by Bret Harte
CHAPTER IV
That night Father Pedro dreamed a strange dream. How much of it wasreality, how long it lasted, or when he awoke from it, he could nottell. The morbid excitement of the previous day culminated in a febrileexaltation in which he lived and moved as in a separate existence.
This is what he remembered. He thought he had risen at night in a suddenhorror of remorse, and making his way to the darkened church had fallenupon his knees before the high altar, when all at once the acolyte'svoice broke from the choir, but in accents so dissonant and unnaturalthat it seemed a sacrilege, and he trembled. He thought he had confessedthe secret of the child's sex to Cranch, but whether the next morningor a week later he did not know. He fancied, too, that Cranch had alsoconfessed some trifling deception to him, but what, or why, he could notremember; so much greater seemed the enormity of his own transgression.He thought Cranch had put in his hands the letter he had written to theFather Superior, saying that his secret was still safe, and that hehad been spared the avowal and the scandal that might have ensued. Butthrough all, and above all, he was conscious of one fixed idea: toseek the seashore with Sanchicha, and upon the spot where she had foundFrancisco, meet the young girl who had taken his place, and so part fromher forever. He had a dim recollection that this was necessary to somelegal identification of her, as arranged by Cranch, but how or why hedid not understand; enough that it was a part of his penance.
It was early morning when the faithful Antonio, accompanied by Sanchichaand Jose, rode forth with him from the Mission of San Carmel. Excepton the expressionless features of the old woman, there was anxietyand gloom upon the faces of the little cavalcade. He did not know howheavily his strange abstraction and hallucinations weighed upon theirhonest hearts. As they wound up the ascent of the mountain he noticedthat Antonio and Jose conversed with bated breath and many piouscrossings of themselves, but with eyes always wistfully fixed upon him.He wondered if, as part of his penance, he ought not to proclaim his sinand abase himself before them; but he knew that his devoted followerswould insist upon sharing his punishment; and he remembered his promiseto Cranch, that for HER sake he would say nothing. Before they reachedthe summit he turned once or twice to look back upon the Mission. Howsmall it looked, lying there in the peaceful valley, contrasted with thebroad sweep of the landscape beyond, stopped at the further east onlyby the dim, ghost-like outlines of the Sierras. But the strong breath ofthe sea was beginning to be felt; in a few moments more they were facingit with lowered sombreros and flying serapes, and the vast, glittering,illimitable Pacific opened out beneath them.
Dazed and blinded, as it seemed to him, by the shining, restlessexpanse, Father Pedro rode forward as if still in a dream. Suddenly hehalted, and called Antonio to his side.
"Tell me, child, didst thou not say that this coast was wild anddesolate of man, beast, and habitation?"
"Truly I did, reverend father."
"Then what is that?" pointing to the shore.
Almost at their feet nestled a cluster of houses, at the head of anarroyo reaching up from the beach. They looked down upon the smoke of amanufactory chimney, upon strange heaps of material and curious enginesscattered along the sands, with here and there moving specks of humanfigures. In a little bay a schooner swung at her cables.
The vaquero crossed himself in stupefied alarm. "I know not, yourreverence; it is only two years ago, before the rodeo, that I was herefor strayed colts, and I swear by the blessed bones of San Antonio thatit was as I said."
"Ah! it is like these Americanos," responded the muleteer. "I have itfrom my brother Diego that he went from San Jose to Pescadero two monthsago, across the plains, with never a hut nor fonda to halt at all theway. He returned in seven days, and in the midst of the plain there werethree houses and a mill, and many people. And why was it? Ah! Mother ofGod! one had picked up in the creek where he drank that much of gold;"and the muleteer tapped one of the silver coins that fringed his jacketsleeves in place of buttons.
"And they are washing the sands for gold there now," said Antonio,eagerly pointing to some men gathered round a machine like an enormouscradle. "Let us hasten on."
Father Pedro's momentary interest had passed. The words of hiscompanions fell dull and meaningless upon his dreaming ears. He wasconscious only that the child was more a stranger to him as an outcomeof this hard, bustling life, than when he believed her borne to him overthe mysterious sea. It perplexed his dazed, disturbed mind to think thatif such an antagonistic element could exist within a dozen miles ofthe Mission, and he not know it, could not such an atmosphere have beenaround him, even in his monastic isolation, and he remain blind to it?Had he really lived in the world without knowing it? Had it been in hisblood? Had it impelled him to--He shuddered and rode on.
They were at the last slope of the zigzag descent to the shore, when hesaw the figures of a man and woman moving slowly through a field of wildoats, not far from the trail. It seemed to his distorted fancy that theman was Cranch. The woman! His heart stopped beating. Ah! could it be?He had never seen her in her proper garb: would she look like that?Would she be as tall? He thought he bade Jose and Antonio go on slowlybefore with Sanchicha, and dismounted, walking slowly between the highstalks of grain, lest he should disturb them. They evidently did nothear his approach, but were talking earnestly. It seemed to Father Pedrothat they had taken each other's hands, and as he looked Cranch slippedhis arm round her waist. With only a blind instinct of some dreadfulsacrilege in this act, Father Pedro would have rushed forward, whenthe girl's voice struck his ear. He stopped, breathless. It was notFrancisco, but Juanita, the little mestiza.
"But are you sure you are not pretending to love me now, as youpretended to think I was the muchacha you had run away with and lost?Are you sure it is not pity for the deceit you practiced upon me--uponDon Juan--upon poor Father Pedro?"
It seemed as if Cranch had tried to answer with a kiss, for the girldrew suddenly away from him with a coquettish fling of the black braids,and whipped her little brown hands behind her.
"Well, look here," said Cranch, with the same easy, good-natured,practical directness which the priest remembered, and which would havepassed for philosophy in a more thoughtful man, "put it squarely, then.In the first place, it was Don Juan and the alcalde who first suggestedyou might be the child."
"But you have said you knew it was Francisco all the time," interruptedJuanita.
"I did; but when I found the priest would not assist me at first, andadmit that the acolyte was a girl, I preferred to let him think Iwas deceived in giving a fortune to another, and leave it to his ownconscience to permit it or frustrate it. I was right. I reckon it waspretty hard on the old man, at his time of life, and wrapped up as hewas in the girl; but at the moment he came up to the scratch like aman."
"And to save him you have deceived me? Thank you, Senor," said the girlwith a mock curtsey.
"I reckon I preferred to have you for a wife than a daughter," saidCranch, "if that's what you mean. When you know me better, Juanita," hecontinued, gravely, "you'll know that I would never have let you believeI sought in you the one if I had not hoped to find in you the other."
"Bueno! And when did you have that pretty hope?"
"When I first saw you."
"And that was--two weeks ago."
"A year ago, Juanita. When Francisco visited you at the rancho. Ifollowed and saw you."
Juanita looked at him a moment, and then suddenly darted at him, caughthim by the lapels of his coat and shook him like a terrier.
"Are you sure that you did not love that Francisco? Speak!" (She shookhim again.) "Swear that you did not follow her!"
"But--I did," said Cranch, laughing and shaking between the clenching ofthe little hands.
"Judas Iscariot! Swear you do not love her all this while."
"But, Juanita!"
"Swear!"
Cranch swore. Then to Father Pedro's intense astonishment she drew theAmerican's face towards her own by the ears and k
issed him.
"But you might have loved her, and married a fortune," said Juanita,after a pause.
"Where would have been my reparation--my duty?" returned Cranch, with alaugh.
"Reparation enough for her to have had you," said Juanita, with thatrapid disloyalty of one loving woman to another in an emergency. Thisprovoked another kiss from Cranch, and then Juanita said demurely,--
"But we are far from the trail. Let us return, or we shall miss FatherPedro. Are you sure he will come?"
"A week ago he promised to be here to see the proofs to-day."
The voices were growing fainter and fainter; they were returning to thetrail.
Father Pedro remained motionless. A week ago! Was it a week agosince--since what? And what had he been doing here? Listening! He!Father Pedro, listening like an idle peon to the confidences of twolovers. But they had talked of him, of his crime, and the man had pitiedhim. Why did he not speak? Why did he not call after them? He triedto raise his voice. It sank in his throat with a horrible chokingsensation. The nearest heads of oats began to nod to him, he felthimself swaying backwards and forwards. He fell--heavily, down, down,down, from the summit of the mountain to the floor of the Missionchapel, and there he lay in the dark.
*****
"He moves."
"Blessed Saint Anthony preserve him!"
It was Antonio's voice, it was Jose's arm, it was the field of wildoats, the sky above his head,--all unchanged.
"What has happened?" said the priest feebly.
"A giddiness seized your reverence just now, as we were coming to seekyou."
"And you met no one?"
"No one, your reverence."
Father Pedro passed his hand across his forehead.
"But who are these?" he said, pointing to two figures who now appearedupon the trail.
Antonio turned.
"It is the Americano, Senor Cranch, and his adopted daughter, themestiza Juanita, seeking your reverence, methinks."
"Ah!" said Father Pedro.
Cranch came forward and greeted the priest cordially. "It was kind ofyou, Father Pedro," he said, meaningly, with a significant glance atJose and Antonio, "to come so far to bid me and my adopted daughterfarewell. We depart when the tide serves, but not before you partake ofour hospitality in yonder cottage."
Father Pedro gazed at Cranch and then at Juanita.
"I see," he stammered. "But she goes not alone. She will be strange atfirst. She takes some friend, perhaps--some companion?" he continued,tremulously.
"A very old and dear one, Father Pedro, who is waiting for us now."
He led the way to a little white cottage, so little and white andrecent, that it seemed a mere fleck of sea foam cast on the sands.Disposing of Jose and Antonio in the neighboring workshop andoutbuildings, he assisted the venerable Sanchicha to dismount, and,together with Father Pedro and Juanita, entered a white palisadedenclosure beside the cottage, and halted before what appeared to be alarge, folding trap-door, covering a slight, sandy mound. It was lockedwith a padlock; beside it stood the American alcalde and Don JuanBriones. Father Pedro looked hastily around for another figure, but itwas not there.
"Gentlemen," began Cranch, in his practical business way, "I reckonyou all know we've come here to identify a young lady, who"--hehesitated--"was lately under the care of Father Pedro, with a foundlingpicked up on this shore fifteen years ago by an Indian woman. How thisfoundling came here, and how I was concerned in it, you all know. I'vetold everybody here how I scrambled ashore, leaving that baby in thedingy, supposing it would be picked up by the boat pursuing me. I'vetold some of you," he looked at Father Pedro, "how I first discovered,from one of the men, three years ago, that the child was not found byits father. But I have never told any one, before now, I KNEW it waspicked up here.
"I never could tell the exact locality where I came ashore, for the fogwas coming on as it is now. But two years ago I came up with a party ofgold hunters to work these sands. One day, digging near this creek, Istruck something embedded deep below the surface. Well, gentlemen, itwasn't gold, but something worth more to me than gold or silver. Here itis."
At a sign the alcalde unlocked the doors and threw them open. Theydisclosed an irregular trench, in which, filled with sand, lay thehalf-excavated stern of a boat.
"It was the dingy of the Trinidad, gentlemen; you can still read hername. I found hidden away, tucked under the stern sheets, mouldy andwater-worn, some clothes that I recognized to be the baby's. I knewthen that the child had been taken away alive for some purpose, andthe clothes were left so that she should carry no trace with her.I recognized the hand of an Indian. I set to work quietly. I foundSanchicha here, she confessed to finding a baby, but what she had donewith it she would not at first say. But since then she has declaredbefore the alcalde that she gave it to Father Pedro, of San Carmel, andthat here it stands--Francisco that was! Francisca that it is!"
He stepped aside to make way for a tall girl, who had approached fromthe cottage.
Father Pedro had neither noticed the concluding words nor the movementof Cranch. His eyes were fixed upon the imbecile Sanchicha,--Sanchicha,on whom, to render his rebuke more complete, the Deity seemed to haveworked a miracle, and restored intelligence to eye and lip. He passedhis hand tremblingly across his forehead, and turned away, when his eyefell upon the last comer.
It was she. The moment he had longed for and dreaded had come. She stoodthere, animated, handsome, filled with a hurtful consciousness inher new charms, her fresh finery, and the pitiable trinkets that hadsupplanted her scapulary, and which played under her foolish fingers.The past had no place in her preoccupied mind; her bright eyes werefull of eager anticipation of a substantial future. The incarnation of afrivolous world, even as she extended one hand to him in half-coquettishembarrassment she arranged the folds of her dress with the other. Atthe touch of her fingers, he felt himself growing old and cold. Eventhe penance of parting, which he had looked forward to, was denied him;there was no longer sympathy enough for sorrow. He thought of the emptychorister's robe in the little cell, but not now with regret. He onlytrembled to think of the flesh that he had once caused to inhabit it.
"That's all, gentlemen," broke in the practical voice of Cranch."Whether there are proofs enough to make Francisca the heiress of herfather's wealth, the lawyers must say. I reckon it's enough for me thatthey give me the chance of repairing a wrong by taking her father'splace. After all, it was a mere chance."
"It was the will of God," said Father Pedro, solemnly.
They were the last words he addressed them. For when the fog had begunto creep inshore, hastening their departure, he only answered theirfarewells by a silent pressure of the hand, mute lips, and far-off eyes.
When the sound of their laboring oars grew fainter, he told Antonio tolead him and Sanchicha again to the buried boat. There he bade her kneelbeside him. "We will do penance here, thou and I, daughter," he saidgravely. When the fog had drawn its curtain gently around the strangepair, and sea and shore were blotted out, he whispered, "Tell me, it waseven so, was it not, daughter, on the night she came?" When the distantclatter of blocks and rattle of cordage came from the unseen vessel, nowstanding out to sea, he whispered again, "So, this is what thou didsthear, even then." And so during the night he marked, more or lessaudibly to the half-conscious woman at his side, the low whisper of thewaves, the murmur of the far-off breakers, the lightening and thickeningof the fog, the phantoms of moving shapes, and the slow coming of thedawn. And when the morning sun had rent the veil over land and sea,Antonio and Jose found him, haggard, but erect, beside the tremblingold woman, with a blessing on his lips, pointing to the horizon where asingle sail still glimmered:--
"Va Usted con Dios."
A BLUE GRASS PENELOPE