A SHORT STORY.

Evening Star, Issue 10342, 16 June 1897, Page 1

A SHORT STORY.

CARMELITA. j "Carmelite, Cwrmdito, mia btmUa, sing] tome." .V-V* ' The little village of San Louis ttey is drowsy with the feeling at a perpetual ram-' raer afternoon. Long shadows and a golden yellow atmosphere are over aIL There is a faint hamming as of bees. There is nothing doing. There are few things worth striving for, and one of them is peace. The peace which, to some degree, may come in this world is nearer idealisation in these old Franciscan Missions among the olive hills of California than anywhere else. The peace here cannot be put into words or painted. It is in the air, and breathes the feeling that the past has not yet gone away. The dust Bes thick in the erooked paths, and one almost looks to find a print of sandals. The voices of the Natives—inherited from the Spanish conqueror—are soft and musical. There are glimpses of bright shawls over "black tresses; feet shod, hot stookingless. There is, no wind, no noise, until the evening comes on, bringing that cool breeze, stirring the beautiful palm and pepper trees, which all through the hot, day have remained motionless. The rambling and roofless adobe,' its brown walls crumbling with age, is near the Mission. The Padre's dwelling—being a little better than the others—is on the banks of the little river. "Sing, sing to me, caro mio." This from a swarthy ranchero, bent and old, with hard, drawn features, which soften only when his eyes turn to the beautiful child near him. The child is little Carmelita—bis only treasure. Left to him—left before the door of his adobe—with no name, no dower, save her peerless bcanty anil a voice like the songbirds. ' Pioo, oldest aud pcoiest of the poor beggars of this summer village, has for eight years spent his earnings on Carmelita— Carmelita, with roses in her hair and cheeks —Carmelita, dancing, laughing, praying, and weeping with an inconsistency that is bewitching. - The tinkle of the guitar and a silver voice ring out. Old Pico listens and dreams and is content. Carmelita must marry —yes, and some handsome caballero would, by-and-bye, come along, and this' flower, this gem of budding womanhood, wonld be a happy wife—a mother ; but now his little one must cheer his old days. He would not be here long. Yes, he would work for her—he would

The song dies away on the soft evening breeze. Pico sleeps peacefully, with a smile upon his face. The birds are still and the insects' hum 13 hushed. « * * * * The fierce sun pours down again. The old man awakeus end drags his weary limbs about to prepare the breakfast of fruit and milk. He goes -softly towards Carmelita's bed. " Carmelita, Carmelita! Sweet one, where *»«« yon!" The bed has not been touched. Carmelita cannot be found. No one has seen her. Only the little red dress, the coarse lace mantilla and comb thrown carelessly near the door, and—what is that ? A glistening object—a bright gold piece. Yes, yes, the kind the tall insinuating Americano yesterday offered Pico for a draught cf native wine. Poor Pico is alone—a fever seizes him. For months he is at death's door, and rises a mere shadow of the man he once was. Still ever the cry: "Carmelita, Carmelita! my little one, let me fiud thee." The way is long and rough to the great city, but old Pico seta out on his way, begging and working as I est he can. For eight years we hear of him wandering about the gay city—living God knows how; a poor, bent cripple, haunting the cafe* and open gardens, looking vainly for a dear lost face. He listens to the voices in the great churches, hoping to hear the sweet familiar tone. " Mother of Christ, help me to find her, my Carmelita!" It is night. Pico, bowed by grief and utter dreariness, creeps past the gay plazi where, coquetting and laughing, are women clad in rich satins, of bright colors, sparkling with gem?, their white shoulders peeping above the lace ; rich caballeros in velvet and silk, with fiery eyes looking out beneath the black sombreros. Creeping along he crouches in the shadow of the walls of a palatial house in the rich American quarter of the city. The rays of light, from one of the windows fall upon his drawn face as he sleeps on the colJ, damp stones. Hark! Is he dicaming? Can it be—the beloved voice—the rich, deep notes ! " Maijrt de Dion, look f

Staggering to his feet, he gazes in at the open window. A brilliantly-lighted room, filled with luxurious works of Oriental art. A table with luscious wines and fruit orowded upon it. Half a dozen men, their faces showing the wine they have drank and the lives they have led. Tho jmnesse dorc, representing American capital in this halfSpanish town. A guitar—a woman once beautiful, now hollow-eyed and hardened, rough cheeke, blackened eyes, aud tinselled dress that tell their own story.

She B : ngs—holding her wine glass high—a seductive love song of old Spain. Tho men cheer and drink again. The old man falls against the wall. " Carmelita, Carmelita! Mother of Christ! Why did I find thee ?" In the grey dawn the wine sleepy revellers reel from the house. They stumble over au old man by the gate, dead, his hands clasping his beads, his eyes fixed as though in prayer.—Eleanor Walton in • Lotus.'