The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley Page 5

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  A STUDIED INSULT.

  In a small house of the third Municipality, in the street called CasaCalvo, dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde. It was a wooden structure--a framedwelling--of French-Creole fashion, consisting of but a single story,with casement windows that opened on a verandah, in the Southern Statestermed _piazza_; this being but little elevated above the level of theoutside street. Besides Don Ignacio and his daughter, but one otherindividual occupied the house--their only servant, a young girl ofMexican nativity and mixed blood, half white, half Indian--in short, a_mestiza_. The straitened circumstances of the exile forbade a moreexpensive establishment. Still, the insignia within were not those ofpinched poverty. The sitting-room, if small, was tastefully furnished,while, among other chattels speaking of refinement, were several volumesof books, a harp and a guitar, with accompaniment of sheets of music.The strings of these instruments Luisa Valverde knew how to touch withthe skill of a professional, both being common in her own country.

  On that night, when the election of the filibustering officers was beingheld in Poydras Street, her father, alone with her in the samesitting-room, asked her to play the harp to the accompaniment of a song.Seating herself to the instrument, she obeyed, singing one of those_romanzas_ in which the language of Cervantes is so rich. It was, infact, the old song "El Travador," from which has been filched the musicset to Mrs Norton's beautiful lay, "Love not." But on this night thespirit of the Mexican senorita was not with her song. Soon as it wasfinished, and her father had become otherwise engaged, she stepped outof the room, and, standing in the piazza, glanced through the trellisedlattice-work that screened it from the street. She evidently expectedsome one to come that way. And as her father had invited FlorenceKearney to supper, and she knew of it, it would look as if he were theexpected one.

  If so, she was disappointed for a time, though a visitor made hisappearance. The door bell, pulled from the outside, soon after summonedPepita, the Mexican servant, to the front, and presently a heavyfootfall on the wooden steps of the porch, told of a man stepping uponthe piazza.

  Meanwhile the young lady had returned within the room; but the nightbeing warm, the hinged casement stood ajar, and she could see through itthe man thus entering. An air of disappointment, almost chagrin, cameover her countenance, as the moonlight disclosed to her view the darkvisage of Carlos Santander.

  "_Pasa V. adientro, Senor Don Carlos_," said her father also recognisingtheir visitor through the casement; and in a moment after the Creolestepped into the room, Pepita placing a chair for him.

  "Though," continued Don Ignacio, "we did not expect to have the honourof your company this evening, you are always welcome."

  Notwithstanding this polite speech, there was a certain constraint orhesitancy in the way it was spoken, that told of some insincerity. Itwas evident that on that night at least Don Carlos' host looked upon himin the light of an intruder. Evidence of the same was still more markedon the countenance, as in the behaviour of Don Ignacio's daughter.Instead of a smile to greet the new-comer, something like a frown satupon her beautiful brow, while every now and then a half-angry flashfrom her large liquid eyes, directed towards him, might have told him hewas aught but welcome. Clearly it was not for him she had several timesduring the same night passed out into the piazza and looked through itslattice-work.

  In truth, both father and daughter seemed disturbed by Santander'spresence, both expecting one whom, for different reasons, they did notdesire him to meet. If the Creole noticed their repugnance, he betrayedno sign of it. Don Carlos Santander, besides being physically handsome,was a man of rare intellectual strength, with many accomplishments,among others the power of concealing his thoughts under a mask ofimperturbable coolness. Still, on this night his demeanour wasdifferent from its wont. He looked flurried and excited, his eyesscintillating as with anger at some affront lately offered him, and thesting of which still rankled in his bosom. Don Ignacio noticed this,but said nothing. Indeed, he seemed to stand in awe of his guest, asthough under some mysterious influence. So was he, and here it may aswell be told. Santander, though by birth an American and a native ofNew Orleans, was of Mexican parentage, and still regarded himself as acitizen of the country of his ancestors. Only to his very intimates wasit known that he held a very high place in the confidence of Mexico'sDictator. But Don Ignacio knew this, and rested certain hopes upon it.More than once had Santander, for motives that will presently appear,hinted to him the possibility of a return to his own land, withrestoration of the estates he had forfeited. And the exiled patriot,wearied with long waiting, was at length willing to lend an ear toconditions, which, in other days, he might have spurned as humiliatingif not actually dishonourable.

  It was to talk of these Santander had now presented himself; and hishost suspecting it, gave the young lady a side look, as much as to say,"Leave the room, Luisita."

  She was but too glad to obey. Just then she preferred a turn upon thepiazza; and into this she silently glided, leaving her father alone withthe guest who had so inopportunely intruded.

  It is not necessary to repeat what passed between the two men. Theirbusiness was to bring to a conclusion a compact they had already talkedof, though only in general terms. It had reference to the restitutionof Don Ignacio's confiscated estates, with, of course, also the ban ofexile being removed from him. The price of all this, the hand of hisdaughter given to Carlos Santander. It was the Creole who proposedthese terms, and insisted upon them, even to the humiliation of himself.Madly in love with Luisa Valverde, he suspected that on her side therewas no reciprocity of the passion. But he would have her hand if hecould not her heart.

  On that night the bargain was not destined to reach a conclusion, theirconference being interrupted by the tread of booted feet, just ascendingthe front steps, and crossing the floor of the piazza. This followed byan exchange of salutations, in which the voice of Luisa Valverde washeard mingling with that of a man.

  Don Ignacio looked more troubled than surprised. He knew who was there.But when the words spoken outside reached the ears of Carlos Santander,first, in openly exchanged salutations and then whispers seeminglysecret and confidential, he could no longer keep his seat, but springingup, exclaimed--

  "_Carrai_! It's that dog of an _Irlandes_!"

  "Hish!" continued his host. "The Senor Florencio will hear you."

  "I wish him to hear me. I repeat the expression, and plainly in his ownnative tongue. I call him a cur of an Irishman."

  Outside was heard a short, sharp ejaculation, as of a man startled bysome sudden surprise. It was followed by an appealing speech, this inthe softer accents of a woman. Then the casement was drawn abruptlyopen, showing two faces outside. One, that of Florence Kearney, set inan angry frown; the other, Luisa Valverde's, pale and appealing. Anappeal idle and too late, as she herself saw. The air had becomecharged with the electricity of deadliest anger, and between the two mena collision was inevitable.

  Without waiting for a word of invitation, Kearney stepped over thecasement sill, and presented himself inside the room. Don Ignacio andthe Creole were by this also on their feet; and for a second or so thethree formed a strange triangular _tableau_--the Mexican with fear onhis face, that of Santander still wearing the expression of insult, aswhen he had exclaimed, "Cur of an Irishman!" Kearney confronting himwith a look of indignant defiance.

  There was an interval of silence, as that of calm preceding storm. Itwas broken by the guest latest arrived saying a few words to his host,but in calm, dignified tone; an apology for having unceremoniouslyentered the room.

  "No need to apologise," promptly rejoined Don Ignacio. "You are here bymy invitation, Senor Don Florencio, and my humble home is honoured byyour presence."

  The Hidalgo blood, pure in Valverde's veins, had boiled up at seeing aman insulted under his roof.

  "Thanks," said the young Irishman.

  "And now, sir," he continued, turning to Santander an
d regarding himwith a look of recovered coolness, "having made my apology, I require_yours_."

  "For what?" asked Santander, counterfeiting ignorance.

  "For using language that belongs to the _bagnios_ of New Orleans, where,I doubt not, you spend most part of your time."

  Then, suddenly changing tone and expression of face, he added--

  "Cur of a Creole! you must take back your words!"

  "Never! It's not my habit to take, but to give; and to you I givethis!"

  So saying, he stepped straight up to the Irishman, and spat in his face.

  Kearney's heart was on fire. His hand was already on the butt of hispistol; but, glancing behind, he saw that pale appealing face, and withan effort restrained himself, calmly saying to Santander--

  "Calling yourself a gentleman, you will no doubt have a card andaddress. May I ask you to favour me with it, as to-morrow I shall haveoccasion to write to you? If a scoundrel such as you can boast ofhaving a friend, you may as well give him notice he will be needed.Your card, sir!"

  "Take it!" hissed the Creole, flinging his card on the table. Thenglaring around, as if his glance would annihilate all, he clutched holdof his hat, bowed haughtily to Don Ignacio, looked daggers at hisdaughter, and strode out into the street.

  Though to all appearance defeated and humbled, he had in truth succeededin his design, one he had long planned and cherished to bring about,--aduel with Kearney, in which his antagonist should be challenger. Thiswould give him the choice of weapons, which, as he well knew, wouldensure to him both safety and success. Without the certainty of this,Carlos Santander would have been the last man to provoke such anencounter; for, with all his air of _bravache_, he was the veriest ofcowards.