Part 43
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.
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.
77.6 thus acquiring an exquisite [caligraphy] _sic_ calligraphy 100.21 thrust the ta[il/li]sman into his belt Transposed. 117.6 If Vi[n]cente Vicente is a traitor Removed. 141.30 on the wounded shoulder[,/.] Replaced. 181.23 a ru[r]al beau from a neighboring village Inserted. 207.28 Yo[n/u] are not old enough Inverted. 260.31 chilled and silenced her[,/.] Replaced. 316.27 the son of Pancho Vall[e/é] Replaced. 340.1 with an elec[t]ric thrill. Inserted. 351.21 I pray you!’[”] Added. 352.37 A look of ind[i/e]scribable hauteur Replaced. 365.38 she murm[e/u]red in a low voice Replaced. 409.37 a sad and solemn funeral cort[é/è]ge Replaced. 415.17 into the chap[par/arr]al. Replaced. 427.22 reputations of special sanc[t]ity Added. 438.35 this silent, creeping e[mn/nm]ity Transposed. 442.4 she cried[,] staggering to her feet. Added. 466.36 [“]this girl whom you have believed Added. 466.37 to be the daughter of my son. [“]Weeks Removed.