A league or less from the village of Las Parras there stood—and perhaps
still stands—a small chapel, built, no one knows in fulfilment of what
pious vow, at the entrance to a mountain pass of the roughest and most
dangerous sort alike from the forces of Nature and of humanity. Likely
enough some rich hidalgo, escaping from brigands, raised here the humble
pile, and vowed that the lamp should ever burn before the Virgin and her
blessed Child. But through the long years of war, as a pious ranchera
had said in holy horror, the blessed Babe had remained in darkness. But
some time after midnight, one rainy night, a sudden flash of flame
lighted up not only the dingy altar but the whole of the small mouldy
interior of the chapel, and a scene was revealed which a passing monk
might have viewed with reverence, so nearly must it have copied one that
may have been common enough when Joseph and Mary journeyed to Jerusalem,
eighteen hundred years and more ago.
This thought indeed entered the mind of a man who riding through the
drizzling rain caught a glimpse of the unusual light through the
unguarded doorway, and reining his horse gazed curiously in. At first
the place seemed to him full of women and jaded beasts; then he saw
there were but four of each, and that one of the human creatures was a
man,—a priest. The women,—good heavens! they were the Señora Doña Isabel
Garcia, and the girl whom he had once seen under circumstances almost as
extraordinary,—she whom he knew as the daughter of Ramirez and the
foster-child of Don Rafael. Of the other woman he scarcely thought, yet
he instinctively guessed she was Doña Carmen. Ashley Ward looked round
in bewilderment. Only that day some definite account of what had
occurred at Tres Hermanos had reached him, told by a man who had been
with the administrador and his mother in their vain endeavors to trace
the girl who had been so boldly spirited away. The search had been long
delayed because of the illness of Doña Feliz; but once begun, it had
been prosecuted with untiring zeal. Not a village, scarce a hut
throughout that region had been unvisited, yet all in vain.
Ashley had heard the tale with deepest sympathy. Oh inconceivable
obtuseness! that it had not once occurred to him or to Gonzales that the
girl of whom they had heard as sojourning with Doña Carmen, and whom he
had believed to be Chinita, might prove to be her vanished
playmate,—simply because the remembrance of the house of Doña Carmen had
slipped from their minds when their supposed knowledge of the movements
of Chinita made Doña Carmen’s young guest no longer an object of
interest to them, simply because the means adopted by Ramirez for the
security of Chata would never have suggested themselves to minds less
daring, less original than his own. Ashley Ward turned from the doorway
dazed. The presence of these personages in such a place, at such a time,
seemed unreal, bewildering, ominous.
Upon the heavy sand the horse that Ashley rode had made so little noise
that it had not roused the miserable travellers as they cowered wet and
shivering around the sputtering fire, upon which the priest with
unhesitating hands threw some dry portion of a wooden railing and the
broad cover of a sacred book of music. Vain sacrifice! for being of
parchment it but curled and blackened, yet would not burn any more than
would the bare stone floor upon which the welcome embers lay.
Turning back a few paces Ward encountered the carriage he had
accompanied thither. With bowed heads, endeavoring thus to shelter their
faces from the mist, General Gonzales and the servant Pedro rode, one on
either side of the heavy travelling carriage. Just as Ward appeared they
caught sight of the light. The coachman and his helper, half dead as
they were from want of sleep, saw it too, and all the mules were stopped
as though transfixed. The men began to mumble prayers, crossing
themselves with unction. Gonzales, following his habit of caution as
well as the motion of Ward, rode softly forward to reconnoitre.
Before the occupants of the carriage had time to question the meaning of
the stoppage, Gonzales had returned. His face was white with excitement
as he dismounted and opened the door of the vehicle.
“Señorita,” he said in a voice that shook from suppressed emotion, “a
wonderful thing has happened!”
Herlinda leaned eagerly forward. She caught the gleam of the light and
the grim outline of the chapel against the leaden sky. “Is my
child—Leon, my uncle—here?” she gasped.
“No, no! that would not be so strange; we may perhaps at any moment
encounter them. But your mother, your sister,—they are in yonder church,
drenched, wretched; travellers seemingly more anxious, more eager than
ourselves. From a word I heard, they too seek—your child.”
Gonzales spoke the last two words with evident difficulty and
repugnance. Herlinda did not notice that. She scarce had heard more than
the words, “Your mother, your sister.” In trembling haste she descended
from the carriage. Instinctively she clasped the arm of Ashley Ward to
support her through the inequalities of the roadway; and followed by
Gonzales and Pedro, who had dismounted, she sped with surprising
fleetness to the open door of the chapel.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, those within sprang to their feet
in terror. Even the brutes hurtled together within the very rail of the
altar, leaving free the space between the fire and the low arch beneath
which the intruders stood. The women stood panting, their hands clasped
upon their hearts, their lips parted, their eyes staring wildly. Doña
Isabel was foremost. She first saw as in a vision her daughter, whom she
believed still within convent walls, supported by the arm of the
American. She sank upon her knees; her tongue clave to the roof of her
mouth.
“Mother,” said Herlinda in a voice which gave conviction of the reality
of her presence, “I am no ghost. The convents have been opened,—I am
free. Where is my daughter? You took her from me,—give her back to me.
My child! my child!”
She advanced into the chapel with a gesture so earnest, so impassioned,
that it seemed that of concentrated power and anguish combined.
Doña Isabel bowed her head on her hand. Under the red light of the fire
her form seemed to shrink and wither.
“Have mercy! oh, Herlinda, have mercy!” she moaned. “Your child is not
here. I am seeking her, oh with what grief, what anguish! Ah, my God, it
is true,—all, all that you can say to me!” She raised her eyes and they
fell upon Gonzales. “I thought to save your honor and mine. That there
still might be love and joy for you, I gave the child to Feliz to do
with as she would. I did not think, I could not think—”
“Cruel, cruel mother!” cried Herlinda, “and false Feliz! Oh, what
reproaches will be bitter enough, sharp enough, to heap upon her! She
promised me she would love my child, care for it, protect it,—yes, even
from you, unnatural mother that you were! Yet together you have
degraded, perhaps brought about the ruin of, my child! I have been shut
in from all the world,—and yet I am not the weak girl I was. No, the
heart and brain of a woman grow even in utter darkness. You had no right
to thrust my child away. No, she was mine,—come disgrace, come scorn,
what would, she was mine. You tore her from me,—give her back to me!”
While this extraordinary scene took place, Chata with indescribable
emotion recognized the pale impulsive face of the nun of El Toro,—so
pale still, so worn, yet so strangely young, and lighted by the intense
and resolute spirit of a wronged and noble woman.
“Yes, give me back my child!” reiterated Herlinda. “Ah, Mother, I read
your heart; I know now better than I did then your motives for utterly
ignoring, utterly denying my connection with the American. Your brother
killed him: it was to shelter him, Leon Vallé, as much as to hide what
you believed my shame, that you tore my baby from me. You resolved that
there should be neither wonder nor question that could incriminate your
idol. Oh, a sister’s love, a sister’s sacrifice is beautiful; but where
in all the world before has it been stronger, more prescient than that
of the mother for her child?”
Doña Isabel raised her hands above her head as though to ward off some
crushing blow. Carmen rushed forward and caught her sister’s hand.
“Herlinda,” she cried, “say no more. I am your sister—I am Carmen! Oh, I
have always known there was a mystery; yet I have loved you, believed
you true, believed you pure. You were almost a child,—you knew not the
evil!”
“I was not a child!” returned Herlinda, proudly, yet clasping her sister
with a grateful joy. “For all my trusting love I would not have stooped
to sin. I was married. Yes,” she added defiantly, “though all the world
deny it, I was married. God grant that I may one day stand before my
husband’s murderer,—oh, with that word I will overwhelm him. What! he,
the ravisher, the assassin, think to avenge _my_ honor!”
The form of the excited woman dilated as she spoke. Through the dim
chapel her voice pealed with a ring of purity and truth, more clear than
the tone of silver bells. There was a clamor of answering voices. Even
the priest started forward, but Chata caught his flowing gown and
whispered him in broken accents,—
“Oh, for the pity of God hide me. Let her not see me! Oh, this is too
terrible, too terrible!” She shook with dread. “Madre Sanctissima, it
will kill me if her eyes fall upon me! I am the daughter of the man she
seeks. O Virgin of Succors, pity me!”
The burly person of the priest supported and sheltered the stricken and
trembling girl. “Courage, courage!” he whispered. “Thou shalt plead for
him. For thy sake she will forego the claims of justice,—she will
forgive!” He naturally attributed her emotion to apprehensions for her
father’s fate. “Yes, even I will plead with her.”
But in the brief space of this interference there had been a movement at
the door, and a strange voice was heard. Gonzales—who throughout had
stood just back of Herlinda, chafing that he was not at her side, for he
would have championed her before the world—disappeared for a moment;
then returning, strode forward to the fire and raised Doña Isabel with a
not unkindly though imperious hand.
“Señora,” he said, “I have this moment heard news of Ramirez, brought by
an escaped prisoner, one of your own men, Pepé Ortiz by name. As we
suspected, the defeated and desperate chief is on his way to, perhaps
has entered, Las Parras. There is no time to be lost. With him—accusing
him, for such was her mad purpose—we may find your daughter’s child. Oh,
would to God,” he added with fervor, “I had known this horrible blight
upon Herlinda’s young life! I would have sheltered, I would have
sustained her. I would have appealed to Rome.”
Doña Isabel looked at Gonzales in a dazed way, slightly swaying as she
stood. “Thou wert ever noble, ever true,” she said dreamily. “Thou
lovedst her. But Leon? She spoke of Leon. Then it is true! He did indeed
murder the American. But he is dead; he is dead.”
The mind of the poor lady seemed wandering. She stood looking about her
with an awful smile. Gonzales saw that she did not connect the name of
Ramirez with her brother. Illness, exertion, and the intense emotions of
that hour had made it impossible for her to receive any fresh
impressions, or even to recall those that perhaps had once faintly
suggested themselves and had faded. She was conscious of but one
thought, one hope. “Herlinda’s child, Herlinda’s child!” she repeated
again and again. “O God, to find, to give back the child!”
The agonized woman would have clasped the hand of Gonzales appealingly,
but he had turned and led Herlinda from the place. Chata, gliding toward
Doña Isabel, drew the arm of the suffering lady around her neck, and
murmuring fond words, thus stood supporting her. And thus some moments
later Ashley Ward found them. The young girl seemed in his eyes the very
embodiment of Tenderness supporting Despair.
Ashley took her hand. “Oh, Chata!” he said, “what a fearful error this
has been! And Chinita, where shall we find her? Poor girl, poor girl!
God grant she has not found that man; the horrible fascination he held
over her might prove more fatal than her newly-sworn hatred. Come, come,
let us hasten. It is at least certain that Ramirez is at this moment in
Las Parras.”
“Chinita!” cried Chata, her heart sickening. “What, is Chinita the child
of Doña Herlinda? I love her, but oh she—the Señorita Herlinda! No, no,
it cannot be!”
Ashley smiled drearily. “The eagle is sometimes found in a dove’s nest,”
he said. “Ah, with such a mother what a glorious woman that strange
defiant creature might have become! But what powers for good have been
debased in those low associations among which she was thrown!”
The young man stopped, remembering Doña Isabel; but she had moved away.
She was already at the door. Gonzales, who was returning for her, led
her silently to the carriage. The widow who had been with Herlinda had
dismounted and joined Chata and the priest, as they issued from the
gloomy chapel. The poor woman looked confused and wretched; it was a
comfort to her to hear the muttered benediction of the friar.
Chata mounted the sorry beast on which she had come, despite the
remonstrance of Ashley. “No, no, I cannot bear the accusing gaze of the
Señorita Herlinda,” she protested. “You, Don ’Guardo, know who I am. My
place is at Leon Vallé’s side, not here. O God, would that it were not
so!”
The rain had ceased. There was a streak of dawn in the sky. The road lay
like a pale yellow serpent, which grew brighter as they followed its
sinuous twinings among the hills. There was a slight accident, which
detained the carriage; but Chata, accompanied by Pepé,—who had
recognized her with amazement, and who gave her a brief account of all
that had happened in the life of Chinita since they had parted,—hastened
on as speedily as was possible to her jaded beast. Just at the dawn she
found herself entering the straggling town; and suddenly the mass of
verdure beyond a broken wall which they were skirting, and over which
she was gazing with eyes as heavy as the dripping herbage, sparkled as
with a thousand diamonds. The sun had risen; and facing it—his eyes so
dazzled that the figures upon the roadway were to him like the scattered
trees, mere black, shapeless masses—was the object of her dread, yet
also at that moment of her fondest anguish bloody and travel-stained
with the marks of battle and flight upon him, the wreck of what she had
last seen him.
Filial duty and womanly pity supplied the place of that love which she
could not conjure even then, and with a cry she drew rein at the
prostrate gate; and to the amazement of Pepé, who knew nothing of the
relations between the young girl and the defeated chieftain, she sprang
to the ground and rushed to the embrace of the hunted man. Looking back
she saw the others approaching, and sought to repel them by an
entreating gesture. Her voice was heard in warning; but Ramirez heeded
it no more than he did the sound of wheels and the tread of horses on
the roadway. He had known of late such strange vicissitudes and such
unaccountable experiences, which had been so unforeseen, often so
disastrous yet fleeting, that they seemed the phantasmagoria of a
frightful dream. These noises, these figures, were but the same to his
stunned senses. But this girl in his arms, who called him father,—she
was real flesh and blood, and thrilling with life. He clung to her with
rapture; and as he would have done in a dream, he saw her there without
surprise,—only with a vague bewilderment, a fear that she too would fade
away. No! She clung to him with tears, as though seeking to protect him
from some menaced danger.
Ah, he understood: this man who had reached them was the American who
had accused him at the grave of him whom he had murdered. Great God! Had
beings of this world and the other combined against him? There was
Pedro, or his ghost; there too was Herlinda! Yes, though it was years
since he had seen her, and then only for a moment in her lover’s arms,
he knew her instantly.
Ramirez recoiled before her glance. His arms fell from Chata. The
released nun, who had not known that the young girl had been of their
company, thrust her aside, then caught her hand and looked searchingly
into her face. Her own face quivered as she looked. It grew whiter and
whiter still, as Chata raised her eyes and returned the gaze.
“I saw you from the convent grate—at El Toro,” said Herlinda,
breathlessly.
Carmen’s face brightened like that of one who solves a joyful mystery.
Chata sighed deeply.
“Chata,” cried Ashley, who divined what must be in the mind of Herlinda,
“speak! Tell the Señorita that you are not her daughter. Her suspense is
terrible!”
But Chata could not utter a word. Ramirez broke into a laugh. He himself
heard that betrayal of his over-strained nerves with a shudder. He would
not have laughed had his will served. Why should he laugh? Then the
shame, he thought, of this poor Herlinda had been complete. She had a
child; she had come to the avenger of her shame hoping to find the lost
proof of her frailty. Even his sister Doña Isabel was crying wofully,
“Oh Leon, Leon, is it thou? Art thou the Ramirez my poor Chinita loved?
Oh, in pity give her back to me! I will forgive all—yes, even Norberto’s
death—if thou wilt give Herlinda her child.”
“You are all mad!” cried Ramirez, recalled to himself. “What know I of
Herlinda’s child, or even that she exists? I only know that this is
mine,” he laid his hand upon Chata,—“she of whom you thought to cheat
me. Ah, had I known there was another infant to claim your secret love,”
he added mockingly, “I could have better disposed of my own!”
While the unrepentant brother of Doña Isabel was saying this, Pedro in
gruff and surly accents was reminding him of the girl who had stopped
him upon the road years before, and had given him an amulet. Yes, the
impatient listener remembered her; he had heard her name,—Chinita; that
was the girl of whom Rafael had spoken, she who had been the foundling
of the gatekeeper. A vision of the unkempt, witch-like creature who had
startled his horse, as she stood under that accursed mesquite-tree, rose
before him. Was that Herlinda’s child? She stood still with her hand
upon Chata, gazing upon her incredulously. Ramirez threw it off in
sudden passion.
“Uncle Leon,” said Herlinda humbly, hopelessly, “you killed my husband.
Oh, I would forgive you that, could you give me my child! Oh, when I saw
this girl here—” she dropped her face into her hands and wept.
“Shame on you!” cried Ramirez. The sight of woman’s tears irritated him,
and Herlinda’s assertion of her marriage made blacker still a deed whose
silent, stealthy consummation had ever been to him a secret cause of
shame. “What though I killed your lover, was it not to avenge the honor
of the Garcias?”
“The honor of those you had disgraced!” cried the outraged woman
scornfully,—“of her whose life you had crushed! No, your hand was ready
for murder, your heart delighted in blood,—and so you killed my love,
without a word of warning; and because in your vile, cruel heart you
could believe no woman pure, no man just, you thus brought in an instant
desolation and ruin upon me!” Ramirez shrank before the indignant pathos
of her voice. “Ah,” she added, “all, all this I would forgive—O God,
have I not prayed to thee and thy saints for grace to forgive?—if I
could but behold my child. They tell me she has followed you,—one says
because of the strange infatuation your mad career presents to her;
another, that she may avenge her wrongs, her father’s murder. I warn
you! beware! such a girl is not to be scorned.”
“I know nothing of her,” cried Ramirez, vehemently. “Here is your
mother—Pedro; they have known the girl, they should render you an
account of her. As for me, there is a man here who upon the grave of him
I killed declared himself his avenger: it is to him I will answer for
that deed.”
Ashley Ward involuntarily drew his sword, eager for the offered combat;
but Pedro and Gonzales threw themselves between the two men. “This is
neither the time nor the place,” exclaimed Gonzales; while Herlinda
cried, “Do not touch my uncle for your life! My mother, my mother!”
Doña Isabel had indeed thrown herself upon her knees before the priest,
and frantically implored his interposition. As he raised her he was seen
to speak; but no one heard his words, for shrill female voices in
altercation added to the confusion of the moment, and every eye was
turned in the direction whence they came.
“Let me go! let me go! I will hear no more! I will wait no longer! He
will escape. Oh, it is not with such weak words I will speak!”
Two female figures issued panting from the covert,—it seemed that the
elder woman had striven to hold the other back, but the younger had
triumphed. Doña Isabel uttered a cry of infinite gratitude and joy.
Chata caught and held the girl as she came. “Chinita! thank God,” she
cried, “you are here!”
Pedro in an ecstasy seized the robe of Herlinda. “There, there,” he
cried, “is your child! your beautiful child!”
“Yes!” cried Chinita in mad excitement which only burning words could
relieve. Not then could she pause for fond greetings or reverent tears;
the sight of Ramirez seemed at once to fire yet absorb her wildest
passions. She sprang toward him, as one may suppose the lion’s whelp
faces a tiger that in some fierce struggle has filled the air with the
scent of blood. The very aroma arouses and maddens its kindred nature.
With an outburst of eloquence which like arrows tipped with venom seemed
to sting and paralyze the object upon which they were directed, she
assailed Ramirez with the story of his crimes; and separated from the
picturesque and daring events that had accompanied and disguised them,
and told with dramatic eloquence and vivid anger, they thrilled every
listener with shuddering abhorrence and dismay. Blackest of all, she
pictured the murder of John Ashley. Ramirez himself seemed visibly to
shrink and wither before her scathing words, while Herlinda pressed her
hands over her ears, entreating her to cease. The agonized woman could
not endure the vivid rendition, for the girl unconsciously acted out, as
she conceived, the scene of midnight murder.
From the moment of Chinita’s appearance, Ramirez had seemed overwhelmed
as by the sight of some unearthly being; and while she spoke his eyes
riveted themselves upon her, his jaw fell, his countenance took the hue
of death. Suddenly the girl burst into wild sobs and tears. Her rage was
spent. “Go, go!” she said,—“you who have cursed my life, you who killed
my father, you who condemned my mother to a convent and me to a beggar’s
life; for was it strange they cast me out, hoping I should die? And so I
should have done but for Pedro— Fiend, to pursue him with devilish
tortures after so many years! Oh! that it was which brought my hate upon
you. Ah, I had loved you from a child,—not with a woman’s fancy, but as
though the thought of you were the very soul that was born with me. Of
you I thought, for you I prayed—was it not so, Chata? It was I who gave
you the amulet they said would insure life and fortune. I planned and
schemed to give you wealth and power. Ah, even when I knew the cursed
wrong you had done me, I could not believe, I could not realize; that
murdered man had been dead so long he seemed of another world, another
time,—he seemed nothing to me. But the torture of Pedro,—ah, that was
real, that was of my life; it maddened me. Ah! ah! ah! it brought your
downfall. You have wondered how your skill, your well-laid plans, your
valor, all have failed you. It was because of me! because of us!”
Chinita turned and indicated her companion with a gesture of her hand.
She saw then what had riveted the gaze of Ramirez, and rather than her
words had held each witness dumb. Dolores—her face kindled into
fictitious youth, her beautiful eyes gleaming with a flame that seemed
to scathe—had drawn from her brows the kerchief she had worn. The act
had revealed a wondrous mass of brown hair, with the russet tinge of the
chestnut, gleaming in the sunlight with threads and spirals of gold. The
two heads, that of Chinita and of the woman, seemed to have been
modelled the one from the other, so exact was their form, and so similar
the texture and color and peculiar growth of the marvellous wealth of
curls that crowned them both.
Chinita drew back with dilated eyes, speechless with the overwhelming
horror of conviction. Chata would have clasped her in her arms, but she
drew herself away. In the woman whose wild laugh rang upon the air Chata
recognized the one who had thrown herself before the horse of Ramirez,
and who had lain a bruised and shameful figure upon the convent steps at
El Toro.
There was a moment of profound silence. Even the sultry air seemed
waiting, as though for the thunderclap that follows the lightning flash.
“Ah, Leon Vallé! you know now who accuses you,” cried the woman. “Oh, is
not this a sweet revenge, to curse you by the lips of your own
child,—the child you robbed me of? What! you thought _that_ your child!”
she pointed with ineffable contempt to Chata, who in the overwhelming
excitement of the moment clung to the pallid and trembling Herlinda.
“Bah! what is she to the beautiful being I bore you,—into whose soul was
infused the idolatrous love that had been wrested from my heart, the
love that had been my ruin? Ah, such love dies hard! It lived again in
her,—it lived in her heart for _you_. Because of it I dared not claim
her, though I knew her the moment my eyes fell upon her,—yes, as you
know her now. In whom but in our child could be reproduced this
wonderful wealth of hair you used to call the siren’s dower? In whom but
in our child could reappear your own face, glorified, masked, by woman’s
softness? Ah, Doña Isabel and this Pedro were deceived; they thought it
was the beauty of Herlinda that they saw. But I knew it to be yours. Ah,
in all these weeks I have taught your child how to hate you; I have
plucked out that root of love; I have made more real the fancied wrongs
of which she has accused you. Trifles! trifles! trifles all!—the murder
of a supposed father, the torture of an old man, the death of a base
lover,—yes, that Ruiz to whom from her birth you destined her. But I,—I
cry to you give back my innocence! give back my ruined life! give back
my father, who by your act was killed as surely as though your hand had
struck the blow! give me the young years of my daughter’s life, those
she squandered a beggar at your sister’s gate! Ah, you cannot, you
cannot! But I,—I can avenge my wrongs and hers.”
Quick as a flash the infuriate woman levelled a pistol. Quick as an
answering flash Chinita threw herself before her and sprang to her
father’s breast. A second shot following so quickly on the first that
they seemed as one, a cry of agony, a scream of madness, the cries of
women, the hoarse voices of men, made the garden a pandemonium of
hideous sounds. The desperate woman, whose bullet had touched its mark
harmlessly to Ramirez through the slender form of Chinita, fled madly.
Ramirez, scarce conscious whether the blood which streamed over him was
that of his daughter or his own, bore the wounded girl through the
throng that pressed him, wildly calling upon his child,—alas, alas! his
but for the brief span during which her warm young blood should leap
from the deadly puncture in her breast!
Herlinda, the first to regain self-control even amid the intense
revulsion of feeling through which she had almost instantaneously
passed, tore into shreds some portion of her garments and strove to
stanch the wound; but in vain. Chinita, with a smile which succeeded her
first wild cry and stare of horror, motioned her away. She pressed her
own fingers on the wound, raising her head from the arm of Ramirez to
say, “I saved you, I saved you! just as I used to think I would do. Ah,
I could not hate you,—no, no! though I tried. And she could not root out
my love,—it lives here still.” She pressed her hand still tighter on the
wound. “My father! my father!”
The face of the hardened man contracted in agony. He turned toward Doña
Isabel and Herlinda with a heartrending cry. “You are avenged,—both,
both, avenged! O my God! You never can have known such agony as this. Oh
wretched man that I am, to see the sum of all my crimes cancelled by
this terrible reprisal!”
The hand of the dying girl fell from its place. Chata knelt and placed
her own with desperate energy against the fatal wound. Chinita smiled
and faintly kissed her. “My dream has come true,” she said. “Ah, when
they pity me you will say, ‘She always longed to die for him.’ Tell them
it was best that I should die, I loved him so. Death wipes out every
wrong. He is my father!”
Ramirez groaned. Great drops of sweat stood on his brow. He strove still
to support her; but Gonzales on the one side and Ashley on the other
bore her weight.
By this time the garden was full of people. A man forced his way through
the throng.
“Reyes! Reyes!” cried Ramirez, “Villain, did you not as I commanded give
my child to Isabel, my sister; or was yours the accursed hand that
brought her to this pass?”
Reyes gazed at the dying girl in horror. A suspicion of the
misapprehension under which Ramirez had acted, and which had confirmed
Ruiz in his treachery, had haunted him for days, since in a remote
village he had met the administrador of Tres Hermanos and heard from him
the tale of the carrying away of Chata. He had hastened toward Las
Parras with Don Rafael and his mother, bent on warning Ramirez and
confessing the wild carelessness with which he had disposed of the child
who had been confided to him, and who he had supposed until his meeting
with Chinita had indirectly reached the person to whom she was destined.
It had not been possible for him—a man in whom the paternal instinct had
never dwelt—to imagine it the one virtue in the callous, fierce, and
unscrupulous Ramirez. But with this bleeding, dying figure in his arms
Ramirez seemed transformed. Reyes fell on his knees.
“Ah, had you but told me the whole truth!” sighed the dying girl. “A
Garcia you said! Ah, I should have been prouder to be _his_ daughter
than a thousand times Garcia!”
She turned her head, and her eyes fell on Ashley’s face and rested
there. A soft, strange illumination animated her own, as though from
some inward light just kindled. “Adios! Adios!” she murmured. “Ah, you
were noble, generous! yet you thought I did not feel, that I did not
understand. Ah, could I live, you should see! But this is best; you will
never need trouble now for Chinita. No, no, no! do not grieve— Ah, that
might make me weak! I would not—find it—hard—to die.”
She looked at him long and fixedly,—perhaps to her as to Ashley a secret
as sacred as it was precious, was then revealed. A blueness crept around
her mouth, a glaze over her beautiful eyes. “No wonder that she loved
the American!” she whispered at length,—dreamily, as though her mind
wandered to the past. The words sank like lead in Ashley’s heart, to be
forgotten never, never!
After a moment the lips of the dying girl moved in prayer. The priest,
who had from time to time endeavored to control an emotion which seemed
a personal rather than a merely sympathetic grief, bent over her, and
all present fell on their knees. Chinita whispered in his ear a few
words, and received absolution with a smile of perfect peace. Then began
the solemn litany for the departing soul; Chinita was evidently sinking
rapidly.
Pedro had fallen on his knees before her, in grief too deep for words.
Pepé from behind him gazed into her glazing eyes with stoical despair.
Suddenly she smiled, and laying her arm over Pedro’s shoulder, extended
her blood-stained hand, looking at Pepé with the pretty, winning,
disdainful smile of old, and said faintly, though proudly, “I am the
daughter of the Señor General. Lead me, Pepé,—lead me. I am tired!”
And thus with her arm around him who had been so blindly faithful, and
with her hand in that of the peasant youth who through life had been her
adoring slave, with one long sigh, which left her lips smiling as it
passed, Chinita fell asleep,—resting forever from the passion and
turmoil of life.
“Peace, peace, peace!” reiterated the solemn voice of the priest, in
assurance, in warning, in invocation. It penetrated hearts to which the
very word had seemed a mockery. The hardest, the most reprobate, the
haughtiest, the most sorrowful, repeated it with a sob. Ramirez on his
knees, crushed to the earth, heard it as the cry of a despairing angel.
Where for him could peace be found?