Three Margarets

  CHAPTER XI.

  HEROES AND HEROINES.

  "Oh for a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear!"

  "How to support life on such a day as this?" demanded Rita, coming outof her room, and confronting her cousins as they came upstairs. She hadbeen asleep, and her dark eyes were still misty and vague. The others,on the contrary, had been running in the rain, and they were alla-tingle with life and fresh air, and a-twinkle with rain-drops. Themoment was not a good one, and Rita's straight brows drew togetherominously.

  "You have been--amusing yourselves, it appears," she said, in the oldwithering tone that they were learning to forget. "Of course, herenothing matters; one may as well be a savage as an _elegante_ in thewilderness; but I should be sorry to meet you in Havana, my cousins!"

  Peggy hung her head, and tried to keep her muddy feet out of sight.Margaret only laughed, and held up her petticoats higher.

  "You ought to have been with us, Rita!" she said. "We have had greatfun. The garden is one great shower-bath, and the brook is roaring likea baby lion. I am really beginning to learn how to walk in wet feet, amI not, Peggy? I used to think I should die if my feet were wet. It isreally delightful to feel the water go 'plop!' in and out of one'sboots. Now, my dear," she added, "I really cannot let you be cross,because Peggy and I are in the most delightful good humour, and we camein on purpose, because we thought you would be awake, and would want tobe amused. If you frown, Rita, I shall kiss you, all dripping wet, andyou know you could not bear that."

  She advanced, holding up her rosy, shining face, down which the dropswere still streaming. Rita uttered a shriek and vanished.

  "I don't see how you can talk to her that way," said Peggy admiringly."When she opens her eyes at me, and pulls her eyebrows together, I feelabout two inches high and three years old. You are brave in your ownway, Margaret, if you can't pull people out of bogs."

  Margaret laughed again. "My dear, I found it was the only way," shesaid. "If I let her ride over me--" Here she stopped suddenly, and witha change of tone bade Peggy hasten to change her wet clothes. "It is allvery fine to get wet," she said, "and I am grateful for the lesson,Peggy; but I know that one _must_ change when she comes in."

  Peggy made a grimace, and said that at home she was often wet throughfrom morning till night, and nobody cared; but Margaret resolutelypushed her into her room and shut the door, before going on to her own.

  In a few minutes both girls, dry and freshly clad, knocked at Rita'sdoor; and though her "Come in" still sounded rather sullen, it was yet adistinct invitation, and they entered. Rita had made this room over inher own way, much to Elizabeth's inconvenience. The chintz curtains werealmost covered with little flags, emblems, feathery grasses, and thelike, pinned here and there in picturesque confusion. A large Cuban flagdraped the mantelpiece, and portraits of the Cuban leaders adorned thewalls. Over the dressing-table was the great scarlet fan which hadplayed such a conspicuous part in the drama of "_Cuba Libre_," and itwas pinned to the wall with a dagger of splendid and alarmingappearance. The mirror was completely framed in photographs, mostly ofdark-eyed senoritas in somewhat exaggerated toilets. Inscriptions inevery variety of sprawling hand testified to the undying love ofConchita, Dolores, Manuela, and a dozen others, for their all-beautifulMargarita, to part from whom was death.

  If this were literally true, the youthful population of Cuba must havebeen sensibly diminished by Rita's departure. There were black-browedyouths, too, some gazing tenderly, some scowling fiercely, all wearingthe Cuban ribbon with all possible ostentation. One of these youths wasmanifestly Carlos Montfort, Rita's brother, for they were like enough tohave been twins; another had been pointed out to Margaret, in a whispercharged with dramatic meaning, as "Fernando," the cousin on her mother'sside, the handsomest man in Havana, and the most fascinating. Margaretlooked coolly enough at this devastator of hearts, and thought that herown cousin Carlos was far handsomer. Peggy thought so, too; indeed, hersusceptible sixteen-year-old heart was deeply impressed by CousinCarlos's appearance, and she would often steal into the room duringRita's absence, to peep and sigh at the delicate, high-bred face, withits flashing dark eyes, and the hair that grew low on the forehead, withjust the same tendril curls that made Rita's hair so lovely. Oh! Peggywould think, if her own hair were only dark, or even brown,--anythingbut this disgusting, wishy-washy flaxen. She had longed for dark eyesand hair ever since she could remember. Poor Peggy! But she kept herlittle romance to herself, and indeed it was a very harmless one, andhelped her a good deal about keeping her hair neat and her shoe-stringstied.

  When the girls went in now, they found Rita curled up on her sofa, withthe robe and pillow of chinchilla fur that had come with her from Cuba.It was a bad sign, Margaret had learned, when the furs came out in warmweather. It meant a headache generally, and at any rate a chilly stateof body, which was apt to be accompanied by a peevish state of mind.Still, she looked so pretty, peeping out of the soft gray nest! She wassuch a child, after all, in spite of her seventeen years,--decidedly,she must be amused.

  "Well," said Rita, half dolefully, half crossly, "I cannot commandsolitude, it appears. I am desolated; I desire to die, while thisfrightful rain pours down, but I cannot die alone; that is not sufferedme."

  "Certainly not," replied Margaret cheerfully. "Don't die yet, please,dear, but when you feel that you must, we will be at hand to take yourlast wishes, won't we, Peggy?"

  But Peggy thought Margaret cruel, and could only look at Ritaremorsefully, feeling that she had sinned, she knew not how.

  "And how are we to amuse ourselves?" added Margaret, seating herself onthe couch at Rita's feet. "I think we must tell stories; it is a perfectday for stories. Oh, Peggy, don't you want to get my knitting, like thedear good child you are? I cannot listen well unless I have myknitting."

  Peggy brought the great pink and gray blanket which had been Margaret'sfriend and companion for several months, and with it her own diminutivepiece of work, a doily that she was supposed to be embroidering. Ritalay watching them with bright eyes, her eyebrows still nearer togetherthan was desirable. At last, "Well," she said again. There wasimpatience and irritation in the tone, but there was interest, too.

  "Well," replied Margaret, "I was only thinking what would be pleasantestto do; there are so many things. How would it do for each of us to tella story,--a heroic story, such as will stand the rain, and not be afraidof a wetting?"

  "Of our own deeds?" inquired Rita.

  "Oh, perhaps hardly that. If I waited to find a heroic deed of my ownperformance, you might get tired, my dear. Somehow heroics do not comeevery day, as they used in story times. But I can tell you one of myfather. Will you hear it?"

  Rita nodded languidly; Peggy looked up eagerly.

  "It was in the great Blankton fire," said Margaret. "I don't supposeyou know about it, Rita, but Peggy may have heard. No? Well, the countryis very big, after all. It seems as if all the world must have heard ofthat fire. I was hardly more than a baby at the time, but I rememberseeing the red glare, and thinking that we were not going to have anynight that time, as the sun was getting up again as soon as he had goneto bed. We were living in Blankton that winter, for papa had some workthat made it necessary for him to be near the Blankton libraries;Historical Society work, you know, as so much of his work was." Shepaused for some appreciative word, but none came. Apparently neither ofher cousins had heard of the Historical Society, which had played solarge a part in her father's life and her own.

  "The whole sky was like blood!" she went on; "and when the smoke-cloudsthat hung low over the city blew aside, we could see the flames dartingup, high, high, like pillars and spires. Oh! it was a beautiful,dreadful sight! I watched it, baby as I was, with delight. I neverthought that my own father was in all that terrible glow and furnace,and that he came near losing his precious life to save another's."

  "How?" cried Peggy, roused at the mention of saving life. "Did he startanother fire to meet it?"

  "Oh, n
o, no!" cried Margaret, in her turn failing to appreciate theWestern point of view. "He tried to help put it out at first in thebuilding where he was, and when he saw that was impossible, he went towork getting out his books and papers. They were very, very valuable; nomoney could have bought some of them, he said, for they were originaldocuments, and in some cases there were no duplicates. They were Papa'streasures,--more to him than twenty fortunes. So he began taking themout, slowly and carefully, thinking he had plenty of time. But after hehad taken out the first load, he heard cries and groans in a room nearhis own office, and going in, he found an old man, a wretched old miserthat lived there all alone, in dirt and misery, though every one knew hewas immensely rich. He seemed to have gone out of his mind with fright,and there he sat, his hands full of notes and bonds and things,screaming and crying, and saying that he could not go out, for he wouldbe robbed, and he must stay there and burn to death. Papa tried toreason with him, but he would not listen, only screamed louder, andcalled Papa a robber when he tried to take the papers from him. ThenPapa called to the men who were passing by to help him, but they wereall so busy saving their own things, they could not stop, I suppose, orat any rate, they did not; and all the time the fire was coming nearer,and the smoke was getting thicker and thicker. Somebody who knew Papacalled to him that the fire had reached his entry, and that in fiveminutes his office would be in flames. He started to run, thinking hecould get out a few precious books, and let the others go while he gotthe old man out; but this time the poor old soul clung to him, andbegged not to be left to burn, and looking out into the hall, Papa sawthe smoke-cloud all shot with flame, and bright tongues licking alongthe walls toward him. So he took the old man by the arm and tried tolead him out, but he screamed that his box must go too, his preciousbox, or he should die of grief. That was his strong-box, and it was tooheavy for him to lift, so he sat down beside it, hugging it, and sayingthat he would never leave it. Poor Papa was at his wit's end, for at anymoment they might be surrounded and cut off from the stairs. So heheaved up the box and threw it out of the window, and then he took theold miser on his back and ran for his life. Oh, girls, there was onlyjust time! He had to run through the fire, and his hair and beard weresinged, and his clothes; but he got through, half blinded and choked,and almost strangled, too, for the old miser was clutching his throatall the time, and screaming out that he had murdered him."

  "Why did he not drop him?" inquired Rita. "My faith, why should he besaved, the old vegetable?"

  "Oh, Rita, you don't know what you are saying. It was a human life, andof course he _had_ to save it; but it did seem cruel that the preciousbooks and papers had to be sacrificed for just wretched money. That wasthe heroic part of it,--Papa's leaving the things that meant more to himthan anything in the world, except me and his friends, and saving theold miser's money."

  "If he could have saved him and the books, and let the money go toJericho!" said Peggy; "but I suppose he couldn't."

  "That was just it! The man was really out of his mind, you see, and ifPapa had left him he might have run into the fire, or jumped out of thewindow, or done any other crazy thing. Well, that is my story, girls.Who shall come next,--you, Rita?"

  Rita had been only partly roused by the story of the fire. An unclesaving a dirty old man and his money did not specially appeal to her;the hero should have been young and ardent, and should have saved a ladyfrom the burning house. Peggy wanted to be responsive, but it seemed agreat fuss to make over musty old books and papers; probably they werelike those that Margaret made such a time about in the library here;Peggy had looked at some of them, and they were as dry as dry could be.If he had saved a dog, now, or a child,--and at the thought her eyesbrightened.

  "Do heroines count," she asked; "or must it be a man?"

  "Of course they count!" cried Margaret, bending over her work to hidethe tears that came to her eyes. She felt the glow checked in herheart,--knew that her story, her beloved story, had not struck the notethat always thrilled her when she saw in thought her father, slender,gray-haired, carrying out the strange man, and leaving behind him,without a word, the fruits of years of toil.

  "Of course heroines count, my dear! Have you one for us?"

  "Ma did something nice once," said Peggy shyly; "she saved my life whenI was a baby."

  "Tell us!" cried both girls, and Rita's eyes brightened, for this seemedto promise better.

  "It was when Pa first took up the claim," said Peggy. "The country waspretty wild then,--Indians about, and a good many big beasts: panthers,and mountain lions, and so on. I was the only girl, and I was two yearsold. Pa used to be out on the claim all day, and the boys with him, allexcept Hugh, and he was in bed at that time; and Ma used to work in thegarden, and keep me by her so that I wouldn't get into mischief.

  "One day she was picking currants, and I had been sitting by her,playing with some hollyhock flowers she had given me. She did not noticewhen I crawled away, but suddenly she heard me give a queer sort ofscream. She turned round, and there was a big panther dragging me offdown the garden path by my dress. Ma felt as if she was dead for aminute; but then she ran back to the seed-house--it was only a few stepsoff--and got a hoe that she knew was there, and tore off after thepanther. It wasn't going very fast, for I was a pretty heavy baby, andit didn't know at first that any one was after it. When it heard Macoming it started off quicker, and had almost got to the woods when shecaught up. Ma raised that hoe and brought it down on the beast's head ashard as she knew how. It dropped me, and turned on her, grinning andsnarling, and curling its claws all ready for a spring. She neverstopped to draw breath; she raised the hoe again, and that time, shesays, she prayed to the swing of it; and she brought it down, and heardthe creature's skull go crash under it, and felt the hoe sink in. Thepanther gave a scream and rolled over, and then Ma rolled over too; andwhen Pa came home to dinner, a few minutes later, they were both lyingthere still, and I was trying to pick up my hollyhock flowers. We havenever had hollyhocks since then; Ma can't bear 'em."

  There was no doubt about the effect of Peggy's story. Before it wasfinished Rita was sitting bolt upright, her chinchilla robe thrown back,her hands clasped over her knee, her eyes alight with interest; andMargaret cried, "Oh, Peggy, Peggy, what a splendid story!"

  "Well, it's true!" said Peggy.

  "Of course it is; that's the splendid part. Oh, I am so proud to have anaunt so brave and strong. Aunt--why, Peggy, you have never told me yourmother's name!"

  "You never asked," said Peggy. "Her name is Susan."

  Margaret blushed, and mentally applied the scourge to herself. It wastrue; she never had asked. Peggy had said that her mother had noeducation, and had got along very well without it; this was all thatMargaret wanted to know. A shallow, ignorant woman, who had let herchild grow up in such ignorance as Peggy's; and now she learned, all ina moment, of a strong, brave woman, helping her husband to clear thewaste where their home was to be, making that home, bringing up hergreat family in love and rude plenty, and killing wild beasts with herown hard, honest hand. Margaret was learning a good deal this summer,and this was one of the most salutary lessons. She bowed her head andaccepted it, but she only said aloud:

  "Aunt Susan! I hope I shall know her some day. I shall put her in myheroine book, Peggy, from this minute." And the tone was so warm andhearty that Peggy's eyes filled with tears, and she felt dimly that she,too, had been neglectful of "Ma" of late, and resolved to write a goodlong letter that very afternoon.

  "And now it is your turn, Rita!" said Margaret. "I give you till I knitto the end of this row to find a hero or heroine in your family. Youmust have plenty of them."

  Rita laughed, and curled herself into another graceful, sinuousattitude. Her eyes shone. "My brother Carlos is in the mountains," shesaid; "my cousin Fernando with him. Pouf! if I were with them!"

  She was silent a moment, and then went on, speaking slowly, and pausingevery few minutes to blow little holes in her chinchilla robe, afavourite amusement of hers. r />
  "The San Reals have plenty of heroes, heroines too; my mother was a SanReal, you remember. What will you have, Marguerite? Far back, anancestor of mine was the most beautiful woman in Spain. Her lover wasseized by the Inquisition; she went to the Tribunal, accused herself,and died in his place. Will you have her for a heroine? Mygreat-grandfather--he was a Grandee of Spain. The nephew of the kinginsulted him to the death, and thought his rank made him safe. He wasfound dead the next morning, and my great-grandfather lay dead besidehim, with the dagger in his heart that had first slain the prince. Is hea hero such as you love, Marguerite?"

  "No, not at all!" cried Margaret, "Rita, what dreadful tales! Those werethe dark days, when people did not know better; but surely you musthave some ancestors who were not murd--who did not die violent deaths."

  "They are San Reals!" said Rita. "They had royal blood of Spain in theirveins. Cold, thin, Northern blood cannot warm to true heroism." Shesulked for some time after this, and refused to say anything more; butdesire of imparting was strong in her, and Margaret's smile could not beresisted indefinitely.

  "Come!" she said. "You meant no harm, Marguerite; you cannot understandme or my people, but I should have known it, and your birth is not yourfault. Listen, then, and see if this will please you."

  She seemed to meditate for some time, and when she spoke again it wasstill more slowly, as if she were choosing her words.

  "Once on a time,--no matter when,--there was a war. A cruel, unjust,devilish war, when the people of--when my people were ground to theearth, tortured, annihilated. All that was right and true and good wason one side; on the other, all that was base and brutal and horrible.There was no good, none! they are--they were devils, allowed to come toearth,--who can tell why?

  "The--the army of my people had suffered; they were in need of manythings, of food, of shoes, but most of all of arms. The whole nationcried for bloodshed, and there were not arms for the half of them. Howto get weapons? Near by there was another country, but a short wayacross the water--"

  "Africa?" asked Peggy innocently. But Rita flashed at her with eyes andteeth.

  "If you will be silent, Calibana! Do I tell this story, or do you? haveI mentioned a name?"

  "I beg pardon!" muttered poor Peggy. "I didn't mean to interrupt, Rita;I only thought Africa was the nearest to Spain across the water."

  Rita glowered at her, and continued. "This neighbour-country was rich,great, powerful; but her people were greedy, slothful, asleep. They hadarms, they had food, money, everything. Did they help my people in theirneed? I tell you, no!"

  She almost shrieked the last words, and Margaret looked up in somealarm, but concluding that Rita was merely working herself up to adramatic crisis, she went on with her knitting.

  "To this rich, slothful country," Rita went on, dwelling on everyadjective with infinite relish, "came a girl, a daughter of the countrythat was bleeding, dying. She was young; she had fire in her veinsinstead of blood; she was a San Real. She stayed in a house--aplace--near the seashore, a house empty for the great part; full ofrooms, empty of persons. The thought came to her,--Here I could concealarms, could preserve them for my country, could deliver them to vesselscoming by sea. It is a night expedition, it is a little daring, a littlevalour, the risk of my life,--what is that? I could arm my country, mybrothers, against the tyrants. I could--" Rita paused, and both girlslooked at her in amazement. She had risen from the couch, and now stoodin the middle of the room; her slender form quivered with emotion; hergreat eyes shone with dark fire; her voice vibrated on their ears withnew and powerful cadences.

  "This girl--was alone. She needed help. With her in the house wereothers, her friends, but knowing little of her heart. Their bloodflowed slowly, coldly; they were good, they were kind, but--would theyhelp her? Would they brave danger for her sake, for the sake of thecountry that was dearer to her than life? Alone she was but one, withtheir aid--

  "Listen! there came one day a letter to this house by the sea; it wasfor--for the person of whom I speak. Her brother was near, in a city notfar off. He had come to collect arms, he had bought them, he must find aplace to conceal them. Her dream was about to come true. She turned toher friends, the two whom she loved! She opened her arms, she opened hersoul; she cried to them--"

  "Stop!" said Margaret. She, too, had risen to her feet, and her face wasvery pale. Peggy looked from one to the other in alarm. Were they goingto quarrel? Margaret's eyes were as bright as Rita's, but their lightwas calm and penetrating, not flashing and glowing with passion.

  "Rita," she said, "I hope--I trust I am entirely wrong in what I cannothelp thinking. I trust this is a story, and nothing else. It cannot beanything else!" she continued, her voice gaining firmness as she wenton. "We are here in our uncle's house. He is away, he has left us incharge, having confidence in his brothers' daughters. If--ifanything--if anybody should plan such a thing as you suggest, it wouldnot only be ungrateful, it would be base. I could not harbour such athought for an instant. Oh, I hope I wrong you! I hope it was only adramatic fancy. Tell me that it was, my dear, and I will beg your pardonmost humbly."

  She paused for an answer, but Rita made none for the moment.

  She stood silent, the very soul of passion, her eyes dilating, her lipsapart, her breast heaving with the furious words that her will would notsuffer to escape. Margaret almost thought she would spring upon her,like the wild creature she seemed. But presently a change came over theCuban girl. A veil gathered over the glowing eyes; her hands unclenchedthemselves, opened softly; her whole frame seemed to relax its tension,and in another moment she dropped on her couch with a low laugh.

  "_Chere Marguerite_," she said, "you, too, were born for the stage. Yourclimax, it was magnificent, _tres chere_; pity that you spoiled it withan anti-climax." And she shrugged her shoulders. "My poor little story!You would not even let me finish it. No matter; perhaps it has no end;perhaps I was but trying to see if I could put life into you, statuesthat you are. Ah, it was a pretty story, if I could have been permittedto finish it!"

  Margaret turned scarlet. "My dear, if I have been rude," she said, "I amvery sorry, Rita; I thought--"

  "You thought!" said Rita, her full voice dropping the words scornfully,in a way that was hard to bear. "Your thoughts are very valuable, _treschere_; I must not claim too many of them; they would be wasted on apoor patriot like me. And thou, Peggy, how didst thou like my story,eh?"

  Rita turned so suddenly on Peggy that the poor child had not time toshut her mouth, which had been open in sheer amazement.

  "Shut it!" said Rita sharply. "Is it a whale, or the Gulf of Mexico? Iasked how you like my story, little stupid. Have you had sense to attendto it?"

  Peggy's eyes filled with tears. A month ago she would have answeredangrily, but now Rita was her goddess, and she could only weep at aharsh word from her.

  "I--I think it is fine for a story, Rita," she answered slowly. "I lovedto hear it. But--" Her blue eyes wandered helplessly for a moment, thenmet Margaret's steady gaze, and settled. "But if such a thing were true,Margaret would be right, wouldn't she?"

  "And if you removed yourselves now?" queried Rita, turning her back tothem with a sudden fling of the fur robe over her shoulder. "One mustsleep in this place, or be talked to death, it appears. I choose sleep.My ears ring at present as with the sound of the sea,--a sea of coldbabble! _Adios_, Senorita Calibana, Dona Fish-blood! I pray for relief!"

  Margaret took Peggy's hand without a word, and they went out; but Peggycried till dinner-time, and would not be comforted.