BORROMEO CAMBON came to the kitchen at evening of that notable day in the history of San Fernando, to get a mouthful of the dainties which Magdalena had been all day preparing for the feast. It was not often in the life of a man of even such importance as the king's blacksmith that he came to share the provender of a governor. True, the governor was dining in the refectory with the padres, but the nearer to the source of luxury a man can seat himself, the greater his advantage. So Borromeo, in his philosophy, consoled himself for a place and a platter at the kitchen table.
Doña Magdalena never had appeared so fair in Borromeo's eyes, her dark cheeks glowing, her soft eyes bright, all dressed in white like a bride, the broad strings of her long white apron tied daintily at her slender waist. Even the kerchief that protected her hair from the smoke of broiling meats was white; it was bound smoothly across her forehead like the wimple of a nun.
"Doña Magdalena, you are beautiful tonight as a plume of white yucca on the side of the hill," he said.
"Then it is the white dress that you admire; I am just the same," she returned, but pleased and smiling, for Borromeo was not a man to speak compliments or give flattery. The wonder of her attractiveness was in his round eyes. It was as if he had made a discovery.
"It is the honor of cooking for a governor that makes you glow like a little star in a white cloud, doña. A man might be jealous of a woman for that, seeing her so happy serving another fellow when she has had only growls for him to go with his soup out of the black pot."
"It is a marvel, your knowledge of women," she twitted him, yet too happy for the acrimony that she knew so well how to tip her ready tongue with, like the flint of an arrow, making the softest sounding words sometimes very hard and sharp when they were felt. "It is a pity you haven't one of your own to make you wiser."
"Maybe another ship will come some day, doña, bringing my chance. Who knows?"
"It would be better to take a ship away from this country, as Don Geronimo and I have decided to do. This is a sad land, it is full of hardships. Don Geronimo never will stand the same man that he was a few days ago. But I forget, I do not mean to laugh at you, Borromeo. You are not yet free to go."
"Two cursed years yet to hold me here, like an Indian slave! Well, a man could be in worse hands than Padre Ignacio's, and he might be where the sun could not shine on him, or the light of a pretty lady's eyes. I am afraid, by my breath, that Don Geronimo will have reason to cut my throat if I am left alone with you very much—I may take you under my arm and carry you away."
"What a terror you put in my heart!" Magdalena laughed, her big earrings twinkling in the candlelight when she threw her head back, gaily as a girl at a fiesta. "Well, have you seen the governor, Borromeo?"
"No; he did not come to the shop to pay his respects, and I am not going to stand on a leg like a chicken in the rain waiting for him to show his face around the corner. And so you are feeding him veal, heh? Doña, it is as tender as the breast of a dove."
"Borromeo, San Fernando would be a disconsolate place without you," she said with great gentleness. "I have a gill of brandy here, and there is coffee for you to put it in. So you see what fine things come when the governor rides down from Monterey to visit us here in the south. Padre Ignacio has been saving this choice berry in his chest for some such notable occasion as this."
"It smells—doña it smells—what is it this coffee sets me thinking of with its smell? Ah! the market at Tepic on a Sunday morning, where I went one time with my father, long, long, ago. It is a queer thing, doña, how God has made a little place in everybody's head to put these recollections away, for dust to settle on them, it might be said, until some word, or some piece of a tune, or some smell such as this coffee, brings them out again, as fresh as yesterday. Yes, yes; it is very strange."
Doña Magdalena's eyes were very tender as she placed her hand on Borromeo's shoulder, pausing amoment in her flitting between grate and the trencher that she was heaping with meat to be carried by the Indian boys to the padres' table. She said nothing; only touched his shoulder as one gives an encouraging, commending caress to a child. Borromeo bent over his plate, busy with his great hunger, a serene, a happy man.
"Do you know what the business of this fine governor is in the south?" Borromeo lifted his face presently to inquire.
"He has come to investigate the many false charges that have been lodged against the missions," Magdalena replied.
"I thought Don Geronimo would have the reason of it," Borromeo nodded. "So, they have carried their case to the governor? What is it they are crying about, our sheep?"
"The Angelenos say the padres of San Fernando are oppressors because they built a dam in the river years before the pueblo was established. That is one thing. Another cry of oppression rises from the ranchers, from Pico and the rest of them around us, but from Pico especially, who says the sheep have destroyed his grazing and he has no place left to pasture his cattle. The others join him in this—you have heard that complaint these two years."
"True; the ranchers have been here many times to see Padre Ignacio about it. Pico has a cloak with a green satin lining which he turns back over his shoulder. He looks like a parrot on a limb. What does Don Geronimo think the governor will do?"
"Don Geronimo is not well enough to be much interested," she replied, sadly.
"But he is mending, doña?"
"Oh, marvellously. There never was such a physician as Padre Ignacio, although Padre Mateo is a good second."
An Indian lad came for the immense dish of meat, lifted it in both hands and ran out, carrying it before him as if he could endure the weight but a little while, and soon must place it or let it drop. He was lithe and quick, but short and undersized as most of his race, his black coarse hair cut squarely midway of his neck.
"He pretends the dish is hot, playing for an excuse to put it down in the next room and cram his mouth full of meat," Borromeo said.
"There is enough," said Magdalena, undisturbed.
"You will sit down and take your refreshment now, doña?"
"I will begin, Borromeo; a woman who is cook to a man never knows when she will finish. You will excuse me when I jump up and quit you now and then without a word."
"It is certain that I know a woman's way in this, doña, if in no other, remembering my mother when she made corn cakes on the griddle for us in the morning. Let me tell you, if that governor doesn't decide in our favor after filling his belly with this delicious food from your hands, I'm the man to wait by the side of the road and crack his head with a crowbar."
"There is no telling what the decision will be. I once heard Don Geronimo say—that time the soldiers were ordered away from the mission—that it was the beginning of the end. Perhaps the governor will give the mission lands away to the greedy ones who are sitting by waiting. It will be a sad day."
"A bitter day for these poor devils of Indians, who never will be able to find bugs and rabbits enough to keep them alive, they have increased in such numbers under the gentle padres' care."
"Don Geronimo says the ranchers will make slaves of the poor creatures, as was done in the Indies, in Mexico, in the days of the conquerors. Let us pray for wisdom in our governor, to help him to the right course."
"Padre Ignacio will make it clear. It is too bad our little Tula is not at table with us like a sweet white candle to light our faces."
"It is the last day of her novena for poor Juan," said Magdalena softly. "She is praying constantly."
"Nine days of prayer!" said Borromeo, full of marvellous admiration. "There are not many men worthy the great devotion, but Juan is one of the few. If I could transplant one of my eyes to his head, as they say can be done with a crayfish, I'd give it with my blessing."
"I would give him both of mine, and be happy in my blindness," Magdalena said, the tears of gratitude which stood in them enhancing the endowment she would bestow with such unselfish heart.
"Well, it cannot be done, doña: poor Juan must remain a blind man to the end of his sad life. And he could strike a blow with a great hammer the equal of any man I ever saw."
"And how much greater the strength and nobility of his heart!"
"Yes, it takes a man to hold his body betweer another one and the fire. And this is the ninth day since Dominguez brought them home. Nine days of unceasing prayer! It is tremendous!"
"Great blessings call for great sacrifices, untiring devotion, Borromeo."
"Yes, it is reasonable that Our Señora cannot keep count of every man's trouble, there are so many men. She is a very busy lady, looking after the afflictions of all mankind."
"True. But it is also certain that if her attention is called to some particular case by such great acts of devotion and continual appeal, she will intercede for that person if he is worthy."
"Is Tula still determined to carry out the last great act of humility that she has set her heart on so solidly?"
"She is determined."
"And that is tonight?"
"Tonight."
"My prayers will go with her to sustain her in the anguish of her ordeal," said Borromeo, in his simple piety. "I thought Padre Ignacio had stopped it. He was against it from the first word."
"He has not consented, neither forbidden it. Gertrudis will not offend him; she will go about it quietly after the governor has retired and all is still. Padre Ignacio has only to keep out of the way, and you too, my good Borromeo. If her strength is equal to her faith she will carry it through, but she is so pale and worn by her vigils and grief that I am afraid."
"As for me, I do not know. I never heard of such a thing. Maybe Our Señora will be pleased by such a sacrifice, but I say I do not know."
"I have heard of it being done," Magdalena said, her voice low and reverent. "It comes from the old times, when there were miracles. Who knows?"
"At least it can do no harm, only to herself," said Borromeo, also reverent and hushed of voice as if he stood in a holy place. "Consider the pain of it, doña. I might undertake it for my own eyes, but for another's"
"You would if that other one was more to you than eyes, than your whole body,—yes even your life and your very soul."
"In that case there would be nothing left of a man, doña."
"There is nothing left of a woman when she loves a man as Gertrudis does Juan. She can go eagerly to this act of devotion that would make another flinch to think of it, and shudder and turn sick."
"It can be accounted for that way, then. Would you do as much for Don Gerronimo?"
Doña Magdalena did not reply. She turned her face to look out of the open door, where the moon made it almost as bright as within. Borromeo lifted his eyes slyly, creeping up on her in a manner of espionage, it appeared, as if to study the secret of her fealty and learn how far she would venture on account of it, and so be able to weigh his findings against the protestation of her lips. No such protestation came from Doña Magdalena. Borromeo looked at the soft line of her throat, the poise of her handsome head, as she turned in that manner as from a triviality that deserved no more than silence.
"Doña, you would do it. And you would do more," he said. "A man might expect it of his mother, and if I had a wife so devoted, doña, I would preserve her in oil."
"Like a herring," Magdalena laughed, but to relieve her own embarrassment rather than to discount his protestations.
"Of course Juan does not know of this," he said.
"How should he know? shut up like a bee. No, if he knew anything about it, that would be the end. It would not do."
"Yes, Our Señora might think it was a plot, an arrangement between them, to bring his suffering to her notice."
"Borromeo! what a thing to say! As if she were a woman, like me."
"Very much like, very much like, indeed," Borromeo declared, so sincere, so simple in his honest admiration there was no sacrilege in the comparison. Magdalena was not offended. She touched his big thick hand where it lay spread on the bare wood of the table.
"I am only a woman," she said, humble and contrite in her manner and word.
"Padre Ignacio has kept Juan close," said he. "I wanted to go in today to see how he was mending, and give him a little cheer, but he sent me back. Of course he knows best, but it's a lonesome business for a man to stay there in the dark."
"I shall always remember his blue eyes, and the little smile that used to peep out of them. It is a pity!"
"The night he came, doña, do you remember how he looked? He was hairy as a heathen, and a heathen he was, in fact. When he sat eating, and you looked at him kindly, saying something in his favor, he lifted his glass to you. It was as much of a surprise as if I had heard a donkey speak. From the strange creature of that night he has become a Christian as good as any of us."
"He is as sincere in the faith as Padre Ignacio himself."
"Sergeant Olivera would give a leg to be in there at supper with them, hearing what is being said about his demand for our poor burned Juan. Has the ban for profaning the church been lifted?"
"No. Communion is denied him, but he seems indifferent. He rode past the door yesterday, coming from the north along the king's road, smoking his cigar with defiance. Three of his thieving soldiers were with him, watching like dogs, as if they expected Juan to ride out of the gate again as he did that day with Cristóbal. I am tired of the sight of their dirty leather jackets. I hope I shall never see another one when I leave this unhappy land."
"I laugh when I think of the look in Sergeant Olivera's face when he came here demanding to put a guard over Juan. Padre Ignacio was as firm as a hill. He demanded a proper warrant, signed by the governor himself, and that, of course, Olivera didn't have, any more than Captain del Valle had the day he paid for his sacrilegious defiance."
"It is understood that Olivera sent to Monterey in special haste for such a paper."
"Well, the governor is here now; we shall see. Once I had a friendliness for that lean man Olivera, but if Padre Ignacio would give me permission I would drive him and his soldiers before me like bees the next time they come to San Fernando. Give me a bar of iron five feet long and I will account for any seven soldiers you can stand up against me. Little Cristóbal got away from them, smart as they are, anyhow."
"Padre Ignacio says he is far in the desert now, out of the reach of any man."
"God speed him, I say, and take him safely to the end of his journey."
"It would appear more the duty of soldiers to be out searching the mountains for the nine villains who carried Don Geronimo away, than sneaking around here waiting for Juan to heal sufficiently to be taken out and shot," Magdalena said.
"They will not be found," Borromeo declared. "They are away in the woods with the wild heathens who refuse to embrace the faith, the horses they rode have been eaten before this. And things are going poorly here, in spite of Padre Mateo's strong hand. He is a priest, not a mayordomo, let him try it as he will. Don Geronimo was a hard one, too ready with his whip at all times, but it will be a good day for this mission when he is able to ride out again and put these lazy rascals about their business."
"Don Geronimo will not serve as mayordomo again," Magdalena said.
"Until a ship comes, surely?"
"No, not any more. Another must be found to fill his place."
"That will be a long search, then, doña."
Borromeo poured brandy into the spoon of sugar that he held over his cup, sank it and lifted it, again and again, until the mixture was absorbed by the coffee. He sipped, the mellowness of contentment in his broad hairy face, his eyes dreamily on the beams dim through the smoke overhead.
"The padres' hams have thinned amazingly, doña, since the night Juan came to the kitchen door without a Christian word in his mouth to make himself understood."
"A great many mouths with Christian words in them, and some with words that no Christian should hear, much less speak, have come to these doors since that night, Borromeo. They have eaten the hams, sometimes as many as two in a single day."
"It will be time to cure more when the rains come. Ah-h! this is a soothing drink, doña. There is nothing like a little brandy to make a man kind."
"And nothing like a great deal to make him cruel, Borromeo."
"Without a doubt. But if our little Tula had a drop of this tonight—"
"I am reminded." Magdalena rose hurriedly, concern in her face. "I must go to her and assist her to prepare for the ordeal she is to undertake for the one dearer to her heart than the blood that visits it. Borromeo, I ask you to keep inside your door tonight—this piteous sight is not for the eyes of man."
Borromeo drank the last drop of his brandy, rinsed the glass with coffee for the last clinging scent. He stood, turning his stiff mustaches up from his lip with the back of his immense hand.
"I will keep inside my door, doña," he promised, "and I will pray for strength to sustain her in the pain of her progression on this pilgrimage of love. And I tell you, doña, when a heavy man like me prays, that is a thing that counts."
"They will sit at the table an hour yet, for trust Padre Ignacio to know the best time of day to approach a man to get out of him what is desired. Even the governor has no brandy equal to this in his cellar, that is certain. Padre Ignacio told me it came from Barcelona, and has been fifty years in the wood."
"He will be so mellow he'll give our good padre the seal of his office if he wants it," Borromeo said. "Didn't I tell you, doña, there was nothing like it to make a man kind?"
"Let us hope so, Borromeo. They do not send back for more meat, it must be they are satisfied. If they want more, Diego can cut it; I am going to Gertrudis now. Go, then, Borromeo, and I will shut the door."
"May you open it with a light heart tomorrow, doña."
"Thank you, Borromeo."
Borromeo stood outside the door a moment while Doña Magdalena swung it almost shut, leaving only her face in the opening.
"The moon has been dragging through the ocean again, the under part of it has melted away," he said.
"But it will grow again, as always," she returned.
"Like a lady's heart, doña."
"So it is said. Good night, Borromeo."
"Doña, until the next sight."