest in the coloÑia nowadays, and I am doing much for which I have no warrant."

Agueda recalled the many times when she had seen her uncle approach Beltran with some request to make, or project to unfold, and his shrug of the shoulders, and the answer, "Don't bother me now, Adan, there's a good fellow; some other time—some other time." Agueda stood with her eyes downcast. She knew it all but too well. Every word of Uncle Adan's struck at her heart like a knife.

"But the SeÑor must have the letter, Uncle Adan," she persisted.

"Very well, then, child, carry it yourself. There is no one else to go."

"Is there anything that I can ride, Uncle Adan?"

"Caramba! muchacha! CastaÑo, certainly. Can you saddle him your—or, no! I forgot. No, Agueda; there is nothing."

"The brown bull? The letter may be important."

"The brown bull has gone to the Port of Entry for tobacco for the SeÑor Don NoÉ. No, there is nothing, child; you must walk if you will go. For me, I would leave the letter on the table in the SeÑor's room. That would be best."

Agueda went quickly back to the house. She took the old straw from its peg in her closet, put it upon her head without one glance at the little mirror on the wall, and ran quickly down the veranda steps. The way seemed long to her. She was not feeling strong; an unaccustomed weight dragged upon her health and spirits. All at once she saw, as if a picture had been held up to her view, that future which must be hers, toward which she was so quickly hastening. A few months—ah, God! Was it, then, to be with her as with all those others whom she had held in partial contempt—a pitying contempt, it is true, but none the less contempt.

The distance seemed long to her. Time had been when she would have thought a run over to the palm grove a mere nothing, but now every step was a penance to both body and mind.

When Agueda reached the hill, she walked slowly. The day was hot, as tropical days in the valley are apt to be. She moved languidly up the hill. Arrived at the top, there was nothing to reward her gaze but the form of Don NoÉ, asleep under a tree; Palandrez sitting by, waving a large palm branch to keep the insects away. At a little distance the dying embers of the picnic fire paled in the sun. The place was otherwise bare of people or servants. Under the shade of some coffee bushes stood the grey and the chestnut, but of their riders nothing was to be seen. When Palandrez saw Agueda coming he put his finger on his lip. She approached him and held out the letter. He made a half motion to rise, but did not spring to his feet, as he formerly would have done at the approach of the house mistress.

"I have a letter for the SeÑor, Palandrez," said Agueda. "I wish that you take it to him at once."

"It is I that would oblige the SeÑorita," answered Palandrez, sinking back hastily into his lounging attitude, when he saw that action was required of him, "but I was ordered by the SeÑor Don Beltran to stay here, and not leave the Don NoÉ, unless, indeed, an earthquake should come."

"But it is a letter of importance," urged Agueda. "You must take it for me, Palandrez."

"And am I to obey the SeÑor or the SeÑorita?" asked Palandrez, in a half-defiant, half-impudent tone.

For answer Agueda turned away. She had thought of offering to keep the buzzing insects from Don NoÉ's bald head, but her spirit revolted at the thought of this menial service, and perhaps a slight curiosity as to where the main actors in the drama had gone, and how they were employing themselves, caused her to resolve to find Beltran herself.

"Where is the Don Beltran?" she asked of Palandrez.

"I have not seen them this half-hour, SeÑorita. When the feast was over the old Don laid himself down to sleep, and the Don Beltran and the new SeÑorita disappeared very suddenly. They went down there, in the direction of the little brook."

Palandrez waved his hand toward the further slope of the hill, and again returned to the duty of keeping Don NoÉ asleep, so long as he himself could remain awake.

As Agueda began to descend the slope she heard a complaining voice. She turned. Palandrez had stolen away to the edge of the hill. He had left Don NoÉ sleeping with the branch stuck upright beside him in the soft earth of the hilltop. The breeze waved the branch. "So," had thought Palandrez, "it will do as well as if I was there fanning El Viejo." But all in a moment the branch had fallen across Don NoÉ's face, and he had awakened with a start. He belaboured Palandrez well with his sharp old tongue.

"I will tell your master, the SeÑor. Yes, I will tell him the very moment that I see him." Palandrez bowed his tattered form and scraped his horny sole upon the ground, and exclaimed, with volubility:

"It was but muchachado,[8] SeÑor. I have the honour to assure the SeÑor that it was but muchachado, no more, no less."

Palandrez, in fear of what his own particular SeÑor would say of his treatment of the SeÑorita Felisa's father, returned hurriedly to his fanning, and Don NoÉ, pretending to sleep, and weary with resting, kept one eye open, so to speak, to catch him again at his muchachado.

Agueda descended the hill. When she came to the brook, she saw an old log across which some one must have lately travelled, for it was splashed with wet, and there were footmarks in the clay on the shore. She crossed, and walked quickly along the further plain, and soon heard the distant sound of voices, Felisa's high treble mingled with Don Beltran's deeper, pleasant tones. The beauty of his voice had never been so marked as now, when the thin soprano of Felisa set it off by contrast.

Following the sound of the voices, Agueda again ascended a slight rise, and before long saw in the distance the light frills of Felisa's gown showing through the trees. She knew the pastime well enough, the pastime which caused Felisa to sit upon a level with Agueda's head, and to wave up and down as if in a swing or high-poised American chair. She knew well, before she came near them, that Beltran had given Felisa the pleasure that had often been hers; that he had bent an elastic young tree over to the ground; that among its branches he had made a safe seat for Felisa, and that he was letting it spring upward, and again pressing it back to earth with regular motion, so that Felisa might ride the tree in semblance of CastaÑo's back; only Beltran was closer to her than he could be were they on horseback, and Felisa's nervous little screams and cries gave him reason to hold her securely and to reassure her in that ever kind and musical voice. When Felisa saw Agueda coming along the path bordered with young palms, she said, "Here comes that girl of yours, cousin, that Agueda! What can she want?"

Beltran turned with some surprise. Agueda had never dogged his footsteps before. She had left him to work his own will, independent of her claims—claims which had no foundation, in fact. All at once he remembered those claims imagined, and he wondered if at last she had come to denounce him before Felisa.

As Agueda came onward, hurrying toward them, Beltran ceased his motion of the tree, and leaned against its trunk, touching Felisa familiarly as he did so. It was as if he arrayed himself with her against Agueda. The two seemed one in spirit.

Beltran's voice, as he questioned Agueda, showed some irritation, but its musical note, a physical thing, which he could not control if he would, was still there.

"Why have you come here? What do you want with me?" He did not use her name.

Agueda stopped and leaned against a tree. She put her hand within the bosom of her dress, brought forth the letter in its double paper, tied round with a little green cord, and held it out to Beltran. She did not speak.

"Very well, bring it to me," he said. He could not let go his hold on the tree, for fear of harm coming to Felisa, and he saw no reason why Agueda, having come thus far, should not cover the few steps that remained between himself and her. She pushed herself away from the tree with her hand, as if she needed such impetus, and walking unevenly, she came near to Beltran and laid the letter in his hand. "The messenger said that it was important. It was Andres who brought it," said Agueda.

"Ah! from Silencio," said Beltran, awkwardly breaking the seal, because of the necessity of holding the tree in place.

He perused the short note in silence. When he raised his eyes from the page, Agueda had turned and was walking away through the vista of young palms. Her weary and dispirited air struck him somewhat with remorse.

"Agueda," he called, "stop at the hill yonder and get some coffee and rest yourself." His words did not stay her. She turned her head, shook it gravely, and then walked onward.

[8] A boyish trick.