WHAT SERVES, SERVES
Miguel was the trusted and capable manager of Refugio Rancho, and,
also, he knew something of its owner’s private affairs. What he did not
know he surmised and not always correctly. He knew that Mrs. Manuel,
an orphan, had married against the will of the wealthy eccentric aunt
who had reared her; and that this old Mrs. Sinclair had never forgiven
Adrian Manuel for his share in the affair, and had harshly accused
him of seeking her money as well as her niece, whom she promptly
disinherited.
Then, after the death of the young wife, she suddenly demanded
possession of “her Mary’s children;” alleging that their father was
unfit to “raise them in the wilderness.” This demand had been made in
her name by her lawyers, Disbrow and Disbrow. Upon condition of Mr.
Manuel’s absolutely resigning them to her she promised to educate them
well and to bequeath them her fortune. Originally, the lonely old lady
had asked for the children from a real desire for their affection,
hoping they would fill the place in her life left empty by their
mother’s desertion; but when the father positively and courteously
declined her offers on their behalf, her strong and wilful temper had
been aroused and she determined to have them at all costs.
It had therefore developed into a mere contest of wills. The lawyers’
letters grew more frequent and importunate as the years passed and,
finally, she had induced the Disbrows to undertake a personal visit to
Refugio in the hope of thus effecting what the numberless letters had
failed to do.
Mr. Manuel’s plans for his idolized children were simple and decided,
and though not a wealthy man, he possessed sufficient fortune to carry
them out. He intended to educate them himself up to a certain degree;
then, leaving Refugio in Miguel’s hands, go north with them, place them
in some good co-educational college, and himself settle near them till
their four years’ course of study should be completed.
But, of late, something had happened to make these plans doubtful.
He had not confided this doubt to Miguel, but had gone quietly away
for a time until the doubt could be settled. He did not explain what
this uncertainty was. He merely departed, leaving a sealed letter of
instructions in his steward’s hands. If at the end of two months he
had not returned this letter was to be opened and its instructions
implicitly followed. Meanwhile:
“You are master of Refugio while I am gone, good Miguel. And more than
that you are absolute guardian of my precious children till I come and
claim them from you. See to it, on your love and honor, that no harm
befalls them; else, look to welcome home a broken-hearted man.”
These had been Adrian Manuel’s last words to his manager, as he
departed on a journey more hazardous than anybody guessed, and Miguel
had treasured them in his inmost heart.
Now his fealty and his honor were to be tested. Instantly, upon
learning who the strangers were and realizing that they had chosen the
time of his master’s absence to arrive, he leaped to the conclusion
that they had come to carry by force what persuasion had failed to
accomplish. In brief: they had come to kidnap the twins!
It was this belief which had inspired his rudeness to Mr. Rupert and
this fear which had been whispered to little Carlota. He had bidden her
seek Carlos and go with him to some safe place of hiding until such
time as the strangers should grow weary of their fruitless efforts and
depart. There were many, many outbuildings at Refugio. It was, indeed,
as strangers always said, large enough for a regular rancheria, or
village, and had been such in the old Padres’ time. In some one of
these many old adobes the imperilled little ones might stay till danger
was past, and in whichever spot they hid he would soon find and watch
over them. The main thing was for them to disappear, and at once.
Alas! hasty Miguel little dreamed how literally they were to obey his
commands!
It was but a few moments after the manager had whispered his caution
that old Marta paused in her supper getting, and its incident scolding
of young Anita, her helper, to watch the children speed past her
kitchen door, and remarked:
“There they flit, yes, the children of my last days. Heart of my life,
but it was fine to hear that small Carlota speak the strange Señor so
fair. Anita, under her curls of gold lie the brains thou lackest, my
imbecile!”
“Then if she has what belongs to me, let her restore to me my own, for
her then, the indolent, would be thy unnumbered chidings. Good. ‘Turn
about is fair play.’ Why should she always be free to run and ride
while I--”
“Take that for thy insolence, kitchen-maid! Let me tell thee that in
that far land whence my child’s blessed mother came, the Señora Manuel
of holy memory, there are--Bah! Why waste words on such? _This_ is for
the impudence; and _this_--because thou mindest not the _podrida_[9]
but must be staring, staring at every stranger-man crossing the
threshold of Refugio!”
The housekeeper’s words were emphasized by a couple of heavy slaps upon
Anita’s broad shoulders, but the girl cared no more for the blows than
for the interminable scoldings. It was all in the day’s work, yes. She,
too, loved her master’s children, as everybody knew, and having annoyed
Marta by her pretended envy of Carlota the mischievous maid was ready
to join the old woman at the door and behold what thence might be seen.
There was always something interesting. Miguel pottering about,
swaggering in that authority he never allowed to lapse; a _vaquero_
coming or going; now and again, a farm hand, with Mateo, the gardener;
and “forever and always,” the poultry-boys, chasing the fowls from the
cistern.
Anita was just in time to see the twins swing themselves upon Benoni’s
back, where their Navajo blankets still rested. They had put on their
sombreros and now, seeing the two women in the doorway, Carlos caught
his off and waved it as he cried:
“_Adios!_ Marta--Anita--Refugio! _Adios--ADIOS!_”
What was there in that familiar salutation that set old Marta’s heart
to beating trip-hammer strokes? Clapping her withered hand to her side
she caught hold of Anita and whirled that young person around with an
unexpected force, demanding:
“Did’st thou hear that, yes? Why do they say that? What is it?”
[Illustration: “ADIOS, ADIOS!”]
“Leave hand! May I not hearken the last word of the little one but I
must be sent to mind an old stew-pot of _podrida_?”
“_Podrida_--Pstit! Tell me. There’s something amiss with my children,
is it not? ‘_Adios_’--‘farewell’--It has been often in that voice
of silver, but always with the sound of ‘I return,’ so sweet to
hear. Always with the laughter breaking through, but this time--the
heart-break!”
Feeling her own superstitious heart sing before that strange expression
on Marta’s paling face, Anita indignantly retorted:
“You are a fanciful old woman. You are dotard. What? Have you an ague,
you? Speak. Have you never seen the small ones ride away upon Benoni
that you should stare at ghosts this hour?”
“Ghosts? Yes. I dreamed of their mother last night. She was not weeping
and wringing her white hands, no? Anita Pichardo, I tell thee that evil
has come to Refugio this day, and it is the strangers who have brought
it.”
She paused and pointed toward Mr. Rupert, hastily coming down the
cloistered walk.
“Well then, Mother Marta, it is I, Anita, who thanks this unknown evil
for coming by so handsome a carrier, yes. In truth, if it is this fine
Señor I am to serve at supper I will even bother to stir the stew once
more. Then I will put on my Sunday gown, why not? Many strangers have
come to Refugio, but none so comely as yon.”
Being something of a beauty and more of a coquette, maid Anita chose
the roundabout way to her own chamber, along the veranda floor and
through the cloister, casting arch glances toward the young lawyer who
met her midway the passage, but noticed her not at all.
Yet her trouble was not useless for, at the turn of the corridor,
she came upon Miguel and one of the Mexicans who had arrived in the
Disbrows’ company. They were talking in Spanish and Anita did not
scruple to pause and hearken; and what she overheard worked the
customary mischief of all half-truths, and she exclaimed:
“Santa Maria! It is so, then. Old Marta was right! They knew, those
small ones, my heart’s delights! and they have run away! Yes, yes, I
understand! It was ‘_Adios_,’ indeed. But--”
Her coquetry now forgotten, Anita hurried back to the kitchen by
the shortest route; and, muttering something which Marta did not
comprehend, caught off the pot of stew from its hook in the fireplace.
Hastily emptying the mess into a handled jar, she seized a loaf from
the table and rushed away. The whole transaction had so amazed the
housekeeper that she was speechless till, as the flutter of the maid’s
scarlet petticoat waved defiance from the dooryard, her voice returned:
“Anita! AN-I-TA! Eyes of my soul, is she daft, that one? _An--i--ta!_
AN--I--I--TA!”
“Fortune favors the daring.” Miguel’s horse Amador stood tethered near;
for, when a chance passer-by had reported meeting strangers presumably
bound for Refugio, the manager had left the shearing-place and hurried
homeward, to find there the most unwelcome guests who had ever sought
its shelter.
“_Hola!_ Amador! That is good, yes. This jar grows heavy, and thy feet
are swifter than mine!” cried Anita, and mounted. So daringly up and
away--on Miguel’s own Amador which none but he must ride!
“They have all gone mad!” shrieked Marta, while Miguel entered the
kitchen and indignantly demanded:
“Mother, what ails the women? First the little Carlota; I but whisper
to her that which she should know and off she flies, screaming, louder
than I dreamed she could. Then comes Anita where she had no business,
listens what concerns her not, and off she races, likewise screaming.
Now thou--if--what?”
“The _podrida_--the supper, heart’s idol!” wailed the housekeeper,
and her sorely tried son burst into a laugh, which she arrested by a
gesture and the words:
“‘He laughs best who laughs last,’ and that won’t be my Miguel, no.
For the guests of the master to lose their supper, that is one thing,
indeed; but what of Amador, no?”
Now Amador was the delight of Miguel’s soul and it needed but this
suggestion to send him doorward again. The horse was gone, and in fury
he turned upon his unoffending mother:
“Didst thou--didst--”
“Pouf! Is it I, Marta Cardanza, at eighty years, would mount that
fiend, Amador, and ride away with a dangling jar of hot stew, yes?
Such pranks suit not gray hairs, Miguel, son of my soul, no.”
“But which way, mother? How dared she?” Marta shrugged her shoulders,
answering:
“Bah! Some maids are ever silly. ’Tis I think these strangers have
foul-bewitched all Refugio, yes.”
Yet there was a gleam of mischief in her black eyes as she pointed to
where a vaquero was leading the beautiful horse that Mr. Rupert had
ridden to the rancho. “Tit for tat,” she quoted in her native tongue.
“Thanks, mother! That is good!”
Then, even while Mr. Rupert came onward to mount, did Miguel seize the
creature before its owner’s eyes and ride away as only a plainsman can
ride. Instantly, the visitor turned upon his servant, like all the
others--angry with the wrong person:
“Boy, what do you mean by that? Where has he gone?”
“How can I tell, Señor?”
“Why did you let him take the horse?”
“You had not so forbidden, Señor.”
“Humph! I told you to bring him here--for me.”
“Ten thousand pardons, Señor. To bring him here, yes. For whom--that
was not mentioned.”
There was no virtue in anger, so Rupert Disbrow forced a laugh; then
looked up to find the youthful eyes of wrinkled Marta watching him with
a keen amusement which plainly explained the affair. Crossing to where
she leaned against the doorframe he lifted his helmet and asked:
“Madam, may I have a word with you?”
“Many, if it so pleases the Señor.”
He looked past her into the great kitchen, through which a swiftly
rising breeze swept refreshingly, and remarked:
“It feels like a storm. Do they often visit this locality?”
“When the good God wills,” responded the old woman, piously.
After all, she could see but little amiss with this stranger. He had a
speech and manner which reminded her of her beloved, lost Doña Mary,
though she knew that he could not be of that young mistress’s kin.
He presently observed, insinuatingly:
“That settle against the window, yonder, looks inviting.”
“The veranda is cooler, yes.”
“Then, by all means, let us sit there.”
He certainly was courteous. No gentleman of old Castile could have been
more deferential. He was fully equal in graciousness to Señor Adrian,
himself; and, after all--the _podrida_ was gone! That charge the saints
had taken off an old woman’s hands, yes. If there was no supper--Pouf!
there was still bread in the buttery and fruit in plenty. With the
master at home, there would have been fowls to kill and cook; yet--for
this fair-speaking stranger? Of that Marta was not so sure; any more
than she was sure of her regret for the lost _podrida_. In any case,
she now willingly took the place upon the settle which the young man
had earlier indicated.
“Have you lived here always, Madam?” he began.
“Always, Señor.”
“Then you must have known Mrs. Manuel.”
“As my own soul, yes.”
“Was she a happy woman?”
“The angels in Paradise cannot be happier.”
“Yet she relinquished a great deal to come here with her husband, nor
had she known him long.”
“A day is a lifetime when it is soul of one’s soul,” answered Marta,
now looking steadily into his inquiring eyes with such an expression
that he abruptly terminated his cross-examination.
Returning to the present and his own perplexities he said:
“That man who rode off upon my horse seems to be a sort of ‘boss’ here,
in Mr. Manuel’s absence.”
“In truth, yes.”
“He declines the hospitality of Refugio to us, but my father is an old
man.”
“He should be thinking of his sins,” suggested Marta.
“I can sleep out of doors, well enough, but he can’t. Besides, he is
saddle-worn and can ride no further at present. What shall I do?”
“I was never good at riddles, no. My head, it is quite stupid, yes.”
“But you are a woman. You should be merciful, and Refugio means
‘succor.’ Remember, please, he is old and he--knew your mistress.”
She turned upon him sharply:
“But I remember, also, that he has come to bring sorrow to her innocent
little ones, yes.”
“No! I tell you truly that you are wholly mistaken. Our errand is one
of kindness, only. Provide us shelter for to-night and to-morrow I--”
She interrupted him by rising and saying:
“One may do what one will with one’s own, is it not? It is the House
of Refuge. Bring the father. He is, indeed, too old for such a task
as his; but there is still time. He may repent and depart before harm
is done. I repeat, it is the House of Refuge, and the sin of turning
any beggar from its doors shall lie neither on the head of my beloved
master nor on that of Marta Cardanza. There are rooms of my own, yes.
In them--‘the house is yours.’”