“Her father, he would suffer.”
“Take him too.”
“That I proposed, but he will not consent. He fears the confiscation of his property, which is considerable. I would not care for that, though my own fortune, as you know, would be small enough to support us. But the old man will go on no terms, and Rafaela will not leave him.”
The old man’s fears in regard to the confiscation were not without good foundation. There was a party in Mexico, while we occupied the city, that had advocated “annexation”—that is, the annexing of the whole country to the United States. This party consisted chiefly of pure Spaniards, “ricos” of the republic, who wanted a government of stability and order. In the houses of these many of our officers visited, receiving those elegant hospitalities that were in general denied us by Mexicans of a more patriotic stamp. Our friends were termed “Ayankeeados,” and were hated by the populace. But they were marked in still higher quarters. Several members of the government, then sitting at Queretaro—among others a noted minister—had written to their agents in the city to note down all those who, by word or act, might show kindness to the American army. Even those ladies who should present themselves at the theatre were to be among the number of the proscribed.
In addition to the Ayankeeados were many families—perhaps not otherwise predisposed to favour us—who by accident had admitted us within their circle—such accident as that which had opened the house and heart of Rafaela to my friend L—. These, too, were under “compromisa” with the rabble. My comrade’s case was undoubtedly what he had termed it—a dilemma.
“You are not disposed to give her up, then?” said I, smiling at my anxious friend, as I put the interrogation.
“I know you are only jesting, Henry. You know me too well for that. No! Rather than give her up, I will stay and risk everything—even life.”
“Come, Major,” said I, “there will be no need for you to risk anything, if you will only follow my advice. It is simply this—come home with your regiment; stay a month or two at New Orleans, until the excitement consequent upon our evacuation cools down. Shave off your moustache, put on plain clothes; come back and marry Rafaela.”
“It is terrible to think of parting with her. Oh!—”
“That may all be; I doubt it not; but what else can you do?”