Chapter Twenty Eight.
A Disobedient Daughter.
I shall not attempt to describe the blackness in my breast as I sallied forth from the President’s palace—Don Eusebio by my side.
Directed by the general, he had placed his affair in my hands, and himself at my disposal.
The announcement of his name had caused me an acute pain—the agony of a reopened wound.
And the pain came not from the story I had heard. It was not the thought that Dolores—for it was no more Mercedes—that Dolores Villa-Señor was in the keeping of brutal brigands! It had pained me as much—perhaps more—to think of her in the keeping of Francisco Moreno!
Truth compels me to the sad, disgraceful confession: that I listened to the tale with a sort of satisfaction! Jealousy was still alive—anger not dead—within my heart!
Though remembered with reluctance, too keenly did I feel the slight that had been put upon me.
The ungentle thought did not for long control me. Soon was it succeeded by one purer and holier—sprung from such chivalry as I possessed. A weak woman in the power of wild, wanton men—two of them, for that matter; though I thought but of one—borne off by brigands to some hideous haunt—some scene of lascivious revel!
They were horrid fancies that came crowding upon me. They drove jealousy out of my heart, and along with it my senseless anger.
These gone, I became inspired by a slight, scarcely definable, pleasure—like the distant re-dawning of a hope that has been for a time extinguished.
What if I should be the means of rescuing Dolores Villa-Señor from the hands of her worse than savage captors—of saving her from a life-long shame?
Might not the gratitude, called forth by such a deed, become changed to that other feeling, I had once fondly fancied to have been entertained in my favour?
I could have risked everything—life itself—to bring about such a revolution!
After all, had I not been too precipitate in my conclusions? Was it certain she had surrendered her heart—her whole heart—to Francisco Moreno?
The episode in the Alameda—of which I had been a spectator—might it not have been but a bit of flirtation, deftly practised by Spanish dames, and oft without serious intent, or termination?
Or might it have been only a chapter of coquetry—myself the object aimed at?
Consoling thoughts—well calculated to stir me to energetic action! Don Eusebio might have been surprised at my ardent espousal of his cause!
He was at least affected by it. Entirely unsuspicious of my motive for questioning him, he not only gave me an unreserved account of the robbery upon the road, but made me the confidant of more than one family secret.
One gave me something more than a surprise. It caused the renewal of my chagrin.
“In your interview with the general,” I said, “you spoke of some important matter that was bringing you to the capital. May I be told it? Excuse me for asking: but in the performance of my duty it may be necessary for me to know what was the object of your journey.”
“Say no more, señor capitan,” he rejoined, interrupting me; “you have taken such a friendly interest in my misfortunes—far beyond what your duty requires—that I have no hesitation in telling you all. Indeed, it is essential I should do so. Hear me, then.”
Without repeating Don Eusebio’s words—with all the circumlocution rendered appropriate by paternal affection, and the sorrow from which he suffered—I learnt from him what might have caused me greater surprise, but for the chance conversation to which I had listened in the Alameda.
The Poblano had spoken the truth to his friend from Yucatan.
Not only had Don Eusebio threatened to immure his daughter in a nunnery; but was actually on his way to carry the threat into execution, when stopped by the salteadores!
Although accompanied by both his daughters, but one of them was to be consigned to her living tomb—the aristocratic convent of La Conception, in the city of Mexico—the abode of some of Mexico’s fairest muchachas.
“Which of your daughters?” I asked with such eager empressement as to startle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation.
“Oh!” I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, “I understood you to say you had two daughters. Of course one is older than the other—that is, if they be not twins?”
“No señor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was she who intended to devote herself to the service of God. Por dios!” he continued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, “Both must do so now. There is no other future for them—pobres niñas!”
I understood the significance of the sad speech, and remained silent.
After a pause, he proceeded, “It was Dolores, my eldest girl, who intended to take the veil.”
“Was it of her own free will?” I asked.
I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at the moment were not less powerful—not less painful—than his.
“Pardon me,” I continued, “for making so free with your family affairs; which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mere inadvertence—quite unintentional—I assure you.”
“O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all—you who have so nobly espoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life for the safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught that appertains to their welfare?”
“It is true,” he continued, after a short interval of silence, “true, that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myself was inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, señor; and I am sure, that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It was for her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory of God—which last should be the chief end and act of every true Christian.”
The solemn speech awed me into silence. I made no reply, but stood awaiting the revelation.
“Only of late,” continued Don Eusebio, “in fact within the last few days, was I made acquainted with a circumstance, that caused me both anger and alarm. I learnt that some intimate relations had become established between my elder daughter, Dolores, and a young man in no way worthy of forming an alliance with our family. Know, sir, that the name Villa-Señor is one. But why dwell upon that? I could not look upon my child, and think of her disgrace. For that reason I determined that she should pass the rest of her days in expiating the crime she had committed.”
“Crime! What crime?”
It would be difficult to describe the sensation I felt while putting this question, or the agony with which I awaited the answer.
“That of consenting to unite herself—for it had come to giving her consent—to one of low birth; of listening to vows of love from the lips of a peasant—a lepero!”
“Was he this?”
“Si, señor; was, and is. Through the state of anarchy and revolution from which this unfortunate country has long suffered, like many others of his class, he has risen to the paltry distinction of being an officer in our army—a captain, I believe. Among you, I am aware, the title is one of distinction—not so easily earned, and substantial when obtained. In the army of our so-called Republic, a swineherd to-day may be a captain to-morrow; and the captain of to-morrow a salteador the day following!”
“Of course you know the name of this captain—whom you deem so unworthy of your daughter?”
The question was put mechanically, and without care for the answer. I knew that the name would be “Francisco Moreno.”
It was.