Mariquita: A Novel

"Ah, yes! That is so. One finds that always. Only one knows that God is more indulgent to one's faults than one has learned to be oneself; that patience comes so very slowly, and slower still the humility that would teach one to be never surprised at any fault in oneself."

Gore reverenced her too truly to say, "Any fault would surprise me in you." He only assented to her words, as if they were plain and cold matter-of-fact, and let her go on, for he knew she had more to say.

"I would like," she told him, "to finish about my father. Because to you he may seem just careless. You may think, 'But why should not he take her down to Maxwell and hear Mass himself also?' Coming from the usual life of Catholics to this life of ours on the prairies, it may easily occur to you like that. You cannot possibly know – as if you had read it in a book – a man's life like my father's. He was born far away from here, out in the desert – in New Mexico. His father baptized him – just as he baptized me. There was no priest. There was no Mass. How could he learn to think it a necessary part of life? no one can learn to think necessary what is impossible. From that desert he came to this wilderness; very different, but just as empty. No Mass here either, no priest. How could he be expected to think it necessary to ride far, far away to find Mass? It would be to him like riding away to find a picture gallery. He couldn't be away every Saturday and Sunday. That would not be possible; and what is not possible is no sin. And what is no sin on three Sundays out of four, or one Sunday out of two, how should it seem a sin on the other Sunday? I hope you will understand all that."

"Indeed, yes! I hope you do not think I have been judging your father! That would be a great impertinence."

"Towards God – yes. That is His business, and no one else understands it at all. No, I did not think you would have been judging. Only I thought you might be troubled a little. It is a great loss, my father's and mine, that we live out here where there is no Mass, and where there are no Sacraments. But Our Lord does the same things differently. It is not hard for Him to make up losses."

One thing which struck the girl's hearer was that the grave simplicity of her tones was never sad. It seemed to him the perfection of obedience.

"My father," she went on, "is very good. He always tells the truth. Those who deal in horses are said to tell many lies about them. He never does. He is very just – to the men, and everybody. And he does not grind them, nor does he insult them in reproof. He hates laziness and stupidity, and will not suffer either. Yet he does not gibe in finding fault nor say things, being master, to which they being servants may not retort. That makes fault-finding bitter and intolerable. He works very hard and takes no pleasure. He greatly loved my mother, and was in all things a true husband. That was a great burden God laid on him – the loss of her, but he carried it always in silence. You can hardly know all these things."

Gore saw that she was more observant than he had fancied – that she had been conscious of criticism in him of her father, and was earnest in exacting justice for him.

"But," he said, "I shall not forget them now."

"I shall thank you for that," she told him, beginning to move forward towards the homestead that was full in sight, half a mile away. "And it will be getting very late. Tea is much later on Sunday, for the men like to sleep, but it will be time now."

They walked on together, side by side, he leading his horse by the bridle hung loosely over his shoulder. The horse after its very long journey of to-day and yesterday was tired out, and only too willing to go straight to his stable.

They did not now talk much. Don Joaquin, watching them as they came from the house door, saw that.

CHAPTER XII

"Mr. Gore came back with you," he said to Mariquita as she joined him. Gore had gone round to the stables with his horse.

"Yes. As he came back from Maxwell he passed the place where I was sitting, and we came on together – after talking for a time."

Mariquita did not think her father was cross-examining her. Nor was he. He was not given to inquisitiveness, and seldom scrutinized her doings.

"Mr. Gore," she continued, "went to Maxwell for the sake of going to Mass."

"So he is a Catholic!" And Mariquita observed with pleasure that her father spoke in a tone of satisfaction. He had never before appeared to be in the least concerned with the religion of any of the men about the place.

That night, after Sarella and Mariquita had gone to bed, Don Joaquin had another satisfaction. He and Gore were alone, smoking; all the large party ate together, but the cowboys went off to their own quarters after meals. Only Don Joaquin, his daughter, Sarella and Gore slept in the dwelling-house. So high up above sea-level, it was cold enough at night, and the log fire was pleasant.

What gave him satisfaction was that Gore asked him about the price of a range, and whether a suitable one was to be had anywhere near.

"It would not be," Don Joaquin bade him note, "the price of the range only. Without some capital it would be throwing money away to buy one."

"Of course. What would range and stock and all cost?"

"That would depend on the size of the range, and the amount of stock it would bear. And also on whether the range were very far out, like this one. If it were near a town and the railway, it would cost more to buy."

Gore quite understood that, and Don Joaquin spoke of "Blaine's" range. "It lies nearer Maxwell than this. But it is not so large, and Blaine has never made much of it – he had not capital enough to put on it the stock it should have had, and he was never the right man. A townsman in all his bones, and his wife towny too. And their girls worse. He wants to clear. He will never do good there."

The two men discussed the matter at some length. It seemed to the elder of them that Gore would seriously entertain the plan, and had the money for the purchase.

"I have thought sometimes," said Joaquin, "of buying Blaine's myself."

"Of course, I would not think of it if you wanted it. I would not even make any inquiry – that would be sending the price up."

"Yes. But, if you decide to go in for it, I shall not mind. I have land enough and stock enough, and work enough. I should have bought it if I had a son growing up."

It was satisfactory to Don Joaquin to find that Gore could buy a large range and afford capital to stock it. If he went on with such a purchase it would prove him "substantial as to conditions." And he was a Catholic, also a good thing.

Only Sarella should be a Catholic also. "So you went down to Maxwell to go to Mass," he said, just as they were putting out their pipes to go to bed. "That was not out of place. Perhaps one Saturday we may go down together."

Gore said, of course, that he would be glad of his company.

"It would not be myself only," Don Joaquin explained; "I should take my daughter and her cousin."

When Gore had an opportunity of telling this to Mariquita she was full of gladness.

"See," she said, "how strong good example is!"

"Is your cousin, then, also a Catholic?" he asked, surprised without knowing why.

"Oh, no! My father regrets it, and would like her to be one. That shows he thinks of religion more than you might have guessed."

Gore thought that it showed something else as well. It did not, however, seem to have occurred to Mariquita that her father wanted to marry her cousin.

Sarella strongly approved the idea of going down, all four of them together, to Maxwell some Saturday.

"Of course," she said, "it would be for two nights, at least. He couldn't expect us to ride back on the Sunday. It will be a treat – we must insist on starting early enough to get down there before the shops shut. I daresay there will be a theatre."

Mariquita, suddenly, after five years, promised the chance of hearing Mass and going to Holy Communion, was not surprised that Sarella should only think of it as an outing; she was not a Catholic. But she thought it as well to give Sarella a hint.

"I expect," she said, "father will be hoping that you would come to Mass with us."

"I? Do you think that? He knows I am not a Catholic – why should he care?"

"Oh, he would care. I am sure of that."

Sarella laughed.

"You sly puss! I believe you want to convert me," she said, shaking her head jocularly at Mariquita.

"Of course I should be glad if you were a Catholic. Any Catholic would."

"I daresay you would. But your father never troubles himself about such things – he leaves them to the women. He wouldn't care."

"Yes, he would. You must not judge my father – he thinks without speaking; he is a very silent person."

Sarella laughed again.

"Not so silent as you imagine," she said slyly; "he talks to me, my dear."