I.

On an evening in May, some forty years ago, Tio Pedro, the _portero_, or

gate-keeper, of Tres Hermanos, had loosened the iron bolts that held

back the great doors against the massive stone walls, and was about to

close the hacienda buildings for the night, when a traveller, humbly

dressed in a shabby suit of buff leather, urged his weary mule up the

road from the village, and pulling off his wide sombrero of woven grass,

asked in the name of God for food and shelter.

Pedro glanced at him sourly enough from beneath his broad felt-hat, gay

with a silver cord and heavy tassels. The last rays of the setting sun

flashed in his eyes, allowing him but an uncertain glimpse of the dark

face of the stranger, though the shabby and forlorn aspect of both man

and beast were sufficiently apparent to warn him from forcing an

appearance of courtesy, and he muttered, grumblingly,—

“Pass in! Pass in! See you not I am in a hurry? God save us! Am I to

stand all night waiting on your lordship? Another moment, friend, and

the gate would have been shut. By my patron saint,” he added in a lower

tone, “it would have been small grief to me to have turned the key upon

thee and thy beast. By thy looks, Tia Selsa’s mud hut for thee, and the

shade of a mesquite for thy mule, would have suited all needs well

enough. But since it is the will of the saints that thou comest here,

why get thee in.”

“Eheu!” ejaculated a woman who stood by, “what makes thee so spiteful

to-night, Tio Pedro, as if the bit and sup were to be of thy providing?

Thou knowest well enough that Doña Isabel herself has given orders that

no wayfarer shall be turned from her door!”

“Get thee to the hand-mill, gossip!” cried the gatekeeper, angrily.

“This new-comer will add a handful of corn to thy stint for grinding; he

has a mouth for a _gordo_, believe me.”

The woman, thus reminded of her duty, hurried away amid the laughter of

the idlers, who, lounging against the outer walls or upon the stone

benches in the wide archway, exchanged quips and jests with Pedro, one

by one presently sauntering away to the different courtyards within the

hacienda walls or to their own homes in the grass-thatched village,

above which the great building rose at once overshadowingly and

protectingly.

The stranger, thus doubtfully welcomed, urged his mule across the

threshold, throwing, as he entered, keen glances around the wide space

between the two arches, and beyond into the dim court; and especially

upon the rows of stuffed animals ranged on the walls, and upon the

enormous snakes pendent on either side the inner doorway, twining in

hideous folds above it, and even encircling the tawdry image of the

Virgin and child by which the arch was surmounted. These trophies,

brought in by the husbandmen and shepherds and prepared with no

unskilful hands, gave a grim aspect to the entrance of a house where

unstinted hospitality was dispensed, the sight of whose welcoming walls

cheered the wayfarer across many a weary league,—it being the only

habitation of importance to be seen on the extensive plain that lay

within the wide circle of hills which on either hand lay blue and sombre

in the distance. For a few moments, indeed, the western peaks had been

lighted up by the effulgence of the declining sun; the last rays

streamed into the vestibule as the traveller entered, then were suddenly

withdrawn, and the gray chill which fell upon the valley deepened to

actual duskiness in the court to which he penetrated.

Careless glances followed him, as he rode across the broad flagging,

picking his way among the lounging herdsmen, who, leaning across their

horses, were recounting the adventures of the day or leisurely

unsaddling. He looked around him for a few moments, as if uncertain

where to go; but each one was too busy with his own affairs to pay any

attention to so humble a wayfarer. Nor, indeed, did he seem to care that

they should; on the contrary, he pulled his hat still further over his

brows, and with his dingy striped blanket thrown crosswise over his

shoulder and almost muffling his face, followed presently a confused

noise of horses and men, which indicated where the stables stood, and

disappeared within a narrow doorway leading to an inner court.

Meanwhile, Tio Pedro, his hands on the gate, still stood exchanging the

last words of banter and gossip, idly delaying the moment of final

closure. Of all those human beings gathered there, perhaps no one of

them appreciated the magnificent and solemn grandeur by which they were

surrounded any more than did the cattle that lowed in the distance, or

the horses that ran whinnying to the stone walls of the enclosures,

snuffing eagerly the cool night air that came down from the hills, over

the clear stream which rippled under the shadow of the cottonwood trees,

across the broad fields of springing corn and ripening wheat, and

through the deep green of the plantations of chile and beans and the

scented orchards of mingled fruits of the temperate and torrid zones.

For miles it thus traversed the unparalleled fertility of the Bajio,

that Egypt of Mexico, which feeds the thousands who toil in her barren

hills for silver or who watch the herds that gather a precarious

subsistence upon her waterless plains, and which gives the revenues of

princes to its lordly proprietors, who scatter them with lavish hands in

distant cities and countries, and with smiling mockery dole the scant

necessities of life to the toiling thousands who live and die upon the

soil.

Many are these fertile expanses, which, entered upon through some deep

and rugged defile, lie like amphitheatres inclosed by jagged and massive

walls of brescia and porphyry, that rise in a thousand grotesque shapes

above their bases of green,—at a near view showing all the varying

shades of gray, yellow, and brown, and in the distance deep purples and

blues, which blend into the clear azure of the sky. One of the most

beautiful of such spots is that in which lay the hacienda or estates of

the family of Garcia, and one of the most marvellously rich; for there

even the very rocks yield a tribute, the mine of the Three Brothers—the

“Tres Hermanos”—being one of those which at the Conquest had been given

as a reward to the daring adventurer Don Geronimo Garcia. It was

surrounded by rich lands, which unheeded by the earliest proprietors,

later yielded the most important returns to their descendants. But at

the time our story opens, the mines and mills of Tres Hermanos, though

they added a picturesque element to the landscape, had become a source

of perplexity and loss,—still remaining, however, in the opinion of

their owners, a proud adjunct to the vast stretches of field and orchard

which encircled them.

The mines themselves lay in the scarred mountain against which the

reduction-works stood, a dingy mass of low-built houses and high adobe

walls, from the midst of which ascended the great chimney, whence clouds

of sulphurous smoke often rose in a black column against the sky. These

buildings made a striking contrast to the great house, which formed the

nucleus of the agricultural interests and was the chief residence of the

proprietors, and whose lofty walls rose proudly, forming one side of the

massive adobe square, which was broken at one corner by a box-towered

church and on another by a flour-mill. The wheels of this mill were

turned in the rainy season by the rapid waters of a mountain stream,

which lower down passed through the beautiful garden, the trees of which

waved above the fourth corner of the walls,—flowing on, to be almost

lost amid the slums and refuse of the reduction-works a half-mile away,

and during the nine dry months of the year leaving a chasm of loose

stones and yellow sand to mark its course. Along the banks were

scattered the huts of workmen, though, with strange perversity, the

greater number had clustered together on a sandy declivity almost in

front of the great house, discarding the convenience of nearness to wood

and water,—the men, perhaps, as well as the women, preferring to be

where all the varied life of the great house might pass before their

eyes, while custom made pleasant to its inmates the nearness of the

squalid village, with its throngs of bare-footed, half nude, and wholly

unkempt inhabitants.

These few words of description have perhaps delayed us no longer than

Tio Pedro lingered at his task of closing the great doors for the night,

leaving however a little postern ajar, by which the tardy work-people

passed in and out, and at which the children boisterously played

hide-and-seek (that game of childhood in all ages and climes); and

meanwhile, as has been said, the traveller found and took his way to the

stables. Before entering, he paused a moment to pull the red

handkerchief that bound his head still further over his bushy black

brows, and to readjust his hat, and then went into the court upon which

the stalls opened. Finding none vacant in which to place his mule, he

tethered it in a corner of the crowded yard; and then, with many

reverences and excuses, such as rancheros or villagers are apt to use,

asked a feed of barley and an armful of straw from the “major-domo,” who

was giving out the rations for the night.

“All in good time! All in good time, friend,” answered this functionary,

pompously but not unkindly. “He who would gather manna must wait

patiently till it falls.”

“But I have a _real_ which I will gladly give,” interrupted the

ranchero. “Your grace must not think I presume to beg of your bounty.

I—”

“Tut! tut!” interrupted the major-domo; “dost think we are shop-keepers

or Jews here at Tres Hermanos? Keep thy _real_ for the first beggar who

asks an alms;” and he drew himself up as proudly as if all the grain and

fodder he dispensed were his own personal property. “But,” he added,

with a curiosity that came perhaps from the plebeian suspicion

inseparable from his stewardship, “hast thou come far to-day? Thy beast

seems weary,—though as far as that goes it would not need a long stretch

to tire such a knock-kneed brute.”

“I come from Las Vigas,” answered the traveller, doffing his hat at

these dubious remarks, as though they were highly complimentary. “Saving

your grace’s presence, the mule is a trusty brute, and served my father

before me; but like your servant, he is unused to long journeys,—this

being the first time we have been so far from our birthplace. Santo

Niño, but the world is great! Since noon have my eyes been fixed upon

the magnificence of your grace’s dwelling-place, and, by my faith, I

began to think it one of the enchanted palaces my neighbor Pablo

Arteaga, who travels to Guadalajara, and I know not where, to buy and

sell earthenware, tells of!”

The major-domo laughed, not displeased with the homage paid to his

person and supposed importance, and suffering himself to be amused by

the villager’s unusual garrulity. Las Vigas he knew of as a tiny village

perched among the cliffs of the defile leading from Guanapila, whence

fat turkeys were taken to market on feast-days, when its few inhabitants

went down to hear Mass, and to turn an honest penny. They were a

harmless people, these poor villagers, and he felt a glow of charity as

if warmed by some personal gift, as he said, “Take a fair share of

barley and straw for thy beast, and when thou hast given it to him,

follow me into the kitchen, and thou shalt not lack a tortilla, nor

frijoles and chile wherewith to season it.”

“May your grace live a thousand years!” began the villager, when the

major-domo interrupted him.

“What is thy name? So bold a traveller must needs have a name.”

“Surely,” answered the villager, gravely, “and Holy Church gave it to

me. Juan—Juan Planillos, at your service.”

The major-domo started, laid his hand on the knife in his belt, then

withdrew it and laughed. “Truly a redoubtable name,” he exclaimed; then,

as they passed into another court over which the red light of charcoal

fires cast a lurid glare, illuminating fantastically the groups of men

who were crouching in various attitudes in the wide corridors, awaiting

or discussing their suppers, “I hope thou wilt prove more peaceful than

thy namesake: a very devil they say is he.”

The villager looked at him stupidly, and then with interest at the women

who were doling from steaming shallow brown basins the rations of beans

and pork with red pepper,—a generous portion of which, at a sign from

the major-domo, was handed to the stranger, who looked around for a

convenient spot to crouch and eat it.

The major-domo turned away abruptly, muttering, “Juan Planillos! Juan

Planillos! a good name to hang by. What animals these rancheros are!

Evidently he has never heard of the man that they say even Santa Anna

himself is afraid of. Well, well, Doña Isabel, I have obeyed your

commands! What can be the reason of this caprice for knowing the name

and business of every one who enters her gates? In the old time every

one might come and go unquestioned; but now I must describe the height

and breadth, the sound of the voice, the length of the nose even, of

every outcast that passes by.”

He disappeared within another of the seemingly endless range of courts,

perhaps to discharge his duty of reporter, and certainly a little later,

in company with other employees of the estate, to partake of an ample

supper, and recount to Señor Sanchez the administrador, with many

variations reflecting greatly on his own wit and the countryman’s

stupidity, the interview he had held with the traveller from Las Vigas.

Any variation in the daily record of a country life is hailed with

pleasure, however trifling in itself it may be; and even Doña Feliz, the

administrador’s grave mother, listened with a smile, and did not disdain

to repeat the tale in her visit to her lady, Doña Isabel, which

according to her usual custom she made before retiring for the night.

The apartments occupied by the administrador and his family were a part

of those which had been appropriated to the use of the proprietors and

rulers of this circle of homes within a home, which we have attempted to

describe. The staircase by which they were reached rose, indeed, from an

inferior court, but they were connected on the second floor by a

gallery; and thus the inhabitants of either had immediate access to the

other, although the privacy of the ruling family was most rigidly

respected; while at the same time its members were saved from the

oppression of utter isolation which their separation from the more

occupied portions of the building might have entailed. This was now the

more necessary, as one by one the gentlemen of the family had, for

various reasons or pretexts, gone to the cities of the republic, where

they spent the revenues produced by the hacienda in expensive living,

and Doña Isabel Garcia de Garcia,—still young, still eminently

attractive, though a widow of ten years standing,—was left with her

young daughters, not only to represent the family and dispense the

hospitality of Tres Hermanos, but to bear the burden of its management.

She was a woman who, perhaps, would scarcely be commiserated in this

position. She was not, like most of her countrywomen, soft, indolent,

and amiable, a creature who loves rather than commands. A searching gaze

into the depths of her dark eyes would discover fires which seldom leapt

within the glance of a casual observer. Seemingly cold, impassive, grave

beyond her years, Doña Isabel wielded a power as absolute over her

domains as ever did veritable queen over the most devoted subjects. Yet

this woman, who was so rich, so powerful, upon the eve on which her

bounty had welcomed an unknown pauper to her roof, was less at ease,

more harassed, more burdened, as she stood upon her balcony looking out

upon the vast extent and variety of her possessions, than the poorest

peon who daily toiled in her fields.

Her daughters were asleep, or reading with their governess; her

servants were scattered, completing the tasks of the day; behind her

stretched the long range of apartments throughout which, with little

attention to order, were scattered rich articles of furniture,—a grand

piano, glittering mirrors, valuable paintings, bedsteads of bronze

hung with rich curtains, services of silver for toilette and

table,—indiscriminately mixed with rush-bottomed chairs of home

manufacture, tawdry wooden images of saints, waxen and clay figures

more grotesque than beautiful, the whole being faintly illumined by

the flicker of a few candles in rich silver holders, black from

neglect. Doña Isabel stood with her back to them all, caring for

nothing, heeding nothing, not even the sense of utter weariness and

desolation which presently like a chill swept through the vast

apartments, and issuing thence, enwrapped her as with a garment.

She leaned against the stone coping of the window. Her tall, slender

figure, draped in black, was sharply outlined against the wall, which

began to grow white in the moonlight; her profile, perfect as that of a

Greek statue unsharpened by Time yet firm as Destiny, was reflected in

unwavering lines as she stood motionless, her eyes turned upon the walls

of the reduction-works, her thoughts penetrating beyond them and

concentrating themselves on one whom she had herself placed within,—who,

successful beyond her hopes in the task for which she had selected him,

yet baffled and harassed her, and had planted a thorn in her side, which

at any cost must be plucked thence, must be utterly destroyed.

The hour was still an early one, though where such primitive customs

prevailed it might well seem late to her when she left the balcony and

retired to her room, which was somewhat separated from those of the

other members of the family, though within immediate call. Soothed by

the cool air of the night, the peace that brooded over village and

plain, the solemn presence of the everlasting hills,—those voiceless

influences of Nature which she had inbreathed, rather than observed,—her

health and vigor triumphed over care, and she slept.