XIV

Very early the next morning after the usual deep cup of chocolate

Brainard joined Hollinger and Major Calloway, and the little party set

forth on horseback. They rode through the silent town, between high

walls jealously guarding the privacy of large gardens, out into the

fields which were drenched with a heavy dew like rain. The birds sang in

the arching trees above the road. The sun came up from a golden mist in

the lowlands below and touched the hoary crest of Orizaba. Brainard had

never seen such an incarnation of spring upon the earth as this glorious

May morning, and his heart sang joyously, free of care, forgetful of the

burden of his heavy bag and all the coil of events that had brought him

hither. Like a schoolboy he was resolved to have his holiday. The

lively chestnut horse with which Calloway had mounted him danced

mincingly, chafing at the heavy bit. The magnate of the fight trust in a

short jacket and leather breeches, a broad straw sombrero on his head, a

long black cigar in his mouth, had the appearance of a bull fighter on

parade. He too seemed gay in mood, and called Brainard’s attention to

the richness of the land, the varied specimens of tropical trees beneath

which they rode, the beauty of the landscape, always dominated by the

symmetrical snow-crowned mountain. Calloway and the German took the

expedition more phlegmatically, discussing the prospects of the new

coffee yield.

From the shaded hill road they emerged upon a fertile valley where the

_peons_ were already at work in the fields. And they also began to meet

the country population moving towards Jalapa for the weekly fair.

Hollinger, who seemed to have a fair command of Spanish, joked with men

and women along the road.

“You couldn’t do that in the States!” he remarked to Brainard. “They’d

just give you a couple of sour looks and vote for no license.” . . .

The little party rode up to the Haçienda di Rosas in time for the second

breakfast. The old Englishman seemed delighted to welcome Calloway’s

friends and presented them to his placid Mexican wife and his two

daughters. The younger of these fell to Brainard at the breakfast, which

was served in the cool _patio_ shaded by a thick canopy of rose vines.

Señorita Marie was very small, very pretty, and very naïve,—just home

from a convent near Madrid, she told the young American. She spoke

English daintily, mixed occasionally with French and Spanish phrases and

some very modern American slang whose meaning she seemed scarcely to

understand. She was so unlike the few American girls that Brainard had

known, so little able “to look out for herself” as they were, so

appealing with shy glances from her black eyes, that from the first

moment he scarce remembered where he was or heard the conversation at the

other end of the table. She was exquisitely small and dainty, like one

of those Spanish beauties by Goya that Brainard had seen in the

Metropolitan Museum. Her black hair was drawn close about her delicate

head, concealing her ears and setting off the fairness of her skin, which

had an underglow of faint rose. Her voice was a murmur and a whisper, at

times like broken bird notes, as if meant for one ear alone. They talked

of the nothings that mean much to youth. She told him of her life in the

convent, her one winter in the City of Mexico with its formal parties,

her brother studying to be an engineer in a New York school.

After the siesta they went into the plantation, and Brainard lingered

while the others drifted on discussing the culture of coffee and its

future. Señorita Marie showed him her favorite walk with a view of

Orizaba across the valley, told him that her favorite poet was Tennyson,

the flower she loved best was the rose, the time of the year spring, the

time of the day twilight. And she asked him if he had brothers and

sisters and was a good Catholic. The time might come, and shortly

perhaps, when the childishness of this little mind would be apparent to

Brainard, but on this heavenly May afternoon with the birds singing in

the thickets and lazy white clouds floating across the snowy summit of

the volcano, their talk seemed quite wonderful and the girl herself the

most exquisite and adorable creature he had ever known.

“American girls do not talk like that, no?” she murmured, appealing to

him.

“No, they don’t!”

“Ah, but you see it’s different down here—we have only little things to

think about, we women, all day long.”

“It is very pleasant down here,” the young American sighed.

“You like it?” she responded eagerly. “But you would not like it for

always. . . . You American men are like that. You come to see the

plantation and drink coffee and talk—maybe you flirt a little, no?—and

then you ride away and say you will write. But you never write, and you

never come back!”

“I shall write, and I shall come back.”

The small lady shook her head with a demure smile. They returned slowly

through the fields. Yes, this girl was utterly different from the women

of his own race, and her difference appealed to him. She seemed, even in

her simplicity, more womanly, more as women were meant to be, the

protected and the adored. His imagination built up a pretty picture of a

dreamy existence in a beautiful country with such a trusting, simple,

lovable creature as companion.

“Why do you go away so soon?” she demanded as they neared the house.

“I must take the boat for Europe,” he replied.

“There will be another boat in a month.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

“Of course! Don’t you know that?” . . . Calloway and Hollinger were

already on horse-back in the courtyard, about to start without him.

“Are you coming with us?” the fight-trust man asked with an ironical

smile.

The Englishman and his wife gave the young stranger a cordial invitation

to remain and make a long visit. Brainard was about to accept when he

remembered his bag left unguarded in the hotel room.

“I shall have to return to the hotel for to-night,” he said reluctantly.

“Well, I’ll drive over for you and your luggage to-morrow,” the

Englishman insisted cordially.

And Señorita Marie whispered demurely, “Au revoir—there’s another

steamer—in a month!”

So Brainard rode off with the others, very much pleased with himself and

life, lightly putting aside his settled purpose of taking the _Toulouse_

two days hence. What urgent reason for haste, when life was so full of

promise and of beauty? Another month would do as well for Krutzmacht’s

business. . . .

“You didn’t see much of the plantation,” the Southerner drawled to

Brainard as the young man’s horse drew up abreast.

“He saw a great deal of something more to his liking,” Hollinger

observed, a little ironical smile on his lips.

“I had a very good day,” Brainard responded simply, wishing to avoid

further reference to the girl.

* * * * *

The daylight quickly faded, and before they reached the hill on which

Jalapa lies, the moon was up, flooding the valley and the mountains.

Calloway became confidential, and for the first time told the full story

of their recent host. Years before, the Englishman had arrived in Mexico

and bought this plantation. He was a young man then and single. He

never went home. It seems that he had absconded from a shipping firm in

Liverpool where he was employed and had taken ten thousand pounds. Later

he married a Mexican woman of good family and had prospered.

“But he never leaves the country. The woman and the girls go—the son is

being educated in the States—but the old man has never been beyond the

line.”

“It must be hard on them—the girls,” Brainard said.

“What do they care? Harlow is rich and respected in this country. The

women are Mexican, though the girls have been well educated. It was a

long time ago when he took the money, and as you see he lives like a

perfect gentleman with his own wife and family. There are a good many

citizens here who have better antecedents than Harlow and aren’t as

respectable.”

He looked suddenly at Brainard. The young man did not reply. He was

thinking that even if the Englishman had been a thief, there was no

reason why he should not like the daughter,—yes, and visit the Haçienda

di Rosas, if he so desired! He supposed that Calloway had told him

Harlow’s story for a purpose.

“After you have lived here awhile,” the Southerner continued, “you don’t

ask questions about newcomers, so long as they play fair and don’t try to

borrow money of you. Live and let live—that’s a good motto, young man.

You never can tell when you will need the same charity for yourself that

you hand out to another fellow!”

That philosophy seemed a bit specious, and Brainard felt an instinctive

repugnance to the morals of his new acquaintances. He suspected that the

Southerner might have his own story, which would explain why he was

living a lonely old age so far from his native Alabama. Hollinger added

nothing to the conversation. It was a somewhat delicate subject with him

also. But all the young man’s chivalry rose in behalf of the little

Mexican girl. This was the reason why young Americans never wrote and

never came back! Well, he would show her that there was one who had the

courage to forget that her father was an embezzler.

When they reached the hotel Calloway said good night and went to his

room. Brainard was about to follow him when Hollinger yawningly

suggested having a drink of _pulque_.

“Ever tried it? It’s not so bad; like the sort of yeast mother used to

make out of potatoes,” and as Brainard demurred, he said more urgently,

“Oh, come on! If you’re going to live on a Mexican haçienda, better get

acquainted with the national drink—though that was pretty good claret the

Englishman put up.”

They went across the way to a café that was still open and ordered

_pulque_. Brainard, after tasting the sirupy, yeasty stuff put his glass

down with a grimace. Hollinger drained his and ordered another.

“All you have to do with most things is to get used to ’em. The question

is,” he added, looking meaningly at Brainard, “whether you want to get

used to ’em! . . . Young man,” he remarked, as they turned back to the

hotel, “I don’t want to butt into your business—I am not that kind. I

don’t know whether you are traveling for your health, the same as I am,

or for some other fellow’s health. But, in any case,—” here his voice

became quietly emphatic, “all is, if you’ve got a job to do, do it!

Whether it’s cracking a safe or running a city mission, my young friend,

go at it and finish with it.”

Brainard threw up his head with all the haughtiness of the young man who

considers that he has thus far done very well without outside assistance.

“Just cut out any woman business until the job’s done,” Hollinger

continued. “Women are likely to upset most business—they distract the

mind, you know. Pardon me for calling your attention to the fact that

you seem still young and somewhat inexperienced in life, in spite of your

achievements. Have you fully made up your mind to join the exiles down

here for good and all? Better think it over first far away from the

señorita’s eyes, out at sea. . . . Well, here endeth the first lesson,

and good night, and pleasant dreams!”

“Good night!” Brainard replied stuffily.

The porter handed them both candles, and by way of ingratiating himself

with his generous patrons announced that two more _gringos_ had arrived

late that afternoon. Brainard, who was smarting under the fight-trust

magnate’s moral advice, paid little attention to the servant’s chatter

and went directly to his room. He undressed slowly, thinking of the

charming girl at the Haçienda di Rosas and the happy day he had spent

with her. Hollinger’s frank warning to get to his “job” and let women

alone rankled all the more because he felt the good sense of it. But

something within him tempted him to rebel at good sense. He was young,

and he had been through a series of strenuous weeks, living a lonely,

rough life. There seemed nothing unpardonably weak in allowing himself a

bit of good time here in this lovely place. Of course Hollinger’s idea

that he would straightway marry the embezzler’s daughter and settle down

in Jalapa for life was needlessly exaggerated. Probably there would be

another steamer in less than a month. And so forth, as youth under such

circumstances reasons with itself!

Continuing this debate he went out to the balcony for a last look at the

beautiful moonlight night. He lingered there, charmed by the stillness

of the deserted streets, by the soft scented air, by the beauty of the

white peak towering into the southern heavens. The pleasant murmur of

the girl’s voice sounded in his ears. He was not in love, he said to

himself,—that would be quite ridiculous! But he was, without knowing it,

in a state where a young man soon thinks himself into love.

All his experience since leaving New York led up, as a matter of fact, to

this very state. Señorita Marie need not be so extraordinarily

fascinating, nor Jalapa so wonderfully picturesque, to set the stage for

the eternal drama. He was just repeating to himself one of the girl’s

naïve remarks when he became conscious of low voices above him. English

was being spoken, and by a woman. He remembered what the porter had said

about new arrivals at the hotel, and strained his ears to hear what was

said. But the speaker was evidently seated within the room overhead, and

her voice was too low to reach out and down with any distinctness. There

was something in the timbre of it, or the accent, that seemed to Brainard

familiar,—perhaps nothing more than its Americanism. A man’s voice,

rather guttural and entirely unfamiliar, broke in on the woman’s speech.

The man must be standing nearer the balcony, for Brainard could hear

distinctly what he said.

“I don’t see how Mossy let him slip through his fingers in Mexico City,

do you?”

An unintelligible answer came from within the room.

“Anyway, it was clear luck our stopping off here to send that wire.”

And then suddenly in perfectly distinct though low tones came the

sentence:

“You didn’t see the grip?”

Brainard knew _that_ voice! The pert, crisp twist to the words might

resemble a thousand other stenographers in style, but he knew only one

that hissed her final words slightly. He held his breath and listened.

The woman came out on the balcony, and Brainard noiselessly glided back

into the shadow of his dark room. He had seen the profile of the figure

above and knew beyond doubt that she was Krutzmacht’s former

stenographer. The man said:

“I wish I knew which way he meant to jump next. He’s just fool enough to

go back North.”

“We’ll get him, either way,” the woman replied with a snap and retreated

into the room, closing the French window.