MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
We will now resume our story again at the point where we broke off. Don Melchior, after his short appearance in the saloon, hastily proceeded to a retired suite of rooms in the right wing of the hacienda. We will precede him and go in a few minutes before him.
This suite only consisted of two rooms, furnished with that severe luxury which the Spaniards so well understand, and which is appropriate to their grave and melancholy character. The first room, serving as withdrawing room, was hung with stamped Cordovan leather. Oak chairs, which had grown black with time, and were also covered with leather, were drawn up against the walls. In the centre of the room was a table, over which a green cloth was thrown. A crucifix of yellow ivory, three feet high, before which stood a curiously carved oak prie-dieu, faced one of those enormous Louis XIII. clocks, whose case could easily have contained a man, and, in a corner, was a species of oratory, surmounted by a white marble statue of the Virgin of Suffering, whose brow was girt with a crown of white roses, while before it burned a silver lamp, shaped like a censer, and suspended from the ceiling by a chain.
In this room, which looked more like an oratory than a drawing room, and which opened on a bedroom, the furniture of which was extremely plain, two ladies were seated near a window, and conversing in a low voice, at the moment when the exigencies of our narrative compel us to join them. Of these two, one had passed the age of thirty—that critical period for Spanish women; but although her face was pale as marble, and her features were worn with sorrow, it was easy to perceive that she must have been very lovely once. The person who kept her company was a light-haired, graceful, pale, and delicate girl. She was endowed with the ideal and dreamy beauty which renders painters desperate and which German poets have alone been able to describe. In her calm, pensive features were found again the dreamy, restless, and chaste physiognomy of Goethe's Marguerite, and the intoxicating and impassioned smile of Schiller's pale creations.
These two ladies were mother and daughter. Doña Emilia de Saldibar and Doña Diana. Their dress, through its severe simplicity, harmonized perfectly with the expression of sorrow and melancholy spread over their whole persons. They wore long gowns of black velvet, without embroidery or ornaments, fastened round the waist by girdles of the same colour. A rebozo of black lace covered their neck and chest, and could, if necessary, be thrown over their heads, and hide their faces. They were conversing in a low voice, looking out now and then absently into the courtyard, in which were assembled the numerous peons of the hacenderos who had responded to Don Aníbal's summons.
"No," Doña Emilia said, "no, my child, it is better to remain silent, for this information is anything but positive."
"Still, mother," the young lady answered, "the man seemed thoroughly acquainted with the whole story; and it appears to me, on the contrary—"
"You are wrong, Diana," her mother interrupted, with some sternness in her voice. "I know better than you what should be done under the circumstances. Be careful, Niña. You take the affair too much to heart, and let yourself be carried away."
The girl blushed, and bit her lips.
"You know how I love you, my child," Doña Emilia continued directly; "so do not try to thwart what I do, as you are well aware I have but one object, your happiness, so let me act as I think proper."
"My dear mother!" the young lady said affectionately.
"Yes," Doña Emilia replied with a cold smile, "I am your dear mother when I yield to your importunities."
"Oh, do not say that, mother! You know what deep love I have for you."
"Yes I know it, and I know too that I do not alone occupy your heart."
Doña Diana turned her head away to hide the blush that suffused her face at this remark; but her mother did not notice this emotion, and continued, as if speaking to herself, instead of addressing her daughter—
"But why should I complain? Ought it not always to be so? Woman is born to love, as the bird is to fly in the air. Love, my poor, dear child; for love constitutes a woman's entire life, for it enables her to learn joy and sorrow."
Her voice gradually grew weaker, and these words were spoken indistinctly. There was a rather long silence, which the girl did not venture to disturb by an indiscreet question. Respecting the sorrowful reverie into which her mother had fallen, her eyes were fixed more attentively on the courtyard. All at once she started.
"Ah!" she said, at once glad and troubled, "Here is Don Melchior."
"What did you say, Niña?" her mother asked, raising her head eagerly. "I think you mentioned the name of Don Melchior?"
"Yes, I did, mother," she answered timidly.
"Well, what did you say about him?"
"Nothing, mother, except that I just saw him in the yard, and I think he is coming here."
"He will be welcome, for I am anxiously expecting him. So soon as he comes in, Niña, you will be good enough to retire to your bedroom, and not come back till I call you. I have important matters to discuss with this young man, which it is unnecessary for you to hear."
"You shall be obeyed, mother," the young lady said as she rose. "I hear his footstep in the corridor, so I will withdraw, for he will be here directly."
"Go, my child; I shall soon recall you."
The girl bent over her mother, whose forehead she kissed, and ran away, light as a bird, at the moment when two raps on the door announced a visitor. Doña Emilia waited till the door of her daughter's bedroom was closed, and then cried, "Come in!" The door swung back slowly on its hinges, and Melchior appeared. So soon as the young man entered the room he doffed his hat, and walked respectfully toward Doña Emilia, who, without leaving her seat by the window, half turned and made him a sign to approach.
"You did me the honour of sending for me, madam," he said, as he stopped three or four yards from Doña Emilia.
"Yes, caballero," she replied. "You know that I have been absent from the hacienda for several days, and only returned a few hours ago; consequently I am ignorant of all that is going on, and thought you could give me the information I desire."
"You know, madam, that I am completely at your service for anything you may please to order."
"I doubt neither your courtesy nor your devotion, Don Melchior, and I think I have given you sufficient proof of that."
"Madam," the young man answered warmly, "your kindness to me has known no bounds. I feel for you the veneration I should have for a mother, for you have acted as such to me."
"I did what my religion commanded for an abandoned orphan. But enough on this head: tell me what there is new at the hacienda."
"When you left the house without warning me, contrary to your habit, madam, to get ready to accompany you, I was at first very sad, for I was afraid that I had displeased you; then, on reflection, and after seeking in my mind what the motive could be that urged you to exile me from your presence, I supposed that I should be more useful to you here than if I followed you."
"Quite right," she answered, with a smile. "Go on; but first sit down here by my side," she added, affectionately.
The young man bowed respectfully, and took the chair pointed out to him.
"I need not tell you, madam," he continued, "what is the motive of this day's meeting, or who the persons present are."
"No, pass over that."
"But among these persons there is one whose presence you are assuredly far from suspecting."
"Who is it?"
"Father Sandoval."
"Father Sandoval!" she exclaimed, with a start. "Impossible! He is a prisoner of the Spaniards."
"It is he, madam."
"That is strange. How is it that I have not been informed of his presence?"
"He arrived at the hacienda with Don Aurelio Gutiérrez."
"But I was close to Don Aurelio: he only had with him Yankee or Canadian wood rangers and two Mexican peons."
"Well, madam, one of those peons was no other than Father Sandoval. The reverend father thought it wise to assume this disguise in order, probably, more easily to escape the Spanish spies."
"Yes, that must have been the reason; prudence commanded him to act so. Go on."
"Father Sandoval has made himself known to all our adherents, and has been unanimously elected their chief."
"In truth, he alone possesses sufficient influence over the haughty hacenderos to command them. And what measures have been adopted?"
"Pardon me, madam, but I must tell you of another person whose presence was neither expected nor desired, and who arrived suddenly."
"The Count de Melgosa, I suppose. I was aware that he was coming. He was doubtless the bearer of some tremendous message. Has he gone again?"
"Not yet, madam; he will not leave the hacienda till sunrise tomorrow, accompanied by Colonel Don Oliver Clary, one of the Canadian adventurers brought by Don Aurelio, whom Father Sandoval has entrusted with his answer to the governor's manifesto."
"Very good, we have time before us; we will set out tonight. You will accompany us, Melchior; so be careful that everything is prepared for midnight, and our departure kept secret."
"You shall be obeyed, madam."
"And the majordomo?"
This question was asked in a tone which showed what importance Doña Emilia attached to it.
"Still impenetrable, madam," he answered; "ever full of zeal and devotion. His conduct does not offer the slightest pretext to suspect him of treachery."
"Strange," she murmured; "still it is evident to me that this man is a traitor, and playing a double part. How can I unmask him? Oh, a proof, a proof, however slight it be. Still it cannot always be so; heaven will not permit it. Patience, patience! I thank you, Don Melchior, for the zeal you have displayed; continue to be faithful. Now you can withdraw."
The young man rose.
"Madam," he ventured, timidly, "will you allow me to ask you one question."
"Speak."
"I have not had the happiness," he continued, with hesitation, "to see Doña Diana since her return. I trust that the fatigue she must have felt has not made her ill, and that her precious health is still good."
Doña Emilia frowned, and a cloud of dissatisfaction spread over her face; but at once recovering herself, she replied, gently—
"Doña Diana is well, Melchior."
"Oh, all the better, madam," he said, with an outburst of passionate joy which he could not repress.
Then, bowing deeply to Doña Emilia, he fell back to leave the room.
"Poor boy!" Doña Emilia murmured, as she looked after him.
At the moment when he reached the door, she called him back.
"I forgot," she said; "be kind enough to tell Father Sandoval that, if his occupations permit, I should like to speak with him for a few moments after oración this evening."
"I will tell him, madam. Have you any further commands for me?"
"No, you can go."
The young man bowed for the last time, and went out. Doña Emilia was hardly alone ere her daughter rushed from her bedroom, and ran up to her.
"Well," she said, "what is the meaning of this, Niña? Why have you come without being called?"
"Oh, mother," she answered, as she threw herself into her arms, "forgive me, but I was suffering too greatly."
Doña Emilia recoiled, and looked her daughter in the face.
"What is the meaning of these words, señorita!" she said to her, sternly. "To what are you alluding?"
The girl, ashamed of the confession she had allowed to escape her, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears.
"Diana, Diana!" her mother said, with ineffable sadness, as she drew her daughter gently to her heart, "You are preparing great suffering both for yourself and me."
"Mother!" she murmured, with a sob.
"Silence, Niña!" Doña Emilia quickly interrupted, "Do not add a word which might, perhaps, cause, irreparable misfortunes. I know nothing, and wish to know nothing. Dry those tears which burn my heart, and take your place again by my side."
"Yes, mother," she answered, in a voice choked by sobs and trying to obey.
"Diana!" Doña Emilia continued presently, in a firm voice, "Remember that we have a mission of vengeance to accomplish against the Indians, and that they are the cause of the terrible misfortunes which have overwhelmed us."
These words were uttered in a tone which admitted of no reply. The maiden shuddered and hung her head sadly with no strength to answer. Her mother regarded her for a moment with an expression of pity, love, and grief impossible to describe, and pointed to the statue of the Virgin placed in a corner of the room.
"Pray to her who has drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of sorrow; she will have pity on you and give you the necessary courage to endure the grief which overwhelms you."
The maiden rose slowly; she went to the chapel, and kneeling down piously before the statue, to which she raised her tear-laden eyes, she prayed fervently; then, at a sign from her mother, she withdrew to her bedroom. In the evening, Doña Emilia had a conversation with Father Sandoval, which was carried on far into the night. This conversation, doubtless, very important, but which we will not describe here, left a sweet and consoling impression on the mind of Doña Emilia, for her features grew calmer, and, before retiring to rest, she gave her daughter's pale forehead a kiss full of maternal tenderness, as she murmured in a low voice—
"Hope!"
The girl started in her sleep, and a faint smile played round her rosy lips.