Part 13 (1/2)

”No,” said the girl, ”not when you make the request. Frankly, in the case of others I should have found what I have heard incredible. It suggests the Knight of La Mancha. Are there many in your country who would do such things?”

Ormsgill felt his face grow a trifle hot. After all, Benicia Figuera was, in that land, at least, a great lady, and he remembered that his own people had doubted him. He laughed somewhat bitterly.

”If I remember correctly, the famous cavalier was more or less crazy,”

he said.

The girl turned a trifle in her chair, and he saw a little gleam kindle in her dark eyes.

”Ah,” she said, ”perhaps it is a pity there are so many who are wholly sensible.”

She sat very close to him, dressed in filmy white which flowed in sweeping lines about a form of the statuesque modeling that is one of the characteristics of the women of The Peninsula, but it was something in her eyes which held Ormsgill's attention. They were Irish eyes, with the inconsequent daring of the Celt in them, though she had also the lips of the Iberian, full and red and pa.s.sionate. The hot blood of the South was in her, and, though she never forgot wholly who and what she was, and there was a certain elusive stateliness in her pose, it was clear to the man that she was one who could on occasion fling petty prudence to the winds and ride as reckless a tilt at conventionalities and cramping customs as he had done. Such a woman he felt would not expect to be safeguarded by a man, but would bear the stress of the conflict with him, if she loved him, not because his quarrel might be an honorable one but because it was his. Then she made him a little grave inclination.

”I venture to make you my compliments, Senor Ormsgill,” she said.

The man set his lips for a moment, and she saw it with a little thrill of triumph. It was borne in upon her that she desired the love of this quiet Englishman who for a whimsical idea had undertaken such a task.

She also felt that she could take it, for she had seen the woman he was pledged to, and knew, if he did not, that he would never be satisfied with her. Then she suddenly remembered her pride, and quietly straightened herself again. Ormsgill sat still looking at her, and though the signs of restraint were plain on his lined face, she saw a curious little glint creep into his eyes. Still, she felt that he did not know it was there.

”What shall I say?” he asked. ”I don't think there are many people who would see anything commendable in what I have done. In fact, those who heard about it would probably consider it a piece of futile rashness, and it is very likely that they would be right. After all, the restraints of the city may become intolerable to the girl.”

”Then why did you undertake it?”

Ormsgill laughed, though there was a faint ring in his voice, for he saw that she had not asked out of idle curiosity. ”I don't exactly know. For one thing, I had made a promise, but to be candid I think there were other reasons. You see, I have borne the burden myself. I have been plundered of my earnings, driven to exhaustion, and have fought against long odds for my life. It left me with a bitterness against any custom which makes the grinding of the helpless possible.

One can't help a natural longing to strike back now and then.”

Benicia nodded. It was not surprising that there was a certain vein of vindictiveness in her, which rendered it easy for her to sympathize with him, and once more the man noticed that where Ada Ratcliffe would in all probability have listened with half-disdainful impatience she showed comprehension.

”Still,” she said, ”in a struggle of this kind you have so much against you. After all, you are only one man.”

”I almost think there are a few more of us even in Africa and, as Father Tiebout says, it is, perhaps, possible that one man may be permitted to do--something--here and there.”

He spoke with a grave simplicity which curiously stirred the girl. It is possible that the sorrows of the oppressed did not in themselves greatly interest her, for she had certainly never borne the burden, but the att.i.tude of this quiet man who, it seemed, had taken up their cause, and was ready to ride a tilt against the powers that be, appealed to her. She had, at least, courage and imagination, and there was Irish blood in her.

”Ah,” she said, ”the fight is an unequal one, but though there will be so many against you I think you have also a few good friends--as well as the Senor Desmond.”

Ormsgill started. Her knowledge of his affairs was disconcerting, but he forgot his annoyance at it when she leaned forward a trifle looking at him. Her mere physical beauty had its effect on him, and the soft moonlight and her clinging white draperies enhanced and etherealized it, but it was not that which set his heart beating a trifle faster and sent a faint thrill through him. It was once more her eyes he looked at, and what he saw there made it clear that the reckless, all-daring something that was in her nature was wholly in sympathy with him. He also understood that she had asked him to count her as one of his friends. His manner was, however, a little quieter than usual.

”It is a matter of gratification to me to feel that I have,” he said.

”Still, what do you know about Desmond?”

Benicia laughed. ”Not a great deal, but I can guess rather more.

Still, I do not think you need fear that I will betray you. In the meantime I venture to believe that this is another of your friends.”

She rose and turned towards the door as her father came in. He shook hands with Ormsgill, and then taking off his kepi drew forward a chair. Benicia said nothing further, but went out and left them together. Dom Clemente lighted a cigarette before he turned to his guest with a little dry smile.

”Trade,” he said, ”is not brisk up yonder?”