with a horse to travel on, and my arm so much better that the sling supporting it was worn rather for ornament than use, there was nothing except that promise not to run away immediately to detain me longer in the pleasant retreat of the casa blanca; nothing, that is, had i been a man of gutta-percha or cast-iron; being only a creature of clay—very impressionable clay as it happened—i could not persuade myself that i was quite well enough to start on that long ride over a disturbed country. besides, my absence from montevideo had already lasted so long that a few days more could not make much difference one way or the other; thus it came to pass that i still stayed on, enjoying the society of my new friends, while every day, every hour in fact, i felt less able to endure the thought of tearing myself away from dolores.
much of my time was spent in the pleasant orchard adjoining the house. here, growing in picturesque irregularity, were fifty or sixty old peach, nectarine, apricot, plum, and cherry trees, their boles double the thickness of a man's thigh; they had never been disfigured by the pruner's knife or saw, and their enormous size and rough bark, overgrown with grey lichen, gave them an appearance of great antiquity. all about the ground, tangled together in a pretty confusion, flourished many of those dear familiar old world garden flowers that spring up round the white man's dwelling in all temperate regions of the earth. here were immemorial wallflowers, stocks and marigolds, tall hollyhock, gay poppy, brilliant bachelor's button; also, half hid amongst the grass, pansy and forget-me-not. the larkspur, red, white, and blue, flaunted everywhere; and here, too, was the unforgotten sweet-william, looking bright and velvety as of yore, yet, in spite of its brightness and stiff, green collar, still wearing the old shame-faced expression, as if it felt a little ashamed of its own pretty name. these flowers were not cultivated, but grew spontaneously from the seed they shed year by year on the ground, the gardener doing nothing for them beyond keeping the weeds down and bestowing a little water in hot weather. the solstitial heats being now over, during which european garden flowers cease to bloom for a season, they were again in gayest livery to welcome the long second spring of autumn, lasting from february to may. at the farther end of this wilderness of flowers and fruit trees was an aloe hedge, covering a width of twenty to thirty yards with its enormous, disorderly, stave-like leaves. this hedge was like a strip of wild nature placed alongside of a plot of man's improved nature; and here, like snakes hunted from the open, the weeds and wildings which were not permitted to mix with the flowers had taken refuge. protected by that rude bastion of spikes, the hemlock opened feathery clusters of dark leaves and whitish umbels wherever it could reach up to the sunshine. there also grew the nightshade, with other solanaceous weeds, bearing little clusters of green and purple berries, wild oats, fox-tail grass, and nettles. the hedge gave them shelter, but no moisture, so that all these weeds and grasses had a somewhat forlorn and starved appearance, climbing up with long stringy stems among the powerful aloes. the hedge was also rich in animal life. there dwelt mice, cavies, and elusive little lizards; crickets sang all day long under it, while in every open space the green epeiras spread their geometric webs. being rich in spiders, it was a favourite hunting-ground of those insect desperadoes, the mason-wasps, that flew about loudly buzzing in their splendid gold and scarlet uniform. there were also many little shy birds here, and my favourite was the wren, for in its appearance and its scolding, jerky, gesticulating ways it is precisely like our house-wren, though it has a richer and more powerful song than the english bird. on the other side of the hedge was the potrero, or paddock, where a milch-cow with two or three horses were kept. the manservant, whose name was nepomucino, presided over orchard and paddock, also to some extent over the entire establishment. nepomucino was a pure negro, a little old round-headed, blear-eyed man, about five feet four in height, the short lumpy wool on his head quite grey; slow in speech and movements, his old black or chocolate-coloured fingers all crooked, stiff-jointed, and pointing spontaneously in different directions. i have never seen anything in the human subject to equal the dignity of nepomucino, the profound gravity of his bearing and expression forcibly reminding one of an owl. apparently he had come to look upon himself as the sole head and master of the establishment, and the sense of responsibility had more than steadied him. the negrine propensity to frequent explosions of inconsequent laughter was not, of course, to be expected in such a sober-minded person; but he was, i think, a little too sedate for a black, for, although his face would shine on warm days like polished ebony, it did not smile. everyone in the house conspired to keep up the fiction of nepomucino's importance; they had, in fact, conspired so long and so well, that it had very nearly ceased to be a fiction. everybody addressed him with grave respect. not a syllable of his long name was ever omitted—what the consequences of calling him nepo, or cino, or cinito, the affectionate diminutive, would have been i am unable to say, since i never had the courage to try the experiment. it often amused me to hear doña mercedes calling to him from the house, and throwing the whole emphasis on the last syllable in a long, piercing crescendo: “ne—po—mu—ci—no—o.” sometimes, when i sat in the orchard, he would come, and, placing himself before me, discourse gravely about things in general, clipping his words and substituting r for l in the negro fashion, which made it hard for me to repress a smile. after winding up with a few appropriate moral reflections he would finish with the remark: “for though i am black on the surface, señor, my heart is white”; and then he would impressively lay one of his old crooked fingers on the part where the physiological curiosity was supposed to be. he did not like being told to perform menial offices, preferring to anticipate all requests of that kind and do whatever was necessary by stealth. sometimes i would forget this peculiarity of the old black, and tell him that i wanted him to polish my boots. he would ignore the request altogether, and talk for a few minutes of political matters, or on the uncertainty of all things mundane, and by and by, glancing at my boots, would remark incidentally that they required polishing, offering somewhat ostentatiously to have them done for me. nothing would make him admit that he did these things himself. once i tried to amuse dolores by mimicking his speech to her, but quickly she silenced me, saying that she loved nepomucino too well to allow even her best friend to laugh at him. he had been born when blacks were slaves in the service of her family, had carried her in his arms when she was an infant, and had seen all the male members of the house of zelaya swept away in the wars of reds and whites; but in the days of their adversity his faithful, dog-like affection had never failed them. it was beautiful to see her manner towards him. if she wanted a rose for her hair or dress she would not pluck it herself or allow me to get it for her, but nepomucino must be asked to get it. then every day she would find time to sit down in the garden by his side to tell him all the news of the village and of the country at large, discuss the position of affairs with him, and ask his advice about everything in the house.
indoors or out i generally had dolores for a companion, and i could certainly not have had a more charming one. the civil war—though the little splutter on the yí scarcely deserved that name yet—was her unfailing theme. she was never weary of singing her hero santa coloma's praises—his dauntless courage and patience in defeat; his strange romantic adventures; the innumerable disguises and stratagems he had resorted to when going about in his own country, where a price was set on his head; ever labouring to infuse fresh valour into his beaten, disheartened followers. that the governing party had any right to be in power, or possessed any virtue of any kind, or were, in fact, anything but an incubus and a curse to the banda orientál, she would not for one moment admit. to her mind her country always appeared like andromeda bound on her rock and left weeping and desolate to be a prey to the abhorred colorado monster; while ever to the deliverance of this lovely being came her glorious perseus, swift as the winds of heaven, the lightnings of terrible vengeance flashing from his eyes, the might of the immortals in his strong right arm. often she tried to persuade me to join this romantic adventurer, and it was hard, very hard, to resist her eloquent appeals, and perhaps it grew harder every day as the influence of her passionate beauty strengthened itself upon my heart. invariably i took refuge in the argument that i was a foreigner, that i loved my country with an ardour equal to hers, and that by taking arms in the banda orientál i should at once divest myself of all an englishman's rights and privileges. she scarcely had patience to listen to this argument, it seemed so trivial to her, and when she demanded other better reasons i had none to offer. i dare not quote to her the words of sulky achilles:
the distant trojans never injured me, for that argument would have sounded even weaker to her than the former one. she had never read homer in any language, of course, but she wouldhave quickly made me tell her about achilles, and when the end came, with miserable hector dragged thrice round the walls of besieged troy—montevideo was called modern troy, she knew—then she would have turned my argument against me and bidden me go and serve the uruguayan president as achilles served hector. seeing me silent, she would turn indignantly away only for a moment, however; the bright smile would quickly return, and she would exclaim, “no, no, richard, i shall not forget my promise, though i sometimes think you try to make me do so.”
it was noon: the house was quiet, for doña mercedes had retired after breakfast to take her unfailing siesta, leaving us to our conversation. in that spacious, cool room where i had first reposed in the house, i was lying on the sofa smoking a cigarette. dolores, seating herself near me with her guitar, said, “now let me play and sing you to sleep with something very soft.” but the more she played and sang the further was i from un-needed slumber.
“what, not sleeping yet, richard!” she would say, with a little laugh after each song.
“not yet, dolores,” i would reply, pretending to get drowsy. “but my eyes are getting heavy now. one more song will send me to the region of dreams. sing me that sweet favourite—-
desde aquel doloroso momento.”
at length, finding that my sleepiness was all pretence, she refused to sing any more, and presently we drifted once more into the old subject.
“ah, yes,” she replied to that argument about my nationality, which was my only shield, “i have always been taught to believe foreigners a cold, practical, calculating kind of people—so different from us. you never seemed to me like a foreigner; ah, richard, why will you make me remember that you are not one of us! tell me, dear friend, if a beautiful woman cried out to you to deliver her from some great misfortune or danger, would you stop to ask her nationality before going to her rescue?”
“no, dolores; you know that if you, for instance, were in distress or danger i would fly to your side and risk my life to save you.”
“i believe you, richard. but tell me, is it less noble to help a suffering people cruelly oppressed by wicked men who have succeeded by crimes and treachery and foreign aid in climbing into power? will you tell me that no englishman has drawn a sword in a cause like that? oh, friend, is not my mother-country more beautiful and worthy to be helped than any woman? has not god given her spiritual eyes that shed tears and look for comfort; lips sweeter than any woman's lips, that cry bitterly every day for deliverance? can you look on the blue skies above you and walk on the green grass where the white and purple flowers smile up at you and be deaf and blind to her beauty and to her great need? oh, no, no, it is impossible!”
“ah, if you were a man, dolores, what a flame you would kindle in the hearts of your countrymen!”
“yes, if i were a man!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet; “then i should serve my country not with words only; then i would strike and bleed for her—how willingly! being only a weak woman, i would give my heart's blood to win one arm to aid in the sacred cause.”
she stood before me with flashing eyes, her face glowing with enthusiasm; then i also rose to my feet and took her hands in mine, for i was intoxicated with her loveliness and almost ready to throw all restraints to the winds.
“dolores,” i said, “are not your words extravagant? shall i test their sincerity? tell me, would you give even as much as one kiss with your sweet lips to win a strong arm for your country?”
she turned crimson and cast her eyes down; then, quickly recovering herself, answered:
“what do your words mean? speak plainly, richard.”
“i cannot speak plainer, dolores. forgive me if i have offended once more. your beauty and grace and eloquence have made me forget myself.”
her hands were moist and trembling in mine, still she did not withdraw them. “no, i am not offended,” she returned in a strangely low tone. “put me to the test, richard. do you wish me to understand clearly that for such a favour as that you would join us?”
“i cannot say,” i replied, still endeavouring to be prudent, though my heart was on fire and my words when i spoke seemed to choke me. “but, dolores, if you would shed your blood to win one strong arm, will you think it too much to bestow the favour i spoke of in the hope of winning an arm?”
she was silent. then, drawing her closer, i touched her lips with mine. but who was ever satisfied with that one touch on the lips for which the heart has craved? it was like contact with a strange, celestial fire that instantly kindled my love to madness. again and yet again i kissed her; i pressed her lips till they were dry and burned like fire, then kissed cheek, forehead, hair, and, casting my arms about her strained her to my breast in a long, passionate embrace; then the violence of the paroxysm was over, and with a pang i released her. she trembled: her face was whiter than alabaster, and, covering it with her hands, she sank down on the sofa. i sat down beside her and drew her head down on my breast, but we remained silent, only our hearts were beating very fast. presently she disengaged herself, and, without bestowing one glance on me, rose and left the room.
before long i began to blame myself bitterly for this imprudent outburst. i dared not hope to continue longer on the old familiar footing. so high-spirited and sensitive a woman as dolores would not easily be brought to forget or forgive my conduct. she had not repelled me, she had even tacitly consented to that one first kiss, and was therefore partly to blame herself; but her extreme pallor, her silence, and cold manner had plainly shown me that i had wounded her. my passion had overcome me, and i felt that i had compromised myself. for that one first kiss i had all but promised to do a certain thing, and not to do it now seemed very dishonourable, much as i shrank from joining the blanco rebels. i had proposed the thing myself; she had silently consented to the stipulation. i had taken my kiss and much more, and, having now had my delirious, evanescent joy, i could not endure the thought of meanly skulking off without paying the price.
i went out full of trouble and paced up and down in the orchard for two or three hours, hoping that dolores might come to me there, but i saw no more of her that day. at dinner doña mercedes was excessively affable, showing clearly that she was not in her daughter's confidence. she informed me, simple soul! that dolores was suffering from a grievous headache caused by taking a glass of claret at breakfast after eating a slice of water-melon, an imprudence against which she did not omit to caution me.
lying awake that night—for the thought that i had pained and offended dolores made it impossible for me to sleep—i resolved to join santa coloma immediately. that act alone would salve my conscience, and i only hoped that it would serve to win back the friendship and esteem of the woman i had learned to love so well. i had no sooner determined on taking this step than i began to see so many advantages in it that it seemed strange i had not taken it before; but we lose half our opportunities in life through too much caution. a few more days of adventure, all the pleasanter for being spiced with danger, and i would be once more in montevideo with a host of great and grateful friends to start me in some career in the country. yes, i said to myself, becoming enthusiastic, once this oppressive, scandalous, and besotted colorado party is swept with bullet and steel out of the country, as of course it will be, i shall go to santa coloma to lay down my sword, resuming by that act my own nationality, and as sole reward of my chivalrous conduct in aiding the rebellion, ask for his interest in getting me placed say, at the head of some large estancia in the interior. there, possibly on one of his own establishments, i shall be in my element and happy, hunting ostriches, eating carne con cuero, possessing a tropilla of twenty cream-coloured horses for my private use, and building up a modest fortune out of hides, horns, tallow, and other native products. at break of day i rose and saddled my horse; then, finding the dignified nepomucino, who was the early bird (blackbird) of the establishment, told him to inform his mistress that i was going to spend the day with general santa coloma. after taking a maté from the old fellow, i mounted and galloped out of the village of molino.
arrived at the camp, which had been moved to a distance of four or five miles from el molino, i found santa coloma just ready to mount his horse to start on an expedition to a small town eight or nine leagues distant. he at once asked me to go with him, and remarked that he was very much pleased, though not surprised, at my having changed my mind about joining him. we did not return till late in the evening, and the whole of the following day was spent in monotonous cavalry exercises. i then went to the general and requested permission to visit the casa blanca to bid adieu to my friends there. he informed me that he intended going to el molino the next morning himself and would take me with him. the first thing he did on our arrival at the village was to send me to the principal storekeeper in the place, a man who had faith in the blanco leader, and was rapidly disposing of a large stock of goods at a splendid profit, receiving in payment sundry slips of paper signed by santa coloma. this good fellow, who mixed politics with business, provided me with a complete and much-needed outfit, which included a broadcloth suit of clothes, soft brown hat rather broad in the brim, long riding-boots, and poncho. going back to the official building or headquarters in the plaza, i received my sword, which did not harmonise very well with the civilian costume i wore; but i was no worse off in this respect than forty-nine out of every fifty men in our little army.
in the afternoon we went together to see the ladies, and the general had a very hearty welcome from both of them, as i also had from doña mercedes, while dolores received me with the utmost indifference, expressing no pleasure or surprise at seeing me wearing a sword in the cause which she had professed to have so much at heart. this was a sore disappointment, and i was also nettled at her treatment of me. after dinner, over which we sat talking some time, the general left us, telling me before doing so to join him in the plaza at five o'clock next morning. i then tried to get an opportunity of speaking to dolores alone, but she studiously avoided me, and in the evening there were several visitors, ladies from the town with three or four officers from the camp, and dancing and singing were kept up till towards midnight. finding that i could not speak to her, and anxious about my appointment at five in the morning, i at length retired sorrowful and baffled to my apartment. without undressing i threw myself on my bed, and, being very much fatigued with so much riding about, i soon fell asleep. when i woke, the brilliant light of the moon, shining in at open window and door, made me fancy it was already daylight, and i quickly sprang up. i had no means of telling the time, except by going into the large living-room, where there was an old eight-day clock. making my way thither, i was amazed to see, on entering it, dolores in her white dress sitting beside the open window in a dejected attitude. she started and rose up when i entered, the extreme pallor of her face heightened by contrast with her long, raven-black hair hanging unbound on her shoulders.
“dolores, do i find you here at this hour?” i exclaimed.
“yes,” she returned coldly, sitting down again. “do you think it very strange, richard?”
“pardon me for disturbing you,” i said; “i came here to find out the time from your clock.”
“it is two o'clock. is that all you came for? did you imagine i could retire to sleep without first knowing what your motive was in returning to this house? have you then forgotten everything?”
i came to her and sat down by the window before speaking. “no, dolores,” i said; “had i forgotten, you would not have seen me here enlisted in a cause which i looked on only as your cause.”
“ah, then you have honoured the casa blanca with this visit not to speak to me—that you considered unnecessary—but merely to exhibit yourself wearing a sword!”
i was stung by the extreme bitterness of her tone. “you are unjust to me,” i said. “since that fatal moment when my passion overcame me i have not ceased thinking of you, grieving that i had offended you. no, i did not come to exhibit my sword, which is not worn for ornament; i came only to speak to you, dolores, and you purposely avoided me.”
“not without reason,” she retorted quickly. “did i not sit quietly by you after you had acted in that way towards me, waiting for you to speak—to explain, and you were silent? well, señor, i am here now, waiting again.”
“this, then, is what i have to say,” i replied. “after what passed i considered myself bound in honour to join your cause, dolores. what more can i say except to implore your forgiveness? believe me, dear friend, in that moment of passion i forgot everything—forgot that i—forgot that your hand was already given to another.”
“given to another? what do you mean, richard? who told you that?”
“general santa coloma.”
“the general? what right has he to occupy himself with my affairs? this is a matter that concerns myself only, and it is presumption on his part to interfere in it.”
“do you speak in that tone of your hero, dolores? remember that he only warned me of my danger out of pure friendship. but his warning was thrown away; my unhappy passion, the sight of your loveliness, your own incautious words, were too much for my heart.”
she dropped her face on her hands and remained silent.
“i have suffered for my fault, and must suffer more. will you not say you forgive me, dolores?” i said, offering my hand.
she took it, but continued silent.
“say, dearest friend, that you forgive me, that we part friends.”
“oh, richard, must we part then?” she murmured.
“yes—now, dolores; for, before you are up, i must be on horseback and on my way to join the troops. the march to montevideo will probably commence almost immediately.”
“oh, i cannot bear it!” she suddenly exclaimed, taking my hands in both hers. “let me open my heart to you now. forgive me, richard, for being so angry with you, but i did not know the general had said such a thing. believe me, he imagines more than he knows. when you took me in your arms and held me against your breast it was a revelation to me. i cannot love or give my hand to any other man. you are everything in the world to me now, richard; must you leave me to mingle in this cruel civil strife in which all my dearest friends and relations have perished.”
she had had her revelation; i now had mine, and it was an exceedingly bitter one. i trembled at the thought of confessing my secret to her, now when she had so unmistakably responded to the passion i had insanely revealed.
suddenly she raised her dark, luminous eyes to mine, anger and shame struggling for mastery on her pale face.
“speak, richard!” she exclaimed. “your silence at this moment is an insult to me.”
“for god's sake, have mercy on me, dolores,” i said. “i am not free—i have a wife.”
for some moments she sat staring fixedly at me, then, flinging my hand from her, covered her face. presently she uncovered it again, for shame was overcome and cast out by anger. she rose and stood up before me, her face very white.
“you have a wife—a wife whose existence you concealed from me till this moment!” she said. “now you ask for mercy when your secret has been wrung from you! married, and you have dared to take me in your arms, to excuse yourself afterwards with the plea of passion! passion—do you know what it means, traitor? ah, no; a breast like yours cannot know any great or generous emotion. would you have dared show your face to me again had you been capable of shame even? and you judged my heart as shallow as your own, and, after treating me in that way, thought to win my forgiveness, and admiration even, by parading before me with a sword! leave me, i can feel nothing but contempt for you. go; you are a disgrace to the cause you have espoused!”
i had sat utterly crushed and humiliated, not daring even to raise my sight to her face, for i felt that my own unspeakable weakness and folly had brought this tempest upon me! but there is a limit to patience, even in the most submissive mood; and when that was overpassed, then my anger blazed out all the more hotly for the penitential meekness i had preserved during the whole interview. her words from the first had fallen like whip-cuts, making me writhe with the pain they inflicted; but that last taunt stung me beyond endurance. i, an englishman, to be told that i was a disgrace to the blanco cause, which i had joined, in spite of my better judgment, purely out of my romantic devotion to this very woman! i too was now upon my feet, and there face to face we stood for some moments, silent and trembling. at length i found my speech.
“this,” i cried, “from the woman who was ready yesterday to shed her heart's blood to win one strong arm for her country? i have renounced everything, allied myself with abhorred robbers and cut-throats, only to learn that her one desire is everything to her, her divine, beautiful country nothing. i wish that a man had spoken those words to me, dolores, so that i might have put this sword you speak of to one good use before breaking it and flinging it from me like the vile thing it is! would to god the earth would open and swallow up this land for ever, though i sank down into hell with it for the detestable crime of taking part in its pirate wars!”
she stood perfectly still, gazing at me with widely dilated eyes, a new expression coming into her face; then when i paused for her to speak, expecting only a fresh outburst of scorn and bitterness, a strange, sorrowful smile flitted over her lips, and, coming close to me, she placed her hand on my shoulder.
“oh,” she said, “what a strength of passion you are capable of! forgive me, richard, for i have forgiven you. ah, we were made for each other, and it can never, never be.”
she dropped her head dejectedly on my shoulder. my anger vanished atthose sad words; love only remained—love mingled with profoundest compassion and remorse for the pain i had inflicted. supporting her with my arm, i tenderly stroked her dark hair, and, stooping, pressed my lips against it.
“do you love me so much, dolores,” i said, “enough even to forgive the cruel, bitter words i have just spoken? oh, i was mad—mad to say such things to you, and shall repent it all my life long! how cruelly have i wounded you with my love and my anger! tell me, dearest dolores, can you forgive me?”
“yes, richard; everything. is there any word you can speak, any deed you can do, and i not forgive it? does your wife love you like that—can you love her as you love me? how cruel destiny is to us! ah, my beloved country, i was ready to shed my blood for you—just to win one strong arm to fight for you, but i did not dream that this would be the sacrifice required of me. look, it will soon be time for you to go—we cannot sleep now, richard. sit down here with me, and let us spend this last hour together with my hand in yours, for we shall never, never, never meet again.”
and so, sitting there hand in hand, we waited for the dawn, speaking many sad and tender words to one another; and at last, when we parted, i held her once more unresisting to my breast, thinking, as she did, that our separation would be an eternal one.
