ONE SABBATH DAY
The rainy season had begun. A strong south wind coming in from the
sea brought the first heavy winter storm. Already the mountain crests
showed snowy peaks, but the valleys had for some time displayed a
lively green after the rainless summer, and since the first light
showers had given new life. Nan sat at her window looking off at the
mountains and humming a little Spanish air she had been practicing. She
strummed a noiseless accompaniment on the pane as her thoughts were
following out a line of possibilities which a talk with Mary Lee had
started.
"The señorita looks so sad," Mary Lee had remarked, "I am sure she is
thinking of how alone in the world she is. Isn't it hard that any one
so young and so lovely should have no relatives at all?"
"She might get married," Nan had replied. "Maybe Carter will fall in
love with her."
"Carter! why he is only a boy eighteen years old; he is younger than
she is."
"Oh, well, he is not so very much younger, and he would do on a pinch.
I can't think of any one else at present, Mary Lee, if you must have a
husband for her. To be sure there is Mr. St. Nick, but he is as much
too old as Carter is too young; in fact he is old enough to be her
grandfather."
"I didn't say anything about a husband; I was only thinking how we
could cheer her up."
"Well, a husband would do that if we could find the proper one. I'm
sure no one could be more cheerful than Carter."
"Oh, Nan, you are so silly; he will not do at all."
Nan laughed wickedly. "Perhaps you want to save him for yourself when
you are older."
"I think you are perfectly horrid," returned her sister. "When
I come to you for advice and sympathy you are mighty mean to be
so--so--flippant. I don't believe you care one bit for Miss Dolores."
"I care for her lots, but I'm not so silly about her as you are. I
don't go hoarding up her cast-off shoe-strings and her discarded
hairpins as you do."
"I never did save a hairpin, and you know it."
"Well, it is only because you don't happen to have found one," retorted
Nan. Then came the strumming on the pane and the humming of the
Spanish song while Mary Lee nursed her grievance. After awhile Nan
broke the silence by saying in conciliatory tones: "What is it you
want me to do? I'm sure we did all we could at Christmas, and she had
a lovely time. Wasn't it funny to have such a summery Christmas, with
flowers growing out of doors and all that? And didn't Mr. St. Nick make
a fine Santa Claus? I think he had courage to take the character when
he looks it so exactly. 'His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how
merry,'" she quoted.
"Yet," said Mary Lee thoughtfully, "I've seen him look very serious and
almost stern; you wouldn't think he could when he is so jolly and full
of fun."
"I think it is when he has been talking about his son that he looks
that way."
"I wonder he can be so merry," said Mary Lee.
"Why, but Mary Lee, that happened years ago, before our father died. I
am sure we loved our father, and yet we can laugh and carry on just the
same as if he were here."
Mary Lee acknowledged the truth of this, but the thought of it took
them back to their Virginia home, and Nan said: "Oh, Mary Lee, do you
remember how cold it was last year and how we all went over to Uplands
with the Christmas gifts? Poor old Uplands all in ruins. Daniella was
with us then. I wonder where she is now."
"Never mind about Daniella, let us talk about Miss Dolores," said Mary
Lee. "Wouldn't it be fine if she could discover something about her
father? I have thought about it so much. Do you suppose we could do it?"
"Gracious, girl, how could we when we don't even know his name. She
doesn't know it herself."
"I know that, but there might be a way; such strange things do happen.
Can't you think of some plan, Nan? You are always so clever about
puzzling out things."
Nan felt that after her teasing remarks she did not deserve this
compliment to her powers, and in return became as serious as her sister
could desire. "I'll tell you what we'll do," she said after having
given the subject grave consideration for a few minutes. "We'll tell
Mr. St. Nick about it; there's no telling what he may advise."
"When he couldn't find his own daughter-in-law I don't believe he could
do much for Miss Dolores," argued Mary Lee.
"Well, he will know better than any one else how to set about it. By
the way we are to go there for dinner on Sunday, to the Robertses, I
mean. I hope it will stop raining by then. Carter is invited, too. How
he did enjoy Christmas."
"How we all did enjoy it," said Mary Lee. "Don't you love your crêpe
kimono and those lovely fans and things they gave us?"
"I certainly do. We really never had a better Christmas, although we
were away from home. Last year mother was away and that took off the
edge from everything."
"It is a great thing to have money," remarked Mary Lee sententiously.
"Last year we were so awfully poor and were at our wits' ends to know
how we could get presents for everybody and this year all we had to do
was to buy things."
"I'm not sure but I liked the old way better," returned Nan
thoughtfully. "There was more of ourselves in the things we gave." They
lapsed into silence each wandering back into the ways of the old home
life. Nan broke the silence by saying, "There comes Carter in all the
rain. Shall we go in to see him or shall we leave him to the señorita?"
she asked mirthfully.
For answer Mary Lee stalked indignantly away but was recalled as Nan
sang after her: "Oh, Mrs. Barnwell, don't get jealous."
"I'll tell mother how you behave," said Mary Lee on the verge of tears.
"She won't like your talking that way anyhow; she'll say it is very
silly and pert and--and--you know she won't like it, Nancy Corner."
Nan well knew her mother would not like such silly speeches and as Mary
Lee moved off she called after her: "I take it all back, Mary Lee. You
needn't tell mother. Come on, let's go in and see Cart. We might play
ping-pong or something, for it is too wet to go out. Come on. Did its
old sissy tease it?" she said affectionately putting an arm around her
sister and rubbing her cheek against hers.
Mary Lee accepted the olive branch and the two went together into the
living-room where Carter was walking on his hands for Jack's benefit.
These two were great cronies, and indeed, Carter seemed to prefer
Jack's society to that of any of the others. Mrs. Roberts showed
especial favor to gentle little Jean, Nan and her Aunt Helen had always
been particular chums, Mary Lee gave no one a chance to dote on her
since she was absorbed in the señorita, and Mrs. Corner mothered them
all. After lessons Jean almost daily was seen running down street to
where Mrs. Roberts lived and Nan often followed to talk to Mr. Pinckney
who enjoyed her bright sallies and queer whimsies. The Corners had
made other acquaintances, but the Robertses and Mr. Pinckney stood
first in their affections while Carter had become almost one of the
family.
The storm was over by the next day and now could be expected a period
of sunshiny weather till the February rains began. It was a time of
much dreaming to Nan. Old Spain appealed to her so that she often lived
in its past history and looked with inward eye upon the California of
the eighteenth century, yet she was quite as much interested in the
progress of modern enterprise and took in quickly all that was told her
of newer methods and of the opening up of the country. Mary Lee, too,
had her dreams, but they were all for the señorita. What if her father
was not dead, that he could be discovered not the worthless renegade
whom every one supposed him to be, but a man whom time had made
important, who now possessed wealth and station in which his daughter
could share. She confided these dreams to Nan sometimes but never to
the señorita. Yet Nan who could ordinarily plunge into the wildest
regions of improbability was here practical.
"If she had such a father don't you suppose he would have found her
out long ago?" she would ask. "He must have known her mother's people
and it would have been easy enough to find them." So Mary Lee's hopes
for the moment would be crushed, though they would soon grow apace as
some new possibility presented itself, and she would come to Nan with
some such remark as: "Surely Miss Dolores's uncle would know about her
father."
"But he won't tell," Nan would remind her. "He promised her aunt on her
death bed as she had promised her father before her never to tell who
he was. It is like the most mysterious sort of story."
Sunday afternoon came their opportune moment to confide in Mr.
Pinckney. Jean and Jack were absorbed in a trayful of sea shells which
afforded them no end of amusement. They were playing a Sunday play,
they explained. The red deep lacquer tray was the Red Sea, the white
shells were the children of Israel who were to go over on dry land; the
colored shells were the Egyptians who should be drowned in crossing,
for Jack had a tumbler of water ready for the right moment. She assured
Nan that Mrs. Roberts had told her the water would hurt neither shells
nor tray and they expected much satisfaction in overwhelming Pharaoh
and his host.
Mrs. Corner with Miss Helen was talking to Mrs. Roberts in a corner of
the pleasant living-room, Carter and the señorita had sauntered into
the garden and therefore Nan and Mary Lee pounced upon Mr. Pinckney as
he was taking his after dinner cigar on the veranda.
"Now, Miss Zeph," he said as the two girls settled themselves near him,
"you can just tell me a story. I feel lazy and want to be amused."
Nan looked at Mary Lee. "Let's tell him about the señorita," she said
suddenly.
Mary Lee looked approval. "It's a mighty romantic story," she remarked.
"Oh, but you have told it to me," he said. "I want something quite
fresh and new."
"We haven't told you near all," said Nan. "Did you know, for instance,
that she had an American father?"
"No." He looked surprised, then he asked: "Who was he?"
"She doesn't know."
Mr. Pinckney sat up and appeared more interested. "She doesn't know?
How is that?"
"Why, her mother married against her father's wishes and when Miss
Dolores's father and mother died she was adopted by her aunt who gave
her her own name and when she grew up wouldn't tell her who her father
was. Her aunt made Mr. Garcia promise not to tell and he won't, so Miss
Dolores can't find out anything. Her aunt used to be quite well off and
educated Miss Dolores beautifully, but now her uncle has lost almost
everything and she has no other relatives. There were only the two
sisters, her aunt and her mother. One was named Dolores and the other
Elvira."
"Elvira?" Mr Pinckney spoke the name slowly and thoughtfully.
"Yes, it isn't as pretty a name as Dolores, do you think?"
He did not answer, but sat with his head thrown back puffing at his
cigar and watching the smoke drift off among the vines.
Mary Lee took up the tale. "We think, or at least Nan says, that
probably her father was a convict or something, or maybe just a
gambler, and that her mother's family were ashamed of him."
Mr. Pinckney roused himself. "Very likely, very likely. That would
explain it of course."
"Still maybe he wasn't, and if he was maybe his family are good people
and would be nice to her. She is so lovely anybody ought to be proud as
a peacock to have her kin to the family. Now don't you think we could
find out without her knowing? Then if they turned out to be no 'count
people she need never know."
"We thought," put in Nan eagerly, "as you are traveling about 'hether
and yen' as Landy says, you might come across some sort of--of--what
do you call it?--clue, without going out of your way."
Mr. Pinckney regarded her thoughtfully. "I could do that. I should like
to learn more. Do you know her mother's maiden name?"
"Mendez, I believe, wasn't it, Mary Lee?"
"Yes, it is her other name. She is Dolores Elvira Inez Mendez de
Garcia. Inez is her saint's name, St. Agnes, you know."
"Isn't it an awfully long name?" said Nan as Mr. Pinckney carefully
wrote it down.
"The thing to do," he said, "is to find her baptismal record. If she
was the child of Elvira Mendez and an unknown American it may not
be difficult. I suppose you have no idea whether she was born in
California or in Mexico."
"I might find out," said Mary Lee. "I think it was in Mexico. I will
try to get her to tell me just where it was. That would be a help,
wouldn't it?"
"Surely it would. Well, young ladies, I will try to prove myself an
elderly fat knight errant and do service for your beautiful princess."
"Oh, thank you," they both cried. "She is such a dear," sighed Mary
Lee. "Don't you think she is lovely, Mr. St. Nick?"
"She is a very sweet young lady, but rather quiet, isn't she?"
"She can laugh real heartily," said Nan, "and she laughs just like Mrs.
Roberts."
Mr. Pinckney looked at her with a curious expression on his face. "So
she does," he said. "Strange I didn't notice that. Her laugh sounded
so familiar that I mentioned it to Miss Helen, but I couldn't place
the person whom she reminded me of. It is very curious," he added
meditatively. "If"--he began, but broke off again. "Well, never mind
about that. I'll report to you from time to time as I make progress. It
is really a very interesting quest."
"Let's not tell any one yet," said Nan. "It makes it much more
interesting to have a secret." So the compact was made, just as Miss
Dolores and Carter came up the steps.
"Heigho, Cart," sang out Nan. "Come up, you two and help us keep the
Sabbath."
"How are you keeping it?" said Carter sitting down on the long bamboo
couch by Nan's side.
"Oh, we're keeping it properly. This morning we all went to church, and
this afternoon we are doing unto others as we would have them do unto
us."
"In what way?" queried Carter.
"Giving them the benefit of our brilliant conversation."
Carter laughed. "What are the kiddies doing?"
"Drowning Pharaoh in the Red Sea. I fancy they are getting their share
of the splashing, too."
"Jack is no doubt, but I don't believe Jean has a drop on her."
"Oh, Jack will have charge of the water works, you may be bound."
They were quite right, for presently the twins came out, Jack
plastering down her locks with her wet hands and Jean right as a trivet
in her Sunday best though bearing carefully the tray of shells which
she set in the sun to dry.
"Just look at your frock, Jack," said Nan. "Why didn't you wear an
apron?"
"Forgot," said Jack, looking down at her damp frock and trying to
smooth it out.
"Don't do that," cried Nan; "you're making it worse. Fortunately it
will wash. Go out in the sun and dry it."
"I know where there is a fine sunny spot," said Carter jumping up.
"Come along and we'll find it," and he bore the moist Jack away while
Jean, bereft of her twin, solaced herself with Mr. Pinckney.
"I suppose you are going to make mummies of the Egyptians," he said. "I
see you are drying them up. Are the children of Israel there too?"
"Yes," replied Jean seriously; "all but Moses. He rolled under the
sideboard and we couldn't get him, but Mrs. Bobs says Ah Wing will find
him when he sweeps."
"So he doesn't see the Promised Land with the rest," remarked Mr.
Pinckney. "Poor Moses."
Jean slipped down from his knee.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I'm going after Jack. I've just thought it would be lovely to hide
a little Moses in the bulrushes and have Miriam watching. There is a
tiny pink shell on top there that will just do for a baby. It will be a
mighty fine play, nicer than the other, I think, though that was crite
nice, too." She went off to seek Jack.
"Seven little Indians outside the door
Three trotted off and then there were four,"
improvised Nan.
"We're not Indians, if you mean us," said Mary Lee.
Nan looked at Mr. Pinckney who laughed. "Prisms will have a spade a
spade," he said. Then he turned suddenly to Miss Dolores. "I am told
your father was an American, Miss Garcia; do you know anything at all
about him? Where he was from, what he looked like, what was his age, or
any facts at all?"
The señorita shook her head. "I know nothing except that I have his
fair skin and that his hair was lighter than mine. He died before I was
born, and that was a year after he married my mother."
"You do not know where they were married?"
"No, señor."
"But it was--pardon the question, how many years ago?"
"Twenty-three."
Mr. Pinckney sat musingly looking off into the garden where Jack and
Jean were hiding Moses in a thicket of presumable bulrushes. They were
singing:
"To the side of the river so clear
They carried the beautiful child,"
and their childish voices were drifted toward the listeners on the
veranda, with the scent of roses and lilies.
"Twenty-three years," repeated Mr. Pinckney, "and that is all you know."
"All. The subject was tabooed in my uncle's family, but once when some
one asked if I resembled my mother my aunt said: 'Yes, in feature and
all except hair and complexion, but even her hair is darker than her
father's.' So I learned that much."
Mr. Pinckney did not put any more questions, for the triumphant train
of maidens came bearing the infant Moses to the palace, and the twins
announced that they had decided to make Mr. St. Nick king, pressing
upon him such arduous duties that he had no time for further inquiries.
For, when a somewhat bald head wears a crown it is apt to sit more
uneasily than upon one better covered.
"You must have this serape for a robe," insisted Jack, flinging an
Indian blanket around him. "We shall have Miss Dolores for Pharaoh's
daughter. The shells are too little. I am to be Miriam and we are going
to take the little Chinese image for Moses; Mrs. Bobs said we might."
"We don't have to have the ark of bulrushes now," said Jean.
"Put Moses in Pharaoh's daughter's lap," said Jack. "I wish I knew what
her name was."
"I can tell you," said Nan; "it was Thermeutis."
Jack stared and repeated the name softly to herself. Nan's facts were
always thankfully received, and could be counted upon as being correct.
"I must confess that Moses is not a beauty," remarked Nan as she looked
at the face of the ugly, fat little image staring from the folds of a
white towel, "and you were just singing 'To the side of the river so
clear they carried the _beautiful_ child.'"
"We'll just have to pretend he is beautiful."
"He looks as if he had a bad case of mumps," Nan went on. "I think he
needs a doctor, myself."
"Oh, Nan," said Jean reproachfully, "you're spoiling the play. We are
just pretending everything. I don't think Mr. St. Nick looks like the
pictures of Pharaoh, but he has to do, for there isn't any one else."
"He makes a very good king, I think," remarked Jack busying herself
with her long train. "Carter has to be Aaron, you know."
"Do you think I resemble my brother, Nan?" inquired Carter in an
anxious tone.
Nan laughed. "You're not so mumpy and dumpy and lumpy looking as Moses."
"Here's your rod that budded," said Jack bringing a branch of flowering
almond to him.
"It's budding far too soon," said Nan, "that didn't happen till much
later."
"I am afraid this play is rather too full of anachronisms for me," said
Carter.
"What's nackrynisms?" Jack pricked up her ears at the new word.
"It is making things happen at the wrong time," Carter told her; "as
if I should write a story and make you my grandmother."
"Oh!" Jack understood but dimly, and turned her attention to Mr.
Pinckney. "Here's your sceptre," she said, handing him a stick, then,
after informing him that he could be as wicked as he pleased, she went
on with the play till the hour came for supper.