The chase went on. The little bark with Ibarra was left farbehind. Elias was not more than a hundred yards from the shore. Therowers were getting tired, but so was Elias, for he repeatedlyraised his head above the water, but always in a new direction, todisconcert his pursuers. The deceiving wake no longer told the placeof the swimmer. For the last time they saw him, sixty feet from theshore. The soldiers fired--minutes and minutes passed. Nothing againdisturbed the tranquil surface of the lake.
A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces ofblood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt.
LIV.
FATHER DAMASO EXPLAINS HIMSELF.
In vain the precious wedding presents heaped up; not the brilliantsin their velvet cases, not embroideries of pina nor pieces of silk,drew the eyes of Maria Clara. She saw nothing but the journal inwhich was told the death of Ibarra, drowned in the lake.
Suddenly she felt two hands over her eyes, clasping her head, whilea merry voice said to her:
"Who is it? Who is it?"
Maria sprang up in fright.
"Little goose! Did I scare you, eh? You weren't expecting me, eh? Why,I've come from the province to be at your marriage----" And with asatisfied smile, Father Damaso gave her his hand to kiss. She took it,trembling, and carried it respectfully to her lips.
"What is it, Maria?" demanded the Franciscan, troubled, and losinghis gay smile. "Your hand is cold, you are pale--are you ill, littlegirl?" And he drew her tenderly to him, took both her hands andquestioned her with his eyes.
"Won't you confide in your godfather?" he asked in a tone ofreproach. "Come, sit down here and tell me your griefs, as youused to do when you were little, and wanted some tapers to makewax dolls. You know I've always loved you--never scolded you----"and his voice became very tender. Maria began to cry.
"Why do you cry, my child? Have you quarrelled with Linares?"
Maria put her hands over her eyes.
"No; it's not about him--now!"
Father Damaso looked startled. "And you won't tell me yoursecrets? Have I not always tried to satisfy your slightest wish?"
Maria raised to him her eyes full of tears, looked at him a moment,then sobbed afresh.
"My child!"
Maria came slowly to him, fell on her knees at his feet, and raisingher face wet with tears, asked in a voice scarcely audible:
"Do you still love me?"
"Child!"
"Then--protect my father and make him break off my marriage." Andshe told him of her last interview with Ibarra, omitting everythingabout the secret of her birth.
Father Damaso could scarcely believe what he heard. She was talkingcalmly now, without tears.
"So long as he lived," she went on, "I could struggle, I could hope,I had confidence; I wished to live to hear about him; but now--thatthey have killed him, I have no longer any reason to live and suffer."
"And--Linares----"
"If he had lived, I might have married--for my father's sake; butnow that he is dead, I want the convent--or the grave."
"You loved him so?" stammered Father Damaso. Maria did not reply. Thefather bent his head on his breast.
"My child," he said at last in a broken voice, "forgive me forhaving made you unhappy; I did not know I was doing it! I thoughtof your future. How could I let you marry a man of this country, tosee you, later on, an unhappy wife and mother? I set myself with allmy strength to get this love out of your mind, I used all means--foryou, only for you. If you had been his wife, you would have wept forthe unfortunate position of your husband, exposed to all sorts ofdangers, and without defence; a mother, you would have wept for yourchildren; had you educated them, you would have prepared them a sadfuture; they would have become enemies of religion; the gallows orexile would have been their portion; had you left them in ignorance,you would have seen them tyrannized over and degraded. I could notconsent to this. That is why I found for you a husband whose childrenshould command, not obey; punish, not suffer--I knew your childhood'sfriend was good, and I liked him, as I did his father; but I hatedthem both for your sake, because I love you as one loves a daughter,because I idolize you--I have no other love; I have seen you grow up,there isn't an hour in which I do not think of you, you are my onejoy----" And Father Damaso began to cry like a child.
"Then if you love me, do not make me forever miserable; he is dead,I wish to be a nun."
The old man rested his forehead in his hand.
"A nun, a nun!" he repeated. "You do not know, my child, all thatis hidden behind the walls of a convent, you do not know! I woulda thousand times rather see you unhappy in the world than in thecloister. Here your complaints can be heard; there you have only thewalls! You are beautiful, very beautiful; you were not made to renouncethe world. Believe me, my child, time alters all things; later youwill forget, you will love, you will love your husband--Linares."
"Either the convent or--death," repeated Maria, with no sign ofyielding.
"Maria," said the father, "I am not young. I cannot watch over youalways; choose something else, find another love, another husband,anything, what you will!"
"I choose the convent."
"My God, my God!" cried the priest, burying his face in his hands. "Youpunish me, be it so! But watch over my daughter!--Maria, you shallbe a nun. I cannot have you die."
Maria took his hands, pressed them, kissed them as she knelt.
"Godfather, my godfather," she said.
"Oh, God!" cried the heart of the father, "thou dost exist, becausethou dost chastise! Take vengeance upon me, but do not strike theinnocent; save my daughter!"
LV.
THE NOCHEBUENA.
Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hidesunder the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roofcreep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlersand wild boars' heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornamentthe rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from thechase and the cup of the woods.
Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from theveins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons,and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing besideanother boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. Itis Sisa's son, Basilio.
"When your foot is well," said the little boy, "you will go with usto the top of the mountain and drink deer's blood and lemon juice;then you'll grow fat; then I'll show you how to jump from one rockto another, over the torrent."
Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked atthe sun, which was shining splendidly.
"Sell these brooms, Lucia," said the grandfather to the young girl,"and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas."
"Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!" cried the little boy.
"And what do you want?" the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy gotup and went to the old man.
"Senor," he said, "have I been ill more than a month?"
"Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons havepassed. We thought you were going to die----"
"May God reward you; we are very poor," said Basilio; "but as to-dayis Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and mylittle brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me."
"But, son, you aren't well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. Youwould not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you whenthey come from the forest."
"You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps shethinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night--a son!"
The grandfather felt his eyes grow dim.
"You are as sensible as an old man! Go, find your mother, give herher present! Go, my son. God and the Lord Jesus go with you!"
"What, you're not going to stay and see my fire-crackers?" said thelittle boy.
"I want you to play hide and seek!" pouted the little girl; "nothingelse is so much fun."
Basilio smiled and his eyes filled with tears.
"I shall come back soon," he said, "and bring my little brother;then you can play with him. But I must go away now with Lucia."
"Don't forget us!" said the old man, "and come back when you arewell." The children all accompanied him to the bridge of bamboo overthe rushing torrent. Lucia, who was going to the first pueblo withher basket, made him lean on her arm; the other children watched themboth out of sight.
The north wind was blowing, and the dwellers in San Diego weretrembling with cold. It was the Nochebuena, and yet the pueblo wassad. Not a paper lantern hung in the windows, no noise in the housesannouncing the joyful time, as in other years.
At the home of Captain Basilio, the master of the house is talkingwith Don Filipo; the troubles of these times have made them friends.
"You are in rare luck, to be released at just this moment," CaptainBasilio was saying to his guest. "They've burned your books, that'strue; but others have fared worse."
A woman came up to the window and looked in. Her eyes were brilliant,her face haggard, her hair loose; the moon made her uncanny.
"Sisa?" asked Don Filipo, in surprise. "I thought she was witha physician."
Captain Basilio smiled bitterly.
"The doctor feared he might be taken for a friend of Don Crisostomo's,so he drove her out!"
"What else has happened since I went away? I know we have a new curateand a new alferez----"
"Well, the head sacristan was found dead, hung in the garret of hishouse. And old Tasio is dead. They buried him in the Chinese cemetery."
"Poor Don Astasio!" sighed Don Filipo. "And his books?"
"The devout thought it would be pleasing to God if they shouldburn them; nothing escaped, not even the works of Cicero. Thegobernadorcillo was no check whatsoever."
They were both silent. At that moment, the melancholy song of Sisawas heard. A child passed, limping, and running toward the place fromwhich the song came; it was Basilio. The little fellow had foundhis home deserted and in ruins. He had been told about his mother;of Crispin he had not heard a word. He had dried his tears, smotheredhis grief, and without resting, started out to find Sisa.
She had come to the house of the new alferez. As usual, a sentinelwas pacing up and down. When she saw the soldier, she took to flight,and ran as only a wild thing can. Basilio saw her, and fearing tolose sight of her, forgot his wounded foot, and followed in hotpursuit. Dogs barked, geese cackled, windows opened here and there,to give passage to the heads of the curious; others banged to, fromfear of a new night of trouble. At this rate, the runners were soonoutside the pueblo, and Sisa began to moderate her speed. There wasa long distance between her and her pursuer.
"Mother!" he cried, when he could distinguish her.
No sooner did Sisa hear the voice than she again began to run madly.
"Mother, it's I," cried the child in despair. Sisa paid noattention. The poor little fellow followed breathless. They were nowon the border of the wood.
Bushes, thorny twigs, and the roots of trees hindered theirprogress. The child followed the vision of his mother, made clear nowand then by the moon's rays across the heavy foliage. They were in themysterious wood of the family of Ibarra. Basilio often stumbled andfell, but he got up again, without feeling his hurts, or rememberinghis lameness. All his life was concentrated in his eyes, which neverlost the beloved figure from view.
They crossed the brook, which was singing gently, and to his greatsurprise, Basilio saw his mother press through the thicket andenter the wooden door that closed the tomb of the old Spaniard. Hetried to follow her, but the door was fast. Sisa was defending theentrance--holding the door closed with all her strength.
"Mother, it's I, it's I, Basilio, your son!" cried the child, fallingfrom fatigue. But Sisa would not budge. Her feet braced against theground, she offered an energetic resistance. Basilio examined the wall,but could not scale it. Then he made the tour of the grave. He saw abranch of the great tree, crossed by a branch of another. He beganto climb, and his filial love did miracles. He went from branch tobranch, and came over the tomb at last.
The noise he made in the branches startled Sisa. She turned andwould have fled, but her son, letting himself drop from the tree,seized her in his arms and covered her with kisses; then, worn out,he fainted away.
Sisa saw his forehead bathed in blood. She bent over him, and hereyes, almost out of their sockets, were fixed on his face, whichstirred the sleeping cells of her brain. Then something like a sparkflashed through them. Sisa recognized her son, and with a cry fellon his senseless body, pressing it to her heart, kissing him andweeping. Then mother and son were both motionless.
When Basilio came to himself, he found his mother withoutconsciousness. He called her, lavished tender names on her, and seeingshe did not wake, ran for water and sprinkled her pale face. But theeyes remained closed. In terror, Basilio put his ear to her heart,but her heart no longer beat. The poor child embraced the dead bodyof his mother, weeping bitterly.
On this night of joy for so many children, who, by the warm hearth,celebrate the feast which recalls the first loving look Heaven gaveto earth; on this night when all good Christian families eat, laugh,and dance, 'mid love and kisses; on this night which, for the childrenof cold countries, is magical with its Christmas trees, Basilio sitsin solitude and grief. Who knows? Perhaps around the hearth of thesilent Father Salvi are children playing; perhaps they are singing:
"Christmas comes, And Christmas goes."
The child was sobbing. When he raised his head, a man was lookingsilently down at him.
"You are her son?" he asked.
Basilio nodded his head.
"What are you going to do?"
"Bury her."
"In the cemetery?"
"I have no money--if you would help me----"
"I am too weak," said the man, sinking gradually to the ground. "I amwounded. For two days I have not eaten or slept. Has no one been hereto-night?" And the man sat still, watching the child's attractive face.
"Listen," said he, in a voice growing feebler, "I too shall be deadbefore morning. Twenty paces from here, beyond the spring, is a pileof wood; put our two bodies on it, and light the fire."
Basilio listened.
"Then, if nobody comes, you are to dig here; you will find a lot ofgold, and it will be all yours. Study!"
The voice of the unknown man sank lower and lower. Then he turnedhis head toward the east, and said softly, as though praying:
"I die without seeing the light of dawn on my country. You who shallsee it and greet it, do not forget those who fell in the night!"
The Archbishop and the Lady
By Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield
A story of modern society which only a writer of very wide and veryexceptional social experience could have written. It is cosmopolitan,yet full of romance; modern, yet informed with a delicate old-worldcharm. The characters are put before us with a consummate knowledgeof the world and a penetrating insight into human nature.
Cloth. 12mo; 5-1/8 x 7-3/4. About $1.50.
April's Sowing
By GERTRUDE HALL
Miss Gertrude Hall is known to the world as a poet and as a tellerof tales, but with her first novel she reveals new gifts, for it isa modern story tuned to a note of light comedy that she has neverstruck before. "April's Sowing" is that most widely appreciated thingin letters, a young love story.
Illustrated by Orson Lowell. With decorative cover, frontispiece,title page in color, and ornamental head and tail pieces. Cloth. 12mo;5-1/8 x 7-3/4. $1.50.
The Darlingtons
By ELMORE ELLIOTT PEAKE
A novel of American life in the middle West which deals principallywith the fortunes of a family whose members are the social andfinancial leaders of their section. The heroine is a girl whoseeducation is broad enough to enable her to assist her father inmanaging a railroad. The hero is a Methodist minister of liberaltendencies. The story is told with rema
rkable fidelity and unusualdramatic interest.
Cloth. 12mo; 5-1/8 x 7-3/4. About $1.50.
Two Unknown Phases of Life Made Known in Fiction
The Powers That Prey
By Josiah Flynt and Francis Walton
The authors of the ten closely related stories which make up thisvolume have spent most of their lives studying the sociologicalproblems of tramp and criminal life. Mr. Flynt writes: "So far as Iam concerned, the book is the result of ten years of wandering withtramps and two years spent with various police organizations." Thestories are a decided contribution to sociology, and yet, viewed asstories, they have unusual interest because of their remarkable vigorand their intense realism.
Fully Illustrated. Cloth. 12mo; 5-1/8 x 7-3/4. $1.25.
The Soul of the Street
By NORMAN DUNCAN
"The Soul of the Street" has a unity lacking in many volumes of shortstories. They deal with Syrians and Turks, queer folk with queer ways,and Mr. Duncan has gotten at them with such sympathetic insight as onlythe poetic heart and the story-teller's eye can possess. Character,humor, poignant pathos, and the sad grotesque conjunctions of oldand new civilizations are expressed through the medium of a stylethat has distinction, and strikes a note of rare personality.