“Suppose,” said he, continuing his speech, and relieving me from some little embarrassment, “suppose we consult the wishes of the invalid himself. What say you, señorita?”
“Gracias, ñores,” replied the girl. “I shall ask brother Calros.”
“Calros!” she called out, turning her face towards the tent. “The young officer who has been so kind to you proposes to have you carried up the road to Jalapa. Would you like to go there? The medico says the air of Jalapa will be better for you than this place.”
With a fast-beating pulse I listened for the response of the invalid.
It was delayed. Calros appeared to be considering.
“Why?” I asked myself.
“Ay de mi!” broke in the voice of his sister, in a tone of ingenuous reflection. “It is very hot at El Plan.”
“Thanks, sweet Lola!” I mentally exclaimed, and listened for the decision of Calros, as a criminal waiting for his verdict.
Story 1, Chapter XIII
A Group of Jarochos
Had the wounded man been left free to choose, he would in all probability have decided in favour of being taken to Jalapa – that sanatorium for invalids of the tierra caliente.
I know not whether he had resolved the matter in his mind, but if so, the resolution rose not to his lips; for, as I stood over his couch, venturing to add my solicitations to that naïve insinuation of his sister, I heard voices outside the tent – voices of men who had just come up – inquiring for “Calros Vergara.”
“Hola!” cried the Jarocho, recognising the voices, “those are our friends, sister – people from Lagarto. Run out, niña, and tell them I am here!”
Lola glided towards the entrance of the tent.
“’Tis true, Calros,” she cried, as soon as she had looked out. “I see Vicente Vilagos, Ignacio Valdez, Rosario Très Villas, and the little Pablito!”
“Gracias a Dios!” exclaimed the invalid, raising himself on the catre. “I should not wonder if they’ve come to carry me home.”
“That’s just what we’ve come for,” responded a tall, stalwart specimen of a Jarocho, who at that moment stepped inside the tent, and who was hailed by the invalid as “Vicente Vilagos.” “Just that, Calros; and we’re glad to learn that the Yankee bullet has not quite stopped your breath. You’re all right, hombre! So the medico outside has been telling us; and you’ll be able, he says, to make the journey to Lagarto, where we’ll carry you as gingerly as a game cock; ay, and the niña, too, if she will only sit astride of my shoulders. Ha! ha! ha!”
By this time the other Jarochos, to the number of six or seven, had crowded inside the tent, and surrounded the catre in which lay their countryman – each grasping him by the hand on arriving within reach; and all saluting Lola with an air of chevalresque gracefulness worthy of the days of the Cid!
I stood aside – watching with curious interest this interchange of friendly feeling; which partook also of a national character: for it was evident that the visitors of Calros were all of the Jarocho race.
I had another motive for observing their movements, far stronger than that of mere curiosity. I looked to discover if among the new-comers I could recognise a rival!
I watched the countenance of Lola more than theirs, scrutinising it as each saluted her. I felt happy in having observed nothing – at least nothing that appeared like a glance of mutual intelligence. They were all thin, sinewy fellows, dark-skinned and dark-haired, having faces such as Salvator Rosa would have delighted to commit to canvas, and pointed chin-beards, like those painted by Vandyke.
None of them appeared to be over thirty years of age. Not one of them was ill-looking; and yet there was not one who inspired me with that unpleasant feeling too often the concomitant of love.
From all that I had yet seen, the rivalry of Rayas, Calros’s enemy, was more to be dreaded than that of any of his friends.
Vicente Vilagos was the oldest of the party, and evidently their leader pro tem.
It was no longer a question of carrying Calros to Jalapa. That, to his friends, would have appeared absurd – perhaps not the less so were Lola to urge it.
She said nothing, but stood apart. I fancied she was not too content at their coming, and the fancy was pleasant to me!
Surrounded by her enthusiastic friends, for a time I could not find an opportunity of speaking with her. I endeavoured to convey intelligence with my eyes.
The Jarochos are sharp fellows; skilled in courtesy, and thorough adepts in the art of love. I had reason to be careful. My peculiar position was against me, as it marked me out for their observation.
Their glances, however, were friendly. They had gathered some particulars of what had passed between their compatriot and myself.
“Come!” said Vilagos, after some minutes spent in arranging their plans. “’Tis time for us to take the road. ’Twill be sundown before we can rest under the palm-trees of Lagarto.”
The poetical phraseology did not surprise me: I knew it was Jarocho.
Calros had been placed upon a stretcher; and his bearers had already carried him outside the tent. Some broad leaves of the banana had been fixed over him as an awning, to shelter him from the rays of the sun.
“Ñor deconocio,” said Vilagos, coming up to me, and frankly extending his hand. “You’ve been kind to our con-paisano, though you be for the time our enemy. That, we hope, will soon pass; but whether it be in peace or in war, if you should ever stray to our little rancheria of Lagarto, you will find that a Jarocho can boast of two humble virtues —gratitud y hospitalidad! Adios!”
Each of the companions of Vilagos parted from me with an almost similar salutation.
I would have bidden a very different sort of adieu to Dolores, but was hindered by the presence of her friends, who clustered around.
I could find opportunity for only four words:
“Lola! I love you!”
There was no reply; not a word, not a whisper that reached me; but her large dark orbs, like the eyes of the mazame, flashed forth a liquid light that entered my soul, like fire from Cupid’s torch.
I was half delirious as I uttered the “adios.” I did not add the customary “Va con Dios!” nor yet the “hasta luego” – the “au revoir” of the Spanish, for which our boorish Saxon vocabulary has no synonym.
Notwithstanding the omission, I registered a mental vow —to see Lola Vergara again.
The beautiful Jarocha was gone from my sight!
“Shall I ever see her again?”
This was the interrogatory that came uppermost in my thoughts – not the less painful from my having perceived that she had lingered to look back.
Would she have preferred the road to Jalapa?
Whether or not, I had the vanity to think so.
Gone, without leaving me either promise or souvenir – only the remembrance of her voluptuous beauty – destined long to dwell within the shrine of my heart.
“Shall I ever see her again?”
Once – twice – thrice – involuntarily did I repeat the self-interrogation.
“Perhaps never!” was each time the equally involuntary reply.
In truth, the chances of my again meeting with her were very slight. To this conclusion came I, after a calm survey of the circumstances surrounding me. True, I had obtained the name of her native village – El Lagarto – and had registered a mental resolve to visit it.
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