Gabriel Conroy

by Bret Harte

  CHAPTER IV.

  FATHER FELIPE.

  When Arthur Poinsett, after an hour's rapid riding over the scorchingsand-hills, finally drew up at the door of the Mission Refectory, he hadso far profited by his own advice to Donna Maria as to be quite dry, andto exhibit very little external trace of his late adventure. It is moreremarkable perhaps that there was very little internal evidence either.No one who did not know the peculiar self-sufficiency of Poinsett'sindividuality would be able to understand the singular mental and moraladjustment of a man keenly alive to all new and present impressions, andyet able to dismiss them entirely, without a sense of responsibility orinconsistency. That Poinsett thought twice of the woman he hadrescued--that he ever reflected again on the possibilities or naturallogic of his act--during his ride, no one who thoroughly knew him wouldbelieve. When he first saw Mrs. Sepulvida at the Point of Pines, he wasconsidering the possible evils or advantages of a change in theconservative element of San Antonio; when he left her, he returned tothe subject again, and it fully occupied his thoughts until FatherFelipe stood before him in the door of the refectory. I do not mean tosay that he at all ignored a certain sense of self-gratulation in theact, but I wish to convey the idea that all other considerations weresubordinate to this sense. And possibly also the feeling, unexpressed,however, by any look or manner, that if _he_ was satisfied, everybodyelse ought to be.

  If Donna Maria had thought his general address a little too irreverent,she would have been surprised at his greeting with Father Felipe. Hiswhole manner was changed to one of courteous and even reverentialconsideration, of a boyish faith and trustfulness, of perfect confidenceand self-forgetfulness, and moreover was perfectly sincere. She wouldhave been more surprised to have noted that the object of Arthur'searnestness was an old man, and that beyond a certain gentle andcourteous manner and refined bearing, he was unpicturesque andodd-fashioned in dress, snuffy in the sleeves, and possessed andinhabited a pair of shoes so large, shapeless, and inconsistent with theusual requirements of that article as to be grotesque.

  It was evident that Arthur's manner had previously predisposed the oldman in his favour. He held out two soft brown hands to the young man,addressed him with a pleasant smile as "My son," and welcomed him to theMission.

  "And why not this visit before?" asked Father Felipe, when they wereseated upon the little verandah that overlooked the Mission garden,before their chocolate and _cigaritos_.

  "I did not know I was coming until the day before yesterday. It seemsthat some new grants of the old ex-Governor's have been discovered, andthat a patent is to be applied for. My partners being busy, I wasdeputed to come here and look up the matter. To tell the truth, I wasglad of an excuse to see our fair client, or, at least, be disappointed,as my partners have been, in obtaining a glimpse of the mysterious DonnaDolores."

  "Ah, my dear Don Arturo," said the Padre, with a slightly deprecatorymovement of his brown hands, "I fear you will be no more fortunate thanothers. It is a penitential week with the poor child, and at such timesshe refuses to see any one, even on business. Believe me, my dear boy,you, like the others--more than the others--permit your imagination torun away with your judgment. Donna Dolores' concealment of her face isnot to heighten or tempt the masculine curiosity, but alas!--poorchild--is only to hide the heathenish tattooings that deface her cheek.You know she is a half-breed. Believe me, you are all wrong. It isfoolish, perhaps--vanity--who knows? but she is a _woman_--what wouldyou?" continued the sagacious Padre, emphasising the substantive with aslight shrug worthy of his patron saint.

  "But they say, for all that, she is very beautiful," continued Arthur,with that mischievousness which was his habitual method of entertainingthe earnestness of others, and which he could not entirely forego, evenwith the Padre.

  "So! so! Don Arturo--it is idle gossip!" said Father Felipe,impatiently,--"a brown Indian girl with a cheek as tawny as the summerfields."

  Arthur made a grimace that might have been either of assent ordeprecation.

  "Well, I suppose this means that I am to look over the papers with youalone. _Bueno!_ Have them out, and let us get over this business as soonas possible."

  "_Poco tiempo_," said Father Felipe, with a smile. Then more gravely,"But what is this? You do not seem to have that interest in yourprofession that one might expect of the rising young advocate--thejunior partner of the great firm you represent. Your heart is not inyour work--eh?"

  Arthur laughed.

  "Why not? It is as good as any."

  "But to right the oppressed? To do justice to the unjustly accused, eh?To redress wrongs--ah, my son! _that_ is noble. That, Don Arturo--it is_that_ has made you and your colleagues dear to me--dear to those whohave been the helpless victims of your courts--your _corregidores_."

  "Yes, yes," interrupted Arthur, hastily, shedding the Father's praisewith an habitual deft ease that was not so much the result of modesty asa certain conscious pride that resented any imperfect tribute. "Yes, Isuppose it pays as well, if not better, in the long run. 'Honesty is thebest policy,' as our earliest philosophers say."

  "Pardon?" queried the Padre.

  Arthur, intensely amused, made a purposely severe and literaltranslation of Franklin's famous apothegm, and then watched FatherFelipe raise his eyes and hands to the ceiling in pious protest and muteconsternation.

  "And these are your American ethics?" he said at last.

  "They are, and in conjunction with manifest destiny, and the star ofEmpire, they have brought us here, and--have given me the honour of youracquaintance," said Arthur in English.

  Father Felipe looked at his friend in hopeless bewilderment. Arthurinstantly became respectful and Spanish. To change the subject andrelieve the old man's evident embarrassment, he at once plunged into ahumorous description of his adventure of the morning. The diversion wasonly partially successful. Father Felipe became at once interested, butdid not laugh. When the young man had concluded he approached him, andlaying his soft hand on Arthur's curls, turned his face upward towardhim with a parental gesture that was at once habitual and professional,and said--

  "Look at me here. I am an old man, Don Arturo. Pardon me if I think Ihave some advice to give you that may be worthy your hearing. Listen,then! You are one of those men capable of peculiarly affecting and beingaffected by women. So! Pardon," he continued, gently, as a slight flushrose into Arthur's cheek, despite the smile that came as quickly to hisface. "Is it not so? Be not ashamed, Don Arturo! It is not here," headded, with a poetical gesture toward the wall of the refectory, wherehung the painted effigy of the blessed St Anthony; "it is not here thatI would undervalue or speak lightly of their influence. The widow isrich, eh?--handsome, eh? impulsive? You have no heart in the professionyou have chosen. What then? You have some in the instincts--what shall Isay--the accomplishments and graces you have not considered worthy of apractical end! You are a natural lover. Pardon! You have the fourS's--'_S['a]no_, _solo_, _solicito_, _y secreto_.' Good! Take an old man'sadvice, and make good use of them. Turn your weaknesses--eh? perhaps it_is_ too strong a word!--the frivolities and vanities of your youth intoa power for your old age! Eh?"

  Arthur smiled a superior smile. He was thinking of the horror with whichthe old man had received the axiom he had recently quoted. He threwhimself back in his chair in an attitude of burlesque sentiment, andsaid, with simulated heroics--

  "But what, O my Father! what if a devoted, exhausting passion forsomebody else already filled my heart? You would not advise me to befalse to that? Perish the thought!"

  Father Felipe did not smile. A peculiar expression passed over hisbroad, brown, smoothly shaven face, and the habitual look of childlikesimplicity and deferential courtesy faded from it. He turned his smallblack eyes on Arthur, and said--

  "Do you think you are capable of such a passion, my son? Have you had anattachment that was superior to novelty or self-interest?"

  Arthur rose a little stiffly.

  "As we are talking of one of my clients and o
ne of your parishioners,are we not getting a little too serious, Father? At all events, save mefrom assuming a bashful attitude towards the lady with whom I am to havea business interview to-morrow. And now about the papers, Father,"continued Arthur, recovering his former ease. "I suppose the invisiblefair one has supplied you with all the necessary documents and thefullest material for a brief. Go on. I am all attention."

  "You are wrong again, son," said Father Felipe. "It is a matter in whichshe has shown even more than her usual disinclination to talk. I believebut for my interference, she would have even refused to press the claim.As it is, I imagine she wishes to make some compromise with thethief--pardon me!--the what do you say? eh? the pre-emptor! But I havenothing to do with it. All the papers, all the facts are in thepossession of your friend, Mrs. Sepulvida. You are to see her. Believeme, my friend, if you have been disappointed in not finding your Indianclient, you will have a charming substitute--and one of your own raceand colour--in the Donna Maria. Forget, if you can, what I havesaid--but you will not. Ah, Don Arturo! I know you better than yourself!Come. Let us walk in the garden. You have not seen the vines. I have anew variety of grape since you were here before."

  "I find nothing better than the old Mission grape, Father," said Arthur,as they passed down the branching avenue of olives.

  "Ah! Yet the aborigines knew it not and only valued it when found wildfor the colouring matter contained in its skin. From this, with somemordant that still remains a secret with them, they made a dye to staintheir bodies and heighten their copper hue. You are not listening, DonArturo, yet it should interest you, for it is the colour of yourmysterious client, the Donna Dolores."

  Thus chatting, and pointing out the various objects that might interestArthur, from the overflowing boughs of a venerable fig tree to the crackmade in the adobe wall of the church by the last earthquake, FatherFelipe, with characteristic courteous formality, led his young friendthrough the ancient garden of the Mission. By degrees, the former easeand mutual confidence of the two friends returned, and by the time thatFather Felipe excused himself for a few moments to attend to certaindomestic arrangements on behalf of his new guest perfect sympathy hadbeen restored.

  Left to himself, Arthur strolled back until opposite the open chanceldoor of the church. Here he paused, and, in obedience to a suddenimpulse, entered. The old church was unchanged--like all things in SanAntonio--since the last hundred years; perhaps there was little about itthat Arthur had not seen at the other Missions. There were the oldrafters painted in barbaric splendour of red and brown stripes; therewere the hideous, waxen, glass-eyed saints, leaning forward helplesslyand rigidly from their niches; there was the Virgin Mary in a whitedress and satin slippers, carrying the infant Saviour in the opulence oflace long-clothes; there was the Magdalen in the fashionable costume ofa Spanish lady of the last century. There was the usual quantity of badpictures; the portrait, full length, of the patron saint himself, sohideously and gratuitously old and ugly that his temptation by anyself-respecting woman appeared more miraculous than his resistance; theusual martyrdoms in terrible realism; the usual "Last Judgments" infrightful accuracy of detail.

  But there was one picture under the nave which attracted Arthur'slistless eyes. It was a fanciful representation of Junipero Serrapreaching to the heathen. I am afraid that it was not the figure of thatmost admirable and heroic missionary which drew Arthur's gaze; I amquite certain that it was not the moral sentiment of the subject, butrather the slim, graceful, girlish, half-nude figure of one of theIndian converts who knelt at Father Junipero Serra's feet, in childlikebut touching awe and contrition. There was such a depth of penitentialsupplication in the young girl's eyes--a penitence so patheticallyinconsistent with the absolute virgin innocence and helplessness of theexquisite little figure, that Arthur felt his heart beat quickly as hegazed. He turned quickly to the other picture--look where he would, theeyes of the little acolyte seemed to follow and subdue him.

  I think I have already intimated that his was not a reverential nature.With a quick imagination and great poetic sensibility nevertheless, theevident intent of the picture, or even the sentiment of the place, didnot touch his heart or brain. But he still half-unconsciously droppedinto a seat, and, leaning both arms over the screen before him, bowedhis head against the oaken panel. A soft hand laid upon his shouldersuddenly aroused him.

  He looked up sharply and met the eyes of the Padre looking down on himwith a tenderness that both touched and exasperated him.

  "Pardon!" said Padre Felipe, gently. "I have broken in upon yourthoughts, child!"

  A little more brusquely than was his habit with the Padre, Arthurexplained that he had been studying up a difficult case.

  "So!" said the Padre, softly, in response. "With tears in your eyes, DonArturo? Not so!" he added to himself, as he drew the young man's arm inhis own and the two passed slowly out once more into the sunlight.