by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A RIVAL TRACKED TO HIS ROOF-TREE.
That I _was_ forestalled, there could be no mistake.
There was no ambiguity about the meaning of the phrase: "God be withyou, dear Francis!" The coldest heart could not fail to interpret it--coupled with the act to which it had been an accompaniment.
My heart was on fire. There was jealousy in it; and, more: there wasanger.
I believed, or fancied, that I had cause. If ever woman had given meencouragement--by looks and smiles--that woman was Mercedes Villa-Senor.
All done to delude me--perhaps but to gratify the slightest whim of herwoman's vanity? She had shown unmistakeable signs of having noted myglances of admiration. They were too earnest to have beenmisunderstood. Perhaps she may have been a little flattered by them?But, whether or no, I was confident of having received encouragement.
Once, indeed, a flower had been dropped from the _balcon_. It had theair of an accident--with just enough design to make the act difficult ofinterpretation. With the wish father to the thought, I accepted it as achallenge; and, hastening along the pavement, I stooped, and picked theflower up.
What I then saw was surely an approving smile--one that seemed to say:"in return for your sword-knot." I thought so at the time; and fanciedI could see the tassel, protruding from a plait in the bodice of thelady's dress--shown for an instant, and then adroitly concealed.
This sweet chapter of incidents occurred upon the occasion of my tenthstroll through the Calle del Obispo. It was the last time I had thechance of seeing Mercedes by twilight. After that came the irksomeinterval of seclusiveness,--now to be succeeded by a prolonged period ofchagrin: for the dropping of the _billet-doux_, and the endearingspeech, had put an end to my hopes--as effectually as if I had seenMercedes enfolded in Francisco's arms.
Along with my chagrin I felt spite. I was under the impression that Ihad been _played with_.
Upon whom should I expend it? On the Senorita?
There was no chance. She had retired from the balcony. I might neversee her again--there, or elsewhere? Who then? The man who had beenbefore me in her affections?
Should I cross over the street--confront--pick a quarrel with him, andfinish it at my sword's point? An individual whom I had never seen, andwho, in all probability, had never set eyes upon me!
Absurd as it may appear--absolutely unjust as it would have been--thiswas actually my impulse!
It was succeeded by a gentler thought. Francisco's face was favourableto him. I saw it more distinctly, as he leant forward under the lamp todecipher the contents of the note. It was such a countenance as onecould not take offence at, without good cause; and a moment's reflectionconvinced me that mine was not sufficient. He was not only innocent ofthe grief his rivalry had given me, but in all likelihood ignorant of myexistence.
From that time forward he was likely to remain so.
Such was my reflection, as I turned to take my departure from the place.There was no longer any reason for my remaining there. The cocheromight now come and go, without danger of being accosted by me. Histardiness had lost him the chance of obtaining an _onza_; and the letterI had been hitherto holding in my hand went crumpled back into mypocket. Its warm words and soft sentiments--contrived with all theskill of which I was capable--should never be read by her for whom theyhad been indited!
So far as the offering of any further overtures on my part, I had donewith the daughter of Don Eusebio Villa-Senor; though I knew I had notdone with her in my heart, and that it would be long--long--before Ishould get quit of her there.
I turned to go back to my quarters--in secret to resign myself to myhumiliation. I did not start instantly. Something whispered me to staya little longer. Perhaps there might be a second act to the episode Ihad so unwillingly witnessed?
It could hardly be this that induced me to linger. It was evident shedid not intend reappearing. Her visit to the balcon had the air ofbeing made by stealth. I noted that once or twice she cast a quickglance over her shoulder--as if watchful eyes were behind her, and shehad chosen a chance moment when they were averted.
The manoeuvre had been executed with more than ordinary caution. It waseasy to see they were lovers _without leave_. Ah! too well could Icomprehend the clandestine act!
Still standing concealed within the shadow of the portal, I watchedFrancisco deciphering, or rather devouring, the note. How I envied himthose moments of bliss! The words traced upon the tiny sheet must besweet to him, as the sight was bitter to me.
His face was directly under the lamplight. I could see it was one thatwoman might well love, and man be jealous of. No wonder he had won theheart of Don Eusebio's daughter!
He was not long in making himself acquainted with the contents of theepistle. Of course they caused him joy. I could trace it in thepleased expression that made itself manifest in every line of hiscountenance. Could I have seen my own, I might have looked upon a sadcontrast!
The reading came to a close. He folded the note, and with care--asthough intending it to be tenderly kept. It disappeared under hiscloak; the cloak was drawn closer around him; a fond parting look castup to the place from which he had received the sweet missive; and then,turning along the pavement, he passed smilingly away.
I followed him.
I can scarce tell why I did so. My first steps were altogethermechanical--without thought or motive.
It might have been an instinct--a fascination--such as often attractsthe victim to the very danger it should avoid.
Prudence--experience, had I consulted it--would both have said to me:
"Go the other way. Go, and forget her! Him too--all that has happened.'Tis not yet too late. You are but upon the edge of the Scylla ofpassion. You may still shun it. Retire, and save yourself from itsCharybdis!"
Prudence and experience--what is either--what are both in the balanceagainst beauty? What were they when weighed against the charms of thatMexican maiden?
Even the slight I had experienced could not turn the scale in theirfavour! It only maddened me to know more; and perhaps it was this thatcarried me along the pavement, on the footsteps of Francisco.
If not entertained at first, a design soon shaped itself--a sort ofmorbid motive. I became curious to ascertain the condition of the manwho had supplanted me; or whom I had been myself endeavouring tosupplant with such slight success.
He had the air of a gentleman, and the bearing of a true _militario_--atype I had more than once met with in the land of Anahuac--so long aprey to the rule of the sabre.
There was nothing particularly martial about his habiliments.
As he passed lamp after lamp in his progress along the street, I couldnote their style and character. A pair of dark grey trousers withoutstripes; a cloak; a glazed hat--all after a fashion worn by the ordinary_commerciantes_ of the place. I fancied I could perceive a certainshabbiness about them--perhaps not so much that, as a threadbareness--the evidence of long wear: for the materials were of a costly kind. Thecloak was of best broadcloth--the fabric of Spain; while the hat wasencircled by a bullion band, that, before getting tarnished by the touchof time, must have shone splendidly enough.
These observations were not made without motive. I drew from them aseries of deductions. One, that could not be avoided: that my rival,instead of being rich, was in the opposite condition of life--perhapspenniless?
I was confirmed in this conjecture, as I saw him stop before the door ofan humble one-storied dwelling, in a street of correspondingpretensions; thoroughly convinced of it as he lifted the latch with areadiness that betokened it to be his home, and, without speaking to anyone, stepped inside.
The circumstances were conclusive; he was not one of the "ricos" of theplace. It explained the clandestine correspondence, and the cautionobserved by her who flung down the _billetita_.
Instead of being solaced by the thought, it only increased my bitternessof spirit. I should have been be
tter pleased to have seen my rivalsurrounded by splendour. A love unattracted by this must be indeeddisinterested--without the possibility of being displaced. No chance tosupplant the lover who is loved for himself. I did not harbour a hope.
A slight incident had given me the clue to a romantic tale. MercedesVilla-Senor, daughter of one of the richest men in the place--inhabitingone of its grandest mansions--in secret correspondence with a manwearing a threadbare coat, having his home in one of the lowliestdwellings to be found in the City of the Angels!
I was not much surprised at the discovery. I knew it to be one of the"Cosas de Mexico." But the knowledge did not lessen my chagrin.