"YOU'LL never be done laughing at me, Doña Magdalena, because I slept the night of the miracle. I tell you it was the coffee; it put me to sleep like opium. I shouldn't have heard the devil, I tell you, doña, if he'd come hammering at my door that night."
Borromeo Cambon was at his anvil, beating out the parts of one of those plows that turned a furrow like a wave, which Juan Molinero had shown him how to build. He did not take Doña Magdalena's banter with his accustomed good humor, but scowled at her with his dark brows drawn, while he pumped his bellows until it roared like a wintry wind.
"You look as if you'd eat me like a shrimp, Borromeo," she said, pretending to pout in an offended way. "I think it was the brandy instead of the coffee. You are not strong enough to take so much of it at once, poor little man!"
Borromeo slowly took his hand from the bellows shaft, like a deliberate oarsman who feels his craft touch shore, turned to Magdalena with such an expression of injury in his broad face that would have provoked laughter if she had not seen at a glance that her raillery had hurt the simple blacksmith's heart.
"That was four weeks ago, doña; a long time for a joke to stick like a thorn in a man's hand and bite him every time he takes up a tool. It is true, as all the world knows by now, that I slept like an alligator the night the miracle came to Juan, and they killed Alvitre at the dam. But it was: the design of providence that I slept, doña, for if I had roused at Cristóbal's cry and rushed to the dam with my iron bar, there would have been no need of an arrow to save the governor's life. Then where would Juan and Cristóbal have stood today? They would have been hunted men, with no governor's pardon making everything right as it does. Now, that is my last word of this jest, doña. Run away to wash the feet of your great lord, Don Geronimo, and trouble me with your cackle no more."
"I am sorry, Borromeo," she said in sincere contrition, understanding very well that her jest had become a thorn.
"Very well, then. There is no reason in galling a man for a weakness because he's got a broad back. But it is enough; go and feed your hens."
"I am ashamed, Borromeo. You are better than I am, and kinder, too. Forgive me; I will say no more."
"Oh well, if you speak that way it is nothing. It was not said, Doña Magdalena. Now, I must go on with my work."
He turned to the bellows again, which had wasted its last breath in a long sigh and stood as flat as a parson's purse. With short quick strokes at first, growing longer and harder as the leather filled and grew toad-like in its distension, Borromeo rekindled his failing fire. He did not glance at Magdalena, who stood close by his elbow, her bright kerchief binding her tidy hair, the firelight of the forge twinkling on her Gipsy earrings.
"Borromeo?" She touched the elbow of the hand that held the bellows shaft. Borromeo was bending over the fire, trimming it around the iron that lay glowing among the coals. He did not turn, nor lift his head, nor answer her by so much as a grunt.
"Borromeo?" softly, coaxingly. "What are you making, Borromeo?"
"It must be a piece of foolishness, when it is made by such a fool," he returned, not yet quite mollified.
"Who has made San Fernando famous for its ironwork, from mission to mission for hundreds of miles? Not a dunce, Borromeo; you know very well I esteem you next to Don Geronimo as the best man in the world."
"Maybe it is a ship, then, to carry me to Mexico," said he.
"You will not tell me; I have lost your confidence because of a silly little jest pushed so far it hurt. But you speak of a ship, Borromeo. There is a ship coming down from Monterey in a few days that will carry Don Geronimo and me away. Perhaps your heart will be kinder toward me when I am gone."
Borromeo turned to her slowly, a look of consternation spreading in his face. He began wiping his hands on his leather apron as if making them clean to lay hold of and detain her.
"You are not leaving San Fernando, then, doña?" he said, gently, regretfully, as if he took the blame for her going, and entreated her to remain.
"In two or three weeks, Borromeo. They will send us word when the ship returns to San Pedro."
"But you do not want to go, your heart is sad already. There is plenty of room in California. Why will you go against your heart?"
"Let us not talk of it today, Borromeo. I must go along to my kitchen, I must see if the girls are making the dinner ready. We're going to have turnips and beef, Borromeo. You will come in?"
"Trust me, doña, when I smell the steam of dinner and hear the bell. So, you are going away?"
"It is arranged, Borromeo."
"Then I will tell you what I am making. It is plow, my wedding gift to Juan."
"It is a magnificent gift, Borromeo, something made by your own hands. Juan will value it above a silver plow, I am sure."
"I feared it would not be in time, there has been so much to do. Juan would have helped me, not knowing it was for him. But it is ready to be assembled now; he shall strike the first furrow with it in the land Gertrudis brings to him. Yes; that is so."
"The wedding is a month or more away yet; there will be plenty of time for your plow. But I shall not be here for their happy day."
"They will miss you, as I will miss you when my day comes, Doña Magdalena."
"Your day? What, Borromeo? have you found a lady?"
"A man wants to stay in California, after all, especially when Juan is to remain," Borromeo shied from the question bashfully.
"So you are to be married! And I wonder who the lady is? I am envious of her good fortune, dear Borromeo."
"Well, she isn't so much of a lady, little Maria"
"Maria? Oh, she is as sweet as the morning!"
"She is half Castilian, anyway, and that is better than a man can expect in this country."
"She is the best girl in the village, such a housekeeper, so quick with the needle."
"She doesn't eat bugs, worms revolt her. A man can have a Christian home with her, doña."
"You will have the finest shirts, Borromeo! Maria is a treasure, you are a fortunate man."
"Yes, Padre Ignacio is going to release me when I am married at Christmas time. Then I am going to the pueblo and start a shop. There will be business for a man who knows his trade, Juan will speak a good word for me among the ranchers, where I am not altogether unknown as it is."
"Your anvil would be silver, your hammers would be gold, if my good wishes could give them to you," Magdalena said. "Now, I must go—there is Juan home from his building on the ranch, waiting at the fountain as he always waits at evening for Gertrudis. The evening bell will ring in a little while, Borromeo."
"But, doña, there are tears in your eyes," Borromeo seemed to protest, yet in tender solicitude "It is not our happiness that makes you weep?"
Doña Magdalena shook her head, her lips pressed hard, and went to the door in silence. There she turned, a tremor in her voice when she spoke.
"I am thinking what a desolate place San Fernando will be when all of us are gone," she said.
She went away quickly across the court to her kitchen door. Borromeo followed to the smithy door and looked after her, rubbing one great hand reflectively upon the other.
"Now, that is so," said he.
Borromeo stood in his door, looking over the evening peace of San Fernando. Gertrudis had dismissed her class of girls, who spread over the court in sudden enlivening of laughter and shrill words, flitting like little fish in the shallows, running and screaming in impromptu games. Juan stood near the fountain, where the shadow of the lemon trees fell before the low-sinking sun. He exchanged friendly signals with Borromeo; Gertrudis came from the door of her classroom to join him. They sat on the bench against the rose trellis, the fallen petals like a thin strewing of a first snow at their feet.
"There is plenty to talk about when a man is going to be married," said Borromeo to himself.
It appeared so, beyond a doubt. Borromeo watched them a little while, measured the distance between the sun and the hilltops, which was not more than the breadth of his thick, broad hand, and went in to gather up his tools after his workmanly rule.
There was the building of the new home to be' talked of between Gertrudis and Juan, the adobe bricks for which Padre Ignacio had given them; and the invaluable coöperation of Cristóbal, who superintended the transportation of the same. There was the branch of a grey old roble, which overhung a corner of the new house, to be considered, and pleaded for by Gertrudis, who would alter the plans rather than sacrifice it; and there was talk of the sheepfold, how far it should be from the house; and the garden, into which water must be led from the dam across the brook. In short, there was life, and youth, and hope, and confidence; and all the beginning of this vast, new, marvellous undertaking, the establishment of a family, the keystone of man's felicity.
Juan's face was older and graver for the scars his burns had left; not deep nor disfiguring, such as a man wears a beard to conceal, but more as if sorrow had touched his cheeks with searing hands, fixing a cast of sadness upon him which gaiety could not again beguile away. He had trimmed his beard on his cheeks again in the Spanish mode, and his face was browned by sun and wind almost to the color of Padre Ignacio's. There was not a shadow in his clear blue eyes.
Gertrudis carried her little scissors around her neck as before; they were bright against her white dress, lending her an air of domesticity that became her well. The happy termination of her recent sorrow had given her a new vivacity, a poise of maturity and confidence. She faced the future with a smile.
"Governor de Arrillaga was here at midday, Juan, returning from San Diego," she said. "He asked to be remembered."
"As if I could ever forget him! Did he say anything about his decision in the controversy between the padres and the ranchers over the grazing lands?"
"They discussed it quite openly, Don Geronimo says. The governor holds their complaints without foundation. There is room enough," he said, "for them all without grudging the padres grazing grounds for their sheep."
"He is a just man, his decision was foreseen. And the people of the pueblo? did he speak of them?"
"There is more ground for complaint in their case," he said. It is to be arranged in some way, I do not know how, to give them more water. Padre Ignacio will tell you. He is downcast over it; he says the mission fields and vineyards must be reduced."
"That is bad news. Still, Padre Mateo, at least, expected it. It is the first little advantage of the citizens over the padres, such as Don Geronimo has spoken of gloomily many times here lately as the beginning of the end. The politicians will have their desire with the mission properties before many years have passed over us, Tula. It will be a sad day."
"I used to hear much talk of it before we left Mexico, Juan. There were many who believed the missions were becoming too dominant in Alta California, that they should be curbed in the interest of the pueblos. The viceroy has that belief."
"Interference will be disastrous. Certainly, everybody can't think of the padres as I do, owing them so much, but it would be a terrible blunder for the state to take over the mission properties, as many are clamoring for it to be done, and turn them into the hands of greedy and incompetent political favorites."
"You will be an influential citizen here, Juan; you can work to defeat this unworthy scheme."
"Well, we must not stand under the shadow of a future event that probably is far away," Juan said cheerfully.
"Padre Ignacio says the fountains must be shut off," she said, sadly, "if the pueblo is to be given more water. Will our roses die then, Juan?"
"No, they shall never die," he declared. "We'll take some slips from them and plant them at our home—maybe Padre Ignacio will give us one of the roots of these very plants."
Gertrudis reached and drew a trailing spray to her, and pressed the blossoms against her cheek.
"Dear roses!" she said.
"So much must perish here when the water is cut off," said Juan, looking around the court, bordered by orange and lemon trees, with apricot and peach standing tall among them.
"Dear trees of San Fernando!" she sighed.
Then talk of the building again, which was more pleasant than the thought of withering, stricken roses and the pathos of dying trees. Youth is happiest when it is building, and planning building that may never take form beneath its hands. Building is the quickening leaven, it is the very essence of life. There are old men who believe that as long as they can build they will not die.
"We must get ready for dinner," she said at last.
"Yes, there's the sun's last arrow on the hill yonder."
She touched his hand, turning her face to him quickly, in a strange expression of questioning, of hesitant waiting.
"Juan?"
"Tula." He expressed readiness, eagerness, to meet her unspoken desire.
"The governor was discussing today the mystery of the arrow that night at the dam. When you spoke the word just now it sprang into my thought."
"Yes?" said he, pressing her hand between both his own.
"Yes. He said he would give a great deal to know who it was, to whom he really owes the obligation for his life."
"He is a generous man," said Juan. He seemed to have withdrawn some part of him, to have hidden away within himself, and to be far distant from her in a moment. Although her hand was clasped in his, she seemed groping for him, reaching and straining, unable to touch more than his shadow.
"I have wondered, too," she confessed, looking frankly into his eyes, a little color rising in her face on owning to the curiosity which was her right by heritage, if by no other justification. "You will tell me, Juan? Who was it shot the arrow that saved the governor's life that night?"
Juan seemed to go farther away, the elusive personality that had drawn near for a moment while she framed her question, leaped to its concealment again.
"It is strange for you to ask me that," he said.
"No, not strange. It was such a great service, a thing so heroic to tell one's children. Was it Cristóbal, Juan, or was it you?"
Juan looked into her pleading eyes, satisfying himself that something more than curiosity, that pride of which she had spoken, had prompted the unexpected opening of a question he had thought closed forever. He turned his face away, giving her no answer, leaving her trembling in the fear of his displeasure, which seemed so plainly expressed.
The last of the little girls were whirling in a ring beyond them in the court, chanting some childish game; Borromeo was in his door, letting down his sleeves, his face bright from the strong mission soap, making ready to close his shop for the day; Padre Ignacio was hurrying along the arcade toward the church, his head bent, his manner rapt as if he walked in a dream.
The evening bell, sounding in measured stroke: One; two; three. At the first note the little girls' hands broke the circle of their whirling dance, the little heads bowed, the little hands fluttered on bosoms, the devout lips moved in the quick words of earnest prayer; at the first stroke Borromeo bent his head, one sleeve up on his bare arm, and Padre Ignacio stopped suddenly, standing as still as the statue of St. Francis in his brown gown at the altar side. Gertrudis and Juan rose quickly to their feet, their handclasp broken, their heads bowed in prayer.
A moment so. And then the bell, quick, joyous; exulting, it seemed, in the call to weary men in the far fields that their day's work was done. The little girls ran laughing off down the arcade behind Padre Ignacio; Borromeo slipped down his sleeve and closed his doors, the bell calling, calling, its tone now rising, now sinking, its joy unabated, its sweet melody repeating against the rocky hills.
(End)