remorse. Take them! Read them! My father left them in the house
where he lived so many years. This man found them and kept them, and
only gave them up to me in exchange for your letter, as assurance,
he said, that I would not marry you without my father's consent. I
sacrificed my love! Who would not for a mother dead and two fathers
living? Could I foresee what use they would make of your letter? Could
I know I was sacrificing you too?"
Ibarra was speechless. Maria went on:
"What remained for me to do? Could I tell you who my father was? Could
I bid you ask his pardon, when he had so made your father suffer? Could
I say to my father, who perhaps would have pardoned you--could I say I
was his daughter? Nothing remained but to suffer, to guard my secret,
and die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad story
of your poor Maria, have you still for her that disdainful smile?"
"Maria, you are a saint!"
"I am blessed, because you believe in me----"
"And yet," said Crisostomo, remembering, "I heard you were to
marry----"
"Yes," sobbed the poor child, "my father demands this sacrifice; he
has loved me, nourished me, and it did not belong to him to do it. I
shall pay him my debt of gratitude by assuring him peace through this
new connection, but----"
"But?"
"I shall not forget my vows to you."
"What is your thought?" asked Ibarra, trying to read in her clear eyes.
"The future is obscure. I do not know what I shall do; but I know
this, that I can love but once, and that I shall not belong to one
I do not love. And you? What will you do?"
"I am no longer anything but a fugitive--I shall fly, and my flight
will soon be overtaken, Maria----"
Maria took his head in her hands, kissed his lips again and again,
then pushed him away with all her strength.
"Fly, fly!" she said. "Adieu!"
Ibarra looked at her with shining eyes, but she made a sign, and he
went, reeling for an instant like a drunken man. He leaped the wall
again, and was back in the little bark. Maria Clara, leaning on the
balustrade, watched till it disappeared in the distance.
LIII.
THE CHASE ON THE LAKE.
"Listen, senor, to the plan I have made," said Elias, as he pulled
toward San Gabriel. "I will hide you, for the present, at the house
of a friend of mine at Mandaluyong. I will bring you there your gold,
that I hid in the tomb of your great-grandfather. You will leave
the country----"
"To live among strangers?" interrupted Ibarra.
"To live in peace. You have friends in Spain; you may get amnesty."
Crisostomo did not reply; he reflected in silence.
They arrived at the Pasig, and the little bark began to go up
stream. On the bridge was a horseman, hastening his course, and a
whistle long and shrill was heard.
"Elias," said Ibarra at length, "your misfortunes are due to my
family, and you have twice saved my life. I owe you both gratitude
and restitution of property. You advise me to leave the country;
well, come with me. We will live as brothers."
Elias shook his head.
"It is true that I can never be happy in my country, but I can live and
die there, perhaps die for my country. That is always something. But
you can do nothing for her, here and now. Perhaps some day----"
"Unless I, too, should become a tulisan," mused Ibarra.
"Senor, a month ago we sat in this same boat, under the light of this
same moon. You could not have said such a thing then."
"No, Elias. Man seems to be an animal who varies with circumstances. I
was blind then, unreasonable, I know not what. Now the bandage has
been torn from my eyes; the wretchedness and solitude of my prison has
taught me better. I see the cancer that is eating into our society;
perhaps, after all, it must be torn out by violence."
They came in sight of the governor-general's palace, and thought they
saw unusual movement among the guards.
"Your escape must have been discovered," said Elias. "Lie down, senor,
so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine
may stop us."
As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him
where he came from.
"From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates," said he,
imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.
A sergeant came out.
"Sulung," said he to Elias, "I warn you not to take any one into your
boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him
to me, I will give you a fine reward."
"Good, senor; what is his description?"
"He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!"
The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing
by the bank.
"We shall lose a few minutes," he said; "we shall have to go into
the rio Beata, to make him think I'm from Pena Francia. You shall
see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang."
The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisostomo sat up to admire
the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were
plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the
grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves
that are called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were
back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.
"Santa Ana!" said Ibarra, speaking low; "do you know that
building?" They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.
"I've spent many happy days there," said Elias. "When I was a child,
we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family,
a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future."
They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-bato. Those who have
sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights
of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a
poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence
puts out their sordid words--those who have done this will know some
of the thoughts of these two young men.
At Malapad-na-bato, the rifleman was sleepy, and seeing no hope of
plunder in the little bark, according to the tradition of his corps
and the habit of this post, he let it pass. The guard at Pasig was
no more disquieting.
The moonlight was growing pale, and dawn was beginning to tint the east
with roses, when they arrived at the lake, smooth and placid as a great
mirror. At a distance they saw a gray mass, advancing little by little.
"It's the falua," said Elias under his breath. "Lie down, senor,
and I will cover you with these bags."
The outlines of the government boat grew more and more distinct.
"She's getting between us and the shore," said Elias, uneasily; and
very gradually he changed the direction of his bark. To his terror
he saw the falua make the same change, and heard a voice hailing
him. He stopped and thought. The shore was yet some distance away;
they would soon be within range of the ship's guns. He thought he would
go back to Pasig, his boat could escape the other in that direction;
but fate was against him. Another boat was coming from Pasig, and in
it glittered the helmets and bayonets of the Civil Guards.
"We are caught!" he said, and the color left his face. He looked at
his sturdy arms, and took the only resolution possible; he began to
row with all his might toward the island of Talim. The sun was coming
up. The bark shot rapidly over the water; on the falua, which changed
its tack, Elias saw men signalling.
"Do you know how to manage a bark?" he demanded of Ibarra.
"Yes. Why?"
"Because we are lost unless I take to the water to throw them off the
track. They will pursue me. I swim and dive well. That will turn them
away from you, and you must try to save yourself."
"No, stay, and let us sell our lives dear!"
"It is useless; we have no arms; they would shoot us down like birds."
As he spoke, they heard a hiss in the water, followed by a report.
"You see!" said Elias, laying down his oar. "We will meet, Christmas
night, at the tomb of your grandfather. Save yourself! God has drawn
me out of greater perils than this!"
He took off his shirt; a ball picked it out of his hands, and two
reports followed. Without showing alarm, he grasped the hand Ibarra
stretched up from the bottom of the boat, then stood upright and
leaped into the water, pushing off the little craft with his foot.
Outcries were heard from the falua. Promptly, and at some distance,
appeared the head of the young man, returning to the surface to
breathe, then disappearing immediately.
"There, there he is," cried several voices, and balls whistled.
The falua and the bark from Pasig set out in pursuit of the swimmer. A
slight wake showed his direction, more and more removed from Ibarra's
little bark, which drifted as if abandoned. Every time Elias raised
his head to breathe, the guards and the men of the falua fired on him.
The chase went on. The little bark with Ibarra was left far
behind. Elias was not more than a hundred yards from the shore. The
rowers were getting tired, but so was Elias, for he repeatedly
raised his head above the water, but always in a new direction, to
disconcert his pursuers. The deceiving wake no longer told the place
of the swimmer. For the last time they saw him, sixty feet from the
shore. The soldiers fired--minutes and minutes passed. Nothing again
disturbed the tranquil surface of the lake.
A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces of
blood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt.
LIV.
FATHER DAMASO EXPLAINS HIMSELF.
In vain the precious wedding presents heaped up; not the brilliants
in their velvet cases, not embroideries of pina nor pieces of silk,
drew the eyes of Maria Clara. She saw nothing but the journal in
which was told the death of Ibarra, drowned in the lake.
Suddenly she felt two hands over her eyes, clasping her head, while
a merry voice said to her:
"Who is it? Who is it?"
Maria sprang up in fright.
"Little goose! Did I scare you, eh? You weren't expecting me, eh? Why,
I've come from the province to be at your marriage----" And with a
satisfied smile, Father Damaso gave her his hand to kiss. She took it,
trembling, and carried it respectfully to her lips.
"What is it, Maria?" demanded the Franciscan, troubled, and losing
his gay smile. "Your hand is cold, you are pale--are you ill, little
girl?" And he drew her tenderly to him, took both her hands and
questioned her with his eyes.
"Won't you confide in your godfather?" he asked in a tone of
reproach. "Come, sit down here and tell me your griefs, as you
used to do when you were little, and wanted some tapers to make
wax dolls. You know I've always loved you--never scolded you----"
and his voice became very tender. Maria began to cry.
"Why do you cry, my child? Have you quarrelled with Linares?"
Maria put her hands over her eyes.
"No; it's not about him--now!"
Father Damaso looked startled. "And you won't tell me your
secrets? Have I not always tried to satisfy your slightest wish?"
Maria raised to him her eyes full of tears, looked at him a moment,
then sobbed afresh.
"My child!"
Maria came slowly to him, fell on her knees at his feet, and raising
her face wet with tears, asked in a voice scarcely audible:
"Do you still love me?"
"Child!"
"Then--protect my father and make him break off my marriage." And
she told him of her last interview with Ibarra, omitting everything
about the secret of her birth.
Father Damaso could scarcely believe what he heard. She was talking
calmly now, without tears.
"So long as he lived," she went on, "I could struggle, I could hope,
I had confidence; I wished to live to hear about him; but now--that
they have killed him, I have no longer any reason to live and suffer."
"And--Linares----"
"If he had lived, I might have married--for my father's sake; but
now that he is dead, I want the convent--or the grave."
"You loved him so?" stammered Father Damaso. Maria did not reply. The
father bent his head on his breast.
"My child," he said at last in a broken voice, "forgive me for
having made you unhappy; I did not know I was doing it! I thought
of your future. How could I let you marry a man of this country, to
see you, later on, an unhappy wife and mother? I set myself with all
my strength to get this love out of your mind, I used all means--for
you, only for you. If you had been his wife, you would have wept for
the unfortunate position of your husband, exposed to all sorts of
dangers, and without defence; a mother, you would have wept for your
children; had you educated them, you would have prepared them a sad
future; they would have become enemies of religion; the gallows or
exile would have been their portion; had you left them in ignorance,
you would have seen them tyrannized over and degraded. I could not
consent to this. That is why I found for you a husband whose children
should command, not obey; punish, not suffer--I knew your childhood's
friend was good, and I liked him, as I did his father; but I hated
them both for your sake, because I love you as one loves a daughter,
because I idolize you--I have no other love; I have seen you grow up,
there isn't an hour in which I do not think of you, you are my one
joy----" And Father Damaso began to cry like a child.
"Then if you love me, do not make me forever miserable; he is dead,
I wish to be a nun."
The old man rested his forehead in his hand.
"A nun, a nun!" he repeated. "You do not know, my child, all that
is hidden behind the walls of a convent, you do not know! I would
a thousand times rather see you unhappy in the world than in the
cloister. Here your complaints can be heard; there you have only the
walls! You are beautiful, very beautiful; you were not made to renounce
the world. Believe me, my child, time alters all things; later you
will forget, you will love, you will love your husband--Linares."
"Either the convent or--death," repeated Maria, with no sign of
yielding.
"Maria," said the father, "I am not young. I cannot watch over you
always; choose something else, find another love, another husband,
anything, what you will!"
"I choose the convent."
"My God, my God!" cried the priest, burying his face in his hands. "You
punish me, be it so! But watch over my daughter!--Maria, you shall
be a nun. I cannot have you die."
Maria took his hands, pressed them, kissed them as she knelt.
"Godfather, my godfather," she said.
"Oh, God!" cried the heart of the father, "thou dost exist, because
thou dost chastise! Take vengeance upon me, but do not strike the
innocent; save my daughter!"
LV.
THE NOCHEBUENA.
Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hides
under the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roof
creep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlers
and wild boars' heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornament
the rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from the
chase and the cup of the woods.
Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from the
veins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons,
and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing beside
another boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. It
is Sisa's son, Basilio.
"When your foot is well," said the little boy, "you will go with us
to the top of the mountain and drink deer's blood and lemon juice;
then you'll grow fat; then I'll show you how to jump from one rock
to another, over the torrent."
Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked at
the sun, which was shining splendidly.
"Sell these brooms, Lucia," said the grandfather to the young girl,
"and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas."
"Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!" cried the little boy.
"And what do you want?" the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy got
up and went to the old man.
"Senor," he said, "have I been ill more than a month?"
"Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons have
passed. We thought you were going to die----"
"May God reward you; we are very poor," said Basilio; "but as to-day
is Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and my
little brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me."
"But, son, you aren't well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. You
would not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you when
they come from the forest."
"You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps she
thinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night--a son!"
The grandfather felt his eyes grow dim.
"You are as sensible as an old man! Go, find your mother, give her
her present! Go, my son. God and the Lord Jesus go with you!"
"What, you're not going to stay and see my fire-crackers?" said the
little boy.
"I want you to play hide and seek!" pouted the little girl; "nothing
else is so much fun."
Basilio smiled and his eyes filled with tears.
"I shall come back soon," he said, "and bring my little brother;
then you can play with him. But I must go away now with Lucia."
"Don't forget us!" said the old man, "and come back when you are
well." The children all accompanied him to the bridge of bamboo over
the rushing torrent. Lucia, who was going to the first pueblo with
her basket, made him lean on her arm; the other children watched them
both out of sight.
The north wind was blowing, and the dwellers in San Diego were
trembling with cold. It was the Nochebuena, and yet the pueblo was
sad. Not a paper lantern hung in the windows, no noise in the houses
announcing the joyful time, as in other years.
At the home of Captain Basilio, the master of the house is talking
with Don Filipo; the troubles of these times have made them friends.
"You are in rare luck, to be released at just this moment," Captain
Basilio was saying to his guest. "They've burned your books, that's
true; but others have fared worse."
A woman came up to the window and looked in. Her eyes were brilliant,
her face haggard, her hair loose; the moon made her uncanny.
"Sisa?" asked Don Filipo, in surprise. "I thought she was with
a physician."
Captain Basilio smiled bitterly.
"The doctor feared he might be taken for a friend of Don Crisostomo's,
so he drove her out!"
"What else has happened since I went away? I know we have a new curate
and a new alferez----"
"Well, the head sacristan was found dead, hung in the garret of his
house. And old Tasio is dead. They buried him in the Chinese cemetery."
"Poor Don Astasio!" sighed Don Filipo. "And his books?"
"The devout thought it would be pleasing to God if they should
burn them; nothing escaped, not even the works of Cicero. The
gobernadorcillo was no check whatsoever."
They were both silent. At that moment, the melancholy song of Sisa
was heard. A child passed, limping, and running toward the place from
which the song came; it was Basilio. The little fellow had found
his home deserted and in ruins. He had been told about his mother;
of Crispin he had not heard a word. He had dried his tears, smothered
his grief, and without resting, started out to find Sisa.
She had come to the house of the new alferez. As usual, a sentinel
was pacing up and down. When she saw the soldier, she took to flight,
and ran as only a wild thing can. Basilio saw her, and fearing to
lose sight of her, forgot his wounded foot, and followed in hot
pursuit. Dogs barked, geese cackled, windows opened here and there,
to give passage to the heads of the curious; others banged to, from
fear of a new night of trouble. At this rate, the runners were soon
outside the pueblo, and Sisa began to moderate her speed. There was
a long distance between her and her pursuer.
"Mother!" he cried, when he could distinguish her.
No sooner did Sisa hear the voice than she again began to run madly.
"Mother, it's I," cried the child in despair. Sisa paid no
attention. The poor little fellow followed breathless. They were now
on the border of the wood.
Bushes, thorny twigs, and the roots of trees hindered their
progress. The child followed the vision of his mother, made clear now
and then by the moon's rays across the heavy foliage. They were in the
mysterious wood of the family of Ibarra. Basilio often stumbled and
fell, but he got up again, without feeling his hurts, or remembering
his lameness. All his life was concentrated in his eyes, which never
lost the beloved figure from view.
They crossed the brook, which was singing gently, and to his great
surprise, Basilio saw his mother press through the thicket and
enter the wooden door that closed the tomb of the old Spaniard. He
tried to follow her, but the door was fast. Sisa was defending the
entrance--holding the door closed with all her strength.
"Mother, it's I, it's I, Basilio, your son!" cried the child, falling
from fatigue. But Sisa would not budge. Her feet braced against the
ground, she offered an energetic resistance. Basilio examined the wall,
but could not scale it. Then he made the tour of the grave. He saw a
branch of the great tree, crossed by a branch of another. He began
to climb, and his filial love did miracles. He went from branch to
branch, and came over the tomb at last.
The noise he made in the branches startled Sisa. She turned and
would have fled, but her son, letting himself drop from the tree,
seized her in his arms and covered her with kisses; then, worn out,
he fainted away.
Sisa saw his forehead bathed in blood. She bent over him, and her
eyes, almost out of their sockets, were fixed on his face, which
stirred the sleeping cells of her brain. Then something like a spark
flashed through them. Sisa recognized her son, and with a cry fell
on his senseless body, pressing it to her heart, kissing him and
weeping. Then mother and son were both motionless.
When Basilio came to himself, he found his mother without
consciousness. He called her, lavished tender names on her, and seeing
she did not wake, ran for water and sprinkled her pale face. But the
eyes remained closed. In terror, Basilio put his ear to her heart,
but her heart no longer beat. The poor child embraced the dead body
of his mother, weeping bitterly.
On this night of joy for so many children, who, by the warm hearth,
celebrate the feast which recalls the first loving look Heaven gave
to earth; on this night when all good Christian families eat, laugh,
and dance, 'mid love and kisses; on this night which, for the children
of cold countries, is magical with its Christmas trees, Basilio sits
in solitude and grief. Who knows? Perhaps around the hearth of the
silent Father Salvi are children playing; perhaps they are singing:
"Christmas comes,
And Christmas goes."
The child was sobbing. When he raised his head, a man was looking
silently down at him.
"You are her son?" he asked.
Basilio nodded his head.
"What are you going to do?"
"Bury her."
"In the cemetery?"
"I have no money--if you would help me----"
"I am too weak," said the man, sinking gradually to the ground. "I am
wounded. For two days I have not eaten or slept. Has no one been here
to-night?" And the man sat still, watching the child's attractive face.
"Listen," said he, in a voice growing feebler, "I too shall be dead
before morning. Twenty paces from here, beyond the spring, is a pile
of wood; put our two bodies on it, and light the fire."
Basilio listened.
"Then, if nobody comes, you are to dig here; you will find a lot of
gold, and it will be all yours. Study!"
The voice of the unknown man sank lower and lower. Then he turned
his head toward the east, and said softly, as though praying:
"I die without seeing the light of dawn on my country. You who shall
see it and greet it, do not forget those who fell in the night!"
The Archbishop and the Lady
By Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield
A story of modern society which only a writer of very wide and very
exceptional social experience could have written. It is cosmopolitan,
yet full of romance; modern, yet informed with a delicate old-world
charm. The characters are put before us with a consummate knowledge
of the world and a penetrating insight into human nature.
Cloth. 12mo; 5-1/8 x 7-3/4. About $1.50.
April's Sowing
By GERTRUDE HALL
Miss Gertrude Hall is known to the world as a poet and as a teller
of tales, but with her first novel she reveals new gifts, for it is
a modern story tuned to a note of light comedy that she has never
struck before. "April's Sowing" is that most widely appreciated thing
in letters, a young love story.
Illustrated by Orson Lowell. With decorative cover, frontispiece,
title page in color, and ornamental head and tail pieces. Cloth. 12mo;
5-1/8 x 7-3/4. $1.50.
The Darlingtons
By ELMORE ELLIOTT PEAKE
A novel of American life in the middle West which deals principally
with the fortunes of a family whose members are the social and
financial leaders of their section. The heroine is a girl whose
education is broad enough to enable her to assist her father in
managing a railroad. The hero is a Methodist minister of liberal
tendencies. The story is told with remarkable fidelity and unusual
dramatic interest.