For some time I strode backward and forward across the floor of the tent, muttering such speeches, and giving way to such thoughts.
Mingling with my disgust for the tyrant and his pimp, there was another feeling that caused me acute pain. Had the wretch any right to apply that vile epithet “putita?” Was there any truth in his statement that she had listened with complaisance to the proposals of V.E.—proposals of the nature of which there could be no misconception?
Notwithstanding the source from which the insinuation came, I will not deny that, at the moment it caused me suspicions, and something more—something very like chagrin.
It was less the knowledge of Lola’s character—of which I could know but little—than that of her countrywomen, that inspired me with this suspicion. Moreover, it was difficult to conceive how one so lovely and loveable could have lived to her age under the burning skies of the tierra caliente, without having loved.
That she had been loved, there could be little doubt. As little, that her lovers were legion. Could it be doubted that of some one of them she had reciprocated the passion? After the age of twelve the heart of a Jarocha rarely remains unimpressed. Lola appeared to be sixteen.
The disquietude of my thoughts admonished me that I too loved this Mexican maiden. The very pain of my suspicions told me I could not help loving her, even if assured that they were true!
My passion, if impure, was also powerful. The imputation cast upon its object in the letter of the alcohuete, instead of stifling, served only to fan it to a fiercer flame; and under the impression that the slanderer might have spoken the truth, I only blamed myself for having behaved towards the beautiful Jarocha with a respect that might, after all, in her eyes have seemed superfluous.
I was not so wicked as to give way to these gross ideas for any continued length of time; and as my memory dwelt upon her fair face; on her eyes of angelic expression; on the modest gracefulness of demeanour that marked her every movement; above all, on the devoted fondness of which her brother was the object, I could not think that Lola Vergara was otherwise than what she seemed—an angel of innocence; and that her brutal asperser was exactly what he seemed—a demon of the darkest dye.
Under the influence of these less degrading reflections, my spirits became calmer; and I could ponder with less bitterness upon the contents of that infamous epistle.
Infamy it revealed of the deepest character, on the part of both writer and recipient, but nothing to compromise the character of the Jarocha: for the insinuation of Rayas might have been made either to flatter the vanity, or soothe the impatience, of his patron; and in all likelihood one or the other—perhaps both—was its true purpose.