CHAPTER IX.
DON MELCHIOR DIAZ.
Don Melchior Diaz's name has several times already slipped from ourpen; the reader has been introduced to him, but up to the presentwe have not yet positively explained who he is or in what way hesucceeded in gaining the position he occupies in the Saldibar family.The moment has arrived to make this known, and acquaint the reader withcertain events most important for a proper understanding of comingfacts.
When Sotavento handed over to Don Anibal de Saldibar the child savedfrom the general massacre of the Indian tribe, there was a fact whichthe majordomo passed over in silence. It was, that the lad whom hedeclared to have recovered from the Indians, had been simply confidedto him by a white hunter, to whom he had scarce spoken, and who saidto him at the same time as he handed him a bag of gold dust, which themajordomo did not think it necessary to mention either, as he doubtlesspreferred to appear thoroughly disinterested in his master's eyes--
"This child is born of white parents; one day he will be reclaimed;tell Don Anibal to take the greatest care of him."
Sotavento scented a mystery under these hints, and in the prospect ofsome profit to be made at a later date, kept to himself the hunter'sremarks, and told his master some sort of story, which the latterbelieved, through the slight importance he attached to it. The lad had,therefore, been unhesitatingly accepted by Don Anibal, and brought upin the family for the first five years. The hacendero paid but littleattention to him, amusing himself at times with his sallies, but takingvery slight interest in him, and regarding him rather as a servant thanas a member of the family destined to acquire considerable importance.
Don Aurelio, when he narrated to his companions the facts which causedDona Emilia's insanity and the events that followed, had been unableto tell more than everybody knew, and comment on these events from hisown point of sight. But a secret was kept in the inner circle of thefamily which Don Anibal was more careful not to permit to transpire,and which, consequently, Don Aurelio was ignorant of. The secret wasthis: Dona Emilia was not cured; her madness still endured; stillthis madness had become, so to speak, intermittent, and only made itsappearance at settled intervals; but then her attacks acquired suchstrength that they became irresistible, and any constraint placed atsuch a moment on the patient's volition would infallibly have causedher death.
Don Anibal, as we have said, adored his wife. Several times he triedto calm her; he even went so far as to try and prevent her leaving thehacienda. But then such frightful scenes occurred; Dona Emilia fellinto such horrible convulsions at the mere thought of not acting as sheliked, that Don Anibal was obliged to restore her liberty. Dona Emiliawhen these attacks came upon her became a lioness; she had but onethought, one purpose, to rush in pursuit of the Indians, and pitilesslymassacre them. Singular anomaly of the human heart, especially in amild, kind, timid woman, whom the slightest pain caused to faint, andwho, in ordinary times, could not endure the sight of blood. DonaEmilia, whom, by the physician's express orders, Don Anibal had notdared deprive of her daughter, had brought up her child in a hatred ofthe redskins, and seizing on her young imagination with that ascendencywhich mothers possess, had succeeded, if not in completely making hershare her ideas, at least in obtaining from her a passive and absoluteobedience.
Melchior, brought up, so to speak, haphazard at the hacienda, had,through the instinct of protecting innate in man, attached himselfto Dona Diana, whom he saw sad, sickly, and suffering. Dona Diana,for her part, felt pity for the poor orphan, and from this mutualsympathy sprang a friendship which years had only consolidated byrendering it warmer. Don Anibal and Dona Emilia both saw with pleasurethis affection spring up between the children, though from differentmotives. Don Anibal, who would not for anything in the world havethwarted his wife's ideas, saw with delight this boy grow up who, ata given moment, might become her defender and safeguard in her madexpeditions against the Indians; while Dona Emilia, reasoning from anentirely different point of view, though she attained the same result,saw in him a devoted and most useful ally in these same expeditions.
The result of this tacit understanding between husband and wife wasthat the boy, at first abandoned to his instincts, was watched withgreater care, brought up as he deserved to be, and at last graduallyregarded as a member of the family. Let us hasten to add that DonMelchior was in every respect deserving of the kindness shown him. Hewas a thoughtful, earnest lad, with an honest heart and firm will, whocould thoroughly appreciate all that was done for his future well-being.
When the boy became a man, he was taken naturally into Dona Emilia'sintimacy, and associated in all her plans. Don Anibal, delighted atthis result, and trusting in the young man, whose good sentiments hehad reason for believing he knew, felt relieved from a heavy burden;and when his wife, attacked by one of her fits, attempted one of herhazardous excursions, he saw her start with less terror, as he feltconvinced that she had a devoted defender by her side. But a thinghappened which neither husband nor wife had foreseen. The two youngpeople, brought up side by side, living constantly together, accustomedto interchange their most secret thoughts and ideas, passed by animperceptible incline, without either perceiving or suspecting it,from friendship to love. Love in these two young, ignorant hearts,which were pure from any wrong sentiment, must necessarily be deep,irresistible, and produce the effect of a thunderbolt.
This is what occurred: the two young people, instead of trying toresist the new feeling which was germinating in their hearts andgrowing so rapidly, yielded to it with that simple confidence whichignorance alone can give, and which converts love into a divinesentiment. Long before they had made a mutual avowal, they understoodeach other by a glance, and knew that they were henceforth attached toeach other.
One day Dona Diana approached Melchior, who, with his shoulder leantagainst a sumach, was listlessly watching a flight of wild pigeonspassing over his head. The young man was so absorbed in thought that hedid not hear the maiden's light step, as her dainty feet made the sandof the walk she was following creak. It was only when her hand was laidon his shoulder that, recalled to earth from heaven, he started as ifhe had received an electric shock, turned suddenly, and fixed his eyeson Dona Diana. The young lady smiled.
"Were you dreaming?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I was dreaming, Nina."
She mechanically raised her eyes to the sky.
"Of those birds, doubtless? Did they bring you a hope or a regret?"
Melchior shook his head.
"Neither one nor the other," he said sorrowfully. "I have no regrets,and my sole hope is here."
The young lady looked down with a blush. There was a silence for someminutes, filled with ineffable melody for these young hearts; the ladwas the first to speak.
"Alas!" he said, in a low and timid voice, "Regrets are hot made forme; what am I, save a lost child, whose colour is not even decided? CanI regret a family I do not know?"
"Yes, that is true," she answered, with a roguish smile; "but you havea hope."
"A mad hope, an insensate dream, which the reawakening of reason willutterly dispel," he said with feverish animation.
"You are deceived or wish to deceive me," she said, with some sternnessin her voice; "that is not right, Melchior."
"Senorita--" he stammered.
The maiden walked softly up to him. "We were brought up together," shesaid to him in a gentle and penetrating voice, "we grew up together,ever equally sharing our joys and sorrows; is that true, Melchior?"
"It is," he murmured faintly.
"Why, then," she continued, "have you become so taciturn during thelast few days? Why do you shun me? Why do you fly on my approach?"
"I?"
"You, brother, who ought to keep nothing hidden from me."
"Oh!"
"I repeat that you ought to keep nothing from me, for I am your oldest,perhaps your only friend."
"It is true, oh! It is true, Diana," he exclaimed, as he clasped hishands with passionate f
ervour, "you are my only friend."
"Why then keep a secret from me?"
"A secret!" he exclaimed, as he recoiled in horror.
"Yes, a secret; and I have discovered it, though you fancied you hadlocked it up in your heart."
The young man turned pale.
"Oh! Take care, Nina," he exclaimed, "this secret I dare not confess tomyself."
"That is the very reason why I discovered it, Melchior," she answered,with an adorable expression.
"Oh! It is impossible, Diana; you cannot know--"
"That you love me!" she interrupted him with an outburst. "Why not,since I love you?"
And she gazed at him with the sublime confidence of a chaste andtrue love--that divine and fugitive beam which God, in his ineffablegoodness, only allows to shine in innocent and candid hearts. The younglover tottered like a drunken man; for a moment he thought he must bedreaming, for so much happiness surpassed all that he had ever dared tohope.
"You love me, Diana!" he at length exclaimed.
"You love me! Oh! An eternity of suffering for this second ofhappiness!"
And he fell on his knees in front of the maiden. She looked at him fora moment with an expression of indescribable passion, and then offeredhim her hand, which he covered with burning kisses.
"Rise, Melchior," she said to him, with considerable emotion. "Rise, mybeloved. Let this holy love which binds us, and which we have mutuallyconfessed, remain a secret from everybody. A day will come, and soon, Ihope, when we shall be permitted to proclaim it openly; but till thenlet us hide our happiness."
The young man rose.
"I love you, Diana," he said. "I am your slave; order me, and I willobey."
"Alas, my beloved," she continued, with a sad shake of her head, "I cangive you no orders, entreaty alone is permitted me."
"Oh, speak, speak, Diana," he exclaimed.
The maiden passed her arm through his with a sanguine, childishconfidence.
"Come," she said, "accompany me a few paces, and we will talk about mymother."
Melchior shook his head sorrowfully, but said nothing.
"Poor mother!" Diana murmured.
"Oh, yes, most unhappy," the young man remarked with a sigh.
"I think you love my mother, dearest?"
"Is it not to her that I am indebted for being what I am?"
"Listen to me, Melchior," she said resolutely; "we love each other,and some day you will be my husband, for I swear to you that I willnever have another. As you see, I speak frankly and boldly, more soperhaps than a girl of my age and position ought to do; but you are anhonourable man, and will never abuse the confession I have made you."
"Thanks," he said, simply. "Speak, Diana, speak. Your words areengraved in letters of fire on my heart."
"It is well, my friend. You, my mother, and my father occupy all myaffections. It is a holy trinity, to which I will never break faith.You know in what a horrible position my mother finds herself, and whatfearful hallucinations seize upon her."
"Alas!"
"Well! Swear to me that whatever may occur, you will never fail in themission I have taken on myself, and of which I confide to you one halffrom this day; swear to me that, under all circumstances, you willremain by her side to defend her, and die for her if it must be so. Atthis price, I repeat to you, Melchior, at this price my love is yoursfor ever; and no other man but yourself shall ever be my husband."
The young man tried to interrupt her; but she imposed silence on him bya sudden and peremptory gesture, and continued--
"Oh! I know what a frightful sacrifice I impose on you, brother; but I,who am but a girl, still a child I may say, endure without complainingall the consequences of these ferocious acts of vengeance which I darenot qualify as madness. Alas, Melchior, the fearful disease to which mypoor mother is condemned dates from the period of my birth. I am, soto speak, the innocent cause of it; hence it is my duty to sacrificemyself, whatever it may cost me, in order to try if possible to relieveher frightful sufferings, which, in the paroxysm of a horrible crisis,will perhaps entail my death and hers; for I do not conceal frommyself, brother, that the day must arrive when the redskins will taketheir revenge for my mother's implacable expeditions. But then, ifI succumb, I shall at least fall with the incomparable satisfactionof having done my duty by sacrificing myself for her to whom I owe mylife."
"Dismiss such gloomy thoughts, Diana. Your mother is growing calmerwith age. The expeditions, as you know, are more and more rare, theattacks less frequent, and soon, perhaps, we shall have the happinessof seeing them entirely disappear."
"I dare not flatter myself with that hope, my dear Melchior. No, no.Unless a miracle occurs, my mother will fall a victim to her monomaniafor vengeance on the redskins."
"My dear Diana, there are now two of us to devote ourselves to her. Godis too just and good to desire the ruin of two innocent children whohave never offended Him. You have my word, and my life belongs to youand to your mother; employ it as a thing that is your own. On the daywhen I lose it in serving you and saving you from sorrow, I shall bethe happiest of men."
"Thanks, Melchior; I knew that I could reckon on you. Your generouswords restore the courage which was fast deserting me. I will not breakdown in the task I have imposed on myself; henceforth we belong to oneanother, no matter what obstacles may arise."
From this day the compact was made between the young people--a sacredcompact, which neither broke, and which was fated to have terribleconsequences for them at a later date. But an invisible witness hadoverheard their conversation. This witness, whom they had not seengliding like a snake through the shrubs, and listening to all theirremarks with the greatest attention, was Pedro Sotavento, majordomoof the hacienda. What interest had this man in thus overhearing theirconversation? He alone knew; for beneath an affable and inoffensiveappearance, he concealed a deeply ulcerated heart, and evidentlyfollowed a plan resolved on long before, the realization of which wouldburst like a thunderclap upon those whose ruin he had so long meditated.
Sotavento kept to himself his knowledge of the love of the youngpeople, which he had so treacherously surprised. He never ventured,in their presence, on the slightest allusion which might lead them tosuspect that he was aware of it. On the contrary, he increased hispoliteness towards Melchior, and seemed trying, by overtures adroitlymade each time an opportunity offered, to gain his confidence. This,however, let us hasten to add, he never succeeded in doing; for theyoung man felt for the worthy steward an instinctive and invincibleaversion, which stopped in his throat a confession he was several timeson the point of making to him.