Ten years previous to the events just related, Padre Antonio, his
parochial duties over for the day, was slowly retracing his steps
homeward.
It was a mild, serene summer evening, and he paused before the massive
iron gates set in the high adobe wall surrounding his garden for a last
look at the sunset before entering his house.
It had been a strenuous day for Padre Antonio. Early that morning,
Miguel Torreno while beating his mule, had been kicked half way across
his corral by that stubborn though sensible animal, breaking Miguel's
right arm and fracturing three of his ribs. But no sooner had it been
ascertained that old Miguel would not die as he obstinately insisted
that he would, calling frantically upon the Saints the while as the
vision of purgatorial fires which he knew awaited him loomed before his
distracted imagination, than the wives of Pedro Torlone and José
Alvarez, neighbors and friends, quarreled over a cheap blue and white
striped _ribosa_, embroiling their husbands who, without the Padre's
intercession, would have come to blows.
Then the last sacrament had been administered to Don Juan Otero, one of
Santa Fé's oldest and most respected citizens.
In a vain effort to banish the unpleasant recollections of the day from
his thoughts, Padre Antonio turned with a sigh from the glories of the
sunset which he had been contemplating, and was on the point of entering
the garden when his quick ear caught the sound of horse's hoofs on the
road, causing him to pause with his hand on the latch of the gate.
His house being situated in an unfrequented quarter of the town, he
decided to await the coming of the animal; the bearer perchance of some
friend or acquaintance. He had not long to wait. The sounds drew nearer
and nearer, and presently, greatly to his astonishment, a tall, gaunt,
half-starved gray horse with a _riata_ fastened to his lower jaw, and
upon whose back sat an equally gaunt and haggard Indian woman with
disheveled hair and clothes tattered and dust begrimed, came into view
around the sharp angle of the wall and stopped directly before him.
Never in all his long and varied experience had he witnessed such a
pitiable spectacle as the woman presented. The wild, hollow eyes and
wasted, emaciated form and features gave her more the appearance of some
wild beast than a human being. She did not appear to be conscious of his
presence; and before he had time to recover from his surprise or utter a
word, she stretched both arms out before her as if toward the sun, and
uttering a wild, harsh, inarticulate cry, dropped unconscious from the
horse's back into his arms.
Experience had taught Padre Antonio to act quickly in cases of
emergency, and with the assistance of his gardener and Manuela, his old
Indian housekeeper, he carried her into the house and laid her upon his
own bed. For days she lay in a delirium, the result of the terrible
privations she had evidently endured. She raved and talked incoherently
in a language which neither he nor Manuela understood.
The doctors whom he summoned at the outset, only shook their heads, and
after a lengthy consultation informed him with the stoicism
characteristic of the profession that, the patient would either die or
recover. But Padre Antonio did not despair. In his extremity he turned
to heaven, nor did his petition pass unheeded. At length, after many
days of anxious watching, the fever left her and she sank into a deep,
refreshing sleep from which she did not awaken for many hours.
It was toward the dawn of a Sabbath, and as the calm and peace of sleep
settled upon her, her wasted and emaciated features began gradually to
assume their normal outline. Nature asserted herself, and when the large
dark eyes finally opened once more, it was into the face of a beautiful
girl that Padre Antonio found himself gazing as he knelt by her bedside
in prayer.
"Be quiet, my daughter," he involuntarily murmured as her eyes rested
upon his, without considering whether she understood him. But the faint
semblance of a smile that lit up her countenance in response to his
words told him she comprehended. Then, during the long days of
convalescence that ensued, she imparted her history to him in broken
Spanish.
She was a Tewana; the daughter of their War Chief, the Whirlwind, who
had been killed recently in battle with another Indian tribe, the
Ispali. Just previous to this, her people who had long been at war with
the Government, had been defeated by the Mexican troops. After the
battle the entire tribe with the exception of the Whirlwind's band made
peace with the Government; the remnant of the latter with which she
remained, escaping into the mountains. But fate had doomed the little
fleeing band to extermination. It was surprised and annihilated by the
Ispali Chieftain, the White Wolf, and his followers whose territory they
had invaded; she being the only one spared--the White Wolf signifying
his intention of making her one of his wives. But that same night when
the Chieftain entered the lodge he had set apart for her and began to
make advances to her, she suddenly snatched a brand from the fire which
burned in the center of the lodge and struck him over the head, knocking
him senseless.
Then, stealing forth from the lodge, she mounted the Chieftain's horse
which stood tethered just outside the door and fled under cover of the
night. For days she fled across the deserts and mountains, concealing
herself during the daytime and traveling at night; subsisting as best
she could upon the wild roots and berries which she was able to find.
But the privations which she was forced to endure--the lack of food and
water, night vigils and exposure to the weather, began to tell on her.
She became delirious, and no longer able to guide her horse, was obliged
to let him choose his own course, and--Padre Antonio knew the rest.
Surely God had led this fair heathen child to his very door in order
that he, Padre Antonio, might snatch her soul from the flames of hell by
directing her in the way of the true faith. There could be no doubt of
it; God's handiwork was too apparent.
Padre Antonio was a liberal, broad-minded man. Having experienced most
things that fall to the lot of men, he did not believe in restraining
her against her will in order that her conversion might be accomplished
as many a zealous priest might have considered justifiable in her case.
But should she manifest a desire to remain with him, she would be reared
in the very lap of Mother Church. With this project in mind, it was with
the greatest solicitude that he watched her recovery, and when she was
informed that she would be permitted to return to her own people if she
so desired, he won her confidence completely.
The last vestige of that barrier of restraint and suspicion which the
strangeness of her position had reared between them was swept away.
From that moment the wild little nomad of the desert evinced the keenest
interest in her new surroundings. Her childish delight was unbounded on
beholding for the first time in her life the strange flowers and fruits
in the garden. They were all so new and wonderful to her, and she
wandered for hours among them; touching and plucking them and tasting
and inhaling their fragrance.
Whether it was the novelty of her position, or her sudden and passionate
attachment to Padre Antonio whom she regarded in the light of a
new-found father that caused her to forget for the time her former wild
life and consent to remain with him, is difficult to determine.
Padre Antonio who had lived many years among the wild tribes of the
country and knew them as few men did, their insatiable love of liberty
and intense dislike of the White man's civilization, looked upon her
conversion and decision to remain with him as another direct
intervention of Providence; for that which usually required years had
been accomplished in as many weeks in her case. It was little short of a
miracle, and he rejoiced exceedingly and began gradually to unfold his
plans to her concerning her future.
The curriculum of the Convent of Saint Claire in Santa Fé did not seem
adequate, and nothing would do, but that he should accompany her to the
City of Mexico, where he placed her in charge of the Sisters of Saint
Ursula. There she would have not only the educational, but the social
advantages which the city offered.
Before their departure he christened her, Chiquita Pia Maria Roxan
Concepcion Salvatore; a name which, out of gratitude and obedience to
her benefactor, she accepted without question concerning either its
origin or his reason for giving it to her.
Six years passed, during which she traveled for three summers in Europe
with friends of the Padre. Interminably long years they seemed to him.
Each year he had planned to visit her, but each time something
intervened to prevent his going. He was a busy man. His duties required
annual visits to the outlying _pueblos_ and distant Indian Missions,
consuming his entire time. However, he at length received word from the
Sisters of Saint Ursula that Chiquita had completed her course of
studies and had started on her return journey to Santa Fé.
It was evident from the reports which he had received at regular
intervals from the Sisters that she did not care for the Church as he
had fondly hoped she might. But after all, what did it really matter?
One so young and gay could not be expected to take life so seriously.
When one grew old, one became serious enough for this world; and he
smiled as he thought of his wild little Indian girl.
In his fond imagination, he saw her large, mischievous, dark eyes snap,
and heard the merry peals of her laughter as she flitted about the
garden in former years. Surely it was better thus--that she should
remain blithe and happy like the birds, as God had created her.
The years had begun to tell on the aged Manuela. She was beginning to
show signs of failing, and he decided that Chiquita, his ward, should
live with him and rule his household in Manuela's stead. His wants were
so few and simple that she would have little to do and old Manuela would
be able to sun herself in the garden during the remaining years of her
life; a reward for her long and faithful service. Nor was Manuela
adverse to this new arrangement which must eventually deprive her of all
authority in the household; a position she had guarded so jealously
through the years and which had raised her in the estimation of the
community. Although of a different people, the common racial blood bond
had drawn the two women together from the first; besides, she could
always assist in the lighter work of the household if she chose.
The Padre never tired of meditating upon this fond dream during his
leisure moments. What a perpetual source of joy and satisfaction the
presence and sunshine of this child of his own molding would be to him
in his old age! Besides he would always be near her to administer
spiritual council and guidance.
So, when the day of her arrival finally dawned, he and old Manuela rose
with the sun, and gathering the freshest and brightest flowers the
garden contained, they arranged them in the room she was to occupy;
transforming it into a veritable bower of fragrance and color.
The prospect of seeing his protegée so soon again, filled Padre Antonio
with the most conflicting emotions of longing and impatience.
He could think of nothing else--could neither sit nor stand, but fretted
and bustled about the house with the impatience of a child. Fearful lest
he should be too late, he hurried through his simple breakfast,
consisting of black coffee and a roll, without so much as glancing at
the local paper as was his wont; and then, quite forgetting to pull on
his black silk gloves which Manuela thrust into his hands together with
his hat and stick, he hastened to the station which he reached an hour
before the time scheduled for the arrival of the stage.
Of course she must have changed somewhat during the long interval of her
absence, he argued, more as a concession to reason than to desire or
sentiment. But in spite of this possibility, his mental picture of her
still remained that of the little Indian girl he had confided to the
care of the good Sisters of Saint Ursula six years before.
What if the stage were late, and could she make the long journey alone
and in safety, he asked himself a thousand times as he impatiently paced
up and down the platform of the station; the tap of his gold-headed cane
marking the time of his steps on the boards beneath him.
"Saints! but the stage was slow! A snail could crawl--" Suddenly he
stopped short. A flush of joy suffused his countenance--his heart began
to beat rapidly and his right hand with which he grasped his cane
trembled perceptibly as he gazed intently down the long dusty highroad.
"At last!" he cried. Another intense moment of suspense and the distant
cracking of a whip and sounds of wheels and hoof-beats on the road
announced the approach of the stage. Presently it hove in sight and a
few minutes later, as it drew up before the station and came to a full
stop, the door was hastily flung open and a tall, closely veiled woman
sprang lightly to the platform.
Her striking appearance would have commanded attention anywhere, but
without noticing her, he brushed hastily past her and gazed eagerly into
the interior of the coach. It was empty.
_Dios!_ what had happened? There must be some mistake! With a note of
keenest disappointment in his voice he turned sharply on the driver and
impatiently demanded what had become of the little Indian girl that had
been placed in his charge.
"Little Indian girl? _Caramba!_" A look of bewilderment accompanied by a
shrug of the shoulders and a "_no sabe_, Señor Padre," was the only
answer he received. Consternation seized Padre Antonio.
Merciful heaven! what had become of her--Chiquita, his little girl? His
voice choked, while tears of bitter disappointment welled to his eyes.
"Ah, yes, there had been a mistake--she would come by the next stage,"
he said, addressing the driver, and was on the point of turning away
when a silvery peal of laughter fell upon his ears. He felt a soft touch
on his shoulder and a voice close to him said:
"Padre Antonio, don't you know your little Chiquita?" The veil had
slipped from her face, displaying the features of a beautiful Spanish
woman. Confounded and speechless with amazement, Padre Antonio could
only gaze in silence upon the apparition before him.
Was it possible, or was he only dreaming? What a transformation! Was
this mature woman, this tall and supple and refined and graceful
creature his Chiquita, his wild little Indian girl of former years? He
rubbed his eyes in bewilderment and gazed again. Holy Maria! but she was
beautiful--fair as the starry jasmine blossoms which she wore at her
breast and in the dark folds of her hair.
In that hour the world suddenly became filled with exquisite harmony for
Padre Antonio, and he seemed to grow younger by many years.
The radiant beauty of her face with the poetry of sunshine and laughter
in her eyes and her grace and charm of personality affected him like
some wonderfully attuned chime of silver bells. Surely this was worth
waiting for. His prayers had been answered richly and abundantly, far
beyond anything his imagination had pictured during those long years of
waiting.
V
The _Posada de las Estrellas_ was situated on the western side of the
town within a stone's throw of Padre Antonio's house. It stood well back
from the highroad from which it was screened by a thick hedge-like
growth of cedar, manzanita, tamarisk and lilac bushes.
A short distance east of the _Posada_, the highroad entered the long
_Alameda_ which led to the plaza in the center of the town, overlooked
by the old _Precedio_ or Governor's palace.
The widespreading branches of two immense cottonwood trees, the trunk of
one of which was encircled by a rustic bench, cast an inviting shade in
front of the house and wide veranda which stretched its length along two
sides of the low, one storied adobe structure. Honeysuckle and white
clematis and pink and scarlet passion vines clambered up its slender
pillars and hung in fragrant flowering festoons from the low balustrades
above. The fresh green leaves of the nasturtium, bright with variegated
blossoms, ranging from deep scarlet to gold and pale yellow, trailed
along the ground at the foot of the veranda and skirted the narrow
pathway which led to the rear of the _Posada_ whose _patio_ looked out
upon a garden interspersed with innumerable flowers and shrubs, fruit
and cedar trees, and whose soft green lawn was intersected by narrow
gravel pathways. Just back of the garden lay the vegetable patches which
intervened between it and the stables and corrals, whence came the
cackling of hens and cooing of pigeons in the early morning.
Originally the _Posada_ had been one of the large _haciendas_ adjoining
Santa Fé, but its mistress, Señora Fernandez, had transformed it into an
Inn after the death of her husband who had been killed accidentally by
the fall of his horse. Finding herself in reduced circumstances incurred
by her husband's gambling propensities, she resolved upon the change.
His chief legacy consisting of debts, she was obliged to part with the
greater portion of the estate, but her natural executive ability stood
her in good stead.
The new enterprise prospered, and the Inn became widely known throughout
the country as a place at which to stop if only for a cup of chocolate
or a chat with the Señora who always knew the latest gossip.
In her youth she had been noted for her beauty, and even now, in spite
of middle-age and somewhat faded features, the latter the result of the
struggle she had undergone to reestablish herself in the world, she was
still considered buxom and fair to look upon by the majority of men. She
carried her head high and with a coquettish air which plainly showed she
had by no means relinquished her hold upon life.
On this particular morning she looked unusually well as she moved about
the _patio_ engaged with her women in assorting a huge basket of freshly
laundered household linen. Not a strand of silver was visible in her
jet black hair, adorned with a large tortoise-shell comb and a single
Castilian rose. Her gay, low-necked, short sleeved bodice, exposing her
shapely neck and arms, harmonized well with her short, black silken
_saya_ which rustled with every movement she made and from beneath which
protruded a small pair of high instepped feet encased in black slippers
ornamented with large quaint silver buckles.
It was the Señora's birthday. She had risen earlier than usual prepared
to receive the congratulations of her friends who, she knew, would be
sure to call during the day in honor of the occasion. A few of them
would be asked to remain and dine with her in the evening.
It was on a similar occasion that Chiquita had danced in the _patio_
before her guests.
The innate vanity of the woman might have led one to suppose that she
would let the years pass unnoticed, but not so. The old, time-honored
custom of the country must be observed lest her friends might say:
Señora Fernandez is already laying by for a ripe old age, the mere
suggestion of which on the part of the world would have been enough to
throw her into one of those uncontrollable fits of rage for which she
was noted.
Artful, shrewd and scheming though she was, her susceptibility to
flattery was her weak point, amounting almost to a mania. To be told
that she still looked as young and handsome as in the days when the
years justified the statement, was to win her immediate esteem. The lack
of this servile attitude and cringing civility on Chiquita's part,
together with the knowledge of her own superiority which she never
hesitated to show when occasion required, had drawn down the Señora's
enmity upon her. Whereas, an occasional soft word or smile of
acquiescence--she demanded so little--would have smoothed her ruffled
spirit and taken the edge off her tongue, the sharpest in Santa Fé.
It was not easy for the inveterate coquette and one time reigning belle
to resign the position she had held so long and undisputed, especially
to an alien--one whom the full blooded Spaniard inwardly despises,
regards as of an inferior race.
How she hated the dark woman, envied the glances and flatteries and
attentions which she always received wherever she went. It was said,
that on Chiquita's return from school, Señora Fernandez suddenly grew
cold and haughty toward the world, but finding that a proud exterior
availed her little, she sulked and pouted for a time like a spoiled
child, only to warm again to the world which she loved so passionately,
which she felt slipping from her and without whose adulation she could
not live.
_Dios de mi vida!_ but it was terrible to grow old! Not since the death
of her husband, Don Carlos, had she endured so bitter a pang. The fact
that she had never had any children accounted perhaps for a certain
harshness in her nature.
It was a busy day for the Señora. Besides the care of her guests, the
preparing of freshly killed fowl and baking of cakes and _tortillas_,
there was the garden which must be hung with lanterns where there would
be the usual dancing and merrymaking during the evening. All this and
much more the Señora must superintend, but she was equal to the task.
As she issued her orders to the retinue of servants that came and went,
she carried on a lively, though interrupted, conversation with her
sister, Señora Rosario Sanchez, and her niece, Dolores, who had come to
assist her in the preparations.
"It has come at last--I always said it would--I never trusted that
double nature of hers!" she exclaimed triumphantly, pausing for an
instant in her work of assorting the linen. The expression and gesture
of Señora Sanchez plainly bespoke the shock she also had experienced.
"To think of it," she gasped. "How Padre Antonio can overlook such a
breach of confidence and offense to the Church is more than I can
understand!"
"Ah! that shows the extent of her influence over him," answered Señora.
"She has bewitched him with her wild ways--he simply dotes on her!"
"It's scandalous!" broke in her sister.
"To my mind, it shows signs of the Padre's failing," rejoined the Señora
sharply.
"It does indeed--poor man!" sighed her sister. "And what's more--it
never did seem proper that so handsome a woman should live with a priest
even though she be his ward and he an old man."
"Handsome?" sneered the Señora, drawing herself together as though she
had received an electric shock; the pleased and animated expression of
her face changing suddenly to one of utmost frigidity. "I never could
understand why people considered that Indian good looking," and her
black eyes snapped as she turned to resume her work, plainly betraying
the jealousy aroused. Señora Sanchez, knowing her sister's temper only
too well, hastened to change the subject.
Strange to say, Padre Antonio did not share the public's sentiment, or
rather that of his own particular flock, concerning Chiquita's latest
escapade. Instead of being overwhelmed, broken in spirit and utterly
cast down by grief and shame as had been confidently predicted, he, much
to the disgust of his congregation, went calmly about his duties as
though nothing unusual had occurred, referring jocosely to this lark of
his madcap ward as he was pleased to term it.
Lark? Heavens! had the Padre lost his senses? Excommunication might be a
little too severe, but a year's solitary confinement in a convent as a
penance for her sin was the least penalty she could expect.
But Padre Antonio knew what the rest of the world did not. That his
charming, irrepressible protegée would have snapped her fingers lightly
at the mere suggestion of either. The days of mediæval suppression of
females had come to an end even in Mexico. Moreover, there existed a
perfect understanding between the two.
During his long years of missionary work he had learned that the heathen
often stood higher in the sight of Heaven than many a zealous devotee of
the Church. Besides, dancing was not only a national pastime of the
Spaniard, but among Indians, a part of their religion as well.
That Chiquita had some very good reason for dancing in public, he knew
well enough. They understood one another perfectly, and he did not ask
her her reason for dancing, knowing full well that some day she would
tell him of her own accord.
Although Chiquita had accommodated herself marvelously well to the new
conditions, imbibing the best civilization had to offer, she
nevertheless remained the freeborn woman--the descendant of a freeborn
race of men. The wild, free nomad whom experience and direct contact
with nature had early taught to recognize the simple underlying truths
and realities of life and their relations to one another, was not to be
measured by the conventions or limited standards of a tamer race of men
hedged about by superficial traditions and born and reared remote from
the heart of nature beneath the roofs of houses. It was the cold, hard
earth and equally cold and unrelenting stars that had nurtured Chiquita
from earliest childhood, and to apply the petty restraints and
conventions of modern society to her was like clipping the wings of an
eagle and then expecting it to fly.
Ordinarily, life is dull enough without civilized man's efforts to
reduce it to positive boredom, and although Chiquita's escapades had
acted like a slap in the face, they had nevertheless done much to arouse
the spirit of the otherwise sleepy old town. Her presence was fresh and
invigorating as the north wind. Moreover, the very ones who criticised
her most in secret, were usually the first to come to her for advice
when in trouble. For who was so wise as the strange, beautiful woman?
True, it cost something to be hated as cordially as one was admired,
nevertheless, Padre Antonio rightly conjectured that there was not a
woman in Santa Fé who would not willingly exchange places with his ward
were she able to. So, like the sensible man that he was, he only smiled
at idle gossip and continued to watch with increasing interest the
transformation of his protegée.