DON MELCHIOR DÍAZ.
Don Melchior Díaz's name has several times already slipped from our
pen; the reader has been introduced to him, but up to the present
we have not yet positively explained who he is or in what way he
succeeded in gaining the position he occupies in the Saldibar family.
The moment has arrived to make this known, and acquaint the reader with
certain events most important for a proper understanding of coming
facts.
When Sotavento handed over to Don Aníbal de Saldibar the child saved
from the general massacre of the Indian tribe, there was a fact which
the majordomo passed over in silence. It was, that the lad whom he
declared to have recovered from the Indians, had been simply confided
to him by a white hunter, to whom he had scarce spoken, and who said
to him at the same time as he handed him a bag of gold dust, which the
majordomo did not think it necessary to mention either, as he doubtless
preferred to appear thoroughly disinterested in his master's eyes--
"This child is born of white parents; one day he will be reclaimed;
tell Don Aníbal to take the greatest care of him."
Sotavento scented a mystery under these hints, and in the prospect of
some profit to be made at a later date, kept to himself the hunter's
remarks, and told his master some sort of story, which the latter
believed, through the slight importance he attached to it. The lad had,
therefore, been unhesitatingly accepted by Don Aníbal, and brought up
in the family for the first five years. The hacendero paid but little
attention to him, amusing himself at times with his sallies, but taking
very slight interest in him, and regarding him rather as a servant than
as a member of the family destined to acquire considerable importance.
Don Aurelio, when he narrated to his companions the facts which caused
Doña Emilia's insanity and the events that followed, had been unable
to tell more than everybody knew, and comment on these events from his
own point of sight. But a secret was kept in the inner circle of the
family which Don Aníbal was more careful not to permit to transpire,
and which, consequently, Don Aurelio was ignorant of. The secret was
this: Doña Emilia was not cured; her madness still endured; still
this madness had become, so to speak, intermittent, and only made its
appearance at settled intervals; but then her attacks acquired such
strength that they became irresistible, and any constraint placed at
such a moment on the patient's volition would infallibly have caused
her death.
Don Aníbal, as we have said, adored his wife. Several times he tried
to calm her; he even went so far as to try and prevent her leaving the
hacienda. But then such frightful scenes occurred; Doña Emilia fell
into such horrible convulsions at the mere thought of not acting as she
liked, that Don Aníbal was obliged to restore her liberty. Doña Emilia
when these attacks came upon her became a lioness; she had but one
thought, one purpose, to rush in pursuit of the Indians, and pitilessly
massacre them. Singular anomaly of the human heart, especially in a
mild, kind, timid woman, whom the slightest pain caused to faint, and
who, in ordinary times, could not endure the sight of blood. Doña
Emilia, whom, by the physician's express orders, Don Aníbal had not
dared deprive of her daughter, had brought up her child in a hatred of
the redskins, and seizing on her young imagination with that ascendency
which mothers possess, had succeeded, if not in completely making her
share her ideas, at least in obtaining from her a passive and absolute
obedience.
Melchior, brought up, so to speak, haphazard at the hacienda, had,
through the instinct of protecting innate in man, attached himself
to Doña Diana, whom he saw sad, sickly, and suffering. Doña Diana,
for her part, felt pity for the poor orphan, and from this mutual
sympathy sprang a friendship which years had only consolidated by
rendering it warmer. Don Aníbal and Doña Emilia both saw with pleasure
this affection spring up between the children, though from different
motives. Don Aníbal, who would not for anything in the world have
thwarted his wife's ideas, saw with delight this boy grow up who, at
a given moment, might become her defender and safeguard in her mad
expeditions against the Indians; while Doña Emilia, reasoning from an
entirely different point of view, though she attained the same result,
saw in him a devoted and most useful ally in these same expeditions.
The result of this tacit understanding between husband and wife was
that the boy, at first abandoned to his instincts, was watched with
greater care, brought up as he deserved to be, and at last gradually
regarded as a member of the family. Let us hasten to add that Don
Melchior was in every respect deserving of the kindness shown him. He
was a thoughtful, earnest lad, with an honest heart and firm will, who
could thoroughly appreciate all that was done for his future well-being.
When the boy became a man, he was taken naturally into Doña Emilia's
intimacy, and associated in all her plans. Don Aníbal, delighted at
this result, and trusting in the young man, whose good sentiments he
had reason for believing he knew, felt relieved from a heavy burden;
and when his wife, attacked by one of her fits, attempted one of her
hazardous excursions, he saw her start with less terror, as he felt
convinced that she had a devoted defender by her side. But a thing
happened which neither husband nor wife had foreseen. The two young
people, brought up side by side, living constantly together, accustomed
to interchange their most secret thoughts and ideas, passed by an
imperceptible incline, without either perceiving or suspecting it,
from friendship to love. Love in these two young, ignorant hearts,
which were pure from any wrong sentiment, must necessarily be deep,
irresistible, and produce the effect of a thunderbolt.
This is what occurred: the two young people, instead of trying to
resist the new feeling which was germinating in their hearts and
growing so rapidly, yielded to it with that simple confidence which
ignorance alone can give, and which converts love into a divine
sentiment. Long before they had made a mutual avowal, they understood
each other by a glance, and knew that they were henceforth attached to
each other.
One day Doña Diana approached Melchior, who, with his shoulder leant
against a sumach, was listlessly watching a flight of wild pigeons
passing over his head. The young man was so absorbed in thought that he
did not hear the maiden's light step, as her dainty feet made the sand
of the walk she was following creak. It was only when her hand was laid
on his shoulder that, recalled to earth from heaven, he started as if
he had received an electric shock, turned suddenly, and fixed his eyes
on Doña Diana. The young lady smiled.
"Were you dreaming?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I was dreaming, Niña."
She mechanically raised her eyes to the sky.
"Of those birds, doubtless? Did they bring you a hope or a regret?"
Melchior shook his head.
"Neither one nor the other," he said sorrowfully. "I have no regrets,
and my sole hope is here."
The young lady looked down with a blush. There was a silence for some
minutes, filled with ineffable melody for these young hearts; the lad
was the first to speak.
"Alas!" he said, in a low and timid voice, "Regrets are hot made for
me; what am I, save a lost child, whose colour is not even decided? Can
I regret a family I do not know?"
"Yes, that is true," she answered, with a roguish smile; "but you have
a hope."
"A mad hope, an insensate dream, which the reawakening of reason will
utterly dispel," he said with feverish animation.
"You are deceived or wish to deceive me," she said, with some sternness
in her voice; "that is not right, Melchior."
"Señorita--" he stammered.
The maiden walked softly up to him. "We were brought up together," she
said to him in a gentle and penetrating voice, "we grew up together,
ever equally sharing our joys and sorrows; is that true, Melchior?"
"It is," he murmured faintly.
"Why, then," she continued, "have you become so taciturn during the
last few days? Why do you shun me? Why do you fly on my approach?"
"I?"
"You, brother, who ought to keep nothing hidden from me."
"Oh!"
"I repeat that you ought to keep nothing from me, for I am your oldest,
perhaps your only friend."
"It is true, oh! It is true, Diana," he exclaimed, as he clasped his
hands with passionate fervour, "you are my only friend."
"Why then keep a secret from me?"
"A secret!" he exclaimed, as he recoiled in horror.
"Yes, a secret; and I have discovered it, though you fancied you had
locked it up in your heart."
The young man turned pale.
"Oh! Take care, Niña," he exclaimed, "this secret I dare not confess to
myself."
"That is the very reason why I discovered it, Melchior," she answered,
with an adorable expression.
"Oh! It is impossible, Diana; you cannot know--"
"That you love me!" she interrupted him with an outburst. "Why not,
since I love you?"
And she gazed at him with the sublime confidence of a chaste and
true love--that divine and fugitive beam which God, in his ineffable
goodness, only allows to shine in innocent and candid hearts. The young
lover tottered like a drunken man; for a moment he thought he must be
dreaming, for so much happiness surpassed all that he had ever dared to
hope.
"You love me, Diana!" he at length exclaimed.
"You love me! Oh! An eternity of suffering for this second of
happiness!"
And he fell on his knees in front of the maiden. She looked at him for
a moment with an expression of indescribable passion, and then offered
him her hand, which he covered with burning kisses.
"Rise, Melchior," she said to him, with considerable emotion. "Rise, my
beloved. Let this holy love which binds us, and which we have mutually
confessed, remain a secret from everybody. A day will come, and soon, I
hope, when we shall be permitted to proclaim it openly; but till then
let us hide our happiness."
The young man rose.
"I love you, Diana," he said. "I am your slave; order me, and I will
obey."
"Alas, my beloved," she continued, with a sad shake of her head, "I can
give you no orders, entreaty alone is permitted me."
"Oh, speak, speak, Diana," he exclaimed.
The maiden passed her arm through his with a sanguine, childish
confidence.
"Come," she said, "accompany me a few paces, and we will talk about my
mother."
Melchior shook his head sorrowfully, but said nothing.
"Poor mother!" Diana murmured.
"Oh, yes, most unhappy," the young man remarked with a sigh.
"I think you love my mother, dearest?"
"Is it not to her that I am indebted for being what I am?"
"Listen to me, Melchior," she said resolutely; "we love each other,
and some day you will be my husband, for I swear to you that I will
never have another. As you see, I speak frankly and boldly, more so
perhaps than a girl of my age and position ought to do; but you are an
honourable man, and will never abuse the confession I have made you."
"Thanks," he said, simply. "Speak, Diana, speak. Your words are
engraved in letters of fire on my heart."
"It is well, my friend. You, my mother, and my father occupy all my
affections. It is a holy trinity, to which I will never break faith.
You know in what a horrible position my mother finds herself, and what
fearful hallucinations seize upon her."
"Alas!"
"Well! Swear to me that whatever may occur, you will never fail in the
mission I have taken on myself, and of which I confide to you one half
from this day; swear to me that, under all circumstances, you will
remain by her side to defend her, and die for her if it must be so. At
this price, I repeat to you, Melchior, at this price my love is yours
for ever; and no other man but yourself shall ever be my husband."
The young man tried to interrupt her; but she imposed silence on him by
a sudden and peremptory gesture, and continued--
"Oh! I know what a frightful sacrifice I impose on you, brother; but I,
who am but a girl, still a child I may say, endure without complaining
all the consequences of these ferocious acts of vengeance which I dare
not qualify as madness. Alas, Melchior, the fearful disease to which my
poor mother is condemned dates from the period of my birth. I am, so
to speak, the innocent cause of it; hence it is my duty to sacrifice
myself, whatever it may cost me, in order to try if possible to relieve
her frightful sufferings, which, in the paroxysm of a horrible crisis,
will perhaps entail my death and hers; for I do not conceal from
myself, brother, that the day must arrive when the redskins will take
their revenge for my mother's implacable expeditions. But then, if
I succumb, I shall at least fall with the incomparable satisfaction
of having done my duty by sacrificing myself for her to whom I owe my
life."
"Dismiss such gloomy thoughts, Diana. Your mother is growing calmer
with age. The expeditions, as you know, are more and more rare, the
attacks less frequent, and soon, perhaps, we shall have the happiness
of seeing them entirely disappear."
"I dare not flatter myself with that hope, my dear Melchior. No, no.
Unless a miracle occurs, my mother will fall a victim to her monomania
for vengeance on the redskins."
"My dear Diana, there are now two of us to devote ourselves to her. God
is too just and good to desire the ruin of two innocent children who
have never offended Him. You have my word, and my life belongs to you
and to your mother; employ it as a thing that is your own. On the day
when I lose it in serving you and saving you from sorrow, I shall be
the happiest of men."
"Thanks, Melchior; I knew that I could reckon on you. Your generous
words restore the courage which was fast deserting me. I will not break
down in the task I have imposed on myself; henceforth we belong to one
another, no matter what obstacles may arise."
From this day the compact was made between the young people--a sacred
compact, which neither broke, and which was fated to have terrible
consequences for them at a later date. But an invisible witness had
overheard their conversation. This witness, whom they had not seen
gliding like a snake through the shrubs, and listening to all their
remarks with the greatest attention, was Pedro Sotavento, majordomo
of the hacienda. What interest had this man in thus overhearing their
conversation? He alone knew; for beneath an affable and inoffensive
appearance, he concealed a deeply ulcerated heart, and evidently
followed a plan resolved on long before, the realization of which would
burst like a thunderclap upon those whose ruin he had so long meditated.
Sotavento kept to himself his knowledge of the love of the young
people, which he had so treacherously surprised. He never ventured,
in their presence, on the slightest allusion which might lead them to
suspect that he was aware of it. On the contrary, he increased his
politeness towards Melchior, and seemed trying, by overtures adroitly
made each time an opportunity offered, to gain his confidence. This,
however, let us hasten to add, he never succeeded in doing; for the
young man felt for the worthy steward an instinctive and invincible
aversion, which stopped in his throat a confession he was several times
on the point of making to him.