The Spinners Book of Fiction | Page 4

than in life; although as pure and sweet,

there was less of heavenly peace on those marble features than of some
impassioned human hope. Teresa excitedly whispered her unruly
thoughts to Sister María, but instead of the expected reproof the old
nun lifted her shoulders.
"Perhaps," she said. "Who knows?"
* * * * *
It was Christmas eve and all the inmates of the convent paused in their
sorrow to rejoice in the happy portent of the death and burial of one
whom they loyally believed to be no less entitled to beatification than
Catherine herself. Her miracles may not have been of the irreducible
protoplastic order, but they had been miracles to the practical
Californian mind, notwithstanding, and worthy of the attention of
consistory and Pope. Moreover, this was the season when all the
vivacity and gaiety of her youth had revived, and she made merry, not
only for the children left at the convent by their nomadic parents, but
for all the children of the town, whatever the faith of their somewhat
anxious elders.
An hour after sundown they carried the bier on which her coffin rested
into the chapel. It was a solemn procession that none, taking part, was
likely to forget, and stirred the young hearts at least with an ecstatic
desire for a life as saintly as this that hardly had needed the crown of
death.
Following the bier was the cross-bearer, holding the emblem so high it
was half lost in the shadows. Behind her were the young scholars
dressed in black, then the novices in their white robes and veils,
carrying lighted tapers to symbolize the eternal radiance that awaited
the pure in spirit. The nuns finished the procession that wound its way
slowly through the long ill-lighted corridors, chanting the litany of the
dead. From the chapel, at first almost inaudible, but waxing louder
every moment, came the same solemn monotonous chant; for the
Bishop and his assistants were already at the altar....
Teresa, from the organ loft, looked eagerly down upon the beautiful

scene, in spite of the exaltation that filled her: her artistic sense was the
one individuality she possessed. The chapel was aglow with the soft
radiance of many wax candles. They stood in high candelabra against
the somber drapery on the walls, and there were at least a hundred
about the coffin on its high catafalque before the altar; the Argüellos
were as prodigal as of old. About the catafalque was an immense
mound of roses from the garden of the convent, and palms and pampas
from the ranch of Santiago Argüello in the south. The black-robed
scholars knelt on one side of the dead, the novices on the other, the
relatives and friends behind. But art had perfected itself in the gallery
above the lower end of the chapel. This also was draped with black
which seemed to absorb, then shed forth again the mystic brilliance of
the candles; and kneeling, well apart, were the nuns in their ivory white
robes and black veils, their banded softened features as composed and
peaceful as if their own reward had come.
The Bishop and the priests read the Requiem Mass, the little organ
pealed the De Profundis as if inspired; and when the imperious
triumphant music of Handel followed, Teresa's fresh young soprano
seemed, to her excited imagination, to soar to the gates of heaven itself.
When she looked down again the lights were dim in the incense, her
senses swam in the pungent odor of spices and gum. The Bishop was
walking about the catafalque casting holy water with a brush against
the coffin above. He walked about a second time swinging the heavy
copper censer, then pronounced the Requiescat in pace, "dismissing,"
as we find inscribed in the convent records, "a tired soul out of all the
storms of life into the divine tranquillity of death."
The bier was again shouldered, the procession reformed, and marched,
still with lighted tapers and chanting softly, out into the cemetery of the
convent. It was a magnificent, clear night and as mild as spring. Below
the steep hill the little town of Benicia celebrated the eve of Christmas
with lights and noise. Beyond, the water sparkled like running silver
under the wide beams of the moon poised just above the peak of Monte
Diablo, the old volcano that towered high above this romantic and
beautiful country of water and tule lands, steep hillsides and canons,
rocky bluffs overhanging the straits. In spite of the faint discords that

rose from the town and the slow tolling of the convent bell, it was a
scene of lofty and primeval grandeur, a fit setting for the last earthly
scene of a woman whose lines had been cast in the wilderness, but yet
had found the