THE WHITE REBOZO.

Lake County Press, Issue 1067, 4 June 1903, Page 2

THE WHITE REBOZO.

" She is white, yes." Nunez spoke English with ease and a chaiming accent, and he* never lost the opportunity of doing so. He was practising now on Lingard. as they stood together at the water's edge. Linj-ard continued to look alter the woman who had just gone by them, toward the village. She wore* the blue , rebo/o of tiie Indian woman, but underneath it you cotll 1 see that she' was lair fair and of a less classic build than the women of the land. " She is while, yes. It is because thai she is an Amern an. like* yourself." " An American r" said Lingard, " in that dress r"' He doubted: but the Mexican nodded his head. " An American, yes. i do not know her name. They call her ' La Gringa,' only. She is your country woman, and she lives in the village there. She loved <i man of the people, an Indio, many years ago—and it is like this now; She lives in a small house with two chambers, andshe is very poor. She lias onedaughter whois a little* mad. It is because that La Gringa tried to drown herself in this lake before the child was born." " And the man P" asked Lingard; " where is he r" Nunez shrugged his shoulders which would have been a little sloping had it not been for the boat Englhdi tailor of the capital. " Ah! the man. Who knows ? lie is gone. It is always like that." The* woman had passed out of sight up the little street, aud Lingard turned away, looking thoughtfully up to one of the mountain pi.*aks that rose above the lake. "An American," he said, half to himself; " she must have led the life of the dammed. And her eyes were so child-like and blue." The Mexican laughed, the laugh ol a breed which does not believe in woman except for purposes of poetry and patron saints. "Child-like and blue," he echoed; " the eyes of women do not show the things which are under them. They are like this lake, I think. Jt is so blue and beautiful. You would never know that there is a city far down beneath the water, eh ?" Lingard forgot the Woman. " A city —under this lake ?" The Mexican was delighted with his effect and the still further chance of more display of English. "You do not know the story of Lake Chapala. then r"' Truly. Under it, so deep, deep under it—it is very profound—there is a city, au Aztec city, perhaps. The lake came, I think, maybe, by an earthshake. It was like Pompeii, but that it was buried by water and not by cinders. Some time, when there is a storm, after it you can find on the shore little things which the waves bring up; carved stones, little gods, little spools, like for the embroidery and the sewing; little cups, always of stone, and always very small, so that they shall not be too heavy." They called to him from the balcouy of the hotel and he went away, with a piince'ly sweep of his begilt and besilvered sombrero. Lingard watched him absently for a moment, then he turned back to the bright waters of the lake, and to fancying the city underneath, somewhere far down, down in the cool, deep blue. The sun of the south might rise over the encircling peaks in the east, and sink behind them in the west; the shadows of the mountains might quiver on the waters' face, and the Mowers of the garden-land wave* and bend upon their very edge: but there would be always in that ancient city, down below, the same cool, gray-green lilht, the same cold swing of a shoie-bound tide. And where butterflies and sweet-throated sanatitas had been, there were now only the little white Lake Chapala i'sh. It took possession of him, the thought, and also the* wish, to find for himself one of the relics of carven stone that the waves moved up from the depths. He wandered on and on along the shore, looking down at the pebbles and the sand. Jt was dusk when he came back to the i hotel. Thesenoritas, too modest to bathe in the dull light of clay and the sight of man, were splashing about, vague, shapeless shapes, at the shore's edge. Lingard was only a gringo, and he did not know that the beach was sacred to tin* feminine just then, and that if one wished to watch one should cio so from a hotel window with a pair of opera-glasses He did not care to watch, indeed. He considered these maidens who boasted Spanish blood inferior in every respect to the fine, dark women of the lower class. And their ligureslooked execrable in the bathing-suits! So ho went by almost unheeding, and on into the hoted. Nunez was there, killing time in the cantina alter the manner of his kind. He: seized upon Lingard as a dive rsion. '• You have dreamed all day by the lake. The ghost of the lake will take you one time." " Is there a ghost r 1 " asked Lingard: " I was looking for a stone." " One of the carved stones ? 1 will buy one for you, if you will accept it, senor." The Mexican rejoices to give. " 1 know where one is to be bought. But there is many that are not genuine —not good—which the Indios make to sell to the excursionists. The one I will give to you shall be genuine*." Lingard did not want one that was bought, but he felt that he could hardly say so. He told Nunez that he was very kind, and forthwith discouraged further talk about the lake. Nunez was a L-ttin, and it was Lingard's cxpeiieuce of his sort that there is a st rain of deadly bathos in their conversation which grates on the Anglo-Saxon, who is moie consistently poetical when he chooses to be a poet, as lie is more? thoioughly a tradei when he elee-fs to trade. When the moon hael begun to rise iu a sky that was blowing over with heavy, white-edged clouds, he went out. cm the lake shore again. There was a whine of wind now, and the slap of t he wavelets on the sand was sharper, and sometimes the moon would sail behind a cloud and leave the world in darkness. Linuard walked on until he was 100 far from the hotel to hear the sin ill chatter of Nunez and his friends. Then he stood still and looked across the lake*. He was thinking yet of the city below the goldtipped ripples. And as he looked the gold vanished and left the waters black. The* moon was behind a cloud. Jt stayed so for a while, and then came drifting forth, and Lingard, statrim? straight be>fore him, with glassy eyes, felt the blood running cold in his heart. For there 1 in front of him, not twenty feet away, a woman's figure stood, slight, and Mail against the path ol m toniight, at the edge of the sh«»n—.i liguic whiteshrouded from heed to fe-et, indisinet aguinst the shimmei,Kile-lured and paleeyed. It held a wheal ol the while Mowers

of the field clasped in transparent hands against Us breast; but they dripped bright drops of water to the mound.- " Que quiere ?" Lingard demanded, and tried hard to male it firm. " Tu alma, tu vida." moaned a voice that wiiisjcK-i wit li tin- lapping of the waves and the whistle of the rising wind. ■• Uis soul, bis life!" lie tried to reason lack his fear. It was born of the fancies I ha! he had dr< amed over all day. of the tequila he bad drunk with Nunez, before dinner, ol the tever of the country, perhaps, lie might he Retting the fevei now. But the slight bold-iess that came to him was born ol sheer tenor, and lie fell back on tin; harshness of his own to.iguo to break the spell. "Go to the dickens," lie said cossly, and yet with awe, and took a-step nearer to the vague thing 1 . ' Come with me. come with me. The water is calling. The water is deep." The English that answered was as sure as his own. He was losing his mind, surely it was the fever. Did spirits speak in every tongue r " Who are you r"' She laughed sweetly, uncannily, and kept on. " I'here is no more sorrow in tin* lake, deep down in the hlake. J can go to it now. We can go together. Come with me, come." "Who are you I'" he insisted still. " Tell me who you are." One of the hands left her breast and waved toward the water behind her. The light was growing hunt again, and the voice came out of the darkness soon. '• We can go in the water now." And it shouted the words of the song. " Veiiga conmigo, adonde vivo yo." The shrill, unreal laugh once more, " Qui' si senor, que si senor !" Then it changed to a minor wail and the words of a language Lanyard guessed to be that which t helndians of the far recesses of the country still sometimes speak —the language ol those who had li\ed in the lake city, perhaps. lie was stiff, half helpless with fear. The clouds wc re thicker every minute, and the rifts were smaller and farther between. The song came breathing out of the blackness, sounding first close to him, and then-far over upon the lake. He started forward with a sudd( a resolve to shake it into silence or bring it to a mun; earthly tone. But he touched something so cold and wet that his fingers were left empty and quite as cold. The waves lickt d around his liet. Then the moon came out and lie saw the thing, still standing in the path of its rays, but bother out in the water that rose even to his knees. Her hands were outstretched in the sign of the cross, as the peons pray, and a white scarf floated over them from In r head. The sheaf of Sowers had fallen and was drifting softly to the shore. "Quien esta!"" he repeated helplessly. " Who are you ; j " There was no reply; but the pale eyes were looking into iiis, and they seenie I to diaw him on. " Venga corn mi go adonde, vovo yo o-o----o-o." 'The sound kept on, drawn out until it was like the faint, far-away cry of a fog-horn at sea. '' Come with me, where J live," she sang, weirdly; and he went, following stt'p by step, drawn on by fear and uneeitainty,and the light, unwavering eyes. The waters were at her waist now, and the scattered Howt""s floated against his own knees. The voice took up the wailing Indian song again, and it seemed to come from The waters, as they mounted up to her chin. The arms were still stretched out and the scarf lay on the waves. But the moon was hiding itself yet once more, and the wind was beginning to howl. Then suddenly the chant stopped and bingard heard a gasp, a cry, a horribly human cry, choked oil in the midst. He was awake now, o.ily too much awake, lie remembered that he had I e< n told how the bottom of the lake shelved abruptly, in places, to a great depth, and he remembered, too, that lie could not swim. Bat jusl out there, beyond him. be could hear the beating and splasliing of arms and the frantic struggle with a breathless death, and though there were no strange eyes to lead him now, lie went on. The next day at" morning, when the storm had raised, but the winds and the waves ww not yet still, a yroup of peons weie huddled upon the Ixach. And a woman on the outskirts was > creaming as two mows held her hack. '• is it my child?" she ciicd,now in English, now in Spanish. " No, it is not your child." they told her; "it is the gringo. Come away," Nunez left them and strolled over to a mo/.a who stood hugging her arms with grief. ' Whst is the matter with La < Iringa r"'ho asked; "has sin. l lost her child?" the woman gulped down her sobs. '• Yes, senor. The child was mad for many years—only a little mad. in one thing. ' She wished always to throw herself into the lake. She said that it ealled to,her. Jt was because her mother was almost drowned once in there before la nina was born, bast night she went away, la nina, when the mother did not know. We searched for her all the night. And now she is dead, senor." " Dead t"' said Nunez. " But how do you know ?" She raised her head from her hands and nodded toward the group below. "She did not dress like us, senor, but always all in white; even her rebozo iva-i white like the snow. And you have seen what the gringo holds in his hands, senor—a white rebozo ?"