The Doomswoman: An Historical Romance of Old California

  IV.

  The party deserted the table for the garden, there to idle untilevening should give them the dance. All of the men and most of thewomen smoked cigaritos, the latter using the gold or silver holder,supporting it between the thumb and finger. The high walls of thegarden were covered with the delicate fragrant pink Castilian roses,and the girls plucked them and laid them in their hair.

  "Does it look well, Don Diego?" asked one girl, holding her headcoquettishly on one side.

  "It looked better on its vine," he said, absently. He was looking forChonita, who had disappeared. "Roses are like women: they lose theirsubtler fragrance when plucked; but, like women, their heads alwaysdroop invitingly."

  "I do not understand thee, Don Diego," said the girl, fixing her wideinnocent eyes on the young man's inscrutable face. "What dost thoumean?"

  "That thou art sweeter than Castilian roses," he said and passed on."And how is, thy little one?" he asked a young matron whose lithebeauty had won his admiration a year ago, but to whom maternity hadbeen too generous. She raised her soft brown eyes out of which thecoquettish sparkle had gone.

  "Beautiful! Beautiful!" she cried. "And so smart, Don Diego. He beatsthe air with his little fists, and--Holy Mary, I swear it!--he winksone eye when I tickle him."

  Estenega sauntered down the garden endeavoring to imagine Chonita fatand classified. He could not. He paused beside a woman who did notraise her eyes at once, but coquettishly pretended to be absorbed inthe conversation of those about her. She too had been married a yearand more, but her figure had not lost its elegance, and she was veryhandsome. Her coquetry was partly fear. Estenega's power was feltalike by innocent girls and chaste matrons. There were few scandals inthose days; the women of the aristocracy were virtuous by instinctand rigid social laws; but, how it would be hard to tell, Estenegahad acquired the reputation of being a dangerous man. Perhaps it hadfollowed him back from the city of Mexico, where at one time, he hadspent three years as diputado, and whence returned with a brilliantand startling record of gallantry. A woman had followed on the nextship, and, unless I am much mistaken, Diego passed many uneasyhours before he persuaded her to return to Mexico. Then old Don JoseBriones' beautiful young wife was found dead in her bed one morning,and the old women who dressed the body swore that there were marks ofhard skinny fingers on her throat. Estenega had made no secret of hisadmiration of her. At different times girls of the people had leftMonterey suddenly, and vague rumors had floated down from the Norththat they had been seen in the redwood forests where Estenega'sranchos lay. I asked him, point-blank, one day, if these stories weretrue, prepared to scold him as he deserved; and he remarked coollythat stories of that sort were always exaggerated, as well as a man'ssuccess with women. But one had only to look at that face, with itsexpression of bitter-humorous knowledge, its combination of strengthand weakness, to feel sure that there were chapters in his life thatno woman outside of them would ever read. I always felt, when withDiego Estenega, that I was in the presence of a man who had littleleft to learn of life's phases and sensations.

  "The sun will freckle thy white neck," he said to the matron who wouldnot raise her eyes.

  "Shall I bring thy mantilla, Dona Carmen?"

  She looked up with a swift blush, then lowered her soft black eyessuddenly before the penetrating gaze of the man who was so differentfrom the caballeros.

  "It is not well to be too vain, senor. We must think less of thosethings and more of--our Church."

  "True; the Church may be a surer road to heaven than a goodcomplexion, if less of a talisman on earth. Still I doubt if afreckled Virgin would have commanded the admiration of the centuries,or even of the Holy Ghost."

  "Don Diego! Don Diego!" cried a dozen horrified voices.

  "Diego Estenega, if it were any man but thou," I exclaimed, "I wouldhave thee excommunicated. Thou blasphemer! How couldst thou?"

  Diego raised my threatening hand to his lips. "My dear Eustaquia, itwas merely a way of saying that woman should be without blemish. Andis not the Virgin the model for all women?"

  "Oh," I exclaimed, impatiently, "thou canst plant an idea in people'sminds, then pluck it out before their very eyes and make them believeit never was there. That is thy power,--but not over me. I know thee."We were standing apart, and I had dropped my voice. "But come and talkto me awhile. I cannot stand those babies," and I indicated with asweep of my fan the graceful, richly-dressed caballeros whose softdrooping eyes and sensuous mouths were more promising of complimentsthan conversation. "Neither Alvarado nor Castro is here. Thou toowouldst have gone in a moment had I not captured thee."

  "On the contrary, I should have captured you. If we were not too oldfriends for flirting I should say that your handsome-ugly face is themost attractive in the garden. It is a pretty picture, though,"he went on, meditatively,--"those women in their gay soft gowns,coquetting demurely with the caballeros. Their eyes and mouths arelike flowers; and their skins are so white, and their hair so black.The high wall, covered with green and Castilian roses, was purposelydesigned by Nature for them. Sometimes I have a passing regret thatit is all doomed, and a half-century hence will have passed out ofmemory."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, sharply.

  "Oh, we will not discuss the question of the future. I sent Castroaway from the table in a towering rage, and it is too hot to exciteyou. Even the impassive Doomswoman became so angry that she could noteat her dinner."

  "It is your old wish for American occupation--the bandoleros! No; Iwill not discuss it with you: I have gone to bed with my head burstingwhen we have talked of it before. You might have spared poor Jose. Butlet us talk of something else--Chonita. What do you think of her?"

  "A thousand things more than one usually thinks of a woman after thefirst interview."

  "But do you think her beautiful?"

  "She is better than beautiful. She is original."

  "I often wonder if she would be La Favorita of the South if it werenot for her father's great wealth and position. The men who profess tobe her slaves must have absorbed the knowledge that she has thebrains they have not, although she conceals her superiority from themadmirably: her pride and love of power demand that she shall be LaFavorita, although her caballeros must weary her. If she made themfeel their insignificance for a moment they would fly to the standardof her rival, Valencia Menendez, and her regalities would be goneforever. A few men have gone honestly wild over her, but I doubt ifany one has ever really loved her. Such women receive a surfeit ofadmiration, but little love. If she were an unintellectual woman shewould have an extraordinary power over men, with her beauty and hersubtle charm; but now she is isolated. What a pity that your housesare at war!"

  He had been looking away from me. As I finished speaking he turnedhis face slowly toward me, first the profile, which looked as if cutrapidly with a sharp knife out of ivory, then the full face, with itseyes set so deeply under the scraggy brows, its mouth grimly humorous.He looked somewhat sardonic and decidedly selfish. Well I knew whatthat expression meant. He had the kindest heart I had ever known, butit never interfered with a most self-indulgent nature. Many times Ihad begged him to be considerate of some girl who I knew charmed himfor the moment only; but one secret of his success with women was hisunfeigned if brief enthusiasm.

  "Let her alone!" I exclaimed. "You cannot marry her. She would go intoa convent before she would sacrifice the traditions of her house. Andif you were not at war, and she married you, you would only make hermiserably happy."

  He merely smiled and continued to look me straight in the eyes.