When dreams come true

by Ritter Brown

As Chiquita and Padre Antonio left the patio, accompanied by Marieta and old Juana, the women drew back from her as though from some unclean thing. Gladly would they have spared Padre Antonio's feelings, but their hatred and jealousy were too intense and the opportunity to cast a stone at her too tempting for flesh and blood to resist.

Greatly to the astonishment of every one, it was noted that Padre Antonio carried his head quite as high while leaving, as when he entered the patio during the early part of the evening. They expected him to limp away, a crushed and broken old man; but they had yet to learn the unbending spirit of the Padre. Although humble in the sight of God, experience had taught him that the only way to command the respect of men was to hold one's head high while among them.

What must he think of her now, to be requited thus after all he had done for her? Chiquita asked herself as she, with Marieta and Juana, followed him homeward. The opinion of the world concerning her, and the loss of Captain Forest's love, seemed little in comparison to the thought that he should believe she had betrayed his confidence. She could endure anything but that. Had she but told him all in the beginning, he might have been spared the shame of this disgrace. Perhaps it was not yet too late; she would tell him all that night. True, she could not make amends for the pain she had caused him, but perhaps he would understand—forgive her.

She knew that a continuance of her residence in Santa Fé was no longer possible. Strange that it should have ended thus, and what was before her now? She knew the world only waited to shower wealth and distinction upon her should she choose the stage for a career; or, she might return to her people. But what would life be to her under any conditions without Padre Antonio's respect and the Captain's love?

Strong and versatile and capable though she was to cope with the world, her lot was not an enviable one. It was with Godspeed, not the maledictions of one's neighbors, that she had hoped to leave the place which had sheltered her so long. And Padre Antonio—how could she part from him thus?

Captain Forest's last words were her only solace; he had tried to believe in her to the end. Let come what might, they would remain with her always like a benediction, a tower of strength in some future hour of trial. And then there was Don Felipe. Ah, yes, Don Felipe! Her teeth came together with a snap, for she knew that, even after what had transpired, he would follow her.

Padre Antonio walked silently homeward without so much as turning round once to look at the others. Not even after arriving at the great iron gate before the garden did he pause to allow the others to pass in ahead of him as he otherwise would have done, but walked straight on to the house and entered the living-room without so much as looking round, leaving Chiquita to dispose of old Juana and the child for the night.

Padre Antonio was no fool. Perplexed though he was by what had occurred, he knew there was a time for silence as well as a time for speech. He also knew that Chiquita would join him as soon as the others were settled for the night, and that she would then tell him her story.

Outside, the garden was almost as light as during the day, and the room, though partially in shadow, was illumined by the moonlight to an extent that rendered objects within it distinctly visible. The events of the evening had sorely taxed his strength. He was thoroughly tired, and with a sigh he threw himself into his large leathern chair to rest until Chiquita returned.

"What was the mystery in connection with the child?" he asked himself, closing his eyes in thought. Don Felipe's story could not be true. "It was absurd, preposterous!" he cried aloud, opening his eyes with a start. As he did so, his gaze fell upon a picture on the wall opposite, gleaming conspicuously in the full flood of moonlight. It was that beautiful illustration of what human faith may accomplish; the familiar representation of Saint Elizabeth of Thuringia meekly displaying the contents of her apron before her lord, the Landgrave—that heavy, sporadic type of whiskered ass whose only mission in life seems to be that of pulling the stars and all else down about his wassail-soaked head and ears through sheer avoirdupois and stupidity. Padre Antonio experienced a sudden thrill as he gazed at the picture. Clearly, it was the hand of God directing him. So did Saint Elizabeth deliberately deny the truth, and yet the bread in her apron was turned to roses.