Mavis of Green Hill Part 35

"Is he always like that?" asked Wright, anxiously, as we went toward the house.

"Like what?" I asked, in all innocence.

"Positively green-eyed with rage if you are alone for half a minute with another man--even so harmless a specimen as myself?"

"Don't be silly," said I, with finality.

"I'm not, and if he is going to be jealous as all that, why don't you get to him first before he can accuse you, and demand that he cease baying at the moon with that human leopardess who vamps around these diggings?"

"She'll be here this afternoon, on a visit," I announced, laughing.

"Why don't you monopolize her yourself?"

"I never went in for that kind," said Wright with firmness. "I might get scratched. Gentle and soft-spoken, that's my type. Besides, Miss Howells is going to look just like her mother, and that's a warning to any man!"

That afternoon Mercedes arrived. Her bag proved to be a trunk, and within an hour of her arrival, she had charmed the kitchen, made eyes at Silas, called Wright by his first name, hurt her finger--with resultant medical attention, and confided to me that she "hated men!"

After which, she departed in the direction of the palm-grove with "Billy" and "Wright."

I went to her room and viewed her gowns, hanging, like flowers, in her innovation steamer-trunk. After which, I went to my own room and took stock of my chiffon and satin armor.

Bill came back at tea time.

"Wright is reciting poetry to Mercedes on the stone bench under the orchids, and sketching her between verses," he announced, "but I crave more material food."

"You might have stayed on," I suggested, pa.s.sing him the sandwiches, "and made the recitation compet.i.tive."

"Compet.i.tive," he remarked, choosing a ripe, red disk of tomato, flanked with thin circles of bread, and biting into it reflectively, "calls for numbers. I don't enjoy being part of a mob-scene, or a ma.s.s-meeting."

"Here comes the Meistersanger," I said, as Wright came up the steps, with Mercedes unnecessarily on his arm.

Selecting chairs, cups, plates and food, our guests joined us around the wicker tea-wagon.

"He is not a nice young man at all," said Mercedes frankly, exhibiting a rather clever little pastel of herself, "this Wright. He says to me the most beautiful poetry, so sad and so lovely, all about unrequited love and dead girls floating in moonlit pools, and when, touched to the heart, I weep a little, he laughs and says it is wonderful how much tragedy one can turn out at fifty cents a line!"

She opened ocular fire on her host as she spoke, and Bill responded nicely.

"I'm sure," he said gravely, "that Wright will have plenty of happier inspiration now."

And said Wright to me, under his breath,

"In all justice, one must concede her a certain amount of beauty. I don't think she's going to look like her mother after all."

"Whispering's rude," said Mercedes severely, "isn't it, Billy?"

So the conversation became general again.

At six, Bill drove over to the neighboring plantation to fetch Peterkins, who had spent the day there with the Crowell children, back to supper. When he returned, he looked rather serious.

"What's up?" asked Wright idly, from the canvas verandah swing.

"Nothing much," he answered, "that is, not yet. Run along to Sarah, Peter,--there's a good fellow."

But I knew that something was wrong, and after the child had left us, I asked quietly,

"Tell us, Bill, please!"

"Crowell's been having some trouble with the natives," he answered, frowning. "It may blow over--and it may spread. They're like a lot of sheep. But I feel responsible to Reynolds, even if Silas is in charge.

The people have a healthy respect for Silas, and they trust him,--but--"

"What sort of trouble?" asked Wright, practically.

"Oh, threats--and little gatherings--and demonstrations. They are always restless, and the slightest thing sets them off. Crowell discharged one of his surliest men the other day. Unfortunately, the chap is related to half Guayabal. We've some of his cousins and brothers and uncles on this place, I suppose! Anyway, this Miguel person has been going about trying to incite the people to open enmity against the resident Americans. Of course, it probably won't amount to a hill of beans, but you never know where you stand."

"Haven't they just finished a comic-opera revolution here?" asked Wright. "Seems to me I read something about it."

"There are always uprisings," answered Mercedes, covering a yawn, "generally in the eastern districts--nearer Santiago. They are like children, these people."

She turned, with a shrug which dismissed the subject, to Bill.

"Come," she urged prettily, "play my accompaniment for me. I want to sing you some of the old songs my little, Spanish grandmother taught her grandchildren."

We had a little while before we need dress for dinner, and so Bill followed her obediently into the living-room, and presently, her light, sweet voice floated out to Wright and me on the verandah.

"Sings well, doesn't she?" said Wright.

But I was not attending.

"Doesn't Bill seem worried to you?" I asked, more casually than my mental state warranted.

"Who? Bill? Why no, I don't think so," he answered, absently. "He's probably put all this native business out of his head by now. Bill's not an alarmist. Wonder what that song is--quaint, isn't it?"

But I was not satisfied, and after dinner, I deliberately found an opportunity, contrary to custom, to speak with my husband alone.

"About the Crowell plantation," I said, "is there any danger to them from the natives--to us?"

"There is always more or less danger," he answered, with the formal courtesy which had recently characterized all of our infrequent, unattended encounters, "but I do not think we need worry. Still, I shall forbid Peter to go out in the fields, or beyond the house alone, and I must ask you also to be careful. I'm sorry to curtail your freedom--but, if you don't mind--?"

Perversely, I suddenly "minded" very much.

"I won't run any risks," I answered, with mental reservations.

"There you two are again! Sneaking off, whispering, heads together!

Aren't you just a little tired of twosing by now?"

It was Wright, coming up behind us. I thought I detected a little, cynical gleam in Mercedes' eyes, and laid my hand defiantly on Bill's arm.

"Are _you_ tired?" I asked him gaily.

He laid his free hand over mine.