“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.