_Century Magazine, September, 1884._
When the Conde de Monterey, being then Viceroy of this gracious realm
of New Spain, sent his viceregal commissioners, attended by holy
priests, up into the northern country to choose a site for an outpost
city, there was found no spot more beautiful, none more worthy to be
crowned, than this where the city of Monterey stands to-day. And so
the commissioners halted beside the noble spring, the _ojo de agua_,
that gushes out from its tangle of white pebbles in what now is the
very heart of the town; and the priests set up the sacred cross and
sang a sweet song of praise and thankfulness to the good God who had
so well guided them to where they would be; and the colonists entered
in and possessed the land.
This all happened upon a fair day now close upon three hundred years
gone by. From century to century the city has grown, yet always in
accord with the lines established by its founders. The houses
a-building now are as the houses built three hundred years ago; and,
going yet farther into the past, as the houses which were built by the
Moors when they came into the Gothic peninsula, bringing with them the
life and customs of a land that even then was old. So it has come to
pass that the traveler who sojourns here--having happily left behind
him on the farther side of the Rio Grande the bustle and confusion and
hurtful toil of this overpowering nineteenth century--very well can
believe himself transported back to that blessed time and country in
which the picturesque was ranked above the practical, and in which not
the least of human virtues was the virtue of repose.
Very beautiful is the site of Monterey: its noble flanking mountains,
the Silla and the Mitras, are east and west of it; its grand rampart,
the Sierra Madre, sweeps majestically from flank to flank to the
southward, and its outlying breastwork, a range of far-away blue
peaks, is seen mistily off in the north. And the city is in keeping
with its setting. The quaint, mysterious houses, inclosing sunny
gardens and tree-planted court-yards; the great cathedral where, in
the dusk of evening, at vespers, one may see each night new wonders,
Rembrandt-like, beautiful, in light and shade; the church of St.
Francis, and the old ruined church beside it--built, first of all, in
honor of the saint who had guided the Viceroy's commissioners so
well; the bowery _plaza_, with the great dolphin-fountain in its
centre, and the _plazuelas_, also with fountains and tree-clad; the
narrow streets; the old-time market-place, alive with groups of buyers
and sellers fit to make glad a painter's heart--all these picturesque
glories, together with many more, unite to make the perfect
picturesqueness of Monterey.
Yet Pancha, who had been born in Monterey, and who never had been but
a league away from it in the whole seventeen years of her life-time,
did not know that the city in which she lived was picturesque at all.
She did know, though, that she loved it very dearly. Quite the saddest
time that she had ever passed through was the week that she had spent
once at the Villa de Guadalupe--a league away to the eastward, at the
Silla's foot--with her Aunt Antonia. It was not that _tia_ Antonia was
not good to her, nor that life at the Villa de Guadalupe--as well
conducted a little town, be it said, with as quaint a little church,
as you will find in the whole State of Nuevo Leon--was not pleasant in
its way; but it was that she longed for her own home. And when, coming
back at last to the city, perched on the forward portion of _tio_
Tadeo's _burro_, she peeped over the _burro's_ long ears--at the
place where the road turns suddenly just before it dips to cross the
valley--and caught sight once more of the dome of the cathedral, and
the clock-tower of the market-house, and the old Bishop's palace on
its hill in the far background, with the Mitras rising beyond, and
a flame of red and gold above the Sierra left when the sun went
down,--when Pancha's longing eyes rested once more on all these dear
sights of home, she buried her little face in _tio_ Tadeo's pudgy
shoulder and fairly sobbed for joy.
Many a person, though, coming a stranger and with a stranger's
prejudices into this gentle, lovely Mexican land, would have thought
Pancha's love of home quite incomprehensible; for her home, the house
in which she dwelt, was not lovely to eyes brought up with a rigorous
faith in right angles and the monotonous regularity of American city
walls. In point of fact, persons of this sort might have held--and,
after their light, with some show of justice--that Pancha's home was
not a house at all.
Crossing the city of Monterey from west to east is a little valley,
the _arroyo_ of Santa Lucia, into which, midway in its passage,
comes through another _arroyo_ of a few hundred yards in length the
water from the _ojo de agua_--the great spring whereat the Conde's
commissioners paused content, and beside which the holy fathers sang
songs of praise. Along both banks of these two little valleys grow
trees, and canebrakes, and banana groves, and all manner of bushes and
most pleasant grass; and in among the bushes and trees, here and
there, are little huts of wattled golden cane overlaid with a thatch
of brown. And it was in one of these _jacals_, standing a stone's
throw below the causeway that crosses the _arroyo_ of the _ojo
de agua_, upon the point of land that juts out between the two
valleys before they become one, that Pancha was born, and where most
contentedly she lived. Over the _jacal_ towered a great pecan tree;
and a banana grew graciously beside it, and back of it was a huddle
of feathery, waving canes. Truly it was not a grand home, but Pancha
loved it; nor would she have exchanged it even for one of the fine
houses whose stone walls you could see above and beyond it, showing
grayly through the green of the trees.
For nearly all the years of her little life the love of the beautiful
city of Monterey, of her poor little home that yet was so dear to her,
of the good father and mother who had cared for her so well since she
came to them from the kind God who sends beautiful children into the
world, for her little brother and sister, the twins Antonio and
Antonia, who gave a world of trouble,--for they were sad pickles,--but
who repaid her by a world of childish lovingness for her care: for
nearly all her life long these loves had sufficed to fill and to
satisfy Pancha's heart. But within a year now a new love, a love that
was stronger and deeper than all of these put together, had come to
her and had grown to be a part of her life. And Pancha knew, down in
the depths of her heart, that this love had begun on the very first
day that her eyes had rested upon Pepe's gallant figure and handsome
face--the day when Pepe, having been made captain of a brave company
of _contrabandistas_, had come up to Monterey to partake of the Holy
Sacrament at Easter, and to be blessed by his old father, and to
receive the congratulations of his friends.
Pancha's father, Christobal, a worthy _cargador_ who never in the
whole twenty years that he had discharged the responsible duties of
his calling had lost or injured a single article confided to his care,
and old Manuel, who held the honorable position of _sereno_--a member
of the night-watch--in the city of Monterey, had known each other from
a time long before Pancha was born; and from a full understanding of
each other's good qualities, and from certain affinities and common
tastes, the two old fellows had come in the course of years to be the
closest friends. Christobal the _cargador_--better known, being
a little bandy-legged man, as Tobalito--was scarcely less delighted
than was Manuel himself when Pepe--a motherless lad who had grown
to manhood in the care of a good aunt--came up from his home in
Tamaulipas that Easter-tide to tell of his good fortune. The boy was a
gallant boy, they both agreed,--as they drank his health more times
than was quite good for them in Paras brandy of the best, on which
never a _tlaco_ of duty had been paid,--and before him had opened now
a magnificent future. Being a captain of _contrabandistas_ at
twenty-two, what might he not be at thirty? His fortune was assured!
And old Catalina shared in this joy of her husband's and of her
husband's friend, and drank also, relishingly, a little mug of brandy
to Pepe's good fortune--present and to come. Even the twins, Antonio
and Antonia, entered into the spirit of the festive occasion, and
manifested their appreciation of it by refraining from signal mischief
for the space of a whole hour: at the end of which period Pancha,
perceiving that they were engaged in imitating the process of washing
clothes in the stream, and judging rightly that the earnestness of
their operations boded no good, was just in time to rescue the yellow
cat from a watery grave.
And it was on this happy day, as Pancha knew afterward, that her love
for Pepe first began.
This was a year past, now; and for many months Pancha had been
gladdened by the knowledge that her love was returned--though, as yet,
this sweet certainty had not come to her in words. Indeed, during the
past twelvemonth Pepe had been but little in Monterey. As became a
young captain of _contrabandistas_ who longed to prove that he
deserved to wear his spurs, his time had been passed for the most part
in making handsome dashes from the Zona Libre into the interior.
Already the fame of his brilliant exploits was great along the
frontier; already to the luckless officers of the _contraresguardo_
his name was a mocking and a reproach. What with his knowledge of the
mountain paths and hiding-places, his boldness and his prudence, his
information--coming it might be treason to say from where, but always
exact and trustworthy--of where the revenue people would be at any
hour of any day or night, the _contraresguardo_ seemed to have no
more chance of catching him than they had of catching the wind of
heaven or the moon itself.
Once, indeed, Pepe had a narrow escape. At the outskirts of Lampazos
word came to him that the customs guard was at his very heels. There
was no hiding-place near; to run for it with a train of heavily laden
_burros_ was of no earthly use at all; to run for it without the
_burros_ would have been a disgrace. And Pepe did not attempt to run.
As fast as they could be driven he drove the _burros_ into the town,
and halted them in squads of three and four at friendly houses; spoke
a word or two at each door, and then galloped off with his men into
the outer wilderness of _chaparral_. And when, ten minutes later,
the men of the _contraresguardo_ came flourishing into Lampazos,
certain of victory at last, not a vestige of the _contrabando_ could
they find! True, in the _patios_ of a dozen houses were certain
weary-looking _burros_ whose backs were warm, and near them were
pack-saddles which were warm also; but what had been upon those
pack-saddles no man could surely say. The explanation vouchsafed that
the lading had been firewood was not, all things considered, wholly
satisfactory; but it could not be disproved. And as the possession of
warm pack-saddles and warm-backed _burros_ is not an indictable
offense even in Mexico, the _contraresguardo_ could do nothing better
in the premises than swear with much heartiness and ride sullenly
away. And to the honor of Lampazos be it said that when, in due course
of time, Pepe returned and withdrew his _burro_-train from the town,
not a single package of the _contrabando_ had been stolen or lost!
So Pepe, by his genius and his good luck, proved his right to wear his
spurs. And the merchants of the interior held him in high esteem; and
people generally looked upon him as a rising young man; and Pancha,
who read aright the story told by his bold yet tender brown eyes,
suffered herself to love this gallant captain of _contrabandistas_
with all her heart.
Yet while this was the first time that Pancha had loved, it was not
the first time that love had been given her. A dozen young fellows, as
everybody knew, and as even she, though quite to herself, demurely
acknowledged, were in love with her to their very ears. One or two of
them had gone so far, indeed, as to open communications, through
proper representatives, for the rare favor of her hand. The most
earnest, though the least demonstrative of these, was a certain
captain in the _contraresguardo_, by name Pedro; a good fellow in
his way, but quite shut out beyond the pale of reputable society, of
course, by his unfortunate calling.
Naturally Pancha never was likely to think very seriously of loving
Pedro; yet pity for him, acting on her gentle heart, had made her in
some sort his friend. It was not altogether his fault that he was an
officer of the _contraresguardo_, and other people besides Pancha
believed that but for this blight upon him a good career might have
been his. But luck had been against Pedro from the very day of his
birth; for when he was born his mother died, and a little later his
father died also. Being thus left lonely in the world, he fell into
the keeping of his uncle, Padre Juan, a grim priest who, having lost
all happiness in life himself, saw little reason why he should seek to
make the lives of others glad. Dismally the boy grew up in this
narrow, cheerless home. The Padre fain would have made of him a priest
also; but against this fate Pedro rebelled, and accepted, while yet a
boy, the alternative means of livelihood that his uncle offered him in
the service of the _contraresguardo_.
As his rebellion against his proposed induction into the priesthood
showed, the boy had strong stuff in him. He had a mighty will of his
own. And there was this in common between him and his grim uncle: a
stern resolve, when duty was clear, to do duty and nothing else.
Therefore it came to pass that Pedro, being entered into the hateful
service of the customs preventive force, presently was recognized by
his superiors as one of the very few men of the corps who, in all
ways, were trustworthy; and as trustworthiness is the rarest of
virtues in the _contraresguardo_,--a service so hated that usually
only men of poor spirit will enter it at all,--his constant loyalty
brought him quick promotion as its just reward. Yet Pedro had no
happiness in his advancement. Each step upward, as he very well knew,
was earned at the cost of greater hatred and contempt. Those who would
have been his friends, had the lines of his life fallen differently,
were his enemies. Nowhere could he hope to find kindliness and love.
Therefore he grew yet more stern and silent, and yet more earnestly
gave himself to the full discharge of the duty that was sacred to him
because it was his duty, but that in his heart he abhorred. Nor did he
ever waver in his faithfulness until, coming to know Pancha, his
chilled heart was warmed by her sweet looks of friendliness, the first
that ever he had known; and, as fate decreed, the force of duty found
arrayed against it the force of love.
Pancha had a tender, gentle nature, in which was great kindliness; and
before she knew Pepe there was some little chance, perhaps, that in
sheer pity of his forlornness she might have given Pedro her love.
This, of course, showed how weak and how thoughtless Pancha was; how
ignorant of the feelings of society; how careless of the good opinion
of the world. To be sure, the possibility of her loving Pedro never
passed beyond a possibility; but that it went so far counted for a
great deal to him, to whom, in all his life, no single gleam nor even
faintest hope of love had ever come. The gentle glance or two which
she had cast him in her compassionate sorrow for his friendlessness
sank down into the depths of Pedro's heart, and bred there for her
that great love--tender, yet almost stern in its fierce intensity--to
which only a passionate, repressed nature can give birth. And through
the year that passed after Pepe had gained his captaincy, and at the
same time Pancha's favor, Pedro's love had grown yet stronger and
deeper,--growing the more, perhaps, because it was so hopeless and so
deeply hid; but Pancha, whose very life was wrapped in Pepe's now, had
almost ceased to remember that such a person as this rueful captain of
the _contraresguardo_ lived.
Still another life-thread was interwoven with the life-threads of
these three. Dearest of Pancha's girl-friends was Chona,--for so was
shortened and softened her stately name, Ascencion,--daughter of a
_lenador_ whose _jacal_ was near by, and with whom her father had long
been on friendly terms.
A grand creature was this Chona, daughter of the _lenador_. The simple
folk among whom she lived called her "La Reina," and her majestic
beauty made her look indeed a queen. Yet was she not loved by those
among whom she lived. Her nature was as imperious as her beauty was
imperial, and, save only Pancha, there was none who called her friend.
Because of their very unlikeness, these two were drawn together.
Pancha had for Chona an enthusiastic devotion; and Chona graciously
accepted the homage rendered as her queenly right. In the past year,
though, since Pepe's triumphal visit to Monterey, a change had come
over Chona that was beyond the understanding of Pancha's simple,
loving heart. She no longer responded--even in the fitful fashion that
had been her wont--to Pancha's lovingness. She was moody; at times she
was even harsh. More than once Pancha, chancing to turn upon her
suddenly, had surprised in her eyes a look that seemed born of hate
itself. This change was grievous and strange to Pancha; but it
troubled her less than it would have done a year before. For now her
whole heart was bright with gladness in her love of Pepe, and with the
glad hope that his love was given her in return.
So, for Pancha at least, the time passed blithely on. Her mood
of compassion for Pedro was forgotten, and her loss of Chona's
friendship--if ever she had possessed it--caused her no great sorrow;
and all because her love for Pepe filled to overflowing her loving
heart.
* * * * *
This was the way that matters stood the next Easter, when Pepe again
came up to Monterey to take part in the blessed services of the
church, to see again his old father, and again to receive graciously
the congratulations of his friends.
And this time Pepe told his love to Pancha in words. In the warm
twilight of the spring evening--being followed, as custom in Mexico
prescribes, by the discreet _tia_ Antonia, also come into Monterey for
the Easter festival--they walked slowly among the bushes and trees
lining the bank of the _ojo de agua_, passed beneath the arch of the
causeway, and stood beside the broad, clear pool where the water of
the great spring pauses a little before it flows outward to the
stream. It was on this very spot, say the legends of the town, that
the good Franciscan fathers, three hundred years ago, set up the holy
cross and sang their song of thankfulness and praise.
And here it was--while the discreet _tia_ Antonia manifested her
discretion by standing where she could watch closely, yet could not
hear--that to Pancha were whispered the sweetest words that ever she
had heard, that ever she was to hear. In her memory dwelt for a little
while joyously the picture of the dark water at her feet that, a
little beyond, grew duskily green with aquatic plants; the massive
stone causeway that cast a shadow upon them in the waning light
reflected from the red sky beyond the Mitras crest; the trees beside
the spring swaying a little in the gentle evening wind; the hush over
all of the departing day. Very dear to Pancha was the memory of this
picture--until, in the same setting, came another picture, ghastly,
terrible, that made the place more horrible to her than the crazing
horror of a dream. But the future was closed to her, happily, and in
her heart that Easter evening was only a perfect happiness and a
perfect love.
Later, when they went back to the _jacal_ of wattled cane, there was
great rejoicing among the older folk that Pepe's suit had sped so
well. It was not, of course, a surprise to anybody, this suit of his.
In point of fact, it all had been duly settled beforehand between the
two old men,--as a well-conducted love affair in Mexico properly must
be,--and this dramatic climax to it was a mere nominal concession to
Pepe's foreign tastes, acquired through much association with
_Americanos_ upon the frontier. So, the result being satisfactory, the
Paras brandy was brought forth again, and toasts were drunk to Pepe's
and Pancha's long happiness. And these were followed by toasts to the
success--though that was assured in advance, of course--of a great
venture in which Pepe was about to engage; a venture that infallibly
was to make him a rich man.
The scheme that Pepe had devised was worthy of himself. Its basis was
an arrangement--made who shall say how?--that all the forces of the
_contraresguardo_ and _rurales_ should be sent on a wild-goose chase
into the mountains, and sent far enough to make sure that they should
stay in the mountains for a whole night and a whole day. And, the
coast being thus cleared, it was the purpose of this daring captain of
_contrabandistas_ to come up from the Zona Libre with not one, but
with three great trains of _burros_ laden with _contrabando_, and to
bring these trains, in sections and under cover of darkness, actually
into the city of Monterey! Further, to make quite sure that in the
city he should meet with no hindrance to the execution of his plans,
he had arranged that at the hour his trains were to enter from the
east, a _jacal_ should be set on fire over in the western suburb.
Fires occur but rarely in Monterey, and when one does occur all the
town flocks to see it: it is better than a _fiesta_. It was a stroke
of genius on Pepe's part to think of this diversion; and the man who
owned the doomed _jacal_--one of Pepe's band who himself had a share
in the venture--was eager to put so brilliant a plan into execution.
Indeed, to insure success a dozen _jacals_ might have been profitably
consumed, for the _contrabando_ was to be exceptionally rich in
quality as well as great in quantity, and the profit upon it would be
something that to such simple-minded folk as Manuel and Tobalito and
Catalina seemed almost fabulous.
The very risk of the venture, as Pepe pointed out, constituted its
safety. In the mountains there was a chance at any time of a fight,
but in the city streets there was literally nobody to fear--"unless
the _serenos_ should turn _contraresguardo_!" he suggested; whereat
there was much cheerful laughter, that of the honest _sereno_ Manuel
being loudest of all.
The _lenador_, Tobalito's trusted friend, hearing the sounds of
festivity and snuffing the Paras brandy from afar off, came in to join
them; and being informed of the happy issue of Pepe's love affair, and
of Pepe's noble project, he gladly joined in drinking the double toast
and in adding his good wishes to theirs. So they made merry over their
hopeful prospects; and even when the twins, Antonio and Antonia,
succeeded in an unwatched moment in possessing themselves of the
precious bottle of Paras brandy, and thereafter, to their great joy,
emptied a considerable portion of it over the unfortunate yellow cat,
a mere desultory spanking was deemed to be a meet atonement for the
act.
So Pepe rode lightly out from Monterey, and behind him rode not black
care, but brightest joy, and after him went good wishes and great
love. When he came again he would be rich, and--dearer than all other
riches--Pancha would be his. Truly, a young fellow of three and
twenty, who had carved his own way to so brave a fortune, might well
rejoice within himself; and Pepe did rejoice with all his heart. As he
rode down the valley--the valley that is scarred by the railroad
now--his thoughts ran back pleasantly over the past few years of hard
work in his profession; over his many successes tarnished by not a
single serious failure; and still more pleasantly his thoughts ran
forward into the future, when all his toil was to receive, over and
above a liberal compensation, a most sweet reward. One more deal in
the game that he knew so well how to play, and all the stakes would be
his. No wonder that Pepe's heart was glad within him; that his soul
was filled with joy.
Yet Pancha, left behind in Monterey to wait while Pepe worked, was
sorrowful. As sometimes happens to us when we are confronted by the
certainty of great happiness, she was possessed by a gloomy sadness
that came of dark forebodings in her mind. The very greatness and
sureness of this happiness awed her into doubt. She knew that to take
her good fortune in this faint-hearted way was not wise in itself,
and was not what Pepe would approve; and that she might please Pepe
she berated herself roundly and tried to laugh away her fears--though
they scarcely amounted to fears, being but shadowy doubts and unshaped
thoughts in which always was a tinge of nameless dread. But scolding
herself and laughing at herself were equally unavailing; therefore she
betook herself to that refuge which is dear to women the world over,
but which especially is dear to women in Roman Catholic lands--the
refuge of prayer.
A placid, holy place is the church of San Francisco in Monterey. It
stands upon a quiet street, the Calle de San Francisco, where little
travel or noise of traffic ever comes, and about it always is an
atmosphere of sacred rest. On one side of it is the ruin of the old,
old church where, near three hundred years ago, the colonists sent
northward by the Conde de Monterey first met within church walls to
offer up to God their sacrifice of praise and prayer for the grace
shown to them in bringing them within so fair a land. On the other
side is the old convent, where long the good Franciscans dwelt, and
whence they went forth to save poor heathen souls. The convent is
deserted now, but holy memories live on in it, and sanctify its
silent, sunny cloister and its still, shady cells. And close beside
the convent grows a single stately palm, larger and more beautiful
than any other palm in all the country round. The old church is
shadowy within, and a faint smell of incense hangs always in the
dusky air. The floor is laid in panels of heavy wood, worn smooth by
the knees of the five generations which have worshiped there, and
beneath each panel is a grave. Reverently do the Mexicans believe that
thrice blessed is the rest in death of him who sleeps within the earth
made consecrate by bearing on its breast the house of God.
So it was to this old church, the church of her patron saint, whose
name she bore, that Pancha came to pray that Pepe might prosper in his
gallant adventure, and that the happiness in store for both of them
might not be wrecked by evil chance. To pass from the heat and glare
of the April sunshine into the cool, dark church was in itself a
refreshment and a rest. Save an old woman or two, slowly and wearily
moving from station to station and slowly and wearily at each station
repeating her form of prayer, the church was deserted; and in the
quiet corner near the chancel rail where Pancha knelt, far away from
the mumbling old women, there was a perfect quiet, a holy peace. Her
prayer was a little simple prayer: only that the good Saint Francis
would keep Pepe safe from all harm, and that the _contrabando_ might
not be captured, and that she and Pepe might be married as they had
planned to be, and might live on in happiness together to a good old
age. When she had made her prayer she knelt on for a long while,
dreamily thinking of the Saint's goodness and of his mighty power to
guard and save. And, as she knelt there, gradually faith and hope
came back again into her heart, and the conviction grew strong within
her that the blessed saint had heard her prayer and had sent to her
this comforting for assurance that it should be granted to the full.
So at last, heartened and quieted, she came out once more into the
April sunshine. Yet, even as she left the church there passed before
the sun a cloud. Pancha, whose mind was full of happy thoughts, did
not perceive this cloud.
* * * * *
That day in Monterey one other heart was troubled, but to it came not
peace nor rest. Much to her surprise, Pancha--standing near the
causeway over which Pepe gallantly had ridden forth upon his brave
adventure, her heart full of love and hope and fear--had felt an arm
about her neck, and turning had found Chona by her side. In her tender
mood this mark of affection from the friend whom she had deemed lost
had moved her greatly, and with little urging she told to Chona the
sweet happiness that at last certainly was hers; and wondered to see
the look of hate--there could be no mistaking it now--that came
flashing into Chona's eyes.
"And he loves a pitiful thing like _you_! Loves _you_, when he
might--go! you are no friend of mine!"
In Chona's voice there was a ring of bitter contempt that lost itself,
with the abrupt change, in yet more bitter rage. With an angry push
that almost threw Pancha into the water, she turned, sprang up the
bank, and disappeared among the trees. So was Pancha made yet more
sorrowful, and yet more gladly turned to the holy church for rest and
comfort in prayer.
For Chona there was no comfort. Her brain was in a whirl, and in her
heart was only wretchedness. The fate had come to her that for months
past she had known must be hers; yet now that it actually had
overtaken her, she resented it as though it were a sudden and
unexpected blow. Against hope she had hoped to win Pepe's love--and
now all hope was dead, and she knew that her chance of having him for
her very own was lost forever. Still worse was it that the love which
she longed for so hungrily should go to another. This was more than
she could bear. Pepe's death, she felt, would have caused her a pain
far less poignant--for she herself easily could have died, too. But
Pepe lost to her arms, and won to the arms of such a poor, spiritless
creature as this Pancha, was an insult that made greater the injury
done her a thousand-fold. Her fierce love was turned in a moment to
fiercer hate; and from hate is but a single step to revenge.
That night, when the _lenador_ came home,--and in good spirits, for he
had sold his wood well,--he told Chona gleefully of the grand project
that Pepe had on foot; of the clever scheme by which the customs
people were to be tricked; of the fine fortune that surely was coming
to the captain of _contrabandistas_ now as a fitting culmination of
his gallant career.
After her father, with a prodigious yawn, had ended his narration and
had betaken himself to sleep, for a long while Chona sat there in the
open space before the _jacal_ alone with her own thoughts. In the
darkness and stillness--for only the low, soft rippling of the water
broke in upon the peacefulness of night--the longing for revenge that
possessed her slowly took form in her mind. The hours passed swiftly
as she brooded upon her wrong and upon the means that she had chosen
to compass vengeance. When at last she arose and went into the
_jacal_, the morning star shone bright above the twin peaks of the
Silla, and the whole mountain stood out sharply, a huge black mass,
against the clear, pale light of the eastern sky.
Yet the morning still was young when Chona--her father meanwhile
having started with the _burro_ for the mountains--went down to the
barracks of the _contraresguardo_ and asked of the sentinel on duty
permission to see the _capitan_, Pedro. The sentinel smiled as he
dispatched a messenger with her request, and thought what a lucky
fellow the _capitan_ Pedro was, to be sure.
"Come to me quickly in the Alameda," said Chona, when Pedro had joined
her. "I can tell you of a great plan that the smugglers have on
foot--and also of a matter very near to your own heart." Without
waiting for an answer, she turned sharply and walked rapidly away.
Perceiving that she was much excited, Pedro did not doubt that Chona
had information of importance to give him; and his experience had
taught him that the treachery of a jealous woman was not a thing that
the customs preventive service could afford to despise. To the
personal part of her address he did not give a second thought. Without
returning to the barracks, he set off at once for the Alameda. The
sentinel, lazily watching the two retreating figures, smiled again,
and said to himself, "Aha! my little captain is a lucky man to-day!"
It is a good mile from the barracks to the Alameda. Chona covered the
distance rapidly. As she entered the ragged pleasure-ground, she
turned to make sure that Pedro was following her, and then crossed it
quickly and disappeared through a gap in a hedge beyond. When Pedro
passed through the gap he found her seated on the ground between the
bushy screen and the cane-field that it inclosed. They were remote
from all houses, from all curious ears; for the Alameda, being but a
forlorn place, has few visitors.
She motioned him to a seat beside her, and said, hurriedly:
"The _capitan_ Pepe will bring three great trains of _contrabando_
on Friday night into Monterey."
"Yes. He is your lover?"
She flashed her glittering black eyes on him savagely. "It is no
affair of yours who my lover may be. But I will tell you this: Pepe
is the lover of Tobalito's Pancha--the girl whom you love."
She marked with satisfaction how he winced under her words, the gleam
of anger that came into his eyes. But, without giving him time to
speak, she went on rapidly to tell of Pepe's plan, and with a
clearness and precision that left no room for doubting that she told
the truth. Her excitement increased as she spoke. Her black eyes grew
blacker as the pupils dilated; her breath came short as her bosom rose
and fell tremblingly; twice or thrice she pressed her hand upon her
heart. As she ended she sprang to her feet and held erect her superb
form. Her eyes gleamed with the anger of hate, her hands were
clinched, her guardedly low voice quivered with a passionate energy.
"I have betrayed him into your hands, even as he has betrayed my
offered love. Take him! Kill him! He has only my hate. And remember,
it is he who has won from you Pancha's love. He must die!" In an
instant she had plunged into the thicket of canes. For a few moments
the rustling of the leaves sounded hissingly as she fleetly pushed her
way between them; the sound grew fainter; presently it faded out of
hearing, and all was still.
Pedro stood for awhile motionless, vacantly staring at the place in
the cane-thicket, still marked by the swaying leaves, where she had
disappeared. Then slowly he passed through the gap in the hedge, and
slowly walked across the Alameda. When he came to the circle of stone
benches he sat down wearily. He did not in the least particular doubt
the truth of what Chona had told him; and because he knew so surely
that it was all true a great sorrow weighed upon him, a cruel conflict
arose in his heart. Chona had told him too much. Had she told him only
of Pepe's plans, her purpose would have been easily gained; for in a
strictly professional and matter-of-course way he would have crushed
the smugglers' scheme effectually, and probably the smugglers with it.
Chona, judging his nature by her own, had overshot her mark. The very
fact that Pepe was Pancha's lover, that his ruin would be her misery,
that his death might also be her death, made Pedro--for the first and
last time in his life--regard his duty falteringly. For his love for
Pancha was so loyal, so utterly unselfish, that even this very love he
was ready to sacrifice for her; ready, for her happiness' sake, to
yield her to another's arms. The question that now confronted him was
whether or not he could sacrifice for Pancha his honor.
What made this cruel strait in which Pedro found himself crueler still
was the certainty that should he save his honor no one at all (yet it
was only Pancha of whom he thought) would believe that in capturing
Pepe he had been prompted by any higher motive than revenge. Should
Pepe be harmed, Pancha would hate him; should Pepe be killed,--and
the chances favored this issue, for Pepe was a man who far rather
would die than surrender,--Pancha would turn from him in horror,
as a loathsome creature too base even to die. These thoughts went
whirlingly through Pedro's mind, and there came to him no safe issue
from his perplexity. Toward whichever of the two paths before him he
turned, he saw standing a figure with a drawn sword: Love barred the
way of Honor; Honor barred the way of Love.
At last, the conflict still continuing in his breast, he slowly arose
from his seat on the stone bench, and slowly walked back into the
town; but he took the streets by the hospital and the market-place,
thus leaving the _arroyo_ of the _ojo de agua_ far out of his path. As
he entered the barracks the sentinel looked at him curiously. "Oho!
there has been a quarrel," he thought. "To quarrel with 'La Reina,' my
little captain must be a very great fool!"
The noise and confusion, the loud talking and coarse laughter of the
barracks jarred on Pedro, and presently he went out again. Walking
without purpose, he retraced unconsciously his steps toward the
Alameda. Then, finding of a sudden an object, he walked on rapidly
until the shady lanes beyond the Alameda were traversed and he stood
at the gate of the Campo Santo. Reverently he entered between the
stone pillars of the gate-way and stood in the presence of the holy
dead.
In a shady corner of the old grave-yard he seated himself upon a
stone that had fallen from the wall, and took up again resolutely
the problem that he had to solve. There in the perfect peace and
stillness, with only the dead about him for witnesses, the great
battle of his life was fought and won. His own faith in his manhood
came back to him and gave him strength; the doubt and trouble were
cast out of his soul; a steadfast light shone clearly upon the way
that he must go. And the silent counselors around him confirmed his
choice. By the very utterness of their silence, as it seemed to him,
they were as strong voices declaring that Love is but the dying
daughter of Time, while Honor is the deathless son of Eternity.
When he stood up, the fight ended, he was very pale, and sweat stood
in great drops upon his forehead; but in every line of his figure was
firmness. Erect and steadily--with something of the feeling, as he
bethought him, that had upheld him once when leading his men upon a
most desperate charge--he marched between the graves and out again
through the gate-way. His resolute step was in keeping with his
resolute purpose. Love lowered her sword and fell back, conquered. The
path of Honor was clear.
* * * * *
Being cheered by her prayer and by the good saint's promise that it
should be granted, Pancha went home blithely and with a heart at rest.
And further cheer came to her from her mother, the excellent Catalina.
By profession, this good Catalina was a _lavandera_. Hers was a
vicarious virtue, for while her washing was endless, its visible
results rarely had any perceptible connection with herself. Indeed, it
is a fact that the washer-women of Mexico are upheld by so lofty a
sense of their duty to their employers that only by the operation of
some extraordinary law of chance is it that their own garments ever
get washed at all.
Down by the edge of the clear stream, in company with many other
washer-women, Catalina practised her honorable vocation, squatted upon
the ground and having in front of her a broad, flat stone. On this
stone she soaped and rubbed and squeezed each separate garment until
her fine knowledge of her art told her that cleanliness had been
achieved, and that for the perfecting of her work was needed only
copious rinsing in the running stream. Close beside her, always, was a
little fire, whereon rested a little boiler; and thence smoke and
steam curled up together amidst the branches of the overhanging trees.
On the low bushes near by were spread the drying clothes; in the
middle distance stood out the straw-thatched hut; and beyond, for
background, were trees and bushes and huts and half-hidden stone
walls. And as near her as their perverse spirits would permit them to
come were the twins, Antonio and Antonia, scantily clad or not clad at
all, usually engaged in some small evil, or else basking like two
little brown lizards in the sun. Some day an artist will come to
Monterey who will paint Catalina at her work with all her picturesque
surroundings; and if he paints the picture well, he will thereafter
awake to find himself famous.
Pancha, joining this group, and perfecting it by standing erect
beside the bubbling boiler, was further cheered by Catalina's
confident talk concerning the certainty of Pepe's success. Manuel had
stopped at the _jacal_ on his way homeward--coming sleepily back from
his vigilant duties on the city watch--to leave the good news that a
detachment of the _contraresguardo_ really had been sent away early
that morning toward Garcia--quite in the opposite direction from that
whence Pepe would come. There could be no doubt about this assuring
fact, for one of his fellow _serenos_, being on duty near the
barracks, actually had seen the force depart. So it was clear that the
most important part of the promise made to Pepe by his employers had
been fulfilled. The other part, the massing of the _rurales_ in the
wrong place at the critical moment, might now confidently be counted
upon--and this made sure that Pepe would accomplish safely his
unostentatious yet triumphal entry into Monterey. As became the
prospective mother-in-law of the hero of this noble adventure,
Catalina greatly rejoiced; and Pancha, listening to such heartening
news, was still more firmly convinced that the good Saint Francis had
heard her prayer.
* * * * *
But even while these comforting thoughts upheld the hopes of the
watchers in Monterey, Chona's treachery was doing its work. In the
early morning of the third day after Pepe's departure there had been
a tough fight south of Lampazos--and the end of it was the capture
by the _contraresguardo_ of one of Pepe's three trains. Broken by a
sudden charge, the guard of smugglers was overcome; one or two were
killed, half a dozen were captured, and the rest saved themselves by
the speed of their horses and their knowledge of the mountain paths.
The men of the _contraresguardo_ were jubilant. But there was no joy
in the heart of their captain. He had but the cold satisfaction of
knowing that he had done his duty--and bitter he had found that duty
to do.
When the scattered _burros_ had been driven together, and their packs
made fast again, the convoy set off southward; for the capture had
been made in the State of Nuevo Leon, and the _contrabando_ would be
turned into the custom-house at Monterey. Under the hot sun the
train moved slowly along the valley; so slowly that Pedro's horse,
out-walking the short-stepping _burros_, carried him far in advance of
his command. He was too deeply buried in his own thoughts to perceive
his loneliness, and it was only when he reached the town of Salinas
that he roused himself and found that his convoy was almost out of
sight down the dusty, winding road. On the bluff above the Salinas
River he tethered his horse to a tree, and sat down in the shade
of the ferry-man's hut to wait for his men to overtake him. The
_barquero_ speedily slunk away; but Pedro, heavy with his own heavy
thoughts, took slight notice of his movements, save that he was glad
to be left alone.
A quarter of a mile from where he sat the road dipped into a recess
behind a shoulder of the mountain, and for a little space was lost to
view. He watched the train until it entered this recess, and then,
while waiting for it to reappear, he bowed his head upon his hand. His
heart was very full of bitterness. There was but little comfort for
him in the fact that the train that he had captured had not been
commanded by Pepe in person; for he knew that the precautions taken
made the capture, either in the mountains or in Monterey, of the other
two trains certain; and not less certain was the capture or the
killing of Pepe himself. Certainly Pepe's fortune, probably his life,
already was as good as forfeited; and with this forfeiture Pancha's
hope of happiness was gone! And the cruel part of it all was that
Pancha ever must believe that he, willfully, revengefully, because she
had kept back from him her love, had brought upon her this great
misery. In the darkness that beset him he saw no way of hopeful light.
He had saved his honor, but he had wrecked his heart.
A rattle of rifle-shots snapped short his dismal revery. As he sprang
to his feet he saw a squad of his own people, a dozen or so, galloping
up the road, and a moment later four times as many men came out from
behind the shoulder of the mountain in sharp pursuit. The pursued were
bent low over the necks of their horses; from the crowd of pursuers
there came each instant a puff of smoke followed by the sharp crack
of the report; and each instant a horse fell, or ran wildly with empty
saddle, as the balls went home.
Pedro loosened his revolver in his belt and sprang to his horse. The
_barquero_ had become visible again, and was standing beside him; on
his face was a malicious, yet not wholly unkindly grin. "Quick!" he
said. "Get into the boat. You yet have time." As an officer of the
_contraresguardo_ he hated Pedro cordially; but he had no especial
wish to see him shot down, now that the smugglers had recaptured the
_contrabando_ and the fight was won. But Pedro already was mounted,
and his horse was headed not toward the river, but toward his men. The
_barquero_ saw his purpose, and seized his bridle with a strong hand.
"God! Senor Captain, would you ride straight to your death?"
"Let loose, or I shoot!"
Like a flash Pedro's revolver was drawn and cocked and within an inch
of the _barquero's_ head.
"You are a fool, a madman! Go!" And the man staggered aside as the
horse, bounding forward, sharp stricken with the spurs, brushed
against him, and nearly threw him to the ground.
"_Es mi deber!_" "'Tis my duty!" came ringing back through the
rush of air as Pedro rode furiously onward; and it seemed to the
_barquero_--yet this was so strange a thing that he could not trust
his ears--that there was gladness, nay, even triumph, in Pedro's tone.
Whether spoken in sorrow or in hope, certain it is that these were the
last words which the _capitan_ Pedro spoke on earth.
* * * * *
In Monterey there was no knowledge of the loss and of the gaining
back again from the _contraresguardo_ of a part of Pepe's treasure;
no knowledge that treachery had come in to defeat Pepe's well-laid
plans. Therefore when at last the momentous day arrived, there was
with Pepe's friends a glad expectancy and happy hope. Under all, of
course, was somewhat of fear that even in the moment of its success
failure might come and dash the gallant plan. And because of such
dismal doubt, Tobalito's face at times was bereft of its accustomed
cheeriness, and for minutes together he would sit silent, the while
mechanically polishing the brass number that, as a _cargador_, he wore
upon his breast, as was his wont on the rare occasions when his mind
was beset by troublous thoughts. But these fears, in which, also, the
others shared, had no endurance; for all had steady faith in the
all-powerfulness of Pepe's lucky star. So, slowly, the day wore on,
and at last was lost in night.
Excepting the twins, Antonio and Antonia, no one that night slept in
the _jacal_. Tobalito sat before his door and smoked incessantly his
corn-husk _cigarritos_. Beside him, smoking not less vigorously, sat
Catalina. A little apart from these was Pancha, holding in her arms
the yellow cat. And each of these three minds was so busy with its
own thoughts that all of the three tongues were still. Only the yellow
cat, having but little mind, and that being soothed into a calm
content by Pancha's gentle strokings of her sleek fur, expressed her
perfect happiness, and so made talk for the whole party, in a rumbling
purr.
From where they sat--although they could not hope to see even the
reflected light of the burning _jacal_ that was to clear the way for
the entry of the _contrabando_--they could see, a hundred yards away,
the stone causeway standing out in the light of the young moon against
the darkness beyond. Pancha's mind was full of sweet remembrance of
the words which Pepe had spoken to her over beyond the causeway,
beside the pool, but five little days before, and of the glad future
that was bound up in the fulfilment of his hopes. Tobalito and
Catalina, being somewhat beyond the age of romance, were thinking not
less gladly of the good fortune that was in store for them through the
rich son-in-law who had come to lighten the burdens of their old age.
No more would the _cargador_ bear heavy ladings of other people's
goods; no more would the _lavandera_ wear her life out in washing
other people's clothes. And so all three waited and watched eagerly,
straining their ears for the rattle of horses' feet upon the
stone-paved streets; straining their eyes to catch the first glimpse
of the _burro_-train stealing in from the Zona Libre with its rich
load. For close beside them, across the causeway, the train that Pepe
himself headed was to pass. Now and again they caught sight of a
little point of flame passing and repassing near the farther end of
the causeway; and they knew that it was the lantern of the _sereno_,
and that Manuel also watched and waited hopefully to see his son,
bearing his rich sheaves with him, come gallantly home. All four of
these fond hearts were brimming full of love and hope and joy.
* * * * *
Slowly the young moon set, when suddenly Pancha was aroused by
a strange confusion: pistol-shots--screams--a rush of horses'
feet--oaths--the clash of steel--and on the causeway, dimly seen in
the faint light, a confused mass of men and horses and laden _burros_
were hurrying away before an orderly mass of horsemen riding in upon
them from the east. And, before the full meaning of all this was clear
to Pancha's mind, came another rush of horsemen charging down along
the causeway from the west. Right under Pancha's eyes Pepe, surrounded
by his foes, was fighting for his life; and Pancha knew that the fight
was hopeless, and that Pepe's life was lost! Up at the end of the
causeway she saw quivering for an instant the light of the _sereno's_
lantern; and a vast sorrow for the old man standing there, full of
years, yet henceforth to be childless, for the moment overcame the
bitter agony in her own heart. But only for a moment. Then, with a cry
keen and woful, that echoed along the _arroyo_, and even for an
instant made the men pause in their deadly fight, with every drop of
her sluggish but fierce Indian blood aroused and burning in her veins,
she sprang to her feet, and but for Tobalito's strong, restraining
grasp, she would have gone to Pepe's aid and died wildly striking by
Pepe's side--as the Aztec women, her brave ancestors, fought and died
on the causeways of Anahuac when the cruel Spaniards first came into
the land. But Tobalito held her fast--and then a merciful
unconsciousness came to give her breaking heart relief.
* * * * *
When life came back to Pancha, she was alone in the _jacal_, save that
in one corner lay the twins, Antonio and Antonia, still asleep; and
beside them, having fled thither for refuge during the noise and
confusion of the fight, was huddled the yellow cat. Within the _jacal_
a little candle feebly burned, casting a faint gleam of light through
the open doorway out upon the broad, smooth leaves of the banana-tree.
There was no sound to break the serene stillness of the night, and,
for a little, Pancha half fancied, and tried hard to make herself
believe, that she was but awaking from a woful dream. But the
searching agony that wrenched her heart was too bitterly real to give
a chance for this fond fancy to have play. And then, slowly but
strongly, the thought came into her mind that she must go to Pepe;
that, if living, she must bear to him words of comfort and of hope;
that, if dead, she must cast one last loving look upon his face.
So she passed out into the darkness--for only a faint, hazy light
beyond the Mitras showed where the young moon had sunk away behind the
mountains--and walked along the path that she and Pepe had trod
together but five days before. This time she did not pass beneath the
arch of the causeway. Where the path forked she turned to the right
and climbed the bank of the _arroyo_ and so came out upon the causeway
itself. In the darkness she tripped and nearly fell, and, looking
closely, she saw at her feet the body of a man. Resolutely, yet
shudderingly, she stooped still closer to see by the faint starlight
the dead face, and knew it for the face of one of Pepe's companions.
Beside the dead _contrabandista_ lay another dead body, clad in the
uniform of the _contraresguardo_; and the two lay facing each other as
they had fallen in the fight. Beyond were yet others, and a dead horse
or two, and a dead _burro_--from which the lading of precious stuffs
had been hastily removed--and carbines, and swords and pistols were
lying as they fell from dead hands; for, in the joy of their victory
and capture, the _contraresguardo_ had wasted no time in bearing away
their fallen comrades or in clearing off the field. And Pancha,
wofully seeking for Pepe, passed back and forth among the dead.
While she searched thus, she saw slowly coming from the far end of the
causeway a little point of light, and presently the old _sereno_
wrapped in his long cloak, stood beside her. In a broken sentence or
two he told her that, with Tobalito and Catalina, he had followed the
_contraresguardo_ to the barracks, and that Pepe was not among the
prisoners, and so he had come back to look for him here. Pancha made
him no answer in words, but she took his hand and kissed it; and,
still holding it, they searched together for the dead one who had been
all in all to them in the world. Along the whole length of the
causeway they searched, but found him not.
"Yet he is here," said Manuel. "My boy is not a prisoner, and if not a
prisoner, he surely was struck down in the fight."
And Pancha knew that Manuel spoke truth: Pepe could not be safe and
free from harm while his men were captured or slain.
While they paused midway upon the causeway, standing upon the arch
that spans the stream, a low, faint moan sounded through the still
night air. The sound came up from the darkness below--from the space
beside the pool. Bending together over the edge of the unguarded
footway, Manuel held down his lantern so that its light fell into the
depth beside the wall and was reflected back in broken rays from the
rippling water. Then he moved the lantern slowly, until the light
rested upon the bank and shone on Pepe's body stretched upon the
ground--on Pepe's face upturned toward them piteously! And Pepe knew
them. Up through the darkness came faintly the words, "Pancha! Padre!"
When, going very quickly, they passed to the end of the causeway, and
so down the bank of the _arroyo_ to where he lay, he clasped feebly
their hands as they knelt beside him: the lantern throwing a weird,
uncertain light upon the three, upon the dark stone wall, upon the
dark water of the pool.
"It was a trap, my father; we were betrayed," he said brokenly. "But
we made a brave fight, and I can die without shame."
He felt the quiver that passed through Pancha's body as he spoke.
"Yes, I must die, my Pancha. It is very near. All is ended that we
planned--that we planned on this very spot, not yet a little week ago.
It is hard, my little one--but--it--must--be." Then he was silent, and
clenched his teeth--this brave Pepe--that his face might not show to
Pancha his mortal agony.
Manuel held Pepe's hand and wept: the silent, forlorn weeping of an
utterly desolate old man. Pancha could not weep. She clutched Pepe's
hand in both of hers, as though forcibly she would hold him back to
life. Pepe understood her thought.
"It may not be, my Pancha, my Panchita. It is very, very near now.
Give me one little kiss, my heart,"--it was almost in a whisper that
Pepe spoke,--"one little kiss to tell me of your love before I go."
And so, for the first and the last time in her life, Pancha kissed
Pepe upon the lips: a kiss in which was all the passionate love that
would have been his in the long years to come; a kiss that was worth
dying for, if only by dying it could be gained; a kiss that for a
moment thrilled Pepe with the fullest, gladdest life that he had ever
known--and that, being ended, left him dead.
Then Pancha, kneeling where the holy fathers, far back in the
centuries, had sung their _Te Deum laudamus_, kneeling where but five
little days before her life had been filled with a love so perfect as
to be beyond all power of thankfulness in words of praise, looked down
upon her dead lover and felt her heart break within her in the
utterness of her despair.
* * * * *
Standing amidst the dead upon the causeway above, a dim shadow against
the star-lit sky, was another figure--unperceived by, yet completing,
the group below. The arms were raised, half threateningly, half
imploringly, and the lithe, vigorous form swayed in unison with the
wild throbbings of a heart in which sated hate did mortal battle with
outraged love. Chona had conquered; but even in the first flush of her
triumph she knew that love and hope and happiness, that everything
which makes life worth holding to, had been lost.