Читать книгу The Harlequin Opal - Fergus Hume - Страница 9

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Your eyes

Are dark as midnight skies,

And bright as midnight stars,

Their glance

Is full of love’s romance,

When no hate loving mars.

Oh let those eyes look down on me,

Oh let those glances wander free,

And I will take those stars to be

My guides for life,

Across the ocean of wild strife,

Dolores!

My heart

Those looks have rent apart,

And now ‘tis torn in twain;

Oh take

That broken heart, and make

With kiss it whole again;

Oh lightly from thy lattice bend,

Give but a smile, and it will mend,

Then love will love be till we end

Our life of tears,

For some sweet life in yonder spheres,

Dolores!

The next day Jack came back with Dolores and Doña Serafina. He was puffed up with exceeding pride at his good fortune, for it is not every young man in Central America who gets a chance of talking unreservedly with the girl of his heart. The Cholacacans treat their women folk as do the Turks: shut them up from the insolent glances of other men, and only let them feel their power over the susceptible hearts of cavaliers at the yearly carnival. Jack never did approve of these Orientalisms, even in his days of heart-wholeness, and now that his future hinged on the smile of Dolores, he disapproved of such shuttings up more than ever.

Fortunately Don Miguel was not a Turk, and gave his womenfolk greater freedom than was usual in Tlatonac. Dolores and her cousin were not unused to masculine society, and Doña Serafina was the most good-natured of duennas. Consequently they saw a good deal of the creature man, and were correspondingly grateful for the seeing. Still, even in Cholacaca it is going too far to let a young unmarried fellow ride for many miles beside the caleza of two unmarried ladies. So far as Doña Serafina was concerned, it did not matter. She was old enough, and ugly enough, to be above suspicion; but Dolores—ah, ah!—the scandal-mongers of Tlatonac opened their black eyes, and whispered behind their black fans, when they heard of Don Miguel’s folly, of the Señor Americano’s audacity.

As a rule, Don Miguel, proud as Lucifer, would not have permitted Jack to escort his sister and niece in this way; but the prospect of a war had played havoc with social observances. Don Rafael was away, Don Miguel could not leave the capital, and the ladies certainly could not return by themselves, over bad roads infested by Indians. Thus, the affair admitted of some excuse, and Don Miguel was grateful to Jack for performing what should have been his duty. He did not know that the gratitude was all on the other side, and that Duval would have given years of his life for the pleasant journey, obtained with so little difficulty. If he had known—well, Don Miguel was not the most amiable of men, so there would probably have been trouble. As it was, however, the proud Spaniard knew nothing, not even as much as did the gossips of Tlatonac; so Jack duly arrived with his fair charges, and was duly thanked for his trouble by the grateful Maraquando. Fate was somewhat ironical in dealing with the matter.

That journey was a glimpse of Paradise to Jack, for he had Dolores all to himself. Doña Serafina, being asleep, did not count. A peon, with a long cigar, who was as stupid as a stone idol, drove the caleza containing the two ladies. Doña Serafina, overcome by her own stoutness, and the intense heat, slept heavily, and Jack, riding close to the carriage, flirted with Dolores. There was only one inconvenience about this arrangement—the lovers could not kiss one another.

It was a long way from the estancia, but Jack wished it was longer, so delightful was his conversation with Dolores. She sat in the caleza flirting her big fan, and cooing like a dove, when her lover said something unusually passionate. Sometimes she sent a flash of her dark eyes through the veil of her mantilla, and then Jack felt queer sensations about the region of the heart. A pleasant situation, yet tantalising, since it was all the “thou art so near and yet so far” business, with no caresses or kisses. When the journey came to an end, they were both half glad, half sorry; the former on account of their inability to come to close quarters, the latter, because they well knew they would not again get such a chance of unwatched courting.

Eulalia, who guessed all this pleasantness, received her cousin with a significant smile, and took her off to talk over the matter in the solitude of the bedroom they shared together. Don Miguel seized on his sleepy sister in order to extract from her a trustworthy report as to how things were at the estancia, and Jack departed to his own house, to announce his arrival and that of Dolores.

It was late in the afternoon, for the journey, commencing at dawn, had lasted till close on four o’clock, and Jack found his three friends enjoying their siestas. He woke them up, and began to talk Dolores. When he had talked himself hoarse, and Peter asleep, quoth Philip—

“What about the railway works?”

“I haven’t been near them,” said Jack, innocently; whereat Tim and Philip laughed so heartily that they made him blush, and awoke Peter.

“What are you talking about?” asked Peter sleepily.

“Jack’s love affairs,” replied Philip, laughing.

“And by the same token we’ll soon be talking of your own,” said Tim, cruelly. “If you only knew the way he’s been carrying on with the black-eyed colleen, Jack!”

“Nonsense,” retorted Cassim, reddening; “I walked about Tlatonac with Don Miguel yesterday.”

“You flirted with Eulalia last night, anyhow.”

“Don’t be jealous, Tim. It’s a low-minded vice.”

“Oh, so that is the way the wind blows, Philip,” said Jack, stretching himself. “I knew you would fall in love with Eulalia. Now, it’s no use protesting. I know the signs of love, because I’ve been through the mill myself.”

“Two days’ acquaintance, and you say I love the girl! Try again, Jack.”

“Not I! Time counts for naught in a love affair. I fell in love with Dolores in two minutes!”

“Ah, that’s the way with us all,” said Tim, reflectively. “When I was in Burmah, there was a girl in Mandalay—”

“Tim, we don’t want any of your immoral stories. You’ll shock Peter—confound him, he’s asleep again, like the fat boy in Pickwick. Well, gentlemen both, I am about to follow the doctor’s example. I’ve been riding all day, and feel baked.”

“How long do you intend to sleep, Jack?”

“An hour or so. Then we’ll have something to eat, and go off to Maraquando’s to see the ladies. We must introduce Peter to his future wife.”

“Begad, I may fall in love with Doña Serafina myself!”

“It’s possible, if you are an admirer of the antique,” retorted Jack, and went off to his bedroom for a few hours’ sleep. Even lovers require rest, and bucketing about on a half-broken horse for the best part of the day under a grilling sun was calculated to knock up even so tough a subject as Jack.

“Faith!” remarked Tim, when Jack’s long legs vanished through the doorway, “if old Serafina smiles on Peter, and those girls flirt with you and Jack, I’ll be left out in the cold. Another injustice to Ireland.”

“Come to the alameda to-morrow, and pick out a señorita to be your own private property.”

“What! and get a knife in my ribs. I’m more than seven, Philip. Why, there was once a girl in Cape Town who had a Boer for a sweetheart—”

“And you took the girl, and the Boer didn’t like it. I know that story, Tim. It’s a chestnut. You told it in that book of sketches you wrote. Go on with your work; I’m sleepy.”

“Ow—ow!” yawned Tim, lazily. “I’d like to sleep myself, but that I have to write up this interview with Gomez. Did I tell you about it, Philip?”

“Yes; you’ve told me three times, and given three different versions. Keep the fourth for The Morning Planet.”

“But the President said—”

“I know all about that,” muttered Philip, crossly. “What you said—what he said—what Maraquando said—and how you all lied against one another. Do let us sleep, Tim. First Jack, then you. Upon my—upon my word—upon—on!” and Philip went off into a deep slumber.

“I hope the interview with Gomez won’t have the same effect on my readers,” said Tim, blankly to himself, “or it’s the sack I’ll be getting. Come on with ye! ‘There will be no war’, said the President. That’s a lie, anyhow; but he said it, so down it goes. Oh, my immortal soul, it’s a liar I am.”

Then he began scratching the paper with a bad pen, and there was peace in the land.

That night they duly arrived at Maraquando’s house in order to ask how politics were progressing. This was the excuse given by three of them; but it was false, as Tim well knew. He alone took an interest in politics. Even Peter had ceased to care about Don Hypolito, and the opal stone, and the possible war. He—under orders from Jack and Philip, who wanted the girls to themselves—made himself agreeable to Doña Serafina. Unaccustomed, by reason of her plain looks, to such attentions, she enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and thought this fat little Americano delightful. It is true that their conversation was mostly pantomimic; but as the doctor knew a few words of Spanish, and Serafina had learnt a trifle of English from Jack, filtered through Dolores, they managed between them to come to a hazy understanding as to what they were talking about.

Never till that moment did Philip feel the infinite charm of that languorous Creole life, so full of dreams and idleness. Sitting beside Eulalia in the warm gloom, he listened to her sparkling conversation, and stared vaguely at the beauty of the scene around him. In the patio all was moonlight and midnight—that is as regards the shadows, for the hour was yet early. Here and there in the violet sky trembled a star with mellow lustre, and the keen, cold shafts of moonlight, piercing the dusk, smote the flowers and tessellated pavement with silver rays. Pools of white light lay on the floor welling into the shadow even to the little feet of Eulalia. The court wore that unfamiliar look, so mysterious, so weird, which only comes with the night and the pale moon. And then—surely that was music—the trembling note of a guitar sounding from the shadowy corner in which Jack and Dolores were ensconced.

In the glimmering light Philip could see the grotesque gestures of Serafina and the doctor, as they pantomimed to one another on the azotea, and the red tip of Miguel’s cigar, as he strolled up and down on the flat roof talking seriously with Tim. Through the warm air, heavy with the perfume of flowers, floated the contralto voice of Dolores. The song was in Spanish, and that noble tongue sounded rich and full over the sweeping music of the guitar. As translated afterwards by Philip (who dabbled in poetry), the words ran thus:

In Spain! ah, yes, in Spain!

When day was fading,

I heard you serenading,

While shed the moon her silver rain,

The nightingale your song was aiding,

My tresses dark I then was braiding,

When to my chamber upward springing

There came the burden of your singing,

Nor was that singing vain

In Spain—dear Spain.

From Spain! yes, far from Spain,

We two now wander;

And here as yonder

A hopeless love for me you feign.

Alas! of others thou art fonder,

And I, forsaken, sit and ponder.

Yet once again your voice is ringing,

I hear the burden of that singing.

Alas! I fled in vain

From Spain—dear Spain.

They applauded the song and the singer, Jack looking across to Philip as much as to say, “Isn’t she an angel?” If Philip thought so, he did not say so, being busy with Eulalia. They were talking Chinese metaphysics, a pleasant subject to discuss with a pretty girl well up in the intricacies thereof. As to Jack and his angel!

“Querida!” murmured Dolores, slipping her hand into that of her lover’s under cover of the darkness; “how lonely has my heart been without thee.”

“Angelito,” replied Jack, who was an adept at saying pretty things in Spanish; “I left behind my heart when I departed, and it has drawn me back to your side.”

“Alas! How long will we be together, Juan? I am afraid of this war; should Don Hypolito conquer!” Here she paused and slightly shuddered.

“He shall not conquer, cara. What can he do with a few adherents against the power of the Government?”

“Still, the Indians—”

“You are afraid they will join with him. To what end? Xuarez cannot restore the worship of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

“Juan!” said Dolores, anxiously, “it is not of Xuarez I am so much afraid as of the Indians. If there is a war, they may carry me off.”

“Carry you off!” repeated Jack, in a puzzled tone of voice. “Why, how could they do that? and for what reason?”

“They could do it easily by some subtle device; bolts and bars and walled towns are nothing to them when they set their hearts on anything. And they would carry me away because I am the guardian of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Cocom.”

“But he does not worship the opal or the old gods. He is a devout Catholic.”

“So says Padre Ignatius; but I think he is one of those who go to the forest sanctuary. He knows much.”

“And says nothing. It is death for him to betray the secrets of that Aztec worship.”

“Listen, Juan, alma de mi alma. The life of Cocom was saved by my uncle Miguel, and with him gratitude is more powerful than religion. He told me while you were away, that the opal has prophesied war, and on that account the Indians are alarmed for me. Should there be no guardian of the opal, Huitzilopochtli will be angry, and lest I should be killed in the war as soon as the revolt takes place, the Indians will carry me for safety into the heart of the country—into those trackless forest depths more profound than the sea.”

“They shall never do so while I am at hand,” said Jack, fiercely; “but I don’t believe this story of Cocom’s. You cannot be in such danger.”

“I am afraid it is true; besides, that is not the only danger—Don Hypolito!”

“What of him?”

“He wishes to marry me, Juan.”

Duval laughed softly, and pressed the little hand, that lay within his own.

“You talk ancient history, querida; I thought we settled that I was to be the favoured one.”

“It is true! ah, yes, thee alone do I love,” whispered Dolores, tenderly; “but when you departed, Juan, he came to me, this Don Hypolito, and spoke of love.”

“Confound his impudence!” muttered Jack, in English.

“What say you, Juan? Oh, it was terrible! He said, if I became not his wife, that he would plunge the country into war. I did not believe that he could do so or would dare to do so. I refused. Then he spoke of my love for you, and swore to kill you.”

“He’ll have to catch me first, Dolores.”

“‘There will be war,’ said this terrible one, ‘and I will tear down the walls of Tlatonac to seize you. This Americano will I slay and give his body to the dogs.’”

“All idle talk, mi cara,” said Duval, scornfully; “I can protect myself and you. What more did he say?”

“Little more; but it was the same kind of talk. When he departed, I spoke to my uncle; but Don Hypolito had by that time gone to Acauhtzin.”

“Was Don Miguel angry?”

“Very angry! But he could do nothing. Don Hypolito was far away on the waters.”

“And will return with fire and blood,” said Jack, gloomily; “but never fear, Dolores. My friends and myself will protect you from this insolent one. If we are conquered, we shall fly to my own land in the vessel of Don Felipe!”

“But what of Eulalia?”

“Ah!” replied her lover, waggishly; “I think you can trust Don Felipe to look after Eulalia.”

“Do you think there will be a war, Juan?”

“It looks like it. However, we shall know for certain when the messenger comes back from Acauhtzin.”

“Yes; my uncle told me the boat had gone up to-day to bid the fleet return.”

“A wild-goose chase only,” thought Jack, but held his peace, lest he should alarm Dolores.

Fearful of attracting her uncle’s attention by speaking too much to Jack, the Spanish beauty crossed over to where Philip and Eulalia were sitting.

“Señor Felipe!” said Dolores, gaily, “wherefore do you laugh?”

“It is at Don Pedro and my good aunt,” replied Eulalia, before Philip could speak. “Behold them, Dolores, making signs like wooden puppets.”

Dolores turned her eyes towards the couple leaning over the azotea railing, and began to laugh also. Then Jack came over and demanded to be informed of the joke. He was speedily informed of the performance going on above; so that the two actors had quite an audience, although they knew it not. Indeed the affair was sufficiently grotesque. It was like a game of dumb crambo, as Peter acted a word, and the old lady tried to guess his meaning.

For instance, wishing to tell her how he captured butterflies, Peter wagged his hands in the air to indicate the flight of insects, then struck at a phantom beetle with an imaginary net.

“Pajaros!” guessed Doña Serafina, wrongly. Peter did not know this was the Spanish for ‘birds,’ and thought she had caught his meaning. The lady thought so too, and was delighted with her own perspicuity.

“Bueno, Señor! You catch birds! To eat?”

She imitated eating, whereon Peter shook his head though he was not quite sure if the Cholacacans did not eat beetles. Foreigners had so many queer customs.

Seeing Peter misunderstood, Doña Serafina skipped lightly across the azotea, flapping her arms, and singing. Then she turned towards the doctor, and nodded encouragingly.

“Birds!” she said, confidently. “You eat them?”

Now Peter knew that ‘comida’ meant eating; but quite certain that Doña Serafina did not devour beetles, set himself to work to show her what he really meant. He ran after imaginary butterflies round the azotea, and, in his ardour, bumped up against Tim.

“What the devil are you after?” said Tim, displeased at his conversation with Maraquando being interrupted. “Why can’t you behave yourself, you ill-conducted little person.”

“Do they eat beetles, here?” asked Tim, eagerly.

“Beetles! they’d be thin, if they did,” said Tim, drily. “I don’t know. Do you eat beetles, Señor?” he added, turning to Don Miguel.

The Spaniard made a gesture of disgust, and looked inquiringly at his sister.

“Los pajaros,” explained Doña Serafina, smiling.

“Oh, ‘tis birds she’s talking about!”

“Birds!” replied the doctor, blankly. “I thought I showed her butterflies. This way,” and he began hovering round again.

Tim roared.

“They’ll think you have gone out of what little mind you possess, Peter!”

“Ah, pobrecito,” said Serafina, when the meaning of the pantomime was explained, “I thought he was playing at a flying bird.”

“You’ll never make your salt as an actor, Peter,” jeered Tim, as they all laughed over the mistake. “I’d better call up Philip and Jack to keep you straight. Jack, come up here, and bring Philip with you.”

“All right,” replied Jack, from the depths below, where they had been watching the performance with much amusement; “we are coming.”

The quartette soon made their appearance in the azotea, where Peter’s mistake was explained.

“Do it again, Peter,” entreated Philip, laughing; “you have no idea how funny you look flopping about!”

“I shan’t,” growled the doctor, ruffled. “Why can’t they talk English?”

“Doña Dolores can talk a little,” said Jack, proudly “Señorita talk to my friend in his own tongue.”

“It is a nice day,” repeated Doña Dolores, slowly; “‘ow do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you,” replied Peter, politely; whereat his friends laughed again in the most unfeeling manner.

“Oh, you can laugh,” said Peter, indignantly; “but if I was in love with a girl, I would teach her some better words than about the weather, and how do you do!”

“I have done so,” replied Jack, quietly; “but those words are for private use.”

At this moment Dolores, laughing behind her fan, was speaking to Doña Serafina, who thereupon advanced towards Peter.

“I can speak to the Americano,” she announced to the company; then, fixing Peter with her eye, said, with a tremendous effort, “Darling!”

“Oh!” said the modest Peter, taken aback, “she said, ‘darling’!”

“Darling!” repeated Serafina, who was evidently quite ignorant of the meaning.

“That’s one of the words for private use, eh, Jack?” laughed Philip, quite exhausted with merriment. “A very good word. I must teach it to Doña Eulalia.”

“It’s too bad of you, Doña Dolores,” said Jack, reproachfully; whereat Dolores laughed again at the success of her jest.

“Did the Señor have good sport with Cocom,” asked Don Miguel, somewhat bewildered at all this laughter, the cause of which, ignorant as he was of English, he could not understand.

“Did you have a good time, Peter,” translated Tim, fluently, “with the beetles.”

“Oh, splendid! tell him splendid. I captured some Papilionidae! and a beautiful little glow-worm. One of the Elateridae species, and—”

“I can’t translate all that jargon, you fat little humming-bird! He had good sport, Señor,” he added, suddenly turning to Don Miguel.

“Bueno!” replied the Spaniard, gravely, “it is well.”

It was no use trying to carry on a common conversation, as the party invariably split up into pairs. Dolores and Eulalia were already chatting confidentially to their admirers. Doña Serafina began to make more signs to Peter, with the further addition of a parrot-cry of “Darling,” and Tim found himself once more alone with Don Miguel.

“I have written out my interview with the President,” he said slowly; “and it goes to England to-morrow. Would you like to see it first, Señor?”

“If it so pleases you, Señor Correspoñsal.”

“Good! then I shall bring it with me to-morrow morning. Has that steamer gone to Acauhtzin yet?”

“This afternoon it departed, Señor. It will return in two days with the fleet.”

“I hope so, Don Miguel, but I am not very certain,” replied Tim, significantly. “His Excellency Gomez does not seem very sure of the fleet’s fidelity either.”

“There are many rumours in Tlatonac,” said Maraquando, impatiently. “All lies spread by the Opposidores—by Xuarez and his gang. I fear the people are becoming alarmed. The army, too, talk of war. Therefore, to set all these matters at rest, to-morrow evening his Excellency the President will address the Tlatonacians at the alameda.”

“Why at the alameda?”

“Because most of them will be assembled there at the twilight hour, Señor. It is to be a public speech to inspire our people with confidence in the Government, else would the meeting be held in the great hall of the Palacio Nacional.”

“I would like to hear Don Franciso Gomez speak, so I and my friends will be at the alameda.”

“You will come with me, Señor Correspoñsal,” said Miguel, politely; “my daughter, niece, and sister are also coming.”

“The more the merrier! It will be quite a party, Señor.”

“It is a serious position we are in,” said Maraquando, gravely; “and I trust the word of his Excellency will show the Tlatonacians that there is nothing to be feared from Don Hypolito.”

At this moment Doña Serafina, who had swooped down on her charges, appeared to say good night. Both Dolores and Eulalia were unwilling to retire so early, but their aunt was adamant, and they knew that nothing could change her resolution, particularly as she had grown weary of fraternising with Peter.

“Bueno noche tenga, Vm,” said Doña Serafina, politely, and her salutation was echoed by the young ladies in her wake.

“Con dios va usted, Señora,” replied Tim, kissing the old lady’s extended hand, after which they withdrew. Dolores managed to flash a tender glance at Jack as they descended into the patio, and Philip, leaning over the balustrade of the azotea caught a significant wave of Eulalia’s fan, which meant a good deal. Cassim knew all those minute but eloquent signs of love.

Shortly afterwards they also took their leave after refusing Maraquando’s hospitable offer of pulque.

“No, sir,” said Tim, as they went off to their own mansion; “not while there is good whisky to be had.”

“But pulque isn’t bad,” protested Jack, more for the sake of saying something than because he thought so.

“Well, drink it yourself, Jack, and leave us the crather!”

“Talking about ‘crathers,’ ” said Philip, mimicking Tim’s brogue, “what do you think of Doña Serafina, Peter?”

“A nice old lady, but not beautiful. I would rather be with Doña Eulalia.”

“Would you, indeed?” retorted Cassim, indignantly. “As if she would understand those idiotic signs you make.”

“They are quite intelligible to—”

“Be quiet, boys!” said Tim, as they stopped at the door of Jack’s house, “you’ll get plenty of fighting without starting it now. There’s going to be a Home Rule meeting to-morrow.”

“Where, Tim?”

“In the alameda, no less. His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant is to speak to the crowd.”

“He’ll tell a lot of lies, I expect,” said Jack, sagely. “Well, he can say what he jolly well pleases. I’ll lay any odds that before the week’s out war will be proclaimed.”

He was a truer prophet than he thought.