Chapter 43 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
It was near sunset. The yellow orb was hastening to kiss the snowy summit of the Sierra Blanca, that barred the western horizon. The white mantle, that draped the shoulders of the mountain, reflected beautiful roseate tints deepening into red and purple in the hollows of the ravines, and seeming all the more lovely from the contrast of the dark forests that covered the Sierra farther down.
It was a sunset more brilliant than common. The western sky was filled with masses of coloured clouds, in which gold and purple and cerulean blue mingled together in gorgeous magnificence; and in which the eye of the beholder could not fail to note the outlines of strange forms, and fancy them bright and glorious beings of another world. It was a picture to gladden the eye, to give joy to the heart that was sad, and make happier the happy.
It was not unobserved. Eyes were dwelling upon it—beautiful eyes; and yet there was a sadness in their look that ill accorded with the picture on which they were gazing.
But those eyes were not drawing their inspiration from the sky-painting before them. Though apparently regarding it, the thoughts which gave them expression were drawn from a far different source. The heart within was dwelling upon another object.
The owner of those eyes was a beautiful girl, or rather a fully developed woman still unmarried. She was standing upon the azotea of a noble mansion, apparently regarding the rich sunset, while, in reality, her thoughts were busy with another theme, and one that was less pleasant to contemplate. Even the brilliant glow of the sky, reflected upon her countenance, did not dissipate the shadows that were passing over it. The clouds from within overcame the light from without. There were shadows flitting over her heart that corresponded to those that darkened her fair face.
It was a beautiful face withal, and a beautiful form—tall, majestic, of soft graces and waving outlines. The lady was Catalina de Cruces.
She was alone upon the azotea—surrounded only by the plants and flowers. Bending over the low parapet that overlooked the garden to the rear, she at the same time faced toward the sinking orb,—for the garden extended westward.
Now and then her eyes were lifted to the sky and the sun; but oftener they sought the shaded coppice of wild-china-trees at the bottom of the enclosure, through whose slender trunks gleamed the silvery surface of the stream. Upon this spot they rested from time to time, with an expression of strange interest. No wonder that to those eyes that was an interesting spot—it was that where love’s first vows had been uttered in her delighted ear—it had been consecrated by a kiss, and in her thoughts it was hallowed from the “earth’s profound” to the high heaven above her. No wonder she regarded it as the fairest on earth. The most famed gardens of the world—even Paradise itself—in her imagination, had no spot so sweet, no nook so shady, as the little arbour she had herself trained amid the foliage of those wild-china-trees.
Why was she regarding it with a look of sadness? In that very arbour, and on that very night, did she expect to meet him—the one who had rendered it sacred. Why then was she sad? Such a prospect should have rendered her countenance radiant with joy.
And so was it, at intervals, when this thought came into her mind; but there was another—some other thought—that brought those clouds upon her brow, and imparted that air of uneasy apprehension. What was that thought?
In her hand she held a bandolon. She flung herself upon a bench, and began to play some old Spanish air. The effort was too much for her. Her thoughts wandered from the melody, and her fingers from the strings.
She laid down the instrument, and, again rising to her feet, paced backwards and forwards upon the azotea. Her walk was irregular. At intervals she stopped, and, lowering her eyes, seemed to think intently on something that was absent. Then she would start forward, and stop again in the same manner as before. This she repeated several times, without uttering either word or exclamation.
Once she continued her walk all around the azotea, casting a scrutinising look among the plants and flower-pots on both sides, as if in search of something; but whatever it was, she was unsuccessful, as nothing appeared to arrest her attention.
She returned once more, and took up the bandolon. But her fingers had hardly touched the strings before she laid the instrument down again, and rose from the bench, as if some sudden resolution had taken possession of her.
“I never thought of that—I may have dropped it in the garden!” she muttered to herself, as she glided toward a small escalera that led down into the patio.
From this point an avenue communicated with the garden; and the next moment she had passed through this and was tripping over the sanded walks, bending from side to side, and peeping behind every plant and bush that could have concealed the object of her search.
She explored every part of the enclosure, and lingered a moment in the arbour among the china-trees—as if she enjoyed that spot more than any other—but she came back at length with the same anxious expression, that told she was not rewarded by the recovery of whatever she had lost.
The lady once more returned to the azotea—once more took up the bandolon; but after a few touches of the strings, laid it down, and again rose to her feet. Again she soliloquised.
“Carrambo! it is very strange!—neither in my chamber—the sala, the cuarto, the azotea, the garden!—where can it be? O Dios! if it should fall into the hands of papa! It is too intelligible—it could not fail to be understood—no—no—no! O Dios! if it should reach other hands!—those of his enemies! It names to-night—true, it does not tell the place, but the time is mentioned—the place would be easily discovered. Oh! that I knew where to communicate with him! But I know not, and he will come. Ay de mi! it cannot be prevented now. I must hope no enemy has got it. But where can it be? Madre de Dios! where can it be?”
All these phrases were uttered in a tone and emphasis that showed the concern of the speaker at the loss of some object that greatly interested her. That object was no other than the note brought by Josefa, and written by Carlos the cibolero, in which the assignation for that night had been appointed. No wonder she was uneasy at its loss! The wording not only compromised herself, but placed the life of her lover in extreme peril. This it was that was casting the dark shadows over her countenance—this it was that was causing her to traverse the azotea and the garden in such anxious search.
“I must ask Vicenza,” she continued. “I like not to do it, for I have lost confidence in her of late. Something has changed this girl. She used to be frank and honest, but now she has grown false and hypocritical. Twice have I detected her in the act of deceiving me. What does it mean?”
She paused a moment as if in thought. “I must ask her notwithstanding. She may have found the paper, and, not deeming it of any use may have thrown it in the fire. Fortunately she does not read, but she has to do with others who can. Ha! I forgot her soldier sweetheart! If she should have found it, and shown it to him! Dios de mi alma!”
This supposition seemed a painful one, for it caused the lady’s heart to beat louder, and her breathing became short and quick.
“That would be terrible!” she continued,—“that would be the very worst thing that could happen. I do not like that soldier—he appears mean and cunning and I have heard is a bad fellow, though favoured by the Comandante. God forfend he should have gotten this paper! I shall lose no more time. I shall call Vicenza, and question her.”
She stepped forward to the parapet that overlooked the patio.
“Vicenza!—Vicenza!”
“Aqui, Señorita,” answered a voice from the interior of the house.
“Ven aca!—Ven aca!” (Come hither.)
“Si, Señorita.”
“Anda! Anda!” (Quickly.)
A girl, in short bright-coloured nagua, and white chemisette without sleeves, came out into the patio, and climbed up the escalera that led to the roof.
She was a mestiza, or half-blood, of Indian and Spanish mixture, as her brownish-white skin testified. She was not ill-looking; but there was an expression upon her countenance that precluded the idea of either virtue, honesty, or amiability. It was a mixed expression of malice and cunning. Her manner, too, was bold and offensive, like that of one who had been guilty of some known crime, and had become reckless. It was only of late she had assumed that tone, and her mistress had observed it among other changes.
“Qué quiere V., Señorita?” (What want you, my lady?)
“Vicenza, I have lost a small piece of paper. It was folded in an oblong shape—not like a letter, but this—”
Here a piece of paper, similarly put up, was held out for the inspection of the girl.
“Have you seen anything of it?”
“No, Señorita,” was the prompt and ready answer.
“Perhaps you may have swept it out, or thrown it into the fire? It looked insignificant, and, indeed, was not of much importance, but there were some patterns upon it I wished to copy. Do you think it has been destroyed?”
“I know not that, Señorita. I know that I did not destroy it. I neither swept it out nor threw it into the fire. I should not do that with any paper, as I cannot read myself, and might destroy something that was valuable.”
Whatever truth there was in the last part of her harangue, the mestiza knew that its earlier declarations were true enough. She had not destroyed it, either by sweeping out or burning.
Her answer was delivered with an ingenuous naïvété, accompanied with a slight accent of anger, as though she was not over-pleased at being suspected of negligence.
Whether her mistress noticed the latter did not appear from her answer, but she expressed herself satisfied.
“It is of no consequence, then,” said she. “You may go, Vicenza.”
The girl walked off, looking sulky. When her head was just disappearing below the top of the escalera, her face was towards her mistress, whose back was now turned to her. A scornful pouting of the lips, accompanied by a demoniac smile, was visible upon it. It was evident from that look that she knew something more of the lost paper than was admitted in her late declaration.
Catalina’s gaze was once more turned upon the setting sun. In a few minutes he would disappear behind the snowy ridge of the mountain. Then a few hours, and then—moments of bliss!
Roblado was seated in his cuartel as before. As before, a tiny knock sounded upon the door. As before, he called out, “Quien es?” and was answered, “Yo!” and, as before, he recognised the voice and gave the order for its owner to enter. As before, it was the soldier José, who, in a cringing voice and with a cringing salute, approached his officer.
“Well, José, what news?”
“Only this,” replied the soldier, holding out a slip of paper folded into an oblong shape.
“What is it?” demanded Roblado. “Who is it from?” in the same breath.
“The captain will understand it better than I can, as I can’t read; but it comes from the Señorita, and looks inside like a letter. The Señorita got it from somebody at church yesterday morning: so thinks Vicenza, for she saw her read it as soon as she got back from morning prayers. Vicenza thinks that the girl Josefa brought it up the valley, but the captain most likely can tell for himself.”
Roblado had not listened to half of this talk; but had instead been swallowing the contents of the paper. As soon as he had got to the end of it he sprang from his chair as if a needle had been stuck into him, and paced the room in great agitation.
“Quick! quick, José!” he exclaimed. “Send Gomez here. Say nothing to any one. Hold yourself in readiness—I shall want you too. Send Gomez instantly. Vaya!”
The soldier made a salute less cringing because more hurried, and precipitately retired from the apartment. Roblado continued—
“By Heaven! this is a piece of luck! Who ever failed to catch a fool when love was his lure? This very night, too, and at midnight! I shall have time to prepare. Oh! if I but knew the place! ’Tis not given here.”
Again he read over the note.
“Carajo, no! that is unfortunate. What’s to be done? I must not go guessing in the dark! Ha! I have it! She shall be watched!—watched to the very spot! Vicenza can do that while we lie somewhere in ambush. The girl can bring us to it. We shall have time to surround them. Their interview will last long enough for that. We shall take them in the very moment of their bliss. Hell and furies! to think of it—this low dog—this butcher of buffaloes—to thwart me in my purposes! But patience, Roblado! patience! to-night—to-night!—”
A knocking at the door. Sergeant Gomez was admitted.
“Gomez, get ready twenty of your men! picked fellows, do you hear? Be ready by eleven o’clock. You have ample time, but see that you be ready the moment I call you. Not a word to any one without. Let the men saddle up and be quiet about it. Load your carbines. There’s work for you. You shall know what it is by and by. Go! get ready!”
Without saying a word, the sergeant went off to obey the order.
“Curses on the luck! if I but knew the place, or anything near it. Would it be about the house? or in the garden? Maybe outside—in the country somewhere? That is not unlikely. He would hardly venture so near the town, lest some one might recognise him or his horse. Death to that horse. No, no! I shall have that horse yet, or I much mistake. Oh! if I could find this place before the hour of meeting, then my game were sure. But no, nothing said of the place—yes, the old place. Hell and furies! they have met before—often—often—oh!”
A groan of agony broke from the speaker, and he paced to and fro like one bereft of his senses.
“Shall I tell Vizcarra now,” he continued, “or wait till it is over? I shall wait. It will be a dainty bit of news along with supper. Perhaps I may garnish the table with the ears of the cibolero. Ha! ha! ha!”
And uttering a diabolical laugh, the ruffian took down his sabre and buckled the belt around his waist. He then armed himself with a pair of heavy pistols; and, after looking to the straps of his spurs, strode out of the room.