Yes, fair as the mother of men--it is no exaggeration to say it--was she
who, answering my summons, had emerged from the shadowy chapparal, and
now stood exposed to my view under the full light of the moon. It was a
full moon--a Mexican moon, that delights to shine upon lovely woman; and
no lovelier could its beams have ever embraced than she who now stood
before me.
It was beauty of a type peculiar to the land in which I viewed it--
peculiar even to a single province--the _tierra caliente_, or
coast-region, of Vera Cruz.
The image of Lola is still upon the tablets of my memory, permanently
impressed as I saw her at that moment; perhaps more deeply graven upon
my heart as I beheld her afterwards.
The picture presented to my eye, and viewed under the moon's mellow
light, was that of a girl just approaching the completeness of
womanhood--or rather having completed it, for there seemed nothing
wanting to make the perfect woman.
A figure of medium height, neither sylphlike nor slender, but of full
physical outline, in points even imposing.
I do not deny that there is something sensual in this type, and I know
there are those who incline more to the intellectual. For my part, I
doubt the honesty of such ethereal admirers; and must still cling to the
belief that bold elliptical outline is the true ideal of beauty in the
feminine form.
That of Lola, seen against the verdant background of the chapparal,
exhibited this curve in all its luxuriant windings. It was displayed in
the tournure of the head, the cheeks, the throat, and shoulders; it
embraced bosom, waist, and limbs; it ran over her whole figure--a
living, moving curve, like the undulations of some beautiful serpent,
always tapering to an end, but never terminating.
It was the curve discovered by Hogarth, though but poorly expressed in
his pictures. It was perfectly presented in the outlines of the lovely
apparition that came before my eyes in that moonlit glade, on the field
of Cerro Gordo.
Her dress did not destroy the voluptuous line. It could not, even had
it been one of those monstrous contrivances of fashion for concealing
the too-often distorted form. But it was not thus designed. The
sleeveless chemise of snow-white cambric, and the translucent skirt of
thin muslin, like the gown of Nora Creina, left--
"Every beauty free
To sink or swell as heaven pleases."
The slight scarf of bluish grey cotton (_rebozo_) drawn over the crown
of the head, and falling loosely down in front, scarcely interfered with
the symmetrical outlines of the bosom; while behind, two thick plaits of
hair, escaping from under it, hung down to the level of its fringed
ends, terminating in a tie of bright red ribbons.
At first sight, I thought the girl was barefoot. The skirt and
petticoat (_enagua_) permitted to be seen beneath them a pair of
statuesque ankles, nude to mid-knee. But although thus stockingless, I
soon perceived that her feet were in _satin slippers_, hidden behind the
herbage. Neither the naked ankles, nor the slight but costly
_chaussure_, gave me any surprise, however inappropriate either might be
deemed to a walk through the thorny chapparal. I knew that both were in
the fashion of the country.
At the moment, I was not thinking of either circumstance, nor of the
incongruity of bare feet in satin slippers. My eyes and thoughts were
turned higher, gazing on a face of peculiar loveliness.
It was a beauty I remember well, but can ill describe.
To say that the complexion was a golden brown, with crimson in the
cheeks; that the lips were like a pair of rose-leaves convexly curving
against each other, and when parted, displaying a row of pearly teeth;
that both eyebrows and lashes were crescent-shaped and black as ebony;
that the eyes were of the same hue, but sparkling with liquid light;
that the nose was slightly aquiline; the throat full and boldly rounded
upward--to say all this, would only be to state a series of physical
facts, which can give no idea of the loveliness of that face. It was
the combination of these features--their mutual adaptation, their play,
that produced the charm which I have called _peculiar_.
And it was so. Even with a heart at that time not wholly free, it
enchained me--and I stood admiring. The face was near, and the moon
full enough upon it to enable me to view it with distinctness. I could
trace every feature, every shade of expression, even to the quick
changing of the colour upon her cheek.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I stood in silence gazing on this apparition so unexpected, so lovely.
Surprise, along with admiration, restrained my speech.
For a time the girl was equally silent, though her silence had a
different cause. Her eyes were fixed, not upon me but upon the form at
my feet. She had only glanced at me, and then quickly transferred her
gaze to the prostrate figure.
It was a look of eager inquiry, lasting not long. In a second it
changed to one of recognition, and the instant afterwards her eyes
filled with an expression of intense agony. She saw Calros--her beloved
Calros--prostrate, his face besprinkled with blood. It was Calros,
silent, but not asleep; speechless and motionless; perhaps dead?
"Dead! Mother of God, dead!" were the words that, in accents of
anguish, came pealing from the lips of Lola.
Her eyes flashed upward. In an instant the expression changed--grief
giving place to indignation--something still more dire.
I saw that I was myself its object. With astonishment did I perceive
this. It had not occurred to me to reflect on my compromising position.
I was still standing over the body of the Jarocho, blood-besprinkled as
it was. Less than five minutes before, Calros's voice had been heard,
along with that of another man, mingling in excited dialogue.
A shot had been fired. I held a pistol in my hand, from the muzzle of
which a slight film of sulphureous smoke could be seen stringing
outward. Calros appeared to be dead. Who but I could have been his
slayer?
I heard the word _asesino_ ringing in my ears, with other epithets of
like fearful signification, as the girl rushed up to the spot where I
stood. There was no weapon in her hand, or I might have fancied she was
about to strike me. Even with her clenched fist, I was for a while
uncertain whether this was not her intention; and to avoid her, I
stepped back.
She stood for some seconds looking me straight in the face. Behind the
parting of her tightly compressed lips was displayed a double row of
teeth, that, despite their pearly whiteness, gleamed fiercely in the
moonlight; while her eyes, as they flashed, seemed to send forth jets of
living fire!
"I am innocent!" I called out. "It is not my act; it was not I who--"
"_Asesino! monstre_! Whoever thou art; false fiend, to deny a deed of
which--_madre de Dios_!--I have been almost a witness. There--there--
the weapon still in your hands--his blood freshly spilt!"
"It is not _his_ blood," I replied, hastily interrupting her.
But she heard not the rejoinder! for suddenly turning from me, she flung
herself upon the prostrate form, drowning my voice with her wild
exclamations.
"Dead! Calros! dear Calros! Are you dead? Speak to me one word--a
whisper, to say you still live! _Ay de mi_! it is too true. No
answer--no breath! Where is the wound that has robbed you of life, and
me of my only friend? Where?--where?"
And as she continued to give voice to these detached exclamations, she
proceeded, as if mechanically, to examine the wounds of the unconscious
Jarocho.
Story 1, Chapter VI.