Florencia fulfilled her mission well,—recalling skilfully to the minds of the elder gossips the events and doubts of years agone, and those suspicions, light as air, which had once before menaced the fair name and fame of her who later had been revered as a saint under the name of Sister Veronica.
It was natural after the excitement of Pedro’s disappearance had subsided that reminiscences of events in which he had figured should, in default of some new interest, rise to the stagnant surface of hacienda life, and be re-colored and adorned with suggestions probable or improbable, and that the favorite topic should be torn to shreds in its dissection, while the motive power of its appearance should in the excitement of discussion be utterly lost sight of. Florencia herself, in the interest of tracing the sequence of events, and in hearing attributed to the characters that had figured in her girlhood traits and deeds of which she had heard little or nothing at that bygone time, almost forgot that she was talking with a purpose, and therefore perhaps had a truly unprejudiced account to give to Chinita,—when she could again see her, for Doña Isabel had become a wary duenna, and the girl had had no opportunity of learning anything that might have thrown light upon the theory she had formed of her birth and parentage.
In his insufficient knowledge of the language, Ashley Ward let much of the gossip of the women who chatted about him as they performed their daily tasks pass entirely unheeded, while he pondered upon the very subjects which with more or less directness were discussed. But one morning he caught the name of Herlinda, and thenceforth all his senses were alert. Great was his surprise when he discovered this to be the name of a daughter of Doña Isabel who had been a beautiful girl when the American was killed, and thenceforward his mind became preternaturally keen; so that he divined the meanings of words he had never heard before,—gestures, glances, the very inflection of a tone, became revelations to him.
Hitherto, without cogitating upon the matter, Ward had naturally assumed from hearing no reference to another that the newly married Carmen was the only child of Doña Isabel. Now he learned the tragical fate of Norberto and the existence of the elder and more beautiful daughter Herlinda, the cloistered nun; and she was for the time the theme of endless reminiscences and conjectures. Her winsome childhood; her early gayety and incomparable beauty; the open love of Gonzales; the suspected mutual attachment of the young American and the daring child, who with her mother’s pride had failed to inherit her mother’s strength of will; the murder of John Ashley; the time of the great sickness; the death of Mademoiselle La Croix; the effect of the shock and horror upon the mind and appearance of Herlinda; the scarcely whispered, faint, yet not wholly disproved suspicions which had floated over the name and fame of the daughter of a house too absolute in its ascendency and power to be lightly attacked; her removal from the hacienda; her strange rejection of the suit of one who had always been dear to her, and to whom her mother, in accordance with good and seemly usage, had pledged her; her renunciation of the world she had loved, and entrance to a convent, which she had held in horror,—all these circumstances were discussed from a dozen points of view.
And all he heard confirmed in Ashley’s mind the belief that the woman whom his cousin had loved was traced; that whether she had been actually a wife or no, she, Herlinda Garcia, the daughter of a woman whom it would be a mortal offence to approach upon such a subject, was the possible mother of a child which he could scarcely refuse to believe existed,—though here a new perplexity confronted him as (like the young officer, whom he regarded with a half-contemptuous amusement that should have prevented him from following any example set by so love-lorn a cavalier) he began to seek occasion for observing Chinita with an intensity that made her doubly the object of the jealous and ireful dislike of Rosario and her mother. To his alert and dispassionate mind circumstances pointed to this girl as the possible link between the families of Ashley and Garcia, though the most minute and patient observation only seemed to make absurd the supposition that American blood mingled in the fiery tide which filled her veins, colored her rich beauty, and vivified the scornful and stoical yet ambitious spirit, which as by a spell at the same moment repelled yet charmed both himself and the haughty Doña Isabel. What was the secret of the foundling’s influence? He cared not to analyze either his own mind or the irresistible fascination of Chinita; but that the girl, though not positively beautiful, and unmistakably repellent in her caustic yet stoical discontent and ambitious unrest, possessed a bewitching and bewildering grace far different from any he had ever beheld in woman, of whatever race or kindred, impressed him daily more and more deeply, while—But stubborn facts made speculation and efforts at inquiry alike futile.
As days passed on, a certain friendship sprang up between Ward and Don Rafael. They talked for hours over the political situation,—Ashley straining ear and mind to comprehend the administrador’s smooth and impressive utterances, and Don Rafael with grave politeness listening without a smile or gesture of amusement to the hesitating and often utterly incomprehensible attempts of the young American to deliver his opinions, or to make minute inquiry into reasons and events which often horrified as well as puzzled him. Don Rafael had the air of simplicity and candor which is so infinitely attractive to the stranger, and which presented so great a contrast to the lofty coldness of Doña Isabel and the grave and melancholy reticence of Feliz. Their demeanor left the baffling and depressing conviction that there was an infinity that they might reveal were but the right chord touched; while that of Don Rafael was satisfying in its cordiality, even while no response fulfilled the expectation that his fluent and kindly frankness appeared to encourage.
As soon as the state of his wound permitted, Ashley joined the administrador in his early morning rides to the fields and pastures, and learned much of the workings of a great hacienda. These rides were confined to the immediate neighborhood of the great house, and four or six armed men were invariably in attendance,—for, as Don Rafael explained with a smile, the administrador of the rich hacienda of Tres Hermanos was invested with the dignity of its possessors, his personal insignificance being absorbed in the state of those he represented; so that his person bore a fictitious value, and if seized by an enemy, either personal or political, would doubtless be held at a prince’s ransom, which the honor as well as the interest of his employers would force them to pay.
In the course of these rides they not infrequently approached the deserted reduction-works, and it was upon the first occasion that this happened that Don Rafael questioned the young American as to his relationship to the last director; and upon learning it, rehearsed with deep feeling the story of his murder, pointing out the very tree under which the bloody tragedy was enacted.
Ashley watched his countenance narrowly as he talked. His words, whose meaning might have been obscure to the foreigner, were rendered dramatic by the deep pathos of his tone and the expressive force of his gestures; even the men who rode behind drew near as his voice rose on the stillness of the air in a tale so foreign to the peace and beauty of the scene. As they skirted the low adobe wall and looked over upon the stagnant masses of mineral clay, the piles of broken ores, the adobe sheds and stables crumbling under rain and sun, Ashley was ready to credit the whispered words with which Don Rafael ended his narration; “Señor, it is said in the silent night, when the moon is at its full, phantoms of its old life revivify this deserted spot, and that its massive gates open at the call of a ghostly rider, who wears the form of that poor youth who after his last midnight ride came back feet foremost, recumbent, silent, from the tryst he had sallied forth to keep.”
“And did you know the woman?” gasped rather than demanded Ashley Ward.