Rita Part 12

Jim Montfort glanced at her, and nodded to himself. "She'll do!" he said in his beard. "Montfort grit's good grit, and she's got it. This would be nuts to little Peggy."

Jack Delmonte, too, looked more than once at the slender figure riding so lightly between him and the big rough rider. How beautiful she was!

He had not realised half how beautiful till now. What nerve! what steadiness! It might be the _Reina de Cuba_, Donna Hernandez herself, riding to victory.

He felt an unreasonable jealousy of "Cousin Jim." Half--nay! a quarter of an hour ago, she was riding with him; there were only they two in the world, they and Aquila, poor Aquila,--who had given his life for theirs. She was his comrade then, his charge, his--and now she was Miss Montfort, a young lady of fortune and position, under charge of her cousin, a Yankee captain of rough riders; and he, Jack Delmonte, was--nothing in particular.

As he was thinking these thoughts, Rita chanced to turn her head, and met his gaze fixed earnestly upon her. She blushed suddenly and deeply, the lovely colour rising in a wave over cheeks and forehead; then turned her head sharply away.

"Now I have offended her!" said Jack. "Idiot!" and perhaps he was not very wise.

But there was little time for thinking or blus.h.i.+ng. The Spaniards, seeing Delmonte, whom they regarded as the devil in person, descending upon them in company with a giant and an army (for so they described the band of rough riders at headquarters next day), abandoned their prisoners. The Americans chased them for a mile or so, killed three or four, and, as they reported, "scared the rest into Kingdom Come,"

leaving them only on coming to a thick wood, into which the Gringos, leaping from their horses, vanished, and were seen no more. The victors then returned to the forlorn little group of women and negroes, huddled together by the roadside. Rita had already dismounted, and had Manuela in her arms. She felt her all over, hurrying question upon question.

"My child, you are not hurt? not wounded? these ruffians--did they dare to touch you? did they have the audacity to speak to you, Manuela? Oh, why did I leave you? I could not help it; you saw I could not help it.

You are _sure_ you have no hurt?"

"But, positively, senorita," said Manuela. "See! not a scratch is on me.

They--one fellow--offered to tie my hands; I scratched him so well that he ran away. I am safe, safe--praise be to all saints, to our Holy Lady, and the Senor Delmonte. But--poor Cerito, senorita? what of him? he was with us; he fought like a lion. I saw him fall--"

"Poor Cerito!" said Rita, gravely. "He was a brave, brave lad. A thousand sons to Cuba like him!"

Donna Prudencia was sitting apart on a stone by the roadside. Rita went up to her, took her hand, and kissed her cheek. The Yankee woman looked kindly at her and nodded comprehension, but did not speak. Rita stood silent for a few minutes, timidly stroking the brown cheek and white hair. Her cousin Margaret came into her mind. What would Margaret say, if she were here? She would know the right word, she always did.

"Marm Prudence," she said, presently, "to have the memory of a hero, of one who dies for his country,--that is something, is it not? some little comfort?"

Marm Prudence did not answer at once.

"Mebbe so," she said, presently. "Mebbe so, Miss Margaritty. Noonzio was a good man. Yes'm, I've lost a good husband and a good home! A good husband and a good home!" she repeated. "That's all there is to it, I expect." Her rugged face was disturbed for a moment, and she hid it in her hands; when she looked up, she was her own composed self.

"And what's the next thing?" she asked. "Thank you, Cap'n Delmonty, I'm feeling first-rate. Don't you fret about me. You done all you could.

I'll never forget what you done. Poor husband's last words before he was shot was thanking the Lord Miss Margaritty was off safe. We knew we could trust her with you."

"Indeed," said honest Delmonte, "it is not me you must thank, Donna Prudencia. I did what I could, but it was Captain Montfort and his men who saved both her life and mine."

He told the story briefly, and Marm Prudence listened with interest.

"Well," she said, "that was pretty close, wasn't it? Anyway, you done all you could, Cap'n Jack, and n.o.body can't do no more. And he's Miss Margaritty's cousin, you say? I want to know! He's big enough for three, ain't he?"

Rita laughed, in spite of herself. She beckoned to Cousin Jim, who came up and shook hands with the widow with grave sympathy. But he seemed preoccupied, and, while they were preparing to return to the ruined farm, he was pulling his big beard and meditating with a puzzled air.

"Look here!" he broke out at last, addressing his men. "I've been wondering what was wrong. I couldn't seem to round up, somehow, and now I've got it. Where's that poor old Johnny? I left him with you when I rode forward to reconnoitre."

The rough riders looked at one another, and hung their heads.

"Guess he must have dropped behind," said Raynham. "We didn't wait long after you signalled to us to come on. We--came."

"That's so!" clamoured the rough riders, in sheepish chorus. "We came, Cap'n Jim. That's a fact!"

"Well--that's all right!" said Jim. "You might have brought the old Johnny along, though, seems to me. Two of you ride back and get him; you, Bill, and Juckins. If he seems used up, Juckins can carry him, pony and all."

Juckins, a huge Californian, second only to Montfort in stature, chuckled, and rode off with Raynham at a hand gallop.

Montfort turned to Rita.

"I haven't had time to tell you about it before," he said. "Cousin Rita, I've been hunting for you for three days. We met an old Johnny--an old gentleman, I should say--riding about on a pony, for all the world like Yankee Doodle. He'd got lost, poor old duffer, among these inferior crossroads, and didn't know whether he was in China or Oklahoma. We picked him up, and, riding along, it came out that he was searching for his ward, a young lady who had run away from a convent. Ever heard of such a person, missy? He had started out alone, to ride about Cuba till he found her. Kind of pocket Don Quixote, about five foot high, white hair, silk clothes; highly respectable Johnny."

"Don Miguel!" cried Rita. "Poor, dear, good Don Miguel! I have never written to him, wicked that I am. Oh, where is he, Cousin Jim?"

"Come to ask him," Jim continued, "it appeared that the young lady's name was Montfort. Now, I had just had a letter from Uncle John, wanting me to raise the island to get hold of you and s.h.i.+p you North at once. He had had no letters; was alarmed, you understand. Laid up with a bad knee, or would have come himself. I was just going to start back to the city in search of you, when up comes Don Quixote. When he heard I was your cousin, he fell into my arms, pony and all. Give you my word he did! Almost lost him in my waistcoat pocket. I cheered him up a bit, and we've been poking about together these three days, looking for General Sevillo's camp. Thought you might be there. We were camping by the roadside when we heard your firing. Ah! here he comes now!"

The rough riders came back, their horses trotting now, instead of galloping. Between them, ambling gently along, was a piebald pony of amiable appearance, and on the pony sat a little old gentleman with snow-white hair and a face as mild and gentle as the pony's own. At sight of Rita running to meet him, he uttered a cry of joy, and checked his horse. Next moment he had dismounted, and had her in his arms, sobbing like a child.

"Dear Donito Miguelito!" cried Rita. "Forgive me! please do forgive me, for frightening you. I could not go to the convent, indeed I could not.

I am a wretch to have treated you so, but I could not go to that place."

"Of course you could not, my child," said the good old man. "_Nunc dimittis_, Domine! Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. Of course you could not."

"I could not live with Concepcion; don't you know I could not, Donito Miguelito?"

"The thought is impossible, my Pearl. Speaking with all possible respect, the Senora Montfort, though high-born and accomplished, is a hysterical wildcat. You did well, my child; you did extremely well. So long as I have found you, nothing matters; but, nothing at all. As my great, my gigantic friend, my colossal preserver, el Capitan Gimmo, says, 'Ourrah for oz!'"

"Hurrah!" shouted the rough riders.

CHAPTER XIV.

ANOTHER CAMP.

They made but a brief halt at the ruined farm. The house was completely gutted; the widow of Don Annunzio had the clothes she stood in, and nothing beside. She stood quietly by while her husband's body was laid in the grave beside that of young Cerito; a shallow grave, hastily dug in what had lately been the garden. She listened with the same quiet face while good old Don Miguel, with faltering voice, recited a Latin prayer. She was a Methodist, he a fervent Catholic; but it mattered little at that moment.

By this time it was daylight. A small patch of bananas was found, that had escaped the destroying torch, and on these the party made a hasty meal; then they rode away, all save the negroes, who preferred to stay in the neighbourhood where their lives had been spent.

They rode slowly, in deference to Don Miguel's age and that of his pony.

Rita, riding beside the good old man, listened to the recital of his terrors and anxieties from the time her flight was discovered to the present moment. These caused her real grief, and she begged again and again for the forgiveness which he a.s.sured her was wholly unnecessary.

But when he described the hysterical rage of her stepmother, her eyes brightened, and the colour came back to her pale cheek. She had no doubt that Concepcion Montfort was sorry to lose her; the larger part of her father's fortune had been settled upon her, Rita, before his second marriage.

"The senora also has made diligent search for you, my child!" said Don Miguel. "She has offered ample rewards--"

"I know it!" said Rita. "Only yesterday--can it be that it was only yesterday?--Don Diego Moreno was here--there, I should say, at that peaceful home that is now a heap of ashes. These Spaniards!"

Had she seen Don Diego? the old man asked; and he seemed relieved when she answered in the negative.

"It is well; it is well!" he said. "He is a relative of the senora's, I am aware; but it would have been unsuitable, most unsuitable."

"What would have been unsuitable, Donito Miguelito?"

Don Miguel looked confused. "A--nothing, my child. The Senora Montfort had an idea--Don Diego made certain advances--in short, he would have asked for your hand, my senorita--well, my Margarita, if you will have it so. But I took it upon myself to refuse these overtures without consulting you."