Part 7

So, when the day of her arrival finally dawned, he and old Manuela rose with the sun, and gathering the freshest and brightest flowers the garden contained, they arranged them in the room she was to occupy; transforming it into a veritable bower of fragrance and color.

The prospect of seeing his protegée so soon again, filled Padre Antonio with the most conflicting emotions of longing and impatience.

He could think of nothing else--could neither sit nor stand, but fretted and bustled about the house with the impatience of a child. Fearful lest he should be too late, he hurried through his simple breakfast, consisting of black coffee and a roll, without so much as glancing at the local paper as was his wont; and then, quite forgetting to pull on his black silk gloves which Manuela thrust into his hands together with his hat and stick, he hastened to the station which he reached an hour before the time scheduled for the arrival of the stage.

Of course she must have changed somewhat during the long interval of her absence, he argued, more as a concession to reason than to desire or sentiment. But in spite of this possibility, his mental picture of her still remained that of the little Indian girl he had confided to the care of the good Sisters of Saint Ursula six years before.

What if the stage were late, and could she make the long journey alone and in safety, he asked himself a thousand times as he impatiently paced up and down the platform of the station; the tap of his gold-headed cane marking the time of his steps on the boards beneath him.

"Saints! but the stage was slow! A snail could crawl--" Suddenly he stopped short. A flush of joy suffused his countenance--his heart began to beat rapidly and his right hand with which he grasped his cane trembled perceptibly as he gazed intently down the long dusty highroad.

"At last!" he cried. Another intense moment of suspense and the distant cracking of a whip and sounds of wheels and hoof-beats on the road announced the approach of the stage. Presently it hove in sight and a few minutes later, as it drew up before the station and came to a full stop, the door was hastily flung open and a tall, closely veiled woman sprang lightly to the platform.

Her striking appearance would have commanded attention anywhere, but without noticing her, he brushed hastily past her and gazed eagerly into the interior of the coach. It was empty.

Dios! what had happened? There must be some mistake! With a note of keenest disappointment in his voice he turned sharply on the driver and impatiently demanded what had become of the little Indian girl that had been placed in his charge.

"Little Indian girl? Caramba!" A look of bewilderment accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders and a "no sabe, Señor Padre," was the only answer he received. Consternation seized Padre Antonio.

Merciful heaven! what had become of her--Chiquita, his little girl? His voice choked, while tears of bitter disappointment welled to his eyes. "Ah, yes, there had been a mistake--she would come by the next stage," he said, addressing the driver, and was on the point of turning away when a silvery peal of laughter fell upon his ears. He felt a soft touch on his shoulder and a voice close to him said:

"Padre Antonio, don't you know your little Chiquita?" The veil had slipped from her face, displaying the features of a beautiful Spanish woman. Confounded and speechless with amazement, Padre Antonio could only gaze in silence upon the apparition before him.

Was it possible, or was he only dreaming? What a transformation! Was this mature woman, this tall and supple and refined and graceful creature his Chiquita, his wild little Indian girl of former years? He rubbed his eyes in bewilderment and gazed again. Holy Maria! but she was beautiful--fair as the starry jasmine blossoms which she wore at her breast and in the dark folds of her hair.

In that hour the world suddenly became filled with exquisite harmony for Padre Antonio, and he seemed to grow younger by many years.

The radiant beauty of her face with the poetry of sunshine and laughter in her eyes and her grace and charm of personality affected him like some wonderfully attuned chime of silver bells. Surely this was worth waiting for. His prayers had been answered richly and abundantly, far beyond anything his imagination had pictured during those long years of waiting.

The Posada de las Estrellas was situated on the western side of the town within a stone's throw of Padre Antonio's house. It stood well back from the highroad from which it was screened by a thick hedge-like growth of cedar, manzanita, tamarisk and lilac bushes.

A short distance east of the Posada, the highroad entered the long Alameda which led to the plaza in the center of the town, overlooked by the old Precedio or Governor's palace.

The widespreading branches of two immense cottonwood trees, the trunk of one of which was encircled by a rustic bench, cast an inviting shade in front of the house and wide veranda which stretched its length along two sides of the low, one storied adobe structure. Honeysuckle and white clematis and pink and scarlet passion vines clambered up its slender pillars and hung in fragrant flowering festoons from the low balustrades above. The fresh green leaves of the nasturtium, bright with variegated blossoms, ranging from deep scarlet to gold and pale yellow, trailed along the ground at the foot of the veranda and skirted the narrow pathway which led to the rear of the Posada whose patio looked out upon a garden interspersed with innumerable flowers and shrubs, fruit and cedar trees, and whose soft green lawn was intersected by narrow gravel pathways. Just back of the garden lay the vegetable patches which intervened between it and the stables and corrals, whence came the cackling of hens and cooing of pigeons in the early morning.

Originally the Posada had been one of the large haciendas adjoining Santa Fé, but its mistress, Señora Fernandez, had transformed it into an Inn after the death of her husband who had been killed accidentally by the fall of his horse. Finding herself in reduced circumstances incurred by her husband's gambling propensities, she resolved upon the change. His chief legacy consisting of debts, she was obliged to part with the greater portion of the estate, but her natural executive ability stood her in good stead.

The new enterprise prospered, and the Inn became widely known throughout the country as a place at which to stop if only for a cup of chocolate or a chat with the Señora who always knew the latest gossip.

In her youth she had been noted for her beauty, and even now, in spite of middle-age and somewhat faded features, the latter the result of the struggle she had undergone to reestablish herself in the world, she was still considered buxom and fair to look upon by the majority of men. She carried her head high and with a coquettish air which plainly showed she had by no means relinquished her hold upon life.

On this particular morning she looked unusually well as she moved about the patio engaged with her women in assorting a huge basket of freshly laundered household linen. Not a strand of silver was visible in her jet black hair, adorned with a large tortoise-shell comb and a single Castilian rose. Her gay, low-necked, short sleeved bodice, exposing her shapely neck and arms, harmonized well with her short, black silken saya which rustled with every movement she made and from beneath which protruded a small pair of high instepped feet encased in black slippers ornamented with large quaint silver buckles.

It was the Señora's birthday. She had risen earlier than usual prepared to receive the congratulations of her friends who, she knew, would be sure to call during the day in honor of the occasion. A few of them would be asked to remain and dine with her in the evening.

It was on a similar occasion that Chiquita had danced in the patio before her guests.

The innate vanity of the woman might have led one to suppose that she would let the years pass unnoticed, but not so. The old, time-honored custom of the country must be observed lest her friends might say: Señora Fernandez is already laying by for a ripe old age, the mere suggestion of which on the part of the world would have been enough to throw her into one of those uncontrollable fits of rage for which she was noted.

Artful, shrewd and scheming though she was, her susceptibility to flattery was her weak point, amounting almost to a mania. To be told that she still looked as young and handsome as in the days when the years justified the statement, was to win her immediate esteem. The lack of this servile attitude and cringing civility on Chiquita's part, together with the knowledge of her own superiority which she never hesitated to show when occasion required, had drawn down the Señora's enmity upon her. Whereas, an occasional soft word or smile of acquiescence--she demanded so little--would have smoothed her ruffled spirit and taken the edge off her tongue, the sharpest in Santa Fé.

It was not easy for the inveterate coquette and one time reigning belle to resign the position she had held so long and undisputed, especially to an alien--one whom the full blooded Spaniard inwardly despises, regards as of an inferior race.

How she hated the dark woman, envied the glances and flatteries and attentions which she always received wherever she went. It was said, that on Chiquita's return from school, Señora Fernandez suddenly grew cold and haughty toward the world, but finding that a proud exterior availed her little, she sulked and pouted for a time like a spoiled child, only to warm again to the world which she loved so passionately, which she felt slipping from her and without whose adulation she could not live.