A Daughter of Rahab

By

Nina Wilcox Putnam

HE limitless darkness of a tropic night lay upon land and sea. Far out, beyond the confines of Santiago Bay the restless waters of the Atlantic boomed dully upon the shoals that guard the entrance to the harbor. But even the roar of these tireless ones seemed muffled by the intense heat, and the sleepless stars gave no illumination, but hung like jewels on a pall of sable velvet.

Throughout the drowsing city twinkled a few feeble gleams; lamps of weary souls, perhaps, who dreaded the subtle night. But from one spot arose a square shaft of brilliant, palpitating light, a living glow of yellow radiance that seemed to throb and pulsate with the mellow tones of a waltz, guitar-played, that echoed from its heart. High walls inclosed this festive patio and hid its beauties from the chance night prowler in the street; but through the open roof space the luster of its many lights was flung against the black, impenetrable heavens.

Here Naomi, the lover of all men, was holding her court untroubled by the thought of war, heedless of impending battles; Naomi of the golden eyes, of the dusky, perfumed hair, of the supple, soft body! She sat erect upon a wicker couch, swaying to and fro in rhythm with the music, and beside her sat the comandante; a stranger to be sure, but for the nonce a lover. He watched her between his narrowed eyelids and blew thin, idle wreaths of cigarette smoke into the still air.

In the center of the floor, Anita the Little was languidly singing a curious Oriental air, half waltz, half machiche; and two young men in the Cuban conception of evening dress sat cross-legged on the floor before her and marked time with the hollowed palms of their hands. Gathered about a large table, a noisy group of people sat eating sweet stuffs and drinking a pink liquid from tall thin glasses; and along the walls lounged some twenty or thirty others, variously occupied. There a thinly clad flaminca was whispering to a stout tobacco exporter in white linen. Next to them, the proprietor of the Ponce de Leon sat listening to La Anita's song, much to the troubled interest of his brunette companion, who in turn was watched by the jealous eyes of an enamored wine merchant. Here and there among the brilliant gowns of the women, glinted the gold braid of an officer from the garrison. For this was no ribald hostelry, but the private villa of Naomi, princess of her sisterhood. The Japanese lanterns tilted on their slender wires; laughter echoed; in the little balcony the musicians played tirelessly.

Among the revelers at the table were two men whom Naomi's quick eye had instantly distinguished as unfamiliar. She, exquisite voluptuary, barred no man from her house, and strangers, particularly in these troubled times, were no uncommon sight. Who, indeed, would come to Santiago and not go to the house of the “beautiful, but strange one”—as the city called her—if only for an hour in idle curiosity? So there was nothing unusual in the advent of an unknown face.

It was not surprise at an intrusion that made Naomi look twice. Who was the tall señor with the handsome chin, she asked in her mind. He attracted her. And the other one, who was more vivacious? Neither bore the weight of more than thirty years. They were evidently friends and had come together. by their dress they were provincial planters. A closer examination became desirable.

“Come, excelencia,” said she imperiously to the little soldier beside her. “Let us promenade.”

Her obedient slave followed her instantly, howbeit with some reluctance. The wicker sofa was a little apart from the crowd, comfortably cool, and he had Naomi there alone.

She crowded into a place at the large table, between her devoted comandante and the stranger with the handsome chin. Then, with intentional clumsiness, she jarred the latter's elbow so that the glass in his hand sprinkled its contents indiscriminately over them both.

“Pardon, señor,” she exclaimed. “I am awkward!”

The stranger smiled, but did not reply beyond giving her the slightest of bows.

“Name of all the saints, what a mule!” cried a musical voice just beyond him, and the second unfamiliar face leaned forward in eager apology. This man had pushed aside his friend.

“Allow me, most beautiful,” said he, “to repair the damage my unfortunate companion  has caused.”

And whipping out a gorgeous silk handkerchief, he dabbed at her gown with no little skill, talking rapidly all the while.

But Naomi gazed over his bent head in indignant surprise at the offender, who still said not a word. In her face was mirrored wonder and interest. Never before had those marvelous yellow eyes of hers been flashed in vain. And now she had looked at a man, yes, looked unfathomable things, and he not only refused to respond, but actually ignored her. The experience was too novel to inspire anything but wonderment. Suddenly she dropped her gaze and fixed it upon her rescuer. The comandante had momentarily turned his attention to other quarters.

“A thousand thanks,” said she sweetly. “You are very gallant, stranger, more so than your friend. Can it be possible that the same town produced you both?”

“No, señorita,” he replied; “but we travel together for our pleasure, though alas, to-night to my disgrace!”

“Have you come far?” she questioned next.

“From the darkness of night into the light of your gracious presence,” he replied in graceful evasion; “a long way, truly.”

Evidently the man for some reason did not wish to elucidate, but Naomi had met men of mystery before; many came and went unquestioned at her house. She changed the subject.

“Drink, señor,” she said. “The wine is good and abundant; make the house your own.”

And then, without a murmur of resistance or a single backward glance at her silent visitor, she permitted herself to be led away by the comandante.

But this passivity was only on the surface; and while the officer whispered to her that she was slender as a moon-beam, fragrant as the jessamine, her mind busy considering and endeavoring to grasp the fact that she had been slighted. Why, it was an unheard-of occurrence! Impossible, almost! He was indifferent to her! This was, of course, a state of affairs that could not be permitted to continue. The man must be made to succumb. Since he was here, he must admire. And besides, those calm gray eyes of his—what was it they made her think of? Something cool and remote from her breadth of knowing; something felt rather than understood; a dim consciousness of a sort of beauty hitherto undreamed of. His quiet, steady gaze, impersonal and yet comprehensive, compelled her attention as the most liquid glance ever offered her by a fellow countryman had failed to do.

A shifting of the company again found him at her side, and the circumstance was so well managed that no one would have thought it prearranged. Then Naomi summoned the full force of her only weapon. As if it were a supple, tangible lariat, she cast it about him and, with a mighty effort, willed him to her. But the magic emotional spell with which she was used to make men delirious captives, left him cold.

“Señor,” she said in a low voice, “the night is strangely soft, the flowers are wondrous sweet. Do you know the words of the waltz they are playing?

“Hear how it throbs through the silent air! It is like the beating of a human heart. Señor, do you know what it is to love?”

The strange man only smiled quietly, and did not respond.

With the angry consciousness of having received a second rebuff, Naomi turned away sharply. Madre de Dios! What was the man made of? Stone? He was a rat, an imbecile, a worthless Yet, yet—why did the look of his eyes give her this cold burning of the heart? What, who, was he that she could not scorn, nor yet play with him? But perhaps he was as one that sleeps, and the awakening might be in her power. Men who sleep longest need the most violent arousing. Ah, she would do it!

She looked about her quickly.

Anita the Little had finished and now sat at a small round table between her two youthful admirers. All three of them were deeply absorbed in extricating a green beetle from a glass of champagne. For the moment the weary musicians were resting. “Salud y pesetas,” she heard the leader say as he drained his glass. Across the courtyard the stranger stared at her unseeingly. Ah, but wait! Presently he would look with open eyes! She gave the musicians a signal, and again the waltz throbbed out. Then she began to dance.

And when Naomi danced, the onlookers held their breath. It was like a flower bending in the wind, like a leaping flame of blue fire, like the lithe, sinuous movement of a snake. Truly, one wondered, one feared, when Naomi danced.

The strangers sat together on a narrow stone bench against the farther wall, and watched like the rest. They were a little apart from the other guests. The smaller of the two, the one who had wiped the wine from Naomi's dress, turned to his companion and said in a hushed voice, speaking English, with a Virginian accent:

“Those fellows who suspected and followed us must have been thrown off the track by this time. I'm sure they didn't see us dodge in here. We'd better be moving along soon.”

“We must reach the fleet before daylight,” replied the other, and Boston sounded in his voice. “We'll leave at the first moment that we can do so without attracting too much attention.”

“Look at the woman!” said the first speaker. “She's dancing at you!”

“We have the maps,” said the New Englander, ignoring the last remark. “It was a very neat piece of work, Haskell, old man, and I'd hate to be caught and strung up by these dagos as a finish to it. They say the Spanish garrison here makes short work of spies.”

“Poor devils!” said Haskell, looking about at the gay, thoughtless crowd. “They may be made hash of by this time to-morrow; you can't scare off Uncle Sam's warships with a bit of gold braid and a castanet or two.”

“Hush! No names: above all, not your uncle's,” said the big man warningly.

“By Jove, but that witch of a woman dances well! She's enough to drive a man mad. Aren't you sorry you can't speak Spanish, Ripley? She's makin' a dead set for you.”

The memory of a trim, quiet girl who had bidden him a dignified, properly controlled farewell in a Boston drawing-room came to the other, and he answered sharply.

“No.”

“If that wonderful creature would only stop her performance, we could get away,” said Haskell softly. “I'd like to get out of this with a whole skin, if possible, myself. Even a bunch of sleepy dagos will wake up when they find a gagged and bound sentry outside the comandante's office, and the plan of the harbor defenses gone. No, I won't hush! There's no one near enough to hear, and it gives me a tremendous sense of satisfaction, talking about it under their very noses. By God! What's that? They've wakened up!”

An undersized man in the uniform of a Spanish private, his head uncovered and presenting a very disheveled appearance, had entered unobtrusively and was whispering in the comandante's ear. That stout worthy arose hastily.

“Yznaga! Ramondez!” he cried aloud to two officers who stood near him. “There has been a most terrible occurrence at the fortress. Hasten, we must go!”

The sound of his shrill voice broke the spell of Naomi's dance. She threw down her castanets. The music stopped, and instantly the guests fell into noisy confusion, all shouting, pushing, and asking each other what the matter was. A gorgeous macaw, whose gilt cage was overturned by accident, added his hoarse screams to the uproar.

“Now is our time to bolt,” whispered Ripley with a glance at the door. But beyond the archway a flickering lantern revealed the motionless forms of a company of infantry.

“Not yet,” replied Haskell. “Join the rumpus and look as excited as you can, then we shan't be noticed. It's the only thing to do.”

The comandante was whispering to Naomi.

“I go, most beautiful, but will return,” said he, with a languishing glance from his beady eyes. “Send these cackling geese away, and let me find the patio dark. I will return in an hour!”

“My cherub, may the saints protect you!” said Naomi; but under her breath she sped him with other guardianship.

“That overfed general is coming back here, Heaven knows how soon,” Haskell managed to whisper to Ripley. “Look here, old man, you'll have to cut him out and get the girl to help us; otherwise we are done for. They may trace us to this house at any moment, and if she won't lend a hand, we'll be goners,”

“You're insane!” was the reply.

“I am not; it's you who are not mad, but blind. Don't you realize that we must get out of this? Have you forgotten what the knowledge we possess means to the boys who are waiting for us to bring it? Are you going to let them be blown to hell just because of your damned New England conscience? If you don't shine up to her, she'll throw us out, or hand us over to this mob of hyenas; and serve us right for a couple of fools!”

“Haskell, what you suggest is a damned insult; it's a”

“It's a choice between your duty to your country and your miserable, narrow point of view. Come now, it must be done. Anyway, you needn't let it go farther than you wish. But get us a breathing space. Play up to her, for God's sake, man!”

Naomi was dismissing her guests. To go out with them would be dangerous; already one or two suspicious eyes were turned upon the strangers. In another moment they might be challenged. Now or never was the time to act. Without consulting Ripley further, Haskell darted to Naomi's side and whispered in her ear. A gleam of satisfaction crept into her eyes. So the dance had done it, after all!

“But why does he not speak to me himself?” she asked.

“Most exquisite rose, he speaks no Spanish,” Haskell apologized.

“I speak many languages,” said Naomi, looking at him indolently with her great gold-colored eyes. “Perhaps I know his?”

“German,” lied Haskell readily.

To his surprise, she murmured something in that tongue that he himself did not understand, and added, relapsing into Spanish:

“Howbeit, tell him to go upstairs into the room overlooking the street.” And she turned away to bid good night to the departing hotel keeper.

Haskell was at his friend's elbow.

“This way, quickly!” he murmured, plucking Ripley by the sleeve.

In another moment they had crossed the patio and were ascending the tapestry-hidden stairway. The plastered walls glinted white as they mounted, and at the stair's head, a short passageway, also white-walled and spotless, led to the front chamber.

Haskell pushed open the low, green, wooden door, and, finding the room empty, entered, beckoning Ripley to follow; then closed it softly after him.

“What does all this mean?” began Ripley angrily. “I told you I absolutely refused to be party to”

“Shut up!” said Haskell, suddenly cautious. “There may be some one to overhear.”

“I tell you I won't stand for it,” continued the Northerner excitedly, but in a lower tone. “If you think I'm going to touch pitch just to save my skin, you are mightily mistaken. If you wish to, go ahead. I'm going to clear out of this and take my chance of getting away safely.”

He turned on his heel and made for the door. In an instant Haskell had him held fast in an iron grip.

“Don't be an ass!” he hissed. “And for God's sake be quiet!”

“Haskell, you don't realize what an utterly impossible thing you are asking of me, man!” the big man gasped. “There is a girl at home, a fine, sweet lady”

“Mabel?” said Haskell, with sudden understanding, releasing him.

Ripley nodded.

“You see how unthinkable it all is, he said. “And now that you have come to your senses, let us go.”

Again he made for the door, and again his friend sprang before him and detained him.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, and space they listened intently. Footsteps were approaching. As they drew nearer, the men could distinguish the jingle of spurs. Down the little corridor came the steps, and the two scarcely breathed, as for an instant it seemed as if the man was going to enter. Then the jingling grew fainter as he descended the stairs.

“Perhaps we had best wait a moment,” whispered Ripley hoarsely. “I thought they had all gone.”

So they waited in the great white-walled room, and the sounds below grew less and less. Ripley sank into a curiously carved chair with a tall back all wrought in images of strange beasts, saints, and flowers. He buried his face in his hands and racked his soul. Haskell moved softly about, examining the room with restless curiosity. It was sparsely enough furnished; a very different boudoir from the gilt-and-brocade affair of the traditional frail sister.

A heavy, carved settle stood against one wall, and over it hung an ancient, soft-toned tapestry into which was woven the story of Antony and Cleopatra. High-backed chairs of time-blackened walnut similar to the one in which Ripley sat were set about at intervals. Save for the textile, the walls were without decoration, and a single silk rug, of Persian make, covered the center of the polished floor. Close to the three French windows, which gave upon a little iron-railed balcony, stood a huge divan, soft and luxurious, in singular contrast, with its gorgeous silk drapery and innumerable cushions, to the austerity of its surroundings. On it rested an inlaid guitar, a novel in French, and a flat leather case. At the windows hung soft curtains of raw silk.

Haskell concealed himself behind one of these and peered cautiously into the street below. A patch of light streamed from the doorway of the house. Some lingering visitors came out, laughing as they separated at the threshold. Save for this, the street, indeed the whole town. was very silent. Suddenly the light below was extinguished. Somewhere in the distant quarter, a clock struck twice. Ripley raised his head. Two o'clock! Before very long it would be dawn, and they had a journey to perform that needed the cover of darkness.

Just as he arose impatiently, footsteps were heard, the door was flung open, and Naomi appeared.

She was a little breathless from her run up the stairs, which had also heightened the color in her cheeks, and her great golden eyes glowed wonderfully with the fires of victory. At first glance, she saw only Ripley, who stared at her, open-mouthed, for the instant less master of himself than he realized. Naomi was a very beautiful woman. Then she spoke in her queer German, which she had learned, who knows where?

“I came at the first moment,” she began.

Then Ripley recovered himself.

“Young woman,” he said in English, “you misunderstand my, or rather our, motive for remaining. I cannot speak your language, whatever it may be, but my friend here must explain our situation.”

He waved his hand toward Haskell, whose presence she then noted for the first time.

“Traitor!” she cried, turning to him and stamping her foot. “Who said you might remain? Have you got me here to make a fool of me? Why did you give me a lying message?”

“So you understand English, also,” replied Haskell quietly. “My compliments, señorita; you are a woman of many accomplishments.”

Apparently she did not hear him, her attention having reverted to Ripley, at whom she stood looking, staring as if fascinated by the coldness of his eyes, and vaguely wondering at the emotions that struggled in her breast. Then she made a direct appeal. With both slim, olive hands pressing the gorgeous drapery on her bosom, she leaned toward him, her marvelous golden eyes opened to depths that made his consciousness reel.

“And am I, then, so ugly?” she asked in his own tongue.

His senses swam; for an instant he swayed toward her. Then with a broken, gasping breath he turned away.

“Damnation!” he choked. Then he spat out another word at her from which she recoiled as from a whiplash. But only for a moment. In a breath she had turned upon him like a wounded serpent.

“Swine!” she cried. “Leave my house—go! Go, do you hear? And my curse be with you! Santa Maria, what an insult, a trick, a gutter-conceived joke! Scum of the earth, go, go!” 

Before the torrent of her wrath the two men quailed as at a mighty storm. With quivering limbs and flashing eyes, she seemed more than ever like a leaping flame of blue fire. As she paused for breath, a new sound broke upon their ears—the tramp of drilled men on the pavement below. With hand upraised to admonish silence, Haskell stole to the window. After looking up the narrow street for a moment he turned.

“Silence!” he commanded sharply, as Naomi's wrath was about to burst forth anew. “The jig's up; it's a squad from the garrison. They have evidently tracked us here.”

Naomi's eyes were narrowed. Suddenly she gave a low laugh, a sweet-toned ripple of laughter, infinitely cruel.

“So! The soldiers are looking for you!” she said. “Well, haughty one, it will be my proud pleasure to hand you over.”

Lightly she ran across toward the window. The marching men were very near now. Haskell seized the laughing woman by the wrist, barring her passage.

“Wait!” he said hurriedly. “You are mistaken. Señorita, we throw ourselves on your mercy. We are American sailors. Less than twenty hours ago we left the fleet—fleet, d'you understand?—many vessels of war. We are spies. If we are caught, we shall be shot before noon to-day; but in any case, Santiago will be taken within a few hours; it is inevitable.” Her eyes were fixed upon Ripley with quick apprehension. “Do you understand that you will accomplish nothing by giving us up, except the death of two men who are more than willing to die in the service of their country? Señorita, I appeal to you—we are in your hands. We have been guests in your house to-night. Will you help us?”

Naomi stood rigidly, staring still at Ripley, who had thrown back his thin poncho, and was examining a pair of pistols which he took singly from his belt. His face had taken on a sterner cast, and not once did he look her way. For a moment Haskell could not tell whether or not she had heard him. She seemed as one in a trance. Then, though Ripley still ignored her, a curious softening came upon her, and the rigidity of her posture relaxed. The room was very still, but outside men's voices could be heard not fifty yards away.

With a swift gesture, Naomi extinguished the single taper that illuminated the room; simultaneously came the first challenge from the street. The soldiers had stopped before the house.

“Come!” whispered Naomi, and with a cautious step they followed her ghostly, almost invisible figure from the room.

A little bronze lamp hung from the ceiling of the landing, and by its light they saw her speeding down a narrow hall, which, on their ascent, they had passed unnoticed. At the end of this she disappeared through a low door, and the men followed.

The room in which they found themselves was small and low-ceilinged, and, by the nature of its contents, a sort of store closet. Heavy strings of garlic and dried red peppers hung on the walls; in one corner lay a bale of rushes and some half-finished baskets. All this was but half revealed by the dim, uncertain light from the corridor.

All at once Naomi seemed to vanish. Then they heard a faint swish of silken garments, and something soft and perfumed grazed Ripley's cheek. It was the hem of her skirt. Was the woman hanging in mid-air?

“Follow!” came a sibilant whisper. “This way, up the ladder!”

And then they understood. In a second more all three emerged upon the flat roof at the back of the house, over the kitchen and the servants' quarters. Here palm leaves in great quantities had been laid to dry. The soft fiber deadened the sound of their footsteps.

“Lie down!” commanded Naomi; “here in this corner by the chimney.”

They obeyed, and before they realized what was happening, she was piling the palm fiber atop of them. When she had quite covered them, she departed noiselessly. Then, for what seemed an interminable period, the men lay waiting, half smothered, motionless. From the street came a noise of heavy pounding upon the wooden door of the patio.

It was Naomi herself, who, much to the comandante's surprise, at length opened the door.

Prepared for a parley with a refractory servant, he had his men drawn up close behind him. Greeted apparently by an expectant mistress, the situation took on another face, and he found himself somewhat abashed. He motioned the soldiers to retire, and spoke to her in a low voice in which jealousy and authority mingled.

“Naomi,” said he sternly, his little eyes bulging out at her greedily, “two men, strangers, were here to-night. Sancho, the gatekeeper, says that they remained when all the guests had left. Do not deny it!”

To his astonishment, she made no attempt to.

“That is true,” she said.

“What! You admit it?” he exclaimed. “You admit that these strangers, these pigs Why should they stay?”

Naomi's heart was bitter within her, but she smiled as she answered lazily:

“Why not? Am I not a lover of all men?”

“So that is why” said he, white with jealous rage. Then, with sudden fierceness, he snarled: “You will let us in, Naomi. They are American spies, these men. Ah, you flinch! Let me pass, I say!”

But Naomi leaned placidly against the lower half of the wooden gate and smiled sleepily.

“I said they stayed, but not that they are here now,” she replied. “They have been gone a good half hour; where, know not, for why should such as I care from whence men come, or whither they go?”

Rage, jealousy, and disappointment played across the fat face of the little man.

“And they were Americans!” he cried despairingly. Then, furiously, “And you, and you” He sputtered, shaking his finger at her.

“Why not?” she yawned. “One must live! Americans, if such they were, have money, it would seem. But since you are so anxious to see them, why do you not hasten after them? They are afoot and gone toward the Matanzas road. They will be easily overtaken.”

Turning from her abruptly, he gave an order, and the men fell in line.

“Comandante!” called the soft voice from the door.

Half reluctantly, he retraced his steps, unwilling to submit to her command, yet loath to leave without another word from her; perhaps a smile or a suggestion of preference.

“Return!” said the voice of Naomi, “but only when you have made your capture!”

Then she laughed gently and disappeared behind the closing gate.

The comandante with his men set out briskly along the street leading to the Matanzas road, and Naomi returned to the men she had hidden, to show them a way of escape.

The black, outer veils of night had lifted, and the world was gray with the coming dawn. Already objects in the large, austere room were visible, vague and uncertain of outline, mysterious and unfamiliar. Naomi stood alone in the the wide floor, as motionless, as symbolic, as one of the figures in the silken rug beneath her feet.

The dawn seemed strange, unhallowed to her. Mechanically she touched her rounded arm to see if it were indeed Naomi. Some part of her, she felt, was wanting; some vital part that she had hardly known the existence of, until she felt the ache of losing it, was gone; gone with the cold, gray-eyed man, who, with his companion, he had let go in safety. What was it that he had taken, she asked herself, answering that she did not know.

Then she looked at the mystery of the dawn and knew the answer; aye, she knew even before she asked. And what had he left her, this strange man whose eyes appeared to see things of which she had never dreamed? Slowly, the knowledge came of what his all-knowing gift had been. It was the realization of a new beauty, the key to the gate of an unimagined world; and suddenly she saw stretching out before her the infinite loveliness of its unexplored meadows.

The faint chiming of the cathedral clock on the distant plaza aroused her to consciousness of her immediate surroundings, and at her feet she espied a small black object. Stooping, with the supple grace of a young leopard, she picked it up and examined it curiously. It was a little book printed on thin paper, and impressed deeply and indelibly upon the soft black leather binding, appeared a golden cross. Naomi handled it interestedly. Some unerring instinct told her that it had been dropped by the gray-eyed man, and, turning to the flyleaf, she spelled out the inscription painfully:

“What an odd book!” she murmured. “It must be very precious to him if he carries it with him always; a very well-beloved book. How strange for any one to love a book—a book! Though not so strange in him!”

And she shuddered for an instant and closed her eyes. Then she opened the little volume at random and began to read, standing where she had picked it up, and straining her eyes to see whatever it could be about.

“A thread of scarlet!' said Naomi, aloud. “Did he not say the Americans would seize upon the city to-morrow? This is as a warning he forgot to speak.”

She walked deliberately and without haste to the leather case upon the divan and took out of it a large silk handkerchief, coarse and roughly made, but woven into the likeness of the Stars and Stripes; such a handkerchief as might be carried by a common soldier who felt that it proved his patriotism. Who knows to whom it had belonged and what man had left it there? In the dim light, it glowed and flashed its brilliant, harsh colors like a living gem; a stern symbol of definite achievement, glaringly incongruous in the lax simplicity of the Spanish room.

Leaning far out, Naomi fastened the fluttering bit of silk securely to the shutter, and returned to the strange book, A gun boomed in the distance, but she did not hear it, or those that followed.

Crouching in the window, she read on and on, while the light grew stronger.