by Bret Harte
CHAPTER III
When Father Pedro saw the yellow mules vanish under the low branchesof the oaks beside the little graveyard, caught the last glitter of themorning sun on Pinto's shining headstall, and heard the last tinkle ofAntonio's spurs, something very like a mundane sigh escaped him. Tothe simple wonder of the majority of early worshipers--the half-breedconverts who rigorously attended the spiritual ministrations of theMission, and ate the temporal provisions of the reverend fathers--hedeputed the functions of the first mass to a coadjutor, and, breviary inhand, sought the orchard of venerable pear trees. Whether there wasany occult sympathy in his reflections with the contemplation of theirgnarled, twisted, gouty, and knotty limbs, still bearing gracious andgoodly fruit, I know not, but it was his private retreat, and under oneof the most rheumatic and misshapen trunks there was a rude seat. HereFather Pedro sank, his face towards the mountain wall between him andthe invisible sea. The relentless, dry, practical Californian sunlightfalling on his face grimly pointed out a night of vigil and suffering.The snuffy yellow of his eyes was injected yet burning, his temples wereridged and veined like a tobacco leaf; the odor of desiccation whichhis garments always exhaled was hot and feverish, as if the fire hadsuddenly awakened among the ashes.
Of what was Father Pedro thinking?
He was thinking of his youth, a youth spent under the shade of thosepear trees, even then venerable as now. He was thinking of his youthfuldreams of heathen conquest, emulating the sacrifices and labors ofJunipero Serra; a dream cut short by the orders of the archbishop, thatsent his companion, Brother Diego, north on a mission to strange lands,and condemned him to the isolation of San Carmel. He was thinking ofthat fierce struggle with envy of a fellow creature's better fortunethat, conquered by prayer and penance, left him patient, submissive, anddevoted to his humble work; how he raised up converts to the faith, eventaking them from the breast of heretic mothers.
He recalled how once, with the zeal of propagandism quickening in theinstincts of a childless man, he had dreamed of perpetuating his workthrough some sinless creation of his own; of dedicating some virginsoul, one over whom he could have complete control, restricted by nohuman paternal weakness, to the task he had begun. But how? Of all theboys eagerly offered to the Church by their parents there seemed nonesufficiently pure and free from parental taint. He remembered how onenight, through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin herself, as hefirmly then believed, this dream was fulfilled. An Indian woman broughthim a Waugee child--a baby-girl that she had picked up on the sea-shore.There were no parents to divide the responsibility, the child had nopast to confront, except the memory of the ignorant Indian woman, whodeemed her duty done, and whose interest ceased in giving it to thePadre. The austere conditions of his monkish life compelled him to thefirst step in his adoption of it--the concealment of its sex. This waseasy enough, as he constituted himself from that moment its sole nurseand attendant, and boldly baptized it among the other children by thename of Francisco. No others knew its origin, nor cared to know. FatherPedro had taken a muchacho foundling for adoption; his jealous seclusionof it and his personal care was doubtless some sacerdotal formula atonce high and necessary.
He remembered with darkening eyes and impeded breath how his closecompanionship and daily care of this helpless child had revealed to himthe fascinations of that paternity denied to him; how he had deemed ithis duty to struggle against the thrill of baby fingers laid upon hisyellow cheeks, the pleading of inarticulate words, the eloquence ofwonder-seeing and mutely questioning eyes; how he had succumbedagain and again, and then struggled no more, seeing only in them thesuggestion of childhood made incarnate in the Holy Babe. And yet, evenas he thought, he drew from his gown a little shoe, and laid it besidehis breviary. It was Francisco's baby slipper, a duplicate to those wornby the miniature waxen figure of the Holy Virgin herself in her niche inthe transept.
Had he felt during these years any qualms of conscience at thisconcealment of the child's sex? None. For to him the babe was sexless,as most befitted one who was to live and die at the foot of the altar.There was no attempt to deceive God; what mattered else? Nor was hewithholding the child from the ministrations of the sacred sisters;there was no convent near the Mission, and as each year passed, thedifficulty of restoring her to the position and duties of her sex becamegreater and more dangerous. And then the acolyte's destiny was sealedby what again appeared to Father Pedro as a direct interposition ofProvidence. The child developed a voice of such exquisite sweetness andpurity that an angel seemed to have strayed into the little choir, andkneeling worshipers below, transported, gazed upwards, half expectant ofa heavenly light breaking through the gloom of the raftered ceiling.The fame of the little singer filled the valley of San Carmel; it was amiracle vouchsafed the Mission; Don Jose Peralta remembered, ah yes, tohave heard in old Spain of boy choristers with such voices!
And was this sacred trust to be withdrawn from him? Was this life whichhe had brought out of an unknown world of sin, unstained and pure,consecrated and dedicated to God, just in the dawn of power and promisefor the glory of the Mother Church, to be taken from his side? And atthe word of a self-convicted man of sin--a man whose tardy repentancewas not yet absolved by the Holy Church. Never! never! Father Pedrodwelt upon the stranger's rejection of the ministrations of the Churchwith a pitiable satisfaction; had he accepted it, he would have had asacred claim upon Father Pedro's sympathy and confidence. Yet he roseagain, uneasily and with irregular steps returned to the corridor,passing the door of the familiar little cell beside his own. The window,the table, and even the scant toilette utensils were filled with theflowers of yesterday, some of them withered and dry; the white gown ofthe little chorister was hanging emptily against the wall. Father Pedrostarted and trembled; it seemed as if the spiritual life of the childhad slipped away with its garments.
In that slight chill, which even in the hottest days in Californiaalways invests any shadow cast in that white sunlight, Father Pedroshivered in the corridor. Passing again into the garden, he followedin fancy the wayfaring figure of Francisco, saw the child arrive atthe rancho of Don Juan, and with the fateful blindness of all dreamersprojected a picture most unlike the reality. He followed the pilgrimseven to San Jose, and saw the child deliver the missive which gavethe secret of her sex and condition to the Father Superior. That theauthority at San Jose might dissent with the Padre of San Carmel,or decline to carry out his designs, did not occur to the one-idea'dpriest. Like all solitary people, isolated from passing events, he madeno allowances for occurrences outside of his routine. Yet at this momenta sudden thought whitened his yellow cheek. What if the Father Superiordeemed it necessary to impart the secret to Francisco? Would the childrecoil at the deception, and, perhaps, cease to love him? It was thefirst time, in his supreme selfishness, he had taken the acolyte'sfeelings into account. He had thought of him only as one owing implicitobedience to him as a temporal and spiritual guide.
"Reverend Father!"
He turned impatiently. It was his muleteer, Jose. Father Pedro's sunkeneye brightened.
"Ah, Jose! Quickly, then; hast thou found Sanchicha?"
"Truly, your reverence! And I have brought her with me, just as she is;though if your reverence make more of her than to fill the six-foot holeand say a prayer over her, I'll give the mule that brought her here forfood for the bull's horns. She neither hears nor speaks, but whetherfrom weakness or sheer wantonness, I know not."
"Peace, then! and let thy tongue take example from hers. Bring her withthee into the sacristy and attend without. Go!"
Father Pedro watched the disappearing figure of the muleteer andhurriedly swept his thin, dry hand, veined and ribbed like a brownNovember leaf, over his stony forehead, with a sound that seemed almosta rustle. Then he suddenly stiffened his fingers over his breviary,dropped his arms perpendicularly before him, and with a rigid stepreturned to the corridor and passed into the sacristy.
For a moment in the half-darkness the room seemed to be em
pty. Tossedcarelessly in the corner appeared some blankets topped by a fewstraggling black horse tails, like an unstranded riata. A tremblingagitated the mass as Father Pedro approached. He bent over the heapand distinguished in its midst the glowing black eyes of Sanchicha,the Indian centenarian of the Mission San Carmel. Only her eyes lived.Helpless, boneless, and jelly-like, old age had overtaken her with amild form of deliquescence.
"Listen, Sanchicha," said the father, gravely. "It is important thatthou shouldst refresh thy memory for a moment. Look back fourteen years,mother; it is but yesterday to thee. Thou dost remember the baby--alittle muchacha thou broughtest me then--fourteen years ago?"
The old woman's eyes became intelligent, and turned with a quick looktowards the open door of the church, and thence towards the choir.
The Padre made a motion of irritation. "No, no! Thou dost notunderstand; thou dost not attend me. Knowest thou of any mark ofclothing, trinket, or amulet found upon the babe?"
The light of the old woman's eyes went out. She might have been dead.Father Pedro waited a moment, and then laid his hand impatiently on hershoulder.
"Dost thou mean there are none?"
A ray of light struggled back into her eyes.
"None."
"And thou hast kept back or put away no sign nor mark of her parentage?Tell me, on this crucifix."
The eyes caught the crucifix, and became as empty as the orbits of thecarven Christ upon it.
Father Pedro waited patiently. A moment passed; only the sound of themuleteer's spurs was heard in the courtyard.
"It is well," he said at last, with a sigh of relief. "Pepita shallgive thee some refreshment, and Jose will bring thee back again. I willsummon him."
He passed out of the sacristy door, leaving it open. A ray of sunlightdarted eagerly in, and fell upon the grotesque heap in the corner.Sanchicha's eyes lived again; more than that, a singular movement cameover her face. The hideous caverns of her toothless mouth opened--shelaughed. The step of Jose was heard in the corridor, and she becameagain inert.
The third day, which should have brought the return of Antonio, wasnearly spent. Father Pedro was impatient but not alarmed. The goodfathers at San Jose might naturally detain Antonio for the answer, whichmight require deliberation. If any mischance had occurred to Francisco,Antonio would have returned or sent a special messenger. At sunset hewas in his accustomed seat in the orchard, his hands clasped over thebreviary in his listless lap, his eyes fixed upon the mountain betweenhim and that mysterious sea that had brought so much into his life. Hewas filled with a strange desire to see it, a vague curiosity hithertounknown to his preoccupied life; he wished to gaze upon that strand,perhaps the very spot where she had been found; he doubted not hisquestioning eyes would discover some forgotten trace of her; under hispersistent will and aided by the Holy Virgin, the sea would give up itssecret. He looked at the fog creeping along the summit, and recalled thelatest gossip of San Carmel; how that since the advent of the Americanosit was gradually encroaching on the Mission. The hated name vividlyrecalled to him the features of the stranger as he had stood before himthree nights ago, in this very garden; so vividly that he sprang tohis feet with an exclamation. It was no fancy, but Senor Cranch himselfadvancing from under the shadow of a pear tree.
"I reckoned I'd catch you here," said Mr. Cranch, with the same dry,practical business fashion, as if he was only resuming an interruptedconversation, "and I reckon I ain't going to keep you a minit longerthan I did t'other day." He mutely referred to his watch, which healready held in his hand, and then put it back in his pocket. "Well! wefound her!"
"Francisco," interrupted the priest with a single stride, laying hishand upon Cranch's arm, and staring into his eyes.
Mr. Cranch quietly removed Father Pedro's hand. "I reckon that wasn'tthe name as I caught it," he returned dryly. "Hadn't you better sitdown?"
"Pardon me--pardon me, Senor," said the priest, hastily sinking backupon his bench, "I was thinking of other things. You--you--came upon mesuddenly. I thought it was the acolyte. Go on, Senor! I am interested."
"I thought you'd be," said Cranch, quietly. "That's why I came. And thenyou might be of service too."
"True, true," said the priest, with rapid accents; "and this girl,Senor, this girl is--"
"Juanita, the mestiza, adopted daughter of Don Juan Briones, over onthe Santa Clare Valley," replied Cranch, jerking his thumb over hisshoulder, and then sitting down upon the bench beside Father Pedro.
The priest turned his feverish eyes piercingly upon his companion for afew seconds, and then doggedly fixed them upon the ground. Cranch drewa plug of tobacco from his pocket, cut off a portion, placed it in hischeek, and then quietly began to strap the blade of his jack-knife uponhis boot. Father Pedro saw it from under his eyelids, and even in hispreoccupation despised him.
"Then you are certain she is the babe you seek?" said the father,without looking up.
"I reckon as near as you can be certain of anything. Her age tallies;she was the only foundling girl baby baptized by you, you know,"--hepartly turned round appealingly to the Padre,--"that year. Injin womansays she picked up a baby. Looks like a pretty clear case, don't it?"
"And the clothes, friend Cranch?" said the priest, with his eyes stillon the ground, and a slight assumption of easy indifference.
"They will be forthcoming, like enough, when the time comes," saidCranch; "the main thing at first was to find the girl; that was MY job;the lawyers, I reckon, can fit the proofs and say what's wanted, lateron."
"But why lawyers," continued Padre Pedro, with a slight sneer he couldnot repress, "if the child is found and Senor Cranch is satisfied?"
"On account of the property. Business is business!"
"The property?"
Mr. Cranch pressed the back of his knife-blade on his boot, shut it upwith a click, and putting it in his pocket said calmly,--
"Well, I reckon the million of dollars that her father left when hedied, which naturally belongs to her, will require some proof that sheis his daughter."
He had placed both his hands in his pockets, and turned his eyes fullupon Father Pedro. The priest arose hurriedly.
"But you said nothing of this before, Senor Cranch," said he, with agesture of indignation, turning his back quite upon Cranch, and taking astep towards the refectory.
"Why should I? I was looking after the girl, not the property," returnedCranch, following the Padre with watchful eyes, but still keeping hiscareless, easy attitude.
"Ah, well! Will it be said so, think you? Eh! Bueno. What will the worldthink of your sacred quest, eh?" continued the Padre Pedro, forgettinghimself in his excitement, but still averting his face from hiscompanion.
"The world will look after the proofs, and I reckon not bother if theproofs are all right," replied Cranch, carelessly; "and the girl won'tthink the worse of me for helping her to a fortune. Hallo! you'vedropped something." He leaped to his feet, picked up the breviary whichhad fallen from the Padre's fingers, and returned it to him with aslight touch of gentleness that was unsuspected in the man.
The priest's dry, tremulous hand grasped the volume withoutacknowledgment.
"But these proofs?" he said hastily; "these proofs, Senor?"
"Oh, well, you'll testify to the baptism, you know."
"But if I refuse; if I will have nothing to do with this thing! If Iwill not give my word that there is not some mistake," said the priest,working himself into a feverish indignation. "That there are not slipsof memory, eh? Of so many children baptized, is it possible for me toknow which, eh? And if this Juanita is not your girl, eh?"
"Then you'll help me to find who is," said Cranch, coolly.
Father Pedro turned furiously on his tormentor. Overcome by his vigiland anxiety. He was oblivious of everything but the presence of the manwho seemed to usurp the functions of his own conscience. "Who areyou, who speak thus?" he said hoarsely, advancing upon Cranch withoutstretched and anathematizing fingers. "Who are you, Senor Heathen
,who dare to dictate to me, a Father of Holy Church? I tell you, Iwill have none of this. Never! I will not. From this moment, youunderstand--nothing. I will never . . ."
He stopped. The first stroke of the Angelus rang from the little tower.The first stroke of that bell before whose magic exorcism all humanpassions fled, the peaceful bell that had for fifty years lulled thelittle fold of San Carmel to prayer and rest, came to his throbbingear. His trembling hands groped for the crucifix, carried it to hisleft breast; his lips moved in prayer. His eyes were turned to the cold,passionless sky, where a few faint, far-spaced stars had silentlystolen to their places. The Angelus still rang, his trembling ceased, heremained motionless and rigid.
The American, who had uncovered in deference to the worshiper ratherthan the rite, waited patiently. The eyes of Father Pedro returnedto the earth, moist as if with dew caught from above. He looked halfabsently at Cranch.
"Forgive me, my son," he said, in a changed voice. "I am only a wornold man. I must talk with thee more of this--but not to-night--notto-night;--to-morrow--to-morrow--to-morrow."
He turned slowly and appeared to glide rather than move under the trees,until the dark shadow of the Mission tower met and encompassed him.Cranch followed him with anxious eyes. Then he removed the quid oftobacco from his cheek.
"Just as I reckoned," remarked he, quite audibly. "He's clean gold onthe bed rock after all!"