University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER SIX

A PROFOUND stillness reigned in the Casa Gould.
The master of the house, walking along the corredor,
opened the door of his room, and saw his wife sitting in
a big armchair — his own smoking armchair — thoughtful,
contemplating her little shoes. And she did not
raise her eyes when he walked in.

"Tired?" asked Charles Gould.

"A little," said Mrs. Gould. Still without looking
up, she added with feeling, "There is an awful sense of
unreality about all this."

Charles Gould, before the long table strewn with
papers, on which lay a hunting crop and a pair of spurs,
stood looking at his wife: "The heat and dust must
have been awful this afternoon by the waterside," he
murmured, sympathetically. "The glare on the water
must have been simply terrible."

"One could close one's eyes to the glare," said Mrs.
Gould. "But, my dear Charley, it is impossible for me
to close my eyes to our position; to this awful . . ."

She raised her eyes and looked at her husband's face,
from which all sign of sympathy or any other feeling
had disappeared. "Why don't you tell me something?
" she almost wailed.

"I thought you had understood me perfectly from
the first," Charles Gould said, slowly. "I thought we
had said all there was to say a long time ago. There
is nothing to say now. There were things to be done.
We have done them; we have gone on doing them.
There is no going back now. I don't suppose that, even

from the first, there was really any possible way back.
And, what's more, we can't even afford to stand still."

"Ah, if one only knew how far you mean to go," said
his wife. inwardly trembling, but in an almost playful
tone.

"Any distance, any length, of course," was the
answer, in a matter-of-fact tone, which caused Mrs.
Gould to make another effort to repress a shudder.

She stood up, smiling graciously, and her little figure
seemed to be diminished still more by the heavy mass of
her hair and the long train of her gown.

"But always to success," she said, persuasively.

Charles Gould, enveloping her in the steely blue
glance of his attentive eyes, answered without hesitation
—

"Oh, there is no alternative."

He put an immense assurance into his tone. As to
the words, this was all that his conscience would allow
him to say.

Mrs. Gould's smile remained a shade too long upon
her lips. She murmured —

"I will leave you; I've a slight headache. The heat,
the dust, were indeed — I suppose you are going
back to the mine before the morning?"

"At midnight," said Charles Gould. "We are bringing
down the silver to-morrow. Then I shall take three
whole days off in town with you."

"Ah, you are going to meet the escort. I shall be on
the balcony at five o'clock to see you pass. Till then,
good-bye."

Charles Gould walked rapidly round the table, and,
seizing her hands, bent down, pressing them both to his
lips. Before he straightened himself up again to his full
height she had disengaged one to smooth his cheek with
a light touch, as if he were a little boy.

"Try to get some rest for a couple of hours," she murmured,
with a glance at a hammock stretched in a
distant part of the room. Her long train swished
softly after her on the red tiles. At the door she
looked back.

Two big lamps with unpolished glass globes bathed in
a soft and abundant light the four white walls of the
room, with a glass case of arms, the brass hilt of Henry
Gould's cavalry sabre on its square of velvet, and the
water-colour sketch of the San Tomé gorge. And Mrs.
Gould, gazing at the last in its black wooden frame,
sighed out —

"Ah, if we had left it alone, Charley!"

"No," Charles Gould said, moodily; "it was impossible
to leave it alone."

"Perhaps it was impossible," Mrs. Gould admitted,
slowly. Her lips quivered a little, but she smiled with
an air of dainty bravado. "We have disturbed a good
many snakes in that Paradise, Charley, haven't we?"

"Yes, I remember," said Charles Gould, "it was
Don Pépé who called the gorge the Paradise of snakes.
No doubt we have disturbed a great many. But remember,
my dear, that it is not now as it was when you
made that sketch." He waved his hand towards the
small water-colour hanging alone upon the great bare
wall. "It is no longer a Paradise of snakes. We have
brought mankind into it, and we cannot turn our backs
upon them to go and begin a new life elsewhere."

He confronted his wife with a firm, concentrated gaze,
which Mrs. Gould returned with a brave assumption of
fearlessness before she went out, closing the door gently
after her.

In contrast with the white glaring room the dimly
lit corredor had a restful mysteriousness of a forest
glade, suggested by the stems and the leaves of the

plants ranged along the balustrade of the open side. In
the streaks of light falling through the open doors of the
reception-rooms, the blossoms, white and red and pale
lilac, came out vivid with the brilliance of flowers in a
stream of sunshine; and Mrs. Gould, passing on, had the
vividness of a figure seen in the clear patches of sun that
chequer the gloom of open glades in the woods. The
stones in the rings upon her hand pressed to her forehead
glittered in the lamplight abreast of the door of the
sala.

"Who's there?" she asked, in a startled voice. "Is
that you, Basilio?" She looked in, and saw Martin
Decoud walking about, with an air of having lost something,
amongst the chairs and tables.

"Antonia has forgotten her fan in here," said Decoud,
with a strange air of distraction; "so I entered
to see."

But, even as he said this, he had obviously given up
his search, and walked straight towards Mrs. Gould,
who looked at him with doubtful surprise.

"Señora," he began, in a low voice.

"What is it, Don Martin?" asked Mrs. Gould. And
then she added, with a slight laugh, "I am so nervous
to-day," as if to explain the eagerness of the question.

"Nothing immediately dangerous," said Decoud,
who now could not conceal his agitation. "Pray don't
distress yourself. No, really, you must not distress
yourself."

Mrs. Gould, with her candid eyes very wide open,
her lips composed into a smile, was steadying herself
with a little bejewelled hand against the side of the door.

"Perhaps you don't know how alarming you are,
appearing like this unexpectedly —"

"I! Alarming!" he protested, sincerely vexed and
surprised. "I assure you that I am not in the least

alarmed myself. A fan is lost; well, it will be found
again. But I don't think it is here. It is a fan I
am looking for. I cannot understand how Antonia
could — Well! Have you found it, amigo?"

"No, señor," said behind Mrs. Gould the soft voice
of Basilio, the head servant of the Casa. "I don't
think the señorita could have left it in this house at all."

"Go and look for it in the patio again. Go now, my
friend; look for it on the steps, under the gate; examine
every flagstone; search for it till I come down
again. . . . That fellow" — he addressed himself
in English to Mrs. Gould — "is always stealing up behind
one's back on his bare feet. I set him to look for
that fan directly I came in to justify my reappearance,
my sudden return."

He paused and Mrs. Gould said, amiably, "You are
always welcome." She paused for a second, too. "But
I am waiting to learn the cause of your return."

Decoud affected suddenly the utmost nonchalance.

"I can't bear to be spied upon. Oh, the cause?
Yes, there is a cause; there is something else that is lost
besides Antonia's favourite fan. As I was walking
home after seeing Don José and Antonia to their house,
the Capataz de Cargadores, riding down the street,
spoke to me."

"Has anything happened to the Violas?" inquired
Mrs. Gould.

"The Violas? You mean the old Garibaldino who
keeps the hotel where the engineers live? Nothing
happened there. The Capataz said nothing of them; he
only told me that the telegraphist of the Cable Company
was walking on the Plaza, bareheaded, looking out
for me. There is news from the interior, Mrs. Gould.
I should rather say rumours of news."

"Good news?" said Mrs. Gould in a low voice.

"Worthless, I should think. But if I must define
them, I would say bad. They are to the effect that a
two days' battle had been fought near Sta. Marta, and
that the Ribierists are defeated. It must have happened
a few days ago — perhaps a week. The rumour
has just reached Cayta, and the man in charge of the
cable station there has telegraphed the news to his
colleague here. We might just as well have kept
Barrios in Sulaco."

"What's to be done now?" murmured Mrs. Gould.

"Nothing. He's at sea with the troops. He will
get to Cayta in a couple of days' time and learn the
news there. What he will do then, who can say?
Hold Cayta? Offer his submission to Montero? Disband
his army — this last most likely, and go himself
in one of the O.S.N. Company's steamers, north or
south — to Valparaiso or to San Francisco, no matter
where. Our Barrios has a great practice in exiles and
repatriations, which mark the points in the political
game."

Decoud, exchanging a steady stare with Mrs. Gould,
added, tentatively, as it were, "And yet, if we had
Barrios with his 2,000 improved rifles here, something
could have been done."

"Montero victorious, completely victorious!" Mrs.
Gould breathed out in a tone of unbelief.

"A canard, probably. That sort of bird is hatched
in great numbers in such times as these. And even if it
were true? Well, let us put things at their worst, let
us say it is true."

"Then everything is lost," said Mrs. Gould, with the
calmness of despair.

Suddenly she seemed to divine, she seemed to see
Decoud's tremendous excitement under its cloak of
studied carelessness. It was, indeed, becoming visible

in his audacious and watchful stare, in the curve, half-
reckless, half-contemptuous, of his lips. And a French
phrase came upon them as if, for this Costaguanero of
the Boulevard, that had been the only forcible language
—

"Non, Madame. Rien n'est perdu."

It electrified Mrs. Gould out of her benumbed attitude,
and she said, vivaciously —

"What would you think of doing?"

But already there was something of mockery in
Decoud's suppressed excitement.

"What would you expect a true Costaguanero to do?
Another revolution, of course. On my word of honour,
Mrs. Gould, I believe I am a true hijo del pays, a true
son of the country, whatever Father Corbelàn may say.
And I'm not so much of an unbeliever as not to have
faith in my own ideas, in my own remedies, in my own
desires."

"Yes," said Mrs. Gould, doubtfully.

"You don't seem convinced," Decoud went on again
in French. "Say, then, in my passions."

Mrs. Gould received this addition unflinchingly. To
understand it thoroughly she did not require to hear
his muttered assurance —

"There is nothing I would not do for the sake of
Antonia. There is nothing I am not prepared to undertake.
There is no risk I am not ready to run."

Decoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in this voicing
of his thoughts. "You would not believe me if I were
to say that it is the love of the country which —"

She made a sort of discouraged protest with her arm,
as if to express that she had given up expecting that
motive from any one.

"A Sulaco revolution," Decoud pursued in a forcible
undertone. "The Great Cause may be served here,

on the very spot of its inception, in the place of its
birth, Mrs. Gould."

Frowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtfully, she
made a step away from the door.

"You are not going to speak to your husband?" Decoud
arrested her anxiously.

"But you will need his help?"

"No doubt," Decoud admitted without hesitation.
"Everything turns upon the San Tomé mine, but I
would rather he didn't know anything as yet of my —
my hopes."

A puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould's face, and
Decoud, approaching, explained confidentially —

"Don't you see, he's such an idealist."

Mrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grew darker
at the same time.

"Charley an idealist!" she said, as if to herself,
wonderingly. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Yes," conceded Decoud, "it's a wonderful thing to
say with the sight of the San Tomé mine, the greatest
fact in the whole of South America, perhaps, before our
very eyes. But look even at that, he has idealized this
fact to a point —" He paused. "Mrs. Gould, are
you aware to what point he has idealized the existence,
the worth, the meaning of the San Tomé mine? Are
you aware of it?"

He must have known what he was talking about.

The effect he expected was produced. Mrs. Gould,
ready to take fire, gave it up suddenly with a low little
sound that resembled a moan.

"What do you know?" she asked in a feeble voice.

"Nothing," answered Decoud, firmly. "But, then,
don't you see, he's an Englishman?"

"Well, what of that?" asked Mrs. Gould.

"Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealizing

every simple feeling, desire, or achievement. He could
not believe his own motives if he did not make them
first a part of some fairy tale. The earth is not quite
good enough for him, I fear. Do you excuse my frankness?
Besides, whether you excuse it or not, it is part
of the truth of things which hurts the — what do you call
them? — the Anglo-Saxon's susceptibilities, and at the
present moment I don't feel as if I could treat seriously
either his conception of things or — if you allow me to
say so — or yet yours."

Mrs. Gould gave no sign of being offended. "I suppose
Antonia understands you thoroughly?"

"Understands? Well, yes. But I am not sure that
she approves. That, however, makes no difference. I
am honest enough to tell you that, Mrs. Gould."

"Your idea, of course, is separation," she said.

"Separation, of course," declared Martin. "Yes;
separation of the whole Occidental Province from the
rest of the unquiet body. But my true idea, the only
one I care for, is not to be separated from Antonia."

"And that is all?" asked Mrs. Gould, without
severity.

"Absolutely. I am not deceiving myself about my
motives. She won't leave Sulaco for my sake, therefore
Sulaco must leave the rest of the Republic to its
fate. Nothing could be clearer than that. I like
a clearly defined situation. I cannot part with Antonia,
therefore the one and indivisible Republic of
Costaguana must be made to part with its western
province. Fortunately it happens to be also a sound
policy. The richest, the most fertile part of this land
may be saved from anarchy. Personally, I care little,
very little; but it's a fact that the establishment of
Montero in power would mean death to me. In all the
proclamations of general pardon which I have seen,

my name, with a few others, is specially excepted. The
brothers hate me, as you know very well, Mrs. Gould;
and behold, here is the rumour of them having won a
battle. You say that supposing it is true, I have plenty
of time to run away."

The slight, protesting murmur on the part of Mrs.
Gould made him pause for a moment, while he looked
at her with a sombre and resolute glance.

"Ah, but I would, Mrs. Gould. I would run away
if it served that which at present is my only desire. I
am courageous enough to say that, and to do it, too.
But women, even our women, are idealists. It is
Antonia that won't run away. A novel sort of vanity."

"You call it vanity," said Mrs. Gould, in a shocked
voice.

"Say pride, then, which. Father Corbelàn would tell
you, is a mortal sin. But I am not proud. I am simply
too much in love to run away. At the same time I
want to live. There is no love for a dead man. Therefore
it is necessary that Sulaco should not recognize the
victorious Montero."

"And you think my husband will give you his support?"

"I think he can be drawn into it, like all idealists,
when he once sees a sentimental basis for his action.
But I wouldn't talk to him. Mere clear facts won't
appeal to his sentiment. It is much better for him to
convince himself in his own way. And, frankly, I could
not, perhaps, just now pay sufficient respect to either
his motives or even, perhaps, to yours, Mrs. Gould."

It was evident that Mrs. Gould was very determined
not to be offended. She smiled vaguely, while she
seemed to think the matter over. As far as she could
judge from the girl's half-confidences, Antonia understood
that young man. Obviously there was promise of

safety in his plan, or rather in his idea. Moreover,
right or wrong, the idea could do no harm. And it was
quite possible, also, that the rumour was false.

"You have some sort of a plan," she said.

"Simplicity itself. Barrios has started, let him go
on then; he will hold Cayta, which is the door of the sea
route to Sulaco. They cannot send a sufficient force
over the mountains. No; not even to cope with the
band of Hernandez. Meantime we shall organize our
resistance here. And for that, this very Hernandez
will be useful. He has defeated troops as a bandit; he
will no doubt accomplish the same thing if he is made a
colonel or even a general. You know the country well
enough not to be shocked by what I say, Mrs. Gould.
I have heard you assert that this poor bandit was the
living,breathing example of cruelty, injustice, stupidity,
and oppression, that ruin men's souls as well as their
fortunes in this country. Well, there would be some
poetical retribution in that man arising to crush the evils
which had driven an honest ranchero into a life of
crime. A fine idea of retribution in that, isn't there?"

Decoud had dropped easily into English, which he
spoke with precision, very correctly, but with too many
z sounds.

"Think also of your hospitals, of your schools, of
your ailing mothers and feeble old men, of all that
population which you and your husband have brought
into the rocky gorge of San Tomé. Are you not responsible
to your conscience for all these people? Is it
not worth while to make another effort, which is not at
all so desperate as it looks, rather than —"

Decoud finished his thought with an upward toss of
the arm, suggesting annihilation; and Mrs. Gould
turned away her head with a look of horror.

"Why don't you say all this to my husband?" she

asked, without looking at Decoud, who stood watching
the effect of his words.

"Ah! But Don Carlos is so English," he began.
Mrs. Gould interrupted —

"Leave that alone, Don Martin. He's as much a
Costaguanero — No! He's more of a Costaguanero
than yourself."

"Sentimentalist, sentimentalist," Decoud almost
cooed, in a tone of gentle and soothing deference.
"Sentimentalist, after the amazing manner of your
people. I have been watching El Rey de Sulaco since
I came here on a fool's errand, and perhaps impelled by
some treason of fate lurking behind the unaccountable
turns of a man's life. But I don't matter, I am not a
sentimentalist, I cannot endow my personal desires
with a shining robe of silk and jewels. Life is not for
me a moral romance derived from the tradition of a
pretty fairy tale. No, Mrs. Gould; I am practical. I
am not afraid of my motives. But, pardon me, I have
been rather carried away. What I wish to say is that I
have been observing. I won't tell you what I have
discovered — "

"No. That is unnecessary," whispered Mrs. Gould,
once more averting her head.

"It is. Except one little fact, that your husband does
not like me. It's a small matter, which, in the circumstances,
seems to acquire a perfectly ridiculous importance.
Ridiculous and immense; for, clearly, money
is required for my plan," he reflected; then added,
meaningly, "and we have two sentimentalists to deal
with."

"I don't know that I understand you, Don Martin,"
said Mrs. Gould, coldly, preserving the low key of their
conversation. "But, speaking as if I did, who is the
other?"

"The great Holroyd in San Francisco, of course,"
Decoud whispered, lightly. "I think you understand
me very well. Women are idealists; but then they are
so perspicacious."

But whatever was the reason of that remark, disparaging
and complimentary at the same time, Mrs.
Gould seemed not to pay attention to it. The name of
Holroyd had given a new tone to her anxiety.

"The silver escort is coming down to the harbour tomorrow;
a whole six months' working, Don Martin!"
she cried in dismay.

"Let it come down, then," breathed out Decoud,
earnestly, almost into her ear.

"But if the rumour should get about, and especially
if it turned out true, troubles might break out in the
town," objected Mrs. Gould.

Decoud admitted that it was possible. He knew
well the town children of the Sulaco Campo: sullen,
thievish, vindictive, and bloodthirsty, whatever great
qualities their brothers of the plain might have had.
But then there was that other sentimentalist, who
attached a strangely idealistic meaning to concrete
facts. This stream of silver must be kept flowing
north to return in the form of financial backing from the
great house of Holroyd. Up at the mountain in the
strong room of the mine the silver bars were worth less
for his purpose than so much lead, from which at least
bullets may be run. Let it come down to the harbour,
ready for shipment.

The next north-going steamer would carry it off for
the very salvation of the San Tomé mine, which had
produced so much treasure. And, moreover, the
rumour was probably false, he remarked, with much
conviction in his hurried tone.

"Besides, señora," concluded Decoud, "we may

suppress it for many days. I have been talking with
the telegraphist in the middle of the Plaza Mayor; thus
I am certain that we could not have been overheard.
There was not even a bird in the air near us. And also
let me tell you something more. I have been making
friends with this man called Nostromo, the Capataz.
We had a conversation this very evening, I walking by
the side of his horse as he rode slowly out of the town
just now. He promised me that if a riot took place for
any reason — even for the most political of reasons, you
understand — his Cargadores, an important part of the
populace, you will admit, should be found on the side of
the Europeans."

"He has promised you that?" Mrs. Gould inquired,
with interest. "What made him make that promise to
you?"

"Upon my word, I don't know," declared Decoud, in
a slightly surprised tone. "He certainly promised me
that, but now you ask me why, I could not tell you
his reasons. He talked with his usual carelessness,
which, if he had been anything else but a common
sailor, I would call a pose or an affectation."

Decoud, interrupting himself, looked at Mrs. Gould
curiously.

"Upon the whole," he continued, "I suppose he
expects something to his advantage from it. You
mustn't forget that he does not exercise his extraordinary
power over the lower classes without a certain
amount of personal risk and without a great profusion
in spending his money. One must pay in some way or
other for such a solid thing as individual prestige. He
told me after we made friends at a dance, in a Posada
kept by a Mexican just outside the walls, that he had
come here to make his fortune. I suppose he looks
upon his prestige as a sort of investment."

"Perhaps he prizes it for its own sake," Mrs. Gould
said in a tone as if she were repelling an undeserved
aspersion. "Viola, the Garibaldino, with whom he has
lived for some years, calls him the Incorruptible."

"Ah! he belongs to the group of your protégés out
there towards the harbour, Mrs. Gould. Muy bien.
And Captain Mitchell calls him wonderful. I have
heard no end of tales of his strength, his audacity, his
fidelity. No end of fine things. H'm! incorruptible!
It is indeed a name of honour for the Capataz of the
Cargadores of Sulaco. Incorruptible! Fine, but vague.
However, I suppose he's sensible, too. And I talked to
him upon that sane and practical assumption."

"I prefer to think him disinterested, and therefore
trustworthy," Mrs. Gould said, with the nearest approach
to curtness it was in her nature to assume.

"Well, if so, then the silver will be still more safe.
Let it come down, señora. Let it come down, so that it
may go north and return to us in the shape of credit."

Mrs. Gould glanced along the corredor towards the
door of her husband's room. Decoud, watching her as
if she had his fate in her hands, detected an almost
imperceptible nod of assent. He bowed with a smile,
and, putting his hand into the breast pocket of his coat,
pulled out a fan of light feathers set upon painted leaves
of sandal-wood. "I had it in my pocket," he murmured,
triumphantly, "for a plausible pretext." He
bowed again. "Good-night, señora."

Mrs. Gould continued along the corredor away from
her husband's room. The fate of the San Tomé mine
was lying heavy upon her heart. It was a long time
now since she had begun to fear it. It had been an
idea. She had watched it with misgivings turning into
a fetish, and now the fetish had grown into a monstrous
and crushing weight. It was as if the inspiration of

their early years had left her heart to turn into a wall of
silver-bricks, erected by the silent work of evil spirits,
between her and her husband. He seemed to dwell
alone within a circumvallation of precious metal, leaving
her outside with her school, her hospital, the sick
mothers and the feeble old men, mere insignificant
vestiges of the initial inspiration. "Those poor people!"
she murmured to herself.

Below she heard the voice of Martin Decoud in the
patio speaking loudly:

"I have found Dona Antonia's fan, Basilio. Look.
here it is!"