While our friends thus talk and canter to the place of their destination, let us take the liberty of introducing ourselves.
The house of Louis Mendoza was situated on a rising ground on the banks of the “River,” of which it commanded a beautiful prospect. There was a large garden attached to it, adorned with all the flowers which the country produced, most of them at that season in the full bloom and vigour of spring. Fruit-trees, both of the northern and southern hemisphere, from the tropic and temperate zones, diffused sweet perfumes from their blossoms; and vines, peaches, and orange trees were already decked with the budding promises of a rich harvest. Summer-houses were there, woven into shape with creepers and ever-greens. Birds of the tropics, in large aviaries, nearly invisible from being formed of green-painted wire, lent the splendour of their plumage to enrich a scene which the songsters of the air delighted to enliven with their music.
Beware of that garden, Tom Thorne, in the evenings when your heart is soft. Ride not with the ladies over that velvet lawn when the flush of the morning’s sun is reflected from their lovely faces, Tom Thorne. You are lost to the bachelor world for ever, Tom, if you be seduced to wander through these lovely woods with the ringlets of Anita Mendoza playing round your manly shoulder; and as for the summer-houses, if ever you enter them let it be with a book or a cigar only; mind that, Tom, mind that. Anita Mendoza might be sixteen or seventeen, Mariquita eighteen or nineteen; both were beautiful, and possessed of all the graces and accomplishments of the country. The contour of the features, of Mariquita might be more regularly beautiful than that of Anita. She was more of a blonde, too; her eye was beautiful and bright, her figure graceful and elegant, but still it would strike you that you had seen others as fair and graceful. She was a beauty; of that there was no doubt, but a beauty too much resembling the style of her sister, to bear a favourable contrast with her, and yet not sufficiently distinct to establish a separate and independent claim. But how shall we describe Anita Mendoza? She was the mistress of grace and elegance, for they followed her every step and attended her every movement; you were a slave at her mercy the moment you saw that dark black liquid eye, whether it beamed in kindness, flashed in raillery, melted in sympathy, or sparkled with delight from under its long dark dangerous eyelashes. To be in the presence of Anita Mendoza was to be in an enchanted circle. When that eye was upon you, your own identity was lost; your soul was lit up by the beams that flashed from that magic eye, and rays of love or envy, mirth or folly, were reflected back to the source from which they sprang. Let none despise the theory of animal magnetism; beside Anita Mendoza, your heart throbbed, your pulse played, and your soul thought in unison with hers. Such were your feelings when under the influence of the syren, but only then; for well you knew that that eye flashed or melted, and that smile played and that lip pouted, as brightly and pertly, for others, one and all, as for your own dear envious self. Beside her, she was your queen and empress; away, she was a little minx, a sweet little flirt. To sum up, in dancing she was a fairy, in singing a cherub, and far or near an enchanting, bewitching creature.
Luis Mendoza, the father of these ladies, was a rare old Spaniard. He had travelled a good deal in Europe, especially in England, where he had acquired not only some knowledge of the language but also a predilection for its convivial habits; and brandy and water had more charms for him in a cool evening, than matte or eau sucrée. He had early lost his helpmate, and, freed from this check on his convivial habits, it required little encouragement on his part to keep his house constantly full of bon vivants to assist him at the duties of the table, and gallants to amuse his daughters in the sala; and more of his gallants and bon vivants were to be found among the Anglo-Saxons than among the natives. Thus were Mariquita and Anita Mendoza accustomed from their earliest years to the language of adulation; and from having the duties of a household thus early thrust upon each, there was less of maidenly reserve, a little more of maidenly coquetry, with a dash more of masculine character, than in other circumstances would have been becoming at such tender years.
These ladies were seated alone in an elegantly fitted up sala, the elder busy with her needle at some fancy work, and the other idly and listlessly hurrying her soft white little dimpled fingers over the keys of a rich-toned piano—to a well-known air in South America, the words of which imply that the singer never, never, never will get married—
“No no no no quiero,
No quiero casarme
Es mejor, es mejor,
Ser soltéra
Siempre paseandera
Del mundo
Del mundo gozar.
Amantes amantes
Constantes se encuentran
Muy pocos al dia
Con cara tan fresca
Como una violéta
Y con ojos tan
Brillantes a mi gusto.
“Well, Mariquita,” said the young lady, throwing aside the music, “I admire the patience you can bestow upon that endless sampler, when you must feel as tired and exhausted as I am.”
“Of course, Anita, after that ball, sampler work is rather tame and tedious; but what shall we do?”
“I am afraid we shall have nobody out here to-day,” said Anita, with a kind of suppressed yawn.
“I see how it is, Anita; you are wearying already for even a languid compliment to those flashing eyes of yours.”