DOÑA HERMOSA.
Stoneheart was not mistaken in declaring that the dust, rising far away
in the desert, was caused by the servants of the _hacienda_; in fact,
the hunter had scarcely left the persons he was guiding, when the cloud
of sand was blown away by the breeze, disclosing a numerous party of
_vaqueros_ and _peones_, well armed, who were approaching at the top of
their speed.
Two horses' length in front galloped Don Estevan Diaz, chiding his
companions, and urging them to increase their pace.
The two parties soon met, and mingled with each other.
Estevan Diaz, as Don Pedro had foreseen, had grown anxious at his
master's lengthened absence. Fearing lest some accident might have
occurred, he had assembled all the most resolute men belonging to the
_hacienda_, and placing himself at their head, commenced his search at
once, scouring the wilderness in all directions.
But had it not been for the lucky chance which led to the meeting with
Stoneheart, in the very moment when the strength and courage of the
little party were oozing away together, it is probable that the search
would have been without result, and another mournful and horrible
tragedy registered in the annals of the prairies.
The joy of Don Estevan and his party was great at recognising those
whom they had scarcely hoped to see again, and the whole company gaily
took the road to the _hacienda_, where they arrived in safety a couple
of hours later.
Doña Hermosa retired to her apartment as soon as she had dismounted,
excusing herself on account of the fatigue she had endured.
She reached her cool maiden chamber, which looked so calm and pleasant,
cast a glance of delight at the cherished appurtenances, and then threw
herself with a feeling of instinctive gratitude, at the knees of the
Virgin, whose image, crowned with flowers, was placed in a corner of
the chamber, and seemed to watch over her.
Her prayer addressed to the Virgin was long, very long. For more than
an hour she remained on her knees, murmuring words which none save God
could hear.
At last she rose, slowly, and as it were with reluctance, made a final
sign of the cross, and, traversing the room, cast herself on a couch,
where she nestled in a flood of drapery, like the Bengali in its bed of
moss.
Then she gave herself up to thought.
What power could thus profoundly occupy the mind, hitherto so gay and
cheerful, of this young creature, whose life from infancy had been
one unbroken succession of gentle joys,--for whom the sky had had no
cloud, the past no regrets, and the future no apprehensions Why did she
frown so heavily, tracing, on her pure forehead, lines at first hardly
perceptible, but deepening with her deepening thoughts?
None could tell. Hermosa herself could not, perhaps, have given an
explanation.
This was the reason: without accounting to herself for the change she
was undergoing, Hermosa awoke as from a long slumber; her heart beat
more quickly, her blood coursed more rapidly in her veins, a flood of
unknown thoughts rushed from her heart to her brain, making it whirl.
In one word, the girl felt she had become a woman.
A vague uneasiness without apparent cause, a feverish irritability,
agitated her by turns; sometimes a stifled sob would rend her bosom,
and a burning tear show like a pearl on her eyelashes; then her purple
lips would part under the influence of a charming smile, the reflection
of thoughts she could not define, beseeching her to drive them away,
and return to the calm and heedless joys she was losing forever.
"Yes!" she cried suddenly, bounding from her couch with the grace of a
startled fawn; "Yes: I will discover who he is."
Hermosa had involuntarily allowed the key of the riddle to escape her.
Possessed by the spirit whose voice was evoking her inward agitation,
she loved--or at least Love was on the point of revealing himself to
her.
Scarcely had she uttered the words we have reported, than she blushed
deeply, and, urged by a charming impulse of maiden modesty, ran to draw
before the image of the Virgin the curtain used to conceal it.
The Virgin, the habitual confidante of the girl, was not to know the
secrets of the woman. Full of holy fervour, Hermosa had immediately
seized upon this delicate distinction; perhaps she mistrusted herself;
perhaps the feeling which had been so suddenly and violently awakened
in her heart did not seem pure enough to be confided, with all its
longings and desires, to her at whose feet she had hitherto deposited
all her hopes and aspirations.
Feeling calmer after this action, which, in her superstitious
ignorance, she fancied would shroud her from the piercing eye of her
heavenly protectress, Doña Hermosa regained her couch, and touched a
silver bell standing beside her. At the sound, the door softly opened
half way, and the arch face of a charming _chola_ (maid) appeared at
the opening with a look of inquiry.
"Come in, _chica_" (girl), said her mistress, making a sign for her to
approach.
The _chola_, a slim maiden, of lithe figure, and whose skin was
slightly tawny, like that of all half-breeds kneeled gracefully at
the feet of her mistress, fixed her great black eyes upon her, and
smilingly asked what she wanted.
"Nothing," was the evasive answer, "only to see and talk to you a
little."
"How glad I am!" said the girl, passionately clasping her hands
together; "It is so long since I have seen you, _niña_" (a term of
endearment).
"Did my absence distress you much, Clarita?"
"What a question to ask, señorita! Do I not love you like a sister? Do
they not say you have been in great danger?"
"Who says that?" asked Hermosa carelessly.
"Everyone; they talk of nothing but your adventures in the prairie. All
the _peones_ have left their work to hear the news; the _hacienda_ is
in an uproar."
"Indeed!"
"For the two whole days of your absence, we did not know what saint to
commend you to; I vowed a gold ring to my good patroness Santa Clara."
"Thank you," said she, with a smile.
"But you should only have seen Don Estevan! He would not be comforted;
the poor fellow was like a madman, accusing himself as the cause of all
that had happened: he tore his hair, asserting that he ought to have
disobeyed your father, and to have remained with you in defiance of his
orders."
"Poor Estevan!" said the lady, whose thoughts were elsewhere, and who
began to get weary of the chattering of her maid; "Poor Estevan! He
loves me like a brother."
"Yes, he does; so he has sworn by his head that such a thing shall not
happen to you again, and that from henceforth he will never lose sight
of you."
"Was he really in such alarm about me?"
"You cannot imagine how dreadfully frightened he was, particularly as
they said you had fallen into the hands of the most ferocious robber in
the prairie."
"Yet, I can assure you, _chica_, that the man who gave us shelter
overwhelmed us with civility and attention."
"Exactly what your father says; but Don Estevan maintains he has known
this man for a long time; that his kindness was feigned, and intended
to conceal some monstrous treachery."
Doña Hermosa had suddenly become thoughtful.
"Don Estevan has gone mad," she said; "his friendship for me bewilders
his brains; I am sure he is mistaken. But you remind me that I escaped
from him the moment after my arrival without offering him a word of
thanks. I must make reparation for this involuntary forgetfulness; is
he still in the _hacienda?_"
"I think he is, señorita."
"Go and find out, and ask him to come here, if he has not gone already."
The maid rose and left her.
"As he knows him," said Hermosa, as soon as she was alone, "I will
make him speak, and teach me what I want to learn."
So she awaited impatiently the return of her messenger.
The latter seemed to have divined the anxiety of her mistress, and made
such haste to execute her commission that scarcely ten minutes elapsed
before she announced Don Estevan.
We have already said that Don Estevan was a handsome man; he had the
heart of a lion, the eye of an eagle; his carriage full of grace and
suppleness, betrayed his race. He entered, saluting the lady with a
winning familiarity authorised by his long and intimate connection with
one whom he had known from her cradle.
"Dear Estevan," said she, stretching out her hand gaily, "how happy I
am to see you! Sit down here and let us talk."
"Yes; let us have some chat," answered Don Estevan, gladly entering
into the spirit of Hermosa's gaiety.
"Give Estevan a chair, _chica_, and then go; I do not want you any
longer."
The maid obeyed without replying.
"What a number of things I have to tell you, my friend!" resumed the
doña. "But first excuse me for running away from you. My sole thought
was to be alone, and put my ideas into a little order."
"I can easily understand that, dear Hermosa."
"Then you are not angry with me, Estevan?"
"Not the least in the world, I assure you."
"Are you quite sure?" said she, pouting half seriously.
"Do not talk about it anymore, my dear child; one cannot encounter such
dangers as you have been exposed to without feeling their effect upon
the mind for a long time afterwards."
"But it is all over now, believe me; yet, between ourselves, my dear
Estevan, these dangers have not been so great as your affection for me
led you to suppose."
The other shook his head in token of his want of conviction, and
replied:
"On the contrary, _niña_, these dangers have been much more serious
than you choose to believe."
"No, they were not Estevan; the people we met treated us with the most
cordial hospitality."
"I admit it; but will reply with one question."
"Ask it; and I will answer it, if I can."
"Do you know the name of the man who treated you with this cordial
hospitality?" And he laid considerable stress on the last words.
"I confess that I not only do not know it, but that I did not even take
the pains to ask him."
"You were wrong, señorita: for he would have answered that his name was
'the Tigercat.'"
"The Tigercat!" she exclaimed, turning deadly pale; "The execrable
miscreant who for years has spread terror over the frontiers! You are
wrong, Estevan; it could not be he."
"No, señorita, I am not wrong; I know the truth of my assertion. I can
have no doubt, after what I have gathered from your father."
"But how did it happen that this man should have received us so kindly,
and that he should have profited by the accident which placed us in his
power?"
"No one can penetrate into the dark windings of that man's heart.
Besides, who can prove he was not laying a snare for you? Were you not
pursued by the redskins?"
"We were; but we escaped from them, thanks to the devotion of our
guide." And she spoke with a little uncertainty of voice.
"You are right again," said Don Estevan ironically "But the guide
himself--do you know who he is?"
"He constantly refused to tell us his name, in spite of the pressing
entreaties of my father."
"He had good reasons for doing so, _niña;_ the name would have filled
you with horror."
"Then who and what is this man?"
"He is the son of the Tigercat; he is called Stoneheart."
Hermosa recoiled with instinctive terror, and hid her face in her hands.
"It is impossible," she cried: "this man cannot be a monster; this man
who proved himself so faithful, so loyal--who saved my life, too."
"What!" exclaimed Don Estevan: "He saved your life?"
"Have you not heard it? Has not my father told you the story?"
"No; Don Pedro did not say anything about it."
"Then I will tell you, Estevan; for whatever this man may be, I must
render him justice. I owe it to him, to him alone, that I did not die
in horrible agony."
"In the name of Heaven, explain yourself, Hermosa."
"While we were wandering in the forest, a prey to despair," she
replied, in extreme agitation--"while we were expecting the death that
could not be long in coming,--I felt my foot bitten by a snake of
the most venomous kind. At first I overcame my pain, in order not to
increase the discouragement of my companions."
"How well I recognise your strength and courage there, _niña!_"
"Let me continue," said she, with a sad smile. "The pain soon became so
piercing, that my strength failed me, in spite of my courage. At that
moment God sent to our aid, him whom you call Stoneheart. The first
thought of that man was to help me."
"It is wonderful!" said Don Estevan Diaz.
"By the use of some sort of leaf, he managed to neutralise the effect
of the poison, so that, shortly after having been bitten, I felt no
pain from the wound, and am quite recovered today. Can you now deny
that I owe him my life?"
"No," said he frankly; "for he saved you indeed. Yet for what purpose?
That is what puzzles me."
"For the sake of saving me,--for humanity's sake; his after conduct
sufficiently proves it. It is to him alone we owe our subsequent escape
from the Apaches, who were on our trail."
"All you say, _niña_, appears like an incomprehensible dream; I do not
know whether I am asleep or awake while I listen to you."
"But has this man really been guilty of the infamous actions which
excite your indignation?"
Estevan Diaz did not answer: he seemed embarrassed; and there was a
short silence.
"I will be frank with you, Hermosa," said he, at last. "It is necessary
that you should know who your deliverer is. I will tell you all I
know of him myself; and perhaps this knowledge may be useful to you
hereafter, should fate ever again bring you into the presence of this
extraordinary man."
"I am listening attentively; proceed."
"Be on your guard, Hermosa; do not let the impulse of your heart
carry you away too far; do not expose yourself to future heartache.
Stoneheart is, as I told you, the son of the Tigercat. I need tell you
nothing about his father; that monster with a human face has built up
for himself an infamous notoriety, too well known for me to enter into
its details. The infamy of the father has reflected on the son, and
enveloped him in a halo of murder and rapine which makes him almost
as much dreaded as his father. However, in justice to the man, I must
confess that, although he is accused of a thousand evil deeds and
odious crimes, it has been impossible hitherto to obtain positive proof
of any accusation preferred against him. All they say of him is wrapped
up in impenetrable mystery; yet everyone relates the most horrible
tales of him, although nobody can speak with certainty as to the truth
of one of them."
"They are not true," said Hermosa.
"Do not be too eager to pronounce him innocent, _niña;_ recollect that
a modicum of truth is to be found at the bottom of every suspicion;
and, strictly speaking, this man's trade would of itself suffice as
proof against him, and bear testimony to his natural ferocity."
"I cannot understand you, Estevan. What dreadful trade is it?"
"Stoneheart is a bee-hunter."
"A bee-hunter!" she exclaimed, with a burst of laughter. "Truly there
is nothing offensive in that?"
"The word is pleasant to the ear; the trade itself one of the most
inoffensive; but the bees, those advanced sentinels of civilisation,
who, in proportion as the whites push forward in America, bury
themselves deeper in the prairies, and take refuge in more inaccessible
wildernesses, require a special organism in the men who hunt them,--a
heart of bronze in a body of steel, a fortitude beyond proof,
indomitable courage, and unswerving will."
"Excuse me for the interruption, Estevan; but in all you have told me,
there seems nothing that is not highly honourable to the men who devote
themselves to this perilous trade."
"Your observation would be just, if these men--half savages from the
life they lead, ceaselessly exposed to most serious danger, constantly
obliged to strive, in defence of their lives, against the wild beast
and the redskin, by whom they are perpetually threatened--had not
contracted, perhaps in spite of themselves, the habit of shedding
blood; a habit of such cold-blooded cruelty, in a word, that they set
no value on human life,--kill a man with the same indifference as they
smoke the bees from the tree, and often, for mere pastime, fire on the
approaching stranger, white or redskin. For this reason, the Indians
dread them more than the fiercest animals, and, unless they happen to
be in force, fly before a bee-hunter with more terror and precipitation
than from the grizzly bear, that redoubtable inhabitant of our American
forests. Believe me, _niña_, I am not exaggerating. It results from
what I have related, that when these men reappear upon the frontiers,
their arrival creates a general panic; for their road is a bloody one,
marked by the corpses of those whom they have slain under the most
frivolous pretexts. In one word, _niña_, the bee-hunters are completely
beyond the pale of humanity,--beings with all the vices of whites and
redskins, and without the virtues of either: both races abjure and
repudiate them with horror."
"Estevan," gravely replied Doña Hermosa, "I have listened seriously to
what you have said. I thank you; but, in my opinion, it proves nothing
either for or against the person about whom I questioned you. I grant
you that the bee-hunters maybe semi-savages, of profound cruelty; yet,
are there no noble and loyal hearts, no generous spirits, among them?
You have spoken of the rule; who will tell me that Stoneheart is not
the exception? His conduct compels me to think so. I am only a young,
ignorant, and inexperienced girl; but were I bidden to open my heart,
and speak frankly, I should answer: 'My friend, this man, condemned
from infancy to a life of shame and trial, has striven valiantly
against the current which was dragging him away, and the force of
bad example assailing him on every side. Son of a criminal father,
associated, against his will, with bandits to whom every restraint
is an abomination, and by whom every sentiment of honour has been
trodden under foot, this man, far from imitating their actions,--far
from burning, pillaging and assassinating as they do,--has preferred
to adopt a career of perpetual peril. His heart has remained pure; and
when chance offered him an opportunity of doing a good deed, he seized
it eagerly and gladly.' This is what I should say to you, Estevan,--and
if, like me, you had studied this strange man for two whole days,
you would be of my opinion,--which is, that he is more to be pitied
than blamed; for, placed among ferocious brutes, he has retained his
humanity."
Don Estevan remained for a time lost in thought; then he turned towards
the girl, took her hand, pressed it in his own, and looked at her with
tender compassion.
"I pity and admire you, Hermosa. You are just what I thought you--I,
who have watched the development of your character from your infancy.
The woman fulfils all the promise held out by the child and the girl.
Your heart is noble, your sentiments are exalted; you are indeed
perfect--a chosen soul. I do not blame you for following the impulse of
your heart--you are only obeying the instinct for good or evil which
sways you in spite of yourself; but, alas! Dear child, I am your elder
brother, and my experience is larger than your own. To me, the horizon
seems to be clouding over. Without prejudging what the future may be
preparing for us, let me prefer one entreaty."
"An entreaty! You, Estevan! Oh, speak; I shall be so happy to do
anything to please you."
"Thanks, Hermosa; but the entreaty has no connection with myself--it
concerns you alone."
"So much the greater reason for my granting it," she said with a
gracious smile.
"Listen, child: the events of the last two days have completely
changed your life, and feelings have germinated in your mind of which
you ignored the existence until now. You have always placed entire
confidence in me: I demand the continuance of that confidence. My only
desire is to see you happy; all my thoughts, all my actions, tend to
that goal. Never believe that I dream of betraying you or thwarting
your projects. If I am tenacious on this point, it is to aid you with
my counsel and experience; it is to save you even from yourself; to
insure your escape from the snares which the future may lay for your
innocent frankness. Do you promise what I entreat?"
"Yes," she replied, without hesitation, and looking firmly in his face;
"I promise, Estevan, my brother--for you are in truth a brother to
me--whatever may happen, I will have no secrets from you."
"I thank you, Hermosa," said the young man, rising, "I hope soon to
prove myself worthy of the name of brother. Come tomorrow, in the
afternoon, to my mother's _rancho_ (farmhouse); I shall be there, and
most likely able to clear up certain matters which are so obscure
today."
"What do you mean?" cried she, in great agitation.
"Nothing at present, dear child; leave me to take my own measures."
"What are your projects? What do you intend to do? Oh, do not attach
more importance to my words than I attach to them myself. Involuntarily
I have been constrained to utter words from which you would be wrong to
draw conclusions--"
"Be calm, Hermosa," said he, interrupting her, with a smile. "I
have drawn no conclusion derogatory to you from our conversation. I
understand that you have avowed an immense amount of gratitude to the
man who saved your life. I see it would make you happy to know that
this man is not unworthy of the feelings he has inspired. I draw no
other conclusion."
"It is exactly what I feel, Estevan; and I think the wish natural, and
one to which no blame can be attached."
"Certainly, my dear child. I do not blame the feeling in the least;
only, as I am a man, and can do many things interdicted to a woman, I
will try if I can lift the mysterious, veil which conceals the life of
your liberator, so as to tell you positively whether he is or is not
worthy of the interest you take in him."
"Do that, Estevan, and I will thank you from the bottom of my heart."
The young man only replied by a smile to this passionate outbreak: he
saluted Hermosa, and retired.
As soon as he was gone, she hid her face in her hands and burst into
tears. Did she regret the confidence into which she had been led, or
was she afraid of herself? Only women can decide the question, and only
Spanish-American women, who are so impressionable, and through whose
veins rushes the lava of their native volcanoes.
Don Fernando Carril, as we have already related, after his conversation
with the _vaqueros_, had taken, at a gallop the route to the _pueblo;_
but when he was within a hundred yards of the first houses, he
slackened his pace to a walk, and cast glances right and left, as if in
the expectation of meeting some person he wished to see. But if such
were his thoughts, it seemed as if he were doomed to disappointment;
for the road was completely deserted in all directions as far as his
eye could reach.