The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Reid Mayne
heart then thrilled with a pleasant emotion. I bent my eyes with keen scrutiny upon the face of the invalid. I expected to see there an expression denoting jealousy. I thought it strange that no such thought could be detected on the features of Calros Vergara.
“He must be brave, too,” continued the girl, “to have conquered the Capitan Rayas.”
“Conquered Rayas! How? What mean you, Lola?”
“You see those spots of blood on your shirt-bosom? There were others on your face, but I have washed them off. I thought it was yours, Calros.”
“And is it not?”
“No. This is fresh blood, as you may tell by looking at it. It is not yet quite dried. Thanks to the holy Virgin, it is not yours; to lose more would have killed you, Calros; the medico said so.”
“Carrambo! whose is it then?”
“Don Ramon’s.”
“How? Tell me, Lola!”
“You say he was threatening to run you through with his macheté. You heard a shot? It was not Ramon, but the young officer, who fired it; and the bullet was aimed at Rayas himself, and not at you. It must have hit him, for his macheté was found beside you, the hilt stained with blood; and these drops must have come from the wound he received. Ah! dear brother Calros! but for this brave Americano you would now have been in another world, and I left in this, alone, and without a protector.”
Brother Calros!
A load seemed lifted from my heart; the arrow, so lately entering it, and already beginning to rankle, appeared to be suddenly plucked from it without causing pain.
Brother Calros!
No longer did I wonder at the stoical indifference with which the Jarocho had listened to that flattering eulogy bestowed upon myself.
“No, Lola Vergara” – for that should be her name – “No! Never in this world, so long as I live, shall you, beautiful Jarocha, be without a protector!”
That was my thought, my mental resolution. I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing into the tent, and proclaiming it aloud!
Story 1, Chapter IX
Evil Imaginings
My discovery of the real relationship existing between Calros and Lola at once cured me of an incipient jealousy, which, though slight, had promised to become sufficiently painful.
Its very existence, however, would have proved to me that I was already in love, had such proof been required to convince me.
But I needed not to reason on that head. I knew that I was enamoured with Lola Vergara – had fallen in love with her at first sight – at that very moment when her accusing eyes flashed fiercely upon me, and through her dazzling teeth was hissed forth that angry epithet, proclaiming me a murderer! In the full tide of anger, with frowning face and furious look, had she appeared lovely – scarcely less lovely than now in her smiles!
I had since beheld these. She smiled on learning that Calros was in no danger of death. She smiled on me as the preserver of his life, gratefully – I fancied graciously. On that fancy I had founded a hope; and hence the jealousy that had so quickly and causelessly arisen.
The hope became strengthened on hearing that fraternal apostrophe, “Hermanita Calros!” pronounced in a language unequalled in the phraseology of affectionate endearment.
The words bespoke a relationship far different from that I had supposed to exist between them – leaving her bosom free for another affection – a passion compatible, if not kindred.
Was it my destiny to inspire this passion? Was that grand triumph to be mine?
Her singular speeches, not very honestly overheard, filled me with hope.
I hesitated about entering the tent. I no longer desired to interrupt a dialogue that had caused me such supreme pleasure; and yet I yearned to proffer my devotion – to stand once more face to face, and eye to eye, with the beautiful Jarocha.
In any case I could not continue to play the part of an eavesdropper. I could now perceive the indelicacy of the act – especially as my satisfied heart no longer needed soothing.
I must either enter, or withdraw. I decided upon entering.
But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head, drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most captivating curl.
I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, “handsome young officer,” applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left nothing undone to deserve it.
Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before the lovely Lola – an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her brother.
Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I stood before them both – the sister and brother – with a conscience not clear. At that moment – I confess it to my shame – I had no other thought than that of trifling with the affections of the beautiful Jarocha.
She was but a peasant – one of a race, it is true, to whom the appellation is somewhat inappropriate – a people, though poor, elegant in person, graceful in deportment, highly gifted with the savoir faire, as it relates to the ordinary intercourse of life – at the same time a people in whose pantheon the divinity, Virtue, finds but an inconspicuous niche.
Neither the first nor the last of these reflections may be deemed an excuse for my conduct. I do not offer them as such, though both serving at the time to satisfy my conscience.
Its scruples were not difficult to subdue. Its still small voice was unheard, or rather unheeded, under the promptings of a powerful, but unholy passion, of which Lola Vergara was then the object, and as I hoped, afterwards to become the victim.
She was but a peasant, a pretty poblana– perhaps already inducted into the mysteries of Cupid’s court: for it would be rare for one of her race to have reached woman’s age without loving. The sister of a common soldier – for such was the rank of Calros – what harm could be done? What wrong could I be dreaming about?
I did not need all this sophistry to satisfy the whisperings of my conscience. At that time of my life the task was easy of accomplishment – too easy; and with such a lure as Lola Vergara it was less than a task.
I made no effort to resist the temptation. On the contrary, I devoted myself to the winning of her heart with all the ardour of an important enterprise.
It was her heart I wished to win, and that only. I wished it because she had won mine. I deny that I had any design beyond – any thought more dishonourable. That of itself may be deemed sufficiently so, since I had no intention of offering her my hand.
Her love alone did I care for; though I will not conceal my belief, that, in the event of conquering her heart, any other conquest would be facile and without resistance.
This was my faith at the time – a faith founded on sad experience. I applied it to Lola Vergara, as I should have done to any other girl under the like circumstances.
The future would prove whether my creed was erroneous as it was dishonourable.
I entered the tent. She, whose affections I intended trifling with, rose from her seat, saluting me, as I stepped forward, with an air of modesty that might have shamed my secret thoughts. Her glance was full of gratitude. How ill did I deserve it!
“Señor,” said she, after answering my inquiries as to the condition of the invalid, “I hope you will forgive me for the rude manner in which I addressed you. Volga me Dios! To have made such a mistake! I thought you had killed my brother, not knowing when I saw you standing over him. O señor! you will forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, fair Lola. Considering