Soon after the occupation of Mazatlan, I made the acquaintance of a
young Mexican girl, of a respectable family in Guadalajara, who had
eloped with her lover, an officer stationed in this province. She was
better educated, far more intelligent than the generality of her
countrywomen, and with all the graceful, winning ways, peculiar to
Creoles. She was living with an old relative, in a cottage near the
skirts of the town, and I frequently sought her society, listened to the
low, sweet _cancioncitas_ of her native land, or, seated beneath the
shade of a spreading tree in the inner _patio_, she would recite by the
hour old legendary redondillas and ballads of Mexico, while her servant
played with the sweeping masses of her jet-black hair: she was very
proud of it, and often told me, that when she became poor, it would
serve her for a _mantilla_. She had soft feminine features, pale
complexion, lighted by large, languid, dark eyes. She was a tall and
slender girl, but with the smallest feet I ever beheld. This was
Dolores. Her mind appeared to partake of the mournful signification of
her name, and, even during her gayest moments, she was always tinged
with sadness. Poor Lola! she was thinking of her lover, who had left
with the troops on our coming.
Returning one morning from a fatiguing night skirmish, the servant
Tomasa met me on the road, and placed a note in my hand from her
mistress. It was simply a desire to see me. Without going to the
quarters, I turned my horse's head towards the town, and soon dismounted
at the house. The old aunt received me with some agitation, and I could
see the shadow of Dolores reflected from an inner room. _Que hay Senor?
Nada, una escaramuza, no mas! Y muertos? Quien sabe! puede ser un
oficial de ustedes._--What's the news? Nothing but a skirmish. Any
killed? Yes, perhaps one of your officers. At this reply, Dolores
entered the chamber, and with a quick low voice, asked, "and the color
of his horse, senor? white!" She burst into tears, and sank to the
floor. I afterwards learned that it was her lover, who, however, had
only been slightly wounded. He had been in the habit of entering the
port disguised as an _arriero_, and was expected on the morning alluded
to. Had I known what he was capable of doing at a later day, he might
have lost the number of his mess, instead of receiving a buckshot in the
leg.
From this period, poor Dolores became more and more triste and
depressed. She never was seen again in the plaza--the music had lost its
charm--her books were thrown aside, and she would hardly mingle in
conversation. Some weeks went by, and duty claiming all my time, I had
not called for many days. Late one night, Tomasa came running to the
Garita, and with breathless haste, told me that her mistress was very
ill, and wished to see me. A few minutes' gallop took me to the door.
The old lady was weeping, and poor Lola was lying upon a low couch, with
blood slowly frothing from her lips--but I thought there was a gleam of
pleasure in her eyes. She had burst a bloodvessel--at least I imagined
so at the time, and I instantly despatched a boy on my horse for a
surgeon. In the sequel I discovered the cause Tomasa informed me, she
had heard the Senora scream, and upon entering the room, found her lying
insensible on the ground, deluged in blood, and on coming to, she had
begged her to say nothing, but send for me. The fact was, that her lover
had again stolen into town, and whether from idle jealousy, or natural
brutality of disposition, had the dastardly cruelty to beat the poor
unresisting girl, with the hilt of a pistol, until she fell lifeless
from heavy blows showered upon her breast and shoulders. This was fully
shown by the post-mortem examination. The miscreant fled, and many an
hour of sound sleep he cost me, in hopes of getting a glimpse of him
along the tube of a rifle.
At the time, there was a chance of recovery; and daily, after the
hemorrhage ceased, I sat by her bed-side, and tried to encourage her
with anticipations of returning health. _No! no! me voy a morir_--It is
all useless, I am going to die!--counting with her thin fingers--"in
three weeks! _Ay de mi!_ for one last sight of my native land."
Sometimes I would read to her a Spanish translation of Sue's Mysteries
of Paris, and she never tired of saying of Fleur de Marie, _Pobrecita!
que dolor!_--Poor thing! what sufferings! She was gradually sinking, but
still her spirits rose, and her big black eyes became more and more
luminous. It was sorrowful, indeed, to see a young girl, so beautiful
and bright, just bidding adieu to life.
She had the best medical attendance, but another hemorrhage ensued, and
the lamp of life was fading fast. At last, Tomasa came for me: _Dios de
mi alma! la Senora se esta moriendo_--My mistress is dying. I found the
sick chamber filled with women, and a priest, while a number of tapers
threw a strong light upon the nearly breathless sufferer. The padre soon
accomplished his drawling work--a crucifix was pressed to her pallid
lips--the bed and floor sprinkled with holy water--a hasty _ave_ was
muttered, and they then withdrew. Fortunately, a sister had arrived a
few days previously, and it was a great consolation to the dying girl. I
drew near, and seated myself at the couch. She placed her limp little
hand in mine--told her sister to sever a tress from her hair when she
was dead--and drawing a ring from her finger, smiled faintly, saying,
_acuerdese de mi amistad_--remember me kindly. An hour passed, and I was
forced to leave--indeed, while every breath came fluttering to the lips,
weaker and weaker--I could not bear to see the last--I whispered
_adios_, kissed her pale forehead, and went away.
She expired just at midnight. During the whole period of her illness,
she never once murmured a reproach against her lover, but left him a
blessing when she died. If such beautiful devotion has not heaped coals
of fire on his head, he is less than man.
The night following her decease, I was seated on a tombstone in the
little cemetery near the port, when my eye was attracted by a flickering
torch, and advancing, I met the corpse. We made five in all. The grave
was open, and we lowered her gently down. All was still, save the
convulsive sobs of Manuela, and the rolling earth falling upon the
coffin--the dew sparkled by the reflection of the blazing torch--the
work was done--light extinguished, and mourners gone. Alas! poor
Dolores! I have preserved your tress and ring, and time has not yet
erased the remembrance of your love and sufferings from a stranger's
breast.