Chapter Sixty Three.
Within the Grotto.
Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish, keen as human heart could feel. They have passed through its first throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him dearest to them as dead.
Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come—enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft.
Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.
But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one another. What is to be their own fate?
Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.
She again returns to it, saying:
“Iñez, I’m now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have been too true!”
“Heaven help us, if it be so!”
“Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some mercy; but none from them. Ay de mi! what will become of us?”
The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No—not one! Even the English sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance, chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned them. Has God?
“Let us pray to Him!” says Carmen.
“Yes,” answers Iñez; “He only can help us now.”
They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself. They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through fear.
Solemnly pronouncing “Amen!” they make the sign of the cross; in darkness, God alone seeing it.
As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a kneeling attitude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.
They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as entering one says:
“Señoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call; which present circumstances render imperative. It’s to be hoped, however, you won’t stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we had the honour of last paying our respects to you.”
After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply—since none is vouchsafed—he continues; “Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice. With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that’s not strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to assist it!”
Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger. Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo sees—too surely recognising it—the face of Francisco de Lara; while in her vis-à-vis, Iñez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!
Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume—the same worn by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the dust of the Dolores road.
Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in strains of exultation he continues:
“So, ladies! you see we’ve come together again! No doubt you’re a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed.”
There is no reply to this taunting speech.
“Well, if you won’t answer, I shall take it for granted you are annoyed; besides looking a little alarmed too. You’ve no need to be that.”
“No, indeed,” endorses Calderon. “We mean you no harm—none whatever.”
“On the contrary,” goes on De Lara, “only good. We’ve nothing but favours to offer you.”
“Don Francisco de Lara!” exclaims Carmen, at length breaking silence, and speaking in a tone of piteous expostulation; “and you, Don Faustino Calderon, why have you committed this crime? What injury have we ever done you?”
“Come! not so fast, fair Carmen! Crime’s a harsh word, and we’ve not committed any as yet—nothing to speak of.”
“No crime! Santissima! My father—my poor father!”
“Don’t be uneasy about him. He’s safe enough.”
“Safe! Dead! Drowned! Dios de mi alma!”
“No, no. That’s all nonsense,” protests the fiend, adding falsehood to his sin of deeper dye. “Don Gregorio is not where you say. Instead of being at the sea’s bottom, he is sailing upon its surface; and is likely to be, for Heaven knows how long. But let’s drop that subject of the past, which seems unpleasant to you, and talk of the present—of ourselves. You ask what injury you’ve ever done us? Faustino Calderon may answer for himself to the fair Iñez. To you, Doña Carmen, I shall make reply—But we may as well confer privately.”
At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her aside; Calderon conducting Iñez in the opposite direction.
When the whole length of the cavern is between the two pairs, De Lara resumes speech:
“Yes, Doña Carmen; you have done me an injury—a double wrong I may call it.”
“How, sir?” she asks, withdrawing her hand from his, with a disdainful gesture. “How?” he retorts. “Why, in making me love you—by leading me to believe my love returned.”
“You speak falsely; I never did so.”
“You did, Doña Carmen; you did. It is you who speak false, denying it. That is the first wrong I have to reproach you with. The second is in casting me off, as soon as you supposed you’d done with me. Not so, as you see now. We’re together again—never more to part till I’ve had satisfaction for all. I once hinted—I now tell you plainly, you’ve made a mistake in trifling with Francisco de Lara.”
“I never trifled with you, señor. Dios mio! What means this? Man—if you be a man—have mercy! Oh! what would you—what would you?”
“Nothing to call for such distracted behaviour on your part. On the contrary, I’ve brought you here—for I’ll not deny that it’s I who have done it—to grant you favours, instead of asking them. Ay, or even satisfying resentments. What I intend towards you, I hope you will appreciate. To shorten explanations—for which we’ve neither opportunity nor time—I want you for my wife—want you, and will have you.”
“Your wife!”
“Yes; my wife. You needn’t look surprised, nor counterfeit feeling it. And equally idle for you to make opposition. I’ve determined upon it. So, you must many me.”
“Marry the murderer of my father! Sooner than do that, you shall also be mine. Wretch! I am in your power. You can kill me now.”
“I know all that, without your telling me. But I don’t intend killing you. On the contrary, I shall take care to keep you alive, until I’ve tried what sort of a wife you’ll make. Should you prove a good one, and fairly affectionate, we two may lead a happy life together, notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that’s been between us. If not, and our wedded bondage prove uncongenial, why, then, I may release you in the way you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the honeymoon, you shall have your choice. Now Doña Carmen! those are my conditions. I hope you find them fair enough!”
She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly with indignation, partly from the knowledge that all speech would be idle. But while angry to the utmost, she is also afraid—trembling at the alternative presented—death or dishonour; the last if she marry the murderer of her father; the first if she refuse him!
The ruffian repeats his proposal, in the same cynical strain, concluding it with a threat.
She is at length stung to reply; which she does in but two words, twice repeated in wild despairing accent. They are:
“Kill me—kill me!”
Almost at the same time, and in similar strain does Iñez answer her cowardly suitor, who in a corner of the grotto has alike brought her to bay.
After the dual response, there is a short interval of silence. Then De Lara, speaking for both, says:
“Señoritas! we shall leave you now; and you can go to sleep without fear of further solicitation. No doubt, after a night’s rest, you’ll awake to a more sensible view of matters in general, and the case as it stands. Of one thing be assured; that there’s no chance of your escaping from your present captivity, unless by consenting to change your names. And if you don’t consent, they’ll be changed all the same. Yes, Carmen Montijo! before another week passes over your head, you shall be addressed as Doña Carmen de Lara.
“And you, Iñez Alvarez, will be called Doña Iñez Calderon. No need for you to feel dishonoured by a name among the first in California. Noble as your own; ay, or any in old Spain.”
“Hasta mañana, muchacas!” salutes De Lara, preparing to take leave. “Pasan Vs buena noche!”
Calderon repeating the same formulary, the two step towards the entrance, lift up the piece of suspended sailcloth, and pass out into night. They have taken the lantern along with them, again leaving the grotto in darkness.
The girls grope their way, till their arms come in contact. Then, closing in mutual embrace, they sink together upon the cold flinty floor!