Debris Part 1

Debris.

by Madge Morris.

PREFACE

The waif is born of emergency, and timidly launched on the rough sea of opinion. Critic, touch it gently; it a.s.sumes nothing--has nothing to a.s.sume; and your scalpel can only pain its AUTHOR

MYSTERY OF CARMEL.

The Mission floor was with weeds o'ergrown, And crumbling and shaky its walls of stone; Its roof of tiles, in tiers and tiers, Had stood the storms of a hundred years.

An olden, weird, medieval style Clung to the mouldering, gloomy pile, And the rhythmic voice of the breaking waves Sang a lonesome dirge in its land of graves.

As I walked in the Mission old and gray-- The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

An ancient owl went fluttering by, Scared from his haunt. His mournful cry Wakened the echoes, till roof and wall Caught and re-echoed the dismal call Again and again, till it seemed to me Some Jesuit soul, in mockery-- Stripped of rosary, gown, and cowl-- Haunted the place, in this dreary owl.

Surely I s.h.i.+vered with fright that day, Alone in the Mission, old and gray-- The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

Near the chapel vault was a dungeon grim, And they say that many a chanted hymn Has rung a knell on the moldy air For luckless errant prisoned there, As kneeling monk and pious nun Sang orison at set of sun.

A single window, dark and small, Showed opening in the heavy wall, Nor other entrance seemed attained That erst had human footstep gained.

I paused before the uncanny place And peered me into its darksome s.p.a.ce.

Had it of secret aught to tell, That locked up darkness kept it well.

I turned, and lo! by my side there stood A being of strangest naturehood.

Startled, I glanced him o'er and o'er, Wondering I noted him not before.

His form was stooped with the weight of years, And on his cheek was a trace of tears; Over all his face a shade of pain That deepened and vanished, and came again.

Fixed he his woeful eyes on me-- Through my very soul they seemed to see.

And lightly he laid his hand on mine-- His hand was cold as the vestal shrine.

"'Tis haunted," he said, "haunted, and he Who dares at night-noon go with me To this cursed place, by phantoms trod, Must fear not devil, man, nor G.o.d."

"Tell me the story," I cried, "tell me!"

And frightened was I at my bravery.

A curious smile his thin lips curved, That well had my bravery unnerved.

And this is the story he told that day To me in the Mission old and gray-- The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

"Each midnight, since have seventy years Begun their cycle around the spheres, Two faces have looked from that window there.

One is a woman's, young and fair, With tender eyes and floating hair.

Love, and regret, and dumb despair, Are told in each tint of the fair sweet face.

The other is crowned with a courtly grace, Gazing, with all a lover's pride, On the beautiful woman by his side.

Anon! a change flits o'er his mien, And baffled rage in his glance is seen.

Paler they grow as the hours go by, With the pallor that comes with the summons to die.

Slowly fading, and shrinking away, Clutched in the grasp of a gaunt decay, Till the herald of morn on the sky is thrown; Then a shriek, a curse, and a dying moan, Comes from that death-black window there.

A mocking laugh rings out on the air, From that darkful place, in the nascent dawn, And the faces that looked from the window are gone.

Seventy years, when the Spanish flag Floated above yon beetling crag, And this dearthful mission place was rife With the panoply of busy life; Hard by, where yon canyon, deep and wide, Sweeps it adown the mountain side, A cavalier dwelt with his beautiful bride.

Oft to the priestal shrive went she; As often, stealthily, followed he.

The padre Sanson absolved and blessed The penitent, and the sin-distressed, Nor ever before won devotee So wondrous a reverence as he.

A-night, when the winds played wild and high, And the ocean rocked it to the sky, An earthquake trembled the sh.o.r.e along, Hus.h.i.+ng on lip of praise its song, And jarred to its center this Mission strong.

When the morning broke with a summer sun, The earth was at rest, the storm was done.

Still the Mission tower'd in its stately pride; Still the cottage smiled by the canyon-side; But never the priest was there to bless, And the cottage roof was tenantless.

Vainly they sought for the padre, dead, For the cottage dwellers; amazed, they said 'Twas a miracle; but since that day There's a ghost in the Mission old and gray-- The Mission Carmel of Monterey

"A sequel there is to that tale," said he, "Of the way and the truth I hold the key."

"Show me the way," I cried, "Show me To the depth of this curious mystery!"

He waved me to follow; my heart stood still Under the ban of a mightier will Than mine. A terror of icy chill O'er-s.h.i.+vered my being from hand to brain, Freezing the blood in each pulsing vein, As I followed this most mysterious guide Through the solid floor at the chancel side, Into a pa.s.sage whose stifling breath Reeked with the pestilence of death.

Down through a subterranean vault, Over broken steps with never a halt, Till we stood in the midst of a s.p.a.cious room, A charnel-house in its shroud of gloom.

Only a window, narrow and small, Left in the build of the heavy wall, Through which the flickering sunbeams died, Showed pa.s.sway to the world outside.

Slowly my eyes to the darkness grew, And I saw in the gloom, or rather knew, That my feet had touched two skeleton forms, One closely clasped in the other's arms.

Recoiling, I shuddered and turned my face From the fleshless mockery of embrace.

Again o'er a heap of rubbish and rust, I stumbled and caught in the moth and dust What hardly a sense of my soul believes-- A mold-stained package of parchment leaves!

A hideous bat flapped into my face!

O'ercome with horror, I fled the place, And stood again with my curious guide On the solid floor, at the chancel's side.

But, lo! in a moment the age-bowed seer Was a darkly frowning cavalier, Gazing no longer in woeful trance, Vengeance blazed in his every glance.

Then a mocking laugh rang the Mission o'er, And I stood alone by the chapel door; And, save for the mold-stained parchment leaves, I had thought it the vision that night-mare weaves.

Hardly a sense of my soul believes, Yet I held in my hand the parchment leaves.

Careful I noted them, one by one, Each was a letter in rhyming run, Written over and over, in tenderest strain, By fingers that never will write again.

I strung them together, a tale to tell, And named it "The Mystery of Carmel."

And these are the letters I found that day, In the mission ruin, old and gray-- The Mission Carmel of Monterey:

TO THE HOLY FATHER SANSON

Oh, holy father, list thee to my prayer!

I may not kneel to thee as others kneel, And tell my heart-aches with the suppliant's air, But fiercer burns the fire I must conceal.

My soul is groping in the mists of doubt, The sunlight and the shadows all are gone, Only a cold, gray cloud my life's about, Nor ever vision of a fairer dawn.

A father ne'er my brow in loving smoothed, Nor taught my baby tongue to lisp his name; No mother's voice my childish sorrows soothed, Nor sought my wild, imperious will to tame.

Yet ran my life, like some bright bubbling spring, Too full of thoughtless happiness to care If that the future might more gladness bring, Or might its skies be clouded or be fair.

Afar upon the purple hills of Spain-- Since waned the moons of half a year ago-- I sported, reckless as the laughing main, Nor dreamed in life a thought of grief to know.

To-day I pine here in a chain whose gall Is bitterer than drop of wormwood brought From that salt sea where nothing lives, and all The recompense my willfulness has brought.

Oh, holy father, list thee to my prayer!

And though I may not kneel as others kneel, And tell my heart-aches with a suppliant air, I crave they grace a sickened soul to heal.

Here, close beside this sacred font of gold, My humble prayer, oh, father, I will lay, With all its weight of misery untold; And wait impatient that which thou wilt say REVENITA.

TO REVENITA

When to the font, this morn, my lips I pressed, A fairy's gift my fingers trembled o'er; A sweeter prayer ne'er smile of angel blessed, Nor gemmed a tiar that the priesthood wore.