by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
A DISOBEDIENT DAUGHTER.
I shall not attempt to describe the blackness in my breast as I salliedforth from the President's palace--Don Eusebio by my side.
Directed by the general, he had placed his affair in my hands, andhimself at my disposal.
The announcement of his name had caused me an acute pain--the agony of areopened wound.
And the pain came not from the story I had heard. It was not thethought that Dolores--for it was no more Mercedes--that DoloresVilla-Senor was in the keeping of brutal brigands! It had pained me asmuch--perhaps more--to think of her in the keeping of Francisco Moreno!
Truth compels me to the sad, disgraceful confession: that I listened tothe tale with a sort of satisfaction! Jealousy was still alive--angernot dead--within my heart!
Though remembered with reluctance, too keenly did I feel the slight thathad been put upon me.
The ungentle thought did not for long control me. Soon was it succeededby one purer and holier--sprung from such chivalry as I possessed. Aweak woman in the power of wild, wanton men--two of them, for thatmatter; though I thought but of one--borne off by brigands to somehideous haunt--some scene of lascivious revel!
They were horrid fancies that came crowding upon me. They drovejealousy out of my heart, and along with it my senseless anger.
These gone, I became inspired by a slight, scarcely definable,pleasure--like the distant re-dawning of a hope that has been for a timeextinguished.
What if I should be the means of rescuing Dolores Villa-Senor from thehands of her worse than savage captors--of saving her from a life-longshame?
Might not the gratitude, called forth by such a deed, become changed tothat other feeling, I had once fondly fancied to have been entertainedin my favour?
I could have risked everything--life itself--to bring about such arevolution!
After all, had I not been too precipitate in my conclusions? Was itcertain she had surrendered her heart--her _whole_ heart--to FranciscoMoreno?
The episode in the Alameda--of which I had been a spectator--might itnot have been but a bit of flirtation, deftly practised by Spanishdames, and oft without serious intent, or termination?
Or might it have been only a chapter of coquetry--myself the objectaimed at?
Consoling thoughts--well calculated to stir me to energetic action! DonEusebio might have been surprised at my ardent espousal of his cause!
He was at least affected by it. Entirely unsuspicious of my motive forquestioning him, he not only gave me an unreserved account of therobbery upon the road, but made me the confidant of more than one familysecret.
One gave me something more than a surprise. It caused the renewal of mychagrin.
"In your interview with the general," I said, "you spoke of someimportant matter that was bringing you to the capital. May I be toldit? Excuse me for asking: but in the performance of my duty it may benecessary for me to know what was the object of your journey."
"Say no more, senor capitan," he rejoined, interrupting me; "you havetaken such a friendly interest in my misfortunes--far beyond what yourduty requires--that I have no hesitation in telling you all. Indeed, itis essential I should do so. Hear me, then."
Without repeating Don Eusebio's words--with all the circumlocutionrendered appropriate by paternal affection, and the sorrow from which hesuffered--I learnt from him what might have caused me greater surprise,but for the chance conversation to which I had listened in the Alameda.
The Poblano had spoken the truth to his friend from Yucatan.
Not only had Don Eusebio threatened to immure his daughter in a nunnery;but was actually on his way to carry the threat into execution, whenstopped by the _salteadores_!
Although accompanied by both his daughters, but one of them was to beconsigned to her living tomb--the aristocratic convent of _LaConception_, in the city of Mexico--the abode of some of Mexico'sfairest _muchachas_.
"Which of your daughters?" I asked with such eager _empressement_ as tostartle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation.
"Oh!" I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, "Iunderstood you to say you had _two_ daughters. Of course one is olderthan the other--that is, if they be not twins?"
"No senor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was shewho intended to devote herself to the service of God. _Por dios_!" hecontinued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, "Both must do so now. Thereis no other future for them--_pobres ninas_!"
I understood the significance of the sad speech, and remained silent.
After a pause, he proceeded, "It was _Dolores_, my eldest girl, whointended to take the veil."
"Was it of her own free will?" I asked.
I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at themoment were not less powerful--not less painful--than his.
"Pardon me," I continued, "for making so free with your family affairs;which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mereinadvertence--quite unintentional--I assure you."
"O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all--you who have so noblyespoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life forthe safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught thatappertains to their welfare?"
"It is true," he continued, after a short interval of silence, "true,that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myselfwas inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, senor; and I am sure,that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It wasfor her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory ofGod--which last should be the chief end and act of every trueChristian."
The solemn speech awed me into silence. I made no reply, but stoodawaiting the revelation.
"Only of late," continued Don Eusebio, "in fact within the last fewdays, was I made acquainted with a circumstance, that caused me bothanger and alarm. I learnt that some intimate relations had becomeestablished between my elder daughter, Dolores, and a young man in noway worthy of forming an alliance with our family. Know, sir, that thename _Villa-Senor_ is one. But why dwell upon that? I could not lookupon my child, and think of her disgrace. For that reason I determinedthat she should pass the rest of her days in expiating the crime she hadcommitted."
"Crime! What crime?"
It would be difficult to describe the sensation I felt while puttingthis question, or the agony with which I awaited the answer.
"That of consenting to unite herself--for it had come to giving herconsent--to one of low birth; of listening to vows of love from the lipsof a peasant--a _lepero_!"
"Was he this?"
"Si, senor; was, and is. Through the state of anarchy and revolutionfrom which this unfortunate country has long suffered, like many othersof his class, he has risen to the paltry distinction of being an officerin our army--a captain, I believe. Among you, I am aware, the title isone of distinction--not so easily earned, and substantial when obtained.In the army of our so-called Republic, a swineherd to-day may be acaptain to-morrow; and the captain of to-morrow a _salteador_ the dayfollowing!"
"Of course you know the name of this captain--whom you deem so unworthyof your daughter?"
The question was put mechanically, and without care for the answer. Iknew that the name would be "Francisco Moreno."
It was.
