The Free Lances Part 8

Privacy, besides, has to do with this protective screen; the azotea being a place of almost daily resort, if the weather be fine, and a favourite lounging place, where visitors are frequently received. This peculiarity in dwelling-house architecture has an oriental origin, and is still common among the Moors, as all round the Mediterranean.

Strange enough, the Conquistadors found something very similar in the New World--conspicuously among the Mexicans--where the Aztecan houses were flat or terrace-topped. Examples yet exist in Northern and New Mexico, in the towns of the Pecos Zunis, and Moquis. It is but natural, therefore, that the people who now call themselves Mexicans should have followed a pattern thus furnished them by their ancestry in both hemispheres.

Climate has much to do with this sort of roof, as regards its durability; no sharp frosts or heavy snows being there to affect it.

Besides, in no country in the world is out-door life more enjoyable than in Mexico, the rainy months excepted; and in them the evenings are dry.

Still another cause contributes to make the roof of a Mexican house a pleasant place of resort. Sea-coal and its smoke are things there unknown; indeed chimneys, if not altogether absent, are few and far between; such as there are being inconspicuous. In the _siempre-verano_ (eternal spring) of Anahuac there is no call for them; a wood fire here and there kindled in some sitting-room being a luxury of a special kind, indulged in only by the very delicate or very rich. In the kitchens, charcoal is the commodity employed, and as this yields no visible sign, the outside atmosphere is preserved pure and cloudless as that which overhung the Hesperides.

A well-appointed azotea is provided with pots containing shrubs and evergreen plants; some even having small trees, as the orange, lime, camellia, ferns, and palms; while here and there one is conspicuous by a _mirador_ (belvedere) arising high above the parapet to afford a better view of the surrounding country.

It would be difficult to find landscape more lovely, or more interesting, than that which surrounds the city of Mexico. Look in what direction one will, the eye is furnished with a feast. Plains, verdant and varied in tint, from the light green of the _milpas_ (young maize), to the more sombre _maguey_ plants, which, in large plantations (magueyals), occupy a considerable portion of the surface; fields of _chili_ pepper and frijoles (kidney beans); here and there wide sheets of water between, glistening silver-like under the sun; bounding all a periphery of mountains, more than one of their summits white with never-melting snow--the grandest mountains, too, since they are the Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre or main Andean chain, which here parted by some Plutonic caprice, in its embrace the beautiful valley of Mexico, elevated more than seven thousand feet above the level of the sea.

Surveying it from any roof in the city itself, the scene is one to delight the eye and gladden the heart. And yet on the azotea of a certain house, or rather in the _mirador_ above it, stood a young lady, who looked over it without delight in her eye or gladness in her heart.

Instead, the impression upon her countenance told of thoughts that, besides being sad, dwelt not on the landscape or its beauties.

Luisa Valverde it was, thinking of another land, beautiful too, where she had pa.s.sed several years in exile; the last of them marked by an era the sweetest and happiest of her life. For it was there she first loved; Florence Kearney being he who had won her heart. And the beloved one--where was he now? She knew not; did not even know whether he still lived. He had parted from her without giving any clue, though it gave pain to her--ignorant of the exigencies which had ruled his sudden departure from New Orleans. He had told her, however, of his becoming captain of the volunteer band; which, as she soon after became aware, had proceeded direct to Texas. Furthermore, she had heard all about the issue of the ill-fated expedition; of the gallant struggle made by the men composing it, with the havoc caused in their ranks; of the survivors being brought on to the city of Mexico, and the cruel treatment they had been submitted to on the march; of their daring attempt to escape from the Guards, its successful issue for a time, till their sufferings among the mountains compelled them to a second surrender--in short, everything that had happened to that brave band of which her lover was one of the leaders.

She had been in Mexico throughout all this; for shortly after the departure of the volunteers for Orleans, her father had received the pardon we have spoken of. And there she had been watching the Mier Expedition through every step of its progress, eagerly collecting every sc.r.a.p of information relating to it published in the Mexican papers; with anxious heart, straining her ears over the lists of killed and wounded. And when at length the account came of the shootings at El Salado, apprehensively as ever scanned she that death-roll of nigh twenty names--the _decimated_; not breathing freely until she had reached the last, and saw that no more among these was his she feared to find.

So far her researches were, in a sense, satisfactory. Still, she was not satisfied. Neither to read or hear word of him--that seemed strange; was so in her way of thinking. Such a hero as he, how could his name be hidden? Gallant deeds were done by the Tejanos, their Mexican enemies admitted it. Surely in these Don Florencio had taken part, and borne himself bravely? Yes, she was sure of that. But why had he not been mentioned? And where was he now?

The last question was that which most frequently occupied her mind, constantly recurring. She could think of but one answer to it; this saddening enough. He might never have reached the Rio Grande, but perished on the way. Perhaps his life had come to an inglorious though not ignominious end--by disease, accident, or other fatality--and his body might now be lying in some lonely spot of the prairies, where his marching comrades had hastily buried it.

More than once had Luisa Valverde given way to such a train of reflection during the months after her return to Mexico. They had brought pallor to her cheeks and melancholy into her heart. So much, that not all the honours to which her father had been restored--not all the compliments paid to herself, nor the Court gaieties in which she was expected to take part--could win her from a gloom that seemed likely to become settled on her soul.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WAITING AND WATCHING.

As a rule, people of melancholy temperament, or with a sorrow at the heart, give way to it within doors in the privacy of their own apartments. The daughter of Don Ignacio had been more often taught to a.s.suage hers upon the house-top, to which she was accustomed to ascend daily, staying there for hours alone. For this she had opportunity; her father, busied with State affairs, spending most of his time--at least during the diurnal hours--at Government headquarters in the _Palacio_.

On this day, however, Luisa Valverde mounted up to the azotea with feelings, and under an impulse, very different from that hitherto actuating her. Her behaviour, too, was different. When she made her way up and took stand inside the mirador, her eyes, instead of wandering all around, or resting dreamily on the landscape, with no care for its attractions, were turned in a particular direction, and became fixed upon a single point. This was where the road, running from the city to Tacubaya, alongside the aqueduct of Chapultepec, parts from the latter, diverging abruptly to the left. Beyond this point the causeway, carried on among maguey plants, and Peruvian pepper trees, cannot be seen from the highest house-top in the city.

Why on this day, more than any other, did the young lady direct her glance to the bend in the road, there keeping it steadfast? For what reason was the expression upon her countenance so different from that of other days? No listless look now; instead, an earnest eager gaze, as though she expected to see some one whose advent was of the greatest interest to her. It could only be the coming of some one, as one going would have been long since visible by the side of the aqueduct.

And one she did expect to come that way; no grand cavalier on prancing steed, but a simple pedestrian--in short, her own servant. She had sent him on an errand to Tacubaya, and was now watching for, and awaiting his return. It was the nature of his errand which caused her to look for him so earnestly.

On no common business had he been despatched, but one of a confidential character, and requiring tact in its execution. But Jose, a _mestizo_ whom she had commissioned, possessed this, besides having her confidence, and she had no fear of his betraying her. Not that it was a life or death matter; only a question of delicacy. For his errand was to inquire, whether among the Texan prisoners taken to Tacubaya one was called Florence Kearney.

As it was now the third day after their arrival in Mexico, it may be wondered why the young lady had not sought this information before. The explanation is easy. Her father owned a country house in the environs of San Augustine, some ten miles from the city; and there staying she had only the day before heard that the captive train, long looked-for, had at length arrived. Soon as hearing it, she had hastened her return to town, and was now taking steps to ascertain whether her lover still lived.

She did not think of making inquiry at the Acordada, though a rumour had reached her that some of the prisoners were there. But surely not Don Florencio! If alive, it was not likely he would be thus disgraced: at least she could not believe it. Little dreamt she of the malice that was moving, and in secret, to degrade in her eyes the man who was uppermost in her thoughts.

And as little suspected she when one of the house domestics came upon the azotea and handed her a large ornamental envelope, bearing the State arms, that it was part of the malignant scheme.

Breaking it open she drew out an embossed and gilded card--a ticket. It came from the Dictator, inviting Dona Luisa Valverde to be present in a grand procession, which was to take place on the following day; intimating, moreover, that one of the State carriages would be at the disposal of herself and party.

There were but few ladies in the city of Mexico who would not have been flattered by such an invitation; all the more from the card bearing the name, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, signed by himself, with the added phrase "con estima particular."

But little cared she for the flattery. Rather did it cause her a feeling of disgust, with something akin to fear. It was not the first time for the ruler of Mexico to pay compliments and thus press his attentions upon her.

Soon as glanced over, she let the despised thing fall, almost flinging it at her feet; and once more bent her eyes upon the Tacubaya Road, first carrying her glance along the side of the aqueduct to a.s.sure herself that her messenger had not in the meanwhile rounded the corner.

He had not, and she continued to watch impatiently; the invitation to ride in the State carriage being as much out of her mind as though she had never received it.

Not many minutes longer before being intruded on. This time, however, by no domestic; instead a lady--like herself, young and beautiful, but beauty of an altogether different style. Though of pure Spanish descent, Luisa Valverde was a _guera_; her complexion bright, with hair of sunny hue. Such there are in Mexico, tracing their ancestry to the sh.o.r.es of Biscay's famous bay.

She who now appeared upon the azotea was dark; her skin showing a tinge of golden brown, with a profusion of black hair plaited and coiled as a coronet around her head. A crayon-like shading showed upon her upper lip--which on that of a man would have been termed a moustache-- rendering whiter by contrast teeth already of dazzling whiteness; while for the same reason, the red upon her cheeks was of the deep tint of a damask rose. The tones of all, however, were in perfect harmony; and distributed over features of the finest mould produced a face in which soft feminine beauty vied with a sort of savage picturesqueness, making it piquantly attractive.

It was altogether a rare bewitching face; part of its witchery being due to the _raza Andalusiana_--and beyond that the Moriscan--but as much of it coming from the ancient blood of Anahuac--possibly from the famed Malinche herself. For the young lady delineated was the Condes Almonte--descended from one of Conquistadors who had wedded an Aztec princess--the beautiful Ysabel Almonte whose charms were at the time the toast of every _cercle_ in Mexico.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A MUTUAL MISAPPREHENSION.

Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonte were fast friends--so fondly intimate that scarcely a day pa.s.sed without their seeing one another and exchanging confidences. They lived in the same street; the Condesa having a house of her own, though nominally owned by her grand-aunt and guardian. For, besides being beautiful and possessed of a t.i.tle--one of the few still found in Mexico, relics of the old _regime_--Ysabel Almonte was immensely rich; had houses in the city, _haciendas_ in the country, property everywhere. She had a will of her own as well, and spent her wealth according to her inclinations, which were all on the side of generosity, even to caprice. By nature a lighthearted, joyous creature, gay and merry, as one of the bright birds of her country, it was a rare thing to see sadness upon her face. And yet Luisa Valverde, looking down from the mirador, saw that now. There was a troubled expression upon it, excitement in her eyes, att.i.tude, and gestures, while her bosom rose and fell in quick pulsations. True, she had run up the _escalera_--a stair of four flights--without pause or rest; and that might account for her laboured breathing. But not for the flush on her cheek, and the sparkle in her eyes. These came from a different cause, though the same one which had carried her up the long stairway without pausing to take breath.

She had not enough now left to declare it; but stood panting and speechless.

"_Madre de Dios_!" exclaimed her friend in an accent of alarm. "What is it, Ysabel?"

"_Madre de Dios_! I say too," gasped the Condesa. "Oh, Luisita! what do you think?"

"What?"

"They've taken him--they have him in prison!"

"He lives then--still lives! Blessed be the Virgin!"

Saying which Luisa Valverde crossed her arms over her breast, and with eyes raised devotionally towards heaven, seemed to offer up a mute, but fervent thanksgiving.

"Still lives!" echoed the Condesa, with a look of mingled surprise and perplexity.

"Of course he does; surely you did not think he was dead!"

"Indeed I knew not what to think--so long since I saw or heard of him.

Oh, I'm so glad he's here, even though in a prison; for while there's life there's hope."

By this the Condesa had recovered breath, though not composure of countenance. Its expression alone was changed from the look of trouble to one of blank astonishment. What could her friend mean? Why glad of his being in a prison? For all the while she was thinking of a _him_.

"Hope!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed again as an echo, then remaining silent, and looking dazed-like.

"Yes, Ysabel; I had almost despaired of him. But are you sure they have him here in prison? I was in fear that he had been killed in battle, or died upon the march, somewhere in those great prairies of Texas--"

"_Carramba_!" interrupted the young Countess, who, free of speech, was accustomed to interlarding it with her country forms of exclamation.

"What's all this about prairies and Texas? So far as I know, Ruperto was never there in his life."