Life — December 2, 1901 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

* Click of fingers on the giass door.” of tears splashed from her eyes as suddenly as an April shower, ‘ Ah, for seex mon’s he is dead. Iam alone. Iam sorry. Oh, how good he was—a heart of gold. The Spanish are not the devil as youtheenk. Heisdead. I am sorry,”’ and into her yellowed lace handkerchief the tears dropped again like falling pearls. “You were very happy?" “ Ah, my freng!" sighed Dofia Maria, and looked volumes ; “I was like bebby to him." “You always obeyed, sefiora?”” “Ah, I will tell you. The wife must to listen—to obey—yes?”’ With fingers on lips and eyes low- ered, she was the picture of wifely docility. She looked up suddenly and a merry imp seemed peering from be- tween her lashes, “So my husban’ think. He don’ know—but always,” and she gave a rakish wink, ‘‘ alway 1 obey myself—do what-ee I please! Ah, nombre de Dios,” she laughed, a bunch of chuckles, ‘there is a Spanish saying—‘ The woman beat-a the devil.’ Yes? Oh, you see I am yolly some- times, but,’ and the ready tears splashed on the crucifix apon her : LIPE - “Linever forget that I am “Have you a picture of your hus- band, Dofia Maria?" “Come. I show you. You are my freng. I feel the warm heart for you.” She led Miss Gay along the gallery to her own chamber. It was like enter- ing a church. The scent of old roses hung in the air. A yellow canopied bed with small altar and prayer step near it loomed in the shadow. On the altar there was a crucifix, a silver box before it, two tall candles on either side of it. On the wall above hung a portrait of a stout, dark-eyed, fall whiskered man of about fifty, and to this the sefiora pointed tremblingly. “Behold my heart of gold,’ she said, then lifted the silver box and kissed it, her expression making Miss Gay think of a church organ droning in a lonely twilight. ‘* All wat-ee I love is gone. Here is my ever'sing,’’ she moaned. With religious fingers she unlocked it and lifted out its contents, one by one, whimpering as she did so. There were a pair of gold cuff buttons, a gold watch of ancient make, the corpse of a rose in tissue paper, a package of old letters, smelling of musk. All had be- longed to “heart of gold.” Lastly, she lifted a small, yellow photograph. “Him and mo when I not ugly ol woman like this-a. Ah!’ crooned the sefiora, rocking over it. There was “‘ heart of gold” with long, black hair curling about his ears, with acollar flaring in points, cross-barred trousers, a magenta waistcoat, and an expression too amiable to be genuine; and there was Dofia Maria, a rose of a girl, with mantilla, a prodigious curl over one shoulder, a rose at her ear, a big hoop holding out her sprigged mus- lin skirts, while her mittened hand lay confidingly on the shoulder of “ heart of gold.” Dofia Maria replaced the mementos and laid her hand on the box. “This is my coffin, on my heart— ah, yes, my freng!” They strolled back to the balcony, just as Agadita, the mulatto maid, appeared with the afternoon limes. “ Tell me,” said Miss Gay, in Spanish, “how you came to marry a Spaniard. Was Cuba a loyal colony then?” Dofa Maria’s eyes flashed superbly. “ My freng, you are wrong—I speak-a in the English to teach to myself— yes? Listen! When I marry, Cuba hate-a Spain. My mother pray me not to keel her with such actions by marry the Spanish husban’! My father have what you call—the fit. Yes,” said the sefora proudly, ‘I was made to be almost mad—I try to cut my throat—but to give up my Seraphine— no! I glad better todie. My heart of gold is ever'’sing for me. If all to hell —I marry that-a man !* “Then I suppore your father at last gave his consent?’’ Dofia Maria looked a profound dis- gust. “You not un’erstand how I love-a that heart of gold, my freng—I see that. I—I ran off—what you call— scoot—yes, to Key West. Ah, Dios— I marry there my Seraphine. When I come back my father is cressy with mad. My mother hang out the crape on the door—you know?—I am to be dead. I do not care for that. For three years they pass me on the street-a as. if-ee I stone. But—my heart of gold isall tome. There is no one but him —nada nadissimo.”" That night Miss Gay strolled in the garden of the weather-stained church opposite the Hotel Louvre. Suddenly she came to an abrupt standstill, and, sheltered by the rusty fountain, peered. out. Rosita was in the deepest shadow, and also in the arms of a slim, young man with a sailor hat and a plaid neck- tie. As Dofa Maria had stolen away to meet “heart of gold” thirty-two years before, Rosita was now meeting Mr. Smith. The impeccable drummer had apparently come to Matanzas to face the sefiora and lay siege to his sweetheart. But a week passed and he had not appeared. Life went on as usual in the casa on the Calle O'Reilly. Rosita did not confide in Miss Gay. “Don’t you tell a smitch to that newspaper woman. They're a gabby lot,” Mr. Smith had said, and Rosita, slavishly happy, had obeyed. One morning as the six o'clock sun was gilding the pot-tiled roofs, a roar came from the sefiora’s chamber. Miss Gay, on the gallery, looked up from her morning coffee and saw her look- ing through her casement bars, with-