Frontier Stories

by Bret Harte

  AT THE MISSION OF SAN CARMEL.

  PROLOGUE.

  It was noon of the 10th of August, 1838. The monotonous coast linebetween Monterey and San Diego had set its hard outlines against thesteady glare of the Californian sky and the metallic glitter of thePacific Ocean. The weary succession of rounded, dome-like hillsobliterated all sense of distance; the rare whaling vessel or stillrarer trader, drifting past, saw no change in these rusty undulations,barren of distinguishing peak or headland, and bald of wooded crest ortimbered ravine. The withered ranks of wild oats gave a dull processionof uniform color to the hills, unbroken by any relief of shadow intheir smooth, round curves. As far as the eye could reach, sea andshore met in one bleak monotony, flecked by no passing cloud, stirredby no sign of life or motion. Even sound was absent; the Angelus, rungfrom the invisible Mission tower far inland, was driven back again bythe steady northwest trades, that for half the year had swept the coastline and left it abraded of all umbrage and color.

  But even this monotony soon gave way to a change and another monotonyas uniform and depressed. The western horizon, slowly contractingbefore a wall of vapor, by four o'clock had become a mere cold, steelystrip of sea, into which gradually the northern trend of the coastfaded and was lost. As the fog stole with soft step southward, alldistance, space, character, and locality again vanished; the hills uponwhich the sun still shone bore the same monotonous outlines as thosejust wiped into space. Last of all, before the red sun sank like thedescending Host, it gleamed upon the sails of a trading vessel close inshore. It was the last object visible. A damp breath breathed upon it,a soft hand passed over the slate, the sharp pencilling of the picturefaded and became a confused gray cloud.

  The wind and waves, too, went down in the fog; the now invisible andhushed breakers occasionally sent the surf over the sand in a quickwhisper, with grave intervals of silence, but with no continuous murmuras before. In a curving bight of the shore the creaking of oars intheir rowlocks began to be distinctly heard, but the boat itself,although apparently only its length from the sands, was invisible.

  "Steady now; way enough!" The voice came from the sea, and was low, asif unconsciously affected by the fog. "Silence!"

  The sound of a keel grating the sand was followed by the order, "Sternall!" from the invisible speaker.

  "Shall we beach her?" asked another vague voice.

  "Not yet. Hail again, and all together."

  "Ah hoy--oi--oi--oy!"

  There were four voices, but the hail appeared weak and ineffectual,like a cry in a dream, and seemed hardly to reach beyond the surfbefore it was suffocated in the creeping cloud. A silence followed, butno response.

  "It's no use to beach her and go ashore until we find the boat," saidthe first voice, gravely; "and we'll do that if the current has broughther here. Are you sure you've got the right bearings?"

  "As near as a man could off a shore with not a blasted pint to take hisbearings by."

  There was a long silence again, broken only by the occasional dip ofoars, keeping the invisible boat-head to the sea.

  "Take my word for it, lads, it's the last we'll see of that boat again,or of Jack Cranch, or the captain's baby."

  "It _does_ look mighty queer that the painter should slip. Jack Cranchain't the man to tie a granny knot."

  "Silence!" said the invisible leader. "Listen."

  A hail, so faint and uncertain that it might have been thelong-deferred, far-off echo of their own, came from the sea, abreast ofthem.

  "It's the captain. He hasn't found anything, or he couldn't be so farnorth. Hark!"

  The hail was repeated again faintly, dreamily. To the seamen's trainedears it seemed to have an intelligent significance, for the first voicegravely responded, "Aye, aye?" and then said softly, "Oars."

  The word was followed by a splash. The oars clicked sharply andsimultaneously in the rowlocks, then more faintly, then still fainter,and then passed out into the darkness.

  The silence and shadow both fell together; for hours sea and shore wereimpenetrable. Yet at times the air was softly moved and troubled, thesurrounding gloom faintly lightened as with a misty dawn, and then wasdark again; or drowsy, far-off cries and confused noises seemed to growout of the silence, and, when they had attracted the weary ear, sankaway as in a mocking dream, and showed themselves unreal. Nebulousgatherings in the fog seemed to indicate stationary objects that, evenas one gazed, moved away; the recurring lap and ripple on the shinglesometimes took upon itself the semblance of faint articulate laughteror spoken words. But towards morning a certain monotonous grating onthe sand, that had for many minutes alternately cheated and piqued theear, asserted itself more strongly, and a moving, vacillating shadow inthe gloom became an opaque object on the shore.

  With the first rays of the morning light the fog lifted. As theundraped hills one by one bared their cold bosoms to the sun, the longline of coast struggled back to life again. Everything was unchanged,except that a stranded boat lay upon the sands, and in its stern sheetsa sleeping child.

  I.

  The 10th of August, 1852, brought little change to the dull monotony ofwind, fog, and treeless coast line. Only the sea was occasionallyflecked with racing sails that outstripped the old, slow-creepingtrader, or was at times streaked and blurred with the trailing smoke ofa steamer. There were a few strange footprints on those virgin sands,and a fresh track, that led from the beach over the rounded hills,dropped into the bosky recesses of a hidden valley beyond the coastrange.

  It was here that the refectory windows of the Mission of San Carmel hadfor years looked upon the reverse of that monotonous picture presentedto the sea. It was here that the trade winds, shorn of their fury andstrength in the heated, oven-like air that rose from the valley, losttheir weary way in the tangled recesses of the wooded slopes, andbreathed their last at the foot of the stone cross before the Mission.It was on the crest of those slopes that the fog halted and walled inthe sun-illumined plain below; it was in this plain that limitlessfields of grain clothed the flat adobe soil; here the Mission gardensmiled over its hedges of fruitful vines, and through the leaves of figand gnarled pear trees; and it was here that Father Pedro had lived forfifty years, found the prospect good, and had smiled also.

  Father Pedro's smile was rare. He was not a Las Casas, nor a JuniperoSerra, but he had the deep seriousness of all disciples laden with theresponsible wording of a gospel not their own. And his smile had anecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest objectin his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte andchorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetestpastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boyaccompanied his gardening.

  Suddenly the acolyte's chant changed to a cry of terror. Runningrapidly to Father Pedro's side, he grasped his _sotana_, and even triedto hide his curls among its folds.

  "'St! 'st!" said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience."What new alarm is this? Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines,or one of those heathen Americanos from Monterey? Speak!"

  "Neither, holy father," said the boy, the color struggling back intohis pale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his cleareyes. "Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad! And it almostleaped upon me."

  "A toad leaped upon thee!" repeated the good father with evidentvexation. "What next? I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are mostunmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer andpenance. Frightened by a toad! Blood of the Martyrs! 'T is like anyfoolish girl!"

  Father Pedro stopped and coughed.

  "I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God'sharmless creatures. And only last week thou wast disdainful of poorMurieta's pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one hisfaithful companion, even in glory."

  "Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father," replied theyoung acolyte, "and it smelt so."

  "Smelt so?" echoed the father doubtfully. "Have a car
e, child, thatthis is not luxuriousness of the senses. I have noticed of late yougather over-much of roses and syringa, excellent in their way and inmoderation, but still not to be compared with the flower of HolyChurch, the lily."

  "But lilies don't look well on the refectory table, and against theadobe wall," returned the acolyte, with a pout of a spoilt child; "andsurely the flowers cannot help being sweet, any more than myrrh orincense. And I am not frightened of the heathen Americanos either,_now_. There was a small one in the garden yesterday, a boy like me,and he spoke kindly and with a pleasant face."

  "What said he to thee, child?" asked Father Pedro, anxiously.

  "Nay, the matter of his speech I could not understand," laughed theboy, "but the manner was as gentle as thine, holy father."

  "'St, child," said the Padre, impatiently. "Thy likings are asunreasonable as thy fears. Besides, have I not told thee it ill becomesa child of Christ to chatter with those sons of Belial? But canst thounot repeat the words--the _words_ he said?" he continued suspiciously.

  "'T is a harsh tongue the Americanos speak in their throat," repliedthe boy. "But he said 'Devilishnisse' and 'pretty-as-a-girl,' andlooked at me."

  The good father made the boy repeat the words gravely, and as gravelyrepeated them after him with infinite simplicity. "They are butheretical words," he replied, in answer to the boy's inquiring look;"it is well you understand not English. Enough. Run away, child, and beready for the Angelus. I will commune with myself awhile under the peartrees."

  Glad to escape so easily, the young acolyte disappeared down the alleyof fig trees, not without a furtive look at the patches of chickweedaround their roots, the possible ambuscade of creeping or saltantvermin. The good priest heaved a sigh and glanced round the darkeningprospect. The sun had already disappeared over the mountain wall thatlay between him and the sea, rimmed with a faint white line of outlyingfog. A cool zephyr fanned his cheek; it was the dying breath of the_vientos generales_ beyond the wall. As Father Pedro's eyes were raisedto this barrier, which seemed to shut out the boisterous world beyond,he fancied he noticed for the first time a slight breach in theparapet, over which an advanced banner of the fog was fluttering. Wasit an omen? His speculations were cut short by a voice at his veryside.

  He turned quickly and beheld one of those "heathens" against whom hehad just warned his young acolyte; one of that straggling band ofadventurers whom the recent gold discoveries had scattered along thecoast. Luckily the fertile alluvium of these valleys, lying parallelwith the sea, offered no "indications" to attract the gold-seekers.Nevertheless, to Father Pedro even the infrequent contact with theAmericanos was objectionable: they were at once inquisitive andcareless; they asked questions with the sharp perspicacity ofcontroversy; they received his grave replies with the frankindifference of utter worldliness. Powerful enough to have beentyrannical oppressors, they were singularly tolerant and gentle,contenting themselves with a playful, good-natured irreverence, whichtormented the good father more than opposition. They were felt to bedangerous and subversive.

  The Americano, however, who stood before him did not offensivelysuggest these national qualities. A man of middle height, stronglybuilt, bronzed and slightly gray from the vicissitudes of years andexposure, he had an air of practical seriousness that commended itselfto Father Pedro. To his religious mind it suggested self-consciousness;expressed in the dialect of the stranger, it only meant "business."

  "I'm rather glad I found you out here alone," began the latter; "itsaves time. I haven't got to take my turn with the rest, in there,"--heindicated the church with his thumb,--"and you haven't got to make anappointment. You have got a clear forty minutes before the Angelusrings," he added, consulting a large silver chronometer, "and I reckonI kin git through my part of the job inside of twenty, leaving you tenminutes for remarks. I want to confess."

  Father Pedro drew back with a gesture of dignity. The stranger,however, laid his hand upon the Padre's sleeve with the air of a mananticipating objection, but never refusal, and went on.

  "Of course, I know. You want me to come at some other time, and in_there_. You want it in the reg'lar style. That's your way and yourtime. My answer is: it ain't _my_ way and _my_ time. The main idea ofconfession, I take it, is gettin' at the facts. I'm ready to give 'emif you'll take 'em out here, now. If you're willing to drop the Churchand confessional, and all that sort o' thing, I, on my side, am willingto give up the absolution, and all that sort o' thing. You might," headded, with an unconscious touch of pathos in the suggestion, "heave ina word or two of advice after I get through; for instance, what _you'd_do in the circumstances, you see! That's all. But that's as you please.It ain't part of the business."

  Irreverent as this speech appeared, there was really no trace of suchintention in his manner, and his evident profound conviction that hissuggestion was practical, and not at all inconsistent withecclesiastical dignity, would alone have been enough to touch thePadre, had not the stranger's dominant personality already overriddenhim. He hesitated. The stranger seized the opportunity to take his arm,and lead him with the half familiarity of powerful protection to abench beneath the refectory window. Taking out his watch again, he putit in the passive hands of the astonished priest, saying, "Time me,"cleared his throat, and began:--

  "Fourteen years ago there was a ship cruisin' in the Pacific, jest offthis range, that was ez nigh on to a Hell afloat as anything rigged kinbe. If a chap managed to dodge the cap'en's belaying-pin for a time hewas bound to be fetched up in the ribs at last by the mate's boots.There was a chap knocked down the fore hatch with a broken leg in theGulf, and another jumped overboard off Cape Corrientes, crazy as aloon, along a clip of the head from the cap'en's trumpet. Them's facts.The ship was a brigantine, trading along the Mexican coast. The cap'enhad his wife aboard, a little timid Mexican woman he'd picked up atMazatlan. I reckon she didn't get on with him any better than the men,for she ups and dies one day, leavin' her baby, a year-old gal. One o'the crew was fond o' that baby. He used to get the black nurse to putit in the dingy, and he'd tow it astern, rocking it with the painterlike a cradle. He did it--hatin' the cap'en all the same. One day theblack nurse got out of the dingy for a moment, when the baby wasasleep, leavin' him alone with it. An idea took hold on him, jest fromcussedness, you'd say, but it was partly from revenge on the cap'en andpartly to get away from the ship. The ship was well in shore, and thecurrent settin' towards it. He slipped the painter--that man--and sethimself adrift with the baby. It was a crazy act, you'd reckon, forthere was n't any oars in the boat; but he had a crazy man's luck, andhe contrived, by sculling the boat with one of the seats he tore out,to keep her out of the breakers, till he could find a bight in theshore to run her in. The alarm was given from the ship, but the fogshut down upon him; he could hear the other boats in pursuit. Theyseemed to close in on him, and by the sound he judged the cap'en wasjust abreast of him in the gig, bearing down upon him in the fog. Heslipped out of the dingy into the water without a splash, and struckout for the breakers. He got ashore after havin' been knocked down anddragged in four times by the undertow. He had only one idea then,thankfulness that he had not taken the baby with him in the surf. Youkin put that down for him; it's a fact. He got off into the hills, andmade his way up to Monterey."

  "And the child?" asked the Padre, with a sudden and strange asperitythat boded no good to the penitent; "the child thus ruthlesslyabandoned--what became of it?"

  "That's just it, the child," said the stranger, gravely. "Well, if thatman was on his death-bed instead of being here talking to you, he'dswear that he thought the cap'en was sure to come up to it the nextminit. That's a fact. But it wasn't until one day that he--that'sme--ran across one of that crew in Frisco. 'Hallo, Cranch,' sez he tome, 'so you got away, didn't you? And how's the cap'en's baby? Grown ayoung gal by this time, ain't she?' 'What are you talking about,' sezI; 'how should I know?' He draws away from me, and sez,'D--it,' sez he,'you don't mean that you' ... I grabs him by the throat and makes himtell me
all. And then it appears that the boat and the baby were neverfound again, and every man of that crew, cap'en and all, believed I hadstolen it."

  He paused. Father Pedro was staring at the prospect with anuncompromising rigidity of head and shoulder.

  "It's a bad lookout for me, ain't it?" the stranger continued, inserious reflection.

  "How do I know," said the priest harshly, without turning his head,"that you did not make away with this child?"

  "Beg pardon."

  "That you did not complete your revenge by--by--killing it, as yourcomrade suspected you? Ah! Holy Trinity," continued Father Pedro,throwing out his hands with an impatient gesture, as if to take theplace of unutterable thought.

  "How do _you_ know?" echoed the stranger coldly.

  "Yes."

  The stranger linked his fingers together and threw them over his knee,drew it up to his chest caressingly, and said quietly, "Because you_do_ know."

  The Padre rose to his feet.

  "What mean you?" he said, sternly fixing his eyes upon the speaker.Their eyes met. The stranger's were gray and persistent, with hangingcorner lids that might have concealed even more purpose than theyshowed. The Padre's were hollow, open, and the whites slightly brown,as if with tobacco stains. Yet they were the first to turn away.

  "I mean," returned the stranger, with the same practical gravity, "thatyou know it wouldn't pay me to come here, if I'd killed the baby,unless I wanted you to fix things right with me up there," pointingskyward, "and get absolution; and I've told you _that_ wasn't in myline."

  "Why do you seek me, then?" demanded the Padre, suspiciously.

  "Because I reckon I thought a man might be allowed to confess somethingshort of a murder. If you're going to draw the line below that"--

  "This is but sacrilegious levity," interrupted Father Pedro, turning asif to go. But the stranger did not make any movement to detain him.

  "Have you implored forgiveness of the father--the man youwronged--before you came here?" asked the priest, lingering.

  "Not much. It wouldn't pay if he was living, and he died four yearsago."

  "You are sure of that?"

  "I am."

  "There are other relations, perhaps?"

  "None."

  Father Pedro was silent. When he spoke again, it was with a changedvoice. "What is your purpose, then?" he asked, with the firstindication of priestly sympathy in his manner. "You cannot askforgiveness of the earthly father you have injured, you refuse theintercession of Holy Church with the Heavenly Father you havedisobeyed. Speak, wretched man! What is it you want?"

  "I want to find the child."

  "But if it were possible, if she were still living, are you fit to seekher, to even make yourself known to her, to appear before her?"

  "Well, if I made it profitable to her, perhaps."

  "Perhaps," echoed the priest, scornfully. "So be it. But why comehere?"

  "To ask your advice. To know how to begin my search. You know thiscountry. You were here when that boat drifted ashore beyond thatmountain."

  "Ah, indeed. I have much to do with it. It is an affair of thealcalde--the authorities--of your--your police."

  "Is it?"

  The Padre again met the stranger's eyes. He stopped, with the snuffboxhe had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in hishand.

  "Why is it not, Senor?" he demanded.

  "If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want thedetails of her life known to any one."

  "And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady?" asked FatherPedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of ababy and an adult.

  "I reckon I'll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found herwouldn't be fool enough to destroy them."

  "After fourteen years! Good! You have faith, Senor"--

  "Cranch," supplied the stranger, consulting his watch. "But time's up.Business is business. Good-by; don't let me keep you."

  He extended his hand.

  The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow asthe hills. When their hands separated, the father still hesitated,looking at Cranch. If he expected further speech or entreaty from himhe was mistaken, for the American, without turning his head, walked inthe same serious, practical fashion down the avenue of fig trees, anddisappeared beyond the hedge of vines. The outlines of the mountainbeyond were already lost in the fog. Father Pedro turned into therefectory.

  "Antonio."

  A strong flavor of leather, onions, and stable preceded the entrance ofa short, stout _vaquero_ from the little _patio_.

  "Saddle Pinto and thine own mule to accompany Francisco, who will takeletters from me to the Father Superior at San Jose to-morrow atdaybreak."

  "At daybreak, reverend father?"

  "At daybreak. Hark ye, go by the mountain trails and avoid the highway.Stop at no _posada_ nor _fonda_, but if the child is weary, rest thenawhile at Don Juan Briones' or at the rancho of the Blessed Fisherman.Have no converse with stragglers, least of all those gentileAmericanos. So" ...

  The first strokes of the Angelus came from the nearer tower. With agesture Father Pedro waved Antonio aside, and opened the door of thesacristy.

  "_Ad Majorem Dei Gloria_."

  II.

  The hacienda of Don Juan Briones, nestling in a wooded cleft of thefoot-hills, was hidden, as Father Pedro had wisely reflected, from thestraying feet of travelers along the dusty highway to San Jose. AsFrancisco, emerging from the _canada_, put spurs to his mule at thesight of the whitewashed walls, Antonio grunted:

  "Oh aye, little priest! thou wast tired enough a moment ago, and thoughwe are not three leagues from the Blessed Fisherman, thou couldstscarce sit thy saddle longer. Mother of God! and all to see that littlemongrel, Juanita."

  "But, good Antonio, Juanita was my playfellow, and I may not soon againchance this way. And Juanita is not a mongrel, no more than I am."

  "She is a _mestiza_, and thou art a child of the Church, though thisfollowing of gypsy wenches does not show it."

  "But Father Pedro does not object," urged the boy.

  "The reverend father has forgotten he was ever young," replied Antonio,sententiously, "or he wouldn't set fire and tow together."

  "What sayest thou, good Antonio?" asked Francisco quickly, opening hisblue eyes in frank curiosity; "who is fire, and who is tow?"

  The worthy muleteer, utterly abashed and confounded by this display ofthe acolyte's direct simplicity, contented himself by shrugging hisshoulders, and a vague "_Quien sabe?_"

  "Come," said the boy, gayly, "confess it is only the _aguardiente_ ofthe Blessed Fisherman thou missest. Never fear, Juanita will find theesome. And see! here she comes."

  There was a flash of white flounces along the dark brown corridor, thetwinkle of satin slippers, the flying out of long black braids, andwith a cry of joy a young girl threw herself upon Francisco as heentered the _patio_, and nearly dragged him from his mule.

  "Have a care, little sister," laughed the acolyte, looking at Antonio,"or there will be a conflagration. Am I the fire?" he continued,submitting to the two sounding kisses the young girl placed upon eithercheek, but still keeping his mischievous glance upon the muleteer.

  "_Quien sabe_?" repeated Antonio, gruffly, as the young girl blushedunder his significant eyes. "It is no affair of mine," he added tohimself, as he led Pinto away. "Perhaps Father Pedro is right, and thisyoung twig of the Church is as dry and sapless as himself. Let the_mestiza_ burn if she likes."

  "Quick, Pancho," said the young girl, eagerly leading him along thecorridor. "This way. I must talk with thee before thou seest Don Juan;that is why I ran to intercept thee, and not as that fool Antonio wouldsignify, to shame thee. Wast thou ashamed, my Pancho?"

  The boy threw his arm familiarly round the supple, stayless littlewaist, accented only by the belt of the light flounced _saya_, andsaid, "But why this haste and feverishness, 'Nita? And now I look atthee, thou hast been crying."

&nb
sp; They had emerged from a door in the corridor into the bright sunlightof a walled garden. The girl dropped her eyes, cast a quick glancearound her, and said:

  "Not here; to the _arroyo_;" and half leading, half dragging him, madeher way through a copse of _manzanita_ and alder until they heard thefaint tinkling of water. "Dost thou remember," said the girl, "it washere," pointing to an embayed pool in the dark current, "that Ibaptized thee, when Father Pedro first brought thee here, when we bothplayed at being monks? They were dear old days, for Father Pedro wouldtrust no one with thee but me, and always kept us near him."

  "Aye, and he said I would be profaned by the touch of any other, and sohimself always washed and dressed me, and made my bed near his."

  "And took thee away again, and I saw thee not till thou camest withAntonio, over a year ago, to the cattle branding. And now, my Pancho, Imay never see thee again." She buried her face in her hands and sobbedaloud.

  The little acolyte tried to comfort her, but with such abstraction ofmanner and inadequacy of warmth that she hastily removed his caressinghand.

  "But why? What has happened?" he asked eagerly.

  The girl's manner had changed. Her eyes flashed, and she put her brownfist on her waist and began to rock from side to side.

  "But I'll not go," she said, viciously.

  "Go where?" asked the boy.

  "Oh, where?" she echoed, impatiently. "Hear me, Francisco. Thou knowestI am, like thee, an orphan; but I have not, like thee, a parent in theHoly Church. For, alas," she added, bitterly, "I am not a boy, and havenot a lovely voice borrowed from the angels. I was, like thee, afoundling, kept, by the charity of the reverend fathers, until DonJuan, a childless widower, adopted me. I was happy, not knowing andcaring who were the parents who had abandoned me, happy only in thelove of him who became my adopted father. And now"--She paused.

  "And now?" echoed Francisco, eagerly.

  "And now they say it is discovered who are my parents."

  "And they live?"

  "Mother of God! no," said the girl, with scarcely filial piety. "Thereis some one, a thing, a mere Don Fulano, who knows it all, it seems,who is to be my guardian."

  "But how? Tell me all, dear Juanita," said the boy with a feverishinterest, that contrasted so strongly with his previous abstractionthat Juanita bit her lips with vexation.

  "Ah! How? Santa Barbara! An extravaganza for children. A necklace oflies. I am lost from a ship of which my father--Heaven rest him!--isGeneral, and I am picked up among the weeds on the sea-shore, likeMoses in the bulrushes. A pretty story, indeed."

  "O how beautiful!" exclaimed Francisco enthusiastically. "Ah, Juanita,would it had been me!"

  "_Thee_!" said the girl bitterly,--"thee! No!--it was a girl wanted.Enough, it was me."

  "And when does the guardian come?" persisted the boy, with sparklingeyes.

  "He is here even now, with that pompous fool the American alcalde fromMonterey, a wretch who knows nothing of the country or the people, butwho helped the other American to claim me. I tell thee, Francisco, likeas not it is all a folly, some senseless blunder of those Americanosthat imposes upon Don Juan's simplicity and love for them."

  "How looks he, this Americano who seeks thee?" asked Francisco.

  "What care I how he looks," said Juanita, "or what he is? He may havethe four S's, for all I care. Yet," she added with a slight touch ofcoquetry, "he is not bad to look upon, now I recall him."

  "Had he a long mustache and a sad, sweet smile, and a voice so gentleand yet so strong that you felt he ordered you to do things withoutsaying it? And did his eye read your thoughts?--that very thought thatyou must obey him?"

  "Saints preserve thee, Pancho! Of whom dost thou speak?"

  "Listen, Juanita. It was a year ago, the eve of Natividad; he was inthe church when I sang. Look where I would, I always met his eye. Whenthe canticle was sung and I was slipping into the sacristy, he wasbeside me. He spoke kindly, but I understood him not. He put into myhand gold for an _aguinaldo_. I pretended I understood not that also,and put it into the box for the poor. He smiled and went away. Oftenhave I seen him since; and last night, when I left the Mission, he wasthere again with Father Pedro."

  "And Father Pedro, what said he of him?" asked Juanita.

  "Nothing." The boy hesitated. "Perhaps--because I said nothing of thestranger."

  Juanita laughed. "So thou canst keep a secret from the good father whenthou carest. But why dost thou think this stranger is my new guardian?"

  "Dost thou not see, little sister? He was even then seeking thee," saidthe boy with joyous excitement. "Doubtless he knew we were friends andplaymates--maybe the good father has told him thy secret. For it is noidle tale of the alcalde, believe me. I see it all! It is true!"

  "Then thou wilt let him take me away," exclaimed the girl bitterly,withdrawing the little hand he had clasped in his excitement.

  "Alas, Juanita, what avails it now? I am sent to San Jose, charged witha letter to the Father Superior, who will give me further orders. Whatthey are, or how long I must stay, I know not. But I know this: thegood Father Pedro's eyes were troubled when he gave me his blessing,and he held me long in his embrace. Pray Heaven I have committed nofault. Still it may be that the reputation of my gift hath reached theFather Superior, and he would advance me;" and Francisco's eyes lit upwith youthful pride at the thought.

  Not so Juanita. Her black eyes snapped suddenly with suspicion, shedrew in her breath, and closed her little mouth firmly. Then she begana _crescendo_.

  Mother of God! was that all? Was he a child, to be sent away for suchtime or for such purpose as best pleased the fathers? Was he to know nomore than that? With such gifts as God had given him, was he not atleast to have some word in disposing of them? Ah! _she_ would not standit.

  The boy gazed admiringly at the piquant energy of the little figurebefore him, and envied her courage. "It is the _mestizo_ blood," hemurmured to himself. Then aloud, "Thou shouldst have been a man,'Nita."

  "And thou a woman."

  "Or a priest. Eh, what is that?"

  They had both risen, Juanita defiantly, her black braids flying as shewheeled and suddenly faced the thicket, Francisco clinging to her withtrembling hands and whitened lips. A stone, loosened from the hillside,had rolled to their feet; there was a crackling in the alders on theslope above them.

  "Is it a bear, or a brigand?" whispered Francisco, hurriedly, soundingthe uttermost depths of his terror in the two words.

  "It is an eavesdropper," said Juanita, impetuously; "and who and why, Iintend to know," and she started towards the thicket.

  "Do not leave me, good Juanita;" said the young acolyte, grasping thegirl's skirt.

  "Nay; run to the hacienda quickly, and leave me to search the thicket.Run!"

  The boy did not wait for a second injunction, but scuttled away, hislong coat catching in the brambles, while Juanita darted like a kitteninto the bushes. Her search was fruitless, however, and she wasreturning impatiently, when her quick eye fell upon a letter lying amidthe dried grass where she and Francisco had been seated the momentbefore. It had evidently fallen from his breast when he had risensuddenly, and been overlooked in his alarm. It was Father Pedro'sletter to the Father Superior of San Jose.

  In an instant she had pounced upon it as viciously as if it had beenthe interloper she was seeking. She knew that she held in her fingersthe secret of Francisco's sudden banishment. She felt instinctivelythat this yellowish envelope, with its red string and its blotch of redseal, was his sentence and her own. The little _mestizo_, had not beenbrought up to respect the integrity of either locks or seals, bothbeing unknown in the patriarchal life of the hacienda. Yet with acertain feminine instinct she looked furtively around her, and evenmanaged to dislodge the clumsy wax without marring the pretty effigy ofthe crossed keys impressed upon it. Then she opened the letter andread.

  Suddenly she stopped and put back her hair from her brown temples. Thena succession of burning blushes followed each other in wav
es from herneck up, and died in drops of moisture in her eyes. This continueduntil she was fairly crying, dropping the letter from her hands androcking to and fro. In the midst of this she quickly stopped again; theclouds broke, a sunshine of laughter started from her eyes, she laughedshyly, she laughed loudly, she laughed hysterically. Then she stoppedagain as suddenly, knitted her brows, swooped down once more upon theletter, and turned to fly. But at the same moment the letter wasquietly but firmly taken from her hand, and Mr. Jack Cranch stoodbeside her.

  Juanita was crimson, but unconquered. She mechanically held out herhand for the letter; the American took her little fingers, kissed them,and said:

  "How are you again?"

  "The letter," replied Juanita, with a strong disposition to stamp herfoot.

  "But," said Cranch, with business directness, "you've read enough toknow it isn't for you."

  "Nor for you either," responded Juanita.

  "True. It is for the Reverend Father Superior of San Jose Mission. I'llgive it to him."

  Juanita was becoming alarmed, first at this prospect, second at thepower the stranger seemed to be gaining over her. She recalledFrancisco's description of him with something like superstitious awe.

  "But it concerns Francisco. It contains a secret he should know."

  "Then you can tell him it. Perhaps it would come easier from you."

  Juanita blushed again. "Why?" she asked, half dreading his reply.

  "Because," said the American, quietly, "you are old playmates; you areattached to each other."

  Juanita bit her lips. "Why don't you read it yourself?" she askedbluntly.

  "Because I don't read other people's letters, and if it concerns meyou'll tell me."

  "What if I don't?"

  "Then the Father Superior will."

  "I believe you know Francisco's secret already," said the girl, boldly.

  "Perhaps."

  "Then, Mother of God! Senor Crancho, what do you want?"

  "I do not want to separate two such good friends as you and Francisco."

  "Perhaps you'd like to claim us both," said the girl, with a sneer thatwas not devoid of coquetry.

  "I should be delighted."

  "Then here is your occasion, Senor, for here comes my adopted father,Don Juan, and your friend, Senor Br--r--own, the American alcalde."

  Two men appeared in the garden path below them. The stiff, glazed,broad-brimmed black hat, surmounting a dark face of Quixotic gravityand romantic rectitude, indicated Don Juan Briones. His companion,lazy, specious, and red-faced, was Senor Brown, the American alcalde.

  "Well, I reckon we kin about call the thing fixed," said Senor Brown,with a large wave of the hand, suggesting a sweeping away of alltrivial details. "Ez I was saying to the Don yer, when two high-tonedgents like you and him come together in a delicate matter of this kind,it ain't no hoss trade nor sharp practice. The Don is that lofty inprinciple that he's willin' to sacrifice his affections for the good ofthe gal; and you, on your hand, kalkilate to see all he's done for her,and go your whole pile better. You'll make the legal formalities good.I reckon that old Injin woman who can swear to the finding of the babyon the shore will set things all right yet. For the matter o' that, ifyou want anything in the way of a certificate, I'm on hand always."

  "Juanita and myself are at your disposition, _caballeros_," said DonJuan, with a grave exaltation. "Never let it be said that the Mexicannation was outdone by the great Americanos in deeds of courtesy andaffection. Let it rather stand that Juanita was a sacred trust put intomy hands years ago by the goddess of American liberty, and nurtured inthe Mexican eagle's nest. Is it not so, my soul?" he added, morehumanly, to the girl, when he had quite recovered from the intoxicationof his own speech. "We love thee, little one, but we keep our honor."

  "There's nothing mean about the old man," said Brown, admiringly, witha slight dropping of his left eyelid; "his head is level, and he goeswith his party."

  "Thou takest my daughter, Senor Cranch," continued the old man, carriedaway by his emotion; "but the American nation gives me a son."

  "You know not what you say, father," said the young girl, angrily,exasperated by a slight twinkle in the American's eye.

  "Not so," said Cranch. "Perhaps one of the American nation may take himat his word."

  "Then, _caballeros_, you will, for the moment at least, possessyourselves of the house and its poor hospitality," said Don Juan, withtime-honored courtesy, producing the rustic key of the gate of the_patio_. "It is at your disposition, _caballeros_," he repeated,leading the way as his guests passed into the corridor.

  Two hours passed. The hills were darkening on their eastern slopes; theshadows of the few poplars that sparsedly dotted the dusty highway werefalling in long black lines that looked like ditches on the dead levelof the tawny fields; the shadows of slowly moving cattle were minglingwith their own silhouettes, and becoming more and more grotesque. Akeen wind rising in the hills was already creeping from the _canada_ asfrom the mouth of a funnel, and sweeping the plains. Antonio hadforgathered with the servants, had pinched the ears of the maids, hadpartaken of _aguardiente_, had saddled the mules,--Antonio was becomingimpatient.

  And then a singular commotion disturbed the peaceful monotony of thepatriarchal household of Don Juan Briones. The stagnant courtyard wassuddenly alive with _peons_ and servants, running hither and thither.The alleys and gardens were filled with retainers. A confusion ofquestions, orders, and outcrys rent the air, the plains shook with thegalloping of a dozen horsemen. For the acolyte Francisco, of theMission San Carmel, had disappeared and vanished, and from that day thehacienda of Don Juan Briones knew him no more.

  III.

  When Father Pedro saw the yellow mules vanish under the low branches ofthe 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. To thesimple 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, breviaryin hand, 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 toward 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 templeswere ridged and veined like a tobacco leaf; the odor of desiccationwhich his garments always exhaled was hot and feverish, as if the firehad suddenly 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 fortune,that, conquered by prayer and penance, left him patient, submissive,and devoted to his humble work; how he raised up converts to the faith,even taking 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 thesea-shore. There were no parents to divide the responsibility, thechild had no past to confront, except the memory of the ignorant Indianwoman, who deemed her duty done, and whose interest ceased in giving itto the Padre. The austere conditions of his monkish life compelled himto the first step in his adoption of it--the concealment of its sex.This was easy enough, as he constituted himself from that moment itssole nurse and attendant, and boldly baptized it among the otherchildren by the name of Francisco. No others knew its origin, nor caredto know. Father Pedro had taken a _muchacho_ foundling for adoption;his jealous seclusion of it and his personal care was doubtless somesacerdotal formula at once 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 succumbed againand 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 thoseworn by the miniature waxen figure of the Holy Virgin herself in herniche in the 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 sexbecame greater and more dangerous. And then the acolyte's destiny wassealed by what again appeared to Father Pedro as a direct interpositionof Providence. The child developed a voice of such exquisite sweetnessand purity that an angel seemed to have strayed into the little choir,and kneeling worshipers below, transported, gazed upwards, halfexpectant of a heavenly light breaking through the gloom of theraftered ceiling. The fame of the little singer filled the valley ofSan Carmel; it was a miracle vouchsafed the Mission; Don Jose Peraltaremembered, ah yes, to have heard in old Spain of boy choristers withsuch voices!

  And was this sacred trust to be withdrawn from him? Was this life,which he had brought out of an unknown world of sin, unstained andpure, consecrated and dedicated to God, just in the dawn of power andpromise for the glory of the Mother Church, to be taken from his side?And at the word of a self-convicted man of sin--a man whose tardyrepentance was not yet absolved by the Holy Church? Never! never!Father Pedro dwelt upon the stranger's rejections of the ministrationsof the Church with a pitiable satisfaction; had he accepted it, hewould have had a sacred claim upon Father Pedro's sympathy andconfidence. Yet he rose again, uneasily and with irregular stepsreturned to the corridor, passing the door of the familiar little cellbeside his own. The window, the table, and even the scant toiletteutensils were filled with the flowers of yesterday, some of themwithered and dry; the white gown of the little chorister was hangingemptily against the wall. Father Pedro started and trembled; it seemedas if the spiritual life of the child had slipped away with itsgarments.

  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 followed infancy the wayfaring figure of Francisco, saw the child arrive at therancho 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 gave thesecret of her sex and condition to the Father Superior. That theauthority at San Jose might dissent with the Padre of San Carmel, ordecline to carry out his designs, did not occur to the one-idea'dpriest. Like all solitary people, isolated from passing events, he madeno allowance 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-foothole and say a prayer over her, I'll give the mule that brought herhere for food for the bull's horns. She neither hears nor speaks, butwhether from 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 empty. Tossedcarelessly in the corner appeared some blankets topped by a fewstraggling black horsetails, like an unstranded _riata_. A tremblingagitated the mass as Father Pedro approached. He bent over the heap anddistinguished in its midst the glowing black eyes of Sanchicha, theIndian 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 fourteenyears, mother; it is but yesterday to thee. Thou dost remember thebaby--a little _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,which might require deliberation. If any mischance had occurred toFrancisco, Antonio would have returned or sent a speci
al messenger. Atsunset he was in his accustomed seat in the orchard, his hands claspedover the breviary in his listless lap, his eyes fixed upon the mountainbetween him and that mysterious sea that had brought so much into hislife. He was filled with a strange desire to see it, a vague curiosityhitherto unknown to his preoccupied life; he wished to gaze upon thatstrand, perhaps the very spot where she had been found; he doubted nothis questioning eyes would discover some forgotten trace of her; underhis persistent will and aided by the Holy Virgin, the sea would give upits secret. He looked at the fog creeping along the summit, andrecalled the latest gossip of San Carmel; how that since the advent ofthe Americanos it was gradually encroaching on the Mission. The hatedname vividly recalled to him the features of the stranger as he hadstood before him three nights ago, in this very garden; so vividly thathe sprang to his feet with an exclamation. It was no fancy, but SenorCranch himself advancing 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 were 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. Andthen you 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,later on."

  "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 takinga step towards the refectory.

  "Why should I? I was looking after the girl, not the property,"returned Cranch, following the Padre with watchful eyes, but stillkeeping his careless, easy attitude.

  "Ah, well! Will it be said so, think you? Eh! _Bueno_. What will theworld think of your sacred quest, eh?" continued the Padre Pedro,forgetting himself in his excitement, but still averting his face fromhis companion.

  "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 for 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 are you,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, I willhave 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 thecold, passionless sky, where a few faint, far-spaced stars had silentlystolen to their places. The Angelus still rang, his trembling ceased,he remained motionless and rigid.

  The American, who had uncovered in deference to the worshiper ratherthan the rite, waited patiently. The eyes of Father Pedro returned tothe 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 thetrees, until the dark shadow of the Mission tower met and encompassedhim. 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!"

  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 asudden horror of remorse, and making his way to the darkened church hadfallen upon his knees before the high altar, when all at once theacolyte's voice broke from the choir, but in accents so dissonant andunnatural that it seemed a sacrilege, and he trembled. He thought hehad confessed the secret of the child's sex to Cranch, but whether thenext morning or a week later he did not know. He fancied, too, thatCranch had also confessed some trifling deception to him, but what, orwhy, he could not remember; so much greater seemed the enormity of hisown transgression. He thought Cranch had put in his hands the letter hehad written to the Father Superior, sayin
g that his secret was stillsafe, and that he had been spared the avowal and the scandal that mighthave ensued. But through all, and above all, he was conscious of onefixed idea: to seek the sea-shore with Sanchicha, and upon the spotwhere she had found Francisco, meet the young girl who had taken hisplace, and so part from her forever. He had a dim recollection thatthis was necessary to some legal identification of her, as arranged byCranch, but how or why he did not understand; enough that it was a partof his penance.

  It was early morning when the faithful Antonio, accompanied bySanchicha and Jose, rode forth with him from the Mission of San Carmel.Except on the expressionless features of the old woman, there wasanxiety and gloom upon the faces of the little cavalcade. He did notknow how heavily his strange abstraction and hallucinations weighedupon their honest hearts. As they wound up the ascent of the mountainhe noticed that Antonio and Jose conversed with bated breath and manypious crossings of themselves, but with eyes always wistfully fixedupon him. He wondered if, as part of his penance, he ought not toproclaim his sin and abase himself before them; but he knew that hisdevoted followers would insist upon sharing his punishment; and heremembered his promise to Cranch, that for _her_ sake he would saynothing. Before they reached the summit he turned once or twice to lookback upon the Mission. How small it looked, lying there in the peacefulvalley, contrasted with the broad sweep of the landscape beyond,stopped at the farther east only by the dim, ghost-like outlines of theSierras. But the strong breath of the sea was beginning to be felt; ina few moments more they were facing it with lowered _sombreros_ andflying _serapes_, and the vast, glittering, illimitable Pacific openedout 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 say that this coast was wild and desolateof 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 an_arroyo_ reaching up from the beach. They looked down upon the smoke ofa manufactory chimney, upon strange heaps of material and curiousengines scattered along the sands, with here and there moving specks ofhuman figures. 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 washere for strayed colts, and I swear by the blessed bones of San Antoniothat it 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 twomonths ago across the plains, with never a hut nor _fonda_ to halt atall the way. He returned in seven days, and in the midst of the plainthere were three houses and a mill and many people. And why was it? Ah!Mother of God! one had picked up in the creek where he drank that muchof gold;" and the muleteer tapped one of the silver coins that fringedhis jacket sleeves 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 himover the mysterious sea. It perplexed his dazed, disturbed mind tothink that if such an antagonistic element could exist within a dozenmiles of the Mission, and he not know it, could not such an atmospherehave been around him, even in his monastic isolation, and he remainblind to it? Had he really lived in the world without knowing it? Hadit been in his blood? 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 ofwild oats, not far from the trail. It seemed to his distorted fancythat the man was Cranch. The woman! His heart stopped beating. Ah!could it be? He had never seen her in her proper garb: would she looklike that? Would she be as tall? He thought he bade Jose and Antonio goon slowly before with Sanchicha, and dismounted, walking slowly betweenthe high stalks of grain lest he should disturb them. They evidentlydid not hear his approach, but were talking earnestly. It seemed toFather Pedro that they had taken each other's hands, and as he lookedCranch slipped his arm round her waist. With only a blind instinct ofsome dreadful sacrilege in this act, Father Pedro would have rushedforward, when the girl's voice struck his ear. He stopped, breathless.It was not Francisco, 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 blackbraids, 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 I wasdeceived 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 youbelieve I sought in you the one if I had not hoped to find in you theother."

  "_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 clenchingof the 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 kissed 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 hadpitied him. Why did he not speak? Why di
d he not call after them? Hetried to 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 backward and forward. 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, the_mestiza_ Juanita, seeking your reverence, methinks."

  "Ah!" said Father Pedro.

  Cranch came forward and greeted the priest cordially.

  "It was kind of you, Father Pedro," he said, meaningly, with asignificant glance at Jose and Antonio, "to come so far to bid me andmy adopted daughter farewell. We depart when the tide serves, but notbefore you partake of our 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 at first. She takes some friend, perhaps--somecompanion?" 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 reckon youall 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 the 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. Hereit is."

  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, moldy 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, and theclothes were left so that she should carry no trace with her. Irecognized 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,of 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. Shestood there, 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 ofa frivolous world, even as she extended one hand to him inhalf-coquettish embarrassment she arranged the folds of her dress withthe other. At the touch of her fingers he felt himself growing old andcold. Even the penance of parting, which he had looked forward to, wasdenied him; there was no longer sympathy enough for sorrow. He thoughtof the empty chorister's robe in the little cell, but not now withregret. He only trembled to think of the flesh that he had once causedto 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 in-shore, hastening their departure, he only answered theirfarewells by a silent pressure of the hand, mute lips, and far-offeyes.

  When the sound of their laboring oars grew fainter, he told Antonio tolead him and Sanchicha again to the buried boat. There he bade herkneel beside him. "We will do penance here, thou and I, daughter," hesaid, gravely. When the fog had drawn its curtain gently around thestrange pair, and sea and shore were blotted out, he whispered, "Tellme, it was even so, was it not, daughter, on the night she came?" Whenthe distant clatter of blocks and rattle of cordage came from theunseen vessel, now standing out to sea, he whispered again, "So, thisis what thou didst hear, even then." And so during the night he marked,more or less audibly to the half-conscious woman at his side, the lowwhisper of the waves, the murmur of the far-off breakers, thelightening and thickening of the fog, the phantoms of moving shapes,and the slow coming of the dawn. And when the morning sun had rent theveil over land and sea, Antonio and Jose found him, haggard but erect,beside the trembling old woman, with a blessing on his lips, pointingto the horizon where a single sail still glimmered:--

  "_Va Usted con Dios_."