Gustave Aimard
Stoneheart: A Romance
The vaqueros, in company with Don Torribio, had struck into the forest. For three hours their route led them along the banks of the Rio Bravo del Norte, till they were opposite the Hacienda del Cormillo, which dimly showed itself in the centre of one of those charming oases created by the deposit of the river, and covered with groups of willows, nopals, mesquites, orange and citron trees, and jasmines in full flower, amongst the branches of which a whole host of birds of varied plumage warbled unceasingly.
Don Torribio halted, and turning towards his companions, who had likewise stopped, addressed them:
"I must leave you here; I thank you for the escort you have done me the honour to give me. Your help is no longer needed. Return to your avocations, señores; you know our agreement, and I reckon on your punctuality."
"Farewell, caballero," they replied, bowing ceremoniously to him; "cast aside all anxiety as to the measures we are about to take."
They turned the heads of their horses, made them enter the river as if they intended to cross it, and soon vanished behind a rise in the ground. Don Torribio remained alone.
The families of Don Torribio and Don Pedro de Luna, both originally Spanish, and connected by various ties in old times, had always lived on a footing of great intimacy. The young man and the girl had almost been brought up together. So, when her handsome cousin had come to bid her adieu, and announce his departure for Europe, where he was to stay a few years, in order to complete his education and acquire the manners of the fashionable world, Doña Hermosa, then about twelve years old, had felt sorry to lose him. They had loved each other from infancy, unwittingly obeying the secret impulses of childhood, which is always seeking for happiness.
Don Torribio had left her, carrying his own love with him, and never doubting that Doña Hermosa was preserving hers for him.
On his return to Veracruz, after visiting the most celebrated places of the civilized world, he had hastened to put his affairs in order, and set out for San Lucar, burning with desire to meet her whom he loved so dearly, and whom he had not seen for three years – his Hermosa, that pretty child, who by this time, must have grown into a beautiful and accomplished woman.
The surprise and joy of Don Pedro and his daughter were extreme. Hermosa was particularly happy, for, we must confess, she had thought all day long of Don Torribio, and looked at him through the medium of her recollections of childhood; yet at the same time she felt her heart disturbed by mingled sensations of pain and pleasure.
Don Torribio perceived it: he understood, or thought he understood, that she still loved him; and his happiness was complete.
"Come, children," the smiling father had said, "embrace each other; you have my permission."
Doña Hermosa, with many blushes, bent forward her forehead to Don Torribio, who respectfully touched it with his lips.
"Is that what you call kissing?" cried Don Pedro. "Come, come, no hypocrisy; embrace each other frankly. Do not play the coquette, Hermosa, because you are a pretty girl and he is a handsome fellow; and you, Torribio, who have come upon us like a thunderbolt, without giving warning, do you think to make me believe you have ridden many hundred leagues, as fast as your horse could carry you, to see me? I know for whom you come all the way from Veracruz to San Lucar! You love each other. Give each other an honest kiss, like betrothed lovers as you are; and if you are wise, you will be married offhand."
The young people, melted by his kind words and pleasant humour, threw themselves into the arms of the venerable man, to hide the depth of their emotion.
In consequence of this reception, Don Torribio had been formally acknowledged as having a claim to the hand of Doña Hermosa, and in that capacity was received by her.
We must do the girl the justice to say, that she sincerely believed she loved her cousin. The ties of relationship, their childish friendship, and the long separation, which had increased the warmth of their feelings, disposed her to think favourably of the marriage proposed by her father. She awaited the day fixed for her espousals without any degree of impatience, and looked forward with a kind of pleasurable hope to the time when she would be indissolubly united to him.
Although such an assertion will most likely make many of our readers cry "Fie!" upon us, we will nevertheless maintain that a young girl's first passion is rarely genuine love. Her second love originates in the heart; the first only in the brain A young girl who begins to experience the first emotions of her heart naturally allows herself to be attracted by the man who, from circumstances and his relations towards her, has long ago obtained her confidence and excited her interest. This kind of love, then, is only friendship, fortified by habit and magnified by the secret influence exercised by the as yet vague and undecided thoughts which crop up in the brains of sixteen; and lastly, and more than all, by the want of opportunities for comparing her lover with others, and the fact that the marriage is already settled, and she thinks it impossible to recede.
This was the position in which Doña Hermosa, without at all suspecting it, stood towards her cousin. The marriage had been retarded, up to the day about which we are now writing, for divers reasons of age and convenience, although Don Pedro attached immense importance to it, either on account of his intended son-in-law's enormous wealth, or because he was persuaded the union would make his daughter happy.
Matters had proceeded thus between the young people, without any remarkable incident occurring to trouble the calm of their relations to each other, up to the time when the events we have narrated in another place happened to Doña Hermosa in the prairie. But at the first visit Don Torribio paid his betrothed after her return to the Hacienda de las Norias, he perceived, with the clear-sightedness of love, that Doña Hermosa did not receive him with the freedom or the frankness of speech and manner to which he had been accustomed.
The girl seemed sad and dreamy; she scarcely answered the questions he addressed to her, and did not appear to understand the hints he threw out about their approaching marriage.
Don Torribio at first attributed the change to one of those nervous influences to which young girls are subject, without suspecting it. He fancied she was unwell, and left her, without dreaming that another filled the place in the heart of his betrothed which he believed himself alone to occupy.
Moreover, upon whom could his suspicions fall, if he entertained any? Don Pedro lived in great retirement, only receiving at long intervals his old friends, most of them married, or long past the age for marrying.
It was impossible to suppose that, in the two days Doña Hermosa spent in the prairie among the redskins, she could have met with a man whose appearance and manners could have touched her affections.
However, Don Torribio was soon compelled to acknowledge in spite of himself, that what he had at first taken for a girlish whim was a confirmed resolve; or, in one word, that if Doña Hermosa still preserved for him the friendship to which he had a right, as the companion of her childhood, her love, if she had ever felt it for him, had vanished for ever.
When once convinced of this certainty, he became seriously uneasy. The love he felt for his cousin was profound and sincere; he had let it grow into his heart too deeply to be easily eradicated. He saw all his plans of happiness in the future crumble together, and, his hopes once shipwrecked, resolved to have the indispensable explanation from the girl which should tell him how much he had to hope or fear.
It was with the intention of demanding this explanation from Doña Hermosa that, instead of returning to San Lucar, where he lived, he had desired the vaqueros to show him the way to the Hacienda del Cormillo. But as soon as his guides left him, and he found himself alone in front of the hacienda, his courage nearly evaporated. Foreseeing the result of the step he was about to take, he hesitated to enter the dwelling; for, like all lovers, in spite of the pain caused by the girl's indifference, he would have preferred to go on cheating himself with futile expectations, rather than learn a truth which would break his heart, by robbing him of all hope.
The struggle lasted a long time; more than once he made as if he would ride back; but at last reason conquered passion. He comprehended how difficult the position would be, both for Doña Hermosa and himself. Happen what might, he resolved to end it; and digging his spurs into the flanks of his horse, he galloped towards the hacienda, rightly fearing that, if he lingered longer, he would find no strength to accomplish the project he had formed.
When he arrived at El Cormillo, he was informed that Don Pedro and his daughter had gone hunting at sunrise, and would not return before the oración (time for mass).
"So much the better," muttered Don Torribio between his teeth, and with a sigh of satisfaction at the respite chance had so opportunely afforded him.
Without stopping for the refreshments offered him, he turned his horse's head in the direction of San Lucar, and galloped off, congratulating himself that the explanation he both dreaded and desired had been thus providentially delayed.
CHAPTER IV.
LA TERTULIA (THE PARTY)
We must now introduce our readers to the Hacienda del Cormillo, two days later than the event we have just narrated.
Towards eight o'clock in the evening, two persons were seated in the drawing room of the hacienda, close to a brasero (brasier); for the nights were still cold.
A stranger opening the doors of this room could have fancied himself transported to the Faubourg St. Germain, it was so elegantly furnished in the French fashion. Parisian luxury was exhibited in the carpets, Parisian taste in the choice of the furniture. Nothing was forgotten, – not even a pianoforte by Erard, on which lay the scores of Parisian operas, nor a magnificent harmonium from the workshops of Alexandre; and as if to prove that glory travels far, and genius has wings, the novels and poems in fashion at Paris strewed a round table by Boule. Everything put you in mind of France and Paris, with the exception of the silver brasero, which, with its glowing knots of olive wood, showed that you were in Spanish America. This magnificent withdrawing room was lighted up by candles of rose-coloured wax, in handsome chandeliers.
It was Don Pedro and his daughter who was seated by the brasero. Doña Hermosa was clad in a dress of the greatest simplicity, which made her look still more charming. She was smoking a tiny cigarette, rolled in a maize leaf, which did not interrupt the flow of her conversation with her father.
"Yes," said she, "the most lovely birds in the world have been brought to the presidio."
"Well, querida chica?" (my darling).
"It appears to me that my dearest father is not quite as gallant as usual tonight," she said, pouting a little, like a spoilt child.
"What do you know about that, señorita?" answered Don Pedro, laughing.
"What! Is it the truth?" she exclaimed, as she jumped from her seat, and clapped her hands together; "You have thought – "
"Of buying you the birds. Tomorrow you will see your feathered subjects, and your aviary stocked with parakeets, love birds, Bengalis, hummingbirds, and Heaven knows how many others. There are at least four hundred of them, you little ingrate!"
"Oh, how kind you are! And how I love you!" replied the girl, throwing herself into her father's arms, and kissing him a thousand times.
"That will do, that will do, little monkey! Do you want to stifle me with kisses?"
"What shall I do to show my gratitude for such kind forethought?"
"Poor little dear!" said he sadly; "I have only yourself to love now."
"Say to adore, my dearest father; for it is adoration you feel for me; and I too love you with all the strength of love which God has given me."
"And yet," said Don Pedro, in tones of gentle reproach, "you are not afraid of causing me uneasiness."
"I!" said Hermosa, beginning to tremble.
"Yes, you," he replied, threatening her with uplifted finger; "you are concealing something from me."
"Father!" she murmured softly.
"Daughter, a father's eye can pierce to the bottom of the heart of a girl of sixteen. Some extraordinary change has taken place in you these last few days: your thoughts are strangely preoccupied."
"You are right, father," she replied with a good deal of firmness.
"And what are you dreaming about, little girl?" asked Don Pedro, smiling to conceal his anxiety.
"About Don Torribio de Quiroga, father."
"Aha!" replied he, "Because you love him, I suppose?"
Doña Hermosa drew herself up, and assumed a serious expression.
"I!" said she, placing her hand on her bosom, "No! I deceived myself until today. I do not love Don Torribio, and yet I cannot help thinking of him, although I do not know why. Since his return from Europe, a change has come over him for which I cannot account. It seems to me, that he is not the same person who was brought up with me. His look pains, yet fascinates me; his voice raises a feeling of undefinable sorrow. Certainly, the man is handsome; his manners are noble, and his bearing that of a highbred gentleman: yet there is something nameless about him which chills me, and inspires invincible repugnance."
"How romantic!" said Don Pedro, laughing.
"Laugh at me! Mock me!" she replied, her voice trembling. "Shall I confess everything, father?"
"Speak confidently, dearest child."
"I will. I believe this man, whom I thought I loved, will bring evil upon me."
"Child," replied Don Pedro, kissing her forehead, "what ill could he do you?"
"Father, I cannot tell; but I dread it."
"Do you wish me to break with him, and not to admit him again?"
"Heaven forbid! It would certainly hasten the misfortune that threatens me."
"Pooh! you are a spoilt child! You grow whimsical, and amuse yourself by creating phantoms. All these fears and imaginary presentiments spring from your love for your cousin. The only way to restore your tranquillity is to marry you to him as soon as possible; and be sure, my dear, that is what I intend to do."
Doña Hermosa shook her head sorrowfully, and cast down her eyes, but she made no reply: she felt that her father had completely misunderstood her meaning, and that any attempt to bring him over to her wishes would be vain.
Just at that moment a peon announced Don Torribio, who entered the room.
He was dressed in the latest Paris fashion; and the glare of the candles lighted up his handsome face.
Father and daughter both trembled; the one perhaps with joy, the other certainly with fear.
Don Torribio, after gracefully saluting Doña Hermosa, approached her and respectfully offered her a superb bouquet of exotic flowers. She took them with a forced smile, and, without looking at them, placed them on the table.
Soon after, other persons were announced: the governor, Don José Kalbris, and his staff; two or three other families – in all, about twenty people; and lastly, Don Estevan Dias, and Don Fernando Carril.
It was certainly impossible to recognise the hardy backwoodsman, the redoubtable bee-hunter, who a few days before had done Don Pedro and his daughter such signal service, in the elegant caballero who arrived in the company of the mayor domo of the hacienda. His irreproachable bearing, his distinguished manner, in short, all about him, banished suspicion, or rather prevented comparison.
We have already said that Don Fernando Carril, although his life was wrapped in impenetrable mystery, was superficially known to all the best society in the provinces, and, thanks to the easy-going manners of the Mexicans, received in the best families. His presence at the hacienda was, therefore, nothing extraordinary. Nevertheless, his appearance excited lively curiosity in the guests; for it was a long time since Don Fernando had been seen at any entertainment.
Like Don Torribio, the hunter, when he entered the room, approached Doña Hermosa, bowed profoundly to her, and respectfully offered her a flower he held in his hand.
"Señorita," said he, in a voice full of suppressed emotion, "deign to accept this modest flower; it grows only in the desert," he added, significantly.
Doña Hermosa trembled at the sound of his voice, which she thought she had recognised; a lively blush rose to her cheeks; and dropping her eyes under the ardent gaze fixed upon her, she took the flower and placed it in her bosom, as she answered inarticulately:
"Everything that comes from the desert will be dear to me henceforth."
The conversation of the guests had by this time grown animated. The little incident passed without remark, except from one person, who, with that kind of intuition which springs from love and jealousy, had divined in Don Fernando one who, if not an openly declared rival, was, at least, preferred in secret.
This person was Don Torribio Quiroga.
Leaning towards Don Estevan, who chanced to be near him, he said, in a voice low indeed but perfectly distinct and audible to all: "What golden key does this man possess, whom nobody knows, by which he introduces himself into honourable families, where his presence is neither desired nor invited?"
"Ask him yourself, señor," said Don Estevan dryly; "he will most likely be able to explain his conduct satisfactorily."
"I shall follow your advice this instant, señor," answered Don Torribio haughtily.
"It is unnecessary, caballero; I heard your words perfectly," said Don Fernando.
His voice was calm, and he made a courteous bow to Don Torribio, while an ironical smile curled his lips for a moment.
All conversation had been suddenly broken off; a profound silence reigned over those present, and the looks of all were turned in curiosity towards the two men.
Doña Hermosa, pale and trembling, cast a look of entreaty on her father.
Don Pedro walked resolutely into the middle, of the room, and placed himself between the two caballeros.
"What does this mean, señores?" said he. "Is this the idea of propriety you have brought back from your travels in Europe, Don Torribio? Do you dare to turn my drawing room into lists wherein to break your lance in personal quarrels? What right have you to cavil at Don Fernando's presence here? You are not my son-in-law yet, as far as I know. I am master here, and can receive whom I think fit."
"Even cutthroats and salteadores (highwaymen), cousin, if such is your good pleasure," replied the young man, with an ironical bow.
Don Fernando looked as if he were going to rush upon the man who had thus insulted him, but managed to contain himself.
"Will Don Torribio deign to explain himself," he said calmly, "and not speak in enigmas?"
"And whose fault is it, caballero, if I speak in enigmas? Are you not the cause of the mystery?"
"Enough, caballeros!" exclaimed Don Pedro; "He who utters another word on this subject, makes me his mortal enemy."
The two men bowed respectfully to the hacendero and separated, but not without having exchanged looks of terrible expression.
"Well, colonel," continued Don Pedro, addressing the governor, in the hopes of glossing over the lamentable altercation, "What news from La Ciudad? Is Mexico still tranquil?"
"Our great Santa Anna," replied the colonel, who was choking in his uniform, "has once more soundly beaten the audacious general who has dared to issue a pronunciamiento (manifesto) against him."
"Thank God! Perhaps this victory will procure us the tranquillity of which commerce stands so much in need."
"Yes," said a rich hacendero, a neighbour of Don Pedro. "Communication has been so difficult of late, that we can forward nothing."
"Are the redskins at work?" asked a merchant, whom these words had troubled.
"No," said the governor; "there is no danger from them. The last lesson they got was a rude one, and they will not forget it. For a long time they have not dared to invade our frontiers."
An almost imperceptible smile curled the lips of Don Fernando. "You forget the Tigercat and his adherents," said he.
"Oh! the Tigercat is only a bandit," said the governor hastily. "Besides, Government is at this moment preparing an expedition against him, so as to finish, once and for all, with his band of brigands."
"It is an admirable idea," said Don Torribio, with a sarcastic sneer. "It is time this frontier should be cleared of the host of fellows, with more than equivocal habits, who infest it."
"I am quite of the same opinion; it seems a most sensible measure," said Don Fernando quietly, but giving back to his adversary a smile as bitter as his own.
"In case of invasion, do you think the Indians able to give the province much trouble?" asked the merchant.
"H'm!" said Don José, with a patronising air; "People entertain exaggerated ideas of these redskins; in fact, they are but miserable wretches."
Don Fernando smiled again; but this time the smile was savage and sinister.
"Señor gobernador," said he, "you are not quite right. To judge by the news you were good enough to communicate, I believe the Indians will keep quite peaceably at home, unless they are determined to tempt ill luck."
"¡Rayo de Dios! I should think so," replied the governor.
"Ah! Señorita," said Don Torribio, gracefully turning to Doña Hermosa, "may I pray of your kindness to let us hear that delicious song from the Domino Noir, which you sang to such perfection a few days ago?"
Doña Hermosa, darted a look from under her long lashes at Don Fernando. The latter's eyes conveyed a mute prayer of entreaty. Without further hesitation, she placed herself at the piano, and, in a pure and feeling voice, sang the romance in the third act.
"I remember having heard that delicious romance sung in Paris by Madame Demareau, that nightingale who flew away too soon," said Don Torribio, bowing gallantly to Doña Hermosa. "I know not whether you or she sang it with most taste and spirit."
She answered: "Cousin, you have lived too long in France."
"How so, señorita?"
"Because," she replied, with a smile as cold and keen as the point of a poniard, "France has made you a detestable flatterer."
"¡Bravo!" chuckled the fat governor, whose cheeks shook with delight. "You see Don Torribio, our creoles rival the Parisian ladies in the smartness of their repartee."
"Incontestably, colonel," answered Don Torribio. "But I can take my own part," he added in an undefinable tone; "I shall soon have my revenge." And he cast a glance at Don Fernando and Doña Hermosa, who were seated close to each other, which made the girl shudder with fear.
"Don Fernando, and you other caballeros, here present," said the governor, addressing the guests, "I hope that tomorrow you will attend the Te Deum to be sung in honour of our glorious Santa Anna."
"I shall have the honour," said Don Fernando. The others made a similar response.
"As for me," said Don Torribio, "you must excuse me, colonel; for business compels me to leave tonight."
"What!" cried Don Pedro, in astonishment; "You are going to travel tonight, cousin?"
"I am indeed, Señor Don Pedro; I am obliged to leave you, even though I have but just arrived."
"Well, that is a singular and most unforeseen resolution. Where are you going?"
"Excuse me if I keep the object of my expedition secret. Certain persons must not have the sole right of making mysterious excursions."
"Indeed!" said Don Pedro peevishly. "And do you intend to stay away long?"
"I hope not, but dare not say I am sure."
"So much the better. Come back to us as soon as you can; for," said he significantly, "your return will please all of us here."
"¿Quién sabe?" (who knows?) muttered Don Torribio, with a sinister expression.
Doña Hermosa, who overheard these two words, could no longer master her fears.
While Don Pedro and his cousin were exchanging these words, the girl Whispered to Don Estevan:
"Brother, tomorrow, after mass, I want to speak to you at my nurse's."
"To me, or to my friend?" said Don Estevan softly.
"To both," she answered, with feverish agitation.
Don Estevan and Don Fernando now retired with joyful hearts. The latter was sure that Doña Hermosa had recognised him.
The other visitors also gradually departed, till Don Torribio de Quiroga was left alone with his host.
"Cousin," said he, in a low and broken voice, as he bent down to the lady to bid her farewell, "I am about to begin a journey in which I shall incur considerable danger. May I hope you will remember the traveller in your prayers?"
Hermosa looked him in the face for an instant, and replied with an austerity unusual in her:
"Cousin, I cannot pray for the success of a journey the purport of which I do not know."
"Thanks for your frankness, señorita," he replied, without exhibiting emotion; "I shall not forget your words."
"So you are really going, Don Torribio?" said Don Pedro, who joined them at the moment.
"This very instant, cousin: all is ready for my departure."
"Then I wish you luck! I hope we shall soon hear from you?"
"Yes," he replied, with a singular expression; "you shall soon hear of me. Farewell!"
"What is the matter with your cousin, niña?" asked Don Pedro, when he found himself alone with his daughter: "His conduct tonight has been very strange."
Before she could answer, the door opened. "The capataz of the Hacienda de las Norias," said a peon who had entered, "wishes to speak to Señor Don Pedro de Luna on affairs of consequence."
"Admit him instantly," replied Don Pedro to the domestic who had announced the arrival of the capataz so pompously.
Don Torribio was terribly agitated when he left the house. He looked back, and cast a venomous eye on the windows of the room, on which he could see the graceful shadow of Doña Hermosa.
"Proud girl," said he in a terrible voice, "I hate you with all the power of the love I once felt for you! Soon, very soon, I will punish you for your disdain."
Then, wrapping his cloak around him, he rapidly took the direction of the nearest patio (out-buildings), where he hoped to find his horse. Indeed, he found him there; a peon holding the bridle. Don Torribio seized the reins, threw the peon a piastre, flung himself into the saddle, and rode off at a gallop.
"Wagh!" said the Indian, picking up the money; "What ails the young master? One would think him mad. How he scampered off!"
In the meantime Don Torribio had left the hacienda behind him, and was making all haste on the road to San Lucar.
But he had not ridden more than a quarter of an hour, when suddenly, at a turn of the road, his horse gave a start of terror, reared, and flew round, with his ears laid close to his head. Don Torribio looked to see what had alarmed the animal.
A man of tall stature, mounted on a strong black horse, held the middle of the road four or five paces in advance of him, and completely barred his passage.
Don Torribio cocked a pistol.
"Holloa, caballero!" he cried in a sharp tone; "Move to the right or the left."
"Neither to one nor the other, Don Torribio de Quiroga. I want to speak to you."
"It is a singular demand at this time of night, and in such a place."
"I did not choose either time or place. Did you not receive a note without a signature today?"
"I did," said Don Torribio, striking his forehead; "and the note proposed – "
"To teach you things," hastily interrupted the stranger, "which it is important you should know at once."
"Those were the words contained in the note."
"It was I who sent it."
"Indeed?" said Don Torribio, surprised; "was it you?"
"Yes; and I am ready to satisfy you; but to do that, you must follow me."
"But what good will it do me to know these matters? Perhaps it would be better to leave them untold."
"As you please; I do not force you to listen to me. Everyone is free to act as he chooses. If you prefer to sit down under insult without avenging yourself, I have no objection."
These words were uttered with such a sneer, that Don Torribio could not help shuddering.
"Do you in truth offer me revenge?" he asked in a voice half stifled with the rage surging at his heart.
"You shall judge, if you will follow me."
"Demon!" cried Don Torribio, "Whoever thou may'st be, lead on, since it must be so! I will follow thee, even unto hell."
"Amen," said the stranger, with a sinister chuckle.
The two riders dashed into the darkness, and the sound of their furious pace was soon merged in profound silence.
