For many succeeding days Chata seemed to herself to be struggling to
awaken from a torturing dream. The household was very quiet. Doña Rita
and Rosario went gloomily to work to set the house in order and prepare
for departure; they talked together in low tones, and sometimes one or
the other would sigh in echo to poor old Don José Maria, who was
contemplating a lonely widowhood, though a kindly cousin had consented
to take charge of his domestic affairs,—a kindness which was taken
exceedingly ill by the two elderly servants. It was natural enough that
the atmosphere around her should be charged with gloom, and as natural
that to Chata it should seem a part of the evil dream from which she
longed to emerge. At times she thought desperately that she would rush
to Doña Rita and beg her to tell her all; but she shrank from dispelling
the illusion of her life, from losing the father and mother whom she had
believed her own. Her father!—was it possible he could be other than Don
Rafael? No, no, no! she loved him, he loved her; he was her own, her
very own,—even Rosario did not love and cling to him as she did. And if
by word or deed he was deposed from that relationship who would take his
place?
The unhappy girl shuddered from head to foot; her very heart seemed to
become ice. Who, if all she had heard was true, could be her father but
this man, General José Ramirez,—the bloody guerilla, the unscrupulous
robber? He had not, it was true, declared so in as many words; it would
kill her to hear them—she would not hear them. And so in a sort of dumb
frenzy she resisted the temptation to disclose what she had heard; and
with a miserable conviction that she was the object of suspicion and
dislike, and feeling herself a hypocrite and impostor, she lived from
day to day, nursing in her heart such repressed misery as perhaps only a
sensitive and uncomprehended child can feel.
Chata was at the point in life where the intuitions of womanhood begin
to encroach upon the credulity and frankness of immaturity. A year
earlier it is likely she would have gone to Rosario at once with her
surprising discovery; but now she unconsciously felt that she
was—however unwillingly—her rival. She needed no instruction by word or
experience to tell her that Rosario would feel no sympathy with the
stranger who had shared as a sister in the love of father, mother, and
friends, and who it was purposed should be given to the man whom she had
herself won. Strangely enough the remembrance of this only occurred to
Chata at intervals, and simply in connection with Rosario. Her mind was
so engrossed by the sense of desolation and the agonizing fear of the
General Ramirez, that the thought of Ruiz seldom presented itself to
her; and the possibility of his being in any way made to affect her life
seemed so absolutely incredible that even the sight of him brought no
blush to her cheek nor a thrill of interest, either of dislike or latent
kindness, to her bosom.
The bewildered and suffering girl did not realize that there was any
change in her manner. Sometimes she wondered that she could sleep all
night, that she could laugh, yes even talk, so wildly at times that Don
José Maria sniffed impatiently, and muttered that it was hard an old man
could not take his sorrow in quiet,—as if it was some sort of soothing
potion, which to be healthful must be lingered over. But the truth was
that the dull, heavy, unrefreshing sleep which came to the child took
the place of food to her, besides following naturally upon the physical
exhaustion consequent on incessant thought and movement; her sharp,
penetrating laugh and inconsequent babble were the outbursts of mental
excitement that otherwise must have found vent in passionate cries and
tears.
Chata, it is true, had suddenly become invested with a new interest to
Doña Rita, who, while events flowed smoothly on, accepted without
question the prevailing opinions and sentiments of those surrounding
her. She had honestly thought she loved her foster daughter as her own,
and that her welfare was as dear to her as that of her own child; but
now, without reasoning on the matter, without a throb of anguish in
contemplating the fate which Ramirez might will for her, she saw in the
girl but a rival who, once knowing them, might well approve and glory in
the designs that threatened the pride and affections of Rosario.
Doña Rita dared not repeat to her daughter the substance of her
interview with Ramirez; and even had she been at liberty to do so, her
satisfaction in being the possessor of an actual secret would have led
her to assume, as she did now, mild airs of superior wisdom,—which were
perhaps as effectual as words could have been in assuring Rosario that
the opposition which the General Ramirez had urged against his
subaltern’s engagement was more serious than the ordinary interest of a
patron would have induced him to make; and for a week or more her
affectations of despair, her abundant tears and hopeless sighs, were
sufficient to justify her mother’s exaggerated tenderness,—a tenderness
which Chata contrasted bitterly with the indifference that permitted her
own suffering to pass unnoticed.
The secret fear of Chata’s heart was that she might meet Ramirez, might
even be called upon to speak with him. The thought of either filled her
with a frenzy of dread. Had it been possible she would have fled from
the town. Oh, if she could but have hoped to find her way to the
hacienda alone, even though she dared not make herself known to Doña
Feliz and the administrador! Oh, was it possible that they could be
cold, suspicious, as Doña Rita was? The thought was an impiety, yet it
returned to her again and again, and her dread of meeting Don Rafael
became—from vastly differing causes—almost as strong as that with which
she imagined herself enduring the mocking and triumphant scrutiny of
Ramirez. In her desolation the memory of Chinita rose before her. Oh, to
steal with her into the hut and lean her head upon the breast of that
poor waif, who must in her woman’s consciousness be feeling something of
the misery that day by day was becoming more agonizing and unendurable
to Chata! The similarity of lot so unexpectedly revealed to her seemed
to explain the irresistible attraction which the foundling—who had
apparently been so far removed from her by caste and circumstance—had
always possessed for her. At the thought, a tint of crimson suffused her
neck and face. How could she know but that in the obscurity of Chinita’s
life as the adopted child of a poor gate-keeper, even the foundling had
perhaps less to blush for than the supposed daughter of the
administrador?
Doña Rita had talked much during the early part of her visit of the
family affairs of the important personages whom her husband served.
Chata had heard the talk with more entertainment than interest; but she
was of a reflecting and acute mind, and she began now to weave theories
and form conclusions which sometimes startled, sometimes horrified her.
Had she but caught the name that had brought the shriek from Doña Rita’s
lips the evening the General Ramirez had talked with her! But without
that clew her speculations were idle, and she tortured herself in vain,
yet with unconscious dissimulation hid her wild and bitter thoughts
beneath an exterior that to the ordinary observer appeared one of
thoughtless rather than feigned and hysterical levity.
In the fear of meeting the General—though the temptation often came upon
her to fly from the house lest he might enter it—Chata avoided going
into the streets, and but that she feared it might prove a deadly sin
she would even have made an excuse of illness to remain from Mass. But
this might not be, though no temptation of a week-day feast would draw
her forth. And thus it happened that she and Doña Rita were alone when
the General Ramirez for the second time visited the house.
Rosario by chance had accompanied her grandfather on a visit. She had
gone in the best of spirits; for she had shown Chata a note from Ruiz,
in which he declared that though forbidden to ask for her until in the
course of the revolution he had acquired a competency, or her father
should lose his unjust prejudices against the Church party, he should
ever remain true to her, and should live only in the hope of calling her
his own. For the first time Chata had embraced Rosario with a genuine
sympathy with this love which seemed so true and yet so hopeless, and
had watched her turn the corner leading to the plaza, when she was
suddenly aroused from a melancholy—which was actual repose compared to
the state of excitement that had long possessed her—by the sound of a
quick, imperious knock upon the street door; and glancing down, she saw
the General Ramirez impatiently flicking his boot with the small cane he
carried, and glancing up and down the street as if suspicious rather
than desirous of observation. He had not seen her she was sure. Quick as
thought she ran through the room, and passing through the window pushed
open a door which led to the parapeted flat roof of the back building,
and crouching behind a low brick wall prayed breathlessly to the Virgin
for protection. It was a solitary place, where only a servant came
sometimes to place a tub of water to be heated in the noonday sun, or to
hang some household article for speedy drying. It was not likely, even
were she wanted, they would think to look for her there. She was out of
hearing, away from all the ordinary sounds of the house; no voice could
reach her there,—not even that voice whose accents she could never
forget, which had made her desolate.
As the time passed on and the stillness grew oppressive, and the
sunbeams, which had at first annoyed and distracted her, stole to the
wall and at last receded altogether, a sense of bitter forlornness and
weariness overcame her; and ceasing from the vain repetitions of _Aves_
and _Pater nosters_, Chata clasped her hands over her face, and resting
it upon her knees burst into heart-rending sobs.
Her passion did not continue long; it was perhaps too severe. It was
arrested as by a blow,—by the sudden bang of a heavy door. She lifted
her head and listened. Was it fancy, or did she hear the rattle of
musketry? It was an unfamiliar sound, and yet she recognized it. What
had happened? Was an enemy entering the town? Had the garrison revolted?
Accounts of such events were too frequent to make these conjectures
other than natural even to Chata’s unwarlike mind. She hastily rose,
pushed aside the bolt of the heavy door, and stepping into the corridor
found herself face to face with Doña Rita.
“Ah, you are here!” that lady exclaimed in a hurried and abstracted
manner, far different from that which she would usually have worn at the
discovery of such a misdemeanor. “I have been seeking you everywhere,—I
could not send a servant. And now something has happened in the street,
and he has rushed away without seeing you,—the Señor General Ramirez, I
mean.”
“I know whom you mean!” cried Chata. “Oh, my mother, why should I see
him?” Then with wild passion she threw herself at Doña Rita’s feet, and
buried her face in her skirts and the flowing ends of her reboso. “Oh,
tell me that it was not true—what I heard! I was in the garden the other
evening as you talked! Oh, my mother, my mother!”
Doña Rita looked down at her in startled surprise, but almost instantly
an expression of relief rose to her countenance. “Rise, child, rise!”
she said in a low, not ungentle voice; yet there was an inexpressible
lack of maternal solicitude in it, which struck to the heart of the
suffering child. “Listen; be reasonable; have I not ever been kind to
thee? I do not blame thee even now that thou art forced to repay me so
ill; it is not thy fault.”
“But you shall not be repaid so ill!” exclaimed Chata. “I will be your
child forever. Oh, it is not possible that he—this strange man, who
frightens me—would dare take me from you?”
“Bless me, _niña_, you are a strange one! If you but knew it, you have
rare good fortune. A handsome lover and a rich dowry are not to be had
every day for the asking. But you show a proper spirit, and one I should
have expected after the good training you have had. Heaven knows what
would have been the result had you been given to Doña Isabel, and
allowed to run at large like most of the children of Our Blessed Lady.
Yet it was a cruel trick my mother-in-law played me, and Rafael too!
Well, well, it shall be brought home to him some day. Listen! was not
that the sound of cannon? and my child abroad! Ave Maria Sanctissima!”
“Mother, be not afraid!” said Chata, desperately. “She and my
grandfather will not yet have left Doña Francisca’s, and that you know
is quite away from the plaza or the barracks; they have only to cross
the gardens and be home in a ‘God speed us!’ But as for me, I am in more
fright and misery than if a thousand guns were levelled upon me. Do you
not see, I know only that I am not your child! Who am I? What is to
become of me?”
“The last seems settled already,” returned Doña Rita, with an accent of
chagrin which was almost spiteful; “and the long and short of it is,
child, that you were sent to Doña Isabel, but that my mother-in-law had
the fancy you would be safer with me; and I, like a tender-hearted
simpleton, did not object to humoring her whim, thinking at the same
time I was doing a person whom I loved a service she would know how to
appreciate,—and now when the time has come for recompense, instead of
gain, comes loss. There is nothing in this world but vexation and
disappointment.”
“I cannot understand anything of this,” said Chata, with a deep sigh.
She had risen to her feet, and was looking pitifully at Doña Rita, who
walked up and down the corridor, listening to the distant and irregular
firing, and interrupting her discourse with interjections and doubts as
to the safety of her daughter. “But when I see my father, Don Rafael, I
will ask him, or Doña Feliz,—yes, Doña Feliz always loved me.”
“Ay, but you must ask nothing,” almost screamed Doña Rita, running to
Chata and seizing her by the shoulders. “They will think it was I who
betrayed the secret; they will never forgive me. Oh, I should lead a
dog’s life! You are not old enough to know how cruel an angry husband or
a baffled mother-in-law can be. And poor Rosario—”
“What can it matter to Rosario?” interrupted Chata. “Were you not
lamenting that her dowry would be so small? Will it not be double now
that I shall not innocently rob her?”
“Yes, yes,” whispered Doña Rita, eagerly. “The General Ramirez promised
me this very day that when you, Chata, married Ruiz, he would make a
gift to Rosario of all my husband may bestow on you, and that as much
more should be given her on her wedding day, provided that the secret of
your birth be kept. It is useless to ask me his reasons. He gave me
none. I cannot guess them any more than I can surmise why Doña Isabel
would not receive you, and therefore you were thrust into my arms.
Heavens, what a reverberation! the whole house shakes!”
“It is nothing,” cried Chata, “but the slamming of a door. I hear the
voices of Don José Maria and Rosario. Stay!” she added, grasping Doña
Rita as she was about to run down the stairs. “I warn you that I will
know all the truth. Your poor reasons shall not keep me from demanding
it. Doña Feliz shall not refuse me!”
“Doña Feliz will do as she wills!” retorted Doña Rita. “But this I tell
you, child, that the moment Ramirez knows that those who once crossed
his plans are warned against him, you will be spirited away. Ramirez has
his own purposes, and is not to be thwarted. He is already angry against
Rafael and Doña Feliz for their attempted and long successful deception.
He is a man of great and mysterious power, and knows not the meaning of
the word forgive; and as sure as you stand there, if you disobey his
commands sent you through me he will separate you at once from your home
and friends, and bring ruin upon those who have cared for you.”
Doña Rita spoke with that impressive eloquence and fire which upon
occasion seems at the command of every Mexican. She stood with one foot
on the corridor floor, the other upon the stair, which she was about to
descend, and she had turned half-way round, stretching out her hands,
and lifting her dark and anxious eyes to encounter and fix the gaze of
Chata. Below, in the stone entrance-way, stood Rosario, volubly
describing to a servant the dangers she and her grandfather had
encountered. For the moment Doña Rita appeared in Chata’s eyes like some
timorous yet desperate animal standing between her and her young. “My
Rosario, my poor child,” said the mother in a low voice, “is her life to
be blasted by you? Ramirez is in two minds now. One is to resent the
frustration of his will, and be the mortal enemy of those who have
sheltered you; the other to applaud and reward them. Upon your
discretion all depends.”
“But I shall go mad if I have only this to think upon,” exclaimed Chata.
“Who, who can tell me anything to make this dreadful revelation
endurable, if not Don Rafael or Doña Feliz? Ah, yes, there is—there is
the General.”
“Surely!” replied Doña Rita. “Yes, my life, I am coming”—to Rosario.
“Yes, Chata, could I have found you to-day, you would have known all.
Ask him what you like—it will please him. Oh, he is most considerate.
Did he not show that by taking me into his confidence? Yes, yes, you are
right; insist upon knowing all from him, and you shall tell me: who
could understand, or sympathize so well? But as you love me and value
the safety of Rafael, not a word to him or Doña Feliz.—Rosario! what an
impatient one! What is there to see? If there is commotion in the
street, keep back from the windows. Ay, who would have thought the
troops would pass this way? God save us, we shall be killed! the whole
town will be destroyed! The street is alive with soldiers. Bar the
doors! close the shutters! Oh, what horror! Is it Comonfort returned? Is
it a _pronunciamiento_? What new alarm is this?” Ejaculating these last
sentences Doña Rita hurried downstairs and rushed from room to room,
directing the bewildered servants and chiding Rosario, who, attracted by
the sound of music and the trampling of men and horses, strove to peep
through a crack in the shutters.
Chata, standing where she had been left at the head of the stairs, heard
it all as though in a dream. She said over and over to herself, “It is
the General I will ask. Yes, yes, I will have the courage! No word of
mine shall bring danger on my father. Oh, why do I say ‘my father’? Yes,
I will say so; he is mine until he turns me away! Oh, what shall I do?
Oh, Sanctissima Maria, help thy child! May I not say to Don Rafael,
‘Here is thy poor little child; she will be the daughter of no other’?
Oh, I know he would cling to me, fight for me; but that Doña Rita says
would be ruin! Ah, I know the soldier is cruel and false, even if he is
my father; he has been so to me—” She stopped suddenly, as though
blasphemy had escaped her. Though she would not believe in her heart the
testimony which her reason could not disallow, she was struck dumb by
the mere possibility of filial disrespect and with the actual abhorrence
which she felt in her bosom toward the man whom she instinctively
feared.
As if to flee from her thoughts, she rushed into a room that faced upon
the street, and with an impulse such as leads the desperate man to throw
himself into a vortex of seething water, or into the thickest of battle,
as her ear caught the sounds of commotion, she threw open the shutters
and stepped out upon the balcony.
A scene of confusion met her eye, in which men on horseback and on foot
seemed mingled indiscriminately, each individual struggling in an
attempt to secure a personal advantage. Ranks were broken and scattered.
Men and officers alike were for the most part un-uniformed, and to the
uninitiated it was impossible to distinguish the adherents of one party
from those of another, save by the wild cries of “_Religion y Fueros!_
Long live Liberty! Long live Juarez!”
The name of Juarez had begun to be a familiar one in all ears; and even
though it possessed not the magic of later years, the voices that
uttered it thrilled with an intensity of purpose which seemed to infuse
the word with life,—to make it a watchword for great and noble
aspirations and deeds, not the mere echo of a name, a party cry to be
shouted with frenzy to-day and execrated to-morrow.
It was impossible to tell what chance had forced the combatants upon
that straggling highway. The struggle had begun at the barracks, when a
party of horse had surprised the garrison, pouncing upon it from the
hills like hawks upon their prey, and by the sheer force of surprise,
rather than any superiority of numbers or courage, throwing it into a
confusion which in spite of the efforts of the young officers speedily
resulted in a panic. The soldiers who had been drilling before the town
prison,—which had done duty as a fort,—after a feeble and confused
attempt to defend its doors, had been driven into the plaza; and when
Ramirez reached this, it was to find his own guns turned upon him. His
servant had been leading his charger up and down the street, awaiting
him; and catching a glimpse of his master as he hurried past an alley in
which the groom had taken refuge, he called in mingled devotion and
affright,—
“For God’s sake, Señor! here is the black. Mount him for your life!
another moment and we should have been discovered! Everybody knows
Choolooke, and my life would not have been worth a cent had they caught
sight of him. My faith, I like not these surprises! This way, Señor!
Around by the church there is an alley unguarded. They are fighting like
ten thousand devils in the plaza. It is madness to go there!”
Ramirez sprang into the saddle with a laugh, though his lips were white
and his eyes blazing with rage. It was a new experience to him to be
thus caught napping,—his scouts must have played him false. His horse
snorted and bounded under him. In another moment he was in the midst of
the mêlée, and an electric shock seemed to pass through friends and foes
alike. There were wild shrieks at sight of him. The exultant invaders
echoed with some dismay the name of Ramirez, the battle-cry with which
his followers made an attempt to rally, seizing arms from the hands of
their opponents, or using the pistols which had remained forgotten in
their belts.
For a few moments the plaza appeared to be a veritable battle-ground,
though there was far more noise and confusion than actual fighting done.
Ramirez knew with infinite rage and shame that he would probably be
forced to yield the town, rather by strategy than superior numbers. It
would have been an actual pleasure to him at the moment to have seen his
followers falling in their blood, rather than flying disarmed,—even
though they should rally later and take a terrible revenge upon the
enemy. For an instant his presence stemmed the current of retreat, but
for an instant only. There had been a secret dissatisfaction in his
ranks, which the sight of the well-known face of a popular leader,
together with panic, rapidly fermented into a _pronunciamiento_; and
even as Ramirez, waving his sword above his head, entered the street of
the Orchards, he was saluted with the shout, “Down with Ramirez! Down
with the Clergy! Long live Juarez! Long live Gonzales!” and through the
dust and smoke he caught sight of Vicente Gonzales, almost
unrecognizable under the grime of the hurried march and the heat of
excitement and success.
The two were so close together they could have touched each other. One
of those hand-to-hand encounters which the history of Mexico proves were
not infrequent even at that date seemed inevitable, as they turned
toward each other with the fury of personal hatred added to partisan
animosity.
But at the moment when the two fiery steeds would have clashed together,
a woman threw herself before Ramirez and caught his arm, calling aloud
his name. With that wonderful power of the bridle-hand possessed by the
horsemen of Mexico, Gonzales drew back his charger and gazed full at his
opponent, whom force more potent than a blow seemed to arrest. The crowd
surged in; Ramirez’s horse was forced back. The woman had fallen in the
mêlée; and with a curse upon her the guerilla chieftain was swept onward
in the current of retreat.
Chata from the balcony had witnessed this incident in the distance. She
shrieked as the woman fell. An officer who was speeding past looked
up,—it was Fernando Ruiz. “Coward!” she involuntarily cried, “to leave
your General!” She realized how impossible, having lost the first moment
of vantage, would be an attempt to control the undisciplined and flying
rabble when even the officers had succumbed to panic; and for the first
time her sympathies woke for Ramirez.
Yielding to the necessity of the moment the General had put spurs to his
horse. The bullets flew past him as he sped over the highway; yet he
glanced up as he passed the house,—he even drew rein for an instant in
alarmed surprise.
“Go in! go in!” he cried. “What! wilt thou be killed in mere wantoness?
Go in, I tell thee! Are _both_ to be killed before my eyes to-day?”
Chata sprang through the open window in affright, obedient rather to his
stern yet imploring gesture than to his words. He glanced back, fired a
pistol toward a pair of Liberal soldiers who had rapidly gained upon
him, and without the change of a muscle upon his set face, as one of
them pitched headlong from his plunging steed, continued his flight and
disappeared in the low bushes.
With horror Chata watched the death agony of the wounded soldier. His
comrade had not thought it worth while to linger; there might be booty
or sport elsewhere. All the church bells were being rung for the victory
by this time. The half hour’s fight was over; the fort had been taken,
the garrison routed, a _pronunciamiento_ successful; the town had
changed its politics. A few dead men were lying in the streets, a few
wounded were bathing or plastering their bleeding heads or limbs; the
closed houses were opening again; the street merchants were setting
forth their wares; and one of the thousand phases of the revolution had
passed.
The next day the Liberal soldiers were lounging about the streets; the
boys were shouting, “Long live Gonzales!” as they went by, as they had
shouted before, “Long live Ramirez!” A tranquil gayety pervaded the
place. No one would have known its peace had ever been disturbed.
So lovely was the afternoon, and the distant sounds of the band playing
in the plaza were so inspiring, that Doña Rita and her two charges
sallied forth to visit the convent. They had often been there before.
Rosario thought it dull to wait while her mother chatted at the grating
with the soft-voiced nuns, but Chata watched them with awe. There was
one whose pale face used to peer out wistfully through the
semi-darkness; her voice and her large dark eyes, it seemed to Chata,
were always softened by tears. She longed to touch the white hand which
she sometimes saw raised to the sensitive lips, as if to check some
ill-considered word.
Upon this day some rays of light piercing the barred window of the
corridor rendered the features of the nun unusually distinct. A sense of
bewilderment stole over Chata as she gazed upon them. Where had she seen
them before? Who was this Sister Veronica?
The short time allowed for the interview expired; the attendant nun gave
her hand to Doña Rita to kiss in token of dismissal, and turned away. As
the Sister Veronica extended her hand in turn, Doña Rita caught it
eagerly: “Forgive me! Forgive me! Oh, I had thought so ill of you,” she
said earnestly; “yet to think ill of you seemed to make my own life
noble. Forgive me, Señorita Herlinda, that I ever thought you anything
but a true and spotless saint!”
The eyes of the nun opened wide. “Forgive, forgive? I have nothing to
forgive; why should not you—ay, all the world—condemn me?” she whispered
hoarsely. “Oh, Rita, that face! that face!”
At that instant the slide was drawn and the white face and eager eyes of
the nun disappeared.
Chata turned to look behind her where the nun had apparently directed
her gaze. A woman was crouching on the door-sill. She was not old,
though over her wonderful Spanish beauty some power of devastation
seemed to have swept. She was carelessly but richly dressed, the
disorder of her person seemingly according with that of her
manner,—perhaps of her intellect; for though evidently a lady by birth,
she lay in the sun, her head uncovered, her shawl thrown back from her
shoulders, her hair, which was of a peculiar reddish brown, half
uncoiled, twining like little serpents around her throat.
She glanced carelessly up as Doña Rita and the young girls passed her.
Chata saw with surprise that one side of her face was bruised, and there
was a deep scratch on her arm. Where had she seen before the glint of
that shining hair? It flashed over her in a moment. This was the woman
who had thrown herself upon Ramirez!
Chata involuntarily paused, but Doña Rita caught her hand and drew her
away. She had motioned Rosario on before. Her very garments had rustled
with disdain as she passed the prostrate woman.
“Such as these one can at least be certain of,” she said sententiously.
It was not a pleasant thing to own one’s self mistaken. Chata detected
chagrin in the tone of her voice: was she piqued that she had misjudged
Sister Veronica? Then she remembered with a start what the new interest
of the moment had driven from her mind,—the name by which her mother had
addressed the nun: it was of the Señorita Herlinda that her mother had
asked pardon!
A feeling of awe crept over her. She had seen Doña Isabel’s beautiful
and sainted daughter, around whose name hung so much romance and
mystery. And oh the sadness of that face! the wistfulness of those eyes!
the appealing agony of that voice!
When they reached the house the door was ajar; there was a mild
excitement within. A familiar voice saluted their ears. Doña Rita
clutched Chata’s arm and whispered, “Not a word, I command thee!” and
with a glance of mingled entreaty and menace followed Rosario to greet
Don Rafael with exclamations of welcome and delight.
Chata took with icy fingers the hand he extended at sight of her and
bent over it with tears and kisses. “My father, my own father!” she
whispered. Even had she been at liberty to do so, she would not for the
world have broken the spell of those words.
“My patron saint!” cried Don Rafael, regarding her with puzzled
fondness, “what has come to the child?” He caught her on his arm and
held her from him. Her eyelids lowered, her color rose beneath his gaze.
Presently he released her and turned away. He had not kissed her. Had he
forgotten? Had some new, deep feeling withheld him? Chata felt cold and
faint; he too had muttered under his breath, “That face! that face!” and
_he_ had spoken those words of _her_.