And Fausta, waist-encircled, would answer, “Ruis, I love you; I need to see you, to see you again, and always. When you leave me it is as though I fell asleep, to reawake only at your return.”
It was with this duo and its infinite variations that they charmed two months away. To Ruis, at first, no other months of all his life had been so fertile in delight. To Fausta they were not months, but dreams fulfilled.
Meanwhile, Don Jayme had not been idle. He had been much in Puerto Principe, and he had made two journeys to Havana. Now from Santiago to Havana the distance is 600 miles, and Don Jayme was not a man to undertake such a journey without due and sufficient cause. Be this as it may, it so happened that after his second visit to the capital he enjoyed a memorable interview with his son. To him he had as yet said nothing of his plans, but on this occasion he made no secret of them.
“Ruis,” he said, leisurely, with the air of one engaging in conversation solely for conversation’s sake, “you know the House of Sandoval?”
“Surely: we are more or less related. A hundred years ago an Ixar married a Sandoval—”
“Of the younger branch, however. We do not bear their arms.”
“There was no bluer blood in all Castile.”
“No, nor yet in Aragon. Don Jorge is in Havana.”
“Don Jorge of Sandoval! I thought him dead.”
“His credit was, but that has since revived. He came to Cuba the year before I came myself. I am little richer now than then, but he has garnered millions.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, millions—three at least. In the Convent of Our Lady del Pilar is his daughter, Doña Clarisa. We have agreed that you and she should wed.”
Ruis laughed. “Tomorrow,” he answered; “I am not in haste for matrimony;” and laughed again.
“Ruis, Don Jorge and I, we have agreed.” There was something in the father’s face that banished the merriment of the son. “This night we leave for Havana. See to it that you are in readiness.”
In his perplexity Ruis twisted a cigarette.
“Have you understood me?” Don Jayme asked. “In a month we shall be in Spain. You will like to be back there, will you not?” he continued, in suaver tones. “You will like to be back there, rich, and—and the husband of a beautiful girl. Eh, my son? You will like that, will you not? Ruis, see, it is for you. You are all I have. It was for you I came here; it was for you I made this match. For myself, nothing matters. I have had my day. It is in you I live, in you only; and in our name to which this marriage will give a new and needed lustre.”
“And you say we leave tonight?”
Don Jayme nodded.
“That will be difficult. H’m.” He hesitated, and as he hesitated his father looked inquiringly at him. “It is this: there is one here who thinks that name is to be hers.”
“Then does she flatter herself. Who is she?”
“A neighbor.”
“Bah! the Fausta? The Fausta is it?” Had Fausta been a negress Don Jayme could not have displayed greater contempt. “Why, the Fausta is a Creole, the daughter of a highwayman.”
“Father, she is a flower.”
“Of which you have enjoyed the perfume. Doña Clarisa is a bouquet. The change should be pleasant. Come, Ruis, prepare yourself; in an hour we must start.”
“I have given my word.”
Don Jayme coughed and examined his tapering, yellow fingers. “Then get it back,” he said at last.
“Ah yes, but how.”
Don Jayme coughed again and shrugged his shoulders. Then suddenly he filliped his forefinger and thumb together as were he counting coin. “Send for your horse, Ruis. I will attend to that.” When Ruis returned Don Jayme placed two small yet heavy bags before him. “Offer one,” he said; “it is ample. But should she play the difficult, then give the other too. And Ruis, the road is not always safe; are you armed? At least take this dagger. There, I had forgotten; that there may be no complications, get a receipt.”
Ruis stuck the dirk in his belt and placed the bags in the holster. His father stood watching him on the veranda. “I will wait for you here,” he said, as Ruis mounted; “do not be long.” And as the young man touched the horse with his heel, he called out, “I count on you, Ruis.” He waved his hand to him lovingly. He was in great good spirits; the goal to which for five years he had striven was full in sight.
And Ruis from the saddle answered, “Count on your gold, Don Jayme.”
In a moment he was out of sight, galloping down the road, with only stars and fireflies to light the way. But of the road the horse knew every inch. And as Ruis galloped he thought of Madrid and its allurements, of the corrida and its emotions, of the Doña Clarisa that was to be his, and of other doñas that he would meet. The future certainly was very bright. As for the present, it was not entirely to his liking. There was an awkward five minutes to pass, but once passed he would shake the red dust from him and never set foot on that road again. Fausta, truly, had been very sweet, and she had beguiled for him many and many an otherwise wearisome hour. But she was like the fruit, which on arriving he had relished. She had lost her savor. I will give her the gold, he thought, the gold and a kiss. The gold will serve for dower and the kiss for farewell.
So mused Don Ruis. He had reached her door, and, as before, at the noise of hoofs she came out with a welcome.
“Ah, Ruis,” she murmured, “I have watched for you the entire day. This morning I went to our Eden, and again this afternoon. Where were you? Ruis, I caught a butterfly, it was like a winged acacia,
