It was thus that Ashley Ward and his bride beheld them in after
years,—years during which he had returned to the United States to take
part in that great conflict which had been raging there while he had
been gaining experience in the irregular and inglorious strife in which
his zeal for liberty had been stimulated by private aims. The purity of
his patriotism was unstained, however, by any less glorious motive; and
during the last two years of the Civil War for the Union there was none
who fought more valiantly than he, nor one who laid down his sword with
a more just renown, to dedicate himself to the profession which in the
lack of fortune was both his choice and a positive need.
That Ward should renounce the fortune of John Ashley was an actual grief
to Herlinda and to Chata herself, but he would have it so; and even Mary
Ashley was pleased it should be, although, as she said, her niece was
already most absurdly wealthy in right of the Garcias for a girl of such
retired and humble tastes,—one whose only extravagance was in her
charities. Mary Ashley found in the love of Chata—she soon abandoned the
attempt to call her by the stately name of Florentina—a recompense for
the scrupulous conscientiousness which had led her to seek the supposed
wife and possible child of her brother.
It was not until after the Pope had ratified her marriage that Herlinda
Ashley visited the home of her husband’s family. After that she returned
at intervals while Chata was being educated as her aunt desired. During
that time Gonzales, from whose hand Herlinda had received the Papal
edict, was fighting anew the battles of freedom on his native soil; and
by his side, doing gallant deeds unstained by crime, was Leon Vallé. But
when the short-lived empire of Maximilian was overthrown, when Herlinda
crowned the long fidelity of Gonzales by following the rare example
given by a few released nuns and became the wife of the Liberal soldier,
the silent yet resolute man who had been his constant companion in arms
disappeared, and with him Pedro Gomez.
No one but Rosario, who as the wife of Don Alonzo took the lead among
the young and idle wives of the hacienda employés, asked any questions
concerning the disappearance of Leon Vallé. Doña Rita looked wise, and
Don Rafael smiled at her, for she knew nothing, and could conjecture
nothing that might bring evil. Rafael was the same indulgent, easy
husband he had ever been. It did not occur to either that a more perfect
confidence might have been observed between them,—they had followed
custom; what more could be needful?
Chata and her mother sometimes talked of Vallé with wondering pity; but
they saw that Doña Isabel was content,—his fate was not a mystery to
her. Perhaps he was wandering in foreign countries. At least, after he
had gained the new, fresh fame which honored the name of Leon Vallé, he
was no more seen in Mexico. There was but one thought that troubled the
heart of Chata. She could not, even for Chinita’s sake, forgive the
murderer of her father.
It was when Ashley Ward had gained a certain assurance of success and
ultimate wealth, that he wooed and won the object of his early, generous
search, his early protecting interest, his later love. In the heart of
Chata no rival flame had ever glowed; Ashley had been her first, her
only love. And he perhaps was scarcely conscious that the pang which
ever came at the sound of one almost sacred name, was the throb of a
scar where love had set its deathless root. Chata never suspected that
an uncommon grief had made possible the tranquil happiness which she
shared with her husband; while he never questioned even in his own soul
whether his happiness would have been greater, or perhaps have been
changed to torture and torment, had the beautiful, erratic daughter of
Leon Vallé been spared to earth. Whatever wild emotion had thrilled him,
Chata,—the good, the sweet, the gentle Chata, with the intelligent and
reflective mind, which curbed and perfected the enduring emotions of her
heart,—was the only woman he had ever thought of as his wife. They
rejoiced in perfect trust and sympathy,—she never imagining, he never
regretting, the more impetuous passion that might have been.
It was while on their wedding journey, attended by an escort of
soldiers, which the insecurity of the roads in the years immediately
following the overthrow of the empire made necessary, that they went
into a remote district among the mountains, some twenty leagues from
Vera Cruz, from which port they were to sail for their Northern home.
The captain of the escort was a silent, swarthy young man, who born a
peasant, had by his valor and development of extraordinary qualities as
a strategist acquired during the contest with the French a reputation
that would, had the incentive of personal ambition urged, have made it
possible for him to reach the highest grade of military rank. But he
fought for principle, not for glory; to forget despair, not to challenge
fame. The man was Pepé Ortiz. Upon such men, the world when joy and love
fail, sometimes thrusts greatness. This was predicted of the silent
captain.
One night the young officer came to the inn and invited the bride and
groom to walk with him in the moonlight. They passed through the streets
of the town, where the massive adobe houses, white as marble in the
deceptive light, threw shadows black as ink, and presently emerged upon
a paved road, which led to a garden set thick with trees. The air was
heavy with perfume; hundreds of fireflies, where the thicket was so
dense no ray from the sky might penetrate, seemed to fill the place with
ghostly fires. It was enchanting, weird,—ay, awe-inspiring. Chata clung
to her husband’s arm in mute expectancy.
Soon in the near distance they heard a sound as of measured strokes, and
a low continuous moan. The strokes quickened to the whizz of heavy
flails, the moan to the dirge of the _Miserere_. Then they understood
with a shock of horror that they were about to witness one of the
processions of penitents, which, though forbidden by the civil law,
still were conducted secretly in remote and fanatical districts. Chata
would have fled, but the pity at her heart seemed to paralyze her limbs.
Ashley, with a feeling strangely differing from mere curious expectancy,
put his arm around her and awaited the advent of the dolorous company.
Presently the penitents came from amid the shelter of the trees, like
mournful ghosts upon the moonlit road. They were all men,—men to whom
the memory of their sins was intolerable,—and as they walked they
wielded the cruel scourges on their bared shoulders, and ceaselessly
intoned the dirge. It was past midnight, and for hours they had
continued the dreadful flagellation and the unceasing march. Blood
streamed from many a gaping wound; they staggered as they walked; more
than once a fainting sufferer fell, and was lifted to his feet by the
man who walked beside him. All this dismal company were masked; each
wore a friar’s gown and a rough shirt of hair, which hung pendant from
the girdle at the waist, above which was seen the cut and bleeding skin.
Sick with horror, when the last of the miserable wretches had gone by,
Chata leaned sobbing on her husband’s breast. But he gently set her upon
the grassy bank of the roadside, and followed by Pepé hastened to the
help of a poor wretch, above whose prostrate form his faithful attendant
bent with despairing gestures. They raised the apparently dying man, and
turned aside the mask. The moonlight fell upon the face of Leon Vallé,
worn with the passions of other years and with the griefs of the
present, yet nobler than they had ever beheld it. At that moment the
likeness between this man and Chata became in Ashley’s eyes peculiarly
intensified.
The trembling and sensitive young wife had approached, with an absolute
certainty that something was transpiring which was to touch her own
being. Scarcely surprised, though with a shock, she recognized Leon
Vallé. Presently she bent and kissed him with tears. From that moment
Chata had no secret rancor to regret,—the penitent was forgiven.
“Señores, Señores, I pray you leave us; he revives, he will in a moment
recover consciousness,” cried the rough voice of Pedro Gomez. With that
complete self-abnegation which, when the claims and interests of his
seignorial chieftain are involved, is perhaps presented in its highest
development by the Mexican peasant, he had ignored the revengeful
abhorrence with which the memory of Leon Vallé had for years inspired
him, and for the sake of her whom he had loved and served as the scion
of a noble race, had dedicated his life to the father for whom she had
gladly died.
As Doña Feliz had once done years before, Chata kissed with reverence
the hand of this embodiment of fidelity, and with a throbbing heart
turned from the last scene in the drama of which her life had formed a
part. Thenceforth a new act was entered upon, in which deep and tender
memories and present peace and trust are working out the trite but
blissful tale of wedded love.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
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