CHAPTER III
The House of da la Cosa
THE long shadows of evening lay on the terrace of the solitary white house. The glowing heat of the day had given place to mild winds which were bringing soft, perfumed air from the forest.
The three men were comfortably stretched out in easy chairs, pleasantly blowing rings of smoke from their black Havana cigars. The dinner table had been cleared. An elderly shrunken woman who appeared to be German was passing around cold lemonade, sugar-cane liquor, and the inevitable pulque. Afterward she uttered a timid “Goodnight, gentlemen,” curtsied, and withdrew.
“See, gentlemen,” said the tall sinewy Mexican, whose raw silk riding suit shone in the twilight, “as far as you can look over the plantations there is almost nothing but agaves. The last harvest was meager. The price of raw sisal went up very high and spurred people on to grow agaves. Now everyone is relying on them.”
He held his cigar as high as his eyes—with his well-trained little finger standing far out to the side—and examined the burning end thoughtfully.
“I don't grow much myself.” he went on evenly. “I buy the crops of the small rancheros and the Mayas. Naturally these people cannot establish markets for themselves. They don't need to. For centuries the export has been taken care of by the house of de la Cosa. My agents are in every seaport in the world; and in every place where sisal and dyewood are handled the name of de la Cosa stands first.”
Sir William Burns was silent. He did not know what to say, and the conversation would have come to a halt, if the ever-ready Patson had not taken a hand.
The conversation of the egotistical merchant was intolerable to Burns. Politeness demanded that he should take part in it. But for hours Don Pedro had been talking of agaves, tobacco, sago, coffee, sugar-cane, and cotton. It bored the archaeologist to have to listen to his bragging and pretend an interest in it.
The magically sweet summer evening invited dreams—dreams of old stories and tales which are connected with ruins, and which on moonlight nights reveal themselves to sensitive hearts. On such night the stones speak. The rulers and priests arise from their graves and tell of war and victory, of guilt and atonement. The cares and desires of the present shrink to nothing before the mighty voice of eternity.
Why had he given up his old stopping-place in the abandoned Maya hut? It had offered less of comfort than this hacienda of Don Pedro, which was actually luxurious according to local standards. But there he could have worked undisturbed and devoted himself to his thoughts. And here? Since the day before, Burns and Patson had been guests at the house of de la Cosa, and they had not had a single free hour. The perfect Spanish-Mexican politeness bade the host devote himself to his guests, surround them with attentions— and rob them completely of their freedom.
Burns kept deciding to break away and flee to the solitude of the ruined city. But deciding was as far as he got. There was a power which held him here—the words of Tuxtla, who had directed him hither; “Do not seek me, sir, and then you will find me!”
Who was this beautiful woman at the tree of life? Was she only a dream at bright midday? An inscription which had taken bodily form? A phantom?
His whole being was affected by this experience. The image of Tuxtla was indelibly impressed on his mind.
He had not ventured to question Don Pedro about Tuxtla. What could the answer be? An astonished smile—a sideways glance from lowered lids at the English peer who was interested in a mestiza—a polite shrug of the shoulders—silence—and then more talk of agaves, sugar-cane, Campeche wood...
Burns waited for a pause in Don Pedro's long-winded remarks and then arose. The Mexican seemed to guess the purpose of his guest. “May I propose a short walk in the garden?” he said with an engaging smile.
Without waiting for an answer, he clapped his hands. Black Mingo came running up.
“Cloaks and lanterns!” The order sounded like a gust of wind and sent the servant speeding back again immediately.
Bums was incensed. “Thank you very much for your attention!” he said with suppressed wrath. “I should like very much to enjoy a bit of the evening in the open. But I will under no circumstances bother you, Don Pedro. I can find my way all right alone.”
Of the Señorita
THE haciendero bowed. “But, gentlemen, it is a pleasure for me to be able to show you the most beautiful spots of the hacienda by moonlight. I am entirely at your disposal.”
Further resistance would have been a deadly insult. Unwillingly Burns let Mingo put on him the customary carbonaro cloak of the country. Japanese lanterns, carried by servants, swayed before the gentlemen like dancing fireflies.
The neatly hedged walks wound in arabesques through the rolling lawns, the rustling mimosas and the palm groves. Here and there arched wooden bridges crossed little artificial ponds and brooks, which glittered in the moonlight. The hoarse croaking of the bullfrogs, suggesting the monstrous splashing of rain, served but to emphasize the silence of the night. Don Pedro relieved his guests of the necessity of conversing.
They had not gone far when they heard the pattering of bare feet on the pebbly path. A breathless voice called behind them:
“Massa! Massa Don Pedro!”
It was Mingo, who came up panting. His long arms waved in the air like a wind-blown scarecrow.
Don Pedro stopped with a curse. “You dare to disturb my guests? You black brat of a mangy dog!”
Mingo seemed accustomed to such titles. “Pardon me, Massa,” he whimpered in his negro Spanish, timidly, “the Señorita. . . .”
“Be still, you beast!” Don Pedro raised his hand as if to strike. “I don't wish to hear anything, March back to the house!”
Mingo sneaked away a few paces.
The wrath of the Mexican was incomprehensible to Bums. “A spineless race, these negroes,” he thought. “They cringe like whipped dogs before any whim, and then lick the hand that beats them!”
He came near missing the fact that Don Pedro turned to him and said in a tone of forced politeness:
“Pardon this interruption, Sir William! These people are badly brought up and get too few whippings.”
Mingo stood trembling a short distance away.
“Don't you suppose, Don Pedro,” answered the archaeologist, “that it would be simpler to receive the servant's message and hear what the trouble is? It may be some important business affair. Mingo seems to be doing only his duty.”
The words had a colder sound than Burns had intended. They sounded like a reproof. The black man looked at the speaker in amazement.
“There is nothing in the world more important to me at this moment than the contentment of my guests!” The haciendero bowed politely and took a few steps forward, as though inviting them to continue their walk.
“Well, sir!” said Burns calmly. “You will increase our contentment, if you do not burden us with the responsibility of having in some way influenced your domestic affairs.” With quick resolution he took his assistant by the arm and walked on rapidly. The darkness hid the surprised and almost hostile look which Don Pedro sent after his guests.
The Englishmen walked ahead quickly, to get out of hearing as soon as possible. Resounding blows and pitiful crying could be heard among the trees, proving that the haciendero was airing his displeasure.
“Did you hear. Sir William?” began Patson softly. He convinced himself that no one was following them, and then went on: “Mingo was speaking of the Señorita.”
Burns did not reply. He was vexed, though he told himself that all this did not concern him.
“What kind of Señorita is it, of whom Mingo was speaking?” Patson commenced again, after a while. “It's certainly remarkable that we haven't been introduced to the lady of the house.”
“Up to the present I haven't observed that there was any lady living in the hacienda except Mrs. Stulp, this German housekeeper. Perhaps it's the custom here to keep the ladies hidden from the guests.”
“Well!” remarked Patson, thoughtfully. “It seems to me as though Don Pedro wanted to keep us from hearing the servant's message. There must have been more reason for that than simply custom.”
“Don't forget that custom counts here more than religion! After,,all, what business is it of ours?”
“I don't know. It seems to me as though. . . .” The Irishman stopped suddenly. A shadow appeared.
“Who's there?” cried Burns.
“It's just stupid bad Mingo!” said the oily voice of the negro. “Can Mingo come closer, massa?”
“Come here, Mingo! What's the matter?” Burns went a few steps toward the servant.
“Oh, Massa English is good. Massa had kind words for poor Mingo.” He turned his body like a dog wagging its tail.
“Never mind that, Mingo!. Have you a message for us?” asked Burns, shortly.
“Massa Don Pedro begs a thousand pardons. An unexpected event has called him back to the house. Mingo is to see what Massa English wants and...”
“What else?”
With hesitation Mingo finished his sentence: “And say that Mingo got five blows from a cane.”
Burns was disgusted.
“What's the matter with the Señorita?” put in Patson. “An accident?”
“Oh, Señorita Isabella is ill, very ill. Senora Estulp got scared and sent Mingo to Massa Don Pedro. But Mingo must not speak of the Señorita. Massa Don Pedro does not wish it.” He humbly folded his arms',
Patson whistled. “Is there a doctor here?” asked Burns.
“Massa never got a doctor from Ticul when the Señorita had fits.”
“Then Señorita Isabella is often ill?”
“Massa English won't tell on Mingo? It Massa Don Pedro learns that Mingo has told about Señorita Isabella, poor Mingo will get ten times ten blows.” He rubbed his back with both hands, as though already feeling the fresh stripes.
“You may be sure that we will keep still, Mingo!” said Patson, assuringly.
A Warning
MINGO came closer to the Englishmen and whispered shyly, holding his hand beside his mouth:
“Señorita Isabella often has an evil spirit. To-day things are very bad. Her eyes are turned up, and the spirit speaks from her mouth many words which Mingo cannot understand.”
He put his hand to his cheek and rolled his eyes frightfully, to give pictorial emphasis to his story.
Burns was troubled at spying thus on his host. It Seemed to him unworthy to find out thus the secrets of the hacienda de la Cosa. He prevented further questions by the inquisitive Patson by saying to Mingo:
“Now go, Mingo! Inform your master that we are well and that we wish him a pleasant evening.”
The negro ran away. But he soon stopped and came back slowly and hesitantly. “Is Massa English angry if Mingo says something more?”
Before Burns could make an unwilling reply, Mingo went on quickly: “Massa English is digging over there in the stones of Uxmal. Mingo must warn Massa.” The negro's voice became impressive in its well-meant anxiety. “A very, very evil spirit lives in Xlapakh. It will enter Massa English and make good Massa ill— oh, as ill as the Señorita!”
* * * * *
In the hacienda everyone was still sound asleep when Burns set out the next morning with his little group of men. In order to be able to get to work again, freed from interruption, he had left a note for Don Pedro, telling him that he would spend the day in the ruins and would return in the evening.
The morning dew on the grass was shining in the oblique rays of the sun, which was just coming above the horizon. The harsh chirping of the crickets blended with the deep buzzing of the bees and the shrill singing of the mosquitos to make the cheerful morning-song of the rolling meadows. The turf had a penetrating earthy smell.
Here and there the first workers in the fields might be seen. They leisurely plodded along through the plantations and glanced from under their broad-brimmed pointed hats at the sun, as though wishing to convince themselves that another working day had actually arrived. They were weather-beaten chaps of all colors— many broad-headed Mayas, a few Haiti negroes, and some with unmistakably Mongolian features. Mostly, however, they were blends of all shades—mestizos, mulattos, zambos, Creoles, and so on—types of such involved ancestry that the cleverest ethnologist could scarcely have classified them.
The edge of the primeval forest, which hid the ruined city, lay black in the north. Patson interrupted his chewing on the cold breakfast to ask:
“What shall we undertake to-day?”
“First, the step-pyramid, of course!” replied Burns quickly, breaking off a long spear of grass to brush away the flies. “I found a temple court there which promises all sorts of interesting things.”
The archaeologist's ill-humor of the previous evening had disappeared. He watched the dawning day with the joy of anticipated work.
“Yes, you spoke of the tree of life of the Toltecs!”
“You will be amazed, Pat! It is no symbolic stone representation. No, it is the living oak of Quetzalcoati, bearing his thickened dart in the trunk.”
“Strange!” replied Patson thoughtfully. “How old do you suppose the oak is?”
“Certainly less old than the temple. Probably later generations-of priests planted the tree and kept it hedged in and cared for if and cut it, until it took on the form of the sacred sign and could be shown to the people as the wonderful tree of Quetzalcoati. These Toltecs must have had sly heads and a determined will, and their civilization was certainly not inferior to that of the Pharaohs. It is too bad that so few inscriptions and buildings remain.”
“For that we may thank the glorious predecessors of our famous Don Pedro. Why, he claims that he is a descendant of that Juan de la Cosa who landed on Watling's Island with Columbus four centuries ago.” Patson took off his hat and wiped the sweat-band with his handkerchief.
“That may be so! But the insistence with which he stresses his Caucasian descent and his pride in his white skin are actually suspicious. You know, Pat, how in this land of blended races people defend their Cas-tilian blood—the more violently, the less they have of it. That the stock of de la Cosa was at one time invigorated with Indian blood is proved by the bluish lips of our charming host. However that may be, he is a worthy representative of his distinguished forerunners. Even if Columbus's discovery was incontestably an advance in civilization, what the civilized Spaniards and Portuguese took upon themselves to do in the new world was the worst barbarism.
“In the hearts of the peaceful Mayas and Toltecs there remained unquenched the touching hope for the return of the white savior, Quetzalcoati, the bright son of the gods, who should make them noble men and women. What was more natural for these red children of nature than to take the Spanish conquistadors for the emissaries of Quetzalcoati and to throw themselves to the ground in shy reverence of the white strangers?”
Burns stood still in his eagerness. “Doubtless no nation ever had so cruel a disappointment! I do not know which was more terrible—the Spanish and Portuguese adventurers, greedy for gold, who in bestial cruelty and tricky cunning plundered the Maya realm with fire and sword—or the fanatics of civilization. For the latter saw in the heathen stone crosses, which greeted them from all the hills, a deception of the devil to mock Christendom, and in their narrow-mindedness utterly wiped out all that they could not comprehend!”
A Reappearance
BURNS leaned against a mighty white-barked baobab and waited for the red laborers, who were slowly trotting along. His glance went back to the white building of the hacienda, from the chimneys of which fine columns of smoke -rose and wavered in the air. The buildings were surrounded by an impenetrable cactus hedge instead of a fence. A lively mass was pressing through the open gate. Coming out with their mule-trains and driving the little long-eared beasts ahead with cries audible far away were the mounted peons.
A single rider broke away from the crowd and quickly came nearer. The yellow mare sped over the fields at such speed that the dark mane stood straight out. The rider sat firmly and surely in the gently swaying saddle, bending forward and stroking the neck of the splendid animal. The horse swept along, galloped by, and went on with its nose close to the ground which was shaken by its hoofbeats.
“Hats off!” cried Patson enthusiastically. “That is what I call speed! Did you see, sir? It was a girl! Probably no one else than the mysterious Señorita!” He stepped beside Burns and gazed entranced after the slender rider. “But she must have recovered quickly. Yesterday she was possessed by an evil spirit, and very early this morning she is on horseback and apparently completely recovered!”
Burns did not reply. With trembling hand he grasped the white tree-trunk.
“Quite a girl, isn't she?” said Patson with a grin. But when he looked into his chief's face, he started back in amazement.
“But, Sir William, what is the matter with you? You look as pale as the mummy of Tutankhamen! Are you ill?”
Burn's fingers grasped his assistant's arm. “Who was that. Pat?” he panted. His eyes glowed feverishly. He saw only waving black hair—a slender brown girlish figure—a firm little hand holding the reins.
In surprise Patson stammered: “I imagine that it was Sefiorita Isabella, sir. Why are you so excited?”
“That was no white woman,” murmured Burns.
“The sun of Yucatan burns all faces brown.” Patson gave a careful sideways glance at the excited scientist. Then he watched the rider.
“She is turning at the edge of the forest. See, she is coming back!”
Again the horse sped on, coming nearer and nearer. Then—it stumbled, its knees giving way. A sharp pull at the bridle stopped it. For a moment the front legs thrust forward into the air. Then came a mighty bound forward. The rider wavered in the saddle.
“For Heaven's sake, she is falling!” cried Patson. Burns was already racing toward the site of the accident. The mare galloped past the Englishmen. The saddle was empty. Close to the baobab the horse stopped, with heaving sides.
The rider was lying in the grass. She lifted her head a little, and when she saw the two Englishmen hastening up, she sank back with a smile of satisfaction and triumph.
Burns found the girl lying apparently unconscious on the ground, with her eyes closed. Thoughtfully he regarded the delicate face, crowned with luxuriant black hair, the tightly compressed full lips, the elegant English riding habit of the latest style, which enclosed her slender body.
Patson unscrewed the top of his flask and rubbed the temples of the unconscious girl with alcohol. Slowly the long silken lashes parted, and the great dark eyes wandered about searchingly.
“That was a bad fall, Sefiorita!” said Burns, bending low over the girl. “Can you stand up?”
A quick glance met the eyes of the scientist. “Thank you for your kind help, Seiior!” said the girl dully. “I am already getting better. Just a little headache. I must have fallen on my head.”
Burns started. This voice! . At last he heard it again, this deep and yet soft voice from the olden times, sounding like the cooing of a dove. His arm trembled when he embraced the girl's warm body and carefully raised her. Scarcely was the girl on her feet, when she released herself and carefully, gracefully removed a few bits of grass from her jacket. She did not appear to have been injured by her fall.
“Did I frighten you, Senors?” Her pearly teeth shone in a gay laugh.
Was this Tuxtla? Was this elegant tanned Mexican girl, speaking fluently pure Spanish and apparently enjoying the amazement of the Englishman, the girl of the wilderness, the reincarnation of the Maya Queen Moh?
“It might have been bad!” remarked Patson cheerfully. “You have had fortune In misfortune, Señorita!”
“Have I the pleasure of thanking Sir William Burns and Mr. Patson, the guests of my brother?”
Burns collected himself. “There is no occasion for thanks,” he replied, struggling with his embarrassment. “It is an honor for us to become finally acquainted with the beautiful sister of our splendid host.”
“Finally?” The girl smiled sweetly. “Last evening I just returned from a—a trip, and this morning I was not alert enough to greet you before your very early start. Don Pedro will be inconsolable that he did not wish you good morning.”
“Our work is pressing, Señorita Isabella. I did not want to disturb Don Pedro, and...”
“You know my name?” interrupted the Mexican girl. The dark eyes under the golden yellow brows shone half surprised, half ironical.
Burns bit his lips. “It seems to me, Señorita, as though we had already met somewhere before,” he said evasively, yet desirous of an answer.
“It is possible,” replied Isabella indifferently. “I often come to Merida. Perhaps it was on the Corso at the Plaza Mayor? Excuse my bad memory!”
“No, not in Merida!” said the Englishman uncertainly. “Here, not far from the hacienda...” Suddenly it struck him as ridiculous to connect Señorita Isabella de la Cosa with the Indian girl Tuxtla, and he hastily added, “It was probably a mistake, a chance resemblance!”
Again Isabella smiled. “And was my double also named Isabella?”
A Family Scene
FOR a moment she enjoyed the embarrassment of the scientist, who was vainly racking his brain for a sensible reply. Then she gave a low call. The mare trotted up and rubbed her muzzle against her mistress's arm. Before Burns could aid her, she was in the saddle. She bent over, pulled at the laces of her riding boots, and got the ends together.
“Senor Burns,” she cooed, “please help me a little! The horse is so restless.”
Eagerly the scientist came to her aid, glad to escape further questions.
“Here, Senor! The lacing has slipped out. Yes here! Please make it tight!”
Holding the pommel of the saddle firmly with one hand, the beautiful girl bent down. Her sweet breath caressed his cheek and sent his blood pounding into his temples. In excitement, with awkward fingers, he pulled the laces below the well-shaped knee which shone through the thin silk stocking. For a moment longer he held the little foot of the girl in his hand, his eyes fixed on hers. Was he mistaken, or was there really in those dark depths a touch of softening and yielding?”
But Isabella straightened up. A hissing call sent the horse away. With a cheery laugh she waved back to him. Burns took looking after her, lost in dreams, but Patson brought him back to reality by a friendly dig in the ribs.
* * * * *
Isabella was lying on a high point, behind a clump of agaves and high ferns. The mare was grazing close by. The reins hung loose to the ground. No rope would have held the splendid beast as securely as a light call from its mistress.
Isabella, her slim neck stretched forward, was peeping through the confusion of leaves into the distance. Far off, at the edge of the primeval wood, dark points were moving along, four of them in a row and two together ahead. It was the Englishman's expedition.
Which of the two dots was Burns? This sturdy man with the learned face and the bright blue eyes, looking clever and energetic and yet boyishly dreamy! Could one person have so firm a will and yet such kindly understanding? Had Quetzalcoati looked thus, the stranger who had come from the sea-girt land of Mu to bring freedom and peace to the nations? Or was it perhaps Votan, the earth-born companion of the savior, the sturdy coloniser, compelling his foes by his shrewd kindness?
Isabella compressed her lips. Her nostrils trembled like the nostrils of a thoroughbred horse that scents his master. Suddenly she laughed aloud. What would Don Pedro say, if he knew that the strange man had laced her boot, which after all. . . .
A warning snort of the mare warned Isabella. She started a little. Behind her stood Don Pedro with his arms crossed. His brow was gloomy. There were vertical wrinkles on his low forehead, shaded by the teide sombrero. In this pose his very thin body with the long withered legs was unspeakably laughable.
“The jailer!” thought Isabella, shuddering as if she felt a slight chill. “Good morning, Pedro,” she said with an effort. “Is everything all right?”
“Where have you been?” The question sounded rude and discourteous, coming from lips accustomed to command.
“My brother is so concerned with me that he neglects his duties toward his guests,” she answered, slightly mockingly.
Don Pedro stamped his foot on the ground so hard that his immense spurs rang. “Did you speak with the caballeros*?” It sounded like a cross-examination.
Isabella looked at her long slender hand and the finger-nails which had a yellowish glint. “The gentlemen were very happy to meet the sister of their kind host,” she replied calmly.
The Mexican's face was strangely distorted. “Didn't I forbid you to do so?” he hissed angrily.
Isabella quickly jumped up. Her dark eyes flashed. “A de la Cosa cannot be forbidden, Senor!”
“How ugly he looks!” she thought at the same time.
In amazement the haciendero stepped back. The sudden resistance surprised him. “I do not know a de la Cosa! Only a....”
“Are you ashamed of your sister, Pedro?” interrupted the girl bitterly. “Does not the blood of your father flow in my veins, also? Are you ashamed of your own blood?”
Don Pedro laughed scornfully. “The gentlemen would have felt it a great honor to have been greeted by a mestiza as the lady of the house!” he cried angrily.
Isabella was again the yielding woman. “Senor Burns laced the mestiza's shoe.” She looked sideways at the haciendero.
“I shall take steps to prevent a repetition of this occurrence!” said the man with icy coldness.
“Then it is war between us, Pedro?”
“War?” repeated the haciendero contemptuously. “One does not wage war with the brats of Indians, one chastises them.”
Isabella wanted to cry out and seize her tormentor by the throat. But she clenched her teeth. Silently she gazed with her great eyes into her brother's distorted face. Gradually the expression of infinite grief vanished from the corner of her mouth, and from under her lowered lids shone only hate and desperation.
Don Pedro shrugged his shoulders and turned away, “You made me a lady!” screamed Isabella in passionate excitement. “I cannot go back, Pedro. I will not—do you hear—I will not...”
Violent sobs shook the slender brown body. “I will not—I will not...” the trembling lips groaned again and again.
Don Pedro went back to the hacienda whistling. After a brief and violent conversation with Frau Stulp, the German housekeeper, he had his horse saddled and galloped off toward Ticul.