Part 33

It was scarcely two hours past midnight, though his interview with Chinita had lasted long, when Ashley cautiously emerged from the inn, and took his way toward the open country. The troops lay at the east end of the town; but giving the watchword to the few sentinels who challenged him, he avoided them, and soon found himself in the vast solitude of the night. He had taken the precaution to procure a fresh horse, and for some leagues the way lay across a level country, so he made such speed as brought him by dawn within sight of the mountain upon which Pedro lay,—but on a side many miles nearer El Toro, his destination, where Gonzales, with his insufficient garrison, was anxiously awaiting the reinforcements without which he could neither dare to advance, nor hope to maintain his position in case of attack.

As Ashley glanced toward the ragged and solitary cliffs where like a hunted animal the man was lying, he remembered that after the first horror was passed, Chinita had spoken no more of her foster-father, had asked no question as to what hands were set to tend him, nor in what direction lay the cave in which he was sheltered. Such queries would have been useless,—she could do nothing; yet it would have been but natural that she should have made them. Even if the gate-keeper’s care of her neglected infancy was forgotten, or accepted as a matter of course, and though her mind was absorbed by thoughts of her own history and her wrongs, yet his very connection with them should have made him an object of interest if not of tenderness.

“Heavens!” murmured Ashley, “can it be that this strange creature, as different in her instincts as in her appearance and education, is of the same blood as Mary? A bewildering charge shall I take to her, if Doña Isabel still, to save the reputation of her daughter, lays no claim to this beautiful girl, and denies her such scanty justice as she can give! For a daughter of an Ashley must not be left to the sport of chance,—neither to be sold to the first who bargains for her beauty; nor, worse still, to be consigned to a convent, as the unhappy Herlinda was.” He reasoned calmly, yet his heart and temples beat hotly. “Let me think. If this Gonzales but proves a man of honor, I may gain some aid from him; he, at least, may know in which convent this woman—whom he also loved—is immured. By the way, he is a fanatic upon this new scheme of Juarez, of secularizing the property of the clergy. Ah, in event of the success of the Liberal arms, that might work countless and unimagined changes!”

The thought was full of suggestion. Ashley gave rein to his horse, and dashed forward with fresh vigor. Afterward he scarce remembered how the day passed; but its close found him, spent and weary, alighting at the door of the inn of El Toro.

Almost at the same moment, far on the other side of the mountain, two travellers, so wrapped in long striped blankets and covered by wide sombreros as to be almost indistinguishable, the man from the woman, drew rein before a mass of cactus and gray rock; and while the one gazed furtively around, vainly seeking a sign of human contiguity, the other dismounted, and bending to a mere crevice in the rock gave a long, low whistle, then turned to help his companion, saying, “That will bring Stefano. Chinita, thou wilt see that, though a coward, he is no fool, and has cared well for thy foster-father. Said I not so? Ah, here he comes.”

Chinita was cramped by long riding, and was fain to cling to her guide. She looked around her with a shudder. The wild solitude of the place was terrible. She feared to move, lest she should find herself face to face with death. Her head swam, the world turned black before her eyes; and in the midst a strange hand touched her own. A low laugh sounded on her ear,—it was that of a woman.

“Santa Maria!” she heard Pepé exclaim. “It is the Virgin of Guadalupe herself. It is then that we are too late to serve the poor _padron_!”

The low laugh sounded again,—there was in it more of madness than sanctity. Chinita, with superstitious fear and desperation, sought to wrench her hand from the hot clasp in which it was held. The close air of the entrance of the cave closed round her, as with persistent force she was drawn within; and with a scream of terror she fell fainting, overcome by the excitement and exertion of many hours, and by the unexpected apparition which had greeted her.

XXXVII.

The illness which attacked Doña Feliz upon the morning that Ashley Ward set forth from Tres Hermanos, was the first indication of an epidemic similar in character and force to that which had devastated the hacienda fifteen years before. Reminiscences of the time of the great sickness became the absorbing topic of conversation, until the care of the dying and the burial of the dead silenced all voices, and turned all thoughts to the overwhelming cares of the present.

At first with unspeakable remorse Chata attributed the illness of Doña Feliz to her unwonted exertion in walking to the reduction-works through the fierce sunshine, and to her grief and shame in discovering her, whom she believed to be her granddaughter, there in conversation with a stranger,—from whom a modest maiden would have shrunk in decent coyness, if not in fear. Chata’s heart burned with grief and remorse. She longed to throw herself upon her knees, and pour out her soul before the woman she held in such love and reverence that the thought of her distrust and displeasure was like a mortal wound in her heart. Yet she was forced to be silent, before the unconsciousness and delirium which for days and weeks overpowered the body and mind of the strong, though no longer youthful, woman.

It was some consolation to the distressed maiden that she was called upon, almost alone, to bear the labor and responsibility of the care of Doña Feliz. Don Rafael was almost helpless before his mother’s peril; the servants were terrified and incompetent. Soon Chata, in the incessant toil, almost ceased to think of the trials and perplexities of her own life, save to cry bitterly to herself that had she never known before that Doña Rita was not her own mother, the difference in her bearing at that crisis toward Rosario and herself would have betrayed the truth.

“Even Don Rafael,” she thought, “though he loves me, is content that I, rather than his own child, should risk the danger of the infected atmosphere.”

But in truth the alarmed and harassed man was capable of but little reflection or discrimination as to the actions of those about him. He gave no heed to the selfishness of his wife or Rosario, while he found Chata ever at Doña Feliz’s side, tireless, calm, unmurmuring, ministering with a rare ability, which even natural tact and long experience seldom combine to produce in such perfection, to the needs and comfort of the ever delirious patient. He grew speedily to have a perfect trust and faith in this ministering child; and though once, when for a little while his mother was silent, and the servants had fallen asleep, he opened his lips to question her, there was something in the imploring yet innocent gaze of those clear gray eyes before which he shrank, as Ashley Ward had done, powerless to utter a word that should indicate distrust.

“Perhaps my mother knows,—yes, doubtless she knew,” he said to himself, with a faint attempt to justify his silence. “_Caramba!_ a man must have a black heart himself who could doubt the whiteness of so pure a soul!”

Almost hourly his perturbation of mind was increased by the report of some fresh name upon the list of the sick. With a faith as profound as their own in the decoctions of herbs and roots used by the village quacks, and a superstitious respect for the alleged virtues of blessed relics and candles, and even for amulets of less sacred renown, he went from hut to hut, endeavoring to propitiate the favor of Heaven by charitable deeds,—thus perhaps gaining for himself a more personal affection than the mere clannish regard which he in a measure shared with the actual proprietors of the vast estate, but which was not strong enough to insure him against the wit or malice of the dependent yet utterly indifferent and irresponsible host he attempted to govern. A doctor had been sent for, and also a priest; but neither appeared,—the priest perhaps because the last one, who had but lately left there, had given accounts of Doña Isabel’s proceedings little likely to be acceptable to the Church. This added to the perplexities of Don Rafael.

In the midst of them he was one day accosted by Tomas, the husband of Florencia, who in tones of genuine distress, which for the time gave pathos to his usual drunken whine, bewailed the sickness of his wife, and related how, spurning his care, she called vainly upon her Uncle Pedro (not a day’s luck had befallen them since he had left them), and upon the Señorita Chinita (praying his grace’s pardon for mentioning one whom the Señora Doña Isabel herself had chosen to be a lady), to come and give her a cup of cold water,—as if he, Tomas, himself had not spilled over her a jar of honeyed _pulque_ in the vain effort to pour a draught down her parched throat. It was plain to see that the woman was doomed, and that it was for her the corpse-candles had been lighted.

“The corpse-candles!” echoed Don Rafael,—for he well knew the popular superstition at Tres Hermanos, that when the burial lights were to burn in the great house, their spectral counterfeits were first seen in the ancient dwelling where the spirits of the early possessors of the hacienda still guarded treasures, which awaited some daring and fortunate claimant in a descendant who should combine their faith with a tenacity of purpose and an untiring energy worthy the riches that had eluded their own weak and inconstant efforts. Had indeed the conclave of shades gathered to welcome another unsuccessful toiler among them? Don Rafael shuddered and crossed himself, and wondered that there was no news of Doña Isabel. He gave Tomas a silver piece, and told him that it was not for Florencia, or even for his own mother, that the corpse-lights of the Garcias would burn blue, and sent him away comforted.

An hour later, through the medium of the fiery liquors distilled from the agave, Tomas had so far strengthened his courage that he forgot the corpse-lights altogether, until he saw them again at midnight glimmering in the distance, not only behind the hacienda walls, but fitfully in the darkness of the middle distance. He crossed himself, as he fancied he caught at intervals glimpses of spectral bearers. His comrade on the watch jested at the fears that he opined transformed the soft brilliancy of the large and brilliant firefly into the light of ghostly candles; and Tomas was content to yield to the soporific charm of the mescal, rather than contest the matter with his drowsy comrade,—who, with a regularity which custom made invariable, at certain intervals awoke and emitted the shrill whistle that proclaimed that the sleepers of Tres Hermanos were safe beneath his vigilant care.

Just at dawn the man straightened himself suddenly before the rampart against which he had been leaning, gazed over the landscape with keen apprehension, and uttered a faint cry of consternation. The sandy line between the hacienda gates and the village had become a living one. Whence had the figures stolen? There they stood motionless, horse and man. The watchman stooped and shook his unconscious comrade. “Mother of Jesus!” he cried; “your corpse-lights were in the hands of living men. They are here! they are here! Ah, they are knocking upon the doors! That fool Felipe is turning the key in the lock! Up! Up!” At the same moment his whistle sounded shrilly, and the crack of his rifle upon the air woke the slumbering tenants of the assaulted house.

Too late! the unwary gatekeeper was surprised; the heavy doors were forced open, the courts in an instant were full of armed men, and Don Rafael, half dressed, staggering from his scarce tried slumbers, was seized by a half-dozen soldiers, while a voice he well knew, though it came as if from the dead, and knew to be that of a man who was as inflexible in act as unscrupulous in purpose, exclaimed,—

“How now, Don Rafael? Doña Isabel Garcia has at last showed her true colors. It is for Gonzales and the Liberals the men and treasure of Tres Hermanos have been accumulating! What, nothing for her Mother the Church? Ah, it is the old story,—nothing for those of her own household!”

The unwelcome intruder glanced around him with the air of one familiar with, yet inimical to, his surroundings; he laughed as he dropped the point of his sword upon the brick pave, and his spurred heel rang upon the stone step. Yet a close observer might have noticed a false note in the light and scornful tone, as though some poignant memory troubled his present purpose; and it was with a half evasive though still a threatening glance, that he lifted his eyes to encounter those of the administrador, who stood a disordered and helpless but resolute prisoner upon the steps above him.

At the sound of voices and the tramp of men, Chata had run hastily out from the room of Doña Feliz, whose illness had approached a crisis. The press of men prevented her from reaching Don Rafael, who imperatively signed to her to retreat. Still she would have dared much to reach him; but catching a glimpse of the triumphant countenance of the man at the foot of the stairs, she drew back, covered her face with her hands and fled precipitately,—in fear for herself perhaps, but more with an instinctive feeling that her presence endangered rather than helped her foster-father. That the General José Ramirez had entered Tres Hermanos in a mood to seize any pretext to assume toward it and its people the _rôle_ of an injured and desperate man, was to be seen at a glance. The very soldiers had already divined as much, and were leading their horses and mules to drink at the fountain, and invading the arbor and lower rooms; the sound of their jests and laughter was mingling with the crash of the great flower-pots, carelessly pushed from their stands, and the sharp crack of jars of the quaint black and gilded ware of Guadalajara, which ornamented the corridors.

Chata re-entered the room of the sick woman, with pallid face and lips, and eyes expanding with a terror such as the mere sight of the imminent destruction of material things alone could not have occasioned. Terrible had been the tales she had heard of houses laid waste and property destroyed; yet even when the horrors seemed about to be repeated around her, she felt that she could have endured them bravely as among the chances of war had not this invasion brought to her an intensely dreaded and peculiar danger. She passed the group of alarmed and excited women who gathered at the bedside, uttering exclamations of terror, and kneeling at the head of the couch she clasped in her own the hand of the unconscious Doña Feliz.

“Grandmother, my dearest!” she murmured in a low voice, yet full of agony; “surely he will not tear me from thee! Oh, rather may I die with thee!”

“Oh, by the saints,” cried the voice of Doña Rita in her ear, “for my child’s sake, Chata, rise and fly to him! It is thou only who canst save us. What did I tell thee in El Toro? Doña Isabel has ruined us! but for her foolhardiness in sending aid to Gonzales all might have been well; but that has brought the wrath of Ramirez upon Rafael!” She turned toward her prostrate mother-in-law, with something very like fury, clenching her hand and crying, “Ah! ah! your clever deception will not seem so happy a one when you wake to find it has killed your son! That is what you deserve! You deceived even me. Do you think had I known, I would for all the favor promised me have played mother to the brat of Leon Vallé?”

The women ceased their cries to listen to this frantic outburst, which though but Greek to them, had a sound of mystery, which for the moment deadened their ears to the increasing tumult without. “Leon Vallé!” said one in an awe-struck voice,—“that was the Señora’s wicked brother.”

“Leon Vallé!” echoed Chata, a new light dawning upon her. “Maria Sanctissima, can it be?”

“What more natural?” cried Doña Rita, testily. “Was he ever weary of extorting some proof of Doña Isabel’s devotion? But _Dios mio_, there was to be an end of her infatuation! Had he not killed her child? What better chance for vengeance was she to find than to conceal, destroy, every trace of his, when with devilish mockery he thrust it upon her? But then he might have known it was like thrusting the lamb into the jaws of the wolf. On my faith, girl, it maddens me to see you standing there motionless, when it is as if the legions of Satanas himself were loose. Go! go! I say, to soothe him. Entreat him to restrain his troops. The house will be sacked. Who knows what horrors may follow!”

“I will not go to him,” said Chata, slowly, a red spot burning upon either cheek, her eyes dark with horror. “If he is indeed the man you say, will he not defend the home of his sister? If I am his child, will he not claim me? If he does, I must submit; but go to him—No! To save the hacienda—what has Doña Isabel done for me? To save my life—no!”

XXXVIII.

In the few moments during which this scene had passed, the administrador at a sign from the General had been half forced—though he made no attempt at resistance—to the lower corridor. Thence he followed his captor to a dining-room, where a servant with terrified alacrity was already bringing in cups of chocolate for the breakfast, while a woman with a tray of small loaves of sweet-bread in her hands dropped it incontinently at sight of the dreaded Ramirez. He laughed, throwing himself into a chair, and looking around him with the furtive glance with which men involuntarily regard places or persons connected with memories distasteful or horrifying. There was an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe at one end of the apartment, with a small lamp burning before it. He crossed himself, and muttered an _Ave_ as he looked at it; then pointed to a second chair and the cups of chocolate.

“It is early, Don Rafael,” he said lightly, “but I have a soldier’s appetite, which the fresh air has sharpened,—and you know the saying, that a stomach at rest makes an active brain; so accompany me, I entreat, in breaking the morning fast, and then let us to business.” And with a show of indifference, which imposed far better upon his followers, who made an interested throng around the door, than upon Don Rafael, he tasted the chocolate he had drawn to his side.

The administrador remained standing, though the two soldiers, who had each held an arm, released their grasp and stepped back. Disconcerted by the thought that in his dishabille he could scarcely present a dignified figure, Don Rafael still maintained his composure sufficiently to refuse the proffered refreshment with the air of a man who questions the right of another to play the part of host,—assuming, in fact, toward the intruder rather the attitude of personal than of political hostility.

Ramirez divined this, and his face darkened. “You know me, Don Rafael,” he said in a low tone, “and that I am a man to take no denials.”

“Yes,” answered the administrador, shortly, “I know you. The saints must have blinded me that I was so easily deceived upon your last visit; but you had always the power to mask your face at will.”

“Bah! every man has a dozen countenances at his command, if he but know how to summon them,” replied Ramirez, carelessly, “and a touch of art to fix their coloring, and twist the eyebrows or moustache. Why, even your mother was deceived! Where is she now? Ah! that woman was like Isabel herself; I swear she would have killed me, even when she seemed to love me most. It is the way of women, like serpents, to twine and sting at the same moment.”

“My mother is dying,” said Don Rafael, lifting his eyes for a moment upon the face of the image of Mary. “Yet living or dying, it is not for a man to hear another speak lightly of his mother. But this is nothing to the purpose.”

“Nothing,” replied the other, accepting the rebuke; “and I have no time to lose.” He seemed to forget the chocolate, pushing the cup from him, and turning as if to rise from the chair. “Look you, Rafael, what money did Isabel leave with you? Not half her resources went in that mad freak of raising a troop for Gonzales.”

Perhaps Don Rafael had expected the question, for his countenance remained imperturbable. “There are horses and cattle and corn and men, still,” he answered. “The administrador of Tres Hermanos can do nothing to defend them; but the money,—by Heaven and the Holy Virgin, its hiding-place is known only to him, and he will die before you shall have another dollar to add to those which have cost so much blood and so many tears!”

Ramirez’s eyes flashed; yet the look of astonishment which he threw upon the small, half-clothed man was as full of admiration as though he had been a king clad in royal robes. But even a king would not have thwarted Ramirez with impunity.

“You know me,” he reiterated in the same intonation with which he had before spoken the words, allowing a long, dark, intimidating gaze to rest upon the face of Don Rafael.

“Yes, I know you,” was the answer as before. “Yes, I know you; and it is for that reason I have said that never a dollar belonging to the woman you have so foully wronged shall pass into your hands. Thank Heaven that she is not here to be tempted! Thank God that while the identity of Ramirez with the bane and curse of the house of Garcia has been shaping itself in my mind, no hint of the truth has been in hers!”

“I do not believe it!” cried Ramirez, violently. “She hates me! for the sake of that puling boy and her dotard husband she hates me still! ‘The bane of the house of Garcia,’ said you. Why, what man among them has a name beyond his own door-stone but me? And the women! Ah, ah! What saint would have saved the fame of the women of the house of Garcia had it not been for me?”

Don Rafael glanced around him warningly,—the room was full of strange faces, beginning to light with wondering curiosity at this strange conversation, so different in substance from that usual between the guerilla and his victims. This was no place in which to talk of women; yet Don Rafael himself desired to avoid a private interview with this man, while Ramirez on his part assumed an ostentatious air of having nothing to conceal,—nothing that he might be ashamed his followers should learn. He knew, in fact, that at that crisis, surrounded as he was by the most unscrupulous and desperate characters, the prestige of his mad career might be advantageously heightened rather than diminished, if he would keep his ascendency. Don Rafael read his thought, and lest in very hardihood his opponent should be led to accusations or revelations it would be impossible for him to leave unanswered, he began one of those long and desultory conversations that, while apparently frank and unstudied, are triumphs in the art of avoiding or concealing the real subject at issue.