“Doña Feliz is even too careful of her grandchildren,” said some of the more liberal. “What harm would have come to the maiden from a walk of a few minutes, or a few words spoken, with an honorable young man such as he seems to be? Now, if it were Don Alonzo, or that gay young Captain Ruiz, for example!”
Rosario, who had been leaning over the balcony as Ashley arrived, heard something of what was said, and smiled. She was not at all ready to believe that Chata’s walk had extended only as far as the hut of blind Refugio; and that it had not been made in company with Doña Feliz she was quite certain. But she had no time just then to interest herself in Chata’s affairs,—her own were far too engrossing; for the new clerk whom Carmen, at Doña Isabel’s request, had sent from Guanapila, evidently was much more intent upon studying the charms of Rosario than his new duties, and in seeking favor in her eyes than in those of the administrador himself. The new clerk was Don Alonzo, and Don Alonzo was a handsome fellow, with the face of an angel, Doña Rita said,—a contrast indeed to that little brown monkey Captain Ruiz; and Rosario smiled coyly, and did not gainsay her.
The next morning at an unusually early hour this same Don Alonzo tapped on Ashley’s door. “Pardon, Señor,” he said, “but the horses and servants are ready, and I have orders myself to accompany you beyond the boundaries of Tres Hermanos.”
The announcement was not a surprise. Ashley had arranged his departure with Don Rafael upon the preceding evening. He dressed hastily, and while partaking of his cup of chocolate, glanced often around him, in expectation of the appearance of Don Rafael or his mother; but in vain. The American could no longer hope to learn at a parting moment what each had chosen to withhold. Irrationally, and against all likelihood, he ventured to hope that Chata might steal forth for a farewell word. He laughed at himself afterward for the thought, saying that the air of intrigue had begun to affect his own brain.
Sooner than was usual, even in that land of early movement, Don Alonzo warned him it was growing late. It was not too late or early for Rosario to wave her little brown hand from her mother’s window in token of adieu. Ashley did not see it, but he for whom it was intended did. So with more foreboding and reluctance than he could have imagined possible but a few hours before, Ashley once more rode forth from Tres Hermanos,—this time with a definite object, from which he felt there could be no turning back, no possible end but his own death or the downfall of a man to whom but yesterday he had been utterly indifferent, but who to-day was inseparable from all his thoughts, his passions, his purposes,—Ramirez the revolucionario, the declared murderer of John Ashley, the declared father of the young girl who seemed the very incarnation of honor and sensibility, of tenderness and purity.
XXXIII.
The departure of Ashley Ward from Tres Hermanos was not so entirely disregarded as he had supposed. It was not Rosario only, who left her chamber at daybreak. Scarcely had she disappeared in the gloom of Doña Isabel’s apartments on her way to the favorite balcony, when her father stepped out upon the corridor, starting as his eyes fell upon Doña Feliz, who, seemingly with the spirit of unrest that pervaded the household, at the same moment emerged from her room. With a muttered salutation each abandoned the original intention of exchanging a farewell word with the departing guest; and arresting their steps at the balustrade, they leaned over and listened intently to the sounds of the early exit. The light was still so uncertain that though Don Rafael noticed, he did not wonder at, the gray tinge upon his mother’s face; it seemed only in harmony with the prevailing darkness.
The rains of the past season had been insufficient, and a murky though almost inpalpable mist, felt rather than seen, brooded over the silent landscape. It was scarcely oppressive enough to affect the young men who rode forth stirring the sluggish air, nor the eager horses lifting their heads to fill their lungs with the breath of morning, and expelling it again with a force that agitated the stillness with a sound like a blow upon water; yet it weighed inexpressibly both upon the body and mind of Don Rafael. As he had come to the corridor with a certainty in his mind that he should meet his mother, he had purposed to question her as to the actual occurrences of the day before, for the connection of Chata with the return of Ashley Ward remained entirely unexplained. That his mother was satisfied that it was not a mere vulgar rendezvous into which she had been tempted, he was assured by her manner toward both the young man and the recreant girl; indeed, it appeared that she had scarcely noticed an incident which in that place, and at the age of Chata, was sufficient to array against a young girl the suspicions of the most trusting and generous of matrons. Yet Don Rafael could imagine no possible inducement but the voice of a lover that could have called her forth alone from the great house,—for that Chata had gone alone, he knew as well as did his keen-eyed daughter Rosario.
The last gray figure had long since disappeared from the outer court, into which they looked as into a distant and narrow vista; the clank of the horses’ hoofs upon the paving had changed to the thud upon the roadway, then ceased altogether to be heard; and Don Rafael turning his eyes upon his mother’s face, had opened his lips to question her,—when with a thrill of surprise, which became terror even before the momentary utterance was repeated, he heard her laugh that strange, unmirthful, hollow laugh that indicates a mind diseased, while she said whisperingly,—
“He is gone. Yes! yes! I unbarred the door, and Pedro picked the lock so cleverly and noiselessly that the very watchman asleep across the threshold did not hear him. Ah, I knew Gregorio would be quiet enough by daylight; but Leon was awake, wide awake. For all your tears, Isabel, he would not have gone but for me; he swore he would kill Don Gregorio for the blow he gave him. Why did you say you loved at last as a woman should the husband who was your brother’s foe to death, and that you sent him freedom that he might seek a death more worthy of his villany than by the sword of an outraged father, or the executioner’s bullet? They were bitter words, and you knew they were false,—for even with your child lying dead through his persecution, you loved him still. And when he would not stir because of your taunts, but swore he would meet his fate and shame the callous heart whose love had been as weak as her sacrifice was forced and incomplete, what was there for you to do but to throw yourself on your knees before him, and entreat him for his mother’s sake to be gone? Even then he would have stayed but for me. ‘What!’ I cried, ‘to shame your sister, you will give another victory to the husband of Dolores?’