San Isidro

by Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield

There was no sign of the wearing effect of sleeplessness on the shell-like face when that important little lady appeared upon the veranda, clothed in some wonderful arrangement of diaphanous material, which was to Beltran's vision as the stage manager's dream of the unattainable in costume. With the joyous greeting there was offered a jasmine or allemanda flower or bougainvellia bracht for the girdle bouquet, which often Beltran assisted in arranging, as was a cousin's right; and in return, if Felisa was very good-natured, there followed the placing of a corresponding bud or blossom in Beltran's buttonhole by those small, plump fingers, loaded down with their wealth of shining rings.

It was at this time that Agueda received a shock which, as a preliminary to her final fate, more than all conveyed to her mind how things were going. It was early morning. Juana had brought to Agueda's room the fresh linen piled high in the old yellow basket. Together they laid the articles on chairs and table, selecting from the pile those that needed a few stitches. Agueda sat herself down by the window to mend. She took up her needle and threaded it, then let her hands fall in her lap, as had become her custom of late. Her head was turned to the grove outside, and her gaze rested among the leaves and penetrated their vistas without perceiving anything in grove or trocha.

She had heard Beltran moving about in his room, but he had thrown the door wide and gone whistling down the veranda toward that latest goal of his hopes. She heard the gay greeting, and the distant faint response, then a laugh at some sally of fun. Agueda looked wearily at the pile of starched cleanliness, and took up her work again. How hateful the drudgery seemed! Before this—in other days—time was—when—

It was a homely bit of sewing, a shirt of the Señor's, which needed buttons. This recalled to Agueda that the last week's linen had been neglected by her. It had been put away as it came from Juana's hands. With sudden decision she determined now to face the inevitable, to accept the world as it had become to her, all in a moment, as it were.

Agueda arose and dropped the linen from her lap to the floor. She had never been taught careful ways. All that she knew of such things had come to her by intuition, and her action showed the dominant strain of her blood—not the exactness of a trained servant, but the carelessness of a petted child of fortune. She stepped over the white mass at her feet and went to the door that led from her room to Beltran's. She walked as one who has come to a sudden determination. Of late she had not been there, except to perform some such service as the present moment demanded. She seized the knob in her hand, and turned it round, pressing the weight of her young body against the door. Instead of bursting hurriedly into the room, as was her wont, she found the door unyielding. Again she tried it, twisting the knob this way and that.

She was about to call upon one of the men to come to her aid, as the door had stuck fast, when suddenly she stopped, standing where the exertion had left her. Her colour fled, her lips grew bloodless, she leaned dizzy and sick against the door. On the floor, at her feet, she had caught sight of a small shaving that had pushed itself through the crack underneath. She put her hand to her side as if a physical pain had seized her. She ran to the door of her room which opened upon the outer and more secluded veranda. Passing through this, she walked with trembling steps to the doorway of Beltran's room. She could hear his gay badinage down at the end of the house, where she knew that Felisa was sipping her chocolate inside her room, while he called impatiently to know when she would be ready for the excursion of the day.

Agueda entered Beltran's room and walked swiftly to the communicating door. Ah! it was as she had feared. Some shavings upon the floor, and a new bolt, put there she knew not when, perhaps when she was up in the field on the previous day, attested to the verity of her suspicion. What did Beltran fear? That, remembering the old-time love and confidence, she should take advantage of it and of her near proximity, and when all the coloñia slept, go to him and endeavour to recall those past days, try to rekindle the love so nearly dead? Nearly dead! It must be quite so, when he could remind her thus cruelly, if silently, that a new order of things now reigned at San Isidro.

Agueda appreciated, now perhaps for the first time fully, that her life had changed, that she had become now as the Nadas and the Anetas of this world. She closed her lips firmly as this thought came to her. Well, if it were so, she must bear it. Like Aneta, she had not been "smart," but unlike the Anetas of this life, she would learn something from her misfortune, and be henceforth self-respecting, so far as this great and overwhelming blow would allow. Never again should Beltran feel that he had the right to bestow upon her a touch or a caress, however delicate, however gentle. They were separated now for good and all. She saw it as she had never seen it before. All along she had been hoping against hope. She had constantly remembered Beltran's words that first week of Felisa's stay: "They will be going home soon, and then all will be as before." She saw now that Beltran had deceived himself, even while he was deceiving her. He could not turn them out, as he had once said to her, but he had now no wish to turn them out, nor did they wish to go. He was lost to her, but even so, with the memory of what had been, Beltran should respect her. He should find that, as she was not his chattel, she would not be his plaything while he made love to that other respectable girl, who would tolerate no advances which were not preceded by a ceremony and the blessing of the church. Foolish, foolish Agueda! Had she been "smart," she might have welcomed Felisa as her cousin, instead of appearing as the slighted thing she now felt herself to be. And then, again, her soul rebelled at such a view of the case. His wife! What humiliation were hers to be Beltran's wife, and see what she saw now every day, the proof of his love for this fair-haired cousin of his, while she, his wife, looked on helpless. Then, indeed, would she have been in his power. Now she was free—free from him, free to respect herself, even in her shame.

As Felisa has been likened to a garden escape in point of looks, so might one liken Agueda to a garden escape in point of what people designate as morals. Agueda had never heard of morals as such. She had had no teaching, only the one warning which Nada had given her, and that, she considered, she had followed to the letter.

Agueda had stood intrenched within a garden whose soil was virtue. She did not gaze with curiosity, nor did she care to look, over the palings into the lane which ran just outside. She stood tall and splendid as a young hollyhock, welcoming the sun and the dew that Heaven sent down upon her proud young head. But though fate had surrounded her with this environment, whose security she had never questioned, her inheritance had placed her near the palings. Those other great white flowers that stood in the middle of the garden could never come to disaster. But Agueda, unwittingly, had been thrust to the wall. Love's hand had pushed itself between the palings of the fence that surrounded her garden and had bent the proud stalk and drawn it through into the outer lane. While Beltran showed his love for her, she did not feel that she had escaped from her secure stand inside. Her roots were strong and embedded in the soil of virtue, and wanton love would never find a place within her thoughts or feelings. She did not realise the loss of dignity. "All for love," had been her text and creed. The remedy, if remedy were needed, had been close at hand. It had been offered her. She had only to stretch out her hand and take it, and draw back within her garden, showing no bruise or wound, but happy in that she could still rear herself straight and proud among the company of uninjured stalks. But though the remedy had been at hand, Agueda had not grasped it with due haste. Unmindful of self, she had allowed the opportunity to escape her, and now she could not spring back among those other blooms whose freshness had never been tarnished. Alas! She found herself still in the muddy lane. She had been plucked and worn and tossed down into the rut along the roadside, where she must forever lie, limp and faded.