CHAPTER V.
VICTOR MAKES A DISCOVERY.
Happily for Mr. Hamlin, the young girl noticed neither the effect of herunconscious baptismal act, nor its object, but moved away slowly to thedoor. As she did so, Jack stepped from the shadow of the column, andfollowed her with eyes of respectful awe and yearning. She had barelyreached the porch, when she suddenly and swiftly turned and walkedhurriedly back, almost brushing against Mr. Hamlin. Her beautiful eyeswere startled and embarrassed, her scarlet lips parted and palingrapidly, her whole figure and manner agitated and discomposed. Withoutnoticing him she turned toward the column, and under the pretext ofusing the holy water, took hold of the font, and leaned against it, asif for support, with her face averted from the light. Jack could see herhands tighten nervously on the stone, and fancied that her whole figuretrembled as she stood there.
He hesitated for a moment, and then moved to her side; not audaciouslyand confident, as was his wont with women, but with a boyish colour inhis face, and a timid, half-embarrassed manner.
"Can I do anything for you, Miss?" he said, falteringly. "You don't seemto be well. I mean you look tired. Shan't I bring you a chair? It's theheat of this hole--I mean it's so warm here. Shan't I go for a glass ofwater, a carriage?"
Here she suddenly lifted her eyes to his, and his voice and presence ofmind utterly abandoned him.
"It's nothing," she said, with a dignified calm, as sudden and asalarming to Jack as her previous agitation--"nothing," she added, fixingher clear eyes on his, with a look so frank, so open, and withal, as itseemed to Jack, so cold and indifferent, that his own usually boldglance fell beneath it, "nothing but the heat and closeness; I am betternow."
"Shall I"----began Jack, awkwardly.
"I want nothing, thank you."
Seeming to think that her conduct required some explanation, she added,hastily--
"There was a crowd at the door as I was going out, and in the press Ifelt giddy. I thought some one--some man--pushed me rudely. I daresay Iwas mistaken."
She glanced at the porch against which a man was still leaning.
The suggestion of her look and speech--if it were a suggestion--wascaught instantly by Jack. Without waiting for her to finish thesentence, he strode to the door. To his wrathful surprise the loungerwas Victor. Mr. Hamlin did not stop for explanatory speech. With asingle expressive word, and a single dexterous movement of his arm andfoot, he tumbled the astonished Victor down the steps at one side, andthen turned toward his late companion. But she had been equally prompt.With a celerity quite inconsistent with her previous faintness, sheseized the moment that Victor disappeared to dart by him and gain hercarriage, which stood in waiting at the porch. But as it swiftly droveaway, Mr. Hamlin caught one grateful glance from those wonderful eyes,one smile from those perfect lips, and was happy. What matters that hehad an explanation--possibly a quarrel on his hands? Ah me! I fear thisadded zest to the rascal's satisfaction.
A hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned and saw the face of thefurious Victor, with every tooth at a white heat, and panting withpassion. Mr. Hamlin smiled pleasantly.
"Why, I want to know!" he ejaculated, with an affectation of rusticsimplicity, "if it ain't you, Johnny. Why, darn my skin! And this isyour house? You and St. Anthony in partnership, eh? Well, that gets me!And here I tumbled you off your own stoop, didn't I? I might have knownit was you by the way you stood there. Mightn't I, Johnny?"
"My name is not Johnny--_Car['a]mba!_" gasped Victor, almost beside himselfwith impatient fury.
"Oh, it's that, is it? Any relation to the _Car['a]mbas_ of Dutch Flat? Itain't a pretty name. I like Johnny better. And I wouldn't make a rowhere now. Not to-day, Johnny; it's Sunday. I'd go home. I'd go quietlyhome, and I'd beat some woman or child to keep myself in training. ButI'd go home first. I wouldn't draw that knife, neither, for it might cutyour fingers, and frighten the folks around town. I'd go home quietly,like a good nice little man. And in the morning I'd come round to thehotel on the next square, and I'd ask for Mr. Hamlin, Mr. Jack Hamlin,Room No. 29; and I'd go right up to his room, and I'd have such a timewith him--such a high old time; I'd just make that hotel swim withblood."
Two or three of the monte players had gathered around Victor, and seemedinclined to take the part of their countryman. Victor was not slow toimprove this moment of adhesion and support.
"Is it dogs that we are, my compatriots?" he said to them bitterly; "andhe--this one--a man infamous!"
Mr. Hamlin, who had a quick ear for abusive and interjaculatory Spanish,overheard him. There was a swift chorus of "_Car['a]mba!_" from the allies,albeit wholesomely restrained by something in Mr. Hamlin's eye which wasvisible, and probably a suspicion of something in Mr. Hamlin's pocketwhich was not visible. But the remaining portion of Mr. Hamlin wasironically gracious.
"Friends of yours, I suppose?" he inquired, affably. "'_Car['a]mbas_' allof them, too! Perhaps they'll call with you? Maybe they haven't time andare in a hurry now? If my room isn't large enough, and they can't wait,there's a handy lot o' ground beyond on the next square--_Plaza delToros_, eh? What did you say? I'm a little deaf in this ear."
Under the pretence of hearing more distinctly, Jack Hamlin approachedthe nearest man, who, I grieve to say, instantly and somewhatundignifiedly retreated. Mr. Hamlin laughed. But already a crowd ofloungers had gathered, and he felt it was time to end this badinage,grateful as it was to his sense of humour. So he lifted his hat gravelyto Victor and his friends, replaced it perhaps aggressively tilted atrifle over his straight nose, and lounged slowly back to his hotel,leaving his late adversaries in secure but unsatisfactory anddishonourable possession of the field. Once in his own quarters, heroused the sleeping Pete, and insisted upon opening a religiousdiscussion, in which, to Pete's great horror, he warmly espoused theCatholic Church, averring, with several strong expletives, that it wasthe only religion fit for a white man, and ending somewhat irreverentlyby inquiring into the condition of the pistols.
Meanwhile Victor had also taken leave of his friends.
"He has fled--this most infamous!" he said; "he dared not remain andface us! Thou didst observe his fear, Tiburcio? It was thy great heartthat did it!"
"Rather he recognised thee, my Victor, and his heart was that of thecoyote."
"It was the Mexican nation, ever responsive to the appeal of manhood andliberty, that made his liver as blanched as that of the chicken,"returned the gentleman who had retreated from Jack. "Let us thencelebrate this triumph with a little glass."
And Victor, who was anxious to get away from his friends, and saw in theprospective _aguardiente_ a chance for escape, generously led the way tothe first wine-shop.
It chanced to be the principal one of the town. It had the genericquality--that is, was dirty, dingy, ill-smelling, and yellow withcigarette smoke. Its walls were adorned by various prints--one or twoFrench in origin, excellent in art, and defective in moral sentiment,and several of Spanish origin, infamous in art, and admirable inreligious feeling. It had a portrait of Santa Anna, and another of thelatest successful revolutionary general. It had an allegorical picturerepresenting the Genius of Liberty descending with all the celestialmachinery upon the Mexican Confederacy. Moved apparently by the sametaste for poetry and personification, the proprietor had added to hisartistic collection a highly coloured American handbill representing theAngel of Healing presenting a stricken family with a bottle ofsomebody's Panacea. At the farther extremity of the low room a dozenplayers sat at a green-baize table absorbed in monte. Beyond them,leaning against the wall, a harp-player twanged the strings of hisinstrument, in a lugubrious air, with that singular stickiness of touchand reluctancy of finger peculiar to itinerant performers on thatinstrument. The card-players were profoundly indifferent to both musicand performer.
The face of one of the players attracted Victor's attention. It was thatof the odd English translator--the irascible stranger upon whom he hadintruded that night of his memorable visit to Don Jos['e]. Victor had
nodifficulty in recognising him, although his slovenly and negligentworking-dress had been changed to his holiday antique black suit. He didnot lift his eyes from the game until he had lost the few silver coinsplaced in a pile before him, when he rose grimly, and nodding brusquelyto the other players, without speaking left the room.
"He has lost five half-dollars--his regular limit--no more, no less,"said Victor to his friend. "He will not play again to-night!"
"You know of him?" asked Vincente, in admiration of his companion'ssuperior knowledge.
"Si!" said Victor. "He is a jackal, a dog of the Americanos," he added,vaguely intending to revenge himself on the stranger's formerbrusqueness by this depreciation. "He affects to know our history--ourlanguage. Is it a question of the fine meaning of a word--the shade of atechnical expression?--it is him they ask, not us! It is thus they treatus, these heretics! _Car['a]mba!_"
"_Car['a]mba!_" echoed Vincente, with a vague patriotism superinduced by_aguardiente_. But Victor had calculated to unloose Vincente's tonguefor his private service.
"It is the world, my friend," he said, sententiously. "TheseAmericanos--come they here often?"
"You know the great American advocate--our friend--Don ArturoPoinsett?"
"Yes," said Victor, impatiently. "Comes he?"
"Eh! does he not?" laughed Vincente. "Always. Ever. Eternally. He has aclient--a widow, young, handsome, rich, eh?--one of his own race."
"Ah! you are wise, Vincente!"
Vincente laughed a weak spirituous laugh.
"Ah! it is a transparent fact. Truly--of a verity. Believe me!"
"And this fair client--who is she?"
"Donna Maria Sepulvida!" said Vincente, in a drunken whisper.
"How is this? You said she was of his own race."
"Truly, I did. She is _Americana_. But it is years ago. She was veryyoung. When the Americans first came, she was of the first. She taughtthe child of the widower Don Jos['e] Sepulvida, herself almost a child; youunderstand? It was the old story. She was pretty, and poor, and young;the Don grizzled, and old, and rich. It was fire and tow. Eh? Ha! Ha!The Don meant to be kind, you understand, and made a rich wife of thelittle _Americana_. He was kinder than he meant, and in two years,_Car['a]mba!_ made a richer widow of the Donna."
If Vincente had not been quite thrown by his potations, he would haveseen an undue eagerness in Victor's mouth and eyes.
"And she is pretty--tall and slender like the Americans, eh?--largeeyes, a sweet mouth?"
"An angel. Ravishing!"
"And Don Arturo--from legal adviser turns a lover!"
"It is said," responded Vincente, with drunken cunning and exceedingarchness; "but thou and I, Victor, know better. Love comes not with abrief! Eh? Look, it is an old flame, believe me. It is said it is nottwo months that he first came here, and she fell in love with him atthe first glance. _Absurdo! Dispar['a]tado!_ Hear me, Victor; it was an oldflame; an old quarrel made up. Thou and I have heard the romance before.Two lovers not rich, eh? Good! Separation; despair. The Se[~n]orita marriesthe rich man, eh?"
Victor was too completely carried away by the suggestion of his friend'sspeech, to conceal his satisfaction. Here was the secret at last. Herewas not only a clue, but absolutely the missing Grace Conroy herself. Inthis young _Americana_--this--widow--this client of her former lover,Philip Ashley, he held the secret of three lives. In his joy he slappedVincente on the back, and swore roundly that he was the wisest of men.
"I should have seen her--the heroine of this romance--my friend.Possibly, she was at mass?"
"Possibly not. She is Catholic, but Don Arturo is not. She does notoften attend when he is here."
"As to-day?"
"As to-day."
"You are wrong, friend Vincente," said Victor, a little impatiently. "Iwas there; I saw her."
Vincente shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with drunken gravity.
"It is impossible, Se[~n]or Victor, believe me."
"I tell you I saw her," said Victor, excitedly. "_Borrachon!_ She wasthere! By the pillar. As she went out she partook of _agua bendita_. Isaw her; large eyes, an oval face, a black dress and mantle."
Vincente, who, happily for Victor, had not heard the epithet of hisfriend, shook his head and laughed a conceited drunken laugh.
"Tell me not this, friend Victor. It was not her thou didst see. Believeme, I am wise. It was the Donna Dolores who partook of _agua bendita_,and alone. For there is none, thou knowest, that has a right to offerit to her. Look you, foolish Victor, she has large eyes, a small mouth,an oval face. And dark--ah, she is dark!"
"'In the dark all are as the devil,'" quoted Victor, impatiently, "howshould I know? Who then _is_ she?" he demanded almost fiercely, as ifstruggling with a rising fear. "Who is this Donna Dolores?"
"Thou art a stranger, friend Victor. Hark ye. It is the half-breeddaughter of the old commander of San Ysabel. Yet, such is thefoolishness of old men, she is his heiress! She is rich, and lately shehas come into possession of a great grant, very valuable. Thou dostunderstand, friend Victor? Well, why dost thou stare? She is a recluse.Marriage is not for her; love, love! the tender, the subduing, thedelicious, is not for her. She is of the Church, my Victor. And to thinkthat thou didst mistake this ascetic, this nun, this little brownnovice, this Donna Dolores Salvatierra for the little American coquette.Ha! Ha! It is worth the fee of another bottle? Eh? Victor, my friend!Thou dost not listen. Eh? Thou wouldst fly, traitor. Eh? what's thatthou sayst? Bobo! Dupe thyself!"
For Victor stood before him, dumb, but for that single epithet. Was henot a dupe? Had he not been cheated again, and this time by a blunder inhis own malice? If he had really, as he believed, identified GraceConroy in this dark-faced devotee whose name he now learned for thefirst time, by what diabolical mischance had he deliberately put her inpossession of the forged grant, and so blindly restored her the missingproperty? Could Don Pedro have been treacherous? Could he have known,could they all--Arthur Poinsett, Dumphy, and Julie Devarges--have knownthis fact of which he alone was ignorant? Were they not laughing at himnow? The thought was madness.
With a vague impression of being shaken rudely off by a passionate hand,and a drunken vision of a ghastly and passionate face before himuttering words of impotent rage and baffled despair, Vincente, the wiseand valiant, came slowly and amazedly to himself, lying over the table.But his late companion was gone.