“Why... I didn’t know—” he said, “thanks to you, it is really comfortable.”
“That is well. We did the best we could. Oh, but I was so frightened when the señor tumbled in at the door! I thought you were dead. And Tota — Mr. Hurley — that is, my husband — he thought you would never — but oh!” She stopped short, and a look of real horror appeared on her face.
“What is it?” the lieutenant commander asked in alarm.
“Why, the señor must be starved!” she cried. “And here I stand and talk like an old woman.”
She turned without another word and fled into the kitchen.
From thence, for the following fifteen minutes, there issued a series of most tantalizing sounds and smells. The lieutenant commander had not realized it before, but he was hungry — incredibly so.
“Will the señor use the goat’s milk?” Rita called from the kitchen.
“No; make it black, please,” he replied.
He was served on the bamboo table, drawn up close to the couch. Rita, saying that she had work in the next room, instructed him to call if he needed anything. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she bent over the table and cut his meat into little squares, broke the hard bread into small pieces, and separated the sections of grapefruit, saying:
“I forgot about the señor’s arm. Of course, you are helpless — like a baby.”
Despite the difficulty of eating with one hand, he found the meal incredibly good. There were alligator pears, broiled ham, a spiced omelet, black steaming coffee, and several kinds of fruit.
When he had finished Rita appeared and, after asking if he smoked, cut off the end of a cigar and lighted it for him! He lay back on the couch and puffed away in glorious content, thinking of nothing.
The morning passed. Rita tripped in and out, lightly, her little sandaled feet gliding noiselessly over the bare floor, stopping now and then to inquire if the señor was comfortable.
She arranged the rose orchids in a red jar and placed them near him, on the bamboo table. Once she appeared in the doorway to say that her husband had found the señor’s pony, unharmed, in the grove of tillandsias over near the trail. She had forgotten to tell the señor before.
“Ah!” said the lieutenant commander. He ought to have been pleased by this information, and perhaps he was. But he made no comment.
Early in the afternoon Rita, having completed her household tasks, sat down in the wicker rocking chair and began to talk. She had brought in a pitcher of pineapple juice and offered a glass of it to the señor, who leaned back against a heap of cushions and sipped luxuriously.
“The señor was going to San Juan?” said Rita abruptly.
The lieutenant commander nodded.
“Ah! It is a wonderful city — San Juan. I used to live there.” She sighed, and clasped her hands back of her head. Her form, small and wonderfully graceful, was outlined against the back of the chair like the “Sibyl” of Velasquez.
“It was very gay. The music at night, and the promenade, and the little chairs that used to fall under the weight of the big Americans. And how we would scowl when we were forced to stand while they played the — what you call it? — the ‘Star Spangle Banner’!”
The lieutenant commander sipped away in silence, watching her.
Rita sighed again.
“Oh, it all seems so very long ago! And yet it is only a few months. And perhaps, some day I shall see it again.”
“Are you lonely — out here?”
The lieutenant commander realized with surprise that he was really interested to know her answer.
He read it in her eyes. They grew large, and glowed with eloquent negation.
“No, no! How could I be, with Tota?” Involuntarily, as she pronounced the name, her voice softened with tenderness. “That is my husband,” she continued proudly.
“You have not seen him. He is an American, too. And one thing is hard — it is that I never can talk about him. Even my mother — she was angry when Tota took me away. I suppose that is why,” she threw at the señor a glance at once ingenuous and reserved, “I want to talk to you.”
The lieutenant commander felt uncomfortable.
“So you are married,” he observed foolishly.
Rita frowned. Then the frown gave way to a little, amused, happy laugh.
“Why, what does the señor think? But then, you Americans are all alike. That is, all except Tota. He will be here soon; he wants to see you. He is a very wonderful man, and so good, señor.”
“I have no doubt of it,” the lieutenant commander said dryly.
“Yes. We came here but nine, ten months ago, and already we have many acres of coffee trees. There were some — that was in May — already in bloom. Have you ever seen them, señor? The little white blossoms that look like tiny stars, they are so very white? Tota says he prefers them brown, like my face,” and she laughed delightedly at her Tota’s stupid joke.
Of this chatter the lieutenant commander was hearing very little; but he was looking at Rita — her soft brown, slender arms, her lithe form, full of nervous grace, her dark, glowing, ever-changing eyes. I have not attempted to describe her, and I shall not; you must use your imagination. You may judge a little of her charm by the fact that, as he sat and looked at her and listened to her voice, Lieutenant Commander Reed, for the first time in his life, had emotions.
For an hour she rattled on, mostly of Tota, and the señor sat and sipped pineapple, now and then interposing a nod or a word. He became utterly unconscious of everything in the world but her presence and his delight in it, and he felt a distinct and disagreeable shock when the door was suddenly opened and a man appeared in the room.
It was Hurley.
Rita sprang from her chair and ran to him.
“Tota!” she cried.
Hurley folded her in his arms and kissed her.
“Well, little one, I kept my promise.” Then he turned to the señor, “You must excuse us,” he smiled, utterly unabashed.
Rita had an arm about his neck and was clinging to the lapel of his jacket with the other hand.
The lieutenant commander was experiencing a curious and hitherto undreamed-of sensation. A lump in his throat was choking him, and he felt a tight gripping in his chest. But his mind was working rapidly; and he made his decision almost without hesitation.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said to Hurley. “I understand you found my pony. Bring him up.”
At the tone of command the man started and glanced keenly at the lieutenant commander, who remembered too late that he should have attempted to disguise his voice. He thought of his broken arm, and braced himself for whatever might come.
Hurley walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him in silence. The expression in his eyes was distinctly unpleasant; but the lieutenant commander perceived that it was alloyed with doubt.
“Have I ever seen you before?” Hurley said finally.
The lieutenant commander achieved a smile of surprise.
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“Why did you speak to me — like that?”
The lieutenant commander, being rather clever, did not make the mistake of apologizing. Instead, his tone was one of irritation as he said: “How do I know? Do you expect a man with a broken arm to get up and bow?”
For another minute Hurley stood above him, eyeing him keenly. Then he turned.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’ll bring up your pony. Come, Rita; you come with me.”
They returned shortly with the pony, saddled and bridled. Hurley, sending Rita to another room, helped the lieutenant commander put on his coat and boots, placed the injured arm in a sling, and strapped his poncho back of the saddle. Then he steadied him with both hands, carefully, while he mounted.