It was the first time I had made my devotions in a Roman Catholic
Cathedral; and I shall not say that I then worshipped as I should have
done.
Santa Gaudalupe--beautiful as the sensuous Mexican priesthood have had
the cunning to conceive her--glorious as she appeared in her golden
shrine--was scarce regarded by me.
More attractive were the black lace shawl and high comb of Mercedes
Villa-Senor--not for themselves, but for the lovely countenance I knew
to be underneath them.
I watched them with eyes that wandered not. In my heart I anathematised
them as the most detestable screens ever interposed between a lover's
eye and its idol.
While engaged in her devotions a Mexican _senorita_ assumes three
distinct attitudes. She stands, she kneels, she _squats_. I regret my
inability to express in more elegant phrase, that peculiar species of
genuflexion, which may be described as the dropping down from the
kneeling attitude to one a degree lower. It is a feat of feminine
gymnastics that has long mystified me; and I am not anatomist enough
either to comprehend or explain it.
Mercedes Villa-Senor appeared perfect in every _pose_. Even her
_squatting_ was graceful!
I watched her changing attitudes as the ceremony proceeded--the chant,
the prayer, the lesson. During all these she never once looked round.
I thought she must be a _saint_--a thought scarce in keeping with the
conjectures I had hitherto shaped concerning her.
It gave me but slight pleasure to think she was so holy. I should have
preferred finding her human--that angel of angels!
Dolores appeared less devout. At all events, she was less attentive to
her prayers. Twenty times I perceived her eyes averted from the altar--
turned toward the doorway--peering into shadowy aisles--looking
everywhere but upon the officiating priest.
His shaven crown had no attraction for her. She searched for the
shining curls of "querido Francisco!"
He was not in the Cathedral--at least, I could not see him. I had my
own thoughts about the cause of his absence.
Less accustomed to "sparkling wine," he had not borne its effects like
the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so
readily recovered from it.
Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!
I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her
gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.
The time passed--chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding
one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried
about.
Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed
by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd--idolatrous.
In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce
restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the
position that could make his paltry performance so attractive--to eyes
like those then looking upon him.
Thank heaven they are mine at last--at last!
Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.
I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar.
The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated
within those sacred walls--far different from that inscribed upon the
tablet: "God is love." My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I
shall not say that it was what it should have been--a love, such as we
read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can
lay claim to belong to no other class than that of the simple
_adventurer_; who, with tongue, pen, or sword--as the chances turned
up--has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!
In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the
passion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Senor. It was too romantic to be
mean.
In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more,--at
least nothing to gratify me.
But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a
different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once
more seemed to _welcome_ me!
There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of
the _chale_. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new
impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the
sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps
more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.
Again our glances met--mine given with all the ardour of a love long
restrained.
Once more they met in sweet exchanging--once more, and once more. I had
won Mercedes from her worship!
No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt,
I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.