For some sweet life in yonder spheres,
Dolores!
The next day Jack came back with Dolores and Doña Serafina. He was puffed up with exceeding pride at his good fortune, for it is not every young man in Central America who gets a chance of talking unreservedly with the girl of his heart. The Cholacacans treat their women folk as do the Turks: shut them up from the insolent glances of other men, and only let them feel their power over the susceptible hearts of cavaliers at the yearly carnival. Jack never did approve of these Orientalisms, even in his days of heart-wholeness, and now that his future hinged on the smile of Dolores, he disapproved of such shuttings up more than ever.
Fortunately Don Miguel was not a Turk, and gave his womenfolk greater freedom than was usual in Tlatonac. Dolores and her cousin were not unused to masculine society, and Doña Serafina was the most good-natured of duennas. Consequently they saw a good deal of the creature man, and were correspondingly grateful for the seeing. Still, even in Cholacaca it is going too far to let a young unmarried fellow ride for many miles beside the caleza of two unmarried ladies. So far as Doña Serafina was concerned, it did not matter. She was old enough, and ugly enough, to be above suspicion; but Dolores—ah, ah!—the scandal-mongers of Tlatonac opened their black eyes, and whispered behind their black fans, when they heard of Don Miguel’s folly, of the Señor Americano’s audacity.
As a rule, Don Miguel, proud as Lucifer, would not have permitted Jack to escort his sister and niece in this way; but the prospect of a war had played havoc with social observances. Don Rafael was away, Don Miguel could not leave the capital, and the ladies certainly could not return by themselves, over bad roads infested by Indians. Thus, the affair admitted of some excuse, and Don Miguel was grateful to Jack for performing what should have been his duty. He did not know that the gratitude was all on the other side, and that Duval would have given years of his life for the pleasant journey, obtained with so little difficulty. If he had known—well, Don Miguel was not the most amiable of men, so there would probably have been trouble. As it was, however, the proud Spaniard knew nothing, not even as much as did the gossips of Tlatonac; so Jack duly arrived with his fair charges, and was duly thanked for his trouble by the grateful Maraquando. Fate was somewhat ironical in dealing with the matter.
That journey was a glimpse of Paradise to Jack, for he had Dolores all to himself. Doña Serafina, being asleep, did not count. A peon, with a long cigar, who was as stupid as a stone idol, drove the caleza containing the two ladies. Doña Serafina, overcome by her own stoutness, and the intense heat, slept heavily, and Jack, riding close to the carriage, flirted with Dolores. There was only one inconvenience about this arrangement—the lovers could not kiss one another.
It was a long way from the estancia, but Jack wished it was longer, so delightful was his conversation with Dolores. She sat in the caleza flirting her big fan, and cooing like a dove, when her lover said something unusually passionate. Sometimes she sent a flash of her dark eyes through the veil of her mantilla, and then Jack felt queer sensations about the region of the heart. A pleasant situation, yet tantalising, since it was all the “thou art so near and yet so far” business, with no caresses or kisses. When the journey came to an end, they were both half glad, half sorry; the former on account of their inability to come to close quarters, the latter, because they well knew they would not again get such a chance of unwatched courting.
Eulalia, who guessed all this pleasantness, received her cousin with a significant smile, and took her off to talk over the matter in the solitude of the bedroom they shared together. Don Miguel seized on his sleepy sister in order to extract from her a trustworthy report as to how things were at the estancia, and Jack departed to his own house, to announce his arrival and that of Dolores.
It was late in the afternoon, for the journey, commencing at dawn, had lasted till close on four o’clock, and Jack found his three friends enjoying their siestas. He woke them up, and began to talk Dolores. When he had talked himself hoarse, and Peter asleep, quoth Philip—
“What about the railway works?”
“I haven’t been near them,” said Jack, innocently; whereat Tim and Philip laughed so heartily that they made him blush, and awoke Peter.
“What are you talking about?” asked Peter sleepily.
“Jack’s love affairs,” replied Philip, laughing.
“And by the same token we’ll soon be talking of your own,” said Tim, cruelly. “If you only knew the way he’s been carrying on with the black-eyed colleen, Jack!”
“Nonsense,” retorted Cassim, reddening; “I walked about Tlatonac with Don Miguel yesterday.”
“You flirted with Eulalia last night, anyhow.”
“Don’t be jealous, Tim. It’s a low-minded vice.”
“Oh, so that is the way the wind blows, Philip,” said Jack, stretching himself. “I knew you would fall in love with Eulalia. Now, it’s no use protesting. I know the signs of love, because I’ve been through the mill myself.”
“Two days’ acquaintance, and you say I love the girl! Try again, Jack.”
“Not I! Time counts for naught in a love affair. I fell in love with Dolores in two minutes!”
“Ah, that’s the way with us all,” said Tim, reflectively. “When I was in Burmah, there was a girl in Mandalay——”
“Tim, we don’t want any of your immoral stories. You’ll shock Peter—confound him, he’s asleep again, like the fat boy in Pickwick. Well, gentlemen both, I am about to follow the doctor’s example. I’ve been riding all day, and feel baked.”
“How long do you intend to sleep, Jack?”
“An hour or so. Then we’ll have something to eat, and go off to Maraquando’s to see the ladies. We must introduce Peter to his future wife.”
“Begad, I may fall in love with Doña Serafina myself!”
“It’s possible, if you are an admirer of the antique,” retorted Jack, and went off to his bedroom for a few hours’ sleep. Even lovers require rest, and bucketing about on a half-broken horse for the best part of the day under a grilling sun was calculated to knock up even so tough a subject as Jack.
“Faith!” remarked Tim, when Jack’s long legs vanished through the doorway, “if old Serafina smiles on Peter, and those girls flirt with you and Jack, I’ll be left out in the cold. Another injustice to Ireland.”
“Come to the alameda to-morrow, and pick out a señorita to be your own private property.”
“What! and get a knife in my ribs. I’m more than seven, Philip. Why, there was once a girl in Cape Town who had a Boer for a sweetheart——”
“And you took the girl, and the Boer didn’t like it. I know that story, Tim. It’s a chestnut. You told it in that book of sketches you wrote. Go on with your work; I’m sleepy.”
“Ow—ow!” yawned Tim, lazily. “I’d like to sleep myself, but that I have to write up this interview with Gomez. Did I tell you about it, Philip?”
“Yes; you’ve told me three times, and given three different versions. Keep the fourth for The Morning Planet.”
“But the President said——”
“I know all about that,” muttered Philip, crossly. “What you said—what he said—what Maraquando said—and how you all lied against one another. Do let us sleep, Tim. First Jack, then you. Upon my—upon my word—upon—on!” and Philip went off into a deep slumber.
“I hope the interview with Gomez won’t have the same effect on my readers,” said Tim, blankly to himself, “or it’s the sack I’ll be getting. Come on with ye! ‘There will be no war’, said the President. That’s a lie, anyhow; but he said it, so down it goes. Oh, my immortal soul, it’s a liar I am.”
Then