CHAPTER XXXIIIREFUGIO ONCE MORE
Mr. Rupert Disbrow so excitedly sprang from his chair and threw down the evening paper that his father, calmly reading his ownGazetteat 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 andreturning 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 Disbrowleaned 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 extremelyill, 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.’”
“‘My Dear Sir:
‘Having for some months been absent from my home, in hospital in this city and extremelyill, 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.”
“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 thefiestawe will makeshall 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 everyvaqueroin 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 oldMission, 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