“I fear that there is little hope of that,” she said. “A telegram came here . . . he can hardly see his mother alive again.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Others are not so sorry,” she said, in a strange voice. He looked at her with a rush of understanding that she was standing alone, through her love of Don Manuel.
“Oh, but they must be,” he said.
“Sorry?” she said. “Alas, they are thanking God that my lover is out of the way at this time. You do not know the Whites: how broken we are into cliques. My brother, a great man in so many ways, dreads and hates my lover: he thinks him too dangerous: he wants Bazan to lead the party. If Manuel were here now, Bazan would not stand for five minutes. Then, I suppose, my brother would challenge Manuel to a duel. So, if I bring Manuel back, I break with all I have loved in the past.”
“But you will bring him back,” Hi said.
She looked at him in a way which he never forgot; but she did not answer.
“Let me go and bring him back for you,” Hi pleaded. “Of course, I’m only a boy, but I’ll go like a shot. I’ll take any message you like. Do let me. I’ll never be anything again all my life, probably, except just a planter. But just this once let me ride for you. I only saw you for the first time this morning; but you don’t know what you are to me . . . in my life, I mean . . . you I mean, just there being such a person. Of course, you’re sick of men saying this to you. Miss de Leyva, will you let me go?”
“Carlotta will not let you go,” she said, “I’m sure Miss de Leyva won’t. But I cannot bring Manuel here, against my brother’s prayers, even if I would, from his mother’s death-bed. But there is one thing which I wish you would do for me: take a note from me to Rosa.”
“Of course, I’ll gladly take a note,” he said, “and bring back an answer.”