MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
We will now resume our story again at the point where we broke off. Don
Melchior, after his short appearance in the saloon, hastily proceeded
to a retired suite of rooms in the right wing of the hacienda. We will
precede him and go in a few minutes before him.
This suite only consisted of two rooms, furnished with that severe
luxury which the Spaniards so well understand, and which is appropriate
to their grave and melancholy character. The first room, serving as
withdrawing room, was hung with stamped Cordovan leather. Oak chairs,
which had grown black with time, and were also covered with leather,
were drawn up against the walls. In the centre of the room was a table,
over which a green cloth was thrown. A crucifix of yellow ivory, three
feet high, before which stood a curiously carved oak prie-dieu, faced
one of those enormous Louis XIII. clocks, whose case could easily have
contained a man, and, in a corner, was a species of oratory, surmounted
by a white marble statue of the Virgin of Suffering, whose brow was
girt with a crown of white roses, while before it burned a silver lamp,
shaped like a censer, and suspended from the ceiling by a chain.
In this room, which looked more like an oratory than a drawing room,
and which opened on a bedroom, the furniture of which was extremely
plain, two ladies were seated near a window, and conversing in a low
voice, at the moment when the exigencies of our narrative compel us
to join them. Of these two, one had passed the age of thirty--that
critical period for Spanish women; but although her face was pale as
marble, and her features were worn with sorrow, it was easy to perceive
that she must have been very lovely once. The person who kept her
company was a light-haired, graceful, pale, and delicate girl. She
was endowed with the ideal and dreamy beauty which renders painters
desperate and which German poets have alone been able to describe. In
her calm, pensive features were found again the dreamy, restless, and
chaste physiognomy of Goethe's Marguerite, and the intoxicating and
impassioned smile of Schiller's pale creations.
These two ladies were mother and daughter. Doña Emilia de Saldibar and
Doña Diana. Their dress, through its severe simplicity, harmonized
perfectly with the expression of sorrow and melancholy spread over
their whole persons. They wore long gowns of black velvet, without
embroidery or ornaments, fastened round the waist by girdles of the
same colour. A rebozo of black lace covered their neck and chest, and
could, if necessary, be thrown over their heads, and hide their faces.
They were conversing in a low voice, looking out now and then absently
into the courtyard, in which were assembled the numerous peons of the
hacenderos who had responded to Don Aníbal's summons.
"No," Doña Emilia said, "no, my child, it is better to remain silent,
for this information is anything but positive."
"Still, mother," the young lady answered, "the man seemed thoroughly
acquainted with the whole story; and it appears to me, on the
contrary--"
"You are wrong, Diana," her mother interrupted, with some sternness
in her voice. "I know better than you what should be done under the
circumstances. Be careful, Niña. You take the affair too much to heart,
and let yourself be carried away."
The girl blushed, and bit her lips.
"You know how I love you, my child," Doña Emilia continued directly;
"so do not try to thwart what I do, as you are well aware I have but
one object, your happiness, so let me act as I think proper."
"My dear mother!" the young lady said affectionately.
"Yes," Doña Emilia replied with a cold smile, "I am your dear mother
when I yield to your importunities."
"Oh, do not say that, mother! You know what deep love I have for you."
"Yes I know it, and I know too that I do not alone occupy your heart."
Doña Diana turned her head away to hide the blush that suffused her
face at this remark; but her mother did not notice this emotion,
and continued, as if speaking to herself, instead of addressing her
daughter--
"But why should I complain? Ought it not always to be so? Woman is born
to love, as the bird is to fly in the air. Love, my poor, dear child;
for love constitutes a woman's entire life, for it enables her to learn
joy and sorrow."
Her voice gradually grew weaker, and these words were spoken
indistinctly. There was a rather long silence, which the girl did not
venture to disturb by an indiscreet question. Respecting the sorrowful
reverie into which her mother had fallen, her eyes were fixed more
attentively on the courtyard. All at once she started.
"Ah!" she said, at once glad and troubled, "Here is Don Melchior."
"What did you say, Niña?" her mother asked, raising her head eagerly.
"I think you mentioned the name of Don Melchior?"
"Yes, I did, mother," she answered timidly.
"Well, what did you say about him?"
"Nothing, mother, except that I just saw him in the yard, and I think
he is coming here."
"He will be welcome, for I am anxiously expecting him. So soon as he
comes in, Niña, you will be good enough to retire to your bedroom, and
not come back till I call you. I have important matters to discuss with
this young man, which it is unnecessary for you to hear."
"You shall be obeyed, mother," the young lady said as she rose. "I hear
his footstep in the corridor, so I will withdraw, for he will be here
directly."
"Go, my child; I shall soon recall you."
The girl bent over her mother, whose forehead she kissed, and ran away,
light as a bird, at the moment when two raps on the door announced a
visitor. Doña Emilia waited till the door of her daughter's bedroom was
closed, and then cried, "Come in!" The door swung back slowly on its
hinges, and Melchior appeared. So soon as the young man entered the
room he doffed his hat, and walked respectfully toward Doña Emilia,
who, without leaving her seat by the window, half turned and made him a
sign to approach.
"You did me the honour of sending for me, madam," he said, as he
stopped three or four yards from Doña Emilia.
"Yes, caballero," she replied. "You know that I have been absent from
the hacienda for several days, and only returned a few hours ago;
consequently I am ignorant of all that is going on, and thought you
could give me the information I desire."
"You know, madam, that I am completely at your service for anything you
may please to order."
"I doubt neither your courtesy nor your devotion, Don Melchior, and I
think I have given you sufficient proof of that."
"Madam," the young man answered warmly, "your kindness to me has known
no bounds. I feel for you the veneration I should have for a mother,
for you have acted as such to me."
"I did what my religion commanded for an abandoned orphan. But enough
on this head: tell me what there is new at the hacienda."
"When you left the house without warning me, contrary to your habit,
madam, to get ready to accompany you, I was at first very sad, for I
was afraid that I had displeased you; then, on reflection, and after
seeking in my mind what the motive could be that urged you to exile me
from your presence, I supposed that I should be more useful to you here
than if I followed you."
"Quite right," she answered, with a smile. "Go on; but first sit down
here by my side," she added, affectionately.
The young man bowed respectfully, and took the chair pointed out to him.
"I need not tell you, madam," he continued, "what is the motive of this
day's meeting, or who the persons present are."
"No, pass over that."
"But among these persons there is one whose presence you are assuredly
far from suspecting."
"Who is it?"
"Father Sandoval."
"Father Sandoval!" she exclaimed, with a start. "Impossible! He is a
prisoner of the Spaniards."
"It is he, madam."
"That is strange. How is it that I have not been informed of his
presence?"
"He arrived at the hacienda with Don Aurelio Gutiérrez."
"But I was close to Don Aurelio: he only had with him Yankee or
Canadian wood rangers and two Mexican peons."
"Well, madam, one of those peons was no other than Father Sandoval.
The reverend father thought it wise to assume this disguise in order,
probably, more easily to escape the Spanish spies."
"Yes, that must have been the reason; prudence commanded him to act so.
Go on."
"Father Sandoval has made himself known to all our adherents, and has
been unanimously elected their chief."
"In truth, he alone possesses sufficient influence over the haughty
hacenderos to command them. And what measures have been adopted?"
"Pardon me, madam, but I must tell you of another person whose presence
was neither expected nor desired, and who arrived suddenly."
"The Count de Melgosa, I suppose. I was aware that he was coming. He
was doubtless the bearer of some tremendous message. Has he gone again?"
"Not yet, madam; he will not leave the hacienda till sunrise tomorrow,
accompanied by Colonel Don Oliver Clary, one of the Canadian
adventurers brought by Don Aurelio, whom Father Sandoval has entrusted
with his answer to the governor's manifesto."
"Very good, we have time before us; we will set out tonight. You will
accompany us, Melchior; so be careful that everything is prepared for
midnight, and our departure kept secret."
"You shall be obeyed, madam."
"And the majordomo?"
This question was asked in a tone which showed what importance Doña
Emilia attached to it.
"Still impenetrable, madam," he answered; "ever full of zeal and
devotion. His conduct does not offer the slightest pretext to suspect
him of treachery."
"Strange," she murmured; "still it is evident to me that this man is a
traitor, and playing a double part. How can I unmask him? Oh, a proof,
a proof, however slight it be. Still it cannot always be so; heaven
will not permit it. Patience, patience! I thank you, Don Melchior,
for the zeal you have displayed; continue to be faithful. Now you can
withdraw."
The young man rose.
"Madam," he ventured, timidly, "will you allow me to ask you one
question."
"Speak."
"I have not had the happiness," he continued, with hesitation, "to see
Doña Diana since her return. I trust that the fatigue she must have
felt has not made her ill, and that her precious health is still good."
Doña Emilia frowned, and a cloud of dissatisfaction spread over her
face; but at once recovering herself, she replied, gently--
"Doña Diana is well, Melchior."
"Oh, all the better, madam," he said, with an outburst of passionate
joy which he could not repress.
Then, bowing deeply to Doña Emilia, he fell back to leave the room.
"Poor boy!" Doña Emilia murmured, as she looked after him.
At the moment when he reached the door, she called him back.
"I forgot," she said; "be kind enough to tell Father Sandoval that,
if his occupations permit, I should like to speak with him for a few
moments after oración this evening."
"I will tell him, madam. Have you any further commands for me?"
"No, you can go."
The young man bowed for the last time, and went out. Doña Emilia was
hardly alone ere her daughter rushed from her bedroom, and ran up to
her.
"Well," she said, "what is the meaning of this, Niña? Why have you come
without being called?"
"Oh, mother," she answered, as she threw herself into her arms,
"forgive me, but I was suffering too greatly."
Doña Emilia recoiled, and looked her daughter in the face.
"What is the meaning of these words, señorita!" she said to her,
sternly. "To what are you alluding?"
The girl, ashamed of the confession she had allowed to escape her,
buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears.
"Diana, Diana!" her mother said, with ineffable sadness, as she drew
her daughter gently to her heart, "You are preparing great suffering
both for yourself and me."
"Mother!" she murmured, with a sob.
"Silence, Niña!" Doña Emilia quickly interrupted, "Do not add a word
which might, perhaps, cause, irreparable misfortunes. I know nothing,
and wish to know nothing. Dry those tears which burn my heart, and
take your place again by my side."
"Yes, mother," she answered, in a voice choked by sobs and trying to
obey.
"Diana!" Doña Emilia continued presently, in a firm voice, "Remember
that we have a mission of vengeance to accomplish against the Indians,
and that they are the cause of the terrible misfortunes which have
overwhelmed us."
These words were uttered in a tone which admitted of no reply. The
maiden shuddered and hung her head sadly with no strength to answer.
Her mother regarded her for a moment with an expression of pity, love,
and grief impossible to describe, and pointed to the statue of the
Virgin placed in a corner of the room.
"Pray to her who has drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of sorrow; she
will have pity on you and give you the necessary courage to endure the
grief which overwhelms you."
The maiden rose slowly; she went to the chapel, and kneeling down
piously before the statue, to which she raised her tear-laden eyes, she
prayed fervently; then, at a sign from her mother, she withdrew to her
bedroom. In the evening, Doña Emilia had a conversation with Father
Sandoval, which was carried on far into the night. This conversation,
doubtless, very important, but which we will not describe here, left
a sweet and consoling impression on the mind of Doña Emilia, for her
features grew calmer, and, before retiring to rest, she gave her
daughter's pale forehead a kiss full of maternal tenderness, as she
murmured in a low voice--
"Hope!"
The girl started in her sleep, and a faint smile played round her rosy
lips.