by Frank Norris
He sprang from off the bed, and catching up his serape, flung it about his shoulders.
“Felipe,” she cried, “Felipe, where are you going?”
“Back to Buelna,” he shouted, and with the words rushed from the room. Her strength seemed suddenly to leave her. She sank lower to the floor, burying her face deep upon the pillows that yet retained the impress of him she loved so deeply, so recklessly.
Footsteps in the passage and a knocking at the door aroused her. A woman, one of the escort who had accompanied her, entered hurriedly.
“Señorita,” cried this one, “your brother, the Señor Unzar, he is dying.”
Rubia hurried to an adjoining room, where upon a mattress on the floor lay her brother.
“Put that woman out,” he gasped as his glance met hers. “I never sent for her,” he went on. “You are no longer sister of mine. It was you who drove me to this quarrel, and when I have vindicated you what do you do? Your brother you leave to be tended by hirelings, while all your thought and care are lavished on your paramour. Go back to him. I know how to die alone, but as you go remember that in dying I hated and disowned you.”
He fell back upon the pillows, livid, dead.
Rubia started forward with a cry.
“It is you who have killed him,” cried the woman who had summoned her. The rest of Rubia’s escort, vaqueros, peons, and the old alcalde of her native village, stood about with bared heads.
“That is true. That is true,” they murmured. The old alcalde stepped forward.
“Who dishonours my friend dishonours me,” he said. “From this day,
Señorita Ytuerate, you and I are strangers.” He went out, and one by
one, with sullen looks and hostile demeanour, Rubia’s escort followed.
Their manner was unmistakable; they were deserting her.
Rubia clasped her hands over her eyes.
“Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios,” she moaned over and over again. Then in a low voice she repeated her own words: “May it be a blight to her. From that moment may evil cling to her, bad luck follow her; may she love and not be loved; may friends desert her, her sisters shame her, her brothers disown her — —”
There was a clatter of horse’s hoofs in the courtyard.
“It is your lover,” said her woman coldly from the doorway. “He is riding away from you.”
“ —— and those,” added Rubia, “whom she has loved abandon her.”
CHAPTER IV. BELUNA
Meanwhile Felipe, hatless, bloody, was galloping through the night, his pony’s head turned toward the hacienda of Martiarena. The Rancho Martiarena lay between his own rancho and the inn where he had met Rubia, so that this distance was not great. He reached it in about an hour of vigorous spurring.
The place was dark though it was as yet early in the night, and an ominous gloom seemed to hang about the house. Felipe, his heart sinking, pounded at the door, and at last aroused the aged superintendent, who was also a sort of major-domo in the household, and who in Felipe’s boyhood had often ridden him on his knee.
“Ah, it is you, Arillaga,” he said very sadly, as the moonlight struck across Felipe’s face. “I had hoped never to see you again.”
“Buelna,” demanded Felipe. “I have something to say to her, and to the padron.”
“Too late, señor.”
“My God, dead?”
“As good as dead.”
“Rafael, tell me all. I have come to set everything straight again. On my honour, I have been misjudged. Is Buelna well?”
“Listen. You know your own heart best, señor. When you left her our little lady was as one half dead; her heart died within her. Ah, she loved you, Arillaga, far more than you deserved. She drooped swiftly, and one night all but passed away. Then it was that she made a vow that if God spared her life she would become the bride of the church — would forever renounce the world. Well, she recovered, became almost well again, but not the same as before. She never will be that. So soon as she was able to obtain Martiarena’s consent she made all the preparations — signed away all her lands and possessions, and spent the days and nights in prayer and purifications. The Mother Superior of the Convent of Santa Teresa has been a guest at the hacienda this fortnight past. Only to-day the party — that is to say, Martiarena, the Mother Superior and Buelna — left for Santa Teresa, and at midnight of this very night Buelna takes the veil. You know your own heart, Señor Felipe. Go your way.”
“But not till midnight!” cried Felipe.
“What? I do not understand.”
“She will not take the veil till midnight.”
“No, not till then.”
“Rafael,” cried Felipe, “ask me no questions now. Only believe me. I always have and always will love Buelna. I swear it. I can stop this yet; only once let me reach her in time. Trust me. Ah, for this once trust me, you who have known me since I was a lad.”
He held out his hand. The other for a moment hesitated, then impulsively clasped it in his own.
“Bueno, I trust you then. Yet I warn you not to fool me twice.”
“Good,” returned Felipe. “And now adios. Unless I bring her back with me you’ll never see me again.”
“But, Felipe, lad, where away now?”
“To Santa Teresa.”
“You are mad. Do you fancy you can reach it before midnight?” insisted the major-domo.
“I will, Rafael; I will.”
“Then Heaven be with you.”
But the old fellow’s words were lost in a wild clatter of hoofs, as Felipe swung his pony around and drove home the spurs. Through the night came back a cry already faint:
“Adios, adios.”
“Adios, Felipe,” murmured the old man as he stood bewildered in the doorway, “and your good angel speed you now.”
When Felipe began his ride it was already a little after nine. Could he reach Santa Teresa before midnight? The question loomed grim before him, but he answered only with the spur. Pépe was hardy, and, as Felipe well knew, of indomitable pluck. But what a task now lay before the little animal. He might do it, but oh! it was a chance!
In a quarter of a mile Pépe had settled to his stride, the dogged, even gallop that Felipe knew so well, and at half-past ten swung through the main street of Piedras Blancas — silent, somnolent, dark.
“Steady, little Pépe,” said Felipe; “steady, little one. Soh, soh.
There.”
The little horse flung back an ear, and Felipe could feel along the lines how he felt for the bit, trying to get a grip of it to ease the strain on his mouth.
The De Profundis bell was sounding from the church tower as Felipe galloped through San Anselmo, the next village, but by the time he raised the lights of Arcata it was black night in very earnest. He set his teeth. Terra Bella lay eight miles farther ahead, and here from the town-hall clock that looked down upon the plaza he would be able to know the time.
“Hoopa, Pépe; pronto!” he shouted.
The pony responded gallantly. His head was low; his ears in constant movement, twitched restlessly back and forth, now laid flat on his neck, now cocked to catch the rustle of the wind in the chaparral, the scurrying of a rabbit or ground-owl through the sage.
It grew darker, colder, the trade-wind lapsed away. Low in the sky upon the right a pale, dim belt foretold the rising of the moon. The incessant galloping of the pony was the only sound.
The convent toward which he rode was just outside the few scattered huts in the valley of the Rio Esparto that by charity had been invested with the name of Caliente. From Piedras Blancas to Caliente between twilight and midnight! What a riding! Could he do it? Would Pépe last under him?
“Steady, little one. Steady, Pépe.”
Thus he spoke again and again, measuring the miles in his mind, husbanding the little fellow’s strength.
Lights! Cart lanterns? No, Terra Bella. A great dog charged out at him from a dobe, filling the night with outcry; a hayrick loomed by
like a ship careening through fog; there was a smell of chickens and farmyards. Then a paved street, an open square, a solitary pedestrian dodging just in time from under Pépe’s hoofs. All flashed by. The open country again, unbroken darkness again, and solitude of the fields again. Terra Bella past.
But through the confusion Felipe retained one picture, that of the moon-faced clock with hands marking the hour of ten. On again with Pépe leaping from the touch of the spur. On again up the long, shallow slope that rose for miles to form the divide that overlooked the valley of the Esparto.
“Hold, there! Madman to ride thus. Mad or drunk. Only desperadoes gallop at night. Halt and speak!”
The pony had swerved barely in time, and behind him the Monterey stage lay all but ditched on the roadside, the driver fulminating oaths. But Felipe gave him but an instant’s thought. Dobe huts once more abruptly ranged up on either side the roadway, staggering and dim under the night. Then a wine shop noisy with carousing peons darted by. Pavements again. A shop-front or two. A pig snoring in the gutter, a dog howling in a yard, a cat lamenting on a rooftop. Then the smell of fields again. Then darkness again. Then the solitude of the open country. Cadenassa past.
But now the country changed. The slope grew steeper; it was the last lift of land to the divide. The road was sown with stones and scored with ruts. Pépe began to blow; once he groaned. Perforce his speed diminished. The villages were no longer so thickly spread now. The crest of the divide was wild, desolate, forsaken. Felipe again and again searched the darkness for lights, but the night was black.
Then abruptly the moon rose. By that Felipe could guess the time. His heart sank. He halted, recinched the saddle, washed the pony’s mouth with brandy from his flask, then mounted and spurred on.
Another half-hour went by. He could see that Pépe was in distress; his speed was by degrees slacking. Would he last! Would he last? Would the minutes that raced at his side win in that hard race?
Houses again. Plastered fronts. All dark and gray. No soul stirring. Sightless windows stared out upon emptiness. The plaza bared its desolation to the pitiless moonlight. Only from an unseen window a guitar hummed and tinkled. All vanished. Open country again. The solitude of the fields again; the moonlight sleeping on the vast sweep of the ranchos. Calpella past.
Felipe rose in his stirrups with a great shout.
At Calpella he knew he had crossed the divide. The valley lay beneath him, and the moon was turning to silver the winding courses of the Rio Esparto, now in plain sight.
It was between Calpella and Proberta that Pépe stumbled first. Felipe pulled him up and ceased to urge him to his topmost speed. But five hundred yards farther he stumbled again. The spume-flakes he tossed from the bit were bloody. His breath came in labouring gasps.
But by now Felipe could feel the rising valley-mists; he could hear the piping of the frogs in the marshes. The ground for miles had sloped downward. He was not far from the river, not far from Caliente, not far from the Convent of Santa Teresa and Buelna.
But the way to Caliente was roundabout, distant. If he should follow the road thither he would lose a long half-hour. By going directly across the country from where he now was, avoiding Proberta, he could save much distance and precious time. But in this case Pépe, exhausted, stumbling, weak, would have to swim the river. If he failed to do this Felipe would probably drown. If he succeeded, Caliente and the convent would be close at hand.
For a moment Felipe hesitated, then suddenly made up his mind. He wheeled Pépe from the road, and calling upon his last remaining strength, struck off across the country.
The sound of the river at last came to his ears.
“Now, then, Pépe,” he cried.
For the last time the little horse leaped to the sound of his voice. Still at a gallop, Felipe cut the cinches of the heavy saddle, shook his feet clear of the stirrups, and let it fall to the ground; his coat, belt and boots followed. Bareback, with but the headstall and bridle left upon the pony, he rode at the river.
Before he was ready for it Pépe’s hoofs splashed on the banks. Then the water swirled about his fetlocks; then it wet Felipe’s bare ankles. In another moment Felipe could tell by the pony’s motion that his feet had left the ground and that he was swimming in the middle of the current.
He was carried down the stream more than one hundred yards. Once Pépe’s leg became entangled in a sunken root. Freed from that, his hoofs caught in grasses and thick weeds. Felipe’s knee was cut against a rock; but at length the pony touched ground. He rose out of the river trembling, gasping and dripping. Felipe put him at the steep bank. He took it bravely, scrambled his way — almost on his knees — to the top, then stumbled badly and fell prone upon the ground. Felipe twisted from under him as he fell and regained his feet unhurt. He ran to the brave little fellow’s head.
“Up, up, my Pépe. Soh, soh.”
Suddenly he paused, listening. Across the level fields there came to his ears the sound of the bell of the convent of Santa Teresa tolling for midnight.
* * * * *
Upon the first stroke of midnight the procession of nuns entered the nave of the church. There were some thirty in the procession. The first ranks swung censers; those in the rear carried lighted candles. The Mother Superior and Buelna, the latter wearing a white veil, walked together. The youngest nun followed these two, carrying upon her outspread palms the black veil.
Arrived before the altar the procession divided into halves, fifteen upon the east side of the chancel, fifteen upon the west. The organ began to drone and murmur, the censers swung and smoked, the candle-flames flared and attracted the bats that lived among the rafters overhead. Buelna knelt before the Mother Superior. She was pale and a little thin from fasting and the seclusion of the cells. But, try as she would, she could not keep her thoughts upon the solemn office in which she was so important a figure. Other days came back to her. A little girl gay and free once more, she romped through the hallways and kitchen of the old hacienda Martiarena with her playmate, the young Felipe; a young schoolgirl, she rode with him to the Mission to the instruction of the padre; a young woman, she danced with him at the fête of All Saints at Monterey. Why had it not been possible that her romance should run its appointed course to a happy end? That last time she had seen him how strangely he had deported himself. Untrue to her! Felipe! Her Felipe; her more than brother! How vividly she recalled the day. They were returning from the Mission, where she had prayed for his safe and speedy return. Long before she had seen him she heard the gallop of a horse’s hoofs around the turn of the road. Yes, she remembered that — the gallop of a horse. Ah! how he rode — how vivid it was in her fancy. Almost she heard the rhythmic beat of the hoofs. They came nearer, nearer. Fast, furiously fast hoof-beats. How swift he rode. Gallop, gallop — nearer, on they came. They were close by. They swept swiftly nearer, nearer. What — what was this? No fancy. Nearer, nearer. No fancy this. Nearer, nearer. These — ah, Mother of God — are real hoof-beats. They are coming; they are at hand; they are at the door of the church; they are here!
She sprang up, facing around. The ceremony was interrupted. The frightened nuns were gathering about the Mother Superior. The organ ceased, and in the stillness that followed all could hear that furious gallop. On it came, up the hill, into the courtyard. Then a shout, hurried footsteps, the door swung in, and Felipe Arillaga, ragged, dripping, half fainting, hatless and stained with mud, sprang toward Buelna. Forgetting all else, she ran to meet him, and, clasped in each other’s arms, they kissed one another upon the lips again and again.
The bells of Santa Teresa that Felipe had heard that night on the blanks of the Esparto rang for a wedding the next day.
Two days after they tolled as passing bells. A beautiful woman had been found drowned in a river not far from the house of Lopez Catala, on the high road to Monterey.
THE END
A JOYOUS MIRACLE
THE JOYOUS MIRACLE
MERVIUS HAD COME to old Jerome�
�s stonebuilt farmhouse, across the huge meadow where some half-dozen of the neighboring villagers pastured their stock in common. Old Jerome had received a certain letter, which was a copy of another letter, which in turn was a copy of another letter, and so on and so on, nobody could tell how far. Mervius would copy this letter and take it back to his village, where it would be copied again and again and yet again, and copies would be made of these copies, till the whole countryside would know the contents of that letter pretty well by heart. It was in this way, indeed, that these people made their literature. They would hand down the precious documents to their children, and that letter’s contents would become folk-lore, become so well known that it would be repeated orally. It would be a legend, a mythos; perhaps by and by, after a long time, it might gain credence and become even history.
But in that particular part of the country this famous letter was doubly important, because it had been written by a man whom some of the peasants and laborers and small farmers knew. “I knew him,” said old Jerome, when Mervius had come in and the two had sat down on either side of the oak table in the brick-paved kitchen. Mervius — he was past seventy himself — slipped off his huge wooden sabots and let his feet rest on the warm bricks near the fireplace, for the meadow grass had been cold.
“Yes, I knew him,” said Jerome. “He took the name of Peter afterwards. He was a fisherman, and used to seine fish over in the big lake where the vineyards are. He used to come here twice a week and sell me fish. He was a good fisherman. Then the carpenter’s son set the whole country by the ears, and he went away with him. I missed his fish. Mondays and Wednesdays he came, and his fish were always fresh. They don’t get such fish nowadays.”
“I’ll take the letter you have,” said Mervius, “the copy, that is — and my wife will transcribe it; I — I am too old, and my eyes are bad. This carpenter’s son now — as you say, he set the people by the ears. It is a strange story.”