XLVIII.
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-livedempire 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 perfectedthe 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 theMiserere. 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 feelingstrangely 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 hadignored 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.
Transcriber’s NoteThe proper nouns Castile and Castilian are sometimes spelled with a double ‘ll’.On p. 466, an opening quotation mark seems to be misplaced. See the table below.Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.77.6thus acquiring an exquisite [caligraphy]siccalligraphy100.21thrust the ta[il/li]sman into his beltTransposed.117.6If Vi[n]cente Vicente is a traitorRemoved.141.30on the wounded shoulder[,/.]Replaced.181.23a ru[r]al beau from a neighboring villageInserted.207.28Yo[n/u] are not old enoughInverted.260.31chilled and silenced her[,/.]Replaced.316.27the son of Pancho Vall[e/é]Replaced.340.1with an elec[t]ric thrill.Inserted.351.21I pray you!’[”]Added.352.37A look of ind[i/e]scribable hauteurReplaced.365.38she murm[e/u]red in a low voiceReplaced.409.37a sad and solemn funeral cort[é/è]geReplaced.415.17into the chap[par/arr]al.Replaced.427.22reputations of special sanc[t]ityAdded.438.35this silent, creeping e[mn/nm]ityTransposed.442.4she cried[,] staggering to her feet.Added.466.36[“]this girl whom you have believedAdded.466.37to be the daughter of my son. [“]WeeksRemoved.
Transcriber’s Note
Transcriber’s Note
Transcriber’s Note
The proper nouns Castile and Castilian are sometimes spelled with a double ‘ll’.
On p. 466, an opening quotation mark seems to be misplaced. See the table below.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.