Читать книгу The Harlequin Opal - Fergus Hume - Страница 4

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Spirits dwelling in the zone

Of the changeful devil stone,

Pray ye say what destiny

Is prepared by Fate for me.

Doth the doubtful future hold

Poverty or mickle gold,

Fortune’s smile, or Fortune’s frown,

Beggar’s staff, or monarch’s crown?

Shall I wed, or live alone,

Spirits of the devil stone?

See the colours come and go,

Thus foreboding joy and woe;

Burns the red, the blue is seen,

Yellow glows and flames the green,

Like a rainbow in the sky,

Mingle tints capriciously,

Till the writhing of the hues,

Sense and brain and eye confuse,

Prophet priest can read alone

Omens of the devil stone.

Having finished dinner, they repaired to the library, and there made themselves comfortable with coffee and tobacco. Emotion at meeting one another after the lapse of so many years had by no means deprived them of their appetites, and they all did full justice to the excellent fare provided by Philip’s cook. So busy were they in this respect that during the meal conversation waxed somewhat desultory, and it was not until comfortably seated in the library that they found time for a thoroughly exhaustive confabulation.

For this purpose the quartette drew their chairs close together, and proceeded to incense the goddess Nicotina, of whom they were all devotees save Peter. He said that tobacco was bad for the nerves, especially when in the guise of cigarettes, which last shaft was aimed at Philip, who particularly affected those evil little dainties abhorred by Dr. Grench. Jack and Tim, to mark their contempt for Peter’s counter-blast, produced well-coloured meerschaum pipes, which had circumnavigated the globe in their pockets. Whereat Peter, despairing of making proselytes, held his tongue and busied himself with his coffee—very weak coffee, with plenty of milk and no sugar.

“What an old woman you have become, Peter,” said Cassim, watching all this caution with languid interest. “You have positively no redeeming vices. But you won’t live any the longer for such self-denial. Tim, there, with his strong coffee and stronger tobacco, will live to bury you.”

“Tim suffers from liver!” observed Peter, serenely making a side attack.

“What!” roared Tim, indignantly, “is it me you mean? Why, I never had a touch of liver in my life.”

“You’ll have it shortly, then,” retorted Peter, with a pitying smile. “I’m a doctor, you know, Peter, and I can see at a glance that you are a mass of disease.”

All this time Jack had spoken very little. He alone of the party was not seated, but leaned against the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth, with a far-away look in his eyes. While Tim and Peter wrangled over the ailments of the former, Philip, lying back luxuriously in his chair, surveyed his old schoolfellow thoughtfully through a veil of smoke. He saw a greater change in Jack than in the other two.

In truth, Duval was well worth looking at, for, without being the ideal Greek god of romance, he was undeniably a handsome young man. Tim had the advantage of him in height and size, but Jack’s lean frame and iron muscles would carry him successfully through greater hardships than could the Irishman’s uncultivated strength. Jack could last for days in the saddle; he could sustain existence on the smallest quantity of food compatible with actual life; he could endure all disagreeables incidental to a pioneer existence with philosophical resignation, and altogether presented an excellent type of the Anglo-Saxon race in its colonising capacity. Certainly the special correspondent had, in the interests of his profession, undergone considerable hardships with fair success; but Tim was too fond of pampering his body when among the fleshpots of Egypt, whereas Jack, constantly in the van of civilisation subjugating wildernesses, had no time to relapse into luxurious living. The spirit was willing enough, but the flesh had no chance of indulging.

His face, bronzed by tropic suns, his curly yellow locks, his jauntily curled moustache, and a certain reckless gleam in his blue eyes, made him look like one of those dare-devil, Elizabethan seamen who thrashed the Dons on the Spanish Main. Man of action as he was, fertile in expedients, and constantly on the alert for possible dangers, Jack Duval was eminently fitted for the profession which he had chosen, and could only endure existence in the desert places of the world. This huge London, with its sombre skies, its hurrying crowds, its etiquette of civilisation, was by no means to his taste, and already he was looking forward with relief to the time when he would once more be on his way to the vivid, careless, dangerous life of the frontier.

Philip admired his friend’s masculine thoroughness, and could not help comparing himself disadvantageously with the young engineer. Yet Cassim was no weakling of the boudoir; he also had sailed stormy seas, had dared the unknown where Nature fights doggedly with man for the preservation of her virgin solitudes. Still, withal, Jack was a finer man than he was. What were his luxurious travels, his antarctic explorations, in comparison with the actual hardships undergone by this dauntless pioneer of civilisation? Jack was one who did some good in the world; but as for himself—well, Philip did not care about pursuing the idea to its bitter end, as the sequence could hardly prove satisfactory to his self-love. He irritably threw away his cigarette, moved restlessly in his chair, and finally expressed himself in words.

“Why do you come here, Jack, and make us feel like wastrels? A few hours ago and I rather prided myself on myself; but now you make me feel idle, and lazy, and selfish, and effeminate. It’s too bad of you, Jack.”

Brains were not Duval’s strong point, and, unable to understand the meaning of this outburst, he simply stared in vague astonishment at Sir Philip. Tim and the doctor, pausing in their conversation, pricked up their ears, while Cassim, paying no attention to this sudden enlargement of his audience, went on speaking, half peevishly, half good-humouredly.

“I am the enervated type of an effete civilisation. You, my friend, are the lusty young savage to whom the shaping of the future is given. You are Walt Whitman’s tan-faced man, the incarnation of the dominating Anglo-Saxon race, ever pushing forward into fresh worlds. As compared with mine, your primæval life is absolutely perfect. The Sybarite quails before the clear glance of the child of Nature. Take me with you into the wilderness, John Duval. Teach me how to emulate the Last of the Mohicans. Make me as resourceful as Robinson Crusoe. I am a prematurely old man, Jack, and I wish to be a child once more.”

“What the deuce are you driving at, Philip?” asked practical Jack.

“It’s from a book he’s writing,” suggested Tim, with a laugh.

“Melancholia,” hinted Peter, who was nothing if not medicinal.

Philip laughed and lighted a fresh cigarette. Duval ran his hand through his curly locks, pulled hard at his pipe, and delivered himself bluntly.

“I suppose all that balderdash means that you are tired of London.”

“Very much so.”

“Why, you never stay two days in London,” said Peter, in astonishment.

“Neither do I. Don’t I tell you I’m tired of it? Be quiet, Peter; I can see that Jack is on the verge of being delivered of a great idea.”

“Upon my word, that’s cute of you, Philip,” exclaimed Jack, admiringly. “Yes, I have a scheme to propound, for the carrying out which I need your assistance—in fact, the assistance of all three.”

“This promises to be an interesting conversation,” said Cassim, in an animated tone. “Proceed, John Duval, Engineer. What is it you wish us to do?”

“I had better begin at the beginning, gentlemen all.”

“That’s generally considered the best way,” observed Peter, with mild sarcasm.

“Be quiet! you small pill-box. Let Jack speak.”

“As I told you at dinner,” said Jack, placing his elbows backward on the mantelshelf, “I have been all over the world since I last saw your three faces. China, Peru, New Zealand, India, Turkey—I know all those places, and many others. I have made money; I have lost money; I have had ups and downs; but everywhere I can safely say I’ve had a good time.”

“Same here,” murmured Tim, refilling his pipe.

“At present I am in Central America,” pursued Jack, taking no notice of the interpolation, “under engagement as a railway engineer to the Republic of Cholacaca.”

“Cholacaca?” echoed Tim, loudly; “isn’t it there the row’s to take place?”

“Why, what do you know about it, Tim?”

“A special correspondent knows a lot of things,” returned Fletcher, sagely. “Go on with the music, my boy. I’ll tell you something when you’ve ended.”

Jack looked hard at Tim and hesitated, but Philip, curled up luxuriously in his big chair, asked him to proceed.

“You’re going to tell an Arabian Night story, Jack.”

“Well, it sounds like one.”

“Good! I love romance. It’s something about buried cities, and Aztecs, and treasure, and the god Huitzilopochtli.”

“Oh, bosh! You’ve been reading Prescott.”

“It seems to me,” observed Peter, plaintively, “that with all these interruptions we’ll never hear the story.”

“The first that speaks will be crushed,” announced Tim, glaring around. “If you please, Mr. Duval, it’s waiting we are.”

Jack laughed, and resumed his story.

“While I was at Tlatonac—that is the capital of the Republic—I became mixed up in certain events, political and otherwise. I found I could do nothing I wanted to without assistance; so, as I suddenly remembered our promise to meet here this year, I came straight to London. In fact, I was in such a hurry to find out if you three had remembered the appointment, that I left my luggage at the railway station, and came on by a hansom to Portman Square. This is the reason I am not in evening dress.”

“Oh, deuce take your evening dress,” said Philip, irritably; “you might have come in a bathing-towel, for all I cared. I didn’t want to see your clothes. I wanted to see you. Go on with the story of the buried city.”

“How do you know my story is about a buried city?”

“I never heard a romance of Central America that wasn’t.”

“You’ll hear one now, then. This isn’t about a city—it’s concerning a stone.”

“A stone?” echoed his three listeners.

“Yes. An opal. A harlequin opal.”

“And what is a harlequin opal, Jack?”

“Tim, I’m astonished at your ignorance. A special correspondent should know all things. A harlequin opal is one containing all the colours of the rainbow, and a few extra ones besides.”

“Well, Jack, and this special opal?”

“It’s one of the most magnificent jewels in the world.”

“Have you seen it?”

Jack drew a long breath.

“Yes; once. Great Scott, what a gem! You fellows can’t conceive its beauty. It is as large as a guinea-hen’s egg. Milky white, and shooting rays of blue and green, and red and yellow like fireworks. It belonged to Montezuma.”

“I thought those everlasting Aztecs would come in,” said Philip smiling. “Well, Jack, and what about this stone?”

“Ah, that’s a long story.”

“What of that? The night’s young, and the liquor’s plentiful.”

“I don’t mind sitting up all night, if the story is interesting. Start at once Jack, and don’t keep us any longer in suspense. I hate wire-drawn agonies.”

“A year ago I was pottering about at Zacatecas, over a wretched little railway that wasn’t worth bothering about. Being hard up, I went in for it in default of something better; but meanwhile kept my eyes open to see what I could drop into. After some months, I heard that the Republic of Cholacaca was about to open up the country with railways, so I thought I’d go there to get a job.”

“Where is Cholacaca?”

“Down Yucatan way—not far from Guatemala.”

“Oh, I know; looks on to Campeche Bay.”

“No; on the other side of the neck. Washed by the Carribean Sea.”

“I must get you to show it to me on the map,” said Philip, finding his geographical knowledge at fault. “I have an idea of its whereabouts, but not of its precise locality. Meanwhile let us continue your adventures.”

“When I heard of this prospect at Tlatonac,” continued Jack, without further preamble, “I left Zacatecas for Mexico, stayed a few days in the capital, to make inquiries about the Republic. These proving satisfactory, I went on to Vera Cruz, and, fortunately, found a coasting-vessel which took me on to Cholacaca. Considering the ship, I got to my destination pretty sharp. I didn’t know a soul in the town when I arrived; but, after a few days, began to pick up a few acquaintances. Among these was Don Miguel Maraquando, a wealthy old Estanciero. He has great influence in Cholacaca, being a member of the Junta, and is regarded by many people as the future president of the Republic.”

“That is if Don Hypolito stands out,” said Tim, softly.

“Have you heard—” began Jack, when the journalist cut him short.

“I’ve heard many things, my boy. Later on I’ll tell you all I know.”

“You seem to be pretty well acquainted with what’s going on in Cholacaca,” said Jack, after a few moments’ reflection; “but I’ll tell my story first, and you can tell yours afterwards. Don Miguel became a great friend of mine, and I saw a good deal of him while I stayed at Tlatonac. He is greatly in favour of this railway, which is to be made from the capital to Acauhtzin, a distance of some three hundred and fifty miles. Don Hypolito Xuarez, the leader of the Oposidores, objected to the scheme on the ground that it was utterly unnecessary to run a railway to Acauhtzin when ships could take goods there by water.”

“And isn’t the man right?” said Tim, indignantly; “what’s the use of running a railway along the seacoast?”

“We’ll argue that question later on,” replied Jack, dryly; “I have my own ideas on the subject, and, as an engineer, I know what I’m talking about. Don Hypolito’s objection sounds all right, I have no doubt; but if you look into the matter you will see he hasn’t a leg to stand on. Besides, he’s only objecting to the railway out of sheer cussedness, because Maraquando won’t let him marry Doña Dolores.”

“Ah, ah!” observed Philip, who had been listening to the story with great attention, “I was waiting for the inevitable woman to appear on the scene. And who is Doña Dolores?”

“She is Maraquando’s ward,” replied Jack, colouring a little.

“With whom you are in love?”

“I didn’t say that Philip.”

“No; but you looked it.”

Peter chuckled, whereat Duval turned on him crossly.

“I wish you would stop making such a row, Peter; I can’t hear myself speak.”

“Well, what about Doña Dolores?” persisted Philip, maliciously.

“Doña Dolores,” repeated Jack, calmly, “is the woman whom I hope to make my wife.”

At this startling announcement there was a dead silence.

“I congratulate you, Jack,” said Cassim, gravely, after a momentary pause. “I hope you will ask us all to your wedding. But what has this story of politics, railways, and love to do with the harlequin opal?”

“Everything. Listen. Don Hypolito is an ambitious man who wants to become Dictator of Cholacaca, and rule that Republic as Dr. Francia did Paraguay. Now, the easiest way in which he can obtain his desire is by marrying Dolores.”

“What! Is she the heiress of the Republic?”

“No; but she is the lawful owner of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

“What, in heaven’s name, is that?”

“It means ‘the shining precious stone,’ in the Toltec tongue.”

“The deuce!” murmured Philip, in an amused tone; “we have got past the Aztecs.”

“I suppose this shining precious stone is the harlequin opal?” said Peter, inquiringly.

“Precisely. This celebrated stone is hundreds of years old. Tradition says it was the property of Quetzalcoatl.”

“That’s the Mexican god of the air,” said Philip who knew all sorts of stray facts.

“Yes. You’ve read that in Prescott.”

“No, I didn’t. Bancroft is my authority. But how did it come into the possession of your Doña Dolores?”

“Oh, she is a direct descendant of Montezuma.”

“An Aztec princess. Jack, you are making a royal match.”

“I’m afraid there is very little royalty about Dolores,” replied Jack, laughing; “but, as regards this stone. Quetzalcoatl gave it to Huitzilopochtli.”

“Lord! what names.”

“When Cortez conquered Mexico, he found the stone adorning the statue of the war god in his famous teocalli in the city of the Aztecs. One of the Spanish adventurers stole it, and afterwards married a daughter of Montezuma. When she found out that he had the opal, she stole it from him, and went off down south, where she delivered it to some native priest in one of those Central American forests.”

“Where it remains still?”

“By no means. This woman had a son by the Spaniard, a Mestizo, as they call this mixture of Indian and Spanish blood. He, I believe, claimed the stone as his property whereon the high priest of Huitzilopochtli proposed to sacrifice him. Not being a religious man, he disliked the idea, and ran away, taking the stone with him. He reached the coast, and married a native woman. There they set up a temple on their own account to the god of war, and round it, as time went on, grew a settlement, which was called after the opal ‘Chalchuih Tlatonac.’ Then the Spaniards came and conquered the town, which they rechristened Puebla de Nuestra Señora de la Concepcion; but the name didn’t catch on, and it is now known by its old Indian name of Tlatonac. Of course there are a good many Spaniards there still; descendants of the Conquistadores; but the majority of the population are Indians.”

“And what became of the opal?”

“Well, as the Spaniards tried to get hold of it, the Indians took it inland to one of their forest retreats. The descendants of Montezuma, however, are still supposed to be its guardians, and, when one owner dies, the opal is brought secretly to Tlatonac, and shown to the new possessor; then it is taken back to its forest sanctuary.”

“Where did you see it?” asked Philip, curiously.

“That’s the whole point of the story,” answered Jack, thoughtfully. “The son of Montezuma’s daughter married a native woman, as I told you; their son, however, married a Spanish lady, and so the race was continued. Off and on, they married Indian and Spaniard. This mixing of race isn’t good, from a philoprogenitive point of view, and Dolores is the last descendant of the original owner of the opal. Therefore, she is its guardian, and that is the reason Don Hypolito wants to marry her.”

“He wishes to obtain the stone as a wedding dowry?”

“Yes. This Chalchuih Tlatonac is an object of superstitious veneration to the Indians. They are supposed to be converted; but they all more or less cling to their old beliefs. In one of these mysterious forests stands a temple to Huitzilopochtli, and there a good many of them go in secret to consult the opal. How they consult it I don’t know, unless by its changing colours. Now, if Hypolito marries Dolores, through her he might seize the stone. If he becomes its possessor, he could do what he pleased with the Indian population. As they greatly outnumber the Spanish element, he would use them to raise himself to the Dictatorship of Cholacaca.”

“Then he doesn’t love the girl?”

“Not a bit,” replied Jack, viciously; “all he wants is to marry her, and thus gain possession of the devil stone. Besides, apart from the use it would be to him, from a superstitious point of view, he would like to obtain the stone for its own sake. It is a magnificent gem.”

“Has he seen it also?”

“Yes; at the same time as I did. Dolores’ father died, and she became the ward of her uncle Don Miguel. I was a good deal about the house, and naturally enough fell in love with her.”

“Jack! Jack!”

“You’ll fall in love with her, yourself, Philip, when you see her; she’s an angel.”

“Of course. You say that because you are in love with her. Does she return your love?”

“Yes; she is as fond of me as I am of her.”

“And what does Don Miguel, the proud hidalgo, say?”

“He says nothing, because he knows nothing,” said Jack, promptly; “we haven’t told him yet. However, when Dolores and myself found out we loved one another, she told me all about this Chalchuih Tlatonac, and how she expected it was to be shown to her, according to custom. A few nights afterwards the priest arrived secretly, and showed her the stone. While she was holding it up, I entered the room suddenly with Don Hypolito. We saw the opal flashing like a rainbow in her hand. By Heaven, boys, I never saw such splendour in my life. We only had a glimpse of it, for as soon as the old priest saw us he snatched it out of her hand and bolted. I followed, but lost him, so the opal went back to the forest temple; and Lord only knows where that is.”

“Doesn’t Doña Dolores know?”

“No; nobody knows except the priests. They meet the worshippers on the verge of the forest and blindfold them before leading them to the shrine.”

“And how did Don Hypolito find out Dolores was the guardian of the opal?” asked Peter, after a pause.

“Oh, the story is common property. But the opal isn’t of much value to Dolores. She is called its guardian, but has nothing to do with it. Now I suppose she’ll never see it again.”

“It’s a queer story anyhow,” observed Tim, reflectively; “I would like to see that jewel.”

“That’s what I’ve come to see you all about,” said Jack, excitedly. “I want you all to come with me to Cholacaca, and help me to marry Dolores, and get the devil stone.”

The three remained silent, and a shade of disappointment passed over Duval’s face.

“Of course, if you fellows don’t care, I—”

“Wait a moment, Jack,” interrupted Philip, slowly. “Don’t jump to conclusions. You want us to go to Central America?”

“Yes.”

“And upset Don Hypolito’s little plans?”

“Exactly.”

“Speaking for myself,” said Philip, quietly, “there is nothing I should like better. I am with you, Jack. But Peter—”

“Oh, I’ll come too,” said the doctor, serenely, “if it’s only to collect butterflies. While I’m on the spot, I may as well help. There’s sure to be fighting, and I can attend to the wounded. You can depend upon me, Jack; I’ll be your family physician, and physic the lot of you.”

“Bravo!” cried Jack, his face lighting up as he grasped a hand of each. “And what do you say, Tim?”

“Your story is queer,” remarked Tim, solemnly; “but mine is queerer. I’ll go with the greatest of pleasure, Jack; but it so happens I’m going out to the same place for The Morning Planet.”

“What?”

“It’s a coincidence, anyhow, Jack. I told you I knew about Don Hypolito.”

“You did.”

“Have you seen the evening papers?”

“No; I was too excited at the idea of meeting you fellows to bother about reading.”

“You are an ignorant person. While you’ve been fast in coming here, the telegraph’s been faster. From all accounts, there’s going to be a shindy in Cholacaca.”

“Dolores!” gasped Jack, turning pale.

“Oh, you needn’t be distressful,” said Fletcher, hastily; “there’s nothing much up as yet. I saw the telegram myself this morning. Don Hypolito has left Tlatonac, and gone to that other town—what d’ye call it? ‘Tis on the tip of my tongue.”

“Acauhtzin.”

“Yes, that’s the name. ‘Tis said he’s trying to stir up a row; but there’s no news of any consequence, at all!”

“You’ve been ordered to the front, then, Tim?” said Philip, quickly.

“You’ve hit it, my boy! I was in the office this morning, and the editor called me in. ‘D’ye want a trip?’ says he. ‘I don’t mind,’ says I. ‘There’s going to be trouble again in South America,’ says he. ‘What!’ says I, ‘are the Peruvians at it again?’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘it’s Cholacaca.’ ‘And where’s that?’ says I. ‘It’s more nor I know,’ says he. ‘Find out on the map, and hold yourself in readiness to go.’ So I left him at once, and looked up the map; found out all I could about the place, and at any minute I’m expecting to be sent off.”

“Jove! how curious,” said Jack, reflectively. “I didn’t expect Don Hypolito to cause trouble quite so soon; but I saw things were shaping that way. It’s strange, Tim, that you should be going to the very place I wish you to go to. But Philip and Peter won’t like to come now.”

“It doesn’t make the slightest difference to me,” said Philip, coolly. “In fact, like Xeres, I’m longing for a new pleasure. I’ve never been in a war, and should like the novelty of the thing. As to Peter! he’s coming to resume his profession on the battle-field.”

“But what about my butterflies?” remonstrated Peter, who did not exactly relish the idea of being put in the forefront of the battle. He objected to the role of Uriah.

“Oh, you can do all that sort of thing between times. The main thing is to get the better of Don Hypolito, and help Jack.”

“Very well, Philip,” said the little man meekly. “I’ll come.”

“But your practice,” hesitated Jack, not liking to be selfish.

“Why, the poor little man hasn’t got one,” laughed Tim, digging Peter in the ribs. “Hasn’t he killed his patients long ago, and is now starving on five hundred a year, poor soul.”

“It’s very kind of you all!” said Duval, looking at his three friends. “But I feel that I’m leading you into trouble.”

“Not me,” declared Tim, stoutly, “‘tis the Morning Planet’s to blame, if I peg out.”

“And I want some excitement,” said Philip, gaily; “and Peter wants butterflies; don’t you, doctor? We’re all free agents in the matter, Jack, and will go with pleasure.”

“How strange,” said Peter, pensively; “we little thought at Bedford that—”

“Peter, don’t be sentimental,” interrupted the baronet, jumping up. “We little thought our meeting would bring us good luck, if that is what you mean. I’m delighted at this new conquest of Mexico.”

“We must start at once, Philip.”

“My dear Jack, we shall start the day after to-morrow, in my yacht. She’s lying down at Yarmouth, in the Isle of Wight, and is ready to get steam up at a minute’s notice.”

“Is she a fast boat?”

“Fast!” echoed Philip, indignant at the imputation; “she’s the fastest steam-yacht afloat. Wait till she clears the Channel, then you’ll see what a clean pair of heels she can show.”

“The quicker the better. I don’t want to arrive at Tlatonac and find Dolores missing.”

“You won’t find a hair of her head touched. You shall marry her, Jack, and inherit the harlequin opal, and go and be priest to Huitzilopochtli, if you like. Now have a glass of wine.”

Tim, who was always handy when liquor was about, had already filled the glasses and solemnly handed them to his friends.

“To the health,” said Tim, standing up huge and burly, “of the future Mrs. Duval.”

The toast was drunk with acclamation.