BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

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?”