REFUGIO
Nobody living knew how old the House of Refuge was.
Guadalupo, who seemed as native to the soil as the cacti at its gates,
affirmed that it did not “grow any older.” He had been born there and
he had found it “just so.” It had never changed.
It was an abandoned Franciscan Mission, with chapel and cloister and
bell-tower. Within that square, corner belfry still hung the curious
bells, each with a rude, jangling clapper between its iron discs.
Tradition said that these quaint bells were rung by the ancient Padres
not only to summon their neophytes to religious services but, also, to
their meals; and this hospitable custom was still followed by Adrian
Manuel, into whose possession as a private residence the Mission had
now come.
Early in his occupation he had carefully restored the half-obliterated
Spanish text over the refectory door: “It is the House of Refuge. Enter
and be glad, all ye who will.” Thereafter, so far as lay within his
power, the new master of old Refugio made that legend the rule of his
own household.
So when old Marta saw the children returning so soon, accompanied by
strangers, she set the fire ablaze and, at once, prepared a pot of
her delicious coffee. When, putting a loaf and a knife upon the oaken
table, she repaired to the doorway and, with many obeisances, awaited
the party’s approach.
The sight of her banished all perplexities from Carlota’s mind, and
she ran forward to take her own rightful place at the housekeeper’s
side; for, as her beloved father often told her, was she not the little
mistress of his home? Thence she announced with her best manner:
“Welcome, friends. We are very happy to see you at Refugio.” Yet she
whispered to old Marta: “Brother and I think that these people are
‘enemies,’ but then they’re guests, too. They have come to see my
father.”
The strangers politely returned the child’s salutation and again the
elder Mr. Disbrow exclaimed: “So, this is Refugio!”
“Yes, Señor--Mister Stranger, and I hope you will like it,” answered
Carlota.
The younger gentleman now made a formal presentation:
“This is Mr. George Disbrow, my father; and I am Rupert, his son. Maybe
you have heard of us, Miss Carlota.”
“No, Mr. Rupert, never. Did you ever see our father?”
“I have not, but my father knew him very well.”
“How delightful! Isn’t he-- Didn’t you love him dearly?” she eagerly
demanded of the elder man.
“Hmm. I can’t say that there was any affection between us.”
At this reply Carlota drew back, chilled; but Mr. Rupert immediately
began to speak of her beautiful home and its curiosities and for her,
as for Carlos, there was no theme more beloved.
Forgetting her annoyance she hastily began to lead her guest about the
ancient buildings, descanting upon every object they passed with such
eagerness that she thereby greatly confused his ideas concerning them.
So that he pleaded:
“Slowly, little lady, please. It’s all so wonderful to me I want to
take it carefully. This was the refectory, you say. Do you still use it
for a dining hall?”
“Yes, oh! yes. And, sometimes, after the shearing and such things when
we have everybody here to a _fiesta_, it is just full of people. Oh! I
love it then! and so does my father. But--now shut your eyes! Please
shut them just a minute and don’t open them till I tell you, and I’ll
show you the ‘loveliest spot on earth,’ my father says.”
Her enthusiasm won his compliance with her whim and, like a boy at
play, he followed her blindfold down many passages and through the
breezy cloister, till she paused and cried: “Now, look! Quick!”
Then he raised his lids but promptly dropped them again, to clear his
bewildered vision.
“Oh! Señor, isn’t it beautiful?”
“Beautiful, indeed! It is a miracle! It is a paradise!”
“Oh! no. It is my mother’s garden,” said Carlota, simply.
“But your mother is dead, long ago,” responded Mr. Rupert, in surprise.
“She has only gone to Heaven. Father and I are taking care of it for
her. He does all the heavy work, because the water-cans are too big for
me, though we have a fine little water-wagon that we roll around from
place to place. But I, myself, prune and cut every plant that needs it.
They are from almost all the countries in the world, and some of them
have cost my father much, much money. Many have cost nothing but a nice
ride or tramp after them. All the things my mother put here, herself,
are still alive. Nothing can help living because we so love everything
that grows; and, besides, the climate is perfect, my father says,”
finished the little girl.
Truly it was a wonderful place, this old court of the monastery.
Its southern, open side was a hedge of the prickly pear, which the
wise Franciscans had found a natural and safe barricade against
the troublous Indians. This hedge was much taller than Carlota’s
head and was more than eight feet in width. Its lower branches were
curiously gnarled and twisted and as thick as a man’s arm, while every
portion bristled with strong spines more difficult to force than
bayonet-points, they were so closely interwoven and needle-sharp. Mr.
Rupert would have tarried long before this ancient hedge, but his small
guide would not so allow.
“See those palms and olives? They are as old as old! Like Refugio
itself. But the roses yonder came from France only this last year. And
right here--look! These are anemones from my mother’s own childhood’s
home. She had them sent after her when she came here.”
“And living still!”
“Surely. Do you s’pose we’d ever let them die? God had to have her in
His Heaven, but He left us her garden. My father--”
“Your ‘father’ is your idol, isn’t he?”
“My idol? Father? How queer!” The idea was so amusing that the child
clapped her hands and laughed aloud. She had been used to hearing the
literal truth and “idols” suggested something most grotesque. Cried
she: “Come! I’ll show you. We have a lot, from the Pueblos, and Old
Mexico, and everywhere. There is a room just for them, the ugly,
hideous things!”
She made him look at them every one. Cheap little images of red clay,
or stone, with some that were more pretentious; and as he examined
them his astonishment continually grew. Not at the curious carving,
for the “collection” was not extensive, but at the characteristics of
this unknown Adrian Manuel, whom he had heard described as “beneath
contempt.”
However, his reflections were cut short, not only by Carlota’s
eagerness to show him more of the Mission but by the entrance of a man
who might be either a “cow boy” or a Mexican brigand, to judge from his
appearance.
And now, for the first time in her life, Carlota heard Miguel Cardanza
speak otherwise than courteously to a guest. He brusquely asked:
“Señor, will you tell me your business here?”
Mr. Rupert showed a brief surprise, then quietly answered:
“I accompany my father, Mr. George Disbrow, upon an unfamiliar journey
to accomplish a certain task. I will leave him to explain what that is.
Are you Adrian Manuel?”
“His trusted friend and _major-domo_,[8] Miguel Cardanza, at your
service;” but the haughty salutation which accompanied these words
evinced that such “service” would be grudgingly performed.
“When will your master return?”
“Señor, at his own good pleasure.”
“We will, I presume, await that season, trusting it will not long be
postponed.”
“That is as may be. But I must, on his behalf, request you to leave
Refugio immediately. Yes, yes, little one. I know you marvel to hear
such rudeness from your Miguel’s lips. Yet I am right, yes. I know what
I do. Well, Señor?”
“But Mr. Cardanza, I protest. Though he might not care to receive us I
doubt if even your master would turn us adrift in this sparsely settled
land. We have traveled many miles since daybreak, yet this is the first
shelter we have seen.”
“Señor, you traveled in the wrong direction, that is all. There
are settlements in plenty. That way, thus--” pointing toward the
northeast--“lives a man who takes in pilgrims for a price. He is a
hungry miner, and an hour’s ride will bring you to his shack. It is the
only inn this side Lanark.”
Carlota had been a silent listener to this dialogue but she now
interrupted it with:
“Miguel, you shall not send any weary man away. Even if he were--were
the evil one, this was once God’s House, and it is still Refugio.
Miguel Cardanza, I shall tell my father about you when he comes home.
Oh! if he came now! What would he say to you but: ‘Good Miguel,
hot-headed as ever?’ Oh! I know. I’ve heard him, often, often. Do be a
nice old Miguel, do--”
The Spaniard flushed but caught the child’s hand and whispered in her
ear. She listened with impatience, amazement, and, at last, with wild
alarm. Then, darting one terrified glance toward the unfortunate Mr.
Rupert, vanished from the cloister, shrieking, as she ran:
“Carlos! Carlos! Brother! My brother! For our father’s sake come--come
quick--quick!”