A Transient Guest, and Other Episodes

One morning, however, as his horse was bearing him homeward, he caught sight of an object moving in the distance. At first he fancied that it might be one of the men he was wont to meet, but soon he saw that it was a woman, and as he drew nearer he noticed that she was young, and, in a moment, that she was fair to see. By her side stood a horse. The saddle was on the ground, and she was busying herself with the girth. At his approach she turned her head. Her mouth was like a pomegranate filled with pearls; her face was without color, innocent of the powdered egg-shells with which Cuban damsels and dames whiten their cheeks; and in her eyes was an Orient of dreams. She was lithe and graceful, not tall; perhaps sixteen. About her waist a crimson sash was wound many times, her gown was of gray Catalonian calico, and her sandalled feet were stockingless.

"A Creole," thought Ruis; and raising his right hand to the left side of his broad-brimmed hat, he made it describe a magnificent parabola through the air, and as he replaced it, bowed.

"Your servant, Señorita," he said.

"And yours, Don Ruis," she replied.

"You know my name, Señorita! May I ask how you are called?"

"I am called Fausta," she answered; and as she spoke Ruis caught in her voice an accent unknown to the Madridlenes of his acquaintance, the accent of the New World, abrupt, disdainful of sibilants, and resolute. He dismounted at once.

"You have had an accident, Doña Fausta; let me aid you."

But the girth was beyond aid; it was old and had worn itself in twain. And as he examined it he noticed that the saddle was not of the kind that women prefer.

"It is needless, Don Ruis. See, it is an easy matter." And with that she unwound her crimson girdle, and in a moment, with dexterous skill, she removed the broken girth, replaced the saddle on the horse, and bound it to him with the sash. "But I thank you," she added, gravely.

Ruis was a little sceptical about the security of this arrangement, and that scepticism he ventured to express. But the girl was on the horse, unassisted, before he had finished the sentence.

"Have no fears, Don Ruis. Besides, our house is but a little bird's flight from here. I could have walked, if need were."

Ruis remounted. "May I not accompany you?" he asked.

"To-morrow," she answered; and for the first time she smiled. For to-morrow in a Cuban mouth means anything except what it expresses. And as she said it, Ruis smiled too.

"How do you know my name?" he inquired.

"We – my mother and I – we are your neighbors."

"Ah, Doña Fausta, in that case, I pray you make my duty to the lady your mother, and beg of her a permission that I may do so myself."

Again she smiled. "To-morrow," she lisped, and whipped her horse.

Ruis raised his hat as before, and bowed.

"God be with you, Doña Fausta."

"And with you, Don Ruis."

The next morning he was on the red road again, but no maiden in distress was discoverable that day. The sun chased him home, and as he lounged through high noon in the cool of the veranda, he marvelled at his earlier boredom. Later on he sent for one of the overseers and questioned him minutely. Whatever information he may have gleaned, it was presumably satisfactory. He watched the sun expire in throes of crimson and gamboge, and night unloose her leash of stars. Then he took horse again, and, aided by information received, in ten minutes he was at Doña Fausta's door. It was a shabby door, he noticed, the portal of a still shabbier abode, and even in the starlight he divined that if ever wealth had passed that way, it had long since taken flight. The noise of hoofs brought the girl to the porch.

"At your feet, Doña Fausta," he said, and raised his hat. "I am come to offer my homage to the lady your mother, and to you, if I may."

"Who is it?" called a voice from within; and then, for ampler satisfaction of the inquiry, a lean old woman, gray of hair, unkempt, wrinkled, and bent, appeared in the doorway and fastened on Ruis two glittering, inquisitorial eyes.

"The son of Don Jayme," the girl answered; "he wishes you well." With a perfectly perceptible shrug the woman turned and disappeared.

"She has suffered much," the girl explained. "Don Ruis, you are welcome."

Ruis dismounted and gave the horse a lash with his whip. "It will be pleasant to walk back," he said, as the horse started. "Mariquita can find her way home unguided." He smiled; he was pleased with himself: and the girl smiled too. "Tell me," he added, "do you live here always?"

"Always, Don Ruis."

"Ah, you should come to Spain. You would love Madrid, and more than Madrid would you love Grenada and Seville. Santiago is a little, a very little, like Seville. You go there often, do you not?"

"But seldom, Don Ruis."

"To the fiestas, surely."

"To go to the fiestas one needs a brave gown, and I have none."

"I," said Ruis, "I am tired of fiestas, and truly at Santiago they cannot be very grand. After all, you miss little. Ah, Doña Fausta, you should see them in Spain. And," he continued, in a tone that was almost a whisper, "you should let Spain see you."

In this wise the two young people talked together. And when the fractions of an hour had passed them by unmarked, the old woman appeared again on the porch, and Ruis withdrew. On reaching the hacienda he went to the room which he occupied, and tore into bits the scrappy letters of his Madridlene. "To the deuce," he muttered, as he stretched himself out beneath the mosquito netting, "to the deuce with thin women and the communion of souls."

The day following Ruis did not venture to make a second visit, but he loitered on the red road both in the clear forenoon and in the slumbering dusk; but he loitered in vain. On the morrow his success was not greater: yet on the succeeding day his heart gave an exultant throb; she was there. It was not necessary for him to be verbose. His manner was caressing as the air, and her eyes were eloquent, almost as eloquent as his own. Before they parted they had agreed upon a tryst, a spot wholly sheltered by cedars and tamarinds, through which a brook ran, and where tendrils with a thousand coils embraced the willing trees as would they smother them with flowers. And there each day they met. Love with them was like the sumptuous vegetation in which they moved – swift of growth. To Ruis, Fausta was the most perfect of playmates, a comrade that each day brought him some fresh surprise. She was at once naïve and imperious, docile and self-willed. He noticed that she was friends with the mimosa, for once, when she touched the sensitive leaves, they did not shrink, the timidity was gone. And once, when she spoke of her father, who had been shot as a conspirator, her anger was like a storm on the coast, glorious and terrible to behold. She was sweet indeed, yet heat sugar and abruptly it boils. To Fausta, Ruis was present and future besides. As for the past she had none save in so far as it had been a preparation for him. He had told her that she should be countess, though for that she cared nothing, except that in being countess she would be his wife as well. And so over constant meetings two months went by. In their Eden, Ruis at first was usually the earliest to arrive, and when he heard her footfall he would hasten to meet her and hold her in his arms.

"Speak to me, Fausta," he would say; "I love your voice: look at me; I love your eyes. How fair love is when we are together and alone! Is it not exquisite to speak of love when all else is still?"

And Fausta, waist-encircled, would answer, "Ruis, I love you; I need to see you, to see you again, and always. When you leave me it is as though I fell asleep, to reawake only at your return."

It was with this duo and its infinite variations that they charmed two months away. To Ruis, at first, no other months of all his life had been so fertile in delight. To Fausta they were not months, but dreams fulfilled.

Meanwhile, Don Jayme had not been idle. He had been much in Puerto Principe, and he had made two journeys to Havana. Now from Santiago to Havana the distance is 600 miles, and Don Jayme was not a man to undertake such a journey without due and sufficient cause. Be this as it may, it so happened that after his second visit to the capital he enjoyed a memorable interview with his son. To him he had as yet said nothing of his plans, but on this occasion he made no secret of them.

"Ruis," he said, leisurely, with the air of one engaging in conversation solely for conversation's sake, "you know the House of Sandoval?"

"Surely: we are more or less related. A hundred years ago an Ixar married a Sandoval – "

"Of the younger branch, however. We do not bear their arms."

"There was no bluer blood in all Castile."

"No, nor yet in Aragon. Don Jorge is in Havana."

"Don Jorge of Sandoval! I thought him dead."

"His credit was, but that has since revived. He came to Cuba the year before I came myself. I am little richer now than then, but he has garnered millions."

"Ah!"

"Yes, millions – three at least. In the Convent of Our Lady del Pilar is his daughter, Doña Clarisa. We have agreed that you and she should wed."

Ruis laughed. "To-morrow," he answered; "I am not in haste for matrimony;" and laughed again.

"Ruis, Don Jorge and I, we have agreed." There was something in the father's face that banished the merriment of the son. "This night we leave for Havana. See to it that you are in readiness."

In his perplexity Ruis twisted a cigarette.

"Have you understood me?" Don Jayme asked. "In a month we shall be in Spain. You will like to be back there, will you not?" he continued, in suaver tones. "You will like to be back there, rich, and – and the husband of a beautiful girl. Eh, my son? You will like that, will you not? Ruis, see, it is for you. You are all I have. It was for you I came here; it was for you I made this match. For myself, nothing matters. I have had my day. It is in you I live, in you only; and in our name to which this marriage will give a new and needed lustre."

"And you say we leave to-night?"

Don Jayme nodded.

"That will be difficult. H'm." He hesitated, and as he hesitated his father looked inquiringly at him. "It is this: there is one here who thinks that name is to be hers."

"Then does she flatter herself. Who is she?"

"A neighbor."

"Bah! the Fausta? The Fausta is it?" Had Fausta been a negress Don Jayme could not have displayed greater contempt. "Why, the Fausta is a Creole, the daughter of a highwayman."

"Father, she is a flower."

"Of which you have enjoyed the perfume. Doña Clarisa is a bouquet. The change should be pleasant. Come, Ruis, prepare yourself; in an hour we must start."

"I have given my word."

Don Jayme coughed and examined his tapering, yellow fingers. "Then get it back," he said at last.

"Ah yes, but how."

Don Jayme coughed again and shrugged his shoulders. Then suddenly he filliped his forefinger and thumb together as were he counting coin. "Send for your horse, Ruis. I will attend to that." When Ruis returned Don Jayme placed two small yet heavy bags before him. "Offer one," he said; "it is ample. But should she play the difficult, then give the other too. And Ruis, the road is not always safe; are you armed? At least take this dagger. There, I had forgotten; that there may be no complications, get a receipt."

Ruis stuck the dirk in his belt and placed the bags in the holster. His father stood watching him on the veranda. "I will wait for you here," he said, as Ruis mounted; "do not be long." And as the young man touched the horse with his heel, he called out, "I count on you, Ruis." He waved his hand to him lovingly. He was in great good spirits; the goal to which for five years he had striven was full in sight.

And Ruis from the saddle answered, "Count on your gold, Don Jayme."

In a moment he was out of sight, galloping down the road, with only stars and fire-flys to light the way. But of the road the horse knew every inch. And as Ruis galloped he thought of Madrid and its allurements, of the corrida and its emotions, of the Doña Clarisa that was to be his, and of other doñas that he would meet. The future certainly was very bright. As for the present, it was not entirely to his liking. There was an awkward five minutes to pass, but once passed he would shake the red dust from him and never set foot on that road again. Fausta, truly, had been very sweet, and she had beguiled for him many and many an otherwise wearisome hour. But she was like the fruit, which on arriving he had relished. She had lost her savor. I will give her the gold, he thought, the gold and a kiss. The gold will serve for dower and the kiss for farewell.

So mused Don Ruis. He had reached her door, and, as before, at the noise of hoofs she came out with a welcome.

"Ah, Ruis," she murmured, "I have watched for you the entire day. This morning I went to our Eden, and again this afternoon. Where were you? Ruis, I caught a butterfly, it was like a winged acacia, and I gathered the jasmines you like, and waited, but you did not come. My Ruis, I thought you ill perhaps, yet everything was so fair and still I knew you could not be but well. And, Ruis, as I was leaving, a yellow-breast began to sing. He seemed to bring a message from you. I know it now, it was that you would come to-night. Ruis, forgive my foolish words, it is because my heart is full of love for you. But why do you not dismount? Come, we will stroll there beneath the stars. Do you know, Ruis, with you I am so happy there are moments when I could die of joy. But why do you not speak to me? Is it the night? My Ruis, your face seems changed."

"Fausta, I have come to say good-bye."

"Good-bye? Ruis, you jest."

"No, Fausta, it is not jest. Don Jayme and I return to Spain."

"To Spain! It cannot be! You said that when you went, we both should go; that I should be your wife."

"Don Jayme has found another for me."

"And what of your word, Don Ruis?"

"There, Fausta, it is painful enough. Were it not for Don Jayme, you know – naturally, you know – you know very well what I would do. But see, what would you? It is painful, indeed."

"Painful? Painful to whom? Not to Don Jayme, nor seemingly to you."

"Ah, but it is; and see, I have brought you this, and this too." He took the bags from the holster and held them to her. Yet she made no motion to take them. She stepped back a little, and to the midnight of her eyes came a sudden flash. "How much is in them," he continued, "I do not know, but it must be like St. Peter's pence; you can see" – and he affected a little laugh – "they are not light to hold. Truly they must represent a pretty dower, for Don Jayme said – for pleasantry, no doubt – 'Ruis, you will do well to get an acknowledgment.'"

"Ruis! He called you Ruis! Your name is Judas." The girl's face was always white, but now it was whiter than the moon. The red had left her lips, and her voice, which had been melodious as the consonance of citherns and guitars, grew abruptly harsh and strident. She was trembling from head to foot.

"But will you not take them?" he asked, referring to the bags of money which, awkwardly enough, he still held out to her.

"Get back, Spaniard, into the night from which you came. I gave you love, you bring me gold. I gave my trust, you ask a receipt. You shall have it." She had moved forward near to him again, and glared in his face.

"But if you refuse the gold, what," he asked, almost piteously, "what can I give?"

"Nothing save this dirk."

And before the intention could have been divined, she tore the dagger from his belt and sheathed it in his heart.

"There is my receipt," she cried.

The bags fell heavily to the ground, and of one of them the canvas burst open and scattered the contents on the ground. Ruis would have fallen too, but with one steadying hand she held him on the saddle, and with the other unwound her scarlet sash. In a moment's time she had tied him fast; then she gave the affrighted horse a blow and stepped aside. And as she did so the horse veered and rushed up the road, bearing the lifeless Ruis, bound as Mazeppa was, with the dagger still in his heart, to the father who waited his return.

For a little space she listened to the sound of retreating hoofs. She was trembling still.

On the porch the old woman had tottered out. "What was it?" she asked.

"Death."

"Ave Maria purissima!" croned the hag.

And the girl, turning her back to the darkness in which the horse had vanished, answered, as is the custom, "Who conceived without sin."

Fausta re-entered the house, but her mother loitered on the porch. The next morning the gold had disappeared.