Don Esteban’s Daughter.
Ten days after our flight from San Felipe we were on the banks of the Apure. We received a warm welcome from Carmen’s friend, Señor Morillones, a Spanish creole of the antique type, grave, courtly, and dignified, the owner of many square miles of fertile land and hundreds of slaves, and as rich in flocks and herds as Job in the heyday of his prosperity. He had a large house, fine gardens, and troops of servants. A grand seigneur in every sense of the word was Señor Don Esteban Morillones. His assurance that he placed himself and his house and all that was his at our disposal was no mere phrase. When he heard of our contemplated journey, he offered us mules, arms, and whatever else we required and he possessed, and any mention of payment on our part would, as Carmen said, and I could well see, have given our generous host dire offense.
We found, moreover, that we could easily engage as many men as we wanted, on condition of letting them be our co-adventurers and share in the finds which they were sure we should make; for nobody believed that we would undertake so long and arduous a journey with any other purpose than the seeking of treasure. Our business being thus satisfactorily arranged, we might have started at once, but, for some reason or other—probably because he found our quarters so pleasant—Carmen held back. Whenever I pressed the point he would say: “Why so much haste, my dear fellow? Let us stay here awhile longer,” and it was not until I threatened to go without him that he consented to “name the day.”
Now Don Esteban had a daughter, by name Juanita, a beautiful girl of seventeen, as fresh as a rose, and as graceful as a gazelle, a girl with whom any man might be excused for falling in love, and she showed me so much favor, and, as it seemed, took so much pleasure in my company, that only considerations of prudence and a sense of what was due to my host, and the laws of hospitality, prevented me from yielding myself a willing captive to her charms. But as the time fixed for our departure drew near, this policy of renunciation grew increasingly difficult. Juanita was too unsophisticated to hide her feelings, and I judged from her ways that, without in the least intending it, I had won her heart. She became silent and preoccupied. When I spoke of our expedition the tears would spring to her eyes, and she would question me about its dangers, say how greatly she feared we might never meet again, and how lonely she should feel when we were gone.
All this, however flattering to my amour propre, was both embarrassing and distressing, and I began seriously to doubt whether it was not my duty, the laws of hospitality to the contrary notwithstanding, to take pity on Juanita, and avow the affection which was first ripening into love. She would be my advocate with Don Esteban, and seeing how much he had his daughter’s happiness at heart, there could be little question that he would pardon my presumption and sanction our betrothal.
Nevertheless, the preparations for our expedition went on, and the time for our departure was drawing near, when one evening, as I returned from a ride, I found Juanita alone on the veranda, gazing at the stars, and looking more than usually pensive and depressed.
“So you are still resolved to go, Señor Fortescue?” she said, with a sigh.
“I must. One of my principal reasons for coming to South America is to make an expedition to the Andes, and I want much to travel in parts hitherto unexplored. And who knows? We may make great discoveries.”
“But you might stay with us a little longer.”
“I fear we have trespassed too long on your hospitality already.”
“Our hospitality is not so easily exhausted. But, O señor, you have already stayed too long for my happiness.”
“Too long, for your happiness, señorita! If I thought—would you really like me to stay longer, to postpone this expedition indefinitely, or abandon it altogether?”
“Oh, so much, señor, so much. The mere suggestion makes me almost happy again.”
“And if I make your wish my law, and say that it is abandoned, how then?”
“You will make me happier than I can tell you, and your debtor for life.”
“And why would it make you so happy, dear Juanita?” I asked, tenderly, at the same time looking into her beautiful eyes and taking her unresisting hand.
“Why! Oh, don’t you know? Have you not guessed?”
“I think I have; all the same, I should like the avowal from your own lips, dear Juanita.”
“Because—because if you stay, dear,” she murmured, lowering her eyes, and blushing deeply, “if you stay, dear Salvador will stay too.”
“Dear Salvador! Dear Salvador! How—why—when? I—I beg your pardon, señorita. I had no idea,” I stammered, utterly confounded by this surprising revelation of her secret and my own stupidity.
“I thought you knew—that you had guessed.”
“I mean I had no idea that it had gone so far,” I said, recovering my self-possession with a great effort. “So you and Carmen are betrothed.”
“We love. But if he goes on this dreadful expedition I am sure my father would not consent, and Salvador says that as he has promised to take part in it he cannot go back on his word. And I said I would ask you to give it up—Salvador did not like—he said it would be such a great disappointment; and I am so glad you have consented.”
“I beg your pardon, señorita, I have not consented.”
“But you said only a minute ago that you would do as I desired, and that my will should be your law.”
“Nay, señorita, I put it merely as a supposition, I said if I did make your wish my law, how then? Less than ever can I renounce this expedition.”
“Then you were only mocking me! Cruel, cruel!”
“Less than ever can I renounce this expedition. But I will do what will perhaps please you as well. I will release Carmen from his promise. He has found his fortune; let him stay. I have mine to make; I must go.”
“O señor, you have made me happy again. I thank you with all my heart. We can now speak to my father. But you are mistaken; it is not the same to me whether you go or stay so long as you release Salvador from his promise. I would have you stay with us, for I know that he and you are great friends, and that it will pain you to part.”
“It will, indeed. He is a true man and one of the bravest and most chivalrous I ever knew. I can never forget that he risked his life to save mine. To lose so dear a friend will be a great grief, even though my loss be your gain, señorita.”
“No loss, Señor Fortescue. Instead of one friend you will have two. Your gain will be as great as mine.”
My answer to these gracious words was to take her proffered hand and press it to my lips.
“Caramba! What is this? Juanita? And you, señor, is it the part of a friend? Do you know?”
“Don’t be jealous, Salvador,” said Juanita, quietly to her lover, who had come on the balcony unperceived. “Señor Fortescue is a true friend. He is very good; he releases you from your promise. And he seemed so sorry and spoke so nobly that the least I could do was to let him kiss my hand.”
“You did right, Juanita. I was hasty; I cry peccavi and ask your forgiveness. And you really give up this expedition for my sake, dear friend? Thanks, a thousand thanks.”
“No; I absolve you from your promise. But I shall go, all the same.”
Carmen looked very grave.
“Think better of it, amigo mio,” he said. “When we formed this project we were both in a reckless mood. Much of the country you propose to explore has never been trodden by the white man’s foot. It is a country of impenetrable forests, fordless rivers, and unclimbable mountains. You will have to undergo terrible hardships, you may die of hunger or of thirst, and escape the poisoned arrows of wild Indians only to fall a victim to the malarious fevers which none but natives of the country can resist.”
“When did you learn all this? You talked very differently a few days ago.”
“I did, but I have been making inquiries.”
“And you have fallen in love.”
“True, and that has opened my eyes to many things.”
“To the dangers of this expedition, for instance; likewise to the fact that fighting Spaniards is not the only thing worth living for.”
“Very likely; love is always stronger than hate, and I confess that I hate the Spaniards much less than I did. Yet, in this matter, I assure you that I do not in the least exaggerate. You must remember that your companions will be half-breeds, men who have neither the stamina nor the courage for really rough work. When the hardships begin they are almost sure to desert you. If we were going together we might possibly pull through, as we have already pulled through so many dangers.”
“Yes, I shall miss you sorely. All the same, I am resolved to go, even were the danger tenfold greater than you say it is.”
“I feared as much. Well, if I cannot dissuade you from attempting this enterprise, I must e’en go with you, as I am pledged to do. To let you undertake it alone, after agreeing to bear you company were treason to our friendship. It would be like deserting in the face of the enemy.”
“Not so, Carmen. The agreement has been cancelled by mutual consent, and to leave Juanita after winning her heart would be quite as bad as deserting in face of the enemy. And I have a right to choose my company. You shall not go with me.”
Juanita again gave me her hand, and from the look that accompanied it I thought that, had I spoken first—but it was too late; the die was cast.
“You will not go just yet,” she murmured; “you will stay with us a little longer.”
“As you wish, señorita. A few days more or less will make little difference.”
Several other attempts were made to turn me from my purpose. Don Esteban himself (who was greatly pleased with his daughter’s betrothal to Carmen), prompted thereto by Juanita, entered the lists. He expressed regret that he had not another daughter whom he could bestow upon me, and went even so far as to offer me land and to set me up as a Venezuelan country gentleman if I would consent to stay.
But I remained firm to my resolve. For, albeit, none perceived it but myself I was in a false position. Though I was not hopelessly in love with Juanita I liked her so well that the contemplation of Carmen’s happiness did not add to my own. I thought, too, that Juanita guessed the true state of the case; and she was so kind and gentle withal, and her gratitude at times was so demonstrative that I feared if I stayed long at Naparima there might be trouble, for like all men of Spanish blood, Carmen was quite capable of being furiously jealous.
I left them a month before the day fixed for their marriage. My companions were Gahra, and a dozen Indians and mestizoes, to each of whom I was enabled, by Don Esteban’s kindness, to give a handsome gratuity beforehand.
To Juanita I gave as a wedding-present my ruby-ring, to Carmen my horse Pizarro.
Our parting was one of the most painful incidents of my long and checkered life. I loved them both and I think they loved me. Juanita wept abundantly; we all embraced and tried to console ourselves by promising each other that we should meet again; but when or where or how, none of us could tell, and in our hearts we knew that the chances against the fruition of our hopes were too great to be reckoned.
Then, full of sad thoughts and gloomy forebodings, I set out on my long journey to the unknown.