CHAPTER II.
A STORY TOLD AND A SURPRISE.
“Madre mia, why so sad this bright and beautiful day, when all should be as gay and happy as it is out of doors?” exclaimed a young girl, as she entered the room, and, kneeling at her mother’s feet, lifted the bowed head, holding it between her two dainty palms, and pressed affectionate kisses upon the pale cheeks and lips.
“Ah, child, if you knew what anniversary this sad day is, you would not wonder at my grief,” returned the elder lady, mournfully. “Luisa, child, how old are you?” she added, half vacantly.
“Why, mother, need you ask that?” laughed her daughter. “I am nearly nineteen! Almost an old woman, aren’t I?” and her soft, gleesome laugh again rung out.
“Listen, Luisa; you have never learned the true way in which your father—my husband, died. But you are old enough now, and I think I can bear to tell it all. I have been thinking of the past this morning—of your father and brother, child, who was stolen when you were a babe.”
“Stolen!” exclaimed Luisa, eagerly. “I thought you said he was dead?”
“And so he is—he must be, or I should have found him years ago,” murmured the mother; and then she detailed at length the incidents embodied in our first chapter, so far as she was conversant with them.
“We lay concealed in the chapparal, where the undergrowth was most dense, Felipe and I, together with Tadeo Campos and Josefa. How we managed to reach the place, I know not. My mind was distracted with fear for my husband and my son. And then, as we crouched there, under a thorny mezquiti, we heard the loud shouts and tramping of men, as they searched for us, and we could hear them speaking in Spanish!
“Oh, how my poor heart bounded with joy then, as I thought that my husband had been victorious, and would have cried aloud to them, if brave, prudent Tadeo had not placed his hand upon my mouth, and bade me beware; that he feared they were foes.
“He said that he had suspected the men who had attacked the hacienda were not Indians, although disguised as such, but were Mexicans. Why, he did not say, but bade me remain quiet for my child’s sake, while he would reconnoiter, and learn for certain who the voices belonged to that we had heard. Then he crawled along and was gone but a few moments before he returned. One glance at his face told me the worst, and I swooned away in my great grief.
“It was but too true. The hacienda had been taken, and my husband killed, not by Indians, but by our own countrymen, although who they were or who led them we never learned. Toward midnight we cautiously returned to the house, and there I found your father, dead! shot through the brain!
“It was a horrible sight. The mangled bodies of our brave peons lay in heaps upon the floor, where they had been slain. Not one of them had been spared, or escaped that dreadful massacre, save us four. All were dead!
“The house, as you see, was left standing, the herds were untouched; nothing, save a few articles of plate and the ready money, was taken. Surely a war-party of Indians would never act in this manner, and it further confirmed a belief that the marauders were of our own country. But what was their object? Alas, I fear it was but to murder all, although for what reason I know not.
“We mounted our horses and fled from the spot, after burying your father, and did not rest until we reached the city of Guanajuato, where we arrived nearly dead from fatigue and hunger, and told our tale to the kind friends we met there. I dispatched Tadeo Campos, with a note detailing the sad tragedy, to your uncle Augustin Canelo, who was then at the city of Mexico.
“He was fearfully enraged and grieved at his brother’s murder, and vowed to search the world over but he would have revenge. But we could give him no clue to the assassins. Well, he sent a number of his own peons to the hacienda, and when it was renovated we returned to it. He remained with us at my request, and for a year all went well. He would be absent for weeks at a time on business connected with his silver mines, or searching for some trace of the murderers.
“I thought my cup of sorrow was full, even to overflowing, but I had yet to endure more; another fearful blow awaited me. You, my child, were nearly six months old, when one day our little Felipe, the darling boy, so brave and beautiful, and the image of his father, was torn from me. He had been stolen, but by whom or how, could never be discovered. The Indians were very troublesome then, and I thought that perhaps they had stolen, perhaps murdered my son for the sake of the rich clothes and costly jewels that he wore.
“For long months we searched far and wide for some traces of him, but in vain. The river and arroyos were dragged, the chapparal searched inch by inch, but there were no traces found. In my grief I thought I should die, but it was denied me. And now do you wonder at my sorrow? On this day, nineteen years ago, my husband was murdered; one year later, on the same day, your brother Felipe disappeared—perhaps met the same fate!” and she bowed her head upon her hands, while the hot, scalding tears trickled through her fingers.
The girl at her feet sat in silence, her dark eyes dimmed at the tragical tale she had just listened to. Her sorrow was less than that of her mother, for her brother she could not remember, and the father her eyes had never rested upon, seemed but in a remote degree associated with herself. It was a subject that her mother had ever avoided, and Luisa was too gay and light-hearted to press the topic; so it is not to be wondered at that she did not feel the intense grief that agitated the form of her mother.
No one who could have seen her then would have pronounced her other than beautiful. She was rather under the medium size, but so perfectly proportioned that she appeared taller. Her large, lustrous black eyes were shaded by lashes of the deepest jet, and her finely-arched eyebrows were of the same sable hue. Glossy black tresses were braided like a coronet around her finely-formed head, whence a mass of fine ringlets flowed over a neck and shoulders which would have been considered fair even in our land of blonde beauties, and in her sunny clime were deemed white as the newly-fallen snow. A stranger’s eye would detect and dwell upon the faintly dark shading on her upper lip, that in a youth might have been termed an incipient mustache. But is it a blemish? Her friends thought otherwise. It but added another attraction to her piquant beauty.
Her mother was slightly taller, but the same contour of face and great resemblance, although somewhat impaired by time and sorrow, showed that Senora Luzecita Canelo lived again in her daughter Luisa.
They were aroused by a light tap at the half-opened door, and glanced around.
“Well Josefa, what is it?” said Luisa.
The old nurse entered the room on tiptoe, as if fearful of disturbing the mistress, and whispered, in a low tone:
“It is a stranger, ’na Luisa, on particular business, he says, and—”
“Well, where is Sarguela; he attends to all such, as you know, Josefa,” interrupted the maiden, a little impatiently.
“Don Garcia is with him, but he says he must see the senora; that his business is for her ear alone,” hesitated Josefa.
“Wishes to see me,” asked the lady, looking up. “What and who is he?”
“That he will not tell; but he is a handsome cavallero, and—pardon me, lady, if I say that he is a perfect image of el coronel when I first saw him.”
“Of my husband?” exclaimed the lady, as her face flushed. “And young, say you? Oh, Santissima Virgin, if it should be—ah, no, he is dead long since,” she murmured; then added: “Go, Josefa, and show him here. I will see him.”
In a few moments the old nurse, as she was still called, returned and ushered in the persistent stranger. At first he appeared somewhat abashed and ill at ease, for the ladies had arisen and were facing the door in half eager expectation, and quickly doffing his hat he made a stiff, slightly awkward bow.
“My heart, the picture!” faltered Senora Canelo, pointing to a full-length portrait of her husband, hanging against the wall.
Luisa instantly checked the smile that lurked around her rosy mouth, called forth by the outre demeanor of the stranger, and she too uttered an exclamation as she glanced from the face to the picture.
“I crave your pardon, ladies, if I appear rude, but I have seen so little of society, that for a moment I was dazzled,” he apologized, in a soft, musical tone. “Am I right in thinking I address Senora Canelo?”
“That is my name, senor; and yours?”
“Alas, lady, once I would not have hesitated in replying Felipe Barana; but now, if this packet does not give me a name, I know not that I have one,” replied the youth, in a mournful tone, as he advanced and placed a small parcel, securely tied and sealed, in the trembling hand of the senora.
“Felipe—he said Felipe, and then that face,” murmured she, as she sunk heavily into the chair she had just quitted, and with trembling fingers began to untie the package.
“Be seated, senor,” said Luisa, motioning to a chair, and placing one for herself, so as to partially screen her mother, whom she saw was strangely perturbed.
Senora Canelo tore the wrapper apart, and laying upon an inner package was a note superscribed with her name, in a bold, firm hand that seemed familiar. It was unsealed, and opening its folds, she hurriedly glanced at the contents. Then, with a wild cry, she started to her feet, and advanced a step toward the stranger, but her limbs refused to do their duty, and she sunk to the floor in a swoon.
Luisa bent over her, shrieking for help, and as she loosened the throat of her mother’s dress she caught the words:
“Felipe—my son—thank God!”
Josefa came rushing in, and unceremoniously hustled the stranger out of the room, and set about restoring her mistress.
“Never fear, ’na Luisa, it is only a fainting fit; there’s no cause of alarm. In a few moments it will be over.”
“Are you sure, Josefa, are you sure?” eagerly queried the sobbing girl. “Ay de mi! She looks like dead!”
“No, no; it’s nothing—nothing at all. Why, bless you, child, she’s had thousands of them!” returned the old nurse, exaggerating a little, the better to reassure Luisa. “See, the color comes to her lips, and, praise the Virgin, her eyes open!”
“Oh, mother, mother, I thought you were dead!”
“Where—where is he—Felipe, my son?” and the lady half raised from the lounge, glancing eagerly around the room, then sinking back, she wailed, “Nuestra Madre de los Merced! it was all a dream, a cruel, bitter dream!”
“No, no, it was no dream; he is here—the stranger, I mean, who looks so much like papa’s portrait. And see, here is the letter he gave you!” exclaimed Luisa, placing the note in her mother’s hand.
“Call—but no, I must have been mistaken; he is dead long, long since! My daughter, read what it says, to me; my eyes are blurred, and I can not see.”
Luisa opened the note with intense curiosity, but then looked up in surprise.
“Why, mother, it is from Uncle Augustin!”
“Yes, go on—read, quick!”
“MY DEEPLY-WRONGED SISTER:” it began, “when you read this, I shall be no more. I am dying, and the padre tells me that, before the sun goes down, I shall be dead. How this occurred, the bearer of this, my dying confession, will tell you. I have deeply wronged you and yours, and stained my soul with a horrible crime; but now make reparation as far as lies in my power. Listen, and, in God’s mercy, do not curse me after I am dead! I hired the men who, disguised as Comanches, attacked the hacienda nineteen years ago, and by my hand, my brother—your husband—died! I was mad, crazy, but I loved you, and thought that, if he was out of the way, in time you would listen to my suit. Then I caused your son, Felipe, to be stolen, and at the time meant to kill him, for I was poor, and he stood between me and wealth. But my heart failed me, and he yet lives, a noble, brave boy, who looks at me with your eyes and his father’s face. I can not tell you all I would of my reasons for the crimes I confess, for my strength is fast failing. But I will send this by YOUR SON, although he knows not who his parents are. I inclose the jewels and a scarf that he wore when he was first abducted, so that you may have no doubt. And now listen to my prayer, the last I shall ever make. I know I have been fearfully guilty, yet I do not think I could rest in my grave if you should curse me as the murderer of your husband. I do not ask for forgiveness, but that you will strive to forget me; as though I had never been born. May the holy Virgin ever smile upon and guard you, and cause the son I return to your heart to be a joy and a blessing. As I hope for mercy hereafter, he is your only son, Felipe.
“AUGUSTIN CANELO.”
The mother did not speak while this strange letter was being read, but pressed both hands tightly upon her bosom, as if to still the painful throbbings of her heart, while the breath came in gasps from between her pallid lips. When the last word was pronounced, she essayed in vain to arise; then, as she sunk back, feebly whispered to Luisa, who was scarcely less agitated than herself:
“Go, Luisa; go bring YOUR BROTHER to me!”
The sister needed no further prompting, but sped away like a startled fawn to the room where her brother had been so unceremoniously consigned by Josefa. He was pacing rapidly to and fro, his handsome countenance expressing no small degree of wonder and perplexity.
“Felipe, my brother, don’t you know your little sister, Luisa?” she cried, and throwing her arms around his broad shoulders, stood on tip-toe to press her lips to his.
He was startled, as well he might be, but the tempting lips, pouting out like twin cherries, would have enticed far older and more sedate hearts than his, and clasping her to his breast, he pressed kiss after kiss upon her blushing face, with an ardor that half alarmed her. Truly, it would be pleasant, really pleasant, to be a big brother, if all sisters were like Luisa. But the voice of the mother was heard from within, calling him to hasten, and Luisa said:
“Come, Felipe, brother; come to mother,” and together they entered the room.
Old Josefa stole out from the apartment, and we will follow her example, for the meeting between the long-parted ones was sacred. But an hour afterward the three were seated close together, while before them lay the jewels and scarf that the mother instantly recognized, and they removed any doubt that she could have entertained as to the reality of the youth’s identity.
“Do you recollect nothing whatever of this place, Felipe?” asked his mother.
“I can not just now. Perhaps it will come back to me when I am a little less bewildered. Remember what a surprise I have had; I, who thought I was alone in the world, without even a name,” he replied, as he kissed first one and then the other.
“No; the first I can remember is being in a little village on a mountain’s side, and then it changes to a vast and gloomy cavern, with wild-looking men all around me. I know now that they were Jarochos and a sort of guerilleros, who robbed; but I never knew of their shedding blood, unless in a quarrel between themselves. And as I grew older I became one of them. Do not start, or look so terrified, for you must remember that I knew no better. It was the way I had been taught and I thought all men were like us.
“The man whom I called father—your uncle, Luisa, who went by the name of Don Serapio Barana—was the chief or leader of the band, and he taught me this, and gave me the education I have; him and padre Gayferos. He would often be gone for weeks and months at a time, and then the lieutenant, Lopez Romulo, would be left in command. He was a wicked, cruel man, and I hated him!” Felipe added, while his eyes flashed and a hand crept to the jeweled hilt of the poniard that peeped from his bosom.
“Twice he insulted me so bitterly that, if it had not have been for those around me, I would have slain him like a dog, as he is. Well, one day, perhaps two weeks since, when I returned from a hunt of several days’ duration, I found Don Barana at the point of death. How it happened I only could learn that he had been wounded in an attack upon a conducta de plata” (convoy of silver), “in which the band had been repulsed with severe loss. Then he told me that he was not my father, but that he would send me with a package, and the one who received it would tell me all concerning who and what I was. He made me promise to deliver the packet into no hands but your own, as I valued my future.
“Then padre Gayferos dismissed us all from the room or chamber in the cave, as he wished to receive his last confession. In a few minutes they told me he was dead, and then I took a last farewell of my rough but kind friends. I amused myself on the long journey with picturing what would be my reception—who I would turn out to be; but ah, mi almas, the most romantic air castle did not realize the truth!” he exclaimed, as he caressed his newly-found relatives.
“Oh, my children,” murmured the mother, “this has ever been a fearful, horrible anniversary for me, hitherto, but now it will be divided with joy. On it I lost a dear husband and a son; but the one is an angel in heaven, where he is now smiling down upon us, and the other is here! Oh, my son, my Felipe, we must never more part in this world. For eighteen years I have mourned for you, and—”
“And now, for thrice that long we will rejoice together!” exclaimed Luisa joyously, as she nestled closer against her brother’s arm, looking lovingly up into his handsome face.