REFUGIO ONCE MORE
Mr. Rupert Disbrow so excitedly sprang from his chair and threw down
the evening paper that his father, calmly reading his own _Gazette_ at
the other side of the library table, ejaculated:
“Rupert, what has become of your self-control? My nerves--They were
bad enough before we took that wretched trip to the jumping-off-place
of creation, but now--I must have quiet and rest, at least in my own
house.”
“But a little excitement of the right sort, will do you good, father.
Listen, please. I’ll read you something and try to do so quietly.”
“You act queerly, for a lawyer--”
“Yes, a lawyer, of course; but first--a man. I defy anybody to be
composed, who has had the experience we’ve had, chasing over half this
wide country in pursuit of something and returning to find it right
here in his own library--”
Now seriously alarmed by the strange manner of his usually sedate son,
the elder gentleman rose to ring the bell and send for his man, feeling
that he would know, at once, if aught were seriously amiss with the
“boy,” who acted as if he, too, had caught the fever which had detained
them so long in the southwest and from which the father had nearly died.
“That’s all right. Ring, if you need anything for yourself, but
I--well, I’ll just wire a few words to Mrs. Sinclair, then read you
what will make you stare.”
“Rupert, for peace’s sake, don’t stir up that old woman, to-night.
We’re not at the office and it’s past business hours--”
“Beg pardon, father, but it’s a case of ‘needs must.’ And I won’t stop
to wire. Since you’ve summoned your man I’ll send the message direct to
her house.”
The messenger was hastily dispatched and then the younger lawyer read
that same “Associated Press” article which had already startled so
many other people into hasty action. When it was finished, Mr. George
Disbrow leaned back and sighed in vast relief, saying:
“Well! If anything in this topsy-turvy world could surprise me that
story would. It seems incredible, but I’m only too thankful to believe
it. It will ‘settle’ our whimsical client as nothing less amazing
would; and end for us a ‘case’ that has been much more plague than
profit.”
“But how strange that Mr. Manuel has never been heard from! What is
your theory in the matter?”
“A capable lawyer never indulges in theories. He sticks to facts. What
now?”
A servant entered and delivered a note to the old gentleman, who took
it, protesting against further disturbance of his rest time. Then, as
he recognized the handwriting on the envelope, his expression altered
to one as excited as that of his son.
“Of all things! A note from the very man we were discussing and at the
very moment! Hear this:
“‘MY DEAR SIR:
‘Having for some months been absent from my home, in hospital in this
city and extremely ill, I knew nothing of what has transpired at
Refugio until to-night. I refer you to the evening papers to explain
why I start for Albuquerque, immediately, without delaying to call
upon you at your office. I will communicate with you from that town.
‘Yours truly, ADRIAN MANUEL.’”
“Well, father, I think that’s decent of the gentleman, and
satisfactory. He always has been punctilious and correct in his few
dealings with us. I’ll write that Miguel. Theirs is an out of the way
place, but a letter will reach there--give it time. Hold on! I’ve an
idea. Business isn’t pressing at this season of the year, and I’ll run
out to Albuquerque myself. I’d give a big sum to see those children
safe again and make them understand I’m not the terrible ogre who so
nearly scared them to death. Was that another knock? Yes. Come in.”
It was his own messenger, returned, bringing him a reply, short and
sharp, like its writer:
“Yours received. I’m taking matters into my own hands. I leave for
Albuquerque on the seven o’clock, limited.
Mary Sinclair.”
“Good for the old lady! I’ll meet her on the train. We’ll journey
together to Albuquerque.”
So there came a goodly company winding down from the hills into the
valley of Refugio. Never, since the days of the old Padres, had such
a cavalcade appeared there, seeking shelter in the blessed House of
Refuge.
Old Guadalupo, still basking in the sun before the kitchen door,
blinked and called to Marta:
“Put on the pot, old woman! Bring your guitar and sing your shrillest.
They are coming! By the ears of my spirit I hear them.”
Too glad to hobble, as she used to do, Marta flew to the threshold. Age
seemed to have left and joy transformed her.
“Ah, soul of my life, I have, I have! Already, there is seethed the
flesh of the kid, and there are baked the cakes and sweeties that my
children love. Loaves? Why, heart’s dearest, you have never seen such
loaves! But, Anita? An-i-ta!”
“Well, then, _madre mia_, what is it?”
“Where is that boy, Miguel?”
Coquettish for the first time since these many, many days, the maid
shrugged her pretty shoulders and settled a rose in her dark hair, as
she answered:
“Where? How should I know?”
“Know? Since he returned from that unhappy search of his--know? Why,
minion, you know more of my boy, Miguel, now-a-days, than the mother
who bore him. Yet, mark my words! He has a temper! Ah! yes. When you
are his wife, let the folds of his silken shirt be creased the wrong
way but once and I tell you-- Oh! Have a care!”
“For a woman, breathless, there are many words, _madre_. But I am
glad to know. That shirt--it shall be ever rightly creased. _Si._ But
to-day he has no eyes for me. He has already gone, flown upon that
Amador, to meet those who come. I? I cannot wait! How can I? Nor--need
I! For--they come, they come! _Hola!_ But the House of Refuge will be
full this night! and the _fiesta_ we will make shall last for days
and days. Behold, my mother, what a company is this that comes from
Albuquerque!”
“Where is that Pablo? Here. He shall stand here with us. Is every
_vaquero_ in place? Fall into line, there! For not a single soul upon
the Master’s rancho shall fail to bid him welcome when he comes once
more unto his own. I have said it, I, Anita. So it must be. And now--
They come! Give them true Spanish welcome--lusty and from the heart:
_Bien Venido! Bien! BIEN!!_”[14]
Truly, they had “come.” Adrian Manuel, his children on either side; the
Burnhams, “root and branch”; Rupert Disbrow, glad as a boy to be back
at Refugio in such happy times; Patterson of the terse speech and loyal
heart; Mistress Mary Sinclair, riding in a carriage of honor, gay as
a girl, forgiving and forgiven, at last one with the family for whom
her soul had pined; Dennis, in gorgeous garb, befitting a gentleman of
Connemara; and last, a woman in Pueblo dress--Paula; whose keen eyes
saw her son restored--Pablo, the Dancer.
But, as this joyful company neared the old Mission, it diverged to
a sunny spot, marvellously cared for and rich in blooming plants and
waving palms. There Adrian Manuel and his children leaped down, to
kneel in that beloved place where the Lady of Refugio slept; and,
understanding without words, the last bitterness passed from old Mary
Sinclair’s heart as she silently stepped down and also reverently knelt
beside the trio.
It was a mute petition to the living and the dead; and the living
answered for the dead, as Carlota folded her arms about the aged woman
and kissed her--“for Mary.”
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Festivals.
[2] Cakes.
[3] Yes.
[4] In truth.
[5] “Farewell. Take care, Benoni! Go on!”
[6] Lasso.
[7] Herdsmen.
[8] Steward.
[9] Stew.
[10] Garments.
[11] Lasso.
[12] Farewell, little girl.
[13] Woe is me.
[14] Welcome! Good! Good!
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.