The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1904-03-27
PART FIRST.
The Quarry and the Beach.
CHAPTER 1.

polite "Ndya listed con dos.
What are these days to me? But
that far-off day of my romance,
from between the blue and white bales
in Don Ramon's darkened storeroom,
at Kingston, saw the door open before
the figure of an old man with a tired.
long, white face, that day I am not
likely to forget. 1 remember the chilly
smell of the West Indian store, the
smell of damp gloom, of locos, of pi-
mento of olive oil, of new sugar, of
new rum; the CLASSY double sheen of
Ramon's great spectacles, the piercing
eyes in the mahogany face, while the
tap, tap, tap of a cane on the flags
went on behind the inner door; the
click of the latch; the stream of light.
The door, petulantly thrust inwards,
struck against some barrels. remem-
Der the rafting of the bolts on that
door, and the tall figure that appear
ed there, snuffbox in hand.
In that land of white clothes, that
precise, ancient Castilian in black was
something to remember. The black
cane that had made the tap, tap, tap
dangled by a silken cord from the
hand whose delicate blue-veined wrin-
killed. wrist ran back into a foam of
lawn ruff1es. The other hand paused
in the act of conveying a pinch Of
snuff to the nostrils of the hooked nose
that had, on the skin stretched tight
over the bridge, the polish of old ivory;
the elbow pressing the black cooked
hat against the side; the legs, one
bent, the other bowling a little back
this was the attitude of Seraphina's
father.
Having imperiously thrust the door
of the inner room open, he remained
immovable, with no intention of enter
ing, and called in a harsh, aged voice:
"Senor Ramon! Senior Ramon!" and
then twice: phina!"
turning his head back.
Then for the first time I saw Sera-
pima, looking over her fathers Shout
der. l remember her face of that day;
her eyes were gray-the gray of black,
not of blue. For a moment they looked
me straight in the face, ref1ectively,
unconcerned, and then travelled to the
spectacles of old Ramon.
This glance-remember l was young
on that day-had been enough to set
me wondering what they were think
ing of me; what they could have seen
of me.
"But there he is-your Senior, Ra-
mon,'' she said to her father, as if she
were Gliding him for petulance in
calling; your sight is not very good,
my poor little father-there he is, your
Ramon"
The warm reflection of the light be-
hind her. gliding the curve of her face
from ear to chin, lost itself in the
shadows of black lace falling from
dark hair that was not quite black.
She spoke as if her words chung to her
lips; as if she had put them forth
delicately for fear of damaging the
frail things. She raised her long hand
to white flower that chung above her
ear like the pen of a clerk, and disap-
peared. Ramon hurried with a stiffness
of immense respect towards the ancient
grandee. The door swung to.
/ remained alone. The blue bales
and the white, and the great red oil
jars doomed in the dim light fltering
through the jalousies out Of the blind
ing sunlight of Jamaica. A moment
after, the door opened once more and
young man came out to me; tall,
slim, with very bright, very large
black eyes aglow in an absolute pallor
of face. That was Carlos Riego.
Well, that is my yesterday of ro-
nance, for the many things that have
passed between those times and now
my mind. And my day before yester-
day was the day on which 1, at twenty
two, stood looking at myself in the
tall glass, the day on which I left my
home in Kent and went, as chance
Willed it, out to sea with Carlos Riego.
That day my cousin Rooksby had
become engaged to my sister Veronica,
and I had fit of jealous misery.
was rawboned, with fair hair, 1 had a
good skin, tanned by the weather, good
teeth and brown eyes. had not had
very happy life, and l had lived shut
In on myself, thinking of the wide
world beyond my reach, that seemed
to hold out infinite possibilities of ro-
nance, of adventure, of love, perhaps,
and stores of gold. In the family my
mother counted; my father did not
She was the daughter of Scottish
earl who had ruined himself again and
again. He had been an inventor, a
protector, and my mother had been q
poor beauty, brought up on the farm
we still lived on-the last rag of land
that had remained to her father. Then
she had married a good man in his
way; a good enough catch, moderately
well off, very amiable, easy Influenced.
dilettante, and a bit of a dreamer.
too. He had taken her into the swim
of the regency, and his purse had not
held out. So my mother, asserting
HeTSGlI, ldQ insisted upon return to
our farm, which had been her dowry.
The alternative would have been a
Inabby, ignominious life at Calais, in
the shadow of Brummel and such.
My father used to sit all day by the
fire, inscribing ideas every now and
then in a pocketbook. I think he was
writing an epic poem, and I think he
was happy in an Intellectual way. He
had thin red hair, untidy for want of a
valet, a shining, delicate, hooked nose
narrow-lidded blue eyes, and a face
with the color and texture of white
heart cherry. He used to spend his
days in hooded chair. My mother
managed everything, leading an out
of-door life which gave her face the
color of a wrinlzled pippin. 1t was the
face of a Roman mother, tight-lipped
brown eyed and fierce
AS for me, I was under her, and
since l had my aspirations, I had a
rather bitter childhood. And I had
others to contrast myself with. First
there was Roeksby; pleasant, we'll
spoken, amiable young squire of the
immediate neighborhood; young Sill
Ralph, man popular with all sorts
and in love with my sister Veronica
from early days. Veronica was very
beautiful and gentle, and very kind
tall, slim, with sloping white shoulders
and long white arms hair the color OF
amber, and startled blue eyes-a goo6
mate for Rooksby
Rooksby had foreign relations. The
uncle from whom he inherited the
priory had married a Riego, a Cas-