Читать книгу The Harlequin Opal - Fergus Hume - Страница 8

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This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide,

Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways,

Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing,

And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on the pavements.

Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta;

When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to laughter;

Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams,

Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their kisses,

Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero,

And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas.

Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight,

Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate lovers.

Cocom was completely ignorant of his real age. He might have been a hundred, and he certainly looked as though he had completed his century. Long ago he had left off counting the flying years and meditating on the mutability of human life. In fact, he had changed so little that it is doubtful whether he believed in mutability at all. Wrinkled he was, it is true, and slightly bent, but his black eyes twinkled with the fire of youth, and he enjoyed his meals. These things argue juvenility, and, as Cocom possessed them, he evidently knew the secret of immortality. Perhaps he had found that fountain of youth spoken of by Ponce de Leon. If so, it had affected his soul not his body. He looked like Methuselah.

Yet he was wonderfully active considering his years, and undertook to introduce Peter to the butterflies of Central America. Arrayed in his white cotton drawers and shirt, with his pink zarape gracefully draped over his bent shoulders, he smoked a long black cigar, and waited the orders of the “Americanos” in stolid silence.

Peter was affectionately handling his butterfly-net, Tim was finishing his breakfast, and Jack, in a smart riding-dress, was slashing his high boots with his whip, impatient to get away. They were looking at Cocom, who had just arrived, and waiting for Philip, who, as usual, was late for breakfast.

“He looks too old to be of much use,” said the doctor, disconsolately; “why couldn’t Don Miguel send me a man instead of a mummy?”

“Perhaps the mummy is well up in entomology!”

“He ought to be that same!” cried Tim, with his mouth full; “he’s had plenty of time to learn, anyhow. Ask the old cocoanut his age, Jack.”

“Don’t you take liberties with his name, Tim. Cocom was a king of Mayapan; and this, I presume, is his descendant.”

“Royalty out at elbows!” said Peter, blandly.

“It’s a king, is it?” remarked Tim, staring at the Indian. “He looks a mighty second-hand sort of article. I should be a king myself. Wasn’t one of my ancestors King of Cork?”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Philip, entering at this moment; “where did you pick up Methuselah?”

“This is Cocom, my guide,” said the doctor, proudly introducing Cocom, who removed his sombrero with a graceful sweep.

“Oh, you are going to hunt the ferocious beetle, are you not? What is he, Jack? An Aztec?”

“No; a descendant of the Mayas.”

“A dethroned king—no less.”

“You know the country round here, Cocom?” said Philip, taking no notice of Tim’s joke.

“Yes, Señor Americano; all! all!” replied Cocom, with grave dignity. “Don Pedro will be safe with me.”

“You can show him butterflies?”

“Señor, I can show him butterflies, ants, beetles, wasps; all the Señor desires to behold.”

“That being so, Peter, you had better get away,” said Jack, impatiently. “I want to be off, and must see you started first; you can’t be trusted to run the show on your own account.”

“I’m quite ready. Good-bye, boys; I will see you this afternoon.”

“Not me,” said Duval, brusquely; “I’m off to Maraquando’s estancia.”

“Take care of the sun, Peter,” warned Philip, kindly; “your head isn’t over strong.”

Peter indignantly repudiated this imputation on his cranium, and forthwith followed Cocom out of the house, gleefully looking forward to a pleasant day. His ideas of pleasure were singularly limited.

“He’s quite safe, isn’t he, Jack?” said Philip anxiously. “I don’t want Peter to get into trouble.”

“Oh, Cocom will look after him. I know the old man well. He is devoted to Don Miguel, who once saved his life. Cocom will sit on a bank and watch Peter gasping after butterflies. The exercise will do the doctor’s liver good.”

“You are off yourself now, I suppose?”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for you. Really, Philip, you are the laziest man I know.”

“This house that Jack built is the castle of indolence,” explained Philip, sitting down to table. “Go, my friend, and kiss Dolores for me!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ll kiss her for my own sake! Adios caballeros.”

“When will you return, Jack?”

“To-morrow! Meanwhile Don Miguel will look after you both. Take care of yourselves.”

“Con dios va usted mi amigo!” said Cassim, graciously. “Now go away, and let me eat my breakfast.”

Jack departed, and Tim went to the window to see him ride down the street.

“He is a fine boy,” he said, returning to the breakfast-table. “Doña Dolores ought to be proud of having such a lover.”

“I have no doubt she is, Tim. It is to be hoped the course of true love will run smooth with Jack; but what with Don Hypolito and the harlequin opal I have my doubts. What are your plans, Timothy?”

“It’s writing I’ll be, all day!”

“Nonsense. Come and see Tlatonac.”

“I can’t. Isn’t my chief waiting a letter from me?”

“Such industry! Tim, you make me feel ashamed of myself.”

“The devil I do. Then you write my letter, Philip and I’ll flirt with Doña Eulalia. I’m a white-headed boy with the female sex.”

“No, thank you. It’s not a fair exchange.”

“Ah, she’s a dark-eyed colleen, Philip. You have lost your heart there.”

“No,” said Philip, a trifle doubtfully. “I have seen too many pretty faces to be captured at first sight by a new one. I have other things to think of besides marriage.”

“You have, but you won’t,” retorted Tim, ungrammatically. “Now get away with you, and leave me to my writing.”

“I’ll be back in two hours.”

“If you are not, I’ll come and look you up at the Don’s. Make love to Doña Eulalia while you can, Philip, for it’s mighty little time you’ll have when the row starts.

“Do ye hear the cannon’s rattle? do ye smell the smoke av battle,

Whin the Irish bhoys are ridin’ down the inimy so bould?

Do ye see the bullets flyin’? and your faithful Patrick dyin’,

Wid ne’er a sowl beside him dear, to kiss his forehead cowld?”

Tim, with that sudden transition from mirth to melancholy so characteristic of the Celtic race, threw so much pathos into the last two lines that Philip could not trust himself to reply, and went hastily out of the room. He drew a long breath of relief when he found himself in the hot sunshine, for that unexpected note of sorrow from jovial Tim touched him more nearly than he cared to confess. In spite of his cold demeanour and reserve, Philip was of a very emotional nature, and that melancholy strain had reached his heart. He was by no means prone to superstition, but at that moment a sudden question stirred his self-complacency. Never before had he heard Tim sing so pathetically, and the unexpectedness of the thing startled him. It seemed to hint at future sorrows. Poor Tim!

“Confound that Banshee song,” he said, with a shiver, as he strolled along towards the Calle Otumba; “it makes me think of death and the grave. These Irishmen take one at a disadvantage. I won’t shake off the feeling the whole day.”

He forgot all about it, however, when he reached Maraquando’s house, for in the patio he found Eulalia, who greeted him with a brilliant smile. The charm of her society banished the melancholy engendered by Tim’s pessimism, and, chatting gaily to this strongly vitalised being, who restlessly flashed round the court like a humming-bird, he recovered his usual spirits. There is more in juxtaposition than people think.

“And where are your friends, Don Felipe?” asked Eulalia, standing on tip-toe to pluck a gorgeous tropical blossom.

“Allow me to get you that flower, Señora,” replied Philip, eagerly. “My friends,” he added, as he presented her with the bud, “are variously employed. Don Pedro is out after butterflies with Cocom. Señor Corresponsal is writing for his ‘diario,’ and Don Juan—”

“I know where Don Juan is, Señor. Yes; my father told me of his kindness. He will bring back from the estancia Doña Serafina.”

“And Doña Dolores?”

Eulalia flung open her fan with a coquettish gesture, and raising it to her face, looked over the top of it at Philip.

“You know, then, Señor, what you know.”

“Assuredly,” replied the baronet, tickled at this delicate way of putting it. “I know that my friend wishes to marry your cousin.”

“Ay de mi. It can never be.”

“He is not rich enough.”

“He is not a Spaniard. My father will never consent. And then,” she dropped her voice, and looked round fearfully. “The Chalchuih Tlatonac!”

“I know about that also. But it has nothing to do with this marriage.”

“It has everything to do with it. The Indians look on my cousin as one of themselves, and, if she married an Americano, she would leave the country. Then there would be no guardian of the stone, and their god would be angry.”

“Is your cousin, then, to marry as they please?”

“She must marry one of her own people. An Indian or a Mestizo.”

“But suppose she does not?”

“The Indians will carry her to their forest temple, and keep her there in captivity.”

“Impossible! How could they seize her in Tlatonac?”

Doña Eulalia nodded her head wisely.

“You do not know how strong are the Indians, Señor. They are everywhere. If they want Dolores at their temple, they will be sure to capture her if they choose.”

“By force?”

“No, by stratagem! They could take her away at any moment, and none of us would see her again.”

“But what does Don Hypolito say to all this?”

Eulalia spread out her little hands with a look of disgust.

“Don Hypolito wants to marry Dolores because of the Chalchuih Tlatonac! He is a Mestizo; so the Indians would not mind such a marriage. But she hates him, and loves Don Juan. Let your friend beware, Señor.”

“Of whom! Of Don Hypolito?”

“Yes; and of the Indians. It is much feared that Don Hypolito is no good Catholic—that he has been to the forest temple and seen—oh,” she broke off with a shudder. “I do not know what he has seen. But he hates Don Juan, and, if he captures him, will put him to death. Señor—”

At this moment, before she could say more, Don Miguel entered the patio. Whereupon Eulalia whirled away like a black-and-amber bird. Philip looked after her for a second, thinking how graceful she was, then turned to greet Don Miguel. That gentleman was as lean and dry and as solemn as ever. How he ever came to be the parent of this fairy of midnight, Philip could not quite understand. But doubtless she took after her mother—the female side of a family generally does, in looks.

“I was just conversing with Doña Eulalia,” said Philip, responding to Maraquando’s stately greeting “Your daughter, Señor.”

“She is yours also, Señor,” was Miguel’s startling reply.

“Egad! I wish she was mine,” thought Cassim, who knew this Spanish formula too well to be astonished. “By the way, Señor, my friend Don Pedro thanks you for sending Cocom,” he added politely.

“Don Pedro is welcome a thousand times to my poor services. And where is the Señor Correspoñsal?”

“Writing for his diario.”

“Bueno, Señor. And Don Juan?”

“He is now on his way to your estancia.”

“I am his servant, for such kindness,” said Maraquando, gravely. “Will you take some pulque, Señor Felipe?”

“I thank you, no,” replied Philip, remembering his former experience of the drink. “If not troubling you too much, I would like to see Tlatonac.”

“I am at your service, Señor. Shall we depart at once?”

Philip signified his acquiescence, though he would rather have stayed in the cool patio, and flirted with Doña Eulalia. He knew, however, that Spanish fathers are not the most amiable parents in the world, and resent too much attention being paid by foreigners to their womankind; therefore he took leave of the young lady and departed with Don Miguel. Before Philip parted from that gentleman, he had explored the city thoroughly, and was quite worn out.

The Jefe Politico was a most conscientious cicerone. He took Philip to every building of any note, and gave him a minute history of all events connected therewith, from the earliest period to the present time. Fortunately, Tlatonac was not very old, or he would have gone on for a week without stopping. As it was, he took nearly all day in directing Philip’s attention to dates, Aztec idols, ruins of teocallis, sites of palaces, to battle-fields, and many other things too numerous to mention. This information was accurate but wearisome, and Philip felt it to be so. Maraquando was Prescott and Bancroft rolled into one, as regards knowledge of history, and, having found a willing listener, took full advantage of the opportunity. Cassim was too polite to object, but he heartily wished that Don Miguel would hold his tongue. The most pathetic part of the whole affair was that the poor man thought he was amusing his guest.

Tlatonac is built partly on the seashore and partly on a hill. Within the walls of the forts frowning over the waters are the dwellings of the flat portion inhabited by peons and leperos, with a sprinkling of low-caste mestizos. From thence the houses rise up to the top of the hill, which is crowned by the cathedral in the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres. This is the heart of Tlatonac, the aristocratic quarter, and commands a splendid view of the surrounding country.

The Plaza was a very large square, fenced in on three sides by the houses of the Cholacacan aristocracy, on the fourth by the great cathedral. In the centre was the zocalo, a green oasis of verdure laid out in winding walks and brilliant flower-beds. Herein the aristocracy took their walks when the band played in the cool of the evening, using it as a kind of alameda, wherein to meet their friends and gossip. It was indeed a charming spot, and its green arcades afforded a grateful shade from the hot sun which blazed down on the white stones of the square outside. On leaving the zocalo, they entered the church dedicated to Nuestra Señora de la Concepcion, which once gave its name to the town now more generally known by its Indian appellation of Tlatonac.

“The cathedral, Señor,” said Don Miguel, as they stood beneath the glory of the great cupola, “is built on the site of a famous teocalli.”

“That dedicated to the Chalchuih Tlatonac?”

“To the false god Huitzilopochtli, Señor,” corrected the Spaniard, gravely. “I see you know the story. Yes, it was here that the son of Montezuma’s daughter came with the shining precious stone which gives its name to the city. He worshipped his barbaric deities after the fashion of his mother, and built here a teocalli to the war-god, wherein was preserved the devil stone. Many years after, when the Conquistadores—our ancestors, Señor—arrived, the then possessor of the opal fled with it into the impenetrable forests, and thus the jewel was lost to the Crown of Spain. The Conquistadores pulled down the teocalli and built thereon this church to the glory of Our Lady, at the command of Fray Medina, who afterwards became the first Bishop of Tlatonac. Is it not beautiful, Señor? and all for the glory of God and the true cross.”

It was indeed a beautiful old church, mellowed into restful beauty by the lapse of years. The floor was of marquetry, hued like a dim rainbow owing to the different coloured woods. Slender porphyry pillars sprang from the floor to the groined ceiling in two long rows, and at the far end, under a firmament of sun and stars and silver moons, with ascending saints and wide-winged angels, arose the glory of the great altar, sparkling in the dusky atmosphere like a vast jewel. Before it burned a silver lamp like a red star. Tapestries, richly worked, depended between the pillars, gorgeous brocades were here, faded silken draperies there, and everywhere faces of saint, angel, cherubim, and seraphim. Gilt crosses, pictures of the Virgin, statues of the Virgin, side altars laden with flowers, silver railings, steps of Puebla marble, like alabaster, and throughout a dim religious light as the rays of the sun pierced the painted windows. The fumes of incense permeated the building; there was a sound of muttered prayers, and here and there a dark figure prostrate before a shrine or kneeling at the confessional.

All this magnificence was toned down by time to delicate hues, which blended the one with the other and made a harmonious whole. Dingy and old as it was, the whole edifice was redolent of sacred associations, and it required some imagination to conceive that where now reigned this quiet and holy beauty once arose a heathen temple, where the victims shrieked on the altar of a fierce deity. Religion did not seem very flourishing in Cholacaca, for on this day in the cathedral there were few worshippers—no priests.

“We have few priests now, Señor,” explained Don Miguel, gravely, as they left the great building. “The Jesuits were once powerful in Cholacaca, but they were expelled some years ago. The priests would meddle with politics, and when the Church clashes with the Government, well, Señor—one must go to the wall.”

“So the Jesuits went?”

“Yes. They were unwilling to go, for Cholacaca is one of the richest mission fields. Not that I think they have done much good, for though the Indians are outwardly converted, yet I know for certain that they still secretly worship Huitzilopochtli and the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

“What makes you think so, Don Miguel?”

“Little things! The straws which show the wind’s course. On the summit of some of these ruined teocallis beyond the walls, I have often seen fresh wreaths of flowers. Nay, in my own patio, before those statues of Coatlicue, Quetzalcoatli, and Teoyamiqui, I have found offerings of flowers and fruit. ‘Tis also said, Señor,” pursued Maraquando, dropping his voice, “that in the hidden Temple of the Opal the Indians still sacrifice human victims to the war-god. But this may be false.”

“Very probably! I cannot conceive such horrors,” replied Philip, with a shudder; “but, as regards priests, there are still some here, I presume?”

“Assuredly; but not of the Society of Jesus—save one. Yes, Padre Ignatius is still here. He was, and is, so beloved by all that the President had not the heart to banish him. So he yet works for the Faith in our midst.”

“I should like to meet Father Ignatius?”

“You shall do so, Señor. He is a great friend of mine, and the confessor of my children. Often does he come to my poor house. But let us walk on, Señor. There are many things to see. El Palacio Nacional, where dwells his excellency; the Market Place, and the alameda. We are proud of our alameda, Señor.”

Thus talked on Don Miguel, and, amused by the novelty of the scene, Philip stared round him with great pleasure. They passed the pulquerias, which are the public-houses of Tlatonac, saw the Palacio Nacional, a huge stone building, above which flaunted the yellow flag of the Republic, with its device of a white stone, darting rays of red, yellow, green, and blue, in allusion to the opal, explored the prison, which held a fine collection of ruffians, and ultimately arrived at the Market Place.

It was the prettiest sight in Tlatonac, and Philip was sorry he had not the power to transfer the scene with all its varied hues and picturesque figures to paper. A square, little less large than the great Plaza, surrounded on all sides by gaily tinted houses. Reds, greens, yellows, pinks, the Plaza was girdled by a perfect rainbow, and under the gay awnings before these sat the dealers and their wares. Here were tropical fruits from the tierras calientes, comprising oranges, bananas, pineapples, melons, peaches, and an infinite variety of others, all piled in picturesque confusion on the stalls. As to flowers, the whole place was a mass of blossom, from gorgeous red cactus buds to modest bunches of violets. Owing to the geography of Mexico and Central America, the products of both temperate and tropical zones can be found flourishing at one and the same time. Hence the violets, which Philip had scarcely expected to see. They put him in mind of English woods—of the day when in the Isle of Wight, Jack told him about Dolores.

“Yes, the Indians are fond of flowers,” said Don Miguel, when Philip expressed his surprise at the profusion of blossoms. “It is a taste they inherit from their ancestors. The Aztecs, you know, were famous for floriculture. We love flowers just as passionately; and, go where you will in Tlatonac, you will find blooming gardens gay with flowers.”

“It is a graceful taste, and one which the climate enables you to gratify to the full.”

“Without doubt, Señor. We possess three climates in which flourish different products of Nature. Tlatonac is in the tierra calienti, or hot country. Higher up, on the table-lands it is less tropical, and is called the tierra templada, while the snow-clad mountain peaks, where flourish pine trees, oaks, and hemlocks, is known by the name of the tierra fria. Thus, you see, in our country we possess all the climates of the world.”

“A rare advantage. Central America is a favoured country.”

“In all save its rulers,” sighed Maraquando, regretfully. “Nor is its population what it should be. I tell you, Señor, this land should be the most powerful in the world. It is the most favoured spot on earth—the garden of Paradise; but what with our incessant civil wars, our incompetent governors, and, of late, the tyranny of the Church, the whole continent is demoralised. Ah, if we but had the man who could weld all our foolish Republics into one great nation! Then, indeed, would we be the glory of the earth.”

“Don Hypolito Xuarez evidently looks upon himself as that man.”

“Don Hypolito!” echoed Maraquando, scornfully. “No, Señor; he has the instincts of a tyrant. He would grind down the people as the Conquistadores did their ancestors. Were he pure minded and noble in his ambition, I—even I, Miguel Maraquando—would support him. I would lay aside all prejudices to aid him to make our country great. But I know the man, Don Felipe. He is a half-bred, a treacherous scoundrel, who wants to be the Santa Anna of the Republic. Let him beware of Iturbide’s fate!”

“At all events, he intends to become Emperor,” persisted Philip, calmly.

“No! The Junta has decided that he is to be banished from Cholacaca. Already the fleet is at Acauhtzin to arrest him, and to-morrow we send up a special message that he is to be brought to Tlatonac at once.”

“Suppose he refuses to come?”

“He will be brought by force.”

“Always provided the fleet do not support his cause.”

“You, too, Señor,” said Maraquando, thoughtfully; “so said Don Juan last night. It may be so, and yet I hope, for the sake of the country, that the affair may be ended at once. I believe the navy will continue faithful. My own son, Don Rafael, is in command of one ship; yet I mistrust Xuarez and his oily tongue. Yes, Señor, I have thought much since Don Juan and the Señor Corresponsãl spoke to me last night. I have conferred with His Excellency, the President. Therefore have we decided to send up a message to-morrow, ordering the return of the fleet with or without Xuarez. It does not do to trust him.”

“You have another man-of-war, then, to go to Acauhtzin.”

“No; we have a small steamer. But she is quick, and will go there and return in no time.”

“That is if she is permitted to do so,” thought Philip; but he did not say this aloud, lest Don Miguel should grow angry.

“Still, even if the fleet does revolt, we will have the torpederas,” said the Jefe, cheerfully. “They are now on their way from England. His Excellency received a telegram yesterday.”

“If you have the torpederas, you can do a good deal,” replied Philip, lighting a cigarette: “and if there is a war, Don Miguel, my yacht is at the service of the Government.”

“A thousand, thousand thanks, Señor!” said Miguel, smiling gratefully; “but I hope and trust there will be no occasion for us to ask you to make such a sacrifice. However, we shall soon know—in three days at the most. If the fleet are true to us, they will bring back Don Hypolito. If not, we shall know what steps to take to defend Tlatonac from being bombarded.”

“By the way, Señor,” said Cassim, thoughtfully, “you have a telegraph-station here. In which direction do the wires run?”

“Why do you ask, Señor?”

“Because the Señor Corresponsãl wishes constant communication with England, should there be a war. Now, if the wires go north to Acauhtzin, they can be cut by Don Hypolito.”

“That is true, Don Felipe. Fortunately they do not run north. No; the wires run south to Janjalla which town will certainly remain faithful to the Government. From thence all messages can with ease be transmitted to England.”

Philip was pleased at this, as he saw that Tim would be enabled to transmit messages to England with the greatest ease, and thus cover himself with glory. They conversed for a few minutes on the subject, and then left the market for the alameda.

It was a most delightful promenade. High trees on either side, whose branches formed a green arcade above the heads of the promenaders. Beds of roses in profusion—brilliant tropical plants, bronze statues, marble statues, and plenty of pleasantly situated seats. One portion was reserved for those who chose to walk, another for horses and their riders. Hither came all the aristocracy of the city, when they grew weary of the zocala of the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres, and on this day the alameda was crowded.

In a gaily decorated bandstand, an excellent company of musicians played bright music, mostly airs from comic operas, and Philip was amused to hear Offenbachian frivolities sounding in this spot. They seemed out of place. The musicians had no sense of the fitness of things. They should have played boleros fandangos—the national music of Spain—instead of which they jingled the trashy airs of minor musicians.

The alameda was thronged by a motley crowd, presenting more varied features than are to be seen in any other part of the world. Indian women squatting at the corners selling fruit and pulque, beautiful señoritas with black mantillas and eloquent fans, gay young cavaliers dashing along on spirited horses, in all the bravery of the national costume, and not seldom a sour-looking duenna, jealously watching her charge. Occasionally a priest in shovel-hat and black cassock—but these were very rare. The army was also represented by a number of gaily-dressed officers who smoked cigarettes, smiled at the señoritas, and clanked their huge spurs ostentatiously together. It was a gay scene, and Philip admired it greatly.

“I have never seen such a mixed crowd anywhere,” he said, lightly, “save in the Strada Reale in Valetta.”

“Well!” said Maraquando, after a pause, “and what do you think of Tlatonac?”

“It is a terrestrial Paradise,” replied Philip, “and Hypolito is the serpent.”