The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

Padre Arroyo tramped up and down the corridor, smiting his hands together.  The Indians bowed lower than usual, as they passed, and hastened their steps.  The soldiers scoured the country for the bold violators of mission law.  No one asked Padre Arroyo what he would do with the sinners, but all knew that punishment would be sharp and summary:  the men hoped that Andreo’s mustang had carried him beyond its reach; the girls, horrified as they were, wept and prayed in secret for Pilar.

A week later, in the early morning, Padre Arroyo sat on the corridor.  The mission stood on a plateau overlooking a long valley forked and sparkled by the broad river.  The valley was planted thick with olive trees, and their silver leaves glittered in the rising sun.  The mountain peaks about and beyond were white with snow, but the great red poppies blossomed at their feet.  The padre, exiled from the luxury and society of his dear Spain, never tired of the prospect:  he loved his mission children, but he loved Nature more.

Suddenly he leaned forward on his staff and lifted the heavy brown hood of his habit from his ear.  Down the road winding from the eastern mountains came the echo of galloping footfalls.  He rose expectantly and waddled out upon the plaza, shading his eyes with his hand.  A half-dozen soldiers, riding closely about a horse bestridden by a stalwart young Indian supporting a woman, were rapidly approaching the mission.  The padre returned to his seat and awaited their coming.

The soldiers escorted the culprits to the corridor; two held the horse while they descended, then led it away, and Andreo and Pilar were alone with the priest.  The bridegroom placed his arm about the bride and looked defiantly at Padre Arroyo, but Pilar drew her long hair about her face and locked her hands together.

Padre Arroyo folded his arms and regarded them with lowered brows, a sneer on his mouth.

“I have new names for you both,” he said, in his thickest voice.  “Antony, I hope thou hast enjoyed thy honeymoon.  Cleopatra, I hope thy little toes did not get frost-bitten.  You both look as if food had been scarce.  And your garments have gone in good part to clothe the brambles, I infer.  It is too bad you could not wait a year and love in your cabin at the ranchería, by a good fire, and with plenty of frijoles and tortillas in your stomachs.”  He dropped his sarcastic tone, and, rising to his feet, extended his right arm with a gesture of malediction.  “Do you comprehend the enormity of your sin?” he shouted.  “Have you not learned on your knees that the fires of hell are the rewards of unlawful love?  Do you not know that even the year of sackcloth and ashes I shall impose here on earth will not save you from those flames a million times hotter than the mountain fire, than the roaring pits in which evil Indians torture one another?  A hundred years of their scorching breath, of roasting flesh, for a week of love!  Oh, God of my soul!”

Andreo looked somewhat staggered, but unrepentant.  Pilar burst into loud sobs of terror.

The padre stared long and gloomily at the flags of the corridor.  Then he raised his head and looked sadly at his lost sheep.

“My children,” he said solemnly, “my heart is wrung for you.  You have broken the laws of God and of the Holy Catholic Church, and the punishments thereof are awful.  Can I do anything for you, excepting to pray?  You shall have my prayers, my children.  But that is not enough; I cannot—­ay!  I cannot endure the thought that you shall be damned.  Perhaps”—­again he stared meditatively at the stones, then, after an impressive silence, raised his eyes.  “Heaven vouchsafes me an idea, my children.  I will make your punishment here so bitter that Almighty God in His mercy will give you but a few years of purgatory after death.  Come with me.”

He turned and led the way slowly to the rear of the mission buildings.  Andreo shuddered for the first time, and tightened his arm about Pilar’s shaking body.  He knew that they were to be locked in the dungeons.  Pilar, almost fainting, shrank back as they reached the narrow spiral stair which led downward to the cells.  “Ay!  I shall die, my Andreo!” she cried.  “Ay! my father, have mercy!”

“I cannot, my children,” said the padre, sadly.  “It is for the salvation of your souls.”

“Mother of God!  When shall I see thee again, my Pilar?” whispered Andreo.  “But, ay! the memory of that week on the mountain will keep us both alive.”

Padre Arroyo descended the stair and awaited them at its foot.  Separating them, and taking each by the hand, he pushed Andreo ahead and dragged Pilar down the narrow passage.  At its end he took a great bunch of keys from his pocket, and raising both hands commanded them to kneel.  He said a long prayer in a loud monotonous voice which echoed and reëchoed down the dark hall and made Pilar shriek with terror.  Then he fairly hurled the marriage ceremony at them, and made the couple repeat after him the responses.  When it was over, “Arise,” he said.

The poor things stumbled to their feet, and Andreo caught Pilar in a last embrace.

“Now bear your incarceration with fortitude, my children; and if you do not beat the air with your groans, I will let you out in a week.  Do not hate your old father, for love alone makes him severe, but pray, pray, pray.”

And then he locked them both in the same cell.