shall I do to show my gratitude for such kind forethought?"
"Poor little dear!" said he sadly; "I have only yourself to love now."
"Say to adore, my dearest father; for it is adoration you feel for me; and I too love you with all the strength of love which God has given me."
"And yet," said Don Pedro, in tones of gentle reproach, "you are not afraid of causing me uneasiness."
"I!" said Hermosa, beginning to tremble.
"Yes, you," he replied, threatening her with uplifted finger; "you are concealing something from me."
"Father!" she murmured softly.
"Daughter, a father's eye can pierce to the bottom of the heart of a girl of sixteen. Some extraordinary change has taken place in you these last few days: your thoughts are strangely preoccupied."
"You are right, father," she replied with a good deal of firmness.
"And what are you dreaming about, little girl?" asked Don Pedro, smiling to conceal his anxiety.
"About Don Torribio de Quiroga, father."
"Aha!" replied he, "Because you love him, I suppose?"
Doña Hermosa drew herself up, and assumed a serious expression.
"I!" said she, placing her hand on her bosom, "No! I deceived myself until today. I do not love Don Torribio, and yet I cannot help thinking of him, although I do not know why. Since his return from Europe, a change has come over him for which I cannot account. It seems to me, that he is not the same person who was brought up with me. His look pains, yet fascinates me; his voice raises a feeling of undefinable sorrow. Certainly, the man is handsome; his manners are noble, and his bearing that of a highbred gentleman: yet there is something nameless about him which chills me, and inspires invincible repugnance."
"How romantic!" said Don Pedro, laughing.
"Laugh at me! Mock me!" she replied, her voice trembling. "Shall I confess everything, father?"
"Speak confidently, dearest child."
"I will. I believe this man, whom I thought I loved, will bring evil upon me."
"Child," replied Don Pedro, kissing her forehead, "what ill could he do you?"
"Father, I cannot tell; but I dread it."
"Do you wish me to break with him, and not to admit him again?"
"Heaven forbid! It would certainly hasten the misfortune that threatens me."
"Pooh! you are a spoilt child! You grow whimsical, and amuse yourself by creating phantoms. All these fears and imaginary presentiments spring from your love for your cousin. The only way to restore your tranquillity is to marry you to him as soon as possible; and be sure, my dear, that is what I intend to do."
Doña Hermosa shook her head sorrowfully, and cast down her eyes, but she made no reply: she felt that her father had completely misunderstood her meaning, and that any attempt to bring him over to her wishes would be vain.
Just at that moment a peon announced Don Torribio, who entered the room.
He was dressed in the latest Paris fashion; and the glare of the candles lighted up his handsome face.
Father and daughter both trembled; the one perhaps with joy, the other certainly with fear.
Don Torribio, after gracefully saluting Doña Hermosa, approached her and respectfully offered her a superb bouquet of exotic flowers. She took them with a forced smile, and, without looking at them, placed them on the table.
Soon after, other persons were announced: the governor, Don José Kalbris, and his staff; two or three other families – in all, about twenty people; and lastly, Don Estevan Dias, and Don Fernando Carril.
It was certainly impossible to recognise the hardy backwoodsman, the redoubtable bee-hunter, who a few days before had done Don Pedro and his daughter such signal service, in the elegant caballero who arrived in the company of the mayor domo of the hacienda. His irreproachable bearing, his distinguished manner, in short, all about him, banished suspicion, or rather prevented comparison.
We have already said that Don Fernando Carril, although his life was wrapped in impenetrable mystery, was superficially known to all the best society in the provinces, and, thanks to the easy-going manners of the Mexicans, received in the best families. His presence at the hacienda was, therefore, nothing extraordinary. Nevertheless, his appearance excited lively curiosity in the guests; for it was a long time since Don Fernando had been seen at any entertainment.
Like Don Torribio, the hunter, when he entered the room, approached Doña Hermosa, bowed profoundly to her, and respectfully offered her a flower he held in his hand.
"Señorita," said he, in a voice full of suppressed emotion, "deign to accept this modest flower; it grows only in the desert," he added, significantly.
Doña Hermosa trembled at the sound of his voice, which she thought she had recognised; a lively blush rose to her cheeks; and dropping her eyes under the ardent gaze fixed upon her, she took the flower and placed it in her bosom, as she answered inarticulately:
"Everything that comes from the desert will be dear to me henceforth."
The conversation of the guests had by this time grown animated. The little incident passed without remark, except from one person, who, with that kind of intuition which springs from love and jealousy, had divined in Don Fernando one who, if not an openly declared rival, was, at least, preferred in secret.
This person was Don Torribio Quiroga.
Leaning towards Don Estevan, who chanced to be near him, he said, in a voice low indeed but perfectly distinct and audible to all: "What golden key does this man possess, whom nobody knows, by which he introduces himself into honourable families, where his presence is neither desired nor invited?"
"Ask him yourself, señor," said Don Estevan dryly; "he will most likely be able to explain his conduct satisfactorily."
"I shall follow your advice this instant, señor," answered Don Torribio haughtily.
"It is unnecessary, caballero; I heard your words perfectly," said Don Fernando.
His voice was calm, and he made a courteous bow to Don Torribio, while an ironical smile curled his lips for a moment.
All conversation had been suddenly broken off; a profound silence reigned over those present, and the looks of all were turned in curiosity towards the two men.
Doña Hermosa, pale and trembling, cast a look of entreaty on her father.
Don Pedro walked resolutely into the middle, of the room, and placed himself between the two caballeros.
"What does this mean, señores?" said he. "Is this the idea of propriety you have brought back from your travels in Europe, Don Torribio? Do you dare to turn my drawing room into lists wherein to break your lance in personal quarrels? What right have you to cavil at Don Fernando's presence here? You are not my son-in-law yet, as far as I know. I am master here, and can receive whom I think fit."
"Even cutthroats and salteadores (highwaymen), cousin, if such is your good pleasure," replied the young man, with an ironical bow.
Don Fernando looked as if he were going to rush upon the man who had thus insulted him, but managed to contain himself.
"Will Don Torribio deign to explain himself," he said calmly, "and not speak in enigmas?"
"And whose fault is it, caballero, if I speak in enigmas? Are you not the cause of the mystery?"
"Enough, caballeros!" exclaimed Don Pedro; "He who utters another word on this subject, makes me his mortal enemy."
The two men bowed respectfully to the hacendero and separated, but not without having exchanged looks of terrible expression.
"Well, colonel," continued Don Pedro, addressing the governor, in the hopes of glossing over the lamentable altercation, "What news from La Ciudad? Is Mexico still tranquil?"
"Our great Santa Anna," replied the colonel, who was choking in his uniform,