Strangely enough, though Isabel had addressed herself with a frenzy of determination to the task of securing a competency for Leon that might enable him to marry and enter upon a life which was to relieve her of the constant drain upon her resources, both material and mental, which for years had been sapping her prosperity and peace, yet as she beheld him ride away toward the town in which his inamorata dwelt to make the final arrangements for his marriage, her heart sank within her; and instead of relief and thankfulness, she felt a frightful pang of apprehension, she knew not why, as if a prophetic voice warned her that her own hand had opened the door to a chamber of horrors, through which the smiling youth would pass and drag her as he went.
Isabel threw herself upon her husband’s breast in an agony which he could not comprehend, but which he gently soothed, happy to feel that to him she turned in the first moment of her abandonment,—for indeed she felt that she who had given her substance, her sympathy, her faith, all of which a sister’s life is capable, was indeed abandoned, and all for a fresh young face, a word, a smile. Leon was a changed man, but all her devotion had not worked the miracle; another whose love could be as yet but a fancy had accomplished what years of sacrifice from her had striven for in vain!
There was something of jealousy, but far more of the pain of baffled aspiration in the thought, and through it all that dreadful doubt, that sickening dread as to whether she had done well thus to strip herself of the power to minister to him. It seemed, even against her reason, impossible that Leon could be beyond the pale of her bounty; she had been so accustomed to plan, to think, to plot for him, that she could not grasp the thought that henceforth he was to live without her, that she was to know him happy, joyous, at ease, and she no longer be the immediate and ministering Providence which made him so.
After the infant Carmen was born, the mother’s thoughts turned into other channels. As she looked at this child, the thought for the first time came to her, that some day it might be possible that her children would inherit some material good from her. Their father was a rich man, yet there was a pleasure in the thought that her children, her daughters most especially, would be pleased by a mother’s rich gifts, would perhaps from her receive the dower that would make them welcome in the homes of the men they might love. Isabel began to indulge in the maternal hopes and visions of young motherhood, and to feel the security that a still hopeful mind may acquire, after years of secret and harassing cares have passed.
The usual visits of ceremony had passed between the contracting families; the Señor Fernandez had declared himself satisfied with the generous provisions which had been made for the young couple; the house was set in order, and an early day named for the wedding. Some days of purest happiness followed the tearful anxiety with which Dolores had awaited the negotiations that were to shape her destiny. An earnest of the future came to her in the present of jewels, with which Leon presaged the marriage gifts which he went to the city of Mexico to choose,—for whether rich or poor, no Mexican bridegroom would fail of a necklet of pearls, or a brooch and earrings of brilliants for his bride; and with his luxurious tastes, it was not to be supposed that Leon Vallé could fail to add to these laces and silks and velvets, fit rather for a princess than for the future wife of a country youth whose only capital was in house and land. Isabel had just heard of these things, and had begun to excuse in her heart these extravagances, which seemed so natural to a youth in love, when a remembrance flashed upon her mind which justified the apprehensions she had felt, and which it seemed incredible should have escaped not only her own but also Don Gregorio’s vigilance,—Leon had gone to Mexico in the days of the feast of San Augustin.
Isabel was too jealous of her brother’s good name, too eager to shield him from a breath of distrust, to mention the fears that assailed her. She called herself irrational, faithless, unjust, yet she could not rid herself of the dread which seemed to brood above her like a cloud. And so passed the month of June, and July brought Leon Vallé back again, and one glance at his haggard face and bloodshot eyes revealed to Isabel that her fears were realized. He told the tale in a few words and with a hollow laugh.
“You will have to go to Garcia for me now, Isabel,” he said. “Your last venture has brought me the old luck, cursed bad luck. A plague upon your money! I thought to double or treble it, and the last cent is gone!”
“And the hacienda of San Lazaro?” queried Isabel, faintly.
“Would you believe it? Gone too! Aranda has had the devil’s own luck. ’T was the last of the feast, Isabel. Thousands were changing hands at every table. It seemed a cowardice not to try a stake for a fortune that might be had for the asking. I was a fool, and hesitated till it was too late. Had I only ventured at once! What think you happened to Leoncio Alvarez? He played his hacienda against Esparto’s, and lost. He had dared me not five minutes before to the venture. The devil, what a chance I missed! His hacienda was three times the size of San Lazaro! He bore its loss like a man. ‘What can one do, friend?’ he cried to Esparto; ‘it has been thy luck to-day, ’t will be mine when we next meet.’ Just then his brother Antonio came up. ‘What luck, Leoncio?’ he said. ‘Cursed!’ he answered. ‘I have played my hacienda against Esparto’s here, and lost it.’ Antonio shrugged his shoulders and turned away. ‘Play mine and get it back,’ he suggested, and walked off to the next table. The cards were dealt, and in three minutes Leoncio’s hacienda was his own again, thrown like a ball from one hand to the other. It was glorious play!”
“But this has nothing to do with thee,” ventured Isabel.