A Convert of the Mission
by Bret Harte
The largest tent of the Tasajara camp meeting was crowded to its utmost
extent. The excitement of that dense mass was at its highest pitch. The
Reverend Stephen Masterton, the single erect, passionate figure of that
confused medley of kneeling worshipers, had reached the culminating pitch
of his irresistible exhortatory power. Sighs and groans were beginning to
respond to his appeals, when the reverend brother was seen to lurch
heavily forward and fall to the ground.
At first the effect was that of a part of his performance; the groans
redoubled, and twenty or thirty brethren threw themselves prostrate in
humble imitation of the preacher. But Sister Deborah Stokes, perhaps
through some special revelation of feminine intuition, grasped the fallen
man, tore loose his black silk necktie, and dragged him free of the
struggling, frantic crowd whose paroxysms he had just evoked. Howbeit he
was pale and unconscious, and unable to continue the service. Even the
next day, when he had slightly recovered, it was found that any attempt to
renew his fervid exhortations produced the same disastrous result.
A council was hurriedly held by the elders. In spite of the energetic
protests of Sister Stokes, it was held that the Lord "was wrestlin' with
his sperrit," and he was subjected to the same extraordinary treatment
from the whole congregation that he himself had applied to THEM. Propped
up pale and trembling in the "Mourners' Bench" by two brethren, he was
"striven with," exhorted, prayed over, and admonished, until insensibility
mercifully succeeded convulsions. Spiritual therapeutics having failed, he
was turned over to the weak and carnal nursing of "womenfolk." But after a
month of incapacity he was obliged to yield to "the flesh," and, in the
local dialect, "to use a doctor."
It so chanced that the medical practitioner of the district was a man of
large experience, of military training, and plain speech. When, therefore,
he one day found in his surgery a man of rude Western type, strong-limbed
and sunburned, but trembling, hesitating and neurotic in movement, after
listening to his symptoms gravely, he asked, abruptly: "And how much are
you drinking now?"
"I am a lifelong abstainer," stammered his patient in quivering
indignation. But this was followed by another question so frankly
appalling to the hearer that he staggered to his feet.
"I'm Stephen Masterton—known of men as a circuit preacher, of the
Northern California district," he thundered—"and an enemy of the
flesh in all its forms."
"I beg your pardon," responded Dr. Duchesne, grimly, "but as you are
suffering from excessive and repeated excitation of the nervous system,
and the depression following prolonged artificial exaltation—it
makes little difference whether the cause be spiritual, as long as there
is a certain physical effect upon your BODY—which I believe you have
brought to me to cure. Now—as to diet? you look all wrong there.
"My food is of the simplest—I have no hankering for fleshpots,"
responded the patient.
"I suppose you call saleratus bread and salt pork and flapjacks SIMPLE?"
said the doctor, coolly; "they are COMMON enough, and if you were working
with your muscles instead of your nerves in that frame of yours they might
not hurt you; but you are suffering as much from eating more than you can
digest as the veriest gourmand. You must stop all that. Go down to a quiet
watering-place for two months." . . .
"I go to a watering-place?" interrupted Masterton; "to the haunt of the
idle, the frivolous and wanton—never!"
"Well, I'm not particular about a 'watering-place,'" said the doctor, with
a shrug, "although a little idleness and frivolity with different food
wouldn't hurt you—but you must go somewhere and change your habits
and mode of life COMPLETELY. I will find you some sleepy old Spanish town
in the southern country where you can rest and diet. If this is
distasteful to you," he continued, grimly, "you can always call it 'a
Stephen Masterton may have thought it so when, a week later, he found
himself issuing from a rocky gorge into a rough, badly paved, hilly
street, which seemed to be only a continuation of the mountain road
itself. It broadened suddenly into a square or plaza, flanked on each side
by an irregular row of yellowing adobe houses, with the inevitable
verandaed tienda in each corner, and the solitary, galleried fonda, with a
half-Moorish archway leading into an inner patio or courtyard in the
The whole street stopped as usual at the very door of the Mission church,
a few hundred yards farther on, and under the shadow of the two belfry
towers at each angle of the facade, as if this were the ultima thule of
every traveler. But all that the eye rested on was ruined, worn, and
crumbling. The adobe houses were cracked by the incessant sunshine of the
half-year-long summer, or the more intermittent earthquake shock; the
paved courtyard of the fonda was so uneven and sunken in the center that
the lumbering wagon and faded diligencia stood on an incline, and the
mules with difficulty kept their footing while being unladen; the whitened
plaster had fallen from the feet of the two pillars that flanked the
Mission doorway, like bandages from a gouty limb, leaving the reddish core
of adobe visible; there were apparently as many broken tiles in the
streets and alleys as there were on the heavy red roofs that everywhere
asserted themselves—and even seemed to slide down the crumbling
walls to the ground. There were hopeless gaps in grille and grating of
doorways and windows, where the iron bars had dropped helplessly out, or
were bent at different angles. The walls of the peaceful Mission garden
and the warlike presidio were alike lost in the escalading vines or
leveled by the pushing boughs of gnarled pear and olive trees that now
surmounted them. The dust lay thick and impalpable in hollow and gutter,
and rose in little vapory clouds with a soft detonation at every stroke of
his horse's hoofs. Over all this dust and ruin, idleness seemed to reign
supreme. From the velvet-jacketed figures lounging motionless in the
shadows of the open doorways—so motionless that only the lazy drift
of cigarette smoke betokened their breathing—to the reclining peons
in the shade of a catalpa, or the squatting Indians in the arroyo—all
was sloth and dirt.
The Rev. Stephen Masterton felt his throat swell with his old exhortative
indignation. A gaudy yellow fan waved languidly in front of a black
rose-crested head at a white-curtained window. He knew he was stifling
with righteous wrath, and clapped his spurs to his horse.
Nevertheless, in a few days, by the aid of a letter to the innkeeper, he
was installed in a dilapidated adobe house, not unlike those he had seen,
but situated in the outskirts and overlooking the garden and part of the
refectory of the old Mission. It had even a small garden of its own—if
a strip of hot wall, overburdened with yellow and white roses, a dozen
straggling callas, a bank of heliotrope, and an almond tree could be
called a garden. It had an open doorway, but so heavily recessed in the
thick walls that it preserved seclusion, a sitting-room, and an alcoved
bedroom with deep embrasured windows that however excluded the unwinking
sunlight and kept an even monotone of shade.
Strange to say, he found it cool, restful, and, in spite of the dust,
absolutely clean, and, but for the scent of heliotrope, entirely
inodorous. The dry air seemed to dissipate all noxious emanations and
decay—the very dust itself in its fine impalpability was volatile
with a spicelike piquancy, and left no stain.
A wrinkled Indian woman, brown and veined like a tobacco leaf, ministered
to his simple wants. But these wants had also been regulated by Dr.
Duchesne. He found himself, with some grave doubts of his effeminacy,
breakfasting on a single cup of chocolate instead of his usual bowl of
molasses-sweetened coffee; crumbling a crisp tortilla instead of the heavy
saleratus bread, greasy flapjack, or the lard-fried steak, and, more
wonderful still, completing his repast with purple grapes from the Mission
wall. He could not deny that it was simple—that it was even
refreshing and consistent with the climate and his surroundings. On the
other hand, it was the frugal diet of the commonest peasant—and were
not those peons slothful idolaters?
At the end of the week—his correspondence being also restricted by
his doctor to a few lines to himself regarding his progress—he wrote
to that adviser:
"The trembling and unquiet has almost ceased; I have less nightly turmoil
and visions; my carnal appetite seems to be amply mollified and soothed by
these viands, whatever may be their ultimate effect upon the weakness of
our common sinful nature. But I should not be truthful to you if I did not
warn you that I am viewing with the deepest spiritual concern a decided
tendency toward sloth, and a folding of the hands over matters that often,
I fear, are spiritual as well as temporal. I would ask you to consider, in
a spirit of love, if it be not wise to rouse my apathetic flesh, so as to
strive, even with the feeblest exhortations, against this sloth in others—if
only to keep one's self from falling into the pit of easy indulgence."
What answer he received is not known, but it is to be presumed that he
kept loyal faith with his physician, and gave himself up to simple walks
and rides and occasional meditation. His solitude was not broken in upon;
curiosity was too active a vice, and induced too much exertion for his
indolent neighbors, and the Americano's basking seclusion, though unlike
the habits of his countrymen, did not affect them. The shopkeeper and
innkeeper saluted him always with a profound courtesy which awakened his
slight resentment, partly because he was conscious that it was grateful to
him, and partly that he felt he ought to have provoked in them a less
Once, when he had unwittingly passed the confines of his own garden,
through a gap in the Mission orchard, a lissome, black-coated shadow
slipped past him with an obeisance so profound and gentle that he was
startled at first into an awkward imitation of it himself, and then into
an angry self-examination. He knew that he loathed that long-skirted,
womanlike garment, that dangling, ostentatious symbol, that air of secrecy
and mystery, and he inflated his chest above his loosely tied cravat and
unbuttoned waistcoat with a contrasted sense of freedom. But he was
conscious the next day of weakly avoiding a recurrence of this meeting,
and in his self-examination put it down to his self-disciplined observance
of his doctor's orders. But when he was strong again, and fitted for his
Master's work, how strenuously he should improve the occasion this gave
him of attacking the Scarlet Woman among her slaves and worshipers!
His afternoon meditations and the perusal of his only book—the Bible—were
regularly broken in upon at about sunset by two or three strokes from the
cracked bell that hung in the open belfry which reared itself beyond the
gnarled pear tees. He could not say that it was aggressive or persistent,
like his own church bells, nor that it even expressed to him any religious
sentiment. Moreover, it was not a "Sabbath" bell, but a DAILY one, and
even then seemed to be only a signal to ears easily responsive, rather
than a stern reminder. And the hour was always a singularly witching one.
It was when the sun had slipped from the glaring red roofs, and the
yellowing adobe of the Mission walls and the tall ranks of wild oats on
the hillside were all of the one color of old gold. It was when the
quivering heat of the arroyo and dusty expanse of plaza was blending with
the soft breath of the sea fog that crept through the clefts of the coast
range, until a refreshing balm seemed to fall like a benediction on all
nature. It was when the trade-wind-swept and irritated surfaces of the
rocky gorge beyond were soothed with clinging vapors; when the pines above
no longer rocked monotonously, and the great undulating sea of the
wild-oat plains had gone down and was at rest. It was at this hour, one
afternoon, that, with the released scents of the garden, there came to him
a strange and subtle perfume that was new to his senses. He laid aside his
book, went into the garden, and, half-unconscious of his trespass, passed
through the Mission orchard and thence into the little churchyard beside
Looking at the strange inscriptions in an unfamiliar tongue, he was
singularly touched with the few cheap memorials lying upon the graves—like
childish toys—and for the moment overlooked the papistic emblems
that accompanied them. It struck him vaguely that Death, the common
leveler, had made even the symbols of a faith eternal inferior to those
simple records of undying memory and affection, and he was for a moment
startled into doubt.
He walked to the door of the church; to his surprise it was open. Standing
upon the threshold, he glanced inside, and stood for a moment utterly
bewildered. In a man of refined taste and education that bizarre and
highly colored interior would have only provoked a smile or shrug; to
Stephen Masterton's highly emotional nature, but artistic inexperience,
strangely enough it was profoundly impressive. The heavily timbered,
roughly hewn roof, barred with alternate bands of blue and Indian red, the
crimson hangings, the gold and black draperies, affected this religious
backwoodsman exactly as they were designed to affect the heathen and
acolytes for whose conversion the temple had been reared. He could
scarcely take his eyes from the tinsel-crowned Mother of Heaven,
resplendent in white and gold and glittering with jewels; the radiant
shield before the Host, illuminated by tall spectral candles in the
mysterious obscurity of the altar, dazzled him like the rayed disk of the
A gentle murmur, as of the distant sea, came from the altar. In his naive
bewilderment he had not seen the few kneeling figures in the shadow of
column and aisle; it was not until a man, whom he recognized as a muleteer
he had seen that afternoon gambling and drinking in the fonda, slipped by
him like a shadow and sank upon his knees in the center of the aisle that
he realized the overpowering truth.
HE, Stephen Masterton, was looking upon some rite of Popish idolatry! He
was turning quickly away when the keeper of the tienda—a man of
sloth and sin—gently approached him from the shadow of a column with
a mute gesture, which he took to be one of invitation. A fierce protest of
scorn and indignation swelled to his throat, but died upon his lips. Yet
he had strength enough to erect his gaunt emaciated figure, throwing out
his long arms and extended palms in the attitude of defiant exorcism, and
then rush swiftly from the church. As he did so he thought he saw a faint
smile cross the shopkeeper's face, and a whispered exchange of words with
a neighboring worshiper of more exalted appearance came to his ears. But
it was not intelligible to his comprehension.
The next day he wrote to his doctor in that quaint grandiloquence of
written speech with which the half-educated man balances the slips of his
Do not let the purgation of my flesh be unduly protracted. What with the
sloth and idolatries of Baal and Ashteroth, which I see daily around me, I
feel that without a protest not only the flesh but the spirit is
mortified. But my bodily strength is mercifully returning, and I found
myself yesterday able to take a long ride at that hour which they here
keep sacred for an idolatrous rite, under the beautiful name of "The
Angelus." Thus do they bear false witness to Him! Can you tell me the
meaning of the Spanish words "Don Keyhotter"? I am ignorant of these
sensuous Southern languages, and am aware that this is not the correct
spelling, but I have striven to give the phonetic equivalent. It was used,
I am inclined to think, in reference to MYSELF, by an idolater.
P.S.—You need not trouble yourself. I have just ascertained that the
words in question were simply the title of an idle novel, and, of course,
could not possibly refer to ME.
Howbeit it was as "Don Quixote"—that is, the common Spaniard's
conception of the Knight of La Mancha, merely the simple fanatic and
madman—that Mr. Stephen Masterton ever after rode all unconsciously
through the streets of the Mission, amid the half-pitying, half-smiling
glances of the people.
In spite of his meditations, his single volume, and his habit of retiring
early, he found his evenings were growing lonely and tedious. He missed
the prayer meeting, and, above all, the hymns. He had a fine baritone
voice, sympathetic, as may be imagined, but not cultivated. One night, in
the seclusion of his garden, and secure in his distance from other
dwellings, he raised his voice in a familiar camp-meeting hymn with a
strong Covenanter's ring in the chorus. Growing bolder as he went on, he
at last filled the quiet night with the strenuous sweep of his chant.
Surprised at his own fervor, he paused for a moment, listening, half
frightened, half ashamed of his outbreak. But there was only the trilling
of the night wind in the leaves, or the far-off yelp of a coyote.
For a moment he thought he heard the metallic twang of a stringed
instrument in the Mission garden beyond his own, and remembered his
contiguity to the church with a stir of defiance. But he was relieved,
nevertheless. His pent-up emotion had found vent, and without the nervous
excitement that had followed his old exaltation. That night he slept
better. He had found the Lord again—with Psalmody!
The next evening he chanced upon a softer hymn of the same simplicity, but
with a vein of human tenderness in its aspirations, which his more hopeful
mood gently rendered. At the conclusion of the first verse he was,
however, distinctly conscious of being followed by the same twanging sound
he had heard on the previous night, and which even his untutored ear could
recognize as an attempt to accompany him. But before he had finished the
second verse the unknown player, after an ingenious but ineffectual essay
to grasp the right chord, abandoned it with an impatient and almost
pettish flourish, and a loud bang upon the sounding-board of the unseen
instrument. Masterton finished it alone.
With his curiosity excited, however, he tried to discover the locality of
the hidden player. The sound evidently came from the Mission garden; but
in his ignorance of the language he could not even interrogate his Indian
housekeeper. On the third night, however, his hymn was uninterrupted by
any sound from the former musician. A sense of disappointment, he knew not
why, came over him. The kindly overture of the unseen player had been a
relief to his loneliness. Yet he had barely concluded the hymn when the
familiar sound again struck his ears. But this time the musician played
boldly, confidently, and with a singular skill on the instrument.
The brilliant prelude over, to his entire surprise and some confusion, a
soprano voice, high, childish, but infinitely quaint and fascinating, was
mischievously uplifted. But alas! even to his ears, ignorant of the
language, it was very clearly a song of levity and wantonness, of freedom
and license, of coquetry and incitement! Yet such was its fascination that
he fancied it was reclaimed by the delightful childlike and innocent
expression of the singer.
Enough that this tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered man arose and, overcome by
a curiosity almost as childlike, slipped into the garden and glided with
an Indian softness of tread toward the voice. The moon shone full upon the
ruined Mission wall tipped with clusters of dark foliage. Half hiding,
half mingling with one of them—an indistinct bulk of light-colored
huddled fleeces like an extravagant bird's nest—hung the unknown
musician. So intent was the performer's preoccupation that Masterton
actually reached the base of the wall immediately below the figure without
attracting its attention. But his foot slipped on the crumbling debris
with a snapping of dry twigs. There was a quick little cry from above. He
had barely time to recover his position before the singer, impulsively
leaning over the parapet, had lost hers, and fell outward. But Masterton
was tall, alert, and self-possessed, and threw out his long arms. The next
moment they were full of soft flounces, a struggling figure was against
his breast, and a woman's frightened little hands around his neck. But he
had broken her fall, and almost instantly, yet with infinite gentleness,
he released her unharmed, with hardly her crisp flounces crumpled, in an
upright position against the wall. Even her guitar, still hanging from her
shoulder by a yellow ribbon, had bounded elastic and resounding against
the wall, but lay intact at her satin-slippered feet. She caught it up
with another quick little cry, but this time more of sauciness than fear,
and drew her little hand across its strings, half defiantly.
"I hope you are not hurt?" said the circuit preacher, gravely.
She broke into a laugh so silvery that he thought it no extravagance to
liken it to the moonbeams that played over her made audible. She was
lithe, yet plump; barred with black and yellow and small-waisted like a
pretty wasp. Her complexion in that light was a sheen of pearl satin that
made her eyes blacker and her little mouth redder than any other color
could. She was small, but, remembering the fourteen-year-old wife of the
shopkeeper, he felt that, for all her childish voice and features, she was
a grown woman, and a sudden shyness took hold of him.
But she looked pertly in his face, stood her guitar upright before her,
and put her hands behind her back as she leaned saucily against the wall
and shrugged her shoulders.
"It was the fault of you," she said, in a broken English that seemed as
much infantine as foreign. "What for you not remain to yourself in your
own CASA? So it come. You creep so—in the dark—and shake my
wall, and I fall. And she," pointing to the guitar, "is a'most broke! And
for all thees I have only make to you a serenade. Ingrate!"
"I beg your pardon," said Masterton quickly, "but I was curious. I thought
I might help you, and—"
"Make yourself another cat on the wall, eh? No; one is enough, thank you!"
A frown lowered on Masterton's brow. "You don't understand me," he said,
bluntly. "I did not know WHO was here."
"Ah, BUENO! Then it is Pepita Ramirez, you see," she said, tapping her
bodice with one little finger, "all the same; the niece from Manuel
Garcia, who keeps the Mission garden and lif there. And you?"
"My name is Masterton."
"Masterton," he repeated.
She tried to pronounce it once or twice desperately, and then shook her
little head so violently that a yellow rose fastened over her ear fell to
the ground. But she did not heed it, nor the fact that Masterton had
picked it up.
"Ah, I cannot!" she said, poutingly. "It is as deefeecult to make go as my
guitar with your serenade."
"Can you not say 'Stephen Masterton'?" he asked, more gently, with a
returning and forgiving sense of her childishness.
"Es-stefen? Ah, ESTEBAN! Yes; Don Esteban! BUENO! Then, Don Esteban, what
for you sink so melank-olly one night, and one night so fierce? The
melank-olly, he ees not so bad; but the fierce—ah! he is weeked! Ess
it how the Americano make always his serenade?"
Masterton's brow again darkened. And his hymn of exultation had been
mistaken by these people—by this—this wanton child!
"It was no serenade," he replied, curtly; "it was in the praise of the
"Of how mooch?"
"Of the Lord of Hosts—of the Almighty in Heaven." He lifted his long
arms reverently on high.
"Oh!" she said, with a frightened look, slightly edging away from the
wall. At a secure distance she stopped. "Then you are a soldier, Don
"Then what for you sink 'I am a soldier of the Lord,' and you will make
die 'in His army'? Oh, yes; you have said." She gathered up her guitar
tightly under her arm, shook her small finger at him gravely, and said,
"You are a hoombog, Don Esteban; good a' night," and began to glide away.
"One moment, Miss—Miss Ramirez," called Masterton. "I—that is
you—you have—forgotten your rose," he added, feebly, holding
up the flower. She halted.
"Ah, yes; he have drop, you have pick him up, he is yours. I have drop,
you have pick ME up, but I am NOT yours. Good a' night, COMANDANTE Don
With a light laugh she ran along beside the wall for a little distance,
suddenly leaped up and disappeared in one of the largest gaps in its
ruined and helpless structure. Stephen Masterton gazed after her stupidly,
still holding the rose in his hand. Then he threw it away and re-entered
Lighting his candle, he undressed himself, prayed fervently—so
fervently that all remembrance of the idle, foolish incident was wiped
from his mind, and went to bed. He slept well and dreamlessly. The next
morning, when his thoughts recurred to the previous night, this seemed to
him a token that he had not deviated from his spiritual integrity; it did
not occur to him that the thought itself was a tacit suspicion.
So his feet quite easily sought the garden again in the early sunshine,
even to the wall where she had stood. But he had not taken into account
the vivifying freshness of the morning, the renewed promise of life and
resurrection in the pulsing air and potent sunlight, and as he stood there
he seemed to see the figure of the young girl again leaning against the
wall in all the charm of her irrepressible and innocent youth. More than
that, he found the whole scene re-enacting itself before him; the nebulous
drapery half hidden in the foliage, the cry and the fall; the momentary
soft contact of the girl's figure against his own, the clinging arms
around his neck, the brush and fragrance of her flounces—all this
came back to him with a strength he had NOT felt when it occurred.
He was turning hurriedly away when his eyes fell upon the yellow rose
still lying in the debris where he had thrown it—but still pure,
fresh, and unfaded. He picked it up again, with a singular fancy that it
was the girl herself, and carried it into the house.
As he placed it half shyly in a glass on his table a wonderful thought
occurred to him. Was not the episode of last night a special providence?
Was not that young girl, wayward and childlike, a mere neophyte in her
idolatrous religion, as yet unsteeped in sloth and ignorance, presented to
him as a brand to be snatched from the burning? Was not this the
opportunity of conversion he had longed for—this the chance of
exercising his gifts of exhortation that he had been hiding in the napkin
of solitude and seclusion? Nay, was not all this PREDESTINED? His illness,
his consequent exile to this land of false gods—this contiguity to
the Mission—was not all this part of a supremely ordered plan for
the girl's salvation—and was HE not elected and ordained for that
service? Nay, more, was not the girl herself a mere unconscious instrument
in the hands of a higher power; was not her voluntary attempt to accompany
him in his devotional exercise a vague stirring of that predestined force
within her? Was not even that wantonness and frivolity contrasted with her
childishness—which he had at first misunderstood—the stirrings
of the flesh and the spirit, and was he to abandon her in that struggle of
good and evil?
He lifted his bowed head, that had been resting on his arm before the
little flower on the table—as if it were a shrine—with a flash
of resolve in his blue eyes. The wrinkled Concepcion coming to her duties
in the morning scarcely recognized her gloomily abstracted master in this
transfigured man. He looked ten years younger.
She met his greeting, and the few direct inquiries that his new resolve
enabled him to make more freely, with some information—which a later
talk with the shopkeeper, who had a fuller English vocabulary, confirmed
"YES! truly this was a niece of the Mission gardener, who lived with her
uncle in the ruined wing of the presidio. She had taken her first
communion four years ago. Ah, yes, she was a great musician, and could
play on the organ. And the guitar, ah, yes—of a certainty. She was
gay, and flirted with the caballeros, young and old, but she cared not for
Whatever satisfaction this latter statement gave Masterton, he believed it
was because the absence of any disturbing worldly affection would make her
an easier convert.
But how continue this chance acquaintance and effect her conversion? For
the first time Masterton realized the value of expediency; while his whole
nature impelled him to seek her society frankly and publicly and exhort
her openly, he knew that this was impossible; still more, he remembered
her unmistakable fright at his first expression of faith; he must "be wise
as the serpent and harmless as the dove." He must work upon her soul
alone, and secretly. He, who would have shrunk from any clandestine
association with a girl from mere human affection, saw no wrong in a
covert intimacy for the purpose of religious salvation. Ignorant as he was
of the ways of the world, and inexperienced in the usages of society, he
began to plan methods of secretly meeting her with all the intrigue of a
gallant. The perspicacity as well as the intuition of a true lover had
descended upon him in this effort of mere spiritual conquest.
Armed with his information and a few Spanish words, he took the yellow
Concepcion aside and gravely suborned her to carry a note to be delivered
secretly to Miss Ramirez. To his great relief and some surprise the old
woman grinned with intelligence, and her withered hand closed with a
certain familiar dexterity over the epistle and the accompanying gratuity.
To a man less naively one-ideaed it might have awakened some suspicion;
but to the more sanguine hopefulness of Masterton it only suggested the
fancy that Concepcion herself might prove to be open to conversion, and
that he should in due season attempt HER salvation also. But that would be
later. For Concepcion was always with him and accessible; the girl was
The note, which had cost him some labor of composition, simple and almost
businesslike as was the result, ran as follows:
"I wish to see you upon some matter of grave concern to yourself. Will you
oblige me by coming again to the wall of the Mission tonight at early
candlelight? It would avert worldly suspicion if you brought also your
The afternoon dragged slowly on; Concepcion returned; she had, with great
difficulty, managed to see the senorita, but not alone; she had, however,
slipped the note into her hand, not daring to wait for an answer.
In his first hopefulness Masterton did not doubt what the answer would be,
but as evening approached he grew concerned as to the girl's opportunities
of coming, and regretted that he had not given her a choice of time.
Before his evening meal was finished he began to fear for her willingness,
and doubt the potency of his note. He was accustomed to exhort ORALLY—perhaps
he ought to have waited for the chance of SPEAKING to her directly without
When the moon rose he was already in the garden. Lingering at first in the
shadow of an olive tree, he waited until the moonbeams fell on the wall
and its crests of foliage. But nothing moved among that ebony tracery; his
ear was strained for the familiar tinkle of the guitar—all was
silent. As the moon rose higher he at last boldly walked to the wall, and
listened for any movement on the other side of it. But nothing stirred.
She was evidently NOT coming—his note had failed.
He was turning away sadly, but as he faced his home again he heard a light
laugh beside him. He stopped. A black shadow stepped out from beneath his
own almond tree. He started when, with a gesture that seemed familiar to
him, the upper part of the shadow seemed to fall away with a long black
mantilla and the face of the young girl was revealed.
He could see now that she was clad in black lace from head to foot. She
looked taller, older, and he fancied even prettier than before. A sudden
doubt of his ability to impress her, a swift realization of all the
difficulties of the attempt, and, for the first time perhaps, a dim
perception of the incongruity of the situation came over him.
"I was looking for you on the wall," he stammered.
"MADRE DE DIOS!" she retorted, with a laugh and her old audacity, "you
would that I shall ALWAYS hang there, and drop upon you like a pear when
you shake the tree? No!"
"You haven't brought your guitar," he continued, still more awkwardly, as
he noticed that she held only a long black fan in her hand.
"For why? You would that I PLAY it, and when my uncle say 'Where go
Pepita? She is loss,' someone shall say, 'Oh! I have hear her tink-a-tink
in the garden of the Americano, who lif alone.' And then—it ess
Masterton began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. There was something in
this situation that he had not dreamed of. But with the persistency of an
awkward man he went on.
"But you played on the wall the other night, and tried to accompany me."
"But that was lass night and on the wall. I had not speak to you, you had
not speak to me. You had not sent me the leetle note by your peon." She
stopped, and suddenly opening her fan before her face, so that only her
mischievous eyes were visible, added: "You had not asked me then to come
to hear you make lof to me, Don Esteban. That is the difference."
The circuit preacher felt the blood rush to his face. Anger, shame,
mortification, remorse, and fear alternately strove with him, but above
all and through all he was conscious of a sharp, exquisite pleasure—that
frightened him still more. Yet he managed to exclaim:
"No! no! You cannot think me capable of such a cowardly trick?"
The girl started, more at the unmistakable sincerity of his utterance than
at the words, whose full meaning she may have only imperfectly caught.
"A treek? A treek?" she slowly and wonderingly repeated. Then suddenly, as
if comprehending him, she turned her round black eyes full upon him and
dropped her fan from her face.
"And WHAT for you ask me to come here then?"
"I wanted to talk with you," he began, "on far more serious matters. I
wished to—" but he stopped. He could not address this quaint
child-woman staring at him in black-eyed wonder, in either the measured or
the impetuous terms with which he would have exhorted a maturer
responsible being. He made a step toward her; she drew back, striking at
his extended hand half impatiently, half mischievously with her fan.
He flushed—and then burst out bluntly, "I want to talk with you
about your soul."
"Your immortal soul, unhappy girl."
"What have you to make with that? Are you a devil?" Her eyes grew rounder,
though she faced him boldly.
"I am a Minister of the Gospel," he said, in hurried entreaty. "You must
hear me for a moment. I would save your soul."
"My immortal soul lif with the Padre at the Mission—you moost seek
her there! My mortal BODY," she added, with a mischievous smile, "say to
you, 'good a' night, Don Esteban.'" She dropped him a little curtsy and—ran
"One moment, Miss Ramirez," said Masterton, eagerly; but she had already
slipped beyond his reach. He saw her little black figure passing swiftly
beside the moonlit wall, saw it suddenly slide into a shadowy fissure, and
In his blank disappointment he could not bear to re-enter the house he had
left so sanguinely a few moments before, but walked moodily in the garden.
His discomfiture was the more complete since he felt that his defeat was
owing to some mistake in his methods, and not the incorrigibility of his
Was it not a spiritual weakness in him to have resented so sharply the
girl's imputation that he wished to make love to her? He should have borne
it as Christians had even before now borne slander and false testimony for
their faith! He might even have ACCEPTED it, and let the triumph of her
conversion in the end prove his innocence. Or was his purpose incompatible
with that sisterly affection he had so often preached to the women of his
flock? He might have taken her hand, and called her "Sister Pepita," even
as he had called Deborah "Sister." He recalled the fact that he had for an
instant held her struggling in his arms: he remembered the thrill that the
recollection had caused him, and somehow it now sent a burning blush
across his face. He hurried back into the house.
The next day a thousand wild ideas took the place of his former settled
resolution. He would seek the Padre, this custodian of the young girl's
soul; he would convince HIM of his error, or beseech him to give him an
equal access to her spirit! He would seek the uncle of the girl, and work
upon his feelings.
Then for three or four days he resolved to put the young girl from his
mind, trusting after the fashion of his kind for some special revelation
from a supreme source as an indication for his conduct. This revelation
presently occurred, as it is apt to occur when wanted.
One evening his heart leaped at the familiar sound of Pepita's guitar in
the distance. Whatever his ultimate intention now, he hurriedly ran into
the garden. The sound came from the former direction, but as he
unhesitatingly approached the Mission wall, he could see that she was not
upon it, and as the notes of her guitar were struck again, he knew that
they came from the other side. But the chords were a prelude to one of his
own hymns, and he stood entranced as her sweet, childlike voice rose with
the very words that he had sung. The few defects were those of purely oral
imitation, the accents, even the slight reiteration of the "s," were
Cheeldren oof the Heavenly King,
As ye journey essweetly ssing;
Essing your great Redeemer's praise,
Glorioos in Hees works and ways.
He was astounded. Her recollection of the air and words was the more
wonderful, for he remembered now that he had only sung that particular
hymn once. But to his still greater delight and surprise, her voice rose
again in the second verse, with a touch of plaintiveness that swelled his
We are traveling home to God,
In the way our farzers trod,
They are happy now, and we
Soon their happiness shall see.
The simple, almost childish words—so childish that they might have
been the fitting creation of her own childish lips—here died away
with a sweep and crash of the whole strings. Breathless silence followed,
in which Stephen Masterton could feel the beatings of his own heart.
"Miss Ramirez," he called, in a voice that scarcely seemed his own. There
was no reply. "Pepita!" he repeated; it was strangely like the accent of a
lover, but he no longer cared. Still the singer's voice was silent.
Then he ran swiftly beside the wall, as he had seen her run, until he came
to the fissure. It was overgrown with vines and brambles almost as
impenetrable as an abatis, but if she had pierced it in her delicate crape
dress, so could he! He brushed roughly through, and found himself in a
glimmering aisle of pear trees close by the white wall of the Mission
For a moment in that intricate tracing of ebony and ivory made by the
rising moon, he was dazzled, but evidently his irruption into the orchard
had not been as lithe and silent as her own, for a figure in a
parti-colored dress suddenly started into activity, and running from the
wall, began to course through the trees until it became apparently a part
of that involved pattern. Nothing daunted, however, Stephen Masterton
pursued, his speed increased as he recognized the flounces of Pepita's
barred dress, but the young girl had the advantage of knowing the
locality, and could evade her pursuer by unsuspected turns and doubles.
For some moments this fanciful sylvan chase was kept up in perfect
silence; it might have been a woodland nymph pursued by a wandering
shepherd. Masterton presently saw that she was making toward a tiled roof
that was now visible as projecting over the presidio wall, and was
evidently her goal of refuge. He redoubled his speed; with skillful
audacity and sheer strength of his broad shoulders he broke through a
dense ceanothus hedge which Pepita was swiftly skirting, and suddenly
appeared between her and her house.
With her first cry, the young girl turned and tried to bury herself in the
hedge; but in another stride the circuit preacher was at her side, and
caught her panting figure in his arms.
While he had been running he had swiftly formulated what he should do and
what he should say to her. To his simple appeal for her companionship and
willing ear he would add a brotherly tenderness, that should invite her
trustfulness in him; he would confess his wrong and ask her forgiveness of
his abrupt solicitations; he would propose to teach her more hymns, they
would practice psalmody together; even this priest, the custodian of her
soul, could not object to that; but chiefly he would thank her: he would
tell her how she had pleased him, and this would lead to more serious and
thoughtful converse. All this was in his mind while he ran, was upon his
lips as he caught her and for an instant she lapsed, exhausted, in his
arms. But, alas! even in that moment he suddenly drew her toward him, and
kissed her as only a lover could!
The wire grass was already yellowing on the Tasajara plains with the dusty
decay of the long, dry summer when Dr. Duchesne returned to Tasajara. He
came to see the wife of Deacon Sanderson, who, having for the twelfth time
added to the population of the settlement, was not "doing as well" as
everybody—except, possibly, Dr. Duchesne—expected. After he
had made this hollow-eyed, over-burdened, undernourished woman as
comfortable as he could in her rude, neglected surroundings, to change the
dreary chronicle of suffering, he turned to the husband, and said, "And
what has become of Mr. Masterton, who used to be in your—vocation?"
A long groan came from the deacon.
"Hallo! I hope he has not had a relapse," said the doctor, earnestly. "I
thought I'd knocked all that nonsense out of him—I beg your pardon—I
mean," he added, hurriedly, "he wrote to me only a few weeks ago that he
was picking up his strength again and doing well!"
"In his weak, gross, sinful flesh—yes, no doubt," returned the
Deacon, scornfully, "and, perhaps, even in a worldly sense, for those who
value the vanities of life; but he is lost to us, for all time, and lost
to eternal life forever. Not," he continued in sanctimonious
vindictiveness, "but that I often had my doubts of Brother Masterton's
steadfastness. He was too much given to imagery and song."
"But what has he done?" persisted Dr. Duchesne.
"Done! He has embraced the Scarlet Woman!"
"Dear me!" said the doctor, "so soon? Is it anybody you knew here?—not
anybody's wife? Eh?"
"He has entered the Church of Rome," said the Deacon, indignantly, "he has
forsaken the God of his fathers for the tents of the idolaters; he is the
consort of Papists and the slave of the Pope!"
"But are you SURE?" said Dr. Duchesne, with perhaps less concern than
"Sure," returned the Deacon angrily, "didn't Brother Bulkley, on account
of warning reports made by a God-fearing and soul-seeking teamster, make a
special pilgrimage to this land of Sodom to inquire and spy out its
wickedness? Didn't he find Stephen Masterton steeped in the iniquity of
practicing on an organ—he that scorned even a violin or harmonium in
the tents of the Lord—in an idolatrous chapel, with a foreign female
Papist for a teacher? Didn't he find him a guest at the board of a Jesuit
priest, visiting the schools of the Mission where this young Jezebel of a
singer teaches the children to chant in unknown tongues? Didn't he find
him living with a wrinkled Indian witch who called him 'Padrone'—and
speaking her gibberish? Didn't he find him, who left here a man mortified
in flesh and spirit and pale with striving with sinners, fat and rosy from
native wines and fleshpots, and even vain and gaudy in colored apparel?
And last of all, didn't Brother Bulkley hear that a rumor was spread far
and wide that this miserable backslider was to take to himself a wife—in
one of these strange women—that very Jezebel who seduced him? What
do you call that?"
"It looks a good deal like human nature," said the doctor, musingly, "but
I call it a cure!"