one end of the great melancholy garden. No one ever visited this
little rustic building, which the superstitious vowed was haunted by
the unhappy emperor. But, forgetful of spirits or other evils,
Bendito and Andrés pushed back the door, and, in the half gloom,
wrenched open the rotting box.
Out upon Bendito’s faded _tilma_, spread beneath the box, dropped
things that made even those ignorant Indians gasp in greedy terror.
How they sparkled and shone--these ornaments that great queens and
empresses had worn--the chains of brilliant white stones, necklaces
of rubies and emeralds, exquisite ear ornaments, the diamond-studded
portraits of royalties, and other fabulously valuable things. There
were not more than a dozen articles in all, and yet worth much
money, as these men knew. For they had both traveled to the great,
rich capital city, on the Paseo, where the wealthy dames wore these
same sparkling stones. The two replaced the jewels, their fingers
trembling and eyes burning with greed, and begun to discuss the
division. And the sun sank low while they argued and disagreed.
Andrés, having no home or family wherewith to bless himself, was not
missed that night. But old Juana, the wife of Bendito, being of a
suspicious and jealous temperament, at last pricked forth in search
of her missing lord. As it was late, there went with her their
daughter, Bendita, a flat, squat maiden of sixteen. A good girl she
was, but as homely as could well be.
Bendito was not to be found in his usual haunts. Neither the
“Caballitos” nor the “Haven of Peaceful Men” _cantine_ knew him, and
he was not listening to the music in the plaza. These things being
so, the baleful eye of his spouse lit up fiercely.
“The disgraceful old devil,” she muttered to Bendita, “is, without
doubt, in the great garden, which is sufficiently retired and
convenient for flirtations. We will find him there, doubtless, with
the wife of Pepe.”
And there they found him, very dead, but not with the wife of Pepe!
Instead, his companion was the equally dead Andrés. They had
evidently quarreled over the treasure, and then fought with
_machetes_. Between the two was the wooden box, with copper bands.
It was blood-covered, and the women of old Bendito wailed and
crossed themselves as they looked upon it and the two men who had
fought over it to the death. They hastily flung Bendito’s blanket
over him, and, crossing themselves, started to flee.
Bendita, lingering to caress the old man, again noted the box. “It
may be that it contains money,” she whispered, and picked it up,
though her mother protested.
With _rebosos_ closely drawn, the women scurried homeward, leaving
the dead men alone where they had fallen. Heartless of them? Well,
no, for in the tropics law and order sometimes mean little, and
these women knew well that, if they gave the alarm, they would
probably be suspected and convicted of the murder.
Stealthily opened, at midnight, the box proved to contain what old
Juana and her daughter mistook for mere white, red, and green
glass--no gold and no silver! The old woman, in a transport of rage,
sorrow, and disappointment, spit upon the jewels. “Accursed things
of mere glass,” she screamed, “to think that my poor Bendito died
for such valueless things as _you_.”
There was great lamentation next morning when old Bendito was found
and brought home to his alarmed family. They wept and wailed so that
people were very sorry for them, and Padre Diego volunteered, in the
goodness of his heart, to say fifty masses, “at a merely nominal
price,” for the soul of the departed _peon_. Andrés, no one seemed
to regret, and no masses were ever said over him, at bargain prices
or otherwise. And so Andrés and Bendito passed away, by no means the
first men to die for the sake of greed and riches.
While the widow and daughter of Bendito considered the “glass
jewels” of no value, for all the world wore gold and silver
trinkets, they were nevertheless afraid to speak or even hint of
them, lest they be suspected of complicity in the murder. Therefore,
the box was kept hidden in a secret place, and for a while the widow
kept her mouth closed, though she dearly loved to gossip. But the
custody of the box, and the consequent secrecy entailed upon her,
were entirely too much for poor Juana. She sickened and began to
pine for her country, as the Indians so quaintly call their
birthplaces.
Wherefore, their belongings were disposed of, and the two women
proceeded to their old home, many leagues distant. With them was
carried the crumbling box of jewels. Not long after reaching her
birthplace, Juana proceeded to die. Toward the last, she grew
exceedingly nervous over the “glass jewels,” speculating much as to
their value, and declaring that at the worst they might be pawned
for a _peso_ or two. And, still babbling of them, the old woman
died, and was, in Biblical fashion, “buried with her fathers.”
While not of a superstitious disposition, Bendita began to
experience some of her mother’s qualms about the box and its
contents. Finally, for its safety, she secretly removed several
tiles from the floor of her room, and concealed the jewels therein.
Then, satisfied that no one would find them there, she gave no more
thought to the matter, for of what avail were the baubles? “One can
not eat or drink them,” she mused. “But for their sake my poor
father died.”
At this time, Ponciana, the pretty daughter of Pancho, the
_cargador_, returned from Mission school to her proud family. After
her there trailed, later, her sweetheart, Amado. And after Amado, in
turn, came the deluge. For untoward things began to occur. First was
the falling in love of poor homely Bendita. This, of course, was all
right; any woman can fall in love with any man, if she so elects.
But ordinary decency demands that she at least restrain her passion
when the betrothed of another woman is concerned. And it was Amado,
Ponciana’s novio, upon whom Bendita needs must cast eyes. Of course,
it was absurd. For Bendita was square, fat, and flat (if you can
figure to yourself such a combination), while Ponciana was
exceedingly sweet and pretty. Besides, she had been taught in
Mission school, knew some English and much quaint slang, and was a
fascinating little Indian maiden.
“La Ponciana, she knows _much_,” had been Amado’s glowing
description to that potent personage, his mother. “She plays the
piano and guitar well, and sings, aye, as do the birds! And she
dances in a manner entirely exquisite--and sews and embroiders.”
Despite all this eloquence, however, Amado, after due temptation,
heartlessly jilted Ponciana for the unattractive and homely Bendita.
It happened thus: Unable to make any impression on the handsome
Amado, despite her sighs and eye-rolling, Bendita at length decided
to take, as it were, a back seat, and merely view from afar her
beloved, who nightly paraded in the plaza with his beloved. And here
it was, one evening, that a brilliant thought came to Bendita.
It was an ideal night, “one borrowed from Paradise,” as the poetical
Amado had murmured to his Ponciana. Great bright stars blazed in a
velvety-blue sky, while silvery moonlight cast a radiance over the
beautiful tropical plaza, wherein fountains trickled musically, and
glowing flowers of the tropics heavily perfumed the soft, languid
air. From the remote band-stand came sweet, faint strains of the
exquisite “Angel de Amor,” while the lowered voices of many gay
loungers murmured in musical harmony therewith.
Every one seemed so happy that it was no wonder that tears came to
Bendita’s eyes, as she sat, alone and neglected, in her solitary
corner. “I have so much homeliness,” she thought, drearily; “no one
will ever wish me for a _novia_--_ay de mi_!”
Again Amado and Ponciana passed by, Ponciana smiling and dimpling.
She wore a white _mantilla_, while on her finger there was a genuine
ring of gold, set with a white stone that sparkled in the moonlight.
It was the ring of betrothal, that day given. Amado, being poor, had
secured it cheaply from a pawnshop. But Ponciana did not know.
As she gayly flitted by, Bendita noted the sparkle of the ring. “It
is like the little glass jewels,” she pondered. “How Amado seems to
like it! I might--I might wear those at home. They sparkle, too.”
Behold Bendita, therefore, the next night, arrayed even more
magnificently than Solomon in all his glory. For Solomon, whatever
he may have gotten himself up in, surely never wore such huge
diamond ornaments in the ears, such diamonds and rubies in the hair,
such magnificent bracelets. All this was topped off by a long string
of diamonds and pearls, while outside her _mantilla_, at the neck,
Bendita displayed, in all humility, a necklace of pear-shaped black
and white pearls.
Amado, who had served for three years as a pawnbroker’s clerk, alone
of the crowd in the plaza knew that the girl’s jewels were
real--fabulously rich. “_Carrambas_,” he thought, excitedly; “she,
in those jewels, is rich as a princess. El Señor Vega, alone, would
give fifty thousand _pesos_ for them!”
Others, noting the new finery of the homely girl, said smilingly:
“What pretty playthings of glass has our good Bendita found?”
A week’s time saw the feckless Amado off with the old love and on
with the new. Quick work, it is true, but--consider the extenuating
circumstances. To do him justice, he had a plan for securing the
jewels (with Bendita, if it had to be), and later, making matters up
with his own pretty first love. Two things prevented this, however:
first, Bendita rarely wore, touched, or mentioned the jewels, and he
was fearful of exciting her suspicions; second, the jilted Ponciana
had vanished from the ken of even her own family. No one seemed to
know where she was. Old Madre Piedad, in San Geronimo town near by,
knew. The latter dame, thought to be a witch, was the girl’s near
relative. To her Ponciana had stated merely that some one had
injured her; and asked if Madre Maria would keep her quietly hidden,
and teach her how to avenge herself. Madre Piedad promised, and the
two, with the aid of an ugly, squat, herb-stuffed doll, a brazero of
hot coals, and some long pins, set the ball of vengeance in motion.
Meanwhile, instead of preparing for marriage, Bendita fell
grievously ill. She lost flesh rapidly, could not eat, drink, or
rest, and complained of agonizing pains that shot through her body.
A doctor was consulted, but could not relieve her. Then various old
women congregated and muttered together--they could do nothing! Of a
truth, it could be nothing less than the _mal del ojo_ (evil eye),
and with that only old Madre Piedad, of San Geronimo, could cope.
Wherefore Madre Piedad was sent for, and entreated.
At dusk she arrived--a bundled-up old dame, her halting steps aided
by crutches, and her face shrouded in many _tapalos_. A large bundle
came with her--“medicines,” she gruffly explained. The other women,
secretly in deadly terror of her, gladly withdrew at her commands.
“If you wish me to make a cure, you must get out and leave me alone
with the patient,” she ordered. And not until the premises were
clear did she begin operations.
“Arise!” she commanded the suffering Bendita, “arise, and search out
the glass trinkets which spirits tell me you have hidden away! Place
the trinkets, _all_ of them, in this earthen bowl of water, and let
them remain so for eight hours. In the morning drink the water,
after removing the glass jewels. You will then be entirely cured, I
promise you.”
Dazed and sick, poor Bendita arose from her bed and stumbled about,
obeying the old woman’s mandates. All of the jewels were deposited
in an earthen bowl, which, half filled with holy water, was placed
in the exact centre of the room. Then, swallowing a colorless liquid
that Madre Piedad gave her, Bendita was soon fast asleep. The old
witch smiled to herself as she listened to the sick girl’s deep,
regular breathing. “Well may she sleep,” she muttered, who had
shamelessly given a nostrum that would induce eight hours’ sleep.
And now the old body set busily to work. First she deftly
manufactured, out of her mysterious bundle, a dummy figure that
exactly resembled her own. This she seated prominently before the
doorway, so that chance visitors seeing it would, in their fear of
her, retire without entering. Quickly she slipped out of her many
_tapalos_ and other disguises, and stood forth, straight, young, and
lovely--no less a being than the jilted Ponciana! Hastily she
removed the jewels from their watery resting-place, transferring
them to a stout bag, which she tied about her waist, under a
_reboso_. The bowl she left in its original position, save that into
it she cast a small, ragged, rudely made doll, into which had been
plunged many pins. This done, she was ready for flight. “_Adios_,
Bendita,” she chuckled, with a wicked smile on her pretty face. “You
can have my lover--for I have your rich jewels!”
Various neighbors came next morning to inquire for the sick girl,
but were frightened away by the supposed figure of the witch.
Bendita herself, waking up entirely cured after ten hours’ sleep,
first discovered the trick, and cast forth the dummy figure, with
much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But all was not lost, even if
the jewels were gone for aye. Because, drolly enough, Amado was so
sorry for the bereft one that he married her, and they have been
happy ever after.
And Ponciana? Did you ever happen to see the exquisite Señora de la
Villa y Garcia, “of Mexico and Paris,” with her wrinkled old
husband, and her beautiful toilettes and jewels? Well, _that_ is
Ponciana.
THE MAN-DOG
By Nathan C. Kouns
My first knowledge of the singular being called “Du Chien, the
Man-Dog,” began when we were on duty down in the Peché country, a
short time after General Taylor’s celebrated “Run on the Banks,” in
the vicinity of Mansfield. The cavalry had really very little to do
except “to feed,” and await orders. As a result of this idleness
many of the officers and men formed pleasant acquaintances with the
hospitable planters in whose neighborhood we were located.
One of the planters whom I found to be most congenial was Captain
Martas, a French creole, whose father had come from Languedoc. He
was himself native-born. He was a man of forty-eight or fifty years
of age, and had two sons by his first marriage, who were in the army
of Virginia, and a boy two years of age, by his second wife, who was
a young and beautiful lady. The housekeeper was a mulatto girl, who
was in every physical development almost a perfect being--even her
small hands looking like consummate wax-work. She had been taught,
petted, and indulged as much, perhaps, or more than any slave should
have been, especially by Captain Martas, who uniformly spoke to her
more in the tone of a father addressing his daughter, than in that
of a master commanding a slave. She was always gentle and obedient.
The family seemed to prize her very greatly, and the little boy
especially preferred her to his own beautiful mother. I suppose it
would be hard for the later generation, who remember little or
nothing of the “domestic institution,” to understand how such a
pleasant and beautiful confidence and friendship could exist between
a slave and her owners, but it was no uncommon thing in the South
before the war.
The family was so attractive that I visited it often; but one
evening, on my arrival at the house, I found that its peace and
quiet had been disturbed by one of those painful occurrences which
so often marred the happiness of Southern families, and which really
constituted the curse of “the peculiar institution.”
The day before, the beautiful and accomplished wife of Captain
Martas had, for some unexplained reason, got into a frenzy of rage
with Celia, the mulattress, and had ordered the overseer to give her
a severe whipping. The girl had run off into the Black Swamp during
the night, and Captain Martas, who imparted this information to me,
was in a state of terrible distress by reason of her absence. He did
not seem to understand the cause of the trouble, but he could not
justify his slave without condemning his wife, whom he seemed to
regard with a most tender and dutiful devotion. The only emotion
which seemed to master him was a heart-breaking and hopeless grief.
I volunteered to hunt for the runaway, and while asking for such
information as I thought to be necessary about the neighboring
plantations, and of the almost boundless and impracticable
wilderness known as the Black Swamp, I saw Celia slowly and quietly
coming up the broad walk which led from the portico to the big gate.
She carried in her hand a branch of the magnolia tree, from which
depended a splendid blossom of that most glorious of all flowers.
She bowed slightly as she came near the portico, and, passing around
the corner of the house, entered it by a side door. Mrs. Martas was
most passionately devoted to the magnolia, and, from her
exclamations of delight, which were soon heard in the hall, we knew
that Celia had brought the beautiful flower as a peace-offering to
her mistress, and that it had been accepted as such. Very soon the
two women came nearer, and from our seats on the veranda we could
hear their conversation. A terrible weight seemed to have been
lifted from the heart of Captain Martas by the girl’s return, and by
the apparent renewal of friendly relations between his beautiful
wife and his even more beautiful slave--a relief which showed itself
in his face and form, but not in his speech.
“Yes,” said Celia to Mrs. Martas, “it is an old, wide-spreading tree
on the very edge of the water, and is glorious with just such
splendid blossoms as these. There must be more than three hundred
clusters, some that I could not reach being much larger and finer
than this one.”
“And you say,” answered Mrs. Martas, “that the air is still, and
that the perfume broods all around the tree? Oh, how sweet!”
“Yes,” said Celia, “it is so strong that you can taste as well as
smell the wonderful perfume. Few people could bear to stand
immediately beneath the shade; it is so sweet as to be almost
overpowering.”
“Oh, how I wish I could see it! How far is it, Celia?”
“Only four miles. You can go. It is deep in the swamp: but the pony
can follow the ridge all the way. You can go, and get home before
dusk. I would like you to see it before a rain makes the road too
bad, or the winds come and scatter the delicious perfume that now
hangs as heavy as dew all around the glorious tree for yards and
yards away.”
“I will go,” she cried. “Tell Toby to bring out Selim, and you can
take a horse. Let us go at once. It is getting late.”
“I would rather walk,” said Celia, “so as to be sure that I will not
miss the route in going back, although I watched so carefully that I
know I can find it on foot.”
Very soon a boy led up Mrs. Martas’s pony, and she went out to the
steps and mounted, followed by Celia on foot. The girl held the
stirrup for her mistress, and as she did so looked back at Captain
Martas with eyes in which shone strange love, pity, and tenderness;
but the voice of her mistress called her away, and, even in turning
her black and lustrous eyes toward Captain Martas, their expression
totally changed, and showed for a fleeting instant the murderous
glitter that gleamed from the eyes of a panther when ready for a
fatal spring.
I was startled and troubled, and half moved forward to tell the lady
not to go; but a moment’s reflection showed me how foolish such an
unnecessary and silly interference would seem. A strange mistrust
flitted across my mind, but there was nothing on which to base it. I
could not give a reason for it, except to say that I had seen the
light of a gladiator’s eye, the twitch and spasm of an assassin’s
lip, in the eye and mouth of that now smiling and dutiful young
slave girl. The thing was too foolish to think of, and I held my
peace.
The women passed out of the gate, and went on quietly in the
direction of the Black Swamp. Martas and I resumed our conversation.
Hour after hour passed away, and the sun grew large and low in the
West; still Mrs. Martas did not return. The sun was setting--set;
but she had not come. Then Captain Martas called Toby and had him
ride to the edge of the wood and see if he could learn anything of
his mistress; but Toby soon came back, saying that he saw nothing
except the pony’s tracks leading into the swamp, and the pony
himself leisurely coming home without a rider. Then Captain Martas
mounted, and I followed him. He took the plantation conch-shell, and
we rode on into the dark forest as long as we could trace any
footsteps of the pony, or find any open way, and again and again
Captain Martas blew resonant blasts upon his shell that rolled far
away over the swamp, seeking to apprise his wife that we were there,
and waiting for her; but nothing came of it.
“They could hear the shell,” he said, “upon a still night like this
three or four miles,” and it seemed to him impossible that they
could have gone beyond the reach of the sound. But no answer came,
and the moonless night came down over the great Black Swamp, and the
darkness grew almost visible, so thoroughly did it shut off all
vision like a vast black wall.
Then Martas sent Toby back to the plantation for fire and blankets,
and more men, and soon a roaring blaze mounted skyward, and every
few minutes the conch-shell was blown. Nothing more could be done. I
remained with the now sorely troubled husband through the night. At
the first peep of dawn he had breakfast brought from the plantation,
and as soon as it became light enough to see in the great forest, we
searched for and found the pony’s track, and we carefully followed
the traces left in the soft soil. The chase led, with marvelous
turns and twists, right along the little ridge of firmer land which
led irregularly on between the boundless morasses stretched on
either side, trending now this way, now that, but always penetrating
deeper and deeper into the almost unknown bosom of the swamp. The
pony had followed his own trail in coming out of the swamp, and this
made it easier for us to trace his way. At last we came to the dark,
sluggish, sullen water. It was a point of solid ground, of less than
an acre in extent, a foot or two above the water, almost circular in
outline, and nearly surrounded by the lagoon. It was comparatively
clear of timber, and near the centre rose a grand magnolia tree,
such as Celia had described to Mrs. Martas on the evening before. At
the root of this tree, bathed with the rich, overpowering perfume of
the wonderful bloom above her, lay the dead body of the beautiful
woman, her clothes disordered, her hair disheveled, a coarse, dirty
handkerchief stuffed into her mouth, and all the surroundings giving
evidence of a despairing struggle and a desperate crime. Captain
Martas was overcome with anguish, and after one agonized look
around, as if to assure himself that Celia was not also somewhere in
sight, he sat down beside the body and gazed upon his murdered wife
in silent, helpless agony of spirit.
I desired all the men to remain where they were, except Toby, whom I
ordered to follow me; and then, beginning at the little ridge of
land between the waters by which we had reached the circular space
before described, we followed the edge of the ground completely
round to the starting point, seeking in the soft mud along the shore
for a footprint, or the mark made by a canoe or skiff, for some
evidence of the route by which the murderer had reached the little
peninsula, or by which Celia had left it.
We found perfect tracks of all animal life existing in the swamps,
even to the minute lines left by the feet of the smallest birds, but
no trace of a human foot, although a snail could not have passed
into or out of the water without leaving his mark upon the yielding
mud, much less a footstep or a canoe.
The thing was inexplicable. Where was Celia? How had she gone
without leaving a trace of her departure? Had she been there at all?
Who had murdered Mrs. Martas? Surely some man or devil had
perpetrated that crime. How had the villain escaped from the scene
of his crime, leaving not the slightest clew by which it was
possible to tell which way he had gone?