hand of the girl, and dragged her away from the attractive scene.
“You know the baby sleeps,” said the girl, pettishly; but Macata, in
her uneasiness, hurried onward.
They passed through the pleasant garden into the silent house, and the
softly shaded room where they had left the sleeping child. There stood
the dainty little cradle, but the child was gone!
At first they thought some of the servants had returned and taken it to
some other room; but when they had searched the whole house, and ran,
calling in vain, through the garden, they were almost wild with fright.
Tears streamed from the eyes of the young girl as she looked
helplessly into the face of old Macata, who tore her long hair, and
moaned piteously. She could not cease looking, although it seemed
hopeless.
“In so short a time to disappear, and leave no trace behind to aid this
search!” The child! The poor little innocent child she loved so dearly,
gone, she knew not where! How could she meet the father and mother?
Thus, full of despair, she ran about, looking in vain, and calling
wildly upon her darling, until the señor and his wife returned.
To picture the scene that followed would be impossible. The torturing
grief of the unhappy father was mingled with all the terrors of
suspense, and the desolate heart of the sorrowing mother refused to
be comforted. Day and night she sobbed bitterly, “Would that God had
taken my baby to himself!”
The whole country was roused. The search continued for many days, till
hope died out in every heart. Then it was that a fearful fever seized
the mother, exhausted by grief, want of sleep, and the fatigues of a
hopeless search. For weeks her life was despaired of; and when at last
the fever left her, the light had gone from her eye, the smile from her
lips, and the hope of happiness from her heart.
The old Macata never left her side. At first the mother shuddered when
she came near; but as she looked upon the hair of the old woman, which,
since the loss of the child, had become white as the driven snow, her
heart softened, and she shed her first tears upon the bosom of the
penitent and sorrowing nurse.
For many weeks the luxury of tears had been denied her, and, from that
first bursting of the flood-gates of her grief, she could not bear the
old Indian long out of her sight. A mutual sorrow bound their hearts
together.
Macata could never do enough for the dear, sad señora, but sometimes
she would go to her, saying, “Bless me now, señora dear; I am going to
look for our baby.”
Then the señora would bless her, and say, “Go, my poor Macata.”
All day long she roamed through woods, down deep into the shadowy
cañons, or upon the mountain tops. After weary hours, and sometimes
days, of fruitless search, she would return, worn and heart-broken with
her vain wanderings. Kneeling before the señora, weeping, and wringing
her hands, she would cry, “Oh! dear señora, forgive me! I have not
found our baby. I lost it, but I will find it. I will find it before I
die, so help me, Wacondah, Great Spirit!”
Often the old woman fell fainting at the feet of her beloved señora,
who would have her raised tenderly and placed upon the bed, where for
hours she sat by her, watching and weeping.
Thus these two sorrowing ones, the broken-hearted mother and the
grief-crazed nurse, became very dear to each other.
The father mourned deeply, but to the heart of man time brings its
softening balm. He loved his wife fondly, and, for her sake, sometimes
tried to waken a hope that the child might be restored to them. Yet
within his shadowed heart he mourned the precious one as dead.
Very sadly he missed the tiny outstretched hands that once were sure
to greet him, and that radiant little face that was all the world to
him; and as months and years went by, whenever he looked upon a little
maiden full of grace and beauty, he would press his hand to his heart
in sorrow, for “what might have been.”
Sometimes the señora, leaning her weary head on his breast, would
say: “I shall know my darling, no matter how many years shall pass
before we meet.” Then she would clasp her hands, exclaiming: “What if
I should die before Macata finds her? Then, oh! then, I shall know
her in heaven,” she would bow her head lower upon the beloved breast
in prayer. Thus she would remain till the tender voice of the hidalgo
aroused her; then she would clasp her thin hands about his neck, and
look pityingly into his eyes to see the sorrow of her heart reflected
there.
Thus it was with the parents as the years passed sadly by, but all the
while the seasons went and came again; the sunshine gladdened the
earth; the rainbow beautified the shower; the flowers blossomed in the
garden; and young hearts beat happily as theirs upon their bridal day.
* * * * *
On that bright morning of the _fête_ of Corpus Christi, which resulted
so unfortunately for the hidalgo and the poor señora, Macata had not
noticed that the garden gate was left unlocked, nor in her haste did
she see the crouching form of a fierce-looking woman hiding behind the
lime-tree.
No sooner was she and the young girl out of sight than the woman rose
stealthily, and gathering up her coarse brown cloak around her, glided
swiftly through the garden and into the room where the cradle stood,
still moving from the parting motion of Macata’s hand. Glancing hastily
around, she snatched up the still sleeping child, and wrapping it in
the folds of her cloak, ran out of the garden, away from the road, on
through the orange-grove, and before Macata and the girl returned, was
far away out of sight.
Still on she went, through the vineyard, and over the hill beyond; nor
did she pause for a moment after she entered the thick wood, until
miles away in the dusk of the evening, deep down in a cañon she came to
a rude cottage overhung with trees and rocks.
All day long the delicate child had been out in the burning sunshine,
tasting nothing but a tortilla moistened in water.
When they entered the cottage she had cried herself to sleep, and her
little head rested wearily upon the bosom of the woman who had stolen
her from her mother and her happy home.
On the floor sat a little girl shelling beans. She was a poor,
misshapen child of misfortune, with a sad mark of suffering upon her
face, which, when the woman entered, deepened.
“Take this child, Catrina. Put it away anywhere--anywhere out of sight.
It is hateful to me.” Then throwing off the brown cloak, and rubbing
her hands, she drew near the fire, adding: “Be in a hurry, girl. Give
me my supper, for I am tired and hungry.”
The young girl had taken the little one and laid it upon the bed, and,
though there was an expression of surprise upon her face, she placed
the supper upon the table without speaking. Then, placing chairs, she
and the woman sat down together. Still not a word was spoken. By and
by, after they had eaten, and the dishes were washed, the hearth swept,
and more fagots heaped upon the fire, the girl pointed to the sleeping
child.
“Let her be,” said the woman, crossly. “I can not support you in
idleness. Go shell your beans.”
The girl placed a cup of milk at the fire, sat down again to her task,
and, for a long time, nothing was heard but the crackling pods. At
length the woman spoke.
“It is little use in talking to you, Catrina: but I must speak
sometimes, and you are the only being I have, about me, and you can not
tell what I say. You can not remember, Catrina! Many years ago I was
beautiful; I was young. Now I am old, not with years! See this hair
once so glossy--look at it.”
She caught out the comb with an angry grasp, and all over her neck and
shoulders fell the heavy tangles of long, gray hair.
“I was young, beautiful, and beloved. Oh, it seems an age of years
ago! I have been so wretched since. That child’s father caused his
death! I lived! God knows how till your father came, and I married him.
For love? Oh, no, for the poor protection that woman’s nature craves
and a shelter from despair. But even this failed me!
“What a life for both! But I am revenged, ha! ha! They will wait long
for their pretty darling, now.” The woman laughed wildly, and such
a look of hate and exultation covered her face, that, in the fitful
fire-light, was almost fiendish.
Catrina dropped her hands on her lap, and shuddered, while her eyes
were fixed upon the wretched woman with a kind of fascination.
“Go to work! go to work! I say, you stupid little witch, what are you
staring at? You look as if you were frightened out of the little sense
you have.”
Again the woman laughed a strange laugh, that grated harshly upon the
ear of the unfortunate girl. Tears filled her eyes, but still no reply.
Poor child! she had never spoken one word in her short but sorrowful
life. She was only the poor little step-daughter of the woman, and
since the death of her father she had been unhappy.
The noise had awakened the little one, and opening her large eyes, she
looked around first with wonder, and then with fear, at the strange
place and strange faces before her. The woman rose and took her in her
arms.
“So, little chick, you are awake, and how do you think your lady mamma
feels now, and your proud papa? Ha! ha! he never thought how I felt,
when years ago he brought death to my heart, nor will I think of him.”
Slowly she began swaying the child to and fro, talking fiercely all
the while. The tiny lips of the baby quivered, as, for a moment, she
suppressed her cry, then a pitiful wail filled the cottage.
Catrina was preparing the bowl of bread and milk, and as she
approached, the little one held out her hands, and when Catrina took
her she hid her face in her bosom and sobbed softly. The child was
hungry, and as the girl offered her the bread and milk, she ate it
eagerly, but all the while her frightened gaze was fixed upon the face
of the woman, who seemed to grow uneasy before the pitiful terror of
those innocent eyes.
“It is always so now. Even this child shrinks from me, and I don’t mean
to harm her. She has her bread and milk here, if it is not in a silver
bowl. Ah! my heart is of stone, now--of stone!” and instinctively she
folded her arms over her bosom, and, rocking herself, gazed into the
fire as though she were reading the future in its fitful embers.
No wonder that the child, used only to tenderness, looked fearfully
upon that pale, dark face, grown prematurely old. Her hair still hung
over her shoulders, a long and tangled mass, all its purple luster,
all its beauty gone forever. There was a strange, wild look about the
eyes, and under them a dark, sunken circle. Far into the night she sat
brooding over the glowing embers, till they were turned to blackened
cinders.
That night Catrina had a more pleasant dream than she had known since
her father died.
After the little one had eaten her supper, Catrina undressed her, and
wrapping her in a blanket, placed her in her own bed, patting her
caressingly with her hand till she fell asleep.
Catrina lay down beside her, and soon she dreamed that an angel came
to the cottage and changed the darkness to light, that even her
step-mother’s face grew gentle and tender, and her voice soft and
low in that blessed presence. Her own weary heart grew light, and as
she looked fondly at this angel, full of gratitude for her new-born
happiness, she saw only the child before her, but clearly she heard
these words, in the well-remembered tones of her father’s voice,
saying:--
“This child shall be the angel of the house.” She awoke to find her
face bathed in tears, and kissed the baby a hundred times, and in her
silence prayed God to bless the darling.
Already the joy of an angel’s presence filled her heart. Poor little
Catrina! She was only a child of ten years, yet her face looked
pinched, old, and careworn. This was not strange for the work of the
cottage fell to her small hands, and there was no one to say: “You have
done well, my little Catrina.”
She could not remember her own gentle mother, nor when the step-mother
came to them, but she never forgot the sad face of the dear papa, when
he used to put his hand upon her tangled hair, saying: “Catrina, you
will miss papa; no one else but my poor little desolate _Mijita mia,
Mijita mia_.” Then he would turn to hide the tears that would not be
driven back. In those days of illness he was helpless as Catrina in her
babyhood.
One day, when the step-mother had been gone since the dawning, the
father seemed to sleep, Catrina sat very silently for many hours, for
young as she was, she did not wish to disturb poor sick papa when
sleeping. She grew very weary, but still he did not wake; so she ran
softly to the bedside, and looked at him till her heart grew faint. He
lay so still, and was very pale; and when she climbed up and laid her
little face against his, she shuddered and wept bitterly, it was so
very cold. After a while the step-mother returned. Soon some men came
and took the father away, and though they looked very rough, one of
them stopped and gave her a tortilla, saying: “Poor little young one,
she has lost her best friend.”
As soon as the little girl could do any thing, the step-mother gave her
plenty of work. Thus the years went by till the eve of the _fête_ of
Corpus Christi, when baby Gracia was brought to the cottage.
It seemed like the dawn of a new life to the lonely Catrina to look
into that sweet baby face, and when the little one learned to love her
and cry for her, though she found her task much heavier, her heart grew
so light that her little hands worked wonders.
The woman took off the pretty coral necklace and sleeve clasps, and all
the child’s fine clothes, and placed them in the strong oaken chest at
the head of her bed. Little Gracia was dressed in clothes coarse as
Catrina’s, but still she grew more lovely every day, and looked like a
little princess in her rags.
Even the seared heart of the woman softened to the winning ways of the
pretty child, though sometimes she would drive her away, exclaiming:
“Go, go from me--I hate the race.” At other times she would take her in
her arms, saying: “The baby is not to blame,” and with tears dimming
her eyes, cover the little face with fond caresses.
* * * * *
Thus passed five long years at the cottage. Catrina had grown stronger,
and more shapely. Her face was full of love and tenderness, though
exposure had made her skin very rough and brown. Gracia had changed
from babyhood to a sportive child, graceful as a young fawn.
One rainy night the woman came home very late, leaning heavily upon the
arm of an old Indian, who with great difficulty supported her trembling
steps. She was very ill, and she felt the cold shadow of death falling
upon her.
Gracia was asleep, but Catrina sat by the fire waiting, and keeping
the supper hot. She was frightened when she saw the pale face of the
step-mother, and trembled with fear as she helped the Indian to lay
her upon the bed.
For a few moments the sick woman was silent from exhaustion, but after
a time she called Catrina to her.
“Listen to me, Catrina, for my time is growing short. I have been cruel
to you at times, but you have been always good and true. Forgive me
now, my poor Catrina as you pray the good Lord to forgive you.”
Here the woman grew so faint that she was obliged to stop speaking, and
Catrina wept as though her heart would break.
Poor girl! she had been hardly used, but she knew no other fate; and
though she did not love the step-mother as she did the little Gracia,
it seemed very desolate to sit there by the dying woman who had given
her a home, poor though it was. She pressed the cold hand to her lips,
and buried her head in the bed-clothes.
“Oh! that child!” gasped the wretched woman. “Catrina, I have no time
to lose. I see every thing so differently.
“I have been crazy, but all is clear now. Catrina, when you think of me
remember me only as a poor suffering woman, and forgive me, as you hope
for God’s mercy.
“But the child! in that trunk you will find her clothes and papers
which will prove her birth. Her father is a good and true man, as I
have learned this day. My life’s great wrong came from another’s hand.
“Promise me, Catrina, that you will never rest till you have restored
her to her home, and the parents who love her.”
The step-mother’s words grew fainter, but her eyes, full of the
brightness of expiring fires, were fixed upon Catrina, who reverently
made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head in solemn acquiescence.
“Catrina,” she continued, “go up to the cañon, keeping to the right,
then over the mountain path, till you come to the great wood.” A spasm
of pain convulsed her, and she ceased speaking. In a few moments it
passed away, and a calm happy smile settled upon her face.
“I repent of all my sins; I forgive even the murderer of him who was
dearer than my life. Now, may God have mercy upon my soul.”
The husky voice was hushed, the clasped hands relaxed, and the
suffering woman was dead!
“She has gone to the land of the Great Spirit, and He has blessed her,”
said the Indian, filled with amazement to see the troubled face grow so
calm in death.
They buried her in the shadow of the deep cañon, and the children were
left alone. The kind Indian came every day to the cottage to look after
them, bringing always a bag of tortillas and fruits.
One morning, about a week after the death of the step-mother, he found
Catrina and Gracia just leaving the cottage. As he gave Catrina the
tortillas she shook his hand long and kindly, and the tears glistened
in her eyes, but she could not speak to tell him she was going away,
never to rest, until she had led Gracia back to her home.
For many days the Indian returned with his bag of tortillas, and went
sadly away, for the cottage was alone in the dusky shadows.
The children took the path to the right out of the cañon, then on up
the steep mountain way. Catrina carried Gracia’s baby-clothes in her
arms, and a large bag of tortillas, for she had eaten sparingly for a
week, that she might have food for a long journey.
After awhile Gracia became weary, and then Catrina took her in her
arms, though they seemed full, but the willing heart found a ready way
to help her darling.
At last they reached the top of the mountain, so very worn and weary,
that after they had eaten their dinners, Gracia fell heavily upon
Catrina’s lap, but she could no longer support the weight of the child;
so, folding her in her arms, they lay down upon the soft turf together
and slept as soundly as though it had been a bed of down.
The shadows were growing very long when the young girls awoke, and
all the west was glowing with fleecy amber clouds. The sunset in the
clear pure atmosphere of the mountains seemed so much more rich and
beautiful than in the dim cañon, that little Gracia’s eyes shone with
delight.
“Oh! Catrina,” she exclaimed, “surely that is the glorious heaven we
see before us. Do you not remember what the good padre told us, when
he came to the cottage? Let us hurry, Catrina, ’tis not so very far.
Perhaps we can get there before dark.”
Catrina caught the hand of the excited child, and making the sign of
the cross, knelt down with her face toward the sunset, and prayed for
the soul of the unhappy step-mother, for the little Gracia, whom she
loved dearly, and last of all for herself.
The radiance of the sunset fell upon the poor dumb girl, and shed its
shining beauty upon her face. When Catrina arose, Gracia looked at her
with eyes full of eager wonder.
“How God loves you, Catrina,” she whispered. “He threw his glory all
around you when you prayed.” Catrina smiled and kissed the child, and
giving her a tortilla, they began to descend the mountain, but the
twilight came on so fast that very soon they could hardly see their way.
Gracia clasped Catrina’s hand very closely, saying: “I should be afraid
in the dark, only God loves you so much, and heaven is so near.”
Thus they went on as long as they could see, and then sat down in the
darkness, and by and by slept again.
Catrina woke early in the morning, and seeing a lime-tree not far
distant, covered with fruit, left Gracia sleeping, and ran to gather
some. “It will be so nice with our dry tortillas,” she thought; “and
dear Gracia will be pleased with the juicy fruit.”
She made great haste, fearing lest the child might wake, and be
frightened at her absence, and in a short time she returned with her
apron filled with the delicious fruit. Her face lighted with the smile
of grateful love, as she saw the little girl still sleeping sweetly. A
moment more and the happy smile was turned to an expression of intense
horror.
Only a few feet from the child crouched the huge form of an immense
cougar, his fierce eyes gloating with hungry fire upon his helpless
prey.
Catrina remained transfixed for a moment, watching the wild beast,
until he crouched to spring upon her darling; she then threw her arms
over her head, rushed forward, and by what means, God knows, her
intense terror burst the prison-bonds of sound, and the dumb girl gave
one wild, shrill cry, that made the mountains echo.
Just at that moment came a sharp flash of light, and the cougar lay
weltering in his blood.
The startled Gracia woke to find Catrina lying as one dead upon the
ground, and a handsome young boy coming forward to help them. The
little girl was much frightened, and, weeping bitterly, she threw her
arms around Catrina and called piteously,--
“Oh, Catrina! Catrina! open your eyes; do not leave me, Catrina; God
loves you, He has called you!”
Then Catrina opened her eyes, and said, with imperfect utterance,
“Don’t cry, my darling. The cougar is dead. Don’t cry; he will not hurt
you.” And she kissed Gracia, and cried as hard as the child.
“You! Catrina, you speak!” exclaimed little Gracia, as soon as she
could speak, for Catrina’s caresses.
“You speak, who never spoke in your life. The good God heard your
prayer last night. He shed His glory upon you, and now you speak.” They
embraced each other, and wept for joy.
Then they noticed the handsome boy standing near them, resting upon his
gun, and Catrina pressed his hand to her lips, and thanked him again
and again.
They all went to look at the cougar together, and Catrina told the
wondering Gracia how very near to heaven she had been, and young Leon
De Lande told them both how he had started by moonlight to hunt in the
mountains, and how he thanked God he had been able to save the little
señorita.
They sat down to eat their tortillas and fruit, and then started for
the valley. Poor Catrina! How delightful to be able to talk, though she
needed practice to be able to speak plainly.
She was like a little child just learning, but she managed to let Leon
know all about Gracia, and he, with delighted surprise, told her that
he knew her father, who was the richest señor in all the country, and
that in a few hours they could reach the vineyard.
Never were there happier young people than went down the mountain
together. As they entered the wood, whom should they meet but poor old
nurse, Macata, hunting for her lost darling.
“I have found the little señorita for you, good Macata,” said Leon.
Macata gave one glance at Gracia, then caught her in her arms,
exclaiming, “_Ninita mia! Ninita mia! Waconda!_ the Master of Life has
heard my cry! I knew you were not lost for ever.”
The old Indian started off at full speed, carrying Gracia in her arms,
sobbing all the time, and blessing the Great Spirit that she had lived
to restore the lost child to the dear señora.
Leon and Catrina could barely keep pace with her, but at last they
entered the very room, where, five years before, the beautiful child
lay sleeping in her little willow cradle.
“I have brought her back, señora,” cried old Macata, out of breath.
“It is our little white bud, señora, dear! Oh! _Alma mia! Mijita mia_,
Waconda has not forgotten us!” The old woman placed the child in the
mother’s arms, and fell with her face upon the floor, weeping for joy.
No words can tell the joy that filled the house. Only the heart of the
father and mother could feel how greatly God had blessed them.