DON MELCHIOR DÍAZ.
Don Melchior Díaz's name has several times already slipped from our pen; the reader has been introduced to him, but up to the present we have not yet positively explained who he is or in what way he succeeded in gaining the position he occupies in the Saldibar family. The moment has arrived to make this known, and acquaint the reader with certain events most important for a proper understanding of coming facts.
When Sotavento handed over to Don Aníbal de Saldibar the child saved from the general massacre of the Indian tribe, there was a fact which the majordomo passed over in silence. It was, that the lad whom he declared to have recovered from the Indians, had been simply confided to him by a white hunter, to whom he had scarce spoken, and who said to him at the same time as he handed him a bag of gold dust, which the majordomo did not think it necessary to mention either, as he doubtless preferred to appear thoroughly disinterested in his master's eyes—
"This child is born of white parents; one day he will be reclaimed; tell Don Aníbal to take the greatest care of him."
Sotavento scented a mystery under these hints, and in the prospect of some profit to be made at a later date, kept to himself the hunter's remarks, and told his master some sort of story, which the latter believed, through the slight importance he attached to it. The lad had, therefore, been unhesitatingly accepted by Don Aníbal, and brought up in the family for the first five years. The hacendero paid but little attention to him, amusing himself at times with his sallies, but taking very slight interest in him, and regarding him rather as a servant than as a member of the family destined to acquire considerable importance.
Don Aurelio, when he narrated to his companions the facts which caused Doña Emilia's insanity and the events that followed, had been unable to tell more than everybody knew, and comment on these events from his own point of sight. But a secret was kept in the inner circle of the family which Don Aníbal was more careful not to permit to transpire, and which, consequently, Don Aurelio was ignorant of. The secret was this: Doña Emilia was not cured; her madness still endured; still this madness had become, so to speak, intermittent, and only made its appearance at settled intervals; but then her attacks acquired such strength that they became irresistible, and any constraint placed at such a moment on the patient's volition would infallibly have caused her death.
Don Aníbal, as we have said, adored his wife. Several times he tried to calm her; he even went so far as to try and prevent her leaving the hacienda. But then such frightful scenes occurred; Doña Emilia fell into such horrible convulsions at the mere thought of not acting as she liked, that Don Aníbal was obliged to restore her liberty. Doña Emilia when these attacks came upon her became a lioness; she had but one thought, one purpose, to rush in pursuit of the Indians, and pitilessly massacre them. Singular anomaly of the human heart, especially in a mild, kind, timid woman, whom the slightest pain caused to faint, and who, in ordinary times, could not endure the sight of blood. Doña Emilia, whom, by the physician's express orders, Don Aníbal had not dared deprive of her daughter, had brought up her child in a hatred of the redskins, and seizing on her young imagination with that ascendency which mothers possess, had succeeded, if not in completely making her share her ideas, at least in obtaining from her a passive and absolute obedience.
Melchior, brought up, so to speak, haphazard at the hacienda, had, through the instinct of protecting innate in man, attached himself to Doña Diana, whom he saw sad, sickly, and suffering. Doña Diana, for her part, felt pity for the poor orphan, and from this mutual sympathy sprang a friendship which years had only consolidated by rendering it warmer. Don Aníbal and Doña Emilia both saw with pleasure this affection spring up between the children, though from different motives. Don Aníbal, who would not for anything in the world have thwarted his wife's ideas, saw with delight this boy grow up who, at a given moment, might become her defender and safeguard in her mad expeditions against the Indians; while Doña Emilia, reasoning from an entirely different point of view, though she attained the same result, saw in him a devoted and most useful ally in these same expeditions.
The result of this tacit understanding between husband and wife was that the boy, at first abandoned to his instincts, was watched with greater care, brought up as he deserved to be, and at last gradually regarded as a member of the family. Let us hasten to add that Don Melchior was in every respect deserving of the kindness shown him. He was a thoughtful, earnest lad, with an honest heart and firm will, who could thoroughly appreciate all that was done for his future well-being.
When the boy became a man, he was taken naturally into Doña Emilia's intimacy, and associated in all her plans. Don Aníbal, delighted at this result, and trusting in the young man, whose good sentiments he had reason for believing he knew, felt relieved from a heavy burden; and when his wife, attacked by one of her fits, attempted one of her hazardous excursions, he saw her start with less terror, as he felt convinced that she had a devoted defender by her side. But a thing happened which neither husband nor wife had foreseen. The two young people, brought up side by side, living constantly together, accustomed to interchange their most secret thoughts and ideas, passed by an imperceptible incline, without either perceiving or suspecting it, from friendship to love. Love in these two young, ignorant hearts, which were pure from any wrong sentiment, must necessarily be deep, irresistible, and produce the effect of a thunderbolt.
This is what occurred: the two young people, instead of trying to resist the new feeling which was germinating in their hearts and growing so rapidly, yielded to it with that simple confidence which ignorance alone can give, and which converts love into a divine sentiment. Long before they had made a mutual avowal, they understood each other by a glance, and knew that they were henceforth attached to each other.
One day Doña Diana approached Melchior, who, with his shoulder leant against a sumach, was listlessly watching a flight of wild pigeons passing over his head. The young man was so absorbed in thought that he did not hear the maiden's light step, as her dainty feet made the sand of the walk she was following creak. It was only when her hand was laid on his shoulder that, recalled to earth from heaven, he started as if he had received an electric shock, turned suddenly, and fixed his eyes on Doña Diana. The young lady smiled.
"Were you dreaming?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I was dreaming, Niña."
She mechanically raised her eyes to the sky.
"Of those birds, doubtless? Did they bring you a hope or a regret?"
Melchior shook his head.
"Neither one nor the other," he said sorrowfully. "I have no regrets, and my sole hope is here."
The young lady looked down with a blush. There was a silence for some minutes, filled with ineffable melody for these young hearts; the lad was the first to speak.
"Alas!" he said, in a low and timid voice, "Regrets are hot made for me; what am I, save a lost child, whose colour is not even decided? Can I regret a family I do not know?"
"Yes, that is true," she answered, with a roguish smile; "but you have a hope."
"A mad hope, an insensate dream, which the reawakening of reason will utterly dispel," he said with feverish animation.
"You are deceived or wish to deceive me," she said, with some sternness in her voice; "that is not right, Melchior."
"Señorita—" he stammered.
The maiden walked softly up to him. "We were brought up together," she said to him in a gentle and penetrating voice, "we grew up together, ever equally sharing our joys and sorrows; is that true, Melchior?"
"It is," he murmured faintly.
"Why, then," she continued, "have you become so taciturn during the last few days? Why do you shun me? Why do you fly on my approach?"
"I?"
"You, brother, who ought to keep nothing hidden from me."
"Oh!"
"I repeat that you ought to keep nothing from me, for I am your oldest, perhaps your only friend."
"It is true, oh! It is true, Diana," he exclaimed, as he clasped his hands with passionate fervour, "you are my only friend."
"Why then keep a secret from me?"
"A secret!" he exclaimed, as he recoiled in horror.
"Yes, a secret; and I have discovered it, though you fancied you had locked it up in your heart."
The young man turned pale.
"Oh! Take care, Niña," he exclaimed, "this secret I dare not confess to myself."
"That is the very reason why I discovered it, Melchior," she answered, with an adorable expression.
"Oh! It is impossible, Diana; you cannot know—"
"That you love me!" she interrupted him with an outburst. "Why not, since I love you?"
And she gazed at him with the sublime confidence of a chaste and true love—that divine and fugitive beam which God, in his ineffable goodness, only allows to shine in innocent and candid hearts. The young lover tottered like a drunken man; for a moment he thought he must be dreaming, for so much happiness surpassed all that he had ever dared to hope.
"You love me, Diana!" he at length exclaimed.
"You love me! Oh! An eternity of suffering for this second of happiness!"
And he fell on his knees in front of the maiden. She looked at him for a moment with an expression of indescribable passion, and then offered him her hand, which he covered with burning kisses.
"Rise, Melchior," she said to him, with considerable emotion. "Rise, my beloved. Let this holy love which binds us, and which we have mutually confessed, remain a secret from everybody. A day will come, and soon, I hope, when we shall be permitted to proclaim it openly; but till then let us hide our happiness."
The young man rose.
"I love you, Diana," he said. "I am your slave; order me, and I will obey."
"Alas, my beloved," she continued, with a sad shake of her head, "I can give you no orders, entreaty alone is permitted me."
"Oh, speak, speak, Diana," he exclaimed.
The maiden passed her arm through his with a sanguine, childish confidence.
"Come," she said, "accompany me a few paces, and we will talk about my mother."
Melchior shook his head sorrowfully, but said nothing.
"Poor mother!" Diana murmured.
"Oh, yes, most unhappy," the young man remarked with a sigh.
"I think you love my mother, dearest?"
"Is it not to her that I am indebted for being what I am?"
"Listen to me, Melchior," she said resolutely; "we love each other, and some day you will be my husband, for I swear to you that I will never have another. As you see, I speak frankly and boldly, more so perhaps than a girl of my age and position ought to do; but you are an honourable man, and will never abuse the confession I have made you."
"Thanks," he said, simply. "Speak, Diana, speak. Your words are engraved in letters of fire on my heart."
"It is well, my friend. You, my mother, and my father occupy all my affections. It is a holy trinity, to which I will never break faith. You know in what a horrible position my mother finds herself, and what fearful hallucinations seize upon her."
"Alas!"
"Well! Swear to me that whatever may occur, you will never fail in the mission I have taken on myself, and of which I confide to you one half from this day; swear to me that, under all circumstances, you will remain by her side to defend her, and die for her if it must be so. At this price, I repeat to you, Melchior, at this price my love is yours for ever; and no other man but yourself shall ever be my husband."
The young man tried to interrupt her; but she imposed silence on him by a sudden and peremptory gesture, and continued—
"Oh! I know what a frightful sacrifice I impose on you, brother; but I, who am but a girl, still a child I may say, endure without complaining all the consequences of these ferocious acts of vengeance which I dare not qualify as madness. Alas, Melchior, the fearful disease to which my poor mother is condemned dates from the period of my birth. I am, so to speak, the innocent cause of it; hence it is my duty to sacrifice myself, whatever it may cost me, in order to try if possible to relieve her frightful sufferings, which, in the paroxysm of a horrible crisis, will perhaps entail my death and hers; for I do not conceal from myself, brother, that the day must arrive when the redskins will take their revenge for my mother's implacable expeditions. But then, if I succumb, I shall at least fall with the incomparable satisfaction of having done my duty by sacrificing myself for her to whom I owe my life."
"Dismiss such gloomy thoughts, Diana. Your mother is growing calmer with age. The expeditions, as you know, are more and more rare, the attacks less frequent, and soon, perhaps, we shall have the happiness of seeing them entirely disappear."
"I dare not flatter myself with that hope, my dear Melchior. No, no. Unless a miracle occurs, my mother will fall a victim to her monomania for vengeance on the redskins."
"My dear Diana, there are now two of us to devote ourselves to her. God is too just and good to desire the ruin of two innocent children who have never offended Him. You have my word, and my life belongs to you and to your mother; employ it as a thing that is your own. On the day when I lose it in serving you and saving you from sorrow, I shall be the happiest of men."
"Thanks, Melchior; I knew that I could reckon on you. Your generous words restore the courage which was fast deserting me. I will not break down in the task I have imposed on myself; henceforth we belong to one another, no matter what obstacles may arise."
From this day the compact was made between the young people—a sacred compact, which neither broke, and which was fated to have terrible consequences for them at a later date. But an invisible witness had overheard their conversation. This witness, whom they had not seen gliding like a snake through the shrubs, and listening to all their remarks with the greatest attention, was Pedro Sotavento, majordomo of the hacienda. What interest had this man in thus overhearing their conversation? He alone knew; for beneath an affable and inoffensive appearance, he concealed a deeply ulcerated heart, and evidently followed a plan resolved on long before, the realization of which would burst like a thunderclap upon those whose ruin he had so long meditated.
Sotavento kept to himself his knowledge of the love of the young people, which he had so treacherously surprised. He never ventured, in their presence, on the slightest allusion which might lead them to suspect that he was aware of it. On the contrary, he increased his politeness towards Melchior, and seemed trying, by overtures adroitly made each time an opportunity offered, to gain his confidence. This, however, let us hasten to add, he never succeeded in doing; for the young man felt for the worthy steward an instinctive and invincible aversion, which stopped in his throat a confession he was several times on the point of making to him.