Part 18

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.

Now, Paloma neared the window, but without looking out, and sat down on the wide ledge, so that she was in full sight of the waiting man by the wall. Then, she turned to Señor John’s easel with a great show of interest. “You are making a picture of Los Morales!” she began. “Am I not quick at guessing? You see it could not be Albuquerque, for you have put flat roofs on the houses. And it is not _old_ Albuquerque, because--oh, _padrecito!_ here is your house, and the garden, and the church with the little tower! Paint a bell in the tower, señor, since we have none.” And she smiled up at Señor John saucily.

“My daughter!” chided Father José, almost sternly, “do not jest of the bell!”

“So there was a bell--once,” said the young painter.

The father folded a damp napkin, covered his salad, and set the white-and-gold dish away carefully on a shelf. Then he came over and stood beside the easel, one slender hand clasping the other, and both held against the jet cross that swung on his breast. He was short and lean, with straight, white hair; a pale, bulging, bald forehead; a high nose; thin cheeks--upon each a spot of scarlet; and dark eyes that were on occasions alive with almost childish fun, nearly extinguished by laughter and as full of glints as the big, shining, brown-black beads of his rosary, but which, at other times, were wide, serene, and luminous.

“It was when there were mulberry-trees here by the river,” he began, “--the trees that gave the pueblo its name. There are some who say that mulberry-trees were never here; or, if trees were indeed here, they were only of the cottonwood. But these doubters think also”--a gentle smile parted his lips--“that the silver bell of Los Morales is only a legend.”

“The _silver_ bell,” repeated Señor John.

“Aye, silver,” answered the father sadly; “that is why it hangs no longer in the tower of San Felipe. Alas! my belfry is a pierced ear from which the jewel has been torn.” And his head bent to his hands. After a moment he raised his face, and raised his hands so that they pressed one palm against the other, at his chin. “It came to be lost through greed,” he went on. “A wandering band of Indians crossed the Rio Grande at this ford and attacked the pueblo. That was many, many years ago. The band came to steal, for they were hungry--not having been wise, Paloma, and provided themselves against a day of need. They fought from the ground, for they had no horses, and the Pueblos fought from the flat roofs of their houses, sending sharp arrows down upon their enemies. These, before they were fully routed, withdrew from the town, and sought a brief refuge in the chapel, and here, in this house. They demanded money, but there was no money to give them, and so the brave priest said. They did not harm the man of God. But they climbed to the belfry. There was the bell. They knew there was silver in it, else they would not have troubled. There was much silver in it, señor, it having been made in Old Mexico, where the custom was to use silver. The bell was easy to take. It swung in no yoke, but from a roundish, wooden beam, by heavy thongs that were run through its iron loop. These thongs they cut, and then----” The scarlet spots on his thin cheeks blanched, his eyes became round pools of glowing black. “Señor, a storm broke--a storm the like of which Los Morales had never before seen. Rain like a second deluge, so that the Rio Grande deepened on its bed, and wind so strong that it caught up the water of the river and lashed the ground with it, and carried waves up to the edge of the town--aye, even to the foot of the dirt-cliffs beyond. The thieves in the chapel were frightened--not because they saw what a terrible thing it was they had done, señor, only because they believed they might not get safely away with their lives. So they hurried down to the river, six men carrying the bell, and started to cross. As they entered the stream the silver tongue was swinging to and fro, to and fro, calling a farewell through the storm. And the Indians on the housetops called back to their beloved bell, answering it, and they wept aloud.”

Here, the father’s voice faltered, broke, and went silent. He shut his eyes, and his slender hands trembled. But presently, he again looked up at the two who were listening. “Then, as the bell was choked into dumbness by the rushing waters,” he said, “the six who bore it suddenly sank from sight. They had walked into a very pit of death!”

“How?” questioned the young painter.

“The quicksands, señor.”

“The quicksands!”

“You should know that for all its shallow depth, the Rio Grande is here most treacherous, and travellers keep to the ford. The sands shift, señor--the bed of the river rots.”

“And the silver bell--it was never heard of again?”

“Listen! and I will tell you. One black night, long before I came to Los Morales, a second band of thieving Indians crept up across the level ground beyond the river--across the ground where stands the hacienda in which you stay, Señor John. Before entering the ford the band halted to get ready their arrows, for they meant to take the town and drive out all the inhabitants. But see what happened! Scarcely had the enemy pushed their horses into the water at the farther side when the priest who lived here then wakened of a sudden. It seemed to him that from overhead had sounded a warning--_the single clear peal of a bell!_”

Paloma crossed herself. Her dark eyes were wet. “Ah! _padrecito!_” she said softly. “I would pray for the return of the silver bell were I not too wicked.”

“I pray,” said the father, “and my faith does not falter. Ah! señor! when the bell is restored to its tower, I shall waken the town with its mellow call to prayer! The Indians come but slowly to the chapel now. But think how musically sweet and inviting----”

He was interrupted by the slow, dull _thub, thub, thub_ of a drum, which was beating from somewhere in the direction of the pueblo. He nodded gravely. “That is what calls my people, señor,” he said. “Little wonder that they lag.”

The drum had brought Paloma to her feet. “The noon service, and so much yet left undone!” she cried. She gave a backward nod to Señor John, caught up one of the father’s hands upon her wrist, dutifully kissed it, and went out the door through which she had come.

“That warning in the night,” said the young painter, “--it saved the town?”

“Yes.” The father went to the window and leaned his hands on the sill. “Little wonder that they lag,” he said again, as if to himself. Then, to Señor John: “See!--for I am an old man and my eyes are poor--is that Roberta Allen? _She_ does not know fear of the ford.”

The young man also looked out. A girl was slowly passing, mounted on a spotted mustang that was wet to his hocks. She was a slender girl, in laced boots, a riding-skirt, and a waist of some thin, white stuff that the wind fluttered. She peered in through the window--a sailor hat shielding her face from the glare on the adobe wall, and her blue eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon Señor John.

“Yes, father,” answered the young painter, and he smiled and bowed to the girl. Having watched after the spotted mustang for a moment, he turned to look the opposite way, where a bobbing black head showed above the untidy board fence that surrounded a near-by house. “Paloma is very beautiful,” he added presently.

The father was searching in the wide seat of his cane armchair. “Aye, señor,” he admitted. “But often a pink _dulce_ has a black pulp.”

“What a contrast to Miss Allen!” the other went on. The spotted mustang was entering the winding street of the pueblo.

The father had found his book, and now paused a moment, his hand on the door-latch. “My peacock, señor,” he said, “does not mean to be vain. But he cares only for the bright feathers that hang upon his body, and he loves to strut. But, Roberta, she is wise and modest, I think.” And he went out.

When Father José had disappeared through the side entrance of the chapel, Señor John opened the front door of the kitchen and stepped down to the flat stone that lay just before it. The front door opened on the father’s garden--the only garden in the whole of Los Morales. Two feet of paved walk divided the garden and led from the door to a weathered picket-gate. All the wide cracks of this walk were well weeded and neatly filled with trowel-marked adobe, and on either side of the walk stretched small squares of bright green lawn. Across these squares now, and across the stone walk, the father’s peacock was strutting, from the rose-bushes that stood against the pickets on one hand to the sweet-pea vines that screened the fence on the other. And, as he paraded, the sun glanced upon his crested head, brilliantly blue breast, and the green-and-gold semicircle of his tail plumage.

The young painter was still watching the bird when his ear caught a song not from the chapel. A girl’s voice was singing it--a clear voice, if a little loud:

The moon is a sun with a veil-- Lift my veil, and behold my eyes shining.

The voice neared, repeating the words but somewhat disconnectedly. Then, “Go _on_!” cried the voice impatiently, breaking off the song. “Must I carry you!”

The next moment Paloma came into view beyond the pickets at the corner of the kitchen. A scarlet shawl was thrown about her shoulders, and she was half-leading, half-shoving a young deer. The deer was a full-eyed creature, nimble and strong. And now it butted with its sharp horns, and now struck out swiftly with alternating front and hind feet.

“Open the gate,” called Paloma. “Miguel does not wish to come in. But how shall he get grass except when Father José is in the chapel? Go on, you beast!”

The young painter hastened to the gate.

“Shove and lead and coax!” scolded Paloma, puffing. “Once I could do anything with him. But now he is getting too big. There! Now he’s in!”

“But, look!” cried Señor John. “He’s tearing the roses!”

“My life!” exclaimed the girl, hastening forward across the grass. “Stop it, Miguel! Stop it! Oh, you sinful one!”

But as fast as she drove him away, Miguel returned to the rose-bushes, circling the strutting peacock with little leaps. After him raced Paloma. And as she ran, she shrieked with laughter and threw bits of dirt at the deer.

“Oh, I am dying for breath!” she called. “He knows the roses are choice, you see! Is he not beautiful! Who could _help_ but love him!”

The last was aimed at a figure approaching from the town. It was Anastacio, bound riverward, his serape so far across his face that only his gleaming eyes showed from under his wide and heavy sombrero. He strode past slowly, those eyes now upon Señor John, now upon Paloma and the running deer. Behind him, riding at a distance, came the girl on the spotted mustang.

Paloma redoubled her laughter and her merry cries and Señor John joined his laughter to hers and leaned his arms on the pickets of the gate. She called upon him to testify that Miguel was a very goat. She pursued the little animal more fleetly, lashing out at him so smartly with a broken rose-spray that the peacock retired to the wide stone-step, and let fall the glory of his train. Around and around she tore, her cheeks scarlet as her shoulder-shawl, her black eyes dancing, her hair whipping out behind, her teeth gleaming like a score of pearls as white as that one in her ring.

All at once, spent with her running and shouting, and almost choking with her mirth, she turned to the gate to find that Señor John was no longer there, but was now standing between the garden and the river, talking to the girl on the spotted mustang; while Anastacio had disappeared entirely--under the high bank that stood back from the strip of gently sloping beach. Paloma’s face fell, her eyes stared, her head came up resentfully. Then she walked over to Miguel, seized him by a narrow strap about his neck, gave him a cuff to quiet him, and jerked him, struggling, out of the yard.