AT THE END OF SEVEN DAYS
Mr. George Disbrow hated anything which interfered with his personal
comfort. Also, he had “nerves” that, first and last, gave himself and
his neighbors a deal of trouble. Like a caged creature he was pacing
the refectory and, when his son Rupert entered, demanded:
“Any news?”
“No, father.”
“Humph! You’ll go all to pieces yourself next. Have you had your
supper?”
“I--believe so. Yes--yes, indeed. I ate something a little while ago.
It’s all right.”
“I tell you it’s all wrong. We never should have come to this beastly
hole.”
“I certainly wish we hadn’t, but--under the circumstances--we are not
the ones to complain. To please a crotchety old woman we did come,
bringing disaster with us, and whatever treatment we receive we have
deserved.”
“If these people would organize a systematic search they might be
successful.”
“They’re working on something better than system--upon an almost
superstitious love for the dead ‘Lady of Refugio’ and her lost
children, lost--through our fault!”
“Nonsense! Through the fault of that imbecile Cardanza! The fact of
such a hot-head-idiot being left in charge proves just what sort of
man this Adrian Manuel is, and how unfit to bring up even such stupid
children as his.”
“Father, please don’t. I never saw two more charming little ones, and
even you admired them, till they disappeared.”
“Which shows that I’m right again. At twelve years, any American who
possesses common sense should know better than to be frightened out of
his father’s house by the fairy tales of a blockhead foreigner.”
Mr. Rupert wearily smiled. His father had rung the changes on this
sad subject till nothing new remained, and the son knew that a keen
self-reproach pointed the venom of the old man’s words. He gently
rejoined:
“It’s been a difficult business for a difficult client from the
beginning, and I never would have persuaded you to try a personal
interview with this man Manuel, if I hadn’t believed that the trip here
would benefit your broken health.”
“The fellow has been a fool to so stand in his own light!” testily
commented the elder lawyer.
“Once I thought so, too. Now I do not. I believe he is one in a
thousand. His life is an ideal one and he made his wife supremely
happy. She could have missed but little by what Mrs. Sinclair terms her
‘crazy elopement.’”
“You grow enthusiastic.”
“Who could help it? Witnessing how love has transformed this old adobe
ruin into such a comfortable, even luxurious, home.”
Mr. Disbrow snorted in contempt. Then pointed to the single candle
burning in its silver stick, saying:
“There’s your ‘luxury’! Now sit down in that rickety old chair and
write to Mrs. Sinclair. It must be done sometime.”
Thankful for any diversion, Mr. Rupert promptly obeyed, and the letter
was barely finished when Miguel stumbled in, so weary and heart-heavy
that he seemed older than the ancient Guadalupo. There had been no
white hairs on the _major-domo’s_ black head till within these last
few, terrible days, and his once merry eyes were dull and lifeless.
“Miguel, you must rest. You are the head and front of all this search,
and you dare not fail,” pleaded the young lawyer, earnestly.
“I have failed,” hopelessly assented this once fiery fellow.
He no longer resented the presence of these strangers, these “enemies,”
at Refugio. They had done their worst and by his own stupidity, his
misguided zeal, he had aided and abetted the ruin they had wrought.
He accused himself of being the lost children’s murderer, and was
so continually engrossed by such self-reproaches that he was almost
crazed. Indeed, he sometimes prayed that he might become wholly so for
then he would forget his misery.
“Don’t say ‘failed,’ Miguel. I believe, I do believe, those children
will be found, safe and well,” cried the other, unable to endure the
sight of the manager’s anguish.
“So do I. At--the Resurrection.”
“Long before that. Upon this earth which they made lovely by their
presence. Come. Take heart again. Pluck up your faith and courage.”
“They perished in the storm,” stolidly answered Cardanza.
“We don’t know that. We have found no proof of it.”
“Neither do you know this country. The strongest cattle cannot live
through a ‘norther,’ and my small ones were delicate, like flowers;”
pointing outward toward ‘My Lady’s Garden,’ where were rows of limp,
dead lilies and drooping heliotropes.
“Yes, I see. But the little Carlota was no thin-blooded herb. Look
again. There are many plants left unharmed and wonderfully green and
fresh. Even of just such sturdy growth were the Manuel children.
At will accustomed to sleeping out-of-doors, to a cold plunge each
morning, to an almost wholly out-of-door life, sun-browned and of
perfect health--why, they are sure to be alive and thriving somewhere.
Only--we haven’t yet looked in the right place to find them. But we
shall. We shall.”
Miguel’s face lightened somewhat and he said, quite gently:
“Stranger, you mean well, and you are a fine fellow--whatever yon
man may be. But folks born fools can’t help it,” he ended, with a
significant glance toward the restless elder gentleman.
“That’s all right. Thank you. But, come. Let’s have some supper. I
heard that wise mother of yours say that ‘A full stomach made a light
heart.’ A light heart should also give a clear head. Let’s try her
proverb and see what it avails.” He held out his hand and Miguel took
it listlessly.
“One week, Señor Rupert. One week and two hours, since they rode out of
paradise--into death!”
At this, Mr. George Disbrow completely lost his temper and snapped out:
“You’re all a parcel of numskulls!”
“Father!”
“Fact. _Prima facie_ fact. If there’s supper to be had go get it.
That old blubbering Marta has never cooked a morsel that ever I heard
of, except that much-lamented podrida, which I still believe is a
myth. Anita--well, I’ll not abuse her. Only for her we should all
starve. She’s no _cook_. Not by any stretch of imagination can she be
considered one, all pepper and spice--”
“Like herself!” suggested Mr. Rupert.
“Like nothing fit to set before an eastern palate. Go get your supper.
I’ve been looking over this map that Adrian Manuel made of this region
and I find there are some habitations marked to the north of us where
other maps show a plain space. Indicates what sort of country it is
when every mud-cabin has to be named as if it were a town. I think--
Never mind. Go get your supper, if there is any.”
He was promptly left alone and as promptly regretted it. Whatever
happened now, he was miserable. The refectory had been, by Marta’s
advice, given over to the use of and as a “cage” for “that
ne’er-be-quiet Señor Disbrow, with the rattling teeth in his ugly
mouth.” During all that memorable week just past, the unhappy gentleman
had come in for all of the afflicted Marta’s sharpness. Even Anita,
who fancied that she had herself run the gamut of the housekeeper’s
abuse, acknowledged that not until now had she had “the pleasure of the
acquaintance of that most amiable Señora Cardanza, no.”
But now the dame had neither strength nor spirit left to abuse
anybody. She ate little and incessantly murmured her prayers, while she
slept scarcely at all. Nobody had suspected her of such deep feeling,
but she declared to old Guadalupo, who alone had time to listen that:
[Illustration: SHE STARTLED THE MAID]
“Being thrice a widow might be trouble for some, yes. Yet not for
Marta. I tell thee, Guadalupo Sanchez, sorrow has not come near me
until now. It is so. In truth. Soul of my life, Carlota! Where sleepest
thou, my angel? To the shearing would she go, no? Till I promised I
would not sing to my guitar with her away. For I can sing, yes, in
truth. She will come if I sing!” A moment later she startled the maid,
who was serving the supper, with her sudden cry. “Anita, Anita!”
“What now, mother Marta? I am busy, I. Here is Señor Disbrow, and
yonder is Miguel, of the heavy heart; whom I used to tease but only
pity now.”
“My guitar, Anita! _Instante!_ Maybe she will hear it, our Carlota!
Always it would bring her. Always. Quick! the guitar!”
“_Ay de mi!_ Woe is me! She has gone even more mad. Well, mad folks
must be humored!” murmured the maid.
A few moments later, the two men taking their food in the kitchen were
startled by the notes of the antiquated instrument and the curious,
quavering song which accompanied it. Miguel, the son, shared Anita’s
suspicion, and cried:
“It is my mother! Her brain has now turned. Ah! it is hard when the old
must die of grief.”
“Hark! That isn’t grief! That’s something more--and different!”
returned the girl, listening intently.
For the song had abruptly ceased; been cut in two, as it were, by some
sudden interruption.
Mr. Rupert hurried outward as old Marta hobbled inward, and they met
on the threshold, where, to the great peril of his eyes, she thrust
a thorny agave leaf into his face and, pointing to it, gesticulated
wildly. Also, she muttered Spanish so rapidly that even Anita couldn’t
keep pace with half she said. At every few words she motioned toward
the outer court--then back to the leaf again. Evidently, she was
frantically imploring Mr. Rupert to examine it; but he now, also,
believed her crazed.
It was the ancient Guadalupo who finally brought reason out of this
confusion. Without troubling to move his head or alter his feeble
monotone he reiterated again and again:
“Before ink and paper was the Pueblos wrote on leaves. Before ink and
paper was. Before ink and paper--”
“Hush! thou imbecile!” screamed Anita.
“No, he’s not an imbecile! No, no! Far from it!” corrected Mr. Rupert,
suddenly waving the agave leaf above his head and fairly prancing in
his glee. “There is a message written here!”
Whereupon Anita and “that crusty Miguel,” as she had used to call him,
found it convenient to clasp hands and thus convince themselves and
each other that they, at least, were sane. For, surely, this seemed a
mad, mad world!