Part 15

“The third day, in the morning, everything is like dead at the _hacienda_. No one is stir, only sometimes the dogs they bark. By and by comes the Englishman out of the house, springs quick on his mustang and like the wind he is off. He rides close by Juan, so near that the boy he could have plucked him off his horse. And the Englishman’s face it was white--white just like a corpse. He ride like he is scared--like _el diablo_--like the devil he ride!

“Juan, too, was scared. He was sure something go bad, very bad, at the _hacienda_. And so he is go down to the place and look all around, but he is see nobody--they are all gone, the _vaqueros_ and the women.

“And then Juan go into the house. There he find Don Pedro dying with _la viruela_, the smallpox, _Señor_! with nobody to care for him but Chiquita, and one old woman that was call for the joke, La Bonita, the beautiful, because she have the pest long before and was, oh, so ugly! Ah! the face of Don Pedro! It was horrible; it made Juan to grow sick!

“But Juan stay and help the women. At first the boy he was afraid, but he loved Chiquita, and soon the pest he forgot.

“Well, _Señor_, soon and sure the end was. In five days Don Pedro he was dead. And Juan and La Bonita they bury him, with nobody to help. Chiquita her heart is break. She cry and cry and cry, but Juan he knew it was not all for that her father was dead. She would not tell Juan, but he knew. The coward _Inglés_ that have run away--for him also were the tears.

“A few days more and Chiquita too, was take sick with the pest. This time it was not the black smallpox--but it is bad, very bad. _Jesu!_ How the old woman and the boy they make the fight for Chiquita! And Chiquita she is not die--she get well. Her face it is scar--so bad is it scar that La Bonita herself is not less beautiful than the poor Chiquita. And Juan he is afraid--for some day she will know, so he take away from the house all the bright things and the mirrors and tell La Bonita the young _Señorita_ must not know. And the old woman she understand, ah! too well she understand. She remember the sorrow of the day she herself first saw the scar of her face, and she is careful of Chiquita.

“When Chiquita she could once more walk about and breathe the sweet air of the pines, everywhere with her went Juan. Once again it was Juan--always Juan.

“When Chiquita she grew strong again, as before the pest came, the poor boy he might have been happy, but for one thing--tears, tears, always tears in the eyes of Chiquita! And Juan he knew they were not all for Don Pedro. Always in her mind that cursed Milord! Her heart it still ache for the coward Englishman.

“Long walks Chiquita and Juan they take together. She could again ride, but never did she ask for her mustang. She for riding cared no more. Always, you see, she is think of the Englishman. And Juan, he know why she wished not to ride, and his heart it was lead.

“But Juan was kind, so very kind to Chiquita. Always he loved her, and the scar of the face made to him no difference. But every day does he fear the time when she must know. That time, so much does he fear it, that the brooks he would not let her cross; he was afraid that in them her face she might see; yet still did he know sure that sometime she must see it.

“By and by the people is come back to the _rancheria_, and Juan he is do the best he can to take care of the place, and the cattle and the horses. For a little while things they go along like before the pest it have kill Don Pedro.

“One day Juan he go into the hills for the round up, and for two days he come not back. Before he go he tell La Bonita to keep good watch of the poor Chiquita, but all the same he is afraid. All the time of the riding after the cattle he is afraid it goes not well with Chiquita.

“When Juan he is get back from the round up, the great trouble it have come. Chiquita she is mad--she have gone crazy, _Señor_, and she does not know anything--not anybody does she know!

“From La Bonita Juan hears the story. The Englishman he has come back to see what is happen at the _hacienda_. Chiquita is so glad she almost die with the gladness, but _el Inglés_, he is see her poor face with all the scar, and he is look, ‘Ugh!’ He say nothing, but he look the ‘Ugh!’

“La Bonita she hear the Englishman tell Chiquita he must say _adios_--for the last time he must say it. She cry, and cry, and cry, like the heart it is to break, and she hold tight to the coat of Milord. And then he push her away hard, so! and tell her about the scar on her face, and she not understand--she not believe. So he take from his pocket _el espejo_, the looking-glass, and hold it before Chiquita!

“La Bonita she hear the great scream and run quick to Chiquita. She find her on the floor like one who is dead. The Englishman he is not there--he is gone, but on the floor is the devil looking-glass. La Bonita made the curse, and crush the glass into the thousand pieces, so! If the Englishman he had not gone she sure would have kill him, that old woman! She with the poniard could aim true, that Bonita, and for the blood of Milord was she thirsty.

“When he have the work to do, _el Mexicano_ make not the hurry, but when he must kill his enemy, _Señor_, then does he never say _mañana_--the to-morrow. To-day is the time he must kill.

“Juan stayed not long at the _hacienda_. He leave Chiquita with the old woman, and saddle his mustang and ride--swift as the bird flies, rode Juan. The _vaqueros_ they tell him the Englishman he have ride through Sonora, and so Juan he go that way.

“Does _el Señor_ know where is the ferry on the Stanislaus?”

“Yes,” I said, “I know the place well.”

“Then, the _Señor_ he will remember that the mountains are at the ferry high, very high and steep like the wall. The Stanislaus in the spring is so swift that in it a man could not live one second. The rocks, ah! _Señor_, the rocks in the canyon of the Stanislaus they are plenty, and they are sharp and cruel.

“It was not then as now. There was no ferry, and one must cross by a foot-bridge. The freshet of the spring-time it had washed the bridge away. Very high was then the Stanislaus! When the foot-bridge it was go, one must wait, and wait, and wait--he must wait for the going down of the water and for the _mineros_ a new bridge to build.

“In the cabin of a _minero_ away up on the mountain side the Englishman was wait for the water to go down and the bridge to be built. Here it was that Juan find him.

“He could fight, could that cursed _Inglés_, and he was so strong that in his hands only a child was that little Juan! But the boy he have the courage, and the right--and, _Señor_, he have the poniard. It is the poniard that makes the strength as nothing.

“In the cabin of the _minero_ the fight began, and so weak was Juan in the hands of _el Inglés_ that he was by him push through the door and to the edge of the canyon. It is very deep, that canyon, and to the bottom a very long way, and Juan he know what happen if he is not quick and sure.

“The wrist of Juan it is not strong, and his enemy he hold it tight in his hand, so! But, when the Englishman he take the boy around the waist for throw him over the side of the canyon, his foot it make the slip and he fall back! As he fall he let go the wrist of Juan!

“Ah! now for Milord is there no more chance! He must sure die! Quick, like the rattlesnake, struck the boy! One! Two! Three!--five times he bury the knife in the Englishman!

“And when the Englishman fall limp on the ground, Juan is cover thick with the hot red blood. It have spurt, and spurt--all over him it have spurt!

“The Englishman he is not yet so dead that he does not understand when Juan say: ‘My Chiquita, she have send her love to the Milord who was so kind as to show to her in the looking-glass her face.’

“And then Juan laugh in the man’s face as he die.

“When the Englishman he was no more, Juan roll and roll him to the edge of the canyon. He was not strong for the lift, but he could make the push and the roll of the body. When the body was at the edge, Juan make one grand push and crash! over the Englishman go!

“Perhaps _el Señor_ he not _comprende_--he have not the hot blood of _un Español_. But, maybe, he too have enemies, and knows the hate, and the feelings of Juan can understand.

“Never was music so sweet to the ear of that little Juan, as the sound of the dead Englishman making the fall. Every time the body it strike the rocks, it bound off like the ball, and spatter much blood! Very beautiful to the eyes of Juan was the red trail of the body on the canyon side.

“When the body of Milord reach the bottom, he look no more like a man--he is like he is blown to the mince-meat by the blast of powder. He fall into the Stanislaus in many pieces, splash! splash! and when Juan saw this, he was happy--_Dios!_ for the one minute he forget.

“Of the story of Chiquita there is not much more to tell, _Señor_. When Juan was get back to the _hacienda_, she was still not know anybody. _El Medico_ say she have of the brain a bad sickness. She live, but she no more can see--she is blind!

“And never has Chiquita remembered--_Gracios à Dios!_

“Not long was it before the _rancheria_ of the Salvias is go to ruin. They all go away, the _vaqueros_ and the women. La Bonita, she stay like the faithful dog till she die. And then was Chiquita alone--alone, till she have found Ramon.”

Here the story-teller gazed tenderly toward the door of the herder’s cabin, where in the quiet shadows just within, sat a pathetic white-haired figure.

“But what became of Juan?” I asked.

There was a peculiar light in the Mexican’s eyes as he replied:

“Long, long ago he die--that little Juan. It was well that he die, for when Ramon came, then was there no more need of Juan. Then, too, my poor Chiquita did not know, and why was it then that Juan should live?”

A DEAD IDEAL

A ROMANCE OF THE DISSECTING ROOM

I had been practising medicine for some years, and had grown tired of the hard daily grind of the general practitioner. I longed for a vacation, but medicine is a hard task mistress and with the busy physician economy of time is so essential that his so-called “rest” is usually merely a change of work. I felt that it must be so with me, and resolved to hie me to some of the eastern centers of medical teaching and take a post graduate course in several special subjects. Polyclinics and post graduate schools being then unknown, I went to New York and matriculated at one of that city’s famous schools, one which had attained a high reputation for practical bedside instruction and abundant clinical material.

It was with all the enthusiasm of a school boy, that I enrolled my name upon the college roster and settled down to earnest work in the hospital wards and dissecting rooms.

As I was desirous of mingling with my classmates as much as possible, and was not averse to a certain degree of practical economy, I formed a combination with three undergraduates, who were recommended to me as desirable associates, and became a guest of a medical students’ boarding house--an establishment characterized by abundant opportunities for the study of entomology and the effects of prolonged fasting upon the human body, rather than by the abundance and variety of its larder. As was the custom among medical students, we clubbed together and occupied a large single room--none too elaborately furnished, but very comfortable withal, and made rather attractive by a large, old fashioned fireplace.

My room-mates were most agreeable associates, although not altogether harmonious in tastes and methods of study. Two were young Southerners--men of superior attainments, but typic ladies’ men, and fond of social dissipation and excitement. Both were possessed of some means, and had adopted our mode of living because of social and bohemian instincts rather than from motives of economy. Time was an unimportant factor with them, hence they rarely suffered from over-study, although they were often the worse for the wear and tear of social dissipation. If ever there was a well matched pair of college cronies it was my young friends, Will Richardson and Charles Favell.

The fourth member of our circle, Harold Parkyn, was about my own age, and as different from our jovial room-mates as possible. He had been an artist, it seems, and an unappreciated one, which was no fault of his, for he had talent that fell but little short of genius. Despairing of success in his chosen profession and abhorring commercial pursuits, he had entered medicine at a rather late period in life.

I have rarely met a man so ill adapted by nature to medicine as was Parkyn. He was a fine, athletic, handsome fellow, with a clear cut, refined and classical face, and magnificent dark eyes which evidenced a temperament far too esthetic, and emotional faculties too exalted and sensitive to withstand the physical and mental strain incidental to intimate association with human suffering. His first visit to the dissecting room was harrowing to witness, and it was weeks before he made an attempt to qualify in practical anatomy. At his first surgical clinic he fainted outright. A large part of the disagreeable features of caring for the sick filled him with disgust. And yet, Parkyn was plucky; his was not a spirit to be easily discouraged, and he applied himself persistently to the task of subduing his finer feelings and acquiring the proverbial callosity of the medical student--an effort in which he most signally failed.

Parkyn was not only of a delicately sensitive nervous organization, but he was rather peculiar in his ways. Affable at times--when his chums were indulging in jollity--he was generally one of the most reserved and taciturn men I have ever met; especially was he unsocial in the presence of ladies. So noticeable was this peculiarity that the young women of the household had dubbed him “Old Crusty”--which disturbed his serenity not at all, even when Richardson and Favell, in a spirit of mischief and with great show of formality, adopted the sobriquet applied to him by the ladies. In grave and solemn caucus these young gentlemen decided that Parkyn was a confirmed woman hater, and deservedly doomed to die an old bachelor. Their favorite occupation was the reading of love letters which they pretended to have received, and the exhibition of photographs of pretty girls to “Old Crusty.”

Being a practitioner, and therefore concededly the oracle of our little student family, I was a sort of balance wheel to the party, standing between the occasional over-exuberance of Richardson and Favell on the one hand, and the extreme sensitiveness of Parkyn on the other.

One evening as we were all sitting before the fireplace enjoying our after-dinner pipes, Favell brought out from the recesses of his wonderfully productive pocket, a photograph of a most beautiful woman, and with a fine show of counterfeit embarrassment, exhibited it as “The picture of a very dear friend of mine, down home--just received this morning. Very charming girl--particular friend of my sister’s,” etc. etc.

The picture was certainly beautiful, and if Favell was telling the truth he had reason to be proud of the charming young woman’s acquaintance, but as I looked at the photograph, I fancied I remembered having seen it before, in a stationer’s shop. I made no comment, however, and Favell proceeded to launch the arrows of his wit at Parkyn.

“Say, old man, here is something that ought to stir your blood at last! How can you remain a woman hater and know that there are such charming creatures on this old planet of ours as Miss--Ahem!--the original of this photograph? Ah! your eyes are actually growing green with envy. You dear old stick, you! Has it been merely a slight touch of sour grapes after all? Tell me, old fellow, did you ever see anything so beautiful as this face? Did you ever know a lovelier girl?”

Parkyn rose from his chair, and with a mournful expression replied, “One only, my dear boy, and she--but pardon me,” he said, coloring up, “you well know that the subject of ladies is one which--bores me. I must leave such things to social butterflies like yourself and our mutual friend Richardson here. And, by the way, gentlemen, I must hie myself to a subject even more distasteful than that of woman in the abstract. I promised Professor Van Buren that I would finish that abominable dissection of the upper extremity to-night. You see that the trend of Favell’s conversation has driven me to extremities. Yes, thank God! to my last extremity.” Saying which he withdrew.

“Now, see here, boys,” I said, after Parkyn had gone. “You mustn’t tease our friend so outrageously. If I am not mistaken you hit him on a tender point just now, and he is far too sensitive and high-strung to always take your badinage so good naturedly as he did to-night. I suspect that Harold Parkyn is quite as human as the rest of us and that he--well, who knows that he may not be bitterly mourning over the grave of buried hopes? No, boys, you must let him alone. You may be inflicting pain upon him.”

“By Jove, doctor!” exclaimed Favell, “I never thought of that. I’ll just bet the dear old fellow has had a love affair. And it hasn’t turned out right; that’s what’s the matter. I’ll apologize to him as soon as he returns.”

“Yes, and a fine mess you’ll make of it!” said Richardson. “You would better let well enough alone. We’ll both have a little sense and delicacy hereafter. To tell the truth, I have for some time been a little ashamed of my part in our chaffing, and I’m only too glad to reform.”

Parkyn was very thoughtful for several days after the affair of the photograph, and even more reserved than usual. The boys kept their promises and did not again attempt to banter him. I fancied that he understood the studious politeness and affectionate consideration with which he was subsequently treated, although there was no comment.

Several weeks later, Parkyn and myself chanced to be alone together and, as is likely to be the case among young professional men, our talk drifted into a discussion of our aims and ambitions in life. In the course of the conversation I quite naturally commented upon the wide variance between Parkyn’s former profession and the one in the study of which he was then engaged.

“It has always puzzled me to understand, I said, how a man of your artistic temperament and admitted ability, could ever have deserted the profession of art for that of medicine.”

“Well,” replied Parkyn, “you have doubtless forgotten the fact which I long ago frankly stated to our mutual friends and yourself, that I was not highly appreciated by the public and finally despaired of success--not in making a living, for I could by dint of strong exertion do that--but in attaining the position in my profession which I felt was justly my due. I, myself, often wonder why I finally selected medicine as my field of labor, but I couldn’t sell groceries; the law wouldn’t do at all, and the ministry was out of the question, so there seemed to be nothing but medicine left.” Parkyn sighed, and remained for some moments dreamily gazing into the fireplace and listlessly poking at the glowing coals with the tongs.

“But, my dear fellow,” I said, “you have selected a profession that is nearly as difficult as art, so far as winning fame and financial success is concerned, and moreover, one which has by comparison no features of attractiveness. You will pardon me if I also say that medicine is a profession to which your sensitive organization is but poorly adapted.”

Parkyn arose and nervously paced the floor. He finally paused and facing me said, “Doctor, I realize the truth of what you say only too keenly, and what is more I detest your profession so far as I have gone. I have, however, determined not only to overcome my repugnance to it, but to blunt by sheer force of will the peculiarities of organization to which you have alluded. Distasteful as it is, medicine is delightful by comparison with the hell into which my chosen profession, art, finally precipitated me. Ye gods, man! You do not realize what--but pshaw! this is not interesting to you, and besides, I never talk of myself.”

“See here, Parkyn,” I said, “it might be far better for you to talk about yourself a little, especially to one who understands you--as I think I do. I have often suspected that there was a story connected with your change of profession and from the best of motives I am anxious to hear it. Come now, old man, out with it--I am as interested and sympathetic as you please, and as deep and silent as a well.”

Parkyn reflected for a moment and then replied, “I am quite sure you understand me much better than most of my friends, but I do not fancy being thought ridiculous, even by you, and my story might seem absurd to a man of your philosophic and rather lymphatic temperament.”

“Oh, nonsense!” I exclaimed, “I’m not so lymphatic as you seem to think. Philosophy puts a check on the impulses of the heart, while art lets them roam fancy free, yet human nature is the same in both philosopher and artist, so fire away, old fellow; I’m all ears--evolutionary relics you know.”

Parkyn leaned languidly against the corner of the mantel, his chin resting upon his hands and began:

“The details of my career up to the date of the circumstances that impelled me to leave the profession for which nature adapted me, are commonplace. My life was that of the average poor boy of artistic tastes and talents, who fights his way to the attainment of a thorough professional training. By hard work, I succeeded in getting enough money together to enable me to study with the most celebrated masters of Europe. I finally settled down in my native city, Boston, and after many trials and vicissitudes, was in due time in a fair way to earn a respectable living, although fame was by no means beating her angelic wings against the windows of my studio. It was too near the roof, I fear,” and Parkyn smiled somewhat bitterly.

“It so happened that the society of artists of which I eventually became a member, instituted a yearly exhibition of paintings patterned after the Paris Salon. As an act of extreme condescension I was especially invited by the directors of the exhibition to contribute. The invitation was gladly accepted and I promptly began casting about for a suitable theme--a matter that often constitutes the most difficult part of the artist’s labors. The department of painting in which I was particularly adept was the study of the nude and I quite naturally resolved to produce something in the line of my favorite work. And then came the search for a model.

“Contrary to the popular notion, a satisfactory model is a very scarce commodity. The human form divine rarely stands the keen professional criticism of the eye artistic. A picture is oftener the composite of several models than the actual delineation of one. The arms and shoulders of one, the feet of another, and the torso of still another may be required. Several months passed away and although the time for the exhibition was dangerously near, I had not yet found what I sought. As you may imagine, I was in despair, for having set my heart upon a certain subject for my picture, I was loth to abandon it, for another of less interest. And now comes the strangest part of my story--the part which I fear is hardly materialistic enough for you, my dear doctor,” and Parkyn hesitated.

“Go on; go on!” I exclaimed.