Chapter Thirteen.
A Pleasant Misconception.
There was one of these frequenters of the saloon in whom I felt a peculiar interest. Our acquaintance did not commence at the monté table. I first saw him in the Calle del Obispo, and, on the same night, in the Callecito de los Pajaros. His name was Francisco Moreno: the man who had crossed me in love and saved my life!
I had ample opportunity of studying his character, without referring to either incident of that night. I had the advantage of him: for, although I remembered him well, and with strange emotions, he had no recollection of me!
I had reasons for keeping my incognito.
Though we had become otherwise acquainted—and were upon such terms of comity, as two strangers who meet over a gaming table—I could learn very little about him—beyond the fact that he was, or had been, an officer in the Mexican army. My own observation told me as much as this. His bearing, with an occasional speech that escaped him, proclaimed the military man: for in this, as in other callings, there is a freemasonry: and the rajpoot of one land will easily recognise his caste in another.
He was one of the Mexican officers on parole; but we had reason to believe that there were many others among us—during our long interval of inaction—who had no business to be there. We were not very particular about spies; and, in truth, they might have come and gone—and they did come and go—with as much freedom as if no guard had been kept. Successes unexpected—almost astounding—a series of them—had taught us to despise even the secret machinations of our enemy. His scouts might have entered our camp, partaken of hospitality in our tents—even in the marquee of the commander-in-chief—and departed again with as much facility as a man might obtain an interview with his hatter or tailor!
No one thought of suspecting Francisco Moreno. No one gave heed to him, any more than to remark what a fine, noble-looking young fellow he was.
I alone made a particular study of him. I knew that he was more than noble-looking—that he was noble.
It maddened me to think he was the first; though I could scarce he grieved at his being the last. Had it not been so, I should not have lived to take note of it. I had strange fancies—sometimes not very creditable ones—about captain Moreno.
It was plain that he was poor; though not one of those who had converted the military tunic into a civilian’s coat. His dress, if threadbare, would pass muster as a correct costume. Nor did he put down pesetas upon the tapis vert. His stake was usually a peso—sometimes two—but never rising to the onza. The dollar lost, he would retire from the table. Winning, he would remain.
One night I observed a reversion of the rule. His stakes were being doubled at each draw of the cards; and yet he rose from his seat, and hastily took his departure from the place!
Many wondered at this. A man must be mad to leave such luck? It was like flinging the favours of Fortune back into her face.
I had a clearer comprehension of what had caused his defection from the gaming circle. I divined, that he was going to worship the goddess elsewhere, and under another title.
I had heard the cathedral clock strike ten—the hour when I had first seen him in the Calle del Obispo. It suggested the conjecture that he was going thither.
Had my own luck at the game been ten times greater than it was—and I was winning—I could not have stayed to take advantage of it.
I clutched at my stake, as soon as it was covered by the coin of the croupier; and, starting up from the table, followed Francisco Moreno from the saloon.
Whether my abrupt departure created as much surprise, as that of the Mexican, I never knew.
It may have done; but at that moment I was absolutely indifferent, either to the thing itself, or the conjectures that might arise respecting it.
I had but one thought in my mind; and that was to witness a second of those interviews—the first of which had lacerated my heart to its core!
I felt as the bird may feel, fluttering into the jaws of the envenomed reptile; as the moth that goes voluntarily to have its wings scorched by the candle!
There was a fascination in the thought of thus rushing upon ruin! Perhaps it was the knowledge, that my heart could not be reduced to a greater desolation than it already knew.
For the first time in four weeks I entered the Calle del Obispo.
Francisco was before me. I had correctly divined his intent. He had forsaken the smiles of Fortune to bask in those of Mercedes!
We took different sides of the street; he going silently along the façade of the Casa Villa-Señor; I skulking, thief-like, under the portal of the opposite house.
We were not kept waiting for as much as an instant. Scarce had we taken our respective stands, when the blind was drawn back, and a woman appeared in the window. Of course it was Mercedes.
“You are late, Francisco!” said she, in an undertone, and with the slightest accent of reproach. “The cathedral has tolled ten minutes ago! It is very cruel. You know how I am watched, and that every moment is so precious!”
Francisco stammered out some excuse, which appeared to satisfy her. I could see she was not exacting—by the easy grace with which she forgave him. Even this increased my anguish.
“Do you know, dearest, papa is more suspicious than ever! Even now I am afraid he will be coming this way. He has not yet retired to his bed; and never does till both sister and I have gone to ours.”
“Why don’t you give him a sleeping draught? Put poppy-seed in his chocolate. Do that, niña, and we might have a better chance of a little conversation at this hour. I never see you now, or only for a moment. It’s very tiresome to be kept apart in this fashion. I hope it is the same to you?”
“Do you doubt it? You do not? But what help for it? He is so much against you. I think some one has been telling him something bad about you. When we go to matins he always sends Tia Josefa along with us, and I’m sure she has instructions to watch us. I know it’s only me. He’s not half so careful about sister. He allows her to drive out alone—to the Alameda—anywhere. If I go, I must be accompanied by Tia Josefa.”
“The deuce take Tia Josefa!”
“And do you know, Francisco, there’s something worse yet? I’ve only heard it this very day. Josefa told it me. I believe papa put it in her head to tell me. If I don’t consent to marry him—you know whom I mean—I’m to be shut up in a convent! Only think of it! Imprisoned for life in a dark cloister, or marry a man I can’t love—old enough to be my uncle! Ay Dios! What am I to do about it?”
“Neither one nor the other of those two things—if I can hinder it. Don’t be uneasy, love! I’ll find some way to save you from such a fate—which would be equally ruinous to myself. Your father can have nothing against me, except that I’m poor. Who knows but that I may become rich during this war. I have hopes of promotion, and—listen dearest!”
Here the voice of Francisco sank into a whisper, as if the communication he was making required peculiar secrecy.
The words were not audible across the street; neither were those murmured in response. I only heard some phrases that fell from the lady’s lips as she turned to go inside.
“Adios querido! Hasta la mañana!”
Far sweeter to my ear were some words spoken by Francisco himself.
“Stay! A moment, dear Dolores! one moment—”
I did not hear the conclusion of his passionate appeal, nor the reply—if there was one.
Dolores might have stayed in the balcon, and chatted with her dear Francis for an hour by the cathedral clock, without giving me the slightest chagrin. I was too happy to listen to another word of their conversation.
Mercedes—my Mercedes—was not she who had dropped that little note, and said to him who received it, “Va con Dios!”
There was still a hope that her heart was free; that no “querido Francisco” had yet taken possession of it!
“God grant but that,” was my mental prayer, as I turned to take my departure, “and Mercedes may yet be mine!”