Читать книгу The Man and His Kingdom - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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"It was by a chance, my child, the veriest chance, that your father discovered it," the Señora Rimarez explained, folding her plump little hands together in ecstasy. "But it is as I say. He is noble, rich, and eccentric. You are indeed fortunate, my Lucia. It is a gift from the Saints to you."

The girl who was lounging on the broad piazza by her mother's side looked languidly up. She had the big black eyes and hair of the Señora, but otherwise there was little likeness between them. The President's wife was plump, short, and possessed an amiable air of contentment. Lucia was tall and slim, almost to frailty, her complexion and features were perfect, but her dark eyebrows were contracted in a perpetual frown. She was handsome, but morose.

"A gift," she exclaimed scornfully. "Why, as yet I have not even seen the man, and I am very sure that I do not want to. He must be a fool to come and live in a country like this, and I detest fools."

The Señora smiled placidly.

"As for that, my child," she said, "he is an Englishman, and all Englishmen are fools until they are married, and then they are what their wives choose to make of them. What was it that you said—'that as yet he had not looked at you'? Bah! The poor man, he has not had the chance. This afternoon he will be here. He will see you as you are now. Who is there in this little country to compare with you? Bah! We know! There is no one. Are you not, too, the daughter of the President? You will look at him, and he will be your slave. Come, I foretell it. We shall see. Oh, we shall see."

The Señora nodded her head vigorously, and used her fan. Lucia yawned and leaned back in her chair with half-closed eyes.

"Englishmen," the Señora continued, "are not, it is true, the most charming of lovers, but as husbands—oh! they are excellent. Do I not know, for have I not met many of them in the old days at Paris? You were right, my dear Lucia, to have nothing to do with that bold young Señor Sagasta. Alas! I fear that he was a bad friend for Eugène. But all Englishmen are not like that. This Sagasta, he was nobody. He is where he deserves to be. But the Señor Dene, he is different. He is noble, he is rich, he is the fitting husband for you."

Lucia lifted her great eyes, and looked steadily across the gardens below towards a great stone building a mile or more away. It was the prison of San Martina. She looked at it for several moments steadily, and then she sighed. Her voice grew softer.

"In a moment or two," the Señora continued, a note of excitement creeping into her complacent voice, "he will be here. You are adorable to-day, my Lucia, in that white gown, but you will look more amiable, will you not? He will be shy, this Englishman—all big Englishmen are shy—and if you look at him like that he will forget that your eyes are beautiful, he will be frightened. You must smile, my Lucia. You smile too seldom."

The girl gave vent to a little exclamation of contempt

"How can one smile who lives here, I wonder," she cried. "Oh, with you it is different, I know. You can sit and fan yourself and drink lemonade with that old Mopez woman for ever. For you it is life sufficient. For me it is slavery. I hate it."

A shade of genuine astonishment passed across the elder woman's plump good-natured features.

"But, Lucia," she said, "what would you have? You are a child. You have not yet a husband. When that is settled—well, your liberty will come then. You will do what you choose. Why are you impatient? You are very young. All your life is before you."

The girl looked steadily away. Her face was black as night, but she made no answer. What was the use? One might as well seek to effect by speech an opening in those thick stone walls as make this fat, contented little woman understand So she remained silent, only she wondered, as she sat there listening to the murmuring of insects in the garden below and the far-off clamour of tongues in the Plaza, whether indeed the day of her release would ever come—whether she would ever really be able to step out from her enervating environment and take her life into her own hands. She sighed, and then she turned round with a frown as the sound of voices in the room beyond announced the arrival of the visitor for whose sake she had been bidden to wear that newest and most "chic" of her white muslin gowns, whom she had been told, if not in words at least with nods and veiled hints, that it was her business to captivate.

She looked at him with a certain half-sullen curiosity, as he stepped out on to the broad piazza by her father's side. Dene, if he was not, judged by the usual standards, a good-looking man, was at least a man whom it was good to look upon. He was tall and fair and grave, with wonderfully broad shoulders, well-shaped features and clear grey eyes. His riding suit was plainly made, but it was cut by one of the best English tailors, and he had always that peculiar neatness and freshness of appearance which goes to the making of a well-groomed man. He carried himself with distinction, and his face, fortunately for him, showed not the least appearance of interest at the introduction which her father was making.

"The Señor Gregory Dene, my dear," he said, "wishes to renew the acquaintance which he formed with you here at a previous visit. I have also the honour, Señor Dene, to present you to my daughter, who was, I believe, away on the previous occasion when you favoured us with a call."

Dene shook hands with the President's wife, and bowed quietly to Lucia, who was looking at him languidly with her great black eyes half closed. He accepted the chair to which the President courteously motioned him, and made some remark as to the beauty of the garden which stretched away below. The Señora, who understood flowers and flowers only outside the culinary art, engaged him at once in a horticultural conversation. Lucia, without even the pretence of apparent interest, yawned and picked up her book.

But the Señora was too good a mother to be carried away even by the pleasure of discussing this her chief interest in life with a stranger who certainly knew something about orchids. She watched for her opportunity and grasped it.

"So it is possible that you who have seen so much, you have really never seen a green carmenita?" she exclaimed with animation. "Ah well, to-day you shall see such a specimen as there is not in the whole of Europe. Lucia, my dear, I want you to take Señor Dene into the orchid garden. You know exactly where the green carmenita is. It is only a few steps, Señor Dene."

Dene glanced towards the girl, and rose to his feet. She looked up from her book, but kept her finger in the place.

"What is it that you wish me to show Señor Dene, mother?" she asked.

"The green carmenita, my love. You know where it is."

Lucia laid down her book, but she did not rise at once.

"It is a small green flower, Señor Dene, whose only distinction is a most appalling ugliness. Is it worth braving this terrible heat for?" she asked.

In his heart he did not think so, but he wished to be polite, and the girl's indolence amused him.

"It seems too bad to disturb you," he said, "but you must remember that I am a mild enthusiast, and a green carmenita is a very wonderful thing. Perhaps if you are tired one of the gardeners could show it to me."

The Señora made a sign at her daughter, and waved them away.

"It is folly," she declared. "The heat is little and the distance is nothing. Besides, they are so seldom in flower. Lucia, my love, see that the sun does not reach your head. Señor Dene, when you return I shall give you an English cup of tea."

Lucia rose slowly, and opening a parasol of white lace, pushed aside the mosquito netting and swept down the broad steps. Then, as though repenting an abruptness which bordered upon discourtesy, she turned suddenly round and addressed him.

"It is only a few yards, Señor Dene. Will you come this way."

He followed her across a brown burnt lawn and into a winding shrubbery. He had already decided that she was a particularly sulky and disagreeable young woman, and having no desire to make himself agreeable he did not attempt to start a conversation.

They remained silent until they reached a little opening, in the centre of which was another lawn and a brilliant little bed of flowers. Here she paused.

"That," she said, pointing downwards with her parasol towards a little cluster of blossoms in the centre of the bed, "is the green carmenita."