Part 46

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.

Instinctively he recalled Captain Forest's last words. And then, putting two and two together, he also recalled the fact that he had noted something during the scene which nobody else seemed to have noticed, namely: that the face of the child, Marieta, was the living image of Don Felipe's. Like a flash all became clear to him, and he smiled and nodded as the truth dawned upon him, and he wondered greatly at Chiquita's discretion. Yet why should he be astonished? Was it not like her?

Chiquita also wondered in turn, and was much perplexed by his attitude, the quiet, benign expression of his face, when she entered the room after bidding Juana and Marieta good night. She had expected exactly the reverse. What did it mean, did he know anything? But she did not stop to question him. Before unburdening her soul, she must first divest herself of the jewels which, ever since the terrible scene at the Posada, she felt she had dishonored. Their touch seemed to burn her flesh.

"Padre mio," she said quietly, as though nothing unusual had occurred, "you know I said it would not be necessary to wear these jewels longer than to-night. I really never should have worn them at all. It was not right, for, as you see, I am not worthy of them." She began to unclasp the bracelet on her arm, but hastily putting forth his hand, he checked her.

"No, my child!" he said, rising from the chair. "You must keep them--they are yours. Besides, they are so becoming to you! Again I say--you are the only woman in this world worthy to wear them."

"Padre, Padre mio!" she cried, starting backward and gazing full in his face. "You--you believe in me?"

"How could you have imagined anything else, my child?" he answered quietly. Without attempting a reply, she threw herself upon his breast, convulsed with sobs and trembling in every limb, telling him plainer than words how terribly shaken she had been by the ordeal through which she had just passed. He did not attempt to soothe or pacify her with words, knowing how useless it would be, but waited quietly for her passionate outburst to subside.

"Ah! Padre mio, how good you are, and how have I requited you!" she said at length, looking up at him through her tears and slowly disengaging herself from his arms. "You know," she continued between convulsive sobs, and slowly drying her tears, "that little Marieta is the child of Don Felipe and Pepita Delaguerra." Padre Antonio started at the mention of the latter's name.

"Pepita Delaguerra?" he repeated. "I felt all along that she was Don Felipe's child, the resemblance is so striking, and I wonder the others did not notice it, but I never connected her with Pepita; perhaps because it is so long since she died. How strange that he should have introduced his own child without knowing it!"

"Yes," returned Chiquita. "And yet it is not so strange after all. Persons of his character invariably blunder in the end, clever though they be. Another strange coincidence is that they were married just six years ago to-day in the little Mission church of San Isidor at Onava."

"Why, that was before Don Juan's death, and in direct opposition to the stipulations of his will!" exclaimed Padre Antonio excitedly.

"Just so," answered Chiquita. "That's what caused the trouble. The entire property should have gone to the Church, but Felipe destroyed the record of his marriage before his father's death and the birth of his child."

"The scoundrel!" cried the Padre.

"But that is not all," continued Chiquita. "Everything seemed to be in league with him to further his plans. Father Danuncio, who secretly married them, also died before Don Juan did, without divulging the secret."

"Strange!" ejaculated Padre Antonio.

"There were three witnesses to the marriage--Joaquin and Manuelita Flores, whom Don Felipe has cleverly put out of the way, and Bob Carlton, the gambler, who, at that time, was Don Felipe's intimate friend; but he, too, is gone and never dare return."

"The clever scoundrel!" interrupted the Padre.

"Yes," answered Chiquita. "When it comes to deviltry, Don Felipe has yet to meet his match. But as I was about to say: Six months after the marriage, Don Felipe deserted Pepita, then the child was born, and knowing that he would unhesitatingly make way with it should he learn of its existence, Joaquin and I took it to Onava, where we knew it would be hid effectually from the world. Of course old Juana and all the other Indians in the village thought the child was mine, and I let them think so in order that its identity might the better be concealed until we were able to prove to whom it belonged."

"But why did you not tell me this in the beginning, my child?" he asked with a note of reproach in his voice. "I might have--"

"Ah, that was to protect you, Padre mio! It might have been wiser had I done so, and yet I think not. I felt impelled to keep you in ignorance of the facts, for I knew that Don Felipe would stop at nothing. What would your life have been to him, had you come between him and his position? His wealth is too vast. I knew that, as surely as you raised your voice against him, as you would have been obliged to in the interests of the Church, you one day would have been found dead in some lonely pass in the mountains while engaged in your Mission work."

Padre Antonio was too astute an observer of men not to perceive the force of her words.

"I marvel at your sagacity, my child; but think what it has cost you!"

"Ah! that is the marvelous part of it!" she replied. "Whoever would have imagined that, unconscious of the true facts, he would have succeeded in turning my own weapons against me? It's fate, Padre mio."

He paced back and forth for some time in silence, then suddenly pausing before her, said: "This cloud must not rest upon you, Chiquita mia. We must find that blackleg, Carlton, if we have to raise heaven and earth to do it."

"That is easier said than done, Padre mio," she answered quietly.