Читать книгу The Harlequin Opal - Fergus Hume - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Come, lads, and send the capstan round,

Oh, Rio! Rio!

Our good old barkey’s outward bound,

Oh, Rio! Rio!

So, shipmates, all look sharp and spry,

To Poll and Nancy say good-bye,

And tell them, if they pipe their eye,

We’re bound for Rio Grande.

The old man drank his grog and swore,

Oh, Rio! Rio!

He’d stay no longer slack ashore,

Oh, Rio! Rio!

“Come, tumble up, my lads,” sez he,

“An’ weigh the anchor speedily,

In twenty days the Cross we’ll see,

We’re bound for Rio Grande.”

“What do you think of her?” asked Philip, with justifiable pride.

“She’s as near perfection as can be,” replied Jack, enthusiastically; “no two opinions about that, old fellow.”

The Bohemian was a superbly modelled craft, and well deserved their admiration as she lay in Yarmouth Harbour, Isle of Wight. Schooner rigged fore and aft, she was close on two hundred tons yacht measurement, and one of the smartest vessels of her kind in British waters. Putting aside her speed when the screw was spinning, she was renowned for her sailing capabilities. With all sails set, and a fair wind, she could smoke through the water at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. Thanks to her owner’s wandering proclivities, she was well known in every civilised port, and a good many savage anchorages had also seen her graceful form glide into their smooth waters.

Some said that her engines were too powerful for her frame; and, indeed, when all her furnaces were going, the boat quivered from stem to stern at every rise and fall of the cranks. Philip, however, rarely used the full power of her screw, as it was quite unnecessary; but when she did fire up to the extent of her furnace accommodation, her speed was something wonderful. Sometimes the baronet used the screw, more often the sails; and, with her white wings spread like summer clouds, The Bohemian, leaning to leeward rode the surges like a Venus of the foam. Taper masts, splendid spars, cotton-white cloths, she looked a thing of beauty as she swirled through the sea in a smother of foam. She was the pride of Philip’s heart, and whether becalmed in the doldrums or seething through troubled waters in the heel of the trade, was well worthy of her owner’s admiration.

Jack was scarcely less enthusiastic. He knew more of the land than of the sea, and this was the first time he had ever had the opportunity of inspecting a crack yacht. It was impossible not to admire her milk-white decks, her well-polished brasses, and the general spruceness of her whole appearance. Philip attended thoroughly well to her wants, and despite her frequent voyagings in stormy seas, she always looked as though she had just left dry dock. When the screw thrashed the water into silver froth, and the black smoke poured from the wide funnel, The Bohemian knew what was expected of her, and put her heart into her work. In such a craft it was impossible that a voyage could be otherwise than pleasant, and Jack looked forward to having a thoroughly jolly run to Yucatan with his old schoolfellows.

As has before been stated, they were at Yarmouth. Not that land-and-water Norfolk puddle, but the quaint little seaport in the Isle of Wight. It was famous enough in the old days, and in the reign of our second Charles, the governor of the island made it his head-quarters. Now his old residence is turned into an hotel, and in comparison with Cowes and Ryde, this once populous town is a mere village. With its narrow streets, and antique houses, and indolent townsfolk, it has an old-world air, and is still affected by some yachtsmen at the time when the Solent is full of graceful boats. Philip was very fond of this out-of-the-way seaport, and generally left The Bohemian in its harbour when he wished to run up to town.

After that famous dinner, the four friends separated in order to prepare for the voyage. As they had only one clear day in which to do all things, there was little time to be lost. Peter started for Barnstaple by the early train, in order to arrange his affairs, and, to save time, Philip agreed to pick him up at Plymouth. The special correspondent went straight to his chief, and told him of his desire to start for Cholacaca at once; so, as it seemed pretty certain that the difference between Don Hypolito and the Government would culminate in a civil war, Tim duly received his orders. Now he was flying round town collecting needful articles for his campaign, and was expected down by the early train.

On his part, Jack had absolutely nothing to do in London. He already possessed all necessaries, and had neither the money nor the inclination to buy things he did not want. Indeed, leaving the bulk of his belongings in Tlatonac, he had arrived in England with but a single portmanteau, which had been left at the station. Philip carried the homeless wanderer to his club, and put him up for the night, and next day they took themselves and the solitary portmanteau down to Yarmouth, where they soon made themselves comfortable on board the yacht. All things being thus arranged, they only waited Tim’s arrival to leave for Plymouth, from whence, after taking Peter on board, The Bohemian could bear away westward in the track of Columbus.

With all his indolence Philip was no dilettante yachtsman, to leave everything to his sailing master, and thoroughly believed in looking after things himself. After displaying the beauties of his boat to Jack, he busied himself with seeing about stores, and making sure that all was in order for the voyage. While the baronet was thus engaged, Jack wandered over the yacht in a musing sort of fashion, thinking not so much of the scene around him as of Dolores and of the possible events now happening at Tlatonac.

He had good reason to mistrust Don Hypolito knowing as he did how treacherous and cruel was the nature of that would-be dictator. Half Indian, half Spanish, this Mestizo possessed the worst traits of both races, and, once his passions were aroused, would stop at nothing to accomplish his desire. It was true that it was principally on account of the opal that he desired to marry Doña Dolores; but he was also in love with her beauty, and adored her in a sensual, brutish fashion, which made Jack grind his teeth and clench his hands at the very thought. Yet he was undeniably a clever man, and skilled in diplomatic intrigue; therefore it might be that his revolt against the established Government of Cholacaca would end in his assuming the dictatorship. In such an event, he would certainly force Dolores to become his wife; and against his power the Englishman would be able to do nothing. Still, as he had now the aid of his three friends, Duval hoped, if it came to the worst, to escape with Dolores and the opal in Philip’s yacht. Once on the open sea, and they could laugh at Xuarez and his threats. The engines of The Bohemian were not meant for show.

What Jack feared was that Don Hypolito might have resorted to strong measures, and carried off Dolores with him to Acauhtzin. Hitherto there had been no suspicion that he intended to revolt; so, lulled by a sense of false security, Dolores might have permitted herself to be kidnapped, in which case Jack hardly knew what to do. Still, it might be that nothing had happened save the withdrawal of Xuarez to Acauhtzin, and Duval fervently hoped that he and his friends might arrive at Tlatonac before the out-break of hostilities. Provided he started fair with Xuarez in the game, Jack hoped to come off winner—Dolores, the opal, and the Republic, being the stakes.

“If we start to-morrow, it will not be long before we reach Chalacaca,” thought Jack, as he leaned over the taffrail looking absently at the dull-hued water. “Once there, and I will be able to protect Dolores. If the worst comes, there is always Philip’s yacht, and as to marriage, I am sure Maraquando would rather see his niece married to me than to that Xuarez half-bred.”

“In a brown study, Jack?” said Cassim’s voice, behind him. “I won’t give a penny for your thoughts, for they are worth more.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you are thinking of Doña Dolores.”

“It’s a true bill,” replied Jack, with an ingenuous blush. “I was hoping she had not been carried off to Acauhtzin by that scoundrel Xuarez.”

“Oh, your friend Don Hypolito! Not a bit of it. If all you say is correct, he is in too serious a position, at present, to hamper himself with a woman. Don’t worry, fond lover. The Bohemian will take us to Central America in less than no time, and if there’s going to be a row, we’ll be there to see its genesis.”

“I hope and trust so,” said Duval, gloomily; “but I’m not so hopeful as you are.”

“I hopeful! My dear lad, I’m the most pessimistic person in existence; but at this moment I look at things from a common-sense point of view. If Xuarez intends business, he has withdrawn to Acauhtzin to make his plans. To do so, he requires time. If he had kidnapped Doña Dolores, things would be brought to a head before his plans were ripe. Therefore he has not kidnapped her. Q.E.D. So come ashore, and don’t talk nonsense.”

“Have you finished your business?” asked Jack, following Sir Philip into his boat.

“Yes, everything is right. As soon as Tim arrives, we shall start for Plymouth, to pick up Peter. I wish Tim would come down to-night; but I suppose even a special correspondent must have time to collect his traps.”

“What is your reason for going ashore?”

“In the first place, I wish to send a wire to my lawyer, as to my destination; and, in the second, I desire to stretch my legs. Let us have as much dry land as we can get. It will be nothing but sea for the next week or so.”

“Have you been long ashore, this time?” asked Duval, as they went up to the telegraph-office.

“Only five or six days. I came from the Guinea coast, I tell you, to keep this appointment. I didn’t then know it would result in a Central American expedition.”

“I hope you are not regretting your determination?”

“My dear Jack, I am delighted. I have not yet seen a war, so it will be something new. Now then, Messrs. Bradshaw and Co.,” he added, poising his pen over the telegraph form, “I had better tell you where I am to be found. How do you spell Tlatonac, Jack?”

“T-l-a-t-o-n-a-c,” spelt Jack, slowly; “but why don’t you write your lawyer a letter, instead of sending an unsatisfactory telegram.”

“I have nothing to write about,” replied Philip, signing his name with a flourish; “all they need know is where I am in case of my possible death, so as to make things right for the next-of-kin. They have no letters to forward. I always carry plenty of money, so I never bother my head about them, beyond giving my bare address.”

“Don’t they object to such unbusiness-like habits?”

“They did at first, but finding objections of no use, have quite given up such preachings. Don’t trouble any more about them, but let us take a walk. ‘You take a walk, but you drink tea,’ saith Samuel Johnson.”

“I don’t see the connection,” said Jack, soberly.

“Neither do I; but what matters. ‘Dulce est desipere in loco.’ There is a bit of dictionary Latin for your delectation.”

“Peter said you were a misanthrope, Philip; but I don’t think so myself.”

“Peter is a — collector of butterflies,” retorted Philip, gaily. “I was a misanthrope; man delighted me not, nor woman neither; but now I have met the friends of my youth, I feel much better. The friends we make in life are never as dear as those we make at school. Since leaving Bedford I have made none. I have lived for my yacht and in my yacht. Now that I have you, and Tim, and Peter, I feel that I am rapidly losing the character for Timonism. Like Mr. Bunthorne, I am a reformed character.”

“Who is Mr. Bunthorne? a friend of yours?”

“Jack, Jack! you are a sad barbarian. It is a character in one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas. But you have lived so long among savages that you don’t know him; in fact, I don’t believe you know who Gilbert and Sullivan are.”

“Oh yes, I do. I’m not so ignorant as all that.”

“There is balm in Gilead then,” said Cassim, satirically. “Jack, when you marry Dolores, and realise the opal, you must return to civilisation. I can’t let the friend of my youth dwell among the tombs any longer.”

“I am very happy among the tombs.”

“I know you are. You would be happy anywhere,” rejoined Philip, enviously. “Would I were as easily contented. Tell me how to be happy, Jack.”

“Get married,” returned Jack, promptly.

“Married!” echoed Cassim, as though the idea were a new revelation; “that is a serious question, Jack, which needs serious discussion. Let us sit down on this soft turf, my friend, and you shall give your opinions regarding matrimony. You don’t know anything about it as yet; but that is a mere detail.”

By this time, owing to their rapid walking, they had left Yarmouth far behind, and having turned off the high-road, were now strolling across a field yellow with gorse. In a few minutes they arrived at a land-slip where the earth fell suddenly down to the beach. The brow of this was covered with soft grass, starred with primroses, and Philip threw himself down thereon with a sigh of content. Jack more soberly seated himself by the side of his friend, and for a few moments they remained silent, gazing at the scene. Below was the rent and torn earth, on either side a scanty fringe of trees, and in front the blue sea stretching far away towards the dim line of the Hampshire coast. A gentle wind was blowing, the perfume of the wild flowers came delicately on its wings, and they could hear the waves lapping on the beach below, while occasionally a bird piped in the near boughs. It was very cool, pastoral and pleasant, grateful enough to Jack’s eyes, weary of the burning skies, and the gorgeous efflorescence of the tropics. Ah me! how often we sigh for green and misty England in the lands of the sun.

“ ‘There is no land like England,’ ” quoted Jack, absently smelling a pale primrose. “Ah! there is no doubt it is the most delightful country in the whole world. I have been all over the planet, so I ought to know.”

“And yet you propose to leave the land you profess to love,” said Philip, rolling himself over so as to catch his friend’s eye. “Jack, you are inconsistent.”

“I must earn my bread and butter. Everyone isn’t born like you, with a silver spoon in his mouth. If I can’t find employment in England, I must go abroad. Besides, there is always Dolores.”

“Of course,” assented Philip, gravely, “there is always Dolores. Is she pretty, Jack?”

“Pretty!” echoed Duval, with huge disdain; “if there is one adjective that does not describe Dolores it is ‘pretty.’ She’s an angel.”

“Such a vague description. Fra Angelica, Burne Jones, Gustave Doré, all paint angels differently.”

“Oh, I don’t mind being more minute, if you care to listen. But I do not wish to bore you with my love affairs.”

“I like to be bored with love affairs—when they are those of Jack Duval.”

Jack smiled thankfully. He was eager to talk of Dolores to Philip; but being somewhat sensitive to ridicule, hesitated as to whether he should do so. As a rule, a man’s friends do not care about listening to a lover’s ravings. Women are the most sympathetic in such a case; but as Jack had no female friend in whom to confide, he had either to hold his tongue or tell Philip. Philip, he thought, would not care for descriptions of the beloved one, so he kept silent; but now that he had been warmly requested to be as explicit as he pleased, he eagerly hastened to unbosom himself. At that moment, Jack thought Philip an angel of sympathy.

“Dolores,” he began slowly, fixing his eyes seaward, “is rather tall, with a charming figure. Her hair is purple black, her face oval, and her complexion inclined to be darkish. She has teeth like pearls, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow. Her eyes—well, her eyes,” said Jack, enthusiastically, “are like those velvety dark pansies when the dew lies on them.”

“That’s the first original epithet you’ve used, Jack. Teeth of pearl, and Cupid’s bow for a mouth are old similes. Dew on pansies is distinctly good.”

“Oh, if you are going to laugh—” began Jack, angrily, when Cassim hastened to disclaim any such discourtesy.

“I’m not laughing, my dear lad. I am only complimenting you on your ingenuity. I know exactly what kind of a woman Dolores is. She is like De Musset’s Marquise—half fiend, half angel.”

“I never heard of her,” interrupted Duval, bluntly, as he produced a gold oval from his pocket; “but, to save further description, look at this picture. It was done for me by a Spanish fellow at Tlatonac.”

Philip surveyed the portrait in the locket long and earnestly.

“Has Dolores a temper, Jack?”

“Rather!” replied Jack, laconically; “but what do you think of her?”

“She has an exquisite face, and, judging from her mouth, a fiery temper. I don’t wonder you are in love with her, Jack. I hope she’ll make you a good wife.”

“You seem rather doubtful on that point,” said Jack, half annoyed, as he restored the locket to his waistcoat pocket.

“No; but to tell you the truth, I’m doubtful of the advisability of mixed marriages in the matter of race. It may be all very well for the offspring, who, as a rule, are clever; but the husband and wife, having different trainings, do not as a rule hit it off. Race-nature again, my friend.”

“Oh, as to that,” rejoined Jack, equably, “I have lived so long in Mexico and South America that I am half Spanish in my habits, and so can suit myself to Dolores. Besides, when we are married, we will stay in Spanish America; it will be more advisable than coming to England.”

“Yes; I agree with you there,” said Philip, lazily; “in fact, I think the indolent Creole life of South America would suit me also. I also must find an Indian-Spanish spouse. And that reminds me, Jack, that we sat down to discuss my marriage prospects, whereas we’ve done nothing but talk about yours.”

“Well, suppose you marry Doña Eulalia?”

“What, have you found me a spouse already?” cried Cassim, sitting up, with a ringing laugh. “And who, is Doña Eulalia?”

“The cousin of Dolores, and the daughter of Don Miguel.”

“Is she as beautiful as her cousin? But there, I needn’t ask that. Of course, in your eyes, no one is so perfect as Dolores. Well, I will consider the matter when I see Eulalia. It is too important a step to take without due consideration.”

“What nonsense you talk, Philip.”

“Why shouldn’t I talk nonsense? Between you and me, Jack, I grow weary at times of very sensible people. We won’t discuss how that remark applies to you. Tell me how many more members there are of the Maraquando family.”

“Only a son, Don Rafael.”

“And what does the young hidalgo?”

“He is in the Cholacacan navy. A very jolly young fellow of twenty-five. We are great friends. Then there is a Doña Serafina.”

“Another beauty?”

“According to her own idea, very much so,” replied Jack, dryly. “She is the old man’s sister, and acts as duenna to Dolores and Eulalia.”

“Ah, an old maid. Good! We will marry her to Peter, and they can collect butterflies together.”

“Oh, Doña Serafina would marry anyone; but why to Peter?”

“I don’t know. Peter looks as if he needed a wife; so, as he won’t choose one for himself, I must do so for him. Oh,” yawned Philip, rising reluctantly to his feet, “what a pleasant talk we have had. I suppose it’s time we returned to the boat? Come, John, I’ll race you to the road.”

Nothing loth, Jack accepted the challenge at once, and, though Philip ran like a deer, succeeded in beating him easily.

“Whew!” gasped Cassim, leaning breathless against a fence which verged on the high-road. “You’re one too many for me, Jack. I thought I was a good runner, but you can beat me.”

“You’re out of training. Too much flesh. Too soft muscles.”

“Well, I’ll soon right all that at Cholacaca, when we run from the enemy. Constant life on a yacht isn’t a good thing to develop a fellow’s running powers.”

They jumped lightly over the fence, and walked soberly towards Yarmouth in the gathering dusk. The sun was setting, and there was a glory over sea and land somewhat tempered by the twilight. The friends strolled comfortably along, still talking. Indeed, since their meeting they had done little else but talk, more especially Philip, who was not like the same man. His reserve seemed to have melted away like dew before the sun of Duval’s geniality, and he was more like the merry boy of old than the haughty, distrustful man of the present. The reason of this lay in the fact that he felt he could thoroughly trust Jack, and it was a great comfort to him that there was at least one man in the world to whom he could open his heart unreservedly. Secretly, he was much astonished at the pleasure he found in this friendship, and by no means displeased, for while in Jack’s company the world seemed a goodly place in which to dwell. Yet Duval was decidedly a commonplace young man, smart enough at his business, yet by no means distinguished for intellectuality; withal, so warm-hearted and simple-natured, that Philip surrendered himself entirely to the influence of this pleasant friendship.

“You are doing me no end of good, Jack,” he said as they walked through the town. “Before you came, I was gradually becoming a fossil; now I am renewing my youth.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” replied Jack simply. “But indeed, Philip, so far as I can see, you seem to be as jolly as a sandboy.”

“I wasn’t a week ago. It’s the sunshine of your happy geniality, Jack. I will stay with you until the cure is complete. Then I will see you safely married to Dolores; present you with the opal stone, as a dowry, and then—”

“And then!” repeated Jack, as his friend paused.

“Then I will take up the old discontented life again.”

“I won’t let you do that,” said Duval, slipping his arm within that of Philip’s. “No. I will cure you, as you say, and then you will marry Eulalia.”

“Humph! That’s doubtful.”

“I’m not so sure about that, mi amigo. Meanwhile, I’m hungry, so let us go on board and have dinner.”

“Oh, bathos,” laughed Philip, but offered no opposition to so sensible a suggestion.

They sat up late that night talking of many things, but principally about Dolores and Tlatonac. Jack gave his friend a vivid description of the Cholacacan capital, and of the life therein, all of which was highly appreciated by Philip. The baronet’s taste in existence, as in literature, leaned towards the dreamy and fantastical, so the languorous life of Spanish America in sleepy towns, amid the dilapidated pomp of former splendours, appealed greatly to the imaginative side of his nature. Hitherto his visits to these out-of-the-way places had been limited to a few days ashore, while his yacht was anchored in the harbour; but this time he determined to take Jack for his guide, and live the life of these strange people. It was a dream of the Orient in a new world. The Arabian Nights in the west.

Next morning they were up early in order to greet Tim, who duly arrived in a state of great excitement. He was delighted to be once more on the war-path, especially as he was to go through the campaign in the company of his old school-fellows. The business of putting his luggage on board took but little time, as Tim did not believe in special correspondents travelling with much impedimenta.

“You could have brought more luggage, if you had liked,” said Philip, when they inspected Tim’s modest kit.

“More! Haven’t I got all I want,” retorted Tim, indignantly. “What would I be stuffing up the boat with rags for. A tooth-brush and a clean collar is all I require.”

“Hardly, if this is going to be a lengthy campaign,” replied Philip, dryly. “I expect, before the end of the voyage, you’ll be wearing Peter’s clothes.”

Peter was so small, and Tim so large, that the idea struck the latter as wonderfully ludicrous, and he sat down to laugh which he continued to do until the screw began to beat the water. Then he went on deck to superintend the departure.

In due time they arrived at Plymouth without accident, where they found Peter waiting with as much luggage as a bride would take on her honeymoon. It proved to be mostly articles for capturing butterflies, and cases for preserving them much to the disgust of Philip, who hated his yacht to be overloaded with such débris. With that painful candour which prevailed between them, he told Peter that he would only take half; but the meek doctor waxed indignant, and refused to go without all these, what he called, “necessaries.” So, in the end, Philip had to give in.

Then The Bohemian turned her prow westward, and dipping her nose in the salt brine, followed in the track of Columbus.