THE CONQUEST OF DONA JACOBA
I
A forest of willows cut by a forking creek, and held apart here andthere by fields of yellow mustard blossoms fluttering in their palegreen nests, or meadows carpeted with the tiny white and yellow flowersof early summer. Wide patches of blue where the willows ended, andimmense banks of daisies bordering fields of golden grain, bending andshimmering in the wind with the deep even sweep of rising tide. Then thelake, long, irregular, half choked with tules, closed by a marsh. Thevalley framed by mountains of purplish gray, dull brown, with patches ofvivid green and yellow; a solitary gray peak, barren and rocky, insharp contrast to the rich Californian hills; on one side fawn-colouredslopes, and slopes with groves of crouching oaks in their hollows;opposite and beyond the cold peak, a golden hill rising to a mount ofearthy green; still lower, another peak, red and green, mulberry andmould; between and afar, closing the valley, a line of pink-brownmountains splashed with blue.
Such was a fragment of Don Roberto Duncan's vast rancho, Los Quervos,and on a plateau above the willows stood the adobe house, white andred-tiled, shaped like a solid letter H. On the deep veranda, sunkenbetween the short forearms of the H, Dona Jacoba could stand and issuecommands in her harsh imperious voice to the Indians in the rancheriaamong the willows, whilst the long sala behind overflowed with the gaycompany her famous hospitality had summoned, the bare floor and uglyvelvet furniture swept out of thought by beautiful faces and floweredsilken gowns.
Behind the sala was an open court, the grass growing close to the greatstone fountain. On either side was a long line of rooms, and above thesala was a library opening into the sleeping room of Dona Jacoba on oneside, and into that of Elena, her youngest and loveliest daughter, onthe other. Beyond the house were a dozen or more buildings: the kitchen;a room in which steers and bullocks, sheep and pigs, were hanging;a storehouse containing provisions enough for a hotel; and themanufactories of the Indians. Somewhat apart was a large building witha billiard-room in its upper story and sleeping rooms below. From herwindow Elena could look down upon the high-walled corral with itsprancing horses always in readiness for the pleasure-loving guests, andupon the broad road curving through the willows and down the valley.
The great house almost shook with life on this brilliant day of themonth of June, 1852. Don Roberto Duncan, into whose shrewd Scotch handsCalifornia had poured her wealth for forty years, had long ago takento himself a wife of Castilian blood; to-morrow their eldest remainingdaughter was to be married to a young Englishman, whose father had beena merchant in California when San Francisco was Yerba Buena. Not a roomwas vacant in the house. Young people had come from Monterey and SanFrancisco, Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. Beds had been put up in thelibrary and billiard-room, in the store-rooms and attics. The corral wasfull of strange horses, and the huts in the willows had their humblerguests.
Francisca sat in her room surrounded by a dozen chattering girls. Thefloor beneath the feet of the Californian heiress was bare, and theheavy furniture was of uncarved mahogany. But a satin quilt covered thebed, lavish Spanish needlework draped chest and tables, and throughthe open window came the June sunshine and the sound of the splashingfountain.
Francisca was putting the last stitches in her wedding-gown, and thegirls were helping, advising, and commenting.
"Art thou not frightened, Panchita," demanded one of the girls, "to goaway and live with a strange man? Just think, thou hast seen him but tentimes."
"What of that?" asked Francisca, serenely, holding the rich corded silkat arm's length, and half closing her eyes as she readjusted the deepflounce of Spanish lace. "Remember, we shall ride and dance and playgames together for a week with all of you, dear friends, before I goaway with him. I shall know him quite well by that time. And did not myfather know him when he was a little boy? Surely, he cannot be a cruelman, or my father would not have chosen him for my husband."
"I like the Americans and the Germans and the Russians," said the girlwho had spoken, "particularly the Americans. But these English are sostern, so harsh sometimes."
"What of that?" asked Francisca again. "Am I not used to my father?"
She was a singular-looking girl, this compound of Scotch and Spanish.Her face was cast in her father's hard mould, and her frame was largeand sturdy, but she had the black luxuriant hair of Spain, and muchgrace of gesture and expression.
"I would not marry an Englishman," said a soft voice.
Francisca raised her eyebrows and glanced coldly at the speaker, a girlof perfect loveliness, who sat behind a table, her chin resting on herclasped hands.
"Thou wouldst marry whom our father told thee to marry, Elena," said hersister, severely. "What hast thou to say about it?"
"I will marry a Spaniard," said Elena, rebelliously. "A Spaniard, and noother."
"Thou wilt do what?" asked a cold voice from the door. The girls gave alittle scream. Elena turned pale, even Francisca's hands twitched.
Dona Jacoba was an impressive figure as she stood in the doorway; a tallunbowed woman with a large face and powerful penetrating eyes. A thinmouth covering white teeth separated the prominent nose and square chin.A braid of thick black hair lay over her fine bust, and a black silkhandkerchief made a turban for her lofty head. She wore a skirt of heavyblack silk and a shawl of Chinese crepe, one end thrown gracefully overher shoulder.
"What didst thou say?" she demanded again, a sneer on her lips.
Elena made no answer. She stared through the window at the servantslaying the table in the dining room on the other side of the court, herbreath shortening as if the room had been exhausted of air.
"Let me hear no more of that nonsense," continued her mother. "A strangeremark, truly, to come from the lips of a Californian! Thy father hassaid that his daughters shall marry men of his race--men who belong tothat island of the North; and I have agreed, and thy sisters are wellmarried. No women are more virtuous, more industrious, more religious,than ours; but our men--our young men--are a set of drinking gamblingvagabonds. Go to thy room and pray there until supper."
Elena ran out of an opposite door, and Dona Jacoba sat down on ahigh-backed chair and held out her hand for the wedding-gown. Sheexamined it, then smiled brilliantly.
"The lace is beautiful," she said. "There is no richer in California,and I have seen Dona Trinidad Iturbi y Moncada's and Dona ModesteCastro's. Let me see thy mantilla once more."
Francisca opened a chest nearly as large as her bed, and shook out along square of superb Spanish lace. It had arrived from the city ofMexico but a few days before. The girls clapped their admiring hands, asif they had not looked at it twenty times, and Dona Jacoba smoothed ittenderly with her strong hands. Then she went over to the chest andlifted the beautiful silk and crepe gowns, one by one, her sharp eyesdetecting no flaw. She opened another chest and examined the piles ofunderclothing and bed linen, all of finest woof, and deeply borderedwith the drawn work of Spain.
"All is well," she said, returning to her chair. "I see nothing more tobe done. Thy brother will bring the emeralds, and the English plate willcome before the week is over."
"Is it sure that Santiago will come in time for the wedding?" askeda half-English granddaughter, whose voice broke suddenly at her owntemerity.
But Dona Jacoba was in a gracious mood.
"Surely. Has not Don Roberto gone to meet him? He will be here at fourto-day."
"How glad I shall be to see him!" said Francisca. "Just think, myfriends, I have not seen him for seven years. Not since he was elevenyears old. He has been on that cold dreadful island in the North allthis time. I wonder has he changed!"
"Why should he change?" asked Dona Jacoba. "Is he not a Cortez and aDuncan? Is he not a Californian and a Catholic? Can a few years in anEnglish school make him of another race? He is seven years older, thatis all."
"True," assented Francisca, threading her needle; "of course he couldnot change."
Dona Jacoba opened a large fan and wielded it with slow curves
of herstrong wrist. She had never been cold in her life, and even a June dayoppressed her.
"We have another guest," she said in a moment--"a young man, Don DarioCastanares of Los Robles Rancho. He comes to buy cattle of my husband,and must remain with us until the bargain is over."
Several of the girls raised their large black eyes with interest. "DonDario Castanares," said one; "I have heard of him. He is very rich andvery handsome, they say."
"Yes," said Dona Jacoba, indifferently. "He is not ugly, but much toodark. His mother was an Indian. He is no husband, with all his leagues,for any Californian of pure Castilian blood."
II
Elena had gone up to her room, and would have locked the door had shepossessed a key. As it was, she indulged in a burst of tears at theprospect of marrying an Englishman, then consoled herself with thethought that her best-beloved brother would be with her in a few hours.
She bathed her face and wound the long black coils about her shapelyhead. The flush faded out of her white cheeks, and her eyelids were lessheavy. But the sadness did not leave her eyes nor the delicate curves ofher mouth. She had the face of the Madonna, stamped with the heritage ofsuffering; a nature so keenly capable of joy and pain that she drew bothlike a magnet, and would so long as life stayed in her.
She curled herself in the window-seat, looking down the road for thegray cloud of dust that would herald her brother. But only black flocksof crows mounted screaming from the willows, to dive and rise again.Suddenly she became conscious that she was watched, and her gaze sweptdownward to the corral. A stranger stood by the gates, giving orders toa vaquero but looking hard at her from beneath his low-dropped sombrero.
He was tall, this stranger, and very slight. His face was nearly as darkas an Indian's, but set with features so perfect that no one but DonaJacoba had ever found fault with his skin. Below his dreaming ardenteyes was a straight delicate nose; the sensuous mouth was half partedover glistening teeth and but lightly shaded by a silken mustache. Abouthis graceful figure hung a dark red serape embroidered and fringedwith gold, and his red velvet trousers were laced, and his yellowriding-boots gartered, with silver.
Elena rose quickly and pulled the curtain across the window; the bloodhad flown to her hair, and a smile chased the sadness from her mouth.Then she raised her hands and pressed the palms against the slope of theceiling, her dark upturned eyes full of terror. For many moments shestood so, hardly conscious of what she was doing, seeing only theimplacable eyes of her mother. Then down the road came the loud regularhoof-falls of galloping horses, and with an eager cry she flung asidethe curtain, forgetting the stranger.
Down the road, half hidden by the willows, came two men. When theyreached the rancheria, Elena saw the faces: a sandy-haired hard-facedold Scotsman, with cold blue eyes beneath shaggy red brows, and a darkslim lad, every inch a Californian. Elena waved her handkerchief and thelad his hat. Then the girl ran down the stairs and over to the willows.Santiago sprang from his horse, and the brother and sister clungtogether kissing and crying, hugging each other until her hair fell downand his hat was in the dust.
"Thou hast come!" cried Elena at last, holding him at arm's lengththat she might see him better, then clinging to him again with all herstrength. "Thou never wilt leave me again--promise me! Promise me, mySantiago! Ay, I have been so lonely."
"Never, my little one. Have I not longed to come home that I might bewith you? O my Elena! I know so much. I will teach you everything."
"Ay, I am proud of thee, my Santiago! Thou knowest more than any boy inCalifornia--I know."
"Perhaps that would not be much," with fine scorn. "But come, Elena mia,I must go to my mother; she is waiting. She looks as stern as ever; buthow I have longed to see her!"
They ran to the house, passing the stranger, who had watched them withfolded arms and scowling brows. Santiago rushed impetuously at hismother; but she put out her arm, stiff and straight, and held him back.Then she laid her hand, with its vice-like grip, on his shoulder, andled him down the sala to the chapel at the end. It was arranged for thewedding, with all the pomp of velvet altar-cloth and golden candelabra.He looked at it wonderingly. Why had she brought him to look upon thisbefore giving him a mother's greeting?
"Kneel down," she said, "and repeat the prayers of thy Church--prayersof gratitude for thy safe return."
The boy folded his hands deprecatingly.
"But, mother, remember it is seven long years since I have said theCatholic prayers. Remember I have been educated in an English college,in a Protestant country."
Her tall form curved slowly toward him, the blood blazed in her darkcheeks.
"What!" she screamed incredulously. "Thou hast forgotten the prayers ofthy Church--the prayers thou learned at my knee?"
"Yes, mother, I have," he said desperately. "I cannot--"
"God! God! Mother of God! My son says this to me!" She caught him by theshoulder again and almost hurled him from the room. Then she locked herhand about his arm and dragged him down the sala to his father's room.She took a greenhide reata from the table and brought it down upon hisback with long sweeps of her powerful arm, but not another word camefrom her rigid lips. The boy quivered with the shame and pain, but madeno resistance--for he was a Californian, and she was his mother.
III
Joaquin, the eldest son, who had been hunting bear with a number of hisguests, returned shortly after his brother's arrival and was met at thedoor by his mother.
"Where is Santiago?" he asked. "I hear he has come."
"Santiago has been sent to bed, where he will remain for the present. Wehave an unexpected guest, Joaquin. He leans there against the tree--DonDario Castanares. Thou knowest who he is. He comes to buy cattle of thyfather, and will remain some days. Thou must share thy room with him,for there is no other place--even on the billiard-table."
Joaquin liked the privacy of his room, but he had all the hospitality ofhis race. He went at once to the stranger, walking a little heavily,for he was no longer young and slender, but with a cordial smile on hisshrewd warmly coloured face.
"The house is at your service, Don Dario," he said, shaking thenewcomer's hand. "We are honoured that you come in time for my sister'swedding. It distresses me that I cannot offer you the best room in thehouse, but, Dios! we have a company here. I have only the half of mypoor bed to offer you, but if you will deign to accept that--"
"I am miserable, wretched, to put you to such inconvenience--"
"Never think of such a thing, my friend. Nothing could give me greaterhappiness than to try to make you comfortable in my poor room. Will youcome now and take a siesta before supper?"
Dario followed him to the house, protesting at every step, and Joaquinthrew open the door of one of the porch rooms.
"At your service, senor--everything at your service."
He went to one corner of the room and kicked aside a pile of saddles,displaying a small hillock of gold in ten-and fifty-dollar slugs. "Youwill find about thirty thousand dollars there. We sold some cattle adays ago. I beg that you will help yourself. It is all at your service.I will now go and send you some aguardiente, for you must be thirsty."And he went out and left his guest alone.
Dario threw himself face downward on the bed. He was in love, and thelady had kissed another man as if she had no love to spare. True, it wasbut her brother she had kissed, but would she have eyes for any one elseduring a stranger's brief visit? And how, in this crowded house, couldhe speak a word with her alone? And that terrible dragon of a mother!He sprang to his feet as an Indian servant entered with a glass ofaguardiente. When he had burnt his throat, he felt better. "I will stayuntil I have won her, if I remain a month," he vowed. "It will be sometime before Don Roberto will care to talk business."
But Don Roberto was never too occupied to talk business. After he hadtaken his bath and siesta, he sent a servant to request Don DarioCastanares to come up to the library, where he spent most of his time,received all his visitors, reprimanded his children, and
took hisafter-dinner naps. It was a luxurious room for the Californian of thatday. A thick red English carpet covered the floor; one side of the roomwas concealed by a crowded bookcase, and the heavy mahogany furniturewas handsomely carved, although upholstered with horse-hair.
In an hour every detail of the transaction had been disposed of, andDario had traded a small rancho for a herd of cattle. The young man'sface was very long when the last detail had been arranged, but he hadforgotten that his host was as Californian as himself. Don Robertopoured him a brimming glass of angelica and gave him a hearty slap onthe back.
"The cattle will keep for a few days, Don Dario," he said, "and youshall not leave this house until the festivities are over. Not untila week from to-morrow--do you hear? I knew your father. We had many atransaction together, and I take pleasure in welcoming his son under myroof. Now get off to the young people, and do not make any excuses."
Dario made none.
IV
The next morning at eight, Francisca stood before the altar in thechapel, looking very handsome in her rich gown and soft mantilla. Thebridegroom, a sensible-looking young Englishman, was somewhat nervous,but Francisca might have been married every morning at eight o'clock.Behind them stood Don Roberto in a new suit of English broadcloth, andDona Jacoba in heavy lilac silk, half covered with priceless lace. Thesix bridesmaids looked like a huge bouquet, in their wide delicatelycoloured skirts. Their dark eyes, mischievous, curious, thoughtful,flashed more brilliantly than the jewels they wore.
The sala and Don Roberto's room beyond were so crowded that some of theguests stood in the windows, and many could not enter the doors; everyfamily within a hundred leagues had come to the wedding. The veranda wascrowded with girls, the sparkling faces draped in black mantillas orbright rebosos, the full gay gowns fluttering in the breeze. Men injingling spurs and all the bravery of gold-laced trousers and shortembroidered jackets respectfully elbowed their way past brown and stoutold women that they might whisper a word into some pretty alert littleear. They had all ridden many leagues that morning, but there was nota trace of fatigue on any face. The court behind the sala was full ofIndian servants striving to catch a glimpse of the ceremony.
Dario stood just within the front door, his eyes eagerly fixed uponElena. She looked like a California lily in her white gown; even herhead drooped a little as if a storm had passed. Her eyes were absent andheavy; they mirrored nothing of the solemn gayety of the morning; theysaw only the welts on her brother's back.
Dario had not seen her since Santiago's arrival. She had not appeared atsupper, and he had slept little in consequence; in fact, he had spentmost of the night playing _monte_ with Joaquin and a dozen other youngmen in the billiard-room.
During the bridal mass the padre gave communion to the young couple, andto those that had made confession the night before. Elena was not of thenumber, and during the intense silence she drew back and stood and kneltnear Dario. They were not close enough to speak, had they dared; but theCalifornian had other speech than words, and Dario and Elena made theirconfession that morning.
During breakfast they were at opposite ends of the long table in thedining room, but neither took part in the songs and speeches, the toastsand laughter. Both had done some manoeuvring to get out of sight of theold people, and sit at one of the many other tables in the sala, on thecorridor, in the court; but Elena had to go with the bridesmaids, andJoaquin insisted upon doing honour to the uninvited guest. The Indianservants passed the rich and delicate, the plain and peppered, dishes,the wines and the beautiful cakes for which Dona Jacoba and herdaughters were famous. The massive plate that had done duty forgenerations in Spain was on the table; the crystal had been cut inEngland. It was the banquet of a grandee, and no one noticed the silentlovers.
After breakfast the girls flitted to their rooms and changed theirgowns, and wound rebosos or mantillas about their heads; the men put offtheir jackets for lighter ones of flowered calico, and the whole party,in buggies or on horseback, started for a bull-fight which was to takeplace in a field about a mile behind the house. Elena went in a buggywith Santiago, who was almost as pale as she. Dario, on horseback, rodeas near her as he dared; but when they reached the fence about the fieldcareless riders crowded between, and he could only watch her from afar.
The vaqueros in their broad black hats shining with varnish, their blackvelvet jackets, their crimson sashes, and short, black velvet trouserslaced with silver cord over spotless linen, looked very picturesque asthey dashed about the field jingling their spurs and shouting at eachother. When the bulls trotted in and greeted each other pleasantly,the vaqueros swung their hissing reatas and yelled until the maddenedanimals wreaked their vengeance on each other, and the serious work ofthe day began.
Elena leaned back with her fan before her eyes, but Santiago looked oneagerly in spite of his English training.
"Caramba!" he cried, "but that old bull is tough. Look, Elena! Thelittle one is down. No, no! He has the big one. Ay! yi, yi! By Jove! heis gone--no, he has run off--he is on him again! He has ripped him up!Brava! brava!"
A cheer as from one throat made the mountains echo, but Elena still heldher fan before the field.
"How canst thou like such bloody sport?" she asked disgustedly. "Thepoor animals! What pleasure canst thou take to see a fine brute kickingin his death-agony, his bowels trailing on the ground?"
"Fie, Elena! Art thou not a Californian? Dost thou not love the sport ofthy country? Why, look at the other girls! They are mad with excitement.By Jove! I never saw so many bright eyes. I wonder if I shall be toostiff to dance to-night. Elena, she gave me a beating! But tell me,little one, why dost thou not like the bull-fight? I feel like anotherman since I have seen it."
"I cannot be pleased with cruelty. I shall never get used to see beastskilled for amusement. And Don Dario Castanares does not like it either.He never smiled once, nor said 'Brava!'"
"Aha! And how dost thou know whether he did or not? I thought thy facewas behind that big black fan."
"I saw him through the sticks. What does 'By Jove' mean, my Santiago?"
He enlightened her, then stood up eagerly. Another bull had been broughtin, and one of the vaqueros was to fight him. During the next two hoursSantiago gave little thought to his sister, and sometimes her longblack lashes swept above the top of her fan. When five or six bulls hadstamped and roared and gored and died, the guests of Los Quervos wenthome to chocolate and siesta, the others returned to their variousranchos.
But Dario took no nap that day. Twice he had seen an Indian girl atElena's window, and as the house settled down to temporary calm, he sawthe girl go to the rancheria among the willows. He wrote a note, andfollowed her as soon as he dared. She wore a calico frock, exactly likea hundred others, and her stiff black hair cut close to her neck in thestyle enforced by Dona Jacoba; but Dario recognized her imitation ofElena's walk and carriage. He was very nervous, but he managed to strollabout and make his visit appear one of curiosity. As he passed the girlhe told her to follow him, and in a few moments they were alone ina thicket. He had hard work to persuade her to take the note to hermistress, for she stood in abject awe of Dona Jacoba; but love of Elenaand sympathy for the handsome stranger prevailed, and the girl went offwith the missive.
The staircase led from Don Roberto's room to Dona Jacoba's; but thelady's all-seeing eyes were closed, and the master was snoring in hislibrary. Malia tiptoed by both, and Elena, who had been half asleep, satup, trembling with excitement, and read the impassioned request for aninterview. She lifted her head and listened, panting a little. Thenshe ran to the door and looked into the library. Her father was soundasleep; there could he no doubt of that. She dared not write an answer,but she closed the door and put her lips to the girl's ear.
"Tell him," she murmured, horrified at her own boldness--"tell him totake me out for the contradanza tonight. There is no other chance." Andthe girl went back and delivered the message.
V
The guests and family
met again at supper; but yards of linen and moundsof plate, spirited, quickly turning heads, flowered muslin gowns andsilken jackets, again separated Dario and Elena. He caught a glimpse nowand again of her graceful head turning on its white throat, or of hersad pure profile shining before her mother's stern old face.
Immediately after supper the bride and groom led the way to the sala,the musicians tuned their violins and guitars, and after an hour'sexcited comment upon the events of the day the dancing began. DonaJacoba could be very gracious when she chose, and she moved among herguests like a queen to-night, begging them to be happy, and electrifyingthem with her brilliant smile. She dispelled their awe of her withmagical tact, and when she laid her hand on one young beauty's shoulder,and told her that her eyes put out the poor candles of Los Quervos, thegirl was ready to fling herself on the floor and kiss the tyrant's feet.Elena watched her anxiously. Her father petted her in his harsh abruptway. If she had ever received a kiss from her mother, she did notremember it; but she worshipped the blinding personality of the woman,although she shook before the relentless will. But that her mother waspleased to be gracious tonight was beyond question, and she gave Dario aglance of timid encouragement, which brought him to her side at once.
"At your feet, senorita," he said; "may I dare to beg the honour of thecontradanza?"
She bent her slender body in a pretty courtesy. "It is a small favour togrant a guest who deigns to honour us with his presence."
He led her out, and when he was not gazing enraptured at the gracefulswaying and gliding of her body, he managed to make a few conventionalremarks.
"You did not like bull-fighting, senorita?"
"He watched me," she thought. "No, senor. I like nothing that is cruel."
"Those soft eyes could never be cruel. Ay, you are so beautiful,senorita."
"I am but a little country girl, senor. You must have seen far morebeautiful women in the cities. Have you ever been in Monterey?"
"Yes, senorita, many times. I have seen all the beauties, even DonaModeste Castro. Once, too--that was before the Americans came--I saw theSenorita Ysabel Herrera, a woman so beautiful that a man robbed a churchand murdered a priest for her sake. But she was not so beautiful as you,senorita."
The blood throbbed in the girl's fair cheeks. "He must love me," shetold herself, "to think me more beautiful than Ysabel Herrera. Joaquinsays she was the handsomest woman that ever was seen."
"You compliment me, senor," she answered vaguely. "She had wonderfulgreen eyes. So has the Senora Castro. Mine are only brown, like so manyother girls'."
"They are the most beautiful eyes in California. They are like theMadonna's. I do not care for green eyes." His black ones flashed theirlanguage to hers, and Elena wondered if she had ever been unhappy. Shebarely remembered where she was, forgot that she was a helpless bird ina golden cage. Her mate had flown through the open door.
The contradanza ends with a waltz, and as Dario held her in his arms hislast remnant of prudence gave way.
"Elena, Elena," he murmured passionately, "I love thee. Dost thou notknow it? Dost thou not love me a little? Ay, Elena! I have not slept onehour since I saw thee."
She raised her eyes to his face. The sadness still dwelt in theirdepths, but above floated the soft flame of love and trust. She had nocoquetry in her straightforward and simple nature.
"Yes," she whispered, "I love thee."
"And thou art happy, querida mia? Thou art happy here in my arms?"
She let her cheek rest for a moment against his shoulder. "Yes, I amvery happy."
"And thou wilt marry me?"
The words brought her back to reality, and the light left her face.
"Ay," she said, "why did you say that? It cannot ever be."
"But it shall be! Why not? I will speak with Don Roberto in themorning."
The hand that lay on his shoulder clutched him suddenly. "No, no," shesaid hurriedly; "promise me that you will not speak to him for two orthree days at least. My father wants us all to marry Englishmen. He iskind, and he loves me, but he is mad for Englishmen. And we can be happymeanwhile."
The music stopped, and he could only murmur his promises before leadingher back to her mother.
He dared not take her out again, but he danced with no one else in spiteof many inviting eyes, and spent the rest of the night on the corridor,where he could watch her unobserved. The walls were so thick at LosQuervos that each window had a deep seat within and without. Darioensconced himself, and was comfortable, if tumultuous.
VI
With dawn the dancing ended, and quiet fell upon Los Quervos. But attwelve gay voices and laughter came through every window. The family andguests were taking their cold bath, ready for another eighteen hours ofpleasure.
Shortly after the long dinner, the iron-barred gates of the corral werethrown open and a band of horses, golden bronze in colour, with silvernmane and tail, silken embroidered saddles on their slender backs,trotted up to the door. The beautiful creatures shone in the sun likeburnished armour; they arched their haughty necks and lifted their smallfeet as if they were Californian beauties about to dance El Son.
The girls wore short riding-skirts, gay sashes, and little roundhats. The men wore thin jackets of brightly coloured silk, gold-lacedknee-breeches, and silver spurs. They tossed the girls upon theirsaddles, vaulted into their own, and all started on a wild gallop forthe races.
Dario, with much manoeuvring, managed to ride by Elena's side. It wasimpossible to exchange a word with her, for keen and mischievous earswere about them; but they were close together, and a kind of ecstasypossessed them both. The sunshine was so golden, the quivering visibleair so full of soft intoxication! They were filled with a recklessanimal joy of living--the divine right of youth to exist and be happy.The bars of Elena's cage sank into the warm resounding earth; she wantedto cry aloud her joy to the birds, to hold and kiss the air as itpassed. Her face sparkled, her mouth grew full. She looked at Dario, andhe dug his spurs into his horse's flanks.
The representatives of many ranchos, their wives and daughters, awaitedthe party from Los Quervos. But none pushed his way between Dario andElena that day. And they both enjoyed the races; they were in a mood toenjoy anything. They became excited and shouted with the rest as thevaqueros flew down the field. Dario bet and lost a ranchita, then betand won another. He won a herd of cattle, a band of horses, a saddle-bagof golden slugs. Surely, fortune smiled on him from the eyes of Elena.When the races were over they galloped down to the ocean and over thecliffs and sands, watching the ponderous waves fling themselves on therocks, then retreat and rear their crests, to thunder on again.
"The fog!" cried some one. "The fog!" And with shrieks of mock terrorthey turned their horses' heads and raced down the valley, the fog afterthem like a phantom tidal wave; but they outstripped it, and sprang fromtheir horses at the corridor of Los Quervos with shouts of triumph andlightly blown kisses to the enemy.
After supper they found eggs piled upon silver dishes in the sala, andwith cries of "Cascaron! Cascaron!" they flung them at each other, thecologne and flour and tinsel with which the shells were filled delugingand decorating them.
Dona Jacoba again was in a most gracious mood, and leaned against thewall, an amused smile on her strong serene face. Her husband stood byher, and she indicated Elena by a motion of her fan.
"Is she not beautiful to-night, our little one?" she asked proudly."See how pink her cheeks are! Her eyes shine like stars. She is thehandsomest of all our children, viejo."
"Yes," he said, something like tenderness in his cold blue eyes, "thereis no prettier girl on twenty ranchos. She shall marry the finestEnglishman of them all."
Elena threw a cascaron directly into Dario's mouth, and although thecologne scalded his throat, he heroically swallowed it, and revengedhimself by covering her black locks with flour. The guests, like thechildren they were, chased each other all over the house, up and downthe stairs; the men hid under tables, only to have a sly hand break
acascaron on the back of their heads, and to receive a deluge down thespinal column. The bride chased her dignified groom out into the yard,and a dozen followed. Then Dario found his chance.
Elena was after him, and as they passed beneath a tree he turned like aflash and caught her in his arms and kissed her. For a second she triedto free herself, mindful that her sisters had not kissed their loversuntil they stood with them in the chapel; but she was made for love, andin a moment her white arms were clinging about his neck. People wereshouting around them; there was time for but few of the words Dariowished to say.
"Thou must write me a little note every day," he commanded. "Thybrother's coat, one that he does not wear, hangs behind the door in myroom. To-morrow morning thou wilt find a letter from me in the pocket.Let me find one there, too. Kiss me again, consuelo de mi alma!" andthey separated suddenly, to speak no more that night.
VII
The next morning, when Elena went to Joaquin's room to make the bed,she found Dario's note in the pocket of the coat, but she had had noopportunity to write one herself. Nor did she have time to read hisuntil after dinner, although it burned her neck and took away herappetite. When the meal was over, she ran down to the willows and readit there, then went straight to the favourite lounging-place of an oldvaquero who had adored her from the days when she used to trot about therancho holding his forefinger, or perch herself upon his shoulder andcommand him to gallop.
He was smoking his pipe, and he looked up in some wonder as she stoodbefore him, flushed and panting, her eyes-darting apprehensive glances.
"Pedro," she said imperiously, "get down on thy hands and knees."
Pedro was the colour of tanned leather and very hairy, but his facebeamed with good-nature. He put his pipe between his teeth and did ashe was bidden. Elena produced the pencil and paper she had managedto purloin from her father's table, and kneeling beside her faithfulvaquero, wrote a note on his back. It took her a long time to coin thatsimple epistle, for she never had written a love-letter before. ButPedro knelt like a rock, although his old knees ached. When the note wasfinished she thrust it into her gown, and patted Pedro on the head.
"I love thee, my old man. I will make thee a new salve for thyrheumatism, and a big cake."
As she approached the house her mother stood on the corridor watchingthe young people mount, and Elena shivered as she met a fiery andwatchful eye. Yesterday had been a perfect day, but the chill of feartouched this. She sprang on her horse and went with the rest to thegames. Her brother Joaquin kept persistently by her side, and Dariothought it best not to approach her. She took little interest in thegames. The young men climbed the greased pole amidst soft derisivelaughter. The greased pig was captured by his tail in a tumult ofexcitement, which rivalled the death of the bull, but Elena paid noattention. It was not until Dario, restive with inaction, entered thelists for the buried rooster, and by its head twisted it from the groundas his horse flew by, that she was roused to interest; and as many hadfailed, and as his was the signal victory of the day, he rode homesomewhat consoled.
That night, as Dario and Elena danced the contradanza together, theyfelt the eyes of Dona Jacoba upon them, but he dared to whisper:--
"To-morrow morning I speak with thy father. Our wedding-day must be setbefore another sun goes down."
"No, no!" gasped Elena; but for once Dario would not listen.
VIII
As soon as Elena had left his room next morning, Dario returned and readthe note she had put in her brother's pocket. It gave him courage, hisdreamy eyes flashed, his sensitive mouth curved proudly. As soon asdinner was over he followed Don Roberto up to the library. The old manstretched himself out in the long brass and leather chair which had beenimported from England for his comfort, and did not look overjoyed whenhis guest begged a few moments' indulgence.
"I am half asleep," he said. "Is it about those cattle? Joaquin knows asmuch about them as I do."
Dario had not been asked to sit down, and he stood before Don Robertofeeling a little nervous, and pressing his hand against the mantelpiece.
"I do not wish to speak of cattle, senor."
"No? What then?" The old man's face was flushed with wine, and hisshaggy brows were drooping heavily.
"It is--it is about Elena."
The brows lifted a little.
"Elena?"
"Yes, senor. We love each other very much. I wish to ask your permissionthat we may be married."
The brows went up with a rush; the stiff hairs stood out like a roofabove the cold angry eyes. For a moment Don Roberto stared at thespeaker as if he had not heard; then he sprang to his feet, his red facepurple.
"Get out of my house, you damned vagabond!" he shouted. "Go as fast asGod Almighty'll let you. You marry my daughter,--you damned Indian! Iwouldn't give her to you if you were pure-blooded Castilian, much lessto a half-breed whelp. And you have dared to make love to her. Go! Doyou hear? Or I'll kick you down the stairs!"
Dario drew himself up and looked back at his furious host with a pridethat matched his own. The blood was smarting in his veins, but he madeno sign and walked down the stair.
Don Roberto went at once in search of his wife. Failing to find her, hewalked straight into the sala, and taking Elena by the arm before theassembled guests, marched her upstairs and into her room, and locked thedoor with his key.
Elena fell upon the floor and sobbed with rebellious mortification andterror. Her father had not uttered a word, but she knew the meaning ofhis summary act, and other feelings soon gave way to despair. That sheshould never see Dario Castanares again was certain, and she wept andprayed with all the abandon of her Spanish nature. A picture of theVirgin hung over the bed, and she raised herself on her knees and liftedher clasped hands to it beseechingly. With her tumbled hair and whiteface, her streaming upturned eyes and drawn mouth, she looked more likethe Mater Dolorosa than the expressionless print she prayed to.
"Mary! Mother!" she whispered, "have mercy on thy poor little daughter.Give him to me. I ask for nothing else in this world. I do not care forgold or ranchos, only to be his wife. I am so lonely, my mother, foreven Santiago thinks of so many other things than of me. I only want tobe loved, and no one else will ever love me who can make me love him.Ay! give him to me! give him to me!" And she threw herself on her faceonce more, and sobbed until her tears were exhausted. Then she draggedherself to the window and leaned over the deep seat. Perhaps she mighthave one glimpse of him as he rode away.
She gave a little cry of agony and pleasure. He was standing by thegates of the corral whilst the vaqueros rounded up the cattle he hadbought. His arms were folded, his head hung forward. As he heard hercry, he lifted his face, and Elena saw the tears in his eyes. For themoment they gazed at each other, those lovers of California's long-ago,while the very atmosphere quivering between them seemed a palpablebarrier. Elena flung out her arms with a sudden passionate gesture; hegave a hoarse cry, and paced up and down like a race-horse curbed with aSpanish bit. How to have one last word with her? If she were behind thewalls of the fort of Monterey it would be as easy. He dared not speakfrom where he was. Already the horses were at the door to carry theeager company to a fight between a bull and a bear. But he could write anote if only he had the materials. It was useless to return to his room,for Joaquin was there; and he hoped never to see that library again. Butwas there ever a lover in whom necessity did not develop the genius ofinvention? Dario flashed upward a glance of hope, then took from hispocket a slip of the rice-paper used for making cigaritos. He burnt amatch, and with the charred stump scrawled a few lines.
"Elena! Mine! Star of my life! My sweet! Beautiful and idolized.Farewell! Farewell, my darling! My heart is sad. God be with thee.
"DARIO."
He wrapped the paper about a stone, and tied it with a wisp of grass.With a sudden flexile turn of a wrist that had thrown many a reata, heflung it straight through the open window. Elena read the meaninglessphrases, then fell insensible to the floor.
&
nbsp; IX
It was the custom of Dona Jacoba personally to oversee her entireestablishment every day, and she always went at a different hour, thatlaziness might never feel sure of her back. To-day she visited therancheria immediately after dinner, and looked through every hut withher piercing eyes. If the children were dirty, she peremptorily orderedtheir stout mammas to put them into the clean clothes which her bountyhad provided. If a bed was unmade, she boxed the ears of the owner andsent her spinning across the room to her task. But she found little toscold about; her discipline was too rigid. When she was satisfied thatthe huts were in order, she went down to the great stone tubs sunkenin the ground, where the women were washing in the heavy shade of thewillows. In their calico gowns they made bright bits of colour againstthe drooping green of the trees.
"Maria," she cried sharply, "thou art wringing that fine linen tooharshly. Dost thou wish to break in pieces the bridal clothes of thysenorita? Be careful, or I will lay the whip across thy shoulders."
She walked slowly through the willows, enjoying the shade. Her fine oldhead was held sternly back, and her shoulders were as square as heryoungest son's; but she sighed a little, and pressed a willow branchto her face with a caressing motion. She looked up to the graypeak standing above its fellows, bare, ugly, gaunt. She was not animaginative woman, but she always had felt in closer kinship with thatsolitary peak than with her own blood. As she left the wood and sawthe gay cavalcade about to start--the burnished horses, the dashingcaballeros, the girls with their radiant faces and jaunty habits--shesighed again. Long ago she had been the bride of a brilliant youngMexican officer for a few brief years; her youth had gone with his life.
She avoided the company and went round to the buildings at the backof the house. Approving here, reproaching there, she walked leisurelythrough the various rooms where the Indians were making lard, shoes,flour, candles. She was in the chocolate manufactory when her husbandfound her.
"Come--come at once," he said. "I have good news for thee."
She followed him to his room, knowing by his face that tragedy hadvisited them. But she was not prepared for the tale he poured forth withviolent interjections of English and Spanish oaths. She had detecteda flirtation between her daughter and the uninvited guest, and notapproving of flirtations, had told Joaquin to keep his eyes upon themwhen hers were absent; but that the man should dare and the girl shouldstoop to think of marriage wrought in her a passion to which herhusband's seemed the calm flame of a sperm-candle.
"What!" she cried, her hoarse voice breaking. "What! A half-breedaspire to a Cortez!" She forgot her husband's separateness with trueCalifornian pride. "My daughter and the son of an Indian! Holy God! Andshe has dared!--she has dared! The little imbecile! The little--But,"and she gave a furious laugh, "she will not forget again."
She caught the greenhide reata from the nail and went up the stair.Crossing the library with heavy tread, as if she would stamp her ragethrough the floor, she turned the key in the door of her daughter's roomand strode in. The girl still lay on the floor, although consciousnesshad returned. As Elena saw her mother's face she cowered pitifully.That terrible temper seldom dominated the iron will of the woman, butSantiago had shaken it a few days ago, and Elena knew that her turn hadcome.
Dona Jacoba shut the door and towered above her daughter, red spots onher face, her small eyes blazing, an icy sneer on her mouth. She did notspeak a word. She caught the girl by her delicate shoulder, jerked herto her feet, and lashed her with the heavy whip until screams mingledwith the gay laughter of the parting guests. When she had beaten heruntil her own arm ached, she flung her on the bed and went out andlocked the door.
Elena was insensible again for a while, then lay dull and inert forhours. She had a passive longing for death. After the suffering and thehideous mortification of that day there seemed no other climax. Thecavalcade rode beneath her windows once more, with their untiredlaughter, their splendid vitality. They scattered to their rooms to dontheir bright evening gowns, then went to the dining room and feasted.
After supper Francisca unlocked Elena's door and entered with a littletray on her hand. Elena refused to eat, but her sister's presence rousedher, and she turned her face to the wall and burst into tears.
"Nonsense!" said Francisca, kindly. "Do not cry, my sister. What isa lover? The end of a little flirtation? My father will find thee ahusband--a strong fair English husband like mine. Dost thou not preferblondes to brunettes, my sister? I am sorry my mother beat thee, but shehas such a sense of her duty. She did it for thy good, my Elena. Let medress thee in thy new gown, the white silk with the pale blue flowers.It is high in the neck and long in the sleeves, and will hide the marksof the whip. Come down and play cascarones and dance until dawn andforget all about it."
But Elena only wept on, and Francisca left her for more imperativeduties.
The next day the girl still refused to eat, although Dona Jacoba openedher mouth and poured a cup of chocolate down her throat. Late in theafternoon Santiago slipped into the room and bent over her.
"Elena," he whispered hurriedly. "Look! I have a note for thee."
Elena sat upright on the bed, and he thrust a piece of folded paper intoher hand. "Here it is. He is in San Luis Obispo and says he will staythere. Remember it is but a few miles away. My--"
Elena sank back with a cry, and Santiago blasphemed in English. DonaJacoba unlocked her daughter's hand, took the note, and led Santiagofrom the room. When she reached her own, she opened a drawer and handedhim a canvas bag full of gold.
"Go to San Francisco and enjoy yourself," she said. "Interfere nofarther between your sister and your parents, unless you prefer thatreata to gold. Your craft cannot outwit mine, and she will read nonotes. You are a foolish boy to set your sense against your mother's. Imay seem harsh to my children, but I strive on my knees for their good.And when I have made up my mind that a thing is right to do, you knowthat my nature is of iron. No child of mine shall marry a lazy vagabondwho can do nothing but lie in a hammock and bet and gamble and makelove. And a half-breed! Mother of God! Now go to San Francisco, and sendfor more money when this is gone."
Santiago obeyed. There was nothing else for him to do.
Elena lay in her bed, scarcely touching food. Poor child! her naturedemanded nothing of life but love, and that denied her, she couldfind no reason for living. She was not sport-loving like Joaquin, norpractical like Francisca, nor learned like Santiago, nor ambitiousto dance through life like her many nieces. She was but a clingingunreasoning creature, with warm blood and a great heart. But she nolonger prayed to have Dario given her. It seemed to her that after suchsuffering her saddened and broken spirit would cast its shadows over herhappiest moments, and she longed only for death.
Her mother, becoming alarmed at her increasing weakness, called in anold woman who had been midwife and doctor of the county for half acentury. She came, a bent and bony woman who must have been majestic inher youth. Her front teeth were gone, her face was stained with darksplashes like the imprint of a pre-natal hand. Over her head she wore ablack shawl; and she looked enough like a witch to frighten her patientsinto eternity had they not been so well used to her. She prodded Elenaall over as if the girl were a loaf of bread and her knotted fingerssought a lump of flour in the dough.
"The heart," she said to Dona Jacoba with sharp emphasis, her back teethmeeting with a click, as if to proclaim their existence. "I have noherbs for that," and she went back to her cabin by the ocean.
That night Elena lifted her head suddenly. From the hill opposite herwindow came the sweet reverberation of a guitar: then a voice, which,though never heard by her in song before, was as unmistakable as if ithad serenaded beneath her window every night since she had known DarioCastanares.
EL ULTIMO ADIOS
"Si dos con el alma Se amaron en vida, Y al fin se separan En vida las dos; Sabeis que es tan grande Le pena sentida Que con esa palabra Se dicen adios. Y en esa palabra Que breve murmura, Ni verse prometen
Niamarse se juran; Que en esa palabra Se dicen adios. No hay queja mas honda, Suspiro mas largo; Que aquellas palabras Que dicen adios. Al fin ha llegado, La muerte en la vida; Al fin para entrambos Muramos los dos: Al fin ha llegado La hora cumplida, Del ultimo adios. Ya nunca en la vida, Gentil companera Ya nunca volveremos A vernos los dos: Por eso es tan triste Mi acento postrere, Por eso es tan triste El ultimo adios."--
They were dancing downstairs; laughter floated through the open windows.Francisca sang a song of the bull-fight, in her strong high voice; thefrogs chanted their midnight mass by the creek in the willows; thecoyotes wailed; the owls hooted. But nothing could drown that message oflove. Elena lit a candle and held it at arm's length before the window.She knew that its ray went straight through the curtains to the singeron the hill, for his voice broke suddenly, then swelled forth inpassionate answer. He sat there until dawn singing to her; but the nextnight he did not come, and Elena knew that she had not been his onlyaudience.
X
The week of festivity was over; the bridal pair, the relatives, thefriends went away. Quiet would have taken temporary possession of LosQuervos had it not been for the many passing guests lavishly entertainedby Don Roberto.
And still Elena lay in her little iron bed, refusing to get out of it,barely eating, growing weaker and thinner every day. At the end of threeweeks Dona Jacoba was thoroughly alarmed, and Don Roberto sent Joaquinto San Francisco for a physician.
The man of science came at the end of a week. He asked many questions,and had a long talk with his patient. When he left the sick-room, hefound Don Roberto and Dona Jacoba awaiting him in the library. They wereready to accept his word as law, for he was an Englishman, and had wonhigh reputation during his short stay in the new country.
He spoke with curt directness. "My dear sir, your child is dying becauseshe does not wish to live. People who write novels call it dying of abroken heart; but it does not make much difference about the name.Your child is acutely sensitive, and has an extremely delicateconstitution--predisposition to consumption. Separation from the youngman she desires to marry has prostrated her to such an extent that sheis practically dying. Under existing circumstances she will not livetwo months, and, to be brutally frank, you will have killed her. Iunderstand that the young man is well-born on his father's side, andpossessed of great wealth. I see no reason why she should not marry him.I shall leave her a tonic, but you can throw it out of the window unlessyou send for the young man," and he walked down the stair and made readyfor his departure.
Don Roberto translated the verdict to his wife. She turned very gray,and her thin lips pressed each other. But she bent her head. "So be it,"she said; "I cannot do murder. Send for Dario Castanares."
"And tell him to take her to perdition," roared the old man. "Never letme see her again."
He went down the stair, filled a small bag with gold, and gave it to thedoctor. He found Joaquin and bade him go for Dario, then shut himself ina remote room, and did not emerge until late that day.
Dona Jacoba sent for the maid, Malia.
"Bring me one of your frocks," she said, "a set of your undergarments, apair of your shoes and stockings." She walked about the room untilthe girl's return, her face terrible in its repressed wrath, its grayconsciousness of defeat. When Malia came with the garments she told herto follow, and went into Elena's room and stood beside the bed.
"Get up," she said. "Dress thyself in thy bridal clothes. Thou art goingto marry Dario Castanares to-day."
The girl looked up incredulously, then closed her eyes wearily.
"Get up," said her mother. "The doctor has said that we must let ourdaughter marry the half-breed or answer to God for her murder." Sheturned to the maid: "Malia, go downstairs and make a cup of chocolateand bring it up. Bring, too, a glass of angelica."
But Elena needed neither. She forgot her desire for death, hermisgivings of the future; she slipped out of bed, and would have taken apair of silk stockings from the chest, but her mother stopped her withan imperious gesture, and handed her the coarse shoes and stockings themaid had brought. Elena raised her eyes wonderingly, but drew themon her tender feet without complaint. Then her mother gave her theshapeless undergarments, the gaudy calico frock, and she put them on.When the maid returned with the chocolate and wine, she drank both. Theygave her colour and strength; and as she stood up and faced her mother,she had never looked more beautiful nor more stately in the silken gownsthat were hers no longer.
"HE BENT DOWN AND CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS."]
"There are horses' hoofs," said Dona Jacoba. "Leave thy father's houseand go to thy lover."
Elena followed her from the room, walking steadily, although she wasbeginning to tremble a little. As she passed the table in the library,she picked up an old silk handkerchief of her father's and tied it abouther head and face. A smile was on her lips, but no joy could crowd thesadness from her eyes again. Her spirit was shadowed; her nature hadcome to its own.
They walked through the silent house, and to Elena's memory came thepicture of that other bridal, when the very air shook with pleasure andthe rooms were jewelled with beautiful faces; but she would not haveexchanged her own nuptials for her sister's calm acceptance.
When she reached the veranda she drew herself up and turned to hermother with all that strange old woman's implacable bearing.
"I demand one wedding present," she said. "The greenhide reata. I wishit as a memento of my mother."
Dona Jacoba, without the quiver of a muscle, walked into her husband'sroom and returned with the reata and handed it to her. Then Elena turnedher back upon her father's house and walked down the road through thewillows. Dario did not notice the calico frock or the old handkerchiefabout her head. He bent down and caught her in his arms and kissed her,then lifting her to his saddle, galloped down the road to San LuisObispo. Dona Jacoba turned her hard old face to the wall.