to help her occasionally, taking her by the arm, for the road was
gravelled and her slippers were thin. Again she was quiet; again, her
eyes were sad, and glistened with what seemed to him to be unshed
tears. He was very gentle with her, and won a wan smile now and then,
or a quick, grateful look.
When their walk was over, and Dorothy had said good-night, Mrs.
Thorburn came to sit beside Austin, under the rose-covered pergola.
Once more she laid her hand upon his arm, and again her speech was full
of friendly interest and sympathy, leading, at last, to the subject of
a change in Austin’s mode of life, and then--to marriage.
There could be no doubt as to her meaning. She admired and respected
him. His loyalty to his dead wife was, to her, a sure sign that he
would make a loyal husband to a new one. And Dorothy felt so, too.
Later, he held a conference with himself--and felt just a trifle
disappointed at the thought that Mrs. Thorburn was descending to
match-making. “Perhaps I would be happier, though,” he said to himself,
“and more contented. But--Dorothy is twenty.”
Was there not too wide a gap between their ages? He had always held
that youth naturally turned to youth for happiness; he had always
strongly disapproved of the marriage of May with December, pointing out
that such a union never took place when December was poor. But--was
forty December? On the other hand, he was not poor.
“But the Thorburns don’t need money,” he said decisively. “It wouldn’t
be a purchase.” The idea was so abhorrent that he determinedly put it
aside, and fell asleep thinking of possible changes in the decorations
and furnishings of the big, stone house on the avenue.
The miniature had not been forgotten: he had purposely refrained from
looking at it.
It was early morning when he awoke and looked out. The sun was just
rising. High Court was yet asleep. The only moving thing about the
grounds was a gardener, pushing before him a barrow filled with weeds
and tools. Austin dressed hurriedly, and quietly made his way out upon
the broad lawn. Then he pulled his soft hat over his eyes, settled his
coat, and made off down the carriage road, walking briskly.
To reach the creek was easy. But once on its edge, he looked up at the
house and felt that the long pull back would be less difficult after a
refreshing cup of coffee. The thought touched his pride--had he grown
to be such an old fogy that he must have his usual breakfast stimulant
before making a little extra physical effort! The town lay up the level
track. He turned that way.
Breakfast over at the little Mexican restaurant, he started homeward,
leaving the tracks, this time, and following a trail that led through a
small field of alfalfa. When the woods were reached, he settled himself
against a log in the sun, and looked down upon the town, toward which
a pigmy freight train was crawling, and upon the fringed creek and the
small, fenced alfalfa fields bordering the lane.
And then--_gobble, gobble, gobble_. He glanced along the trail. Some
turkeys were coming into view, and beyond them, a wide, bobbing hat.
When Vincenza appeared, driving the laziest gobbler before her, Austin
rose. “Out early with your turkeys, I see,” he began. “You’re Miss
Vincenza. Mrs. Thorburn has spoken of you. I’m staying at High Court
for a few days.”
She had been standing very still while he talked, modestly watching
him. Now, she smiled frankly, and nodded. “Yes, I know Mrs. Thorburn,”
she said. “All the time, ladies and gentlemen come from the city to
visit her. Sometimes I see them--I go up to the house to take a turkey,
maybe, and then I see them on the porch.”
She moved away, following the flock, and he walked with her. They went
slowly, accommodating themselves to the vagaries of the leading hens,
whose slender chicks, forever cheeping shrilly, ran on and on in a
little brown, eager brood.
“Isn’t the morning beautiful!” he said. “I live in the city, you know,
and never see the sun come up.”
“I always see it,” she answered. “I drive the turkeys out early. They
are in a coop at night, for the coyotes would like to eat them. When
they get loose, oh, they walk and walk. They walk my feet off!” She
shook her head in mock despair.
They paused now, the foremost turkeys having stopped to explore a
manzanita thicket. Austin took a closer look at her than he had had
before, his wonder growing over her delicate beauty. Never had he seen
its equal. And yet she seemed unconscious of it, and had none of the
smirking and simpering and obvious showing-off of her prettiness that
marred most girls. Then, for some reason, there rose up before him a
certain, doll-like face, pretty and petulant, but distinguished by eyes
that were purposefully eloquent.
The hazel pair at hand were watching the valley. Austin looked and saw
a horseman threading the lane by the creek. At that great distance, the
horse looked to him scarcely more than a rabbit in size.
Vincenza’s face lighted as she looked. “Ah!” she exclaimed presently;
“it is Guido!” And shaping her slim hands to form a mouth-trumpet, she
sent down a long, clear halloo.
The horseman reined sharply and, taking off his hat, waved it about his
head. Then he rode on, with a trail of dust rising like smoke behind
him.
Between the galloping horseman and the hill, two people on foot
were moving slowly. Austin studied them a moment. One was a woman,
in a white dress, the other a man--Heaton, surely, for there was no
mistaking that broad sombrero. But who was the girl?
Vincenza now hurried forward, all anxiety for her flock. “Fantana,” she
called, “oh, where are the babies?” Spying them out, all safe, she came
back to give the ever-lagging gobbler a smart cuff. “Why, _why_ do you
not stay with the little ones and take care of them?” she demanded in a
scold. “You bad Dewey!”
Austin was delighted. He gave over watching the couple in the valley
and helped her circle the flock and keep them from spreading. Then,
together, they freed a little turk that had tangled his over-long legs
among some vines.
The next four days passed with amazing swiftness for Austin. His
mornings were spent among the oaks upon the hill, where the turkeys
never failed to make their appearance. He took a shotgun with him,
Hal having suggested that the ranch could spare an occasional coyote
or rabbit--or even a wildcat! But the afternoons were devoted to High
Court, and billiards or bridge made the warm hours go quickly. In the
evening there was a drive, perhaps, or a stroll.
As a rule, after dinner, Austin walked with Dorothy, the others rather
pairing off or grouping so that this might be the case. One night,
however, toward the end of his stay, Miss Scott fell to his lot. The
first half-hour with her he contrived to spend agreeably. Once you
knew her, he had come to think, she was really a nice enough girl.
Her pertness grew out of her natural sharpness rather than out of any
intent to be caustic or malicious. But--did it?
They had arrived at a palm-bordered turn in the road that led to the
valley. There they paused, looking back at the low, white house, the
wide windows of which were all brilliantly alight.
“Isn’t it a delightful home?” said Austin. “So simple, yet it would be
hard to find a detail that could be improved.”
“There _is_ one, though,” retorted Miss Scott. “Only you can’t see--a
mortgage.” The expression of her face, it was as if she had winked,
carried full meaning.
It worked like a sudden poison. Now Austin understood Hal’s apparently
enthusiastic liking for him; now he understood Mrs. Thorburn’s
well-veiled wishes and friendly pats upon his arm; now he understood
Dorothy, sulky at times, at others over-cordial, in fact, gushing, and
always so eloquent of eye.
But could he give unquestioning belief to the mere insinuation of a
sharp-tongued envious girl? What right had he, on such flimsy evidence,
to jump to the conclusion that the Thorburns, mother and son, were
cold-blooded bargainers; that Dorothy, in her sweeter moods, was acting
a crafty lie?
As he walked silently homeward, he was forced to acknowledge to
himself that he had not an inkling as to what were the girl’s true
inclinations. Her artificial life, and her training under false
standards, made it possible for her to mask her real self. If there
were no one to influence her, would she seek her happiness with him?
His meeting with Vincenza next morning was like a breath of scented
air after a stifling room. She did not know of his wealth, she did
not parade her beauty, she was not hunting a human bank. If it were
a question of what were her feelings, how easily, how unerringly, it
could be answered! For what she said came straight from her innocent
heart, and could be accepted absolutely. She was truth itself.
While they sat together under a broad live-oak, with the turkeys
settled down near by in the sun, he listened with keen pleasure to her
naïve chatter and to the sturdy announcement that she was going to the
city--soon, too, this with a blush, and that even now she was having a
“tailor-suit” made for her journey.
“A tailor-suit!” thought Austin, almost laughing at the ridiculousness
of it. She seemed so fitted to the simple print dress and the broad
sun-hat she was wearing.
The following day he breakfasted before the others and hurried off
eagerly, carrying the gun. He had never fired it yet, but it served as
an excellent excuse for his long rambles. When he reached the oak grove
on the hillside, he leaned the weapon against a tree. Then he stretched
himself out, his soft hat under his head.
Vincenza--in the last twenty-four hours, how often the thought of
her had come to him! What a contrast this girl of the fields was to
Dorothy Thorbum! How winsome, how unaffected. She was a little woman
to be prized as a jewel by a fortunate man. How disinterested her
companionship with him had been! She liked him solely for himself--with
no knowledge, and, therefore, no thought, of the big stone house that
would be a veritable palace of fairyland to a girl like her; with no
thought of fine raiment, or of luxuries of any sort.
Something moved in the chaparral clump above him. He turned, and saw
two small brown-feathered birds emerge.
“Quail!” he said under his breath. He reached for the gun, aimed
quickly, and fired.
Instantly mingled cries went up: the frightened gobbling of grown
turkeys, the pitiful cheeps of a young bird as it tumbled about in the
grass, and, louder than these, the wailing plea of a girl--“Oh! oh!
don’t shoot!”
Then, racing down upon him, came Vincenza, her hat gone, her dark hair
flying, her face white with anxiety for her flock.
There he stood, red-handed, the gun in his grasp, the injured chick at
his feet.
She saw the little crumpled victim now, and with a pitiful sob sank
down and took it into her lap. “Ah! poor Maria!” she wept, smoothing a
stained wing.
“Vincenza,” pleaded Austin, putting the gun aside and kneeling beside
her, “I didn’t mean to do it. I thought it was a quail. Oh, I’m so
sorry. Listen. I’ll make the loss up a thousand times. Come, _please_
don’t cry.”
The chaparral crashed above him. He stood up--in time to meet the angry
black eyes of a stalwart young man, who came panting upon the scene,
carrying Vincenza’s hat.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the newcomer. “My Vincenza, are you hurt?
This fool has been shooting.” And lifting the girl up, he held her, as
if in defence, against his breast. [Instantly Austin divined why the
mistress of High Court had no need to belittle the turkey-girl!]
“No, no, Guido,” Vincenza sobbed protestingly, “he is not a fool.”
“He kills the turkeys,” went on Guido, glaring at Austin. “Say, Mister,
what’s the matter with you?”
“I’ll make it right,” Austin answered in a low voice.
“The devil!” began Guido, almost shaking Vincenza in his wrath. “But
she loves each little one.”
Vincenza interrupted him. A slim hand came up and settled determinedly
upon his mouth. “Guido,” she entreated, “do not be so mad. I would
have to sell them all before the wedding, would I not? And Maria was
so young--she was not worth two-bits. Only”--plaintively--“she dies a
little sooner.”
“Well, anyhow,” went on Guido, not a whit pacified, “I like to know why
you hang around and hang around here all the time. Vincenza, she is
mine, and I do not----”
Again, the girl interrupted. This time, she stepped back a little,
holding her lover at arm’s length and smiling at him through her tears.
“Oh, poor Guido,” she cried teasingly, with a swift look toward
Austin. “What you think? He is jealous! And of this kind old gentleman!”
Austin involuntarily straightened, and his head jerked back as if from
a blow. The doubts that had troubled him were settled. Truth had spoken.
He took out a bulging leather purse, opened it, and let a dozen shining
fives run into his hand. Then, his sensitive face pale, his look
subdued, he held out the money to Guido.
The young Italian received it with something short of a bow, and
proffered it to Vincenza. “Here,” he said soothingly.
Vincenza, black lashes still wet, gazed in wonderment upon the little
pile of coins. “Oh!” she cried, “but Maria was not worth so much!”
Austin picked up the gun, buttoned his coat, and returned Guido’s bow.
“It is partly a--a little wedding gift,” he said. “And I wish you both
all the happiness that life can give. Good-day.” He lifted his hat and
wheeled.
At that moment he saw, halted in a well-screened turn of the distant
road by the creek, two figures. One was slender and dressed in
white, and one was topped by a wide sombrero. And, as he looked, the
white-clad figure was suddenly caught close to the other--so close that
two heads were shielded by the same broad hat.
* * * * *
“Well,” said Austin, at luncheon, smiling upon his hostess, “I go back
to town to-day.”
Mrs. Thorburn’s face, until now wreathed in smiles that were marvels of
effusive amiability, dropped as suddenly as if a rough hand had been
drawn down across it; then it slowly reddened, and two eyes, startled,
even apprehensive, exchanged a glance with Hal.
“Nonsense!” cried the son of the house, leaning toward Austin. “We
can’t let you go--that’s all there is about it. Ned here is off in the
morning, and--and we can’t afford to lose anyone else. Can we, mother?”
By now Mrs. Thorburn had recovered somewhat from her momentary
surprise. Once more beaming amiably, she shook a finger at Austin in
playful sternness. “I protest,” she said. “No, no, you can’t go. We all
protest. Dorothy----”
“Yes, indeed,” chimed in the girl, but with illy feigned enthusiasm.
“Why--why should you go?”
“I’ve got such a lot to do,” explained Austin. “You know Thomas--the
man that’s been with me such a long time. He’s just been married, and I
want to attend to a wedding-present for him.”
“The idea of your hurrying away to look after a servant’s comfort,”
cooed Mrs. Thorburn, “when you need rest so badly yourself.”
“I think you’re right,” admitted Austin, airily. “I’m not as young as I
was once.”
“Not so young!” repeated Mrs. Thorburn. “Oh, how ridiculous!” And,
“Bosh!” added Hal. But Dorothy said nothing, only coloured, as if in
guilt. Ned was watching her, his boyish face set, his eyes half closed.
The Lamberts alone were concerned with their luncheon. Miss Scott was
all attention. Her sharp chin was up, her sharper eyes travelling
alertly.
“Yes, not so young,” continued Austin, jovially. “In fact, I’m nothing
less than an old gentleman.” He gave a hearty laugh.
Mrs. Thorburn shifted uneasily. His demeanour had in it an entirely
strange note. The subdued, seemingly pliable Austin she understood. But
what of this new one, changed all at once--more youthful, cheery and
dominating?
“You know, these two weeks, I’ve had time to take stock of myself,”
Austin continued. “I was in a groove. Well, travelling over these hills
has taught me the value of change and recreation. I’m going back to
town to settle things up so that I can get away to Europe for a long
vacation. I’m afraid that means more work for you, Ned.”
The young man looked back at him soberly. “Yes, sir?”
“Sort of a manager. What do you say?”
For a moment there was perfect silence; next, a general movement;
then--Dorothy’s fork fell from her hand and clattered upon a plate.
“Manager,” repeated Heaton.
The older man nodded, and smiled from one to another of the circle.
When he came to Dorothy, he saw a face from which petulance and
pretence were gone. Her eyes, as they met his, were as childishly
honest as Vincenza’s own. And they were shining with tears.
“And while I’m away you could take care of my house, Ned, if--if you
weren’t a single man.”
Again, a perfect silence, a silence almost electric. Hal and his mother
exchanged a second swift glance. Miss Scott leaned forward. She looked
at no one, and spoke with sly triumph.
“Congratulations,” she said.
* * * * *
With Arroyo far behind, and High Court only a white dot upon the
brown-grey hills, Austin turned from the car window, took out the round
locket and opened it. In his face there was none of the old pain.
Instead, he looked with a tender smile upon the pictured face of his
wife.
“Barbara,” he said, “the spring of youth--it never could be found a
second time. We drank from it together--we enjoyed it to the full. What
a mistake--mourning instead of exulting in the memory of it--a memory
that no one can take from me--of youth with you, dearest, of youth with
_you_!”
THE SILVER BELL OF LOS MORALES
Strange things are related of the old Indian pueblo of Los Morales
on the Rio Grande. And a tale that is one of the strangest concerns
these--a dark vaquero--a young painter of Indians, fair as the vaquero
was dark--a blue-eyed girl with a spotted mustang--a little father of
the chapel of San Felipe--a dove that was a peacock--a peacock that
was a living example--a deer fed on flowers--and an empty belfry that
sounded forth the ringing of a bell.
* * * * *
“Ah-ah,” said Father José, pausing in the midst of his salad-making to
listen, “--more trouble!”
The young man at the easel looked up. “Gracious!” he exclaimed, and
faced about to peer through the low, wide-ledged window of the kitchen.
“It sounds serious.”
“But it is only Anastacio and Paloma,” said the father wearily. He
trotted across the worn floor to fetch a deep white-and-gold dish from
his cupboard. Returning, he held the dish up. “It was my mother’s,” he
explained proudly, “--like all those upon the shelf. She had a full set
of porcelain. And my salads are always most palatable in this dish.”
“Paloma,” repeated the painter, with a fleet glance at the dish. “That
means a dove.”
“Yes--and I christened her. But, ah! Señor John, when a Spanish girl is
yet a baby, how is it possible to know what name she should be given? A
dove!”
At this juncture the quarrel without waxed more loud and furious. A
girl shrilled something taunting--over and over, in a high key--then,
the rumble of a man’s deep growling answered--next, both voices sounded
together--a very discord of wrath.
“I’d like to get Anastacio to sit for me,” said the painter. “I could
call it ‘The Brigand.’ What _do_ you suppose the trouble is _this_
time?”
The father was intent upon his salad. In the bottom of the
white-and-gold dish he laid a slice of buttered bread well rubbed with
garlic--this for a foundation, as it were. Then upon the bread, leaf
laid against leaf, so that the effect was that of a huge green rose,
he placed the lettuce, all glistening with its dressing of oil and
vinegar; and a-top the lettuce, thin circles of silvery onion.
“I do not ask,” he said presently, “because it is not necessary to ask.
I hear it all at confession.”
Señor John smiled, and came back to his painting.
“If it is something wicked that Paloma has done,” resumed the father,
“I know even before that. For she comes to bring me a custard.”
The next moment, the low blue door beside the window was struck so
violently from without that it slammed open with a bang against the
corner of Father José’s china-cupboard. Then over the threshold on
swift foot came a girl, her angry face ivory-pale in contrast with her
black eyes and wildly tossed black hair. “But I love the deer!” she
burst forth pantingly, as she paused before the father; “and I will
_not_ give him away. And if I cannot have him at the new house, then I
shall not marry.”
The father had been standing with one hand upon his cupboard to steady
it, for the bang of the door had set all his precious porcelain to
rattling. Now, by a rolling of his eyes, a pursing of his lips, and a
sidewise wagging of his head, he directed the girl’s look toward the
easel.
She half whirled, and a sudden tinge of coral upon cheek and lip
relieved the black and ivory. “O-o-oh!” she murmured, and fell back a
step.
Señor John rose, bowing over his palette and brush.
“This gentleman,” explained Father José, “is Señor John Gordon. He is
staying on the other side of the river, at the rancho of Señor Allen.
And he comes here to paint pictures.”
Paloma regarded the stranger in silence for a moment. Then, “He--he
will think I am a cross girl,” she began regretfully. “But it is
Anastacio that gives me the temper. One day,”--advancing a little--“he
is all kind looks, Señor, and he says what is nice. Next day, he is all
bad looks, and the serape is over his ears--ugh! One can never tell
_how_ he will be. He is worse for changing than the sand of the river.
Yes. And now he wishes back the ring! What do you think, _padrecito_?”
She held out her left hand with a quick gesture. Upon the slender
third finger of it, milk-white against the creamy smoothness of her
skin, shone a single large pearl. “It cost him fifty dollars!”--this
triumphantly.
“Well! well!” said Señor John, coming forward to get a better look.
“You think that much?” said Paloma. “So it is. But I would not wear
a turquoise or a garnet, such as are picked up by the Indians not so
far away--and I would not wear beaten silver, as do the squaws. No--my
pearl, you see, is set in gold, and it was bought in Albuquerque, at
the store that has high, glass windows.”
“Indeed?” questioned the painter, even more impressed.
“But whatever it cost,” went on Paloma, “Anastacio shall not have it
back. What is given, is given. It is not _my_ fault that he cannot love
my pretty Miguel. I said to him, ‘The good father has a peacock. And
I----’”
Father José held up a hand to interrupt her. “My peacock serves as a
lesson to my Indians,” he said. “He is a living example of all that is
least to be desired. He is beautiful, but useless; he talks loudly, but
does nothing; he struts, but goes nowhere; he eats much, yet--since
he is old--his flesh is not even good for food. Vain and ostentatious
bird!--his life is a warning.”
Paloma had scarcely heard him, having been waiting a chance
to speak again. Now she continued promptly, mimicking her
lover: “‘Miguel will take all your time,’ Anastacio complains.
Well,”--argumentatively--“Miguel must be watched, else the dogs will
chase him. Has not Anastacio said (more than once, señor,) that he
himself is certain the dogs will do away with Miguel? So! And if I
were not watching the little one, what then should I do? Make mud
dishes?--like the Indians? Hah! _That_ for what Anastacio thinks! The
pig!” Again she threw out her hand--with a loud snap of her fingers.
“Hush!” whispered the father. “He is there.” He pointed through the
window.
“A-a-ah!” It was a purr. With a sudden step aside, and a sway of her
shoulders, she looked past the young painter. “He is waiting for me!”
she cried. “But I shall not go. No! I think that I even do not like
him any more, and I may not marry him after all. He thinks himself so
handsome! Puf!--with that moustache of his, like a bird’s-nest!” And
she threw back her tumbled head, and shook her black hair and laughed
aloud.
Close by, and built at right angles to the rear wall of Father José’s
own house, rose the north wall of the chapel of San Felipe--a mud wall,
up which some vines straggled. Against the vines, and half-screened by
them, leaned a blanket-wrapped figure.