VI.
Yes, the present greatness of the Roman Pontificate, impersonated in Pius IX., the visible pole of all social order in this world, the terror of bad hearts, and joy of upright souls—this glory is only the first gleam of that which his heroic and lingering passion is preparing for an approaching future.
For the comfort, meanwhile, of the weak and timid, we repeat, with the more sagacious minds of our own day, that the future is for the Papacy, not for the Revolution; that the Papacy has already conquered the Revolution. We will conclude by making our own those noble words upon the immortal youth of the Church, spoken by our Holy Father to the representatives of the Catholic youth of Italy, on Epiphany of this year, in the Vatican. We accommodate them with perfect propriety to the supreme office of the Vicariate of Christ, with which he is divinely invested, and which he so gloriously sustains in the presence of God, of angels, of men, and of the infernal Revolution itself:
“My sons, let us give battle, and fear nothing. Remember that the enemies of God are vanishing, and the Papacy remains. The Child Jesus fled into Egypt, but in the night-time he was told to return, ‘for they are dead who sought the life of the child.’ How many persecutors of the Papacy are dead! After giving vent to their fury, and decimating the faithful who served God, they are dead: and the Papacy is left. Yes; ipsi peribunt, but thou, beloved Peter, living in thy successors—thou, constituted by God his vicar on earth—thou remainest, and thou shalt always remain: ipsi peribunt, tu autem permanebis. Thou shalt remain, young, vigorous, constant, in contrast to the persecutions which purify the church, whose head thou art, wash away its every spot, and make it stronger. Ipsi peribunt, tu autem permanebis. Thou art still with us in the teaching of truth and morals, in many ways, under many appearances. Ipsi peribunt, sed tu permanebis.
“Let this be our consolation, our comfort, our faith. Let us feel assured that ipsi peribunt, Petrus autem permanebit usque in finem sæculorum.”[137]
And you, great Pontiff, in uttering these sublime words, little thought that, three days later, he would perish suddenly who for many years had been the treacherous tormentor of the Papacy in your august person.
Napoleon III. perished uncrowned, humbled, in exile; that Napoleon who, in the intoxication of his empty triumphs, thought to hold in his hand, after your death, the victory over the Roman See, periit. He died, let us hope, repentant; and you, Holy Father, survive him to pray for his peace after death, with the same generous soul that, like your divine Model on Golgotha, always pardoned him in life. He has vanished like a shadow, first from the greatest throne in Europe, then from the sight of men, periit; and the Papacy permanet in you more than ever invincible. You, Pope Pius, for the time a prisoner, continue, from the Vatican, with Christ and in Christ, to reign beloved, blessed, applauded, over all who have a believing heart, an upright soul. Napoleon III. has gone down to that city of the dead which shall form the pedestal of your greatness in all ages: scabellum pedum tuorum; peopled by beings like Cavour, Palmerston, Mazzini, and by a throng of many others, who girded their loins for the mad enterprise of crushing out in his Vicar Christ our God, King of Heaven and Earth.
[A MAY CAROL.]
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
Is this, indeed, our ancient earth?
Or have we died in sleep, and risen?
Has earth, like man, her second birth?
Rises the palace from the prison?
Hills beyond hills ascend the skies;
In winding valleys, heaven-suspended,
Huge forests, rich as sunset’s dyes,
With rainbow-braided clouds are blended.
From melting snows through coverts dank
White torrents rush to yon blue mere,
Flooding its glazed and grassy bank,
The mirror of the milk-white steer.
What means it? Glory, sweetness, might?
Not these, but something holier far—
Shadows of him, that Light of Light,
Whose priestly vestment all things are.
The veil of sense transparent grows:
God’s face shines out, that veil behind,
Like yonder sea-reflected snows—
Here man must worship, or be blind.
[“FOR BETTER—FOR WORSE.”]
CONCLUDED.
“Pray take an easier chair, Mrs. Vanderlyn,” says the invalid; “I thank you for your sympathy, and trust my cough has not disturbed you.”
“Oh! not at all,” says Agnes; “it only made me want to come to see you, and I hope you will not regard it as an intrusion on my part.”
“By no means. You are very kind. I see it in your eyes. You do not shun the sick. It is a good heart that leads you to me. I thank you.”
These words are interrupted by painful coughing, but, after the paroxysm has passed, she becomes more quiet, and Agnes has a better opportunity of studying her face while they converse.
In spite of her wasting disease, it is a beautiful and saintly face still, and evidently has been much more beautiful in health and youth. Refinement and purity are stamped on every feature, and in every gesture and every fold of her raiment. The small, thin hands, folded over the book in her lap, are those of a delicately bred lady. A heavy plain gold ring, on the third finger of her left hand, is so loose that it is guarded by another and smaller one. These are all the ornaments she wears. A soft, warm wrapper of brown merino, a little white cap of thin muslin which does not altogether hide her abundant dark hair, are all of feminine costume to tell of the wearer’s character.
The room is very neat and comfortable, and shows no sign of poverty. On the walls are a few wood engravings, mostly of religious subjects, and a few photograph portraits finished in oils. A crucifix stands on the mantel, and a smaller one, attached to a rosary of Roman pearls, on the table by her side, where also is an exquisite Parian statuette of the Blessed Virgin and Child. Agnes sits on the other side of this table, and, while she converses with her hostess, her attention is drawn to a small book lying near her. Apparently only to read the title, she takes up this book, and opens at the fly-leaf. It is a prayer-book, and, in a lady’s writing, she reads:
“Martin Vanderlyn, from his wife.” Although prepared to know the truth, almost knowing it before she came into the room, Agnes feels her cheeks and lips grow pale; but she has always great command of herself, and now has not been taken quite by surprise.
“My husband is not a Catholic, although that book bears his name,” says Mrs. Vanderlyn. “Perhaps he is a relative of yours,” she adds, looking inquiringly at her guest.
“I never heard my husband speak of any relative of that name,” Agnes says. “The name is not a very common one, either. It seems strange that two of us should meet here. Is your husband absent?” She has remarked that Mrs. Vanderlyn had said, “My husband is not a Catholic,” and the avoidance of the use of the past tense gives her the chance to put her question, which she does to cover her own confusion, and mislead the lady as to herself. An expression of pain passes over Mrs. Vanderlyn’s face, as she quietly replies:
“Yes; he is absent, travelling.” It is not the first time that the poor lady has been obliged to answer a similar question, so she is not much disturbed; but Agnes feels sorry she has asked it. Mrs. Vanderlyn goes on speaking of her increased indisposition: “Mr. Vanderlyn does not know how very rapid has been the progress of the disease. I am much worse now than when he left home.”
Agnes cannot find it in her heart to ask how long it is since he left her. She thinks she knows, and she thinks she understands that Mrs. Vanderlyn does not wish her to know that she is a divorced woman. She respects this as a delicacy of feeling which her own position fully teaches her to appreciate. With her present knowledge of Martin Vanderlyn as a husband, her sympathies are all with his wife. She believes now that it was his fault and not hers which made the trouble between them. Her strong good sense tells her that Mrs. Vanderlyn being a Catholic was no sufficient reason for his separating from her; and she cannot believe that this lady has been a disagreeable companion to live with.
Overwhelmed with all the thoughts surging in her mind, she soon takes her leave, all the sooner that she hears her boy calling to her.
“You have a little son,” Mrs. Vanderlyn remarks. “Will you not bring him in to see me? I am very fond of children, and the only one I had is dead; I shall soon meet her, I hope. But to-morrow you will bring your boy to see me, will you not?” And she holds her hand out to Agnes, and looks wistfully in her face. Agnes is touched almost to tears as she promises.
The next day, with her “curled darling” clinging to her skirts, she goes to see this sister, as she somehow feels Mrs. Vanderlyn to be to her. Are they not both the deserted wives of the same man? And she feels that this one is more truly the wife than herself, in spite of all the law can do for her. And it has not escaped her notice that Mrs. Vanderlyn spoke of Martin as her husband still.
As she approaches Mrs. Vanderlyn, little George is hiding his face in her skirts, only allowing himself to look out, from time to time, between his fingers, at the lady. No urging from his mother seems likely to get him out of his intrenchment.
“Let him alone,” Mrs. Vanderlyn says; “that is the way with many children. When we stop urging him, he will show himself of his own accord.”
And so he does. After the attention of the two is, as he supposes, removed from himself, the chubby fingers come down, and the bright eyes gaze steadily at Mrs. Vanderlyn. She, becoming aware of this, turns, saying, “What is your name, darling?”
“Martin Van’lyn,” proudly speaks out little George, using the name by which his father had nearly always called him, and which he now seems to choose in a spirit of sheer mischief, for Agnes has rarely called him by that name. She had opposed it because it confused the address she used for his father. The child speaks out the “Martin” with unusual distinctness too, although he has oftener called himself “Marty” than Martin. Agnes has never thought of the boy thus betraying her, and she has said truly that his name is George. She is confused, and looks distressed, feeling that Mrs. Vanderlyn will naturally suspect her of falsifying, if not much more.
That lady seems equally disturbed, but in a different way from that which the child’s blunder might be supposed to create. She pauses, stammers, and, in great agitation, looking at Agnes, exclaims:
“Whose child is this? I could almost think I had my own again! Holy Mother, help me!” Then reaching for a little velvet miniature case, she opens it with trembling fingers, saying, “Look at that!”
Agnes looks, and sees the face of a child nearly the age of her own, which is so good a likeness of George that it might be taken for him. What wonder? It is the picture of his half-sister. These children of the same father had inherited a resemblance to his family rather than to himself, and here is little George looking at Mrs. Vanderlyn with the eyes and smile of her own child. Who has not observed how wonderfully lineage will proclaim itself in this way? The poor lady is more overcome by this sight than by any question as to George’s name; but that has not escaped her notice. She lays her wasted hand on the arm of Agnes, and says appealingly:
“Tell me the name of this child’s father! Pardon me! See, I will tell you first why I ask, that you may know why I take this liberty with you. I am Martin Vanderlyn’s deserted wife. This is his child’s face, and that is your child. He says his name is Martin. Pardon me, dear lady, again, for asking. I do not wish to pain you as I am pained; but what that man did to one woman he may have done to another—deserted her. I have heard that he did deceive another, and married her. I had not believed it, because he came to me for money within the past year, and spoke of returning to me after he had done travelling. I could not believe he had pretended to marry another woman; but with this” (pointing to the picture and to the boy), “you see I cannot help believing it. Are you that unfortunate woman?”
She speaks with tender commiseration for Agnes rather than with any animosity toward her. Agnes has stood during all this time, with her hands nervously clutching her dress, and vainly trying to be composed. Of what need, after all, is concealment from this woman, evidently not long for this life, and so full of pity and forgiveness? So she answers:
“You have rightly guessed. This is Martin Vanderlyn’s son, and I am what you truly call that unfortunate woman whom he has deserted. But I knew you immediately to be his divorced wife.”
“Divorced! who says so? No; I am not that. He would have made me so, but I am a Catholic, and I would not consent to it. I could not. He is my husband still, and, while I live, no law can make another woman his wife. But, oh! this is too cruel to you!” she says, seeing Agnes droop at once. “Did you really believe, dear, that you had the law on your side? You thought he was divorced from me. Ah! no; not even that doubtful right had he to marry you. He has not even the Protestant permission, for he is not divorced from me. Even if the law had so parted us, he ought not to have married another, and I, as a Catholic, could not do so; for you remember our Lord’s words that “he who shall marry her that is put away, committeth adultery.” I pain you, madam, very much, I know, but I must not deceive you more than you have been deceived already. I have not much longer to live, and I must speak truth. If he ever returns to you, as I once hoped he would return to me, I may be in my grave then. Beg him, in that case, to marry you, else you will never be his wife. I say this for your good. I am sure you cannot think it is in malice. Look at me. I have nearly done with this life—above all, with Martin Vanderlyn. You have shown me kindness. I say to you what I do now, that you may see to it that no more wrong in the sight of Heaven is done. I cannot look into your face, and think that you will live with him again while I live.”
“Oh! no, no! God forbid!” cried Agnes. “I am not that, I could not be!”
“Then see to it when I am dead,” says Mrs. Vanderlyn, and she sinks back exhausted in her chair. Agnes kneels before her, and does everything in her power to restore her; but, in the meantime, her own condition is almost as pitiable. Little George has got hold of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s rosary, and is quietly playing with it during all this time. When Mrs. Vanderlyn is more composed, Agnes gives way herself. Drawing her boy to her heart, she cries:
“Oh! what am I, and what is he? What is our name, and what can we call ourselves? Can a few words more or less from judge or jury thus disgrace us? If I am not his wife, what am I? God knows I insisted on marriage with him, and entered upon it in good faith.”
“I do not doubt you,” Mrs. Vanderlyn says gently. “But, my dear, call yourself by your own name again. Try to put yourself, as far as possible, back into your old life, until you can get him to make it right.”
Alas! she little knows how these words pierce Agnes, and enlighten her as to the great wrong that has been done. Her own name again? Why, what is it? Not Thorndyke now. Her old life! She shall
“Hear the ‘Never, never,’ whispered by the phantom years.”
Another woman fills her place, closed now for ever to her, even if she could wish to take it. No honored wife can she be now; only a dishonored woman, deceived, betrayed, deserted. Her child without a father’s name to call his own—in the eyes of the law, “nobody’s child.” Where shall she go? What shall she do? To earn their bread she expected, but she had not thought to do it in disgrace. The two women weep together, Mrs. Vanderlyn trying to comfort Agnes, who now tells all her former history to this new and strange friend. Strange, indeed, that to Martin Vanderlyn’s true wife this shameful story should be confessed by his victim; but Agnes feels that she has not a wiser, kinder friend.
“Oh! where shall I go? What shall I do!” she sobs, with her head in Mrs. Vanderlyn’s lap.
“My dear, if you were a Catholic, I should answer: ‘Go to your confessor.’ As it is, could you not seek advice of your pastor? What kind of Protestant are you, dear?”
“Alas! I have no pastor. I was a Presbyterian. I am nothing now. He destroyed all my faith.”
“Yes, yes; I can well believe it; only a faith rooted deep as mine is, and as invulnerable, could withstand his assaults,” Mrs. Vanderlyn says sadly. “But, my poor child, you need some counsel wiser than I can give you, and a strength greater than your own or mine to lean upon in this sore trial. Are you too prejudiced to let me bespeak for you the aid of my own pastor, F. Francis? Our fates seem so to meet in this great trouble of our lives (though I know yours is the greater burthen) that I feel sure F. Francis will give you the advice and consolation you need.”
Agnes is startled at the proposition, but it does not repel her as it once would have done. This much, at least, unbelief will do for its victims, if they have been Protestant—it destroys that intense prejudice against the Catholic clergy which is the very life of Protestantism. Indeed, it often ploughs up the soil of the mind, and roots out the weeds of prejudice and bigotry, leaving a fair chance for the seeds of the true faith to find root. Agnes has been a very thoughtful woman, and has often suspected that there must be some divine influence in the Catholic religion to bind its believers to it, and to sustain them as she has seen no others held and sustained. In Mrs. Vanderlyn, she has perceived, through all her own perplexity and grief, a marked example of this divine assistance. Now that the way is open, she feels a yearning to lay hold of the same support. It is the desperate groping of a despairing soul for something beyond itself. Moreover, she has seen the gentle face of F. Francis, and heard the kind tones of his voice. So she answers humbly:
“If he will let me, Protestant as I am, trouble him with my affairs, I would be indeed glad to have his advice. He must be often called to comfort distressed Catholics, who keep nothing back from their priests.”
“Indeed he is—none oftener. Then I will tell your part of this sad story to him first. He, of course, knows mine already. What shall I call you to him, dear? You will be Mrs. Thorndyke still to him and to me, but you may not like to hear the name from us, and we must designate you.”
“Call me Agnes Rodney—my father’s name may yet be mine. This is the second time I have taken it back. I gave my boy that name. Poor child! He has no other now.”
The boy has been sleeping on the pillows of a sofa for some time, happily hidden from Mrs. Vanderlyn’s sight by the back of his mother’s chair. As he turns now in his sleep, Agnes rouses him, and leads him from the room.
On the following day, Agnes is asked by a servant to come to Mrs. Vanderlyn’s room. She suspects that it is to meet F. Francis, and she is not mistaken. It is not so great a trial to her as she has feared, for Mrs. Vanderlyn has told the story first to him.
From this interview she goes with a chastened spirit, and yet with more of comfort than she has thought it possible for her to feel. He has not spared her in the matter of how much she has been blamable all through her trials in not bearing with her husband more patiently and dutifully, and, above all, in tampering with divorce. He has shown her how the church regards marriage: not as a civil contract, but as a sacrament; and that, in his eyes, she is still John Thorndyke’s wife. So the wish of Mrs. Vanderlyn that Martin might be persuaded to legally marry Agnes after her own death, could not be granted while Agnes had yet a husband. True, the law has freed her from that tie, but no Catholic could bid her take any such advantage. Moreover, it is very doubtful if she will ever see Vanderlyn again. No thought of pursuit or of punishment ever enters her mind. To work for herself and her boy is now all that is left for her, and F. Francis promises to try to find that work for her to do. In the meantime, it is arranged that she shall stay for the present with Mrs. Vanderlyn, making no difference in her name to the landlady, to whom she says that they have discovered that they are remotely connected.
“I guessed it would turn out so,” says the landlady, “and I am right glad the poor soul has found a friend. I think she grows worse very fast. She won’t last long.”
The landlady is not wrong in her conclusions. From this time, Agnes devotes herself to the care of Mrs. Vanderlyn in her fast-failing strength. Indeed, did Agnes not fill the place of nurse, a hired one would be necessary, for the invalid has no relatives in the country upon whom to call. She was an only child, and her father the only one left of his family. From him she has inherited a small competence which has placed her above want and above the need of trying to wring from her husband any support. It was this which tempted him to come so meanly to her, even while living with Agnes, for pecuniary aid, well knowing, as he did, her generous nature.
It is a loving, but short task for Agnes to perform. In little more than three months, Margaret Vanderlyn is dead. But what a missionary even on her dying bed she has proved herself! Agnes sees now what it was that gave the angelic patience, and lent such a glory to the last days of her friend. Day by day, she has been necessarily thrown within the influence and teaching of F. Francis. The soil has indeed been ready, and, after Mrs. Vanderlyn’s burial, she feels, in her desolate condition, that only in the bosom of kind Mother Church is there any consolation for her. Perhaps, too, the desire to get as far as possible from all the infidel tendencies and teachings which Vanderlyn had brought to bear upon her mind makes her turn to the church as the surest and safest refuge. So Agnes Rodney becomes a Catholic, and a sincere one. As she kisses the crucifix, which was Mrs. Vanderlyn’s, she feels that she is a Magdalen, and longs to pour some precious ointment over her Saviour’s feet.
Mrs. Vanderlyn has left nearly all of her property to Agnes, not only as an acknowledgment of untiring devotion in her last days, but as some amends for the wrong done to her by Martin Vanderlyn. No finer proof of Margaret’s noble heart could have been given than in this generosity to the woman who had supplanted her.
But Agnes cannot rest content in the ease thus afforded her. She feels that she does not deserve it. She longs to make some greater expiation than any she has yet offered for the error of her life. A Magdalen she seems always to herself. It is this feeling which culminates at last in a desire to make the devotion of all her energies, and the sacrifice of all ease the precious ointment to pour at his feet. With this thought, she goes to F. Francis, and proposes to place her boy in a Catholic asylum, and that she may become a religious in some severe order.
“My daughter, it must not be,” replies the good priest sadly.
“Why not, father? I will strive so hard; I think I can be steadfast, with God’s help, after all I have endured. It would be such a blessed refuge, too, from my name and from my sad place in life—perhaps too great a privilege for me,” she adds, watching the unconsenting look in F. Francis’ eyes.
“You have said it, my child,” he replies. “Those who wear that garb have never been in your doubtful position. Besides, your husband lives.”
Agnes’ face falls. She never thinks of herself now as a married woman.
“But if I should become a real widow ever?” she pleads; for the purpose is dear to her, and she has hoped that her boy can be made a priest.
“Even then,” says F. Francis, “that which was your relation to Mr. Vanderlyn would be in the way of your reception into any of these orders, and your boy’s birth would be an impediment to his entering the priesthood.”
Never before has Agnes felt how great has been her degradation as now, when she finds that the all-pitying, loving, and gentle church which has washed her sins and granted her comfort and hope has yet its reservations for such as she and her boy.
It may be taken as a proof of the thoroughness of her conversion that she so meekly acquiesces.
“But, my daughter, I will tell you what you may do, if you feel like devoting yourself. We will put George in an asylum, and educate him, and by-and-by we will find his place for him; and you can go into a hospital as nurse.”
Her face brightens.
“You may not be a real sister; but a good hospital nurse, braving all contagion, and discomfort, and fatigue, is the next thing to one; and you may fashion your garb plainly, and shun the world’s comforts and pleasures very effectually in such a calling.”
“I will, father! Oh, I will!” she says with warmth, for this is her true vocation. “And then I may not have to part from George entirely, which, after all, would wound me here.” She lays her hand upon her heart as she speaks. “He is the only tie that is left me now.”
So Agnes Rodney watches beside the sick and dying in a hospital. Dressed in a plain brown gown, with her hair drawn under a simple white cap, she looks almost a real “sister,” and many of her Protestant patients think her such. She is happier now than ever since her girlhood. She is doing her Saviour’s work and that which she has always loved—ministering to the sick. No other nurse throws into her work such tender, loving care, such sympathy for the homeless and friendless. The doctors rely upon her skill; the patients love her for her gentle ministrations.
“And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.”
It is some five years from the time when Agnes Rodney commenced this life, that a young man, indeed scarcely more than a youth, for he cannot be more than nineteen, is hurt by a fall from a scaffold, and brought into the hospital. He is a carpenter, and has been at work on an adjoining building. To care for him, Mrs. Rodney is sent. The youth is unconscious at first, and under the surgeon’s hands. She does not learn his name at once, and it seems as if no one knows it. His fellow-workmen have withdrawn for the time, but will return to-morrow.
While Mrs. Rodney is disposing of this youth, washing and removing superfluous clothing, a pocket-book falls from his pockets, opening, and scattering its contents. She gathers these up, and is returning them, when her eye falls on a little picture which makes her start and gaze curiously at the youth on the bed before her. This picture is of a woman much younger than herself, and fairer, but it is her own likeness, nevertheless, taken many years ago. The face has a sweet girlish look, and soft, dark ringlets hang about the white throat. Her own hair is now more gray than dark, and stern lines are traced about the eyes and mouth; yet something of the same expression characterizes the face of the picture and the face of the hospital nurse. How many changes have come in her life since the sun portrayed that girlish face! How well she remembers sitting for it years ago! She gazes at it now, and criticises it, as if it were that of another person—never of herself. So completely changed does she seem to herself that no feeling has she now in common with the girl in the picture. And yet she knows it so well. Who is this youth who carries it about him? Is it for a chance admiration of it? She knows this may be, for it is the picture of a very pretty girl of about his own age. She almost fears to allow herself to believe who he may be as she scans his face closely. He moans and opens his eyes, turning to her, saying:
“Please give me some water.”
She gives it, and asks, with a quiet voice, but with eyes and ears expectant of the answer:
“What is your name?”
“George Thorndyke, ma’am.” And Agnes knows that her own son lies before her. How anxiously, for many days and nights after this, does she devote herself to this patient! No wonder the boy grows to be very fond of her? To him she is only Mrs. Rodney, and he has connected no idea of his mother with that name, although it has been his middle name also. His father struck it out, and he does not even know his mother’s maiden name. During his illness, she, by little and little, gleans this from him—that his father is dead; that he has three sisters (she sighs to herself as she remembers the other two); that he is working with a carpenter, of whom he is learning his trade; that his “stepmother” has been always good to him, but that she is gone, since his father’s death, to live far away. This explains one thing which has puzzled her—that only his employer and fellow-workmen have come to see him in the hospital. She has feared every day that some of his family might come. One thing yet she yearns to know—does he know any thing of herself, or does he think her dead? She longs and yet dreads to know this. At last, when it is evident that he will soon be well enough to leave the hospital, she asks him if he remembers his own mother, or if he was too young when he “lost her.”
“Yes, ma’am; I remember her a very little; but I have got her picture in my pocket-book.” And he shows it to her.
“This was taken when she was very young, I should think,” says the nurse.
“Oh! yes; mother said, the day she found it, that she guessed it was a keepsake of father’s once, but that she thought I had the best right to it. She told me never to let him see it, or know I had it, and that’s the reason I got to carrying it around with me. Why, nurse, I think she had eyes like yours.”
The nurse smiles, and busies herself in such a way that her head is turned away for some moments.
“Don’t you think she was pretty, nurse? I do?” continued Thorndyke.
Thus challenged, Agnes looks critically at the little picture.
“Yes; she was pretty, I think,” she answers slowly; “but, if she had lived, she might have been no better-looking than I am now.”
“And that would be nice enough for me; but, nurse, stoop down. I want to tell you something. She isn’t dead, or wasn’t when my father married my stepmother. They think that I think so, but a boy told me that she went away, and was divorced. I didn’t believe it at first, but I found out that it was true, and I would so much like to find her.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe it was father’s own fault that she went away. It may be wrong in me to say it, but I know he could be hateful sometimes, and I think he never liked me so well as he liked my sisters; and I always thought my stepmother was kinder to me than he was.”
“God bless her for that!”
Thorndyke looks at the nurse, surprised at the earnestness of the words.
“Why, yes,” he says, encouraged in his confidences by her sympathy. “She was always good to me, but I guess my own mother was superior to her, and father knew it; but they got along very well together, and she was good to him when he was sick at last.”
“Did he prosper?”
“Yes, quite well; but what he left wasn’t much, divided among four of us, and mother’s share out. I’ll have a little to start me with, though, and I got good schooling.”
“I am glad of that,” says the nurse.
“Why, nurse, what an interest you take in me; I think it very good of you, indeed. Is it so with all the poor fellows who get shut up here?”
“George Thorndyke, let me tell you something which I must before you go away and I lose all trace of you. I knew that picture as soon as I saw it, for I saw it before you were born.”
“Then you knew my mother! Where is she? Say! Is she living?”
“She is here. Can you forgive her and love her?”
They are not alone, so this revelation has to be made with hushed voices and guarded manner; but George Thorndyke says, grasping her hands:
“I would rather you were my mother than any woman I have ever met; and I will work for you all the days of my life.”
“No, George; this is my place, and this is my work.”
“But you must come out of it; you’ll get your death here. Gracious goodness! I can’t take it all in! Why, what a good thing it was for me to get that tumble, as it led me to you!”
And then he questions her very much, and many of his questions are hard to answer. At last he says suddenly:
“But you’re a Catholic, are you not?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Did that make the trouble, mother?” And he looks as if he thinks he has guessed it all.
“No, my son; if I had been a Catholic then, it would never have happened, and I should never have been here, and perhaps not you, either.”
He refrains from any further questions, but goes on declaring that he will take her from there, and work for her. It is pleasant to this lonely woman to feel that here is a manly heart and strength to lean on which she may honestly claim, but she answers:
“No, George; I cannot allow it; you must work, and take a wife, by-and-by, to yourself. I have my place and my work here, and there is another for whom I work too. But I have some money besides. There is no need for you to work for me, although I am here. Why, I am almost rich.”
“Another?” he says curiously, and scarcely noticing her last words.
“Yes,” she says, and has the pain of blushing before her own son, as she tells him he has a brother. “There is another George who is as near to you as those sisters of whom you have told me. I named him George to fill your place, after the law gave you to your father and not to me. O my son! I never meant to leave you. God knows I did not.”
“I do believe that,” he said; “but keep quiet, or they’ll notice. Where is—my—brother?” There is a slight hesitation over the last word—ever so slight—and he puts it bravely, but she feels it. That nice sense of motherhood has always been so quick with her. In all her vicissitudes, it has never been blunted. She tells him where George Rodney is, and asks if he wishes to see him.
“Yes; I do, for your sake; and, besides, he is my namesake, and did almost crowd me out, which I can’t allow, you know. But—is—is—Mr. Rodney living?”
Ah! what a keen although unconscious thrust is that!
“Rodney is my maiden name, George, and I have dropped the other. The Catholic Church does not recognize me as the wife of any other than your father.”
“Ah! I see,” he says, in evident relief.
She goes bravely on to have it over:
“But little George’s father is gone from us, I do not know where; I never expect to see him again. Rodney was in your name too, George.”
“I never knew that,” he says.
“Well, let it pass; perhaps your father did well to leave it out, and your brother keeps it now.”
They are interrupted here, and the nurse leaves her son, to attend to other duties. He finds enough to think about, and wants no other company but his own thoughts.
It is not many days after this that George Thorndyke leaves the hospital; but he never lets a day pass without going to see his mother, and he meets his brother kindly, if not affectionately. But to all his entreaties, and for a long time, Agnes refuses to leave her hard life. She means to “die in the harness” which she has voluntarily assumed. But at last her health begins to fail with the long strain upon her endurance, and the doctors say she must rest. F. Francis also counsels it. Now, and not till now, does she allow her son to make a home for her. It is a very comfortable one, for, with the money left her by Mrs. Vanderlyn, added to her long-saved pay as a hospital nurse, and George Thorndyke’s wages in his trade, they live in quiet refinement, if not luxury. And Agnes Rodney is a happy mother of two good sons.
A year has passed, and Agnes sits on a ferry-boat, in company with George Rodney, who is spending a short vacation with her. They sit near a man who is closely watching them, but whom they do not observe. This man has a sallow, unhealthy, and dissipated face, but withal a rather handsome one. The hair is dark, the eyes are gray, but sunken, and restless in their expression. A very heavy beard covers all the lower part of his face. A broad-brimmed felt hat shades his forehead and eyes. He seems very curious about Agnes, and shifts his seat, and leans nearer to hear her voice every time she answers George’s frequent questions. As they pass from the boat, he hastens to walk close behind her. He hears her say to the boy, “Wait, George, not so fast,” and his eye lights up at something in these few words. The mother and son get into a street-car. The man follows them, but seats himself on the same side, and at the other end of the seat. He keeps his head turned the other way whenever Agnes appears likely to look in his direction. He is at the end of the car where she will not pass him in leaving it.
When Agnes and George get off, he follows quickly, still without their noticing him. He sees the house they enter, surveys the neighborhood, repeats the number to himself, and then walks up the street and around the block, apparently in deep thought. When he comes around to the house again, he goes slowly up the steps, and reads “Thorndyke” upon the door. This seems to puzzle him. He looks around the neighborhood again.
“No; I am right,” he says; “that is the church opposite, and this is the number, but what does this name mean! John Thorndyke is dead, but she seems to prefer his name! Well, I’ll just see.” And he rings the bell.
“Is Mrs. Thorndyke in?” he says to the maid who opens the door.
“There hain’t no Mrs. Thorndyke,” says the girl, taking it as a personal grievance that he is not aware of this fact.
“Oh! well, the lady of the house—Mrs. Vanderlyn,” he says, not wishing to appear too ignorant before this austere damsel. Now she is exasperated.
“There hain’t nobody of that name, neither; but isn’t it Mrs. Rodney you want?”
The moment he hears this name, he appears satisfied, and, without noticing the girl’s rudeness, he says:
“That is the lady I mean.”
“Well, she’s in.” And the girl waves her hand to the open parlor door, as if she disdains further words with him. She suspects he hasn’t known the name of Rodney at all before she mentioned it. All his offence is in asking a question which she has been obliged to answer several times before to pedlars and others of that kind, but she visits upon him the accumulated vexation caused by his predecessors.
“What name shall I take to her?” she asks, with an unpleasant emphasis, as if she doubts whether he knows his own name, or has any.
“What name? Ah! yes. Say Mr. Martin would like to see her.”
The girl goes up-stairs, and tells Mrs. Rodney that Mr. Morton is waiting in the parlor.
After he is left alone, the man looks about the comfortable appointments of the room with a quick business eye. He seems satisfied, but has not much time for scrutiny, as he hears a step coming down the stairs. He rises, and stands ready to meet Agnes as she enters. When her eye falls on him, she stops at once, and stands looking steadily at him without speaking, but growing very pale. He comes toward her, saying, “Agnes!” and holding out both his hands. She does not take them, nor offer any welcome, but says, in a cold, quiet voice, “What do you want of me?”
“Are you, then, so unforgiving to me, Agnes? After all my long search for you, is this all the greeting you can give me?”
“I do not know how long your search may have been, but I am sorry that you have succeeded in finding me. What is it you want of me?” she says, in the same cold tone.
“To live with you, as I would have done all these years if you had not so unaccountably hidden yourself away.” He says this with an air of boldness, and of assertion of some right which he supposes she must recognize.
She smiles disdainfully. She divines the selfishness of this move, and she sees that he is ignorant of the extent of her knowledge concerning him.
“Where have you been all these years?” he asks, as she continues silent.
“I am not bound to account for myself to you,” she replies.
“Come, now, Agnes, this is foolish. Why not be friendly? It is best for you to be so. I have seen you with the boy. He is mine, and I can claim him, you know.”
“No, sir! you cannot do that.”
“You think I cannot? Pray, why? You are my wife, and he is my son.”
“He is your son, but I am not your wife,” she says, in a firm tone.
“Not my wife! But you were married to me. Oh! shame, Agnes! I did not expect that you, who insisted on the tying of that knot, would be the one to untie it. In what position does it place you and the boy if you are not my wife? I suppose you have considered that, and you must have advanced somewhat in your ideas to be so independent now of public opinion.”
Her face is very pale, and her lips have been firmly set. There is a cold, stern light in her eyes as she answers: “I was never your wife. You were not free to marry me, even if I had been free to marry you. You were never divorced from your wife, so you can have no claim on me.”
He looks astonished, and for a moment cringes just a little as she says this. But he rallies, and says, “That will not matter now, my wife is dead; do you know that?”
“Yes.”
“You do? Why, how do you know so much, when I only know that bare fact? Pray, can you tell me anything more?”
His tone is half satirical, half beseeching. He really wishes to know more than the meagre information which he has gleaned from the neighbors of the house where Margaret died—that a Mrs. Vanderlyn was buried from that house. The landlady has gone they know not where. They remember the funeral, that is all. He is anxious to know what has become of Margaret’s money. He thinks the priests have it; but he is not sure of this, however, for one person has told him that a relative who was nurse for the Catholic lady at the last inherited all her money. It has puzzled him very much to guess who this person could have been. He has not succeeded in finding any record of Margaret’s will. F. Francis and Mrs. Vanderlyn had thought it wiser not to have it recorded, considering Agnes’ peculiar relation to Vanderlyn, who might yet return to dispute the possession of the money with her, or to trouble her. Now that Agnes seems to know something of his wife, it occurs to him that she may possibly be that relative who inherited the money. Knowing the disposition of each of these women as he does—the one for nursing the sick, the other generous and forgiving—he sees that, if they met at all, this might have been the consequence. Remarkable quickness of deduction and conclusion he has always possessed, and it serves him now, and makes him more determined in his designs upon Agnes; but he is desirous of playing his game adroitly. She, on her part, wishes to shorten the interview, and be rid of him.
“I can tell you,” she says, “that your wife died as she lived, a saintly woman; that she was the kindest, truest friend to me I ever had. I knew from her the falsehood you told me when you said you were divorced from her, and the base deception you practised on me in pretending to make me your wife.”
“For love of you, Agnes! There was no other way for me. Let my love be my excuse.”
She disdains any notice of this interruption, and continues:
“It was an infamous falsehood and treachery to me; but let that pass. I was almost equally to blame, for I had no real right to marry you.”
“How so? You, at least, were free,” he says.
“No; my husband lived. I was still John Thorndyke’s wife in the eyes of the church.”
“Church!” he repeats scornfully.
“Martin Vanderlyn, I am a Catholic. It may modify your tone and remarks to be aware of that. I am proud and thankful to be of Margaret’s faith.”
He frowns, but thinks quickly that he may turn this to his advantage.
“Why are you called Rodney, then, and Thorndyke on your door, if you are Mrs. Thorndyke still?”
“My son’s name is Rodney. He has no other, and I will bear his. I decline to account to you for the name on my door.”
“You are very proud, Agnes, but I think it is best for you to be friendly with me, considering all things. I certainly am free to marry you now, and give the boy and you your right name and place. I should think you were the very woman to wish that. I happen to know of John Thorndyke’s death, too, so I think you are as free as I am now, even on your own ground. Agnes, I never meant to leave you so long. I wrote to you, and got no answer. I have searched for you in every direction, and only now I find you. Why are you so unwilling to live as my wife with me, when you see that it would place you and your son in a more respectable condition?”
Agnes remembers Margaret’s words: “See to it that he marries you when I am gone!” Then it had seemed doubtful if he could be persuaded to do so. And here he is suing for her consent. She remembers his son’s position, “nobody’s child,” but she remembers also her first-born son. She remembers the bold, false, bad heart and life of Martin Vanderlyn; she sees the possible effect of his evil influence on both her sons, as it formerly blighted her own life, and she shrinks in horror and disgust at the bare thought of such a stepfather introduced into their home. She answers his question without hesitation:
“I do not love you. I cannot respect you. You were false to your wife and false to me. I have been able to live happily without you all these years, and I shall live apart from you still.”
He keeps down his pride, and appears yet to hope to change her resolution, thinking it may be only the result of a woman’s pique. Moreover, he feels almost sure now that the comfortable home around her is purchased with the money left by Margaret. At all events, he is determined on getting a home if possible at her expense, and he does not scruple at any misrepresentation regarding his own means of support. To her last scornful words, he replies, with an air of kind consideration:
“But, Agnes, you will not always be able to support yourself as well as I can support you. I know not how you do it, but I can place you above the need of any effort on your part. Why can you not be frank with me, and tell me how you have managed to live? You did not receive all the money I sent, for some of it came back to me. Tell me, Agnes.”
“Martin Vanderlyn, I will not accept anything for either of us from you. We can do without you, and we will. My decision is final.”
“Do you know the harm I can do you?” he says, in an angry voice, and with flashing eyes. “I can brand you to the world and to the boy. Would you rather that than have a husband, and a father for your son?”
She seems to shrivel and whiten at his threat, but she stands firm, and answers him:
“You committed bigamy when you married me. What will the law do about that? I can prove it, sir! Now, had you not better leave me?”
“No! I swear I will not leave you until you promise to marry me!”
At this moment, a man’s step is heard in the hall. He has entered the house, quietly opening the door with a key of his own, and, while taking off his overcoat, has heard the last words of both the speakers. He steps within the room, and comes to Agnes’ side, passing his arm around her trembling form. He is a powerful young man, in full and vigorous health, which contrasts strongly with Vanderlyn’s sallow face and wasted figure. He looks at Vanderlyn with piercing eyes as he says:
“What do you mean, sir, by speaking to this lady in this manner? Mother, has he any right here that you acknowledge?”
“None, my son; I wish only to be rid of him.”
“Then, go,” says Thorndyke, “or I will see that you do. And if you trouble her again, I will see that the law lays its hand on you more heavily than I will lay mine if you do not leave us at once.”
Vanderlyn has gazed in great astonishment at this unexpected champion for Agnes. When he hears him call her “mother,” it flashes upon his quick perception why “Thorndyke” is on the door. He does not forget that there was a boy left in Agnes’ old home, whom he once promised to care for as if he were his own. Not much more has he cared for his own; but this is an opponent he does not like. This is a different kind of quarrel from the one he supposed he had with a defenceless woman. His game is lost; he knows it, but he tries to be very brave in his defeat. He says scornfully:
“Mr. Thorndyke, I do not ask your hospitality. I remember the quality of the article I had from your father some years ago. Yours seems to be of the same sort. I will not disturb the honorable repose of your family, or try to become further acquainted with my son, your brother.”
George raises his clenched hand to fell him to the floor, but Agnes interposes, and Vanderlyn leaves the house untouched—leaves it, but reels as he goes down the steps—staggers—falls upon the pavement only a few paces from the door. A few moments later, George Rodney, coming in the house, cries:
“A man has fallen dead in the street, just by the corner! I was coming around the other side, and I almost met him!”
George Thorndyke rushes out, and sees the men carrying Martin Vanderlyn’s senseless body away.
The next day, Agnes and her sons read in the papers that the man died of heart disease, which the doctors thought had been aggravated by some recent excitement. The mother and son are thankful that George’s hand did not fall upon him; but George Rodney never knows that the man he “almost met,” and who dropped down before his eyes, was his own father.
[THE INDIANS OF YSLETA.]
The rich and thriving Pueblo of the Ysléta Indians is situated on the western bank of the Rio Grande del Norte, about nine miles below the little town of Albuquerque in New Mexico.
We strike southward from Albuquerque along the east bank of the river. Three miles below the town we enter on flat and uninteresting bottomland. The eye is not relieved by a dwelling, not even by a tree, for a distance of five miles. We thus come to a rancho, deserted when we last passed there, but which still gave evidence of former comfort. The owner had joined the Texan Confederates, and quitted the territory.
Now we begin to cross the Sand Hills—a not unexciting performance. The road is a narrow and shifting one, growing daily narrower and of steeper slope, as the winds blow the sand upon it and fill it up. The wagon moves along slowly at an angle of 45°. The road winds tortuously along the face of the Sand Hills for about two miles, sometimes making short and abrupt turns. It is from two to three hundred feet above the river which washes the base of the hills. I feel an unpleasant tingling sensation at my elbows, and a great and almost uncontrollable desire to walk—“to lighten the load,” of course. Once on the road, there is no going back, and one is entirely at the mercy of one’s mules. You must let them go their own way. If they should grow restive or become frightened, a broken neck, a general and irretrievable “smash up,” an unpleasant and unrecorded grave in the quicksands of the Rio Grande, would be the result. A six-mule wagon went off at one of the sharp turns some years ago. Its fate was discovered by persons who travelled some hours behind it, and who noticed the tracks. The wagon and team had been engulfed, and had entirely disappeared before they arrived.
From the Sand Hills, we have a beautiful view of the Pueblo of Ysléta on the opposite side of the river. The spectacle of the Indians fording the river in certain spots, and driving their burros up the steep sides of the Sand Hill on which their Pueblo is built, enhances the picturesqueness of the scene.
We have passed the Sand Hills, and now we cross the river to visit the Pueblo. We have struck a little above the ford, however; the water is in the bed of our wagon. We have to stand on the seats in order to keep dry, and we perceive, not without alarm, that the mules are swimming. By striking down-stream a little, however, the mules find bottom again, and pull us out all safe on the western bank.
A steep and narrow path leads up to the summit of the Sand Hill on which the Pueblo is perched. The Pueblos always have built and still build their dwellings on the hill-tops: for defensive reasons in the olden times, for security against inundations in the present. The houses are built of the customary adobe. They are washed outside with a whitish wash which resists the action of the weather; the mode of its preparation is said to be known only to the Pueblos. I have seen nothing like it in any of the Mexican towns. The houses are generally two stories high, the lower story projecting considerably beyond the upper. The entrance is through the roof, to which you climb by a ladder placed against the outside. This mode of entrance is also a relic of defensive precaution in past times of hostilities with other tribes of Indians and with the Spanish invaders. The internal arrangement of the houses is the reverse of ours. The kitchen is in the upper story, and the sitting or sleeping room in the lower. You descend into the latter from the former by an opening in the floor so small that not even the lightest weight of the Fat Man’s Club could hope to squeeze through. The Pueblos have no monstrous developments of adipose tissue; the opening is large enough for them. The lower room is thoroughly secured even against ventilation. The only window consists of one piece of glass, without frame, imbedded in the wall.
The earthen vessels for family use are manufactured by the Pueblos themselves, and are ornamented with fantastic designs of most primitive execution. Chief among these vessels is the tinaja, globular in shape, with an orifice at the top large enough to permit taking out the liquid contents with a small dipper. The tinaja is porous, to permit evaporation through its sides. In hot weather, the tinajas are filled from the river or spring before sunrise, carefully covered, and set in the shade. With these precautions, they keep the water almost ice-cold. They are used in all Mexican ménages, as well as in the households of the Pueblos.
The costume of the Pueblo men is not lacking in picturesqueness, more particularly when distance lends its proverbial effect. They wear a short loose sack of white cotton, or manta, ordinarily made of carefully washed flour-sacks; for your Pueblo Indian is economical, and, when he has sustained the inward man with the contents of the flour-sack, he covers the outer man with the sack itself. The pantaloons are of the same material, loose but short, not usually reaching below the knee. The enchantment of distance dispelled, however, traces of the former uses of the material may be discovered in such inscriptions on the shoulders or the seat as the following: “Superfine Family,” or “Choice Family Extra.” The Pueblo wears his hair long, tied behind in a cue, around which is wound a piece of red cloth or ribbon, according to the financial standing of the wearer, or mayhap the greatness or solemnity of the occasion. The head gear is generally a broad-brimmed straw hat. The foot covering is a deer-skin moccasin.
The costume of the gentler sex is eminently ungraceful. The women wind long strips of buckskin tightly around the leg, in successive layers, resulting in an enormous bandage from three to four inches thick reaching from the ankle to above the knee. The chaussure is a moccasin. The effect produced by this arrangement is that of a feminine torso set on two huge bolsters. All symmetry of form or grace of gait is destroyed. The walk is a sort of shuffle. The upper covering of the figure is a dark woollen stuff, coarse in texture, and of Pueblo woof. This reaches to the knee, and is composed of two rectangular pieces joined at the upper edges, which form the shoulders, and leaving a space for the passage of the head and neck. The pieces hang down before and behind, and are held together at the waist by a belt or cincture. The women cut their hair squarely across the forehead, leaving the side locks and back hair to hang down loosely. Many of the men, too, besides wearing a cue, cut the hair straight across the forehead, and wear the pendent side-locks. The women wear their arms bare, save the ornamentation of from one to a dozen bracelets of thick wire, which glitters, but is not gold. They wear necklaces of coral, moss-agates, or common glass beads, according to the wealth or importance of the wearer. The men also frequently wear similar necklaces.
The portion of the feminine toilet which requires most elaboration is evidently the leg-bandage. It is taken off to cross the ford on foot, and its removal seems to be as slow a process as unrolling a mummy. The object of such a covering for the nether limbs I am unable to imagine.
The Pueblo is a handsome Indian. I have seen very finely cut features among the men. Many of them have beautifully fresh complexions, on which a bright apple-rosy tint is gradually shaded into a deep rich brown. They are generally of medium stature, however. Their feet and hands are correspondingly small. Their faces have not that animal, that wolfish, expression of the wild Indians of the mountains or the plains; on the contrary, they beam with good nature, simplicity, and single-heartedness. They are thrifty and industrious. The men do the out-door work; the women attend to the household affairs, or, in the season, peddle the grapes, apricots, peaches, melons, etc., raised in their Pueblo. Should you meet a Pueblo and his squaw travelling with the universal burro, you will always find the lady mounted on the animal, while her cavalier, urging on John Burro with his stick, trots along gaily behind, and smilingly gives you a cheery “Come te va?” as he passes.
The Pueblos do not intermarry with the Mexicans. The women are chaste in their lives, and domestic in their habits. Vice is almost unknown among them. I have lived some years in the vicinity of two or three Indian Pueblos, and have neither known of nor heard of an abandoned woman among them. I wish I could say the same of other races in the territory. In this regard, the Pueblos also differ greatly from the wild Indians whose lives are continued scenes of bestiality.
During my residence in their vicinity, the Pueblos had daily access to my dwelling. They were our fruit and vegetable purveyors. I have not known an instance of their stealing a pin’s worth, though they had ample opportunities to pilfer had they been so inclined. In this regard, their example might be imitated with profit by people with greater pretensions to civilization, and in this also they differ widely from the savage Indians who are, to a man, thieves both by nature and habit. In fine, the Pueblos are among the most moral, peaceful, simple, and honest citizens of New Mexico.
The Pueblos are Catholics. Their Catholicity, in its out-door festivals, has just sufficient tinge of the antique observances of the Montezumas to throw a romantic glamour around it. They have churches in all their Pueblos. Some of these—Ysléta among the number—have a priest regularly stationed in them, and many of the churches are served by the priests of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction in which they are situated. The churches are adobe structures, not always cruciform, with a belfry, and adorned inside with grotesque figures, the product of their own primitive art.
The weapon of the Pueblos is still the bow and arrow. A few have old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifles. The Pueblos do not lack the combative instinct, and are more than a match for the Apaches and Navajoes, man to man. They have frequently acted in conjunction with our troops against these tribes; but their co-operation is often rendered valueless by their custom, most strictly adhered to, of returning to their village as soon as they have taken a scalp, for the purpose of having the customary scalp-dance. I regret to say that they give no quarter, and spare neither age nor sex, except when it suits them to make peóns, or slaves, of the women and children. They say, in self-justification, that little Indians soon become big Indians if allowed to grow. The measure they mete is meted again to them by the hostile tribes.
As in courtesy bound, we direct our steps to the dwelling of the “governor,” who is known as “Don Ambrosio.” His house is of more modern construction than the customary Pueblo dwelling. We were admitted through a corral and a door—not in the roof, but in the side of the house, after the fashion of “the whites.” The room we were received in was a long apartment à la Mexicaine, with benches around the walls. Some of the finest Navajo blankets I ever saw were displayed upon the benches. The walls were hung around with French colored lithographs of a religious character.
Governor Ambrosio was a dapper little Indian, with long snow-white hair falling loosely to his shoulders. His complexion was clear and peach-bloomy. Though full of years and honors, he was full of life and health. His son, who acted as his lieutenant, was a man about thirty-odd years, the image of his father, in stature, size, complexion, and everything except the white hair, the junior’s being jet-black. The women of the family were pleasingly featured, but their inartistic dress destroyed the effect of their good looks.
Ambrosio is said to be quite wealthy, with fifty or sixty thousand dollars in oro and in plata; for your Pueblo does not consider greenbacks good hoarding. Ambrosio, Jr., showed us the fruithouse, where the senses of sight and smell were regaled with the pleasant spectacles and odors of heaps of rich, fragrant quinces and apples, the latter small but rosy as young Ambrosio’s pleasant face.
Ambrosio’s style of farming is more in accordance with modern progressive ideas than that of some of his neighbors. His mules were fat, round, and sleek, and in the corral lay an American plough of modern construction. Many among the middle and lower classes in New Mexico still plough “with a sharp stick.” The irrigating dikes, or acequias, of the Pueblos are well and carefully attended to; they are not permitted to overflow in the wrong places and at the wrong times—a neglect which so frequently causes the traveller from the valley of the Rio Grande to soar from prosaic observation to the sublimity of anathema. In their fields, I saw men, only, engaged in agricultural labors.
S. Augustine is the patron saint of Ysléta. Its great fiesta is the “San Augustin.” The feast is held about the time when all the grapes are gathered and some of the new wine already made. It is essentially a grape and wine feast. But to his other virtues, the Pueblo adds the great one of temperance. Mass is celebrated in the morning, and the whole Pueblo is out in its showiest attire. The dance known as “the Montezuma” is performed by young men selected for the occasion. Americans and Mexicans are kindly received and hospitably entreated in the Pueblo on these festival occasions. I have heard of but one instance in which this kindness and hospitality was abused. It was by a miserable gambler—a “white man,” and, I regret to say, an American—who, at the San Augustin of 186-, without the slightest provocation, shot dead a Pueblo boy. The territory got rid of the desperado, who had to fly, for his worthless life, from the wrath of the outraged Indians of Ysléta.
[TO A CHILD.]
You little madonna, so very demure!
You draw me, yet awe me:
As warning, half scorning,
That kissing a face so religiously pure
Is almost a sacrilege, I may be sure.
Yet, awed as I am, I but love you the more.
You meet me and greet me
Serenely and queenly;
And image so sweetly the one I adore
When She was a child in the ages of yore.
Her name it is Mary Regina—your own.
You share it and wear it
As flower its dower
Of fragrance—predestined hereafter, full-blown,
To reign with the lilies that circle Her throne.
Be fragrant for me, then, O lily! and pray—
Each hour, little flower,
Exhaling availing
Petitions—to Mary the Queen of your May,
To breathe on my Autumn your pureness to-day.