A STORY TOLD AND A SURPRISE.
“_Madre mia_, why so sad this bright and beautiful day, when all should
be as gay and happy as it is out of doors?” exclaimed a young girl, as
she entered the room, and, kneeling at her mother’s feet, lifted the
bowed head, holding it between her two dainty palms, and pressed
affectionate kisses upon the pale cheeks and lips.
“Ah, child, if you knew what anniversary this sad day is, you would not
wonder at my grief,” returned the elder lady, mournfully. “Luisa, child,
how old are you?” she added, half vacantly.
“Why, mother, need you ask that?” laughed her daughter. “I am nearly
nineteen! Almost an old woman, aren’t I?” and her soft, gleesome laugh
again rung out.
“Listen, Luisa; you have never learned the true way in which your
father—my husband, died. But you are old enough now, and I think I can
bear to tell it all. I have been thinking of the past this morning—of
your father and brother, child, who was stolen when you were a babe.”
“_Stolen!_” exclaimed Luisa, eagerly. “I thought you said he was dead?”
“And so he is—he _must_ be, or I should have found him years ago,”
murmured the mother; and then she detailed at length the incidents
embodied in our first chapter, so far as she was conversant with them.
“We lay concealed in the _chapparal_, where the undergrowth was most
dense, Felipe and I, together with Tadeo Campos and Josefa. How we
managed to reach the place, I know not. My mind was distracted with fear
for my husband and my son. And then, as we crouched there, under a
thorny _mezquiti_, we heard the loud shouts and tramping of men, as they
searched for us, and we could hear them speaking _in Spanish_!
“Oh, how my poor heart bounded with joy then, as I thought that my
husband had been victorious, and would have cried aloud to them, if
brave, prudent Tadeo had not placed his hand upon my mouth, and bade me
beware; that he feared they were foes.
“He said that he had suspected the men who had attacked the _hacienda_
were not Indians, although disguised as such, but were Mexicans. Why, he
did not say, but bade me remain quiet for my child’s sake, while he
would reconnoiter, and learn for certain who the voices belonged to that
we had heard. Then he crawled along and was gone but a few moments
before he returned. One glance at his face told me the worst, and I
swooned away in my great grief.
“It was but too true. The _hacienda_ had been taken, and my husband
killed, not by Indians, but by our own countrymen, although who they
were or who led them we never learned. Toward midnight we cautiously
returned to the house, and there I found your father, dead! shot through
the brain!
“It was a horrible sight. The mangled bodies of our brave _peons_ lay in
heaps upon the floor, where they had been slain. Not one of them had
been spared, or escaped that dreadful massacre, save us four. All were
dead!
“The house, as you see, was left standing, the herds were untouched;
nothing, save a few articles of plate and the ready money, was taken.
Surely a war-party of Indians would never act in this manner, and it
further confirmed a belief that the marauders were of our own country.
But what was their object? Alas, I fear it was but to murder all,
although for what reason I know not.
“We mounted our horses and fled from the spot, after burying your
father, and did not rest until we reached the city of Guanajuato, where
we arrived nearly dead from fatigue and hunger, and told our tale to the
kind friends we met there. I dispatched Tadeo Campos, with a note
detailing the sad tragedy, to your uncle Augustin Canelo, who was then
at the city of Mexico.
“He was fearfully enraged and grieved at his brother’s murder, and vowed
to search the world over but he would have revenge. But we could give
him no clue to the assassins. Well, he sent a number of his own _peons_
to the _hacienda_, and when it was renovated we returned to it. He
remained with us at my request, and for a year all went well. He would
be absent for weeks at a time on business connected with his silver
mines, or searching for some trace of the murderers.
“I thought my cup of sorrow was full, even to overflowing, but I had yet
to endure more; another fearful blow awaited me. You, my child, were
nearly six months old, when one day our little Felipe, the darling boy,
so brave and beautiful, and the image of his father, was torn from me.
He had been stolen, but by whom or how, could never be discovered. The
Indians were very troublesome then, and I thought that perhaps they had
stolen, perhaps murdered my son for the sake of the rich clothes and
costly jewels that he wore.
“For long months we searched far and wide for some traces of him, but in
vain. The river and _arroyos_ were dragged, the _chapparal_ searched
inch by inch, but there were no traces found. In my grief I thought I
should die, but it was denied me. And now do you wonder at my sorrow? On
this day, nineteen years ago, my husband was murdered; one year later,
on the same day, your brother Felipe disappeared—perhaps met the same
fate!” and she bowed her head upon her hands, while the hot, scalding
tears trickled through her fingers.
The girl at her feet sat in silence, her dark eyes dimmed at the
tragical tale she had just listened to. Her sorrow was less than that of
her mother, for her brother she could not remember, and the father her
eyes had never rested upon, seemed but in a remote degree associated
with herself. It was a subject that her mother had ever avoided, and
Luisa was too gay and light-hearted to press the topic; so it is not to
be wondered at that she did not feel the intense grief that agitated the
form of her mother.
No one who could have seen her then would have pronounced her other than
beautiful. She was rather under the medium size, but so perfectly
proportioned that she appeared taller. Her large, lustrous black eyes
were shaded by lashes of the deepest jet, and her finely-arched eyebrows
were of the same sable hue. Glossy black tresses were braided like a
coronet around her finely-formed head, whence a mass of fine ringlets
flowed over a neck and shoulders which would have been considered fair
even in our land of blonde beauties, and in her sunny clime were deemed
white as the newly-fallen snow. A stranger’s eye would detect and dwell
upon the faintly dark shading on her upper lip, that in a youth might
have been termed an incipient mustache. But is it a blemish? Her friends
thought otherwise. It but added another attraction to her piquant
beauty.
Her mother was slightly taller, but the same contour of face and great
resemblance, although somewhat impaired by time and sorrow, showed that
Senora Luzecita Canelo lived again in her daughter Luisa.
They were aroused by a light tap at the half-opened door, and glanced
around.
“Well Josefa, what is it?” said Luisa.
The old nurse entered the room on tiptoe, as if fearful of disturbing
the mistress, and whispered, in a low tone:
“It is a stranger, _’na_ Luisa, on particular business, he says, and—”
“Well, where is Sarguela; he attends to all such, as you know, Josefa,”
interrupted the maiden, a little impatiently.
“Don Garcia is with him, but he says he must see the senora; that his
business is for her ear alone,” hesitated Josefa.
“Wishes to see _me_,” asked the lady, looking up. “What and who is he?”
“That he will not tell; but he is a handsome _cavallero_, and—pardon me,
lady, if I say that he is a perfect image of _el coronel_ when I first
saw him.”
“Of my husband?” exclaimed the lady, as her face flushed. “And young,
say you? Oh, Santissima Virgin, if it should be—ah, no, he is dead long
since,” she murmured; then added: “Go, Josefa, and show him here. I will
see him.”
In a few moments the old nurse, as she was still called, returned and
ushered in the persistent stranger. At first he appeared somewhat
abashed and ill at ease, for the ladies had arisen and were facing the
door in half eager expectation, and quickly doffing his hat he made a
stiff, slightly awkward bow.
“My heart, the picture!” faltered Senora Canelo, pointing to a
full-length portrait of her husband, hanging against the wall.
Luisa instantly checked the smile that lurked around her rosy mouth,
called forth by the _outre_ demeanor of the stranger, and she too
uttered an exclamation as she glanced from the face to the picture.
“I crave your pardon, ladies, if I appear rude, but I have seen so
little of society, that for a moment I was dazzled,” he apologized, in a
soft, musical tone. “Am I right in thinking I address Senora Canelo?”
“That is my name, senor; and yours?”
“Alas, lady, _once_ I would not have hesitated in replying _Felipe
Barana_; but now, if this packet does not give me a name, I know not
that I have one,” replied the youth, in a mournful tone, as he advanced
and placed a small parcel, securely tied and sealed, in the trembling
hand of the senora.
“Felipe—he said Felipe, and then that face,” murmured she, as she sunk
heavily into the chair she had just quitted, and with trembling fingers
began to untie the package.
“Be seated, senor,” said Luisa, motioning to a chair, and placing one
for herself, so as to partially screen her mother, whom she saw was
strangely perturbed.
Senora Canelo tore the wrapper apart, and laying upon an inner package
was a note superscribed with her name, in a bold, firm hand that seemed
familiar. It was unsealed, and opening its folds, she hurriedly glanced
at the contents. Then, with a wild cry, she started to her feet, and
advanced a step toward the stranger, but her limbs refused to do their
duty, and she sunk to the floor in a swoon.
Luisa bent over her, shrieking for help, and as she loosened the throat
of her mother’s dress she caught the words:
“_Felipe—my son—thank God!_”
Josefa came rushing in, and unceremoniously hustled the stranger out of
the room, and set about restoring her mistress.
“Never fear, _’na_ Luisa, it is only a fainting fit; there’s no cause of
alarm. In a few moments it will be over.”
“Are you sure, Josefa, are you sure?” eagerly queried the sobbing girl.
“_Ay de mi!_ She looks like dead!”
“No, no; it’s nothing—nothing at all. Why, bless you, child, she’s had
thousands of them!” returned the old nurse, exaggerating a little, the
better to reassure Luisa. “See, the color comes to her lips, and, praise
the Virgin, her eyes open!”
“Oh, mother, mother, I thought you were dead!”
“Where—where is he—Felipe, my son?” and the lady half raised from the
lounge, glancing eagerly around the room, then sinking back, she wailed,
“_Nuestra Madre de los Merced!_ it was all a dream, a cruel, bitter
dream!”
“No, no, it was no dream; he is here—the stranger, I mean, who looks so
much like papa’s portrait. And see, here is the letter he gave you!”
exclaimed Luisa, placing the note in her mother’s hand.
“Call—but no, I must have been mistaken; _he_ is dead long, long since!
My daughter, read what _it_ says, to me; my eyes are blurred, and I can
not see.”
Luisa opened the note with intense curiosity, but then looked up in
surprise.
“Why, mother, it is from Uncle Augustin!”
“Yes, go on—read, quick!”
“My deeply-wronged sister:” it began, “when you read this, I shall be
no more. I am dying, and the _padre_ tells me that, before the sun
goes down, I shall be dead. How this occurred, the bearer of this, my
dying confession, will tell you. I have deeply wronged you and yours,
and stained my soul with a horrible crime; but now make reparation as
far as lies in my power. Listen, and, in God’s mercy, do not curse me
after I am dead! _I_ hired the men who, disguised as Comanches,
attacked the _hacienda_ nineteen years ago, and by my hand, _my
brother_—your husband—died! I was mad, crazy, but I loved you, and
thought that, if he was out of the way, in time you would listen to my
suit. Then I caused your son, Felipe, to be stolen, and at the time
meant to kill him, for I was poor, and he stood between me and wealth.
But my heart failed me, and he yet lives, a noble, brave boy, who
looks at me with _your_ eyes and his father’s face. I can not tell you
all I would of my reasons for the crimes I confess, for my strength is
fast failing. But I will send this by YOUR SON, although he knows not
who his parents are. I inclose the jewels and a scarf that he wore
when he was first abducted, so that you may have no doubt. And now
listen to my prayer, the last I shall ever make. I know I have been
fearfully guilty, yet I do not think I could rest in my grave if you
should curse me as the murderer of your husband. I do not ask for
forgiveness, but that you will strive to forget me; as though I had
never been born. May the holy Virgin ever smile upon and guard you,
and cause the son I return to your heart to be a joy and a blessing.
As I hope for mercy hereafter, he is your only son, Felipe.
“Augustin Canelo.”
The mother did not speak while this strange letter was being read, but
pressed both hands tightly upon her bosom, as if to still the painful
throbbings of her heart, while the breath came in gasps from between her
pallid lips. When the last word was pronounced, she essayed in vain to
arise; then, as she sunk back, feebly whispered to Luisa, who was
scarcely less agitated than herself:
“Go, Luisa; go bring YOUR BROTHER to me!”
The sister needed no further prompting, but sped away like a startled
fawn to the room where her brother had been so unceremoniously consigned
by Josefa. He was pacing rapidly to and fro, his handsome countenance
expressing no small degree of wonder and perplexity.
“Felipe, my brother, don’t you know your little sister, Luisa?” she
cried, and throwing her arms around his broad shoulders, stood on
tip-toe to press her lips to his.
He was startled, as well he might be, but the tempting lips, pouting out
like twin cherries, would have enticed far older and more sedate hearts
than his, and clasping her to his breast, he pressed kiss after kiss
upon her blushing face, with an ardor that half alarmed her. Truly, it
would be pleasant, really pleasant, to be a big brother, if all sisters
were like Luisa. But the voice of the mother was heard from within,
calling him to hasten, and Luisa said:
“Come, Felipe, brother; come to mother,” and together they entered the
room.
Old Josefa stole out from the apartment, and we will follow her example,
for the meeting between the long-parted ones was sacred. But an hour
afterward the three were seated close together, while before them lay
the jewels and scarf that the mother instantly recognized, and they
removed any doubt that she could have entertained as to the reality of
the youth’s identity.
“Do you recollect nothing whatever of this place, Felipe?” asked his
mother.
“I can not just now. Perhaps it will come back to me when I am a little
less bewildered. Remember what a surprise I have had; I, who thought I
was alone in the world, without even a _name_,” he replied, as he kissed
first one and then the other.
“No; the first I can remember is being in a little village on a
mountain’s side, and then it changes to a vast and gloomy cavern, with
wild-looking men all around me. I know now that they were Jarochos and a
sort of _guerilleros_, who robbed; but I never knew of their shedding
blood, unless in a quarrel between themselves. And as I grew older I
became one of them. Do not start, or look so terrified, for you must
remember that I knew no better. It was the way I had been taught and I
thought all men were like us.
“The man whom I called father—your uncle, Luisa, who went by the name of
Don Serapio Barana—was the chief or leader of the band, and he taught me
this, and gave me the education I have; him and _padre_ Gayferos. He
would often be gone for weeks and months at a time, and then the
lieutenant, Lopez Romulo, would be left in command. He was a wicked,
cruel man, and I hated him!” Felipe added, while his eyes flashed and a
hand crept to the jeweled hilt of the poniard that peeped from his
bosom.
“Twice he insulted me so bitterly that, if it had not have been for
those around me, I would have slain him like a dog, as he is. Well, one
day, perhaps two weeks since, when I returned from a hunt of several
days’ duration, I found Don Barana at the point of death. How it
happened I only could learn that he had been wounded in an attack upon a
_conducta de plata_” (convoy of silver), “in which the band had been
repulsed with severe loss. Then he told me that he was not my father,
but that he would send me with a package, and the one who received it
would tell me all concerning who and what I was. He made me promise to
deliver the packet into no hands but your own, as I valued my future.
“Then _padre_ Gayferos dismissed us all from the room or chamber in the
cave, as he wished to receive his last confession. In a few minutes they
told me he was dead, and then I took a last farewell of my rough but
kind friends. I amused myself on the long journey with picturing what
would be my reception—who I would turn out to be; but ah, _mi almas_,
the most romantic air castle did not realize the truth!” he exclaimed,
as he caressed his newly-found relatives.
“Oh, my children,” murmured the mother, “this has ever been a fearful,
horrible anniversary for me, hitherto, but now it will be divided with
joy. On it I lost a dear husband and a son; but the one is an angel in
heaven, where he is now smiling down upon us, and the other is here! Oh,
my son, my Felipe, we must never more part in this world. For eighteen
years I have mourned for you, and—”
“And now, for thrice that long we will rejoice together!” exclaimed
Luisa joyously, as she nestled closer against her brother’s arm, looking
lovingly up into his handsome face.