Chapter Seventeen.
At Matins.
It was the first time I had made my devotions in a Roman Catholic Cathedral; and I shall not say that I then worshipped as I should have done.
Santa Gaudalupe—beautiful as the sensuous Mexican priesthood have had the cunning to conceive her—glorious as she appeared in her golden shrine—was scarce regarded by me.
More attractive were the black lace shawl and high comb of Mercedes Villa-Señor—not for themselves, but for the lovely countenance I knew to be underneath them.
I watched them with eyes that wandered not. In my heart I anathematised them as the most detestable screens ever interposed between a lover’s eye and its idol.
While engaged in her devotions a Mexican señorita assumes three distinct attitudes. She stands, she kneels, she squats. I regret my inability to express in more elegant phrase, that peculiar species of genuflexion, which may be described as the dropping down from the kneeling attitude to one a degree lower. It is a feat of feminine gymnastics that has long mystified me; and I am not anatomist enough either to comprehend or explain it.
Mercedes Villa-Señor appeared perfect in every posé. Even her squatting was graceful!
I watched her changing attitudes as the ceremony proceeded—the chant, the prayer, the lesson. During all these she never once looked round. I thought she must be a saint—a thought scarce in keeping with the conjectures I had hitherto shaped concerning her.
It gave me but slight pleasure to think she was so holy. I should have preferred finding her human—that angel of angels!
Dolores appeared less devout. At all events, she was less attentive to her prayers. Twenty times I perceived her eyes averted from the altar—turned toward the doorway—peering into shadowy aisles—looking everywhere but upon the officiating priest.
His shaven crown had no attraction for her. She searched for the shining curls of “querido Francisco!”
He was not in the Cathedral—at least, I could not see him. I had my own thoughts about the cause of his absence.
Less accustomed to “sparkling wine,” he had not borne its effects like the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so readily recovered from it.
Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!
I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.
The time passed—chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried about.
Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd—idolatrous.
In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the position that could make his paltry performance so attractive—to eyes like those then looking upon him.
Thank heaven they are mine at last—at last!
Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.
I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar. The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated within those sacred walls—far different from that inscribed upon the tablet: “God is love.” My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I shall not say that it was what it should have been—a love, such as we read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can lay claim to belong to no other class than that of the simple adventurer; who, with tongue, pen, or sword—as the chances turned up—has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!
In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the passion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Señor. It was too romantic to be mean.
In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more,—at least nothing to gratify me.
But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once more seemed to welcome me!
There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of the chalé. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.
Again our glances met—mine given with all the ardour of a love long restrained.
Once more they met in sweet exchanging—once more, and once more. I had won Mercedes from her worship!
No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt, I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.