Bat-Wing (31 page)

"Perhaps I know. You are going to visit her?"

Val Beverley nodded, watching me.

"Can you leave Madame de Stämer with safety?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. Nita can attend to her."

"And may I accompany you, Miss Beverley? For more reasons than one, I,
too, should like to call upon Mrs. Camber."

"We might try," she said, hesitatingly. "I really only wanted to be
kind. You won't begin to cross-examine her, will you?"

"Certainly not," I answered; "although there are many things I should
like her to tell us."

"Well, suppose we go," said the girl, "and let events take their own
course."

As a result, I presently found myself, Val Beverley by my side, walking
across the meadow path. With the unpleasant hush of Cray's Folly left
behind, the day seemed to grow brighter. I thought that the skylarks
had never sung more sweetly. Yet in this same instant of sheerly
physical enjoyment I experienced a pang of remorse, remembering the
tragic woman we had left behind, and the poor little sorrowful girl we
were going to visit. My emotions were very mingled, then, and I retain
no recollection of our conversation up to the time that we came to the
Guest House.

We were admitted by a really charming old lady, who informed us that
her name was Mrs. Powis and that she was but an hour returned from
London, whither she had been summoned by telegram.

She showed us into a quaint, small drawing room which owed its
atmosphere quite clearly to Mrs. Camber, for whereas the study was
indescribably untidy, this was a model of neatness without being formal
or unhomely. Here, in a few moments, Mrs. Camber joined us, an
appealing little figure of wistful, almost elfin, beauty. I was
surprised and delighted to find that an instant bond of sympathy sprang
up between the two girls. I diplomatically left them together for a
while, going into Camber's room to smoke my pipe. And when I returned:

"Oh, Mr. Knox," said Val Beverley, "Mrs. Camber has something to tell
you which she thinks you ought to know."

"Concerning Colonel Menendez?" I asked, eagerly.

Mrs. Camber nodded her golden head.

"Yes," she replied, but glancing at Val Beverley as if to gather
confidence. "The truth can never hurt Colin. He has nothing to conceal.
May I tell you?"

"I am all anxiety to hear," I assured her.

"Would you rather I went, Mrs. Camber?" asked Val Beverley.

Mrs. Camber reached across and took her hand.

"Please, no," she replied. "Stay here with me. I am afraid it is rather
a long story."

"Never mind," I said. "It will be time well spent if it leads us any
nearer to the truth."

"Yes?" she questioned, watching me anxiously, "you think so? I think
so, too."

She became silent, sitting looking straight before her, the pupils of
her blue eyes widely dilated. Then, at first in a queer, far-away
voice, she began to speak again.

"I must tell you," she commenced "that before—my marriage, my name
was Isabella de Valera."

I started.

"Ysola was my baby way of saying it, and so I came to be called Ysola.
My father was manager of one of Señor Don Juan's estates, in a small
island near the coast of Cuba. My mother"—she raised her little hands
eloquently—"was half-caste. Do you know? And she and my father—"

She looked pleadingly at Val Beverley.

"I understand," whispered the latter with deep sympathy; "but you don't
think it makes any difference, do you?"

"No?" said Mrs. Camber with a quaint little gesture. "To you, perhaps
not, but there, where I was born, oh! so much. Well, then, my mother
died when I was very little. Ah Tsong was her servant. There are many
Chinese in the West Indies, you see, and I can just remember he carried
me in to see her. Of course I didn't understand. My father quarrelled
bitterly with the priests because they would not bury her in holy
ground. I think he no longer believed afterward. I loved him very much.
He was good to me; and I was a queen in that little island. All the
negroes loved me, because of my mother, I think, who was partly
descended from slaves, as they were. But I had not begun to understand
how hard it was all going to be when my father sent me to a convent in
Cuba.

"I hated to go, but while I was there I learned all about myself. I
knew that I was outcast. It was"—she raised her hand—"not possible
to stay. I was only fifteen when I came home, but all the same I was a
woman. I was no more a child, and happy no longer. After a while,
perhaps, when I forgot what I had suffered at the convent, I became
less miserable. My father did all in his power to make me happy, and I
was glad the work-people loved me. But I was very lonely. Ah Tsong
understood."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Can you imagine," she asked, "that when my father was away in distant
parts of the island at night, Ah Tsong slept outside my door? Some of
them say, 'Do not trust the Chinese' I say, except my husband and my
father, I have never known another one to trust but Ah Tsong. Now they
have taken him away from me."

Tears glittered on her lashes, but she brushed them aside angrily, and
continued:

"I was still less than twenty, and looked, they told me, only fourteen,
when Señor Menendez came to inspect his estate. I had never seen him
before. There had been a rising in the island, in the year after I was
born, and he had only just escaped with his life. He was hated. People
called him Devil Menendez. Especially, no woman was safe from him, and
in the old days, when his power had been great, he had used it for
wickedness.

"My father was afraid when he heard he was coming. He would have sent
me away, but before it could be arranged Señor the Colonel arrived. He
had in his company a French lady. I thought her very beautiful and
elegant. It was Madame de Stämer. It is only four years ago, a little
more, but her hair was dark brown. She was splendidly dressed and such
a wonderful horsewoman. The first time I saw her I felt as they had
made me feel at the convent. I wanted to hide from her. She was so
grand a lady, and I came from slaves."

She paused hesitatingly and stared down at her own tiny feet.

"Pardon me interrupting you, Mrs. Camber," I said, "but can you tell me
in what way these two are related?"

She looked up with her naïve smile.

"I can tell you, yes. A cousin of Señor Menendez married a sister of
Madame de Stämer."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "a very remote kinship."

"It was in this way they met, in Paris, I think, and"—she raised her
hands expressively—"she came with him to the West Indies, although it
was during the great war. I think she loved him more than her soul, and
me—me she hated. As Señor Menendez dismounted from his horse in front
of the house he saw me."

She sighed and ceased speaking again. Then:

"That very night," she continued, "he began. Do you know? I was trying
to escape from him when Madame de Stämer found us. She called me a
shameful name, and my father, who heard it, ordered her out of the
house. Señor Menendez spoke sharply, and my father struck him."

She paused once more, biting her lip agitatedly, but presently
proceeded:

"Do you know what they are like, the Spanish, when their blood is hot?
Senor Menendez had a revolver, but my father knocked it from his grasp.
Then they fought with their bare hands. I was too frightened even to
cry out. It was all a horrible dream. What Madame de Stämer did, I do
not know. I could see nothing but two figures twined together on the
floor. At last one of them arose. I saw it was my father, and I
remember no more."

She was almost overcome by her tragic recollections, but presently,
with a wonderful courage, which, together with her daintiness of form,
spoke eloquently of good blood on one side at any rate, continued to
speak:

"My father found he must go to Cuba to make arrangements for the
future. Of course, our life there was finished. Ah Tsong stayed with
me. You have heard how it used to be in those islands in the old days,
but now you think it is so different? I used to think it was different,
too. On the first night my father was away, Ah Tsong, who had gone out,
was so long returning I became afraid. Then a strange negro came with
news that he had been taken ill with cholera, and was lying at a place
not far from the house. I forgot my fears and hurried off with this
man. Ah!"

She laughed wildly.

"I did not know I should never return, and I did not know I should
never see my father again. To you this must seem all wild and strange,
because there is a law in England. There is a law in Cuba, too, but in
some of those little islands the only law is the law of the strongest."

She raised her hands to her face and there was silence for a while.

"Of course it was a trap," she presently continued. "I was taken to an
island called El Manas which belonged to Senor Menendez, and where he
had a house. This he could do, but"—she threw back her head proudly—
"my spirit he could not break. Lots and lots of money would be mine,
and estates of my own; but one thing about him I must tell: he never
showed me violence. For one, two, three weeks I stayed a prisoner in
his house. All the servants were faithful to him and I could not find a
friend among them. Although quite innocent, I was ruined. Do you know?"

She raised her eyes pathetically to Val Beverley.

"I thought my heart was broken, for something told me my father was
dead. This was true."

"What!" I exclaimed. "You don't mean—"

"I don't know, I don't know," she answered, brokenly. "He died on his
way to Havana. They said it was an accident. Well—at last, Señor
Menendez offered me marriage. I thought if I agreed it would give me my
freedom, and I could run away and find Ah Tsong."

She paused, and a flush coloured her delicate face and faded again,
leaving it very pale.

"We were married in the house, by a Spanish priest. Oh"—she raised her
hands pathetically—"do you know what a woman is like? My spirit was
not broken still, but crushed. I had now nothing but kindness and
gifts. I might never have known, but Senor Menendez, who thought"—she
smiled sadly—"I was beautiful, took me to Cuba, where he had a great
house. Please remember, please," she pleaded, "before you judge of me,
that I was so young and had never known love, except the love of my
father. I did not even dream, then, his death was not an accident.

"I was proud of my jewels and fine dresses. But I began to notice that
Juan did not present any of his friends to me. We went about, but to
strange places, never to visit people of his own kind, and none came to
visit us. Then one night I heard someone on the balcony of my room. I
was so frightened I could not cry out. It was good I was like that, for
the curtain was pulled open and Ah Tsong came in."

She clutched convulsively at the arms of her chair.

"He told me!" she said in a very low voice.

Then, looking up pitifully:

"Do you know?" she asked in her quaint way. "It was a mock marriage. He
had done it and thought no shame, because it was so with my mother.
Oh!"

Her beautiful eyes flashed, and for the first time since I had met
Ysola Camber I saw the real Spanish spirit of the woman leap to life.

"He did not know me. Perhaps I did not know myself. That night, with no
money, without a ring, a piece of lace, a peseta, anything that had
belonged to him, I went with Ah Tsong. We made our way to a half-sister
of my father's who lived in Puerto Principe, and at first—she would
not have me. I was talked about, she said, in all the islands. She told
me of my poor father. She told me I had dragged the name of de Valera
in the dirt. At last I made her understand—that what everyone else
had known, I had never even dreamed of."

She looked up wistfully, as if thinking that we might doubt her.

"Do you know?" she whispered.

"I know—oh! I know!" said Val Beverley. I loved her for the sympathy
in her voice and in her eyes. "It is very, very brave of you to tell us
this, Mrs. Camber."

"Yes? Do you think so?" asked the girl, simply. "What does it matter if
it can help Colin?

"This aunt of mine," she presently continued, "was a poor woman, and it
was while I was hiding in her house—because spies of Senor Menendez
were searching for me—that I met—my husband. He was studying in Cuba
the strange things he writes about, you see. And before I knew what had
happened—I found I loved him more than all else in the world. It is so
wonderful, that feeling," she said, looking across at Val Beverley. "Do
you know?"

The girl flushed deeply, and lowered her eyes, but made no reply.

"Because you are a woman, too, you will perhaps understand," she
resumed. "I did not tell him. I did not dare to tell him at first. I
was so madly happy I had no courage to speak. But when"—her voice sank
lower and lower—"he asked me to marry him, I told him. Nothing he
could ever do would change my love for him now, because he forgave me
and made me his wife."

I feared that at last she was going to break down, for her voice became
very tremulous and tears leapt again into her eyes. She conquered her
emotion, however, and went on:

"We crossed over to the States, and Colin's family who had heard of his
marriage—some friend of Señor Menendez had told them—would not know
us. It meant that Colin, who would have been a rich man, was very poor.
It made no difference. He was splendid. And I was so happy it was all
like a dream. He made me forget I was to blame for his troubles. Then
we were in Washington—and I saw Señor Menendez in the hotel!

"Oh, my heart stopped beating. For me it seemed like the end of
everything. I knew, I knew, he was following me. But he had not seen
me, and without telling Colin the reason, I made him leave Washington,
He was glad to go. Wherever we went, in America, they seemed to find
out about my mother. I got to hate them, hate them all. We came to
England, and Colin heard about this house, and we took it.