“And I will dance the fandango with William to amuse them,” said Teresa, with a naughty twinkle in her eye.
In the afternoon she walked with Ricardo across the rolling fields of the Cary farm. With a pair of black horses William was mowing a thick stand of red clover. The strident clatter of the cutter bar was like a familiar song to the elder son, to carry him back to his boyhood. His mind was at peace, relaxed and untroubled by turbulent memories.
The tranquil landscape had laid its spell also upon the heart of Teresa. Her eyes filled and her voice had a pensive cadence as she said:
“Is this a dream, Ricardo mine? Or was all that a dream, down by the Caribbean Sea, and is this true? I feel just like you, that perhaps I have had two lives to live. Ah, how I beseech the dear God and the Holy Mary to let this life last, maybe not here, but anywhere with you. This is what I told you when I found you drifting with the galleon bell.”
“Forget the galleon bell,” he told her, “I am sure it will never ring again. And we will say no more about the Spanish Main. Let my mother guess and wonder what happened.”
“Yes, Ricardo, it could not be told in Fairfield,” sighed Teresa, “not the least little bit. Already I can see that. We will be a mystery, you and I—”
Like a processional vestured in beautiful garments of green, the days of the brief New England summer went gliding by. Brawny and untiring, Richard helped William with the haying and did the work of three hired men. Teresa took more and more of the household routine upon herself, and the mother was affectionately compelled to enjoy the first vacation in years. In their leisure hours the married lovers wandered through the countryside in the disreputable little car, or went fishing on the pond.
To his mother Richard made no mention of future plans. She was accustomed to his indifferent moods when at home from sea, but now he was a man with new responsibilities. These ought to arouse his ambition and make him bestir himself. Therefore she ventured to inquire:
“Are you calculating to spend the winter with me, Richard? Not but what you and Teresa are as welcome as the flowers in May, but she is used to more comforts and luxuries than we can give her on this old farm, and how do you intend to take care of her? What money I’ve saved in the bank belongs to you, and I don’t begrudge your spending every penny of it, but, well, it kind of worries me. You told me she had no means of her own—”
“That reminds me, mother,” her son replied, blandly unconcerned. “I found a letter from Cartagena in the mail-box. Teresa has gone to the village with Bill, so she hasn’t seen it yet. It is from a Señor Alonzo de Mello, a banker who looked after the business interests of Teresa’s uncle. I sent him a report from Panama of the loss of the Valkyrie and the death of Señor Ramon Bazán. He encloses a letter to Teresa in Spanish. Here is what he writes me:”