The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

  A RAMBLE WITH EULOGIA[1]

  [Footnote 1: Pronounced a-oo-lo-hia.]

  I

  Dona Pomposa crossed her hands on her stomach and twirled her thumbs. Ared spot was in each coffee-coloured cheek, and the mole in her scantyeyebrow jerked ominously. Her lips were set in a taut line, and herangry little eyes were fixed upon a girl who sat by the window strumminga guitar, her chin raised with an air of placid impertinence.

  "Thou wilt stop this nonsense and cast no more glances at Juan Tornel!"commanded Dona Pomposa. "Thou little brat! Dost thou think that I amone to let my daughter marry before she can hem? Thank God we have moresense than our mothers! No child of mine shall marry at fifteen. Nowlisten--thou shalt be locked in a dark room if I am kept awake againby that hobo serenading at thy window. To-morrow, when thou goest tochurch, take care that thou throwest him no glance. Dios de mi alma!I am worn out! Three nights have I been awakened by that _tw-a-n-g,tw-a-n-g."_

  "You need not be afraid," said her daughter, digging her little heelinto the floor. "I shall not fall in love. I have no faith in men."

  Her mother laughed outright in spite of her anger.

  "Indeed, my Eulogia! Thou art very wise. And why, pray, hast thou nofaith in men?"

  Eulogia tossed the soft black braid from her shoulder, and fixed herkeen roguish eyes on the old lady's face.

  "Because I have read all the novels of the Senor Dumas, and I well knowall those men he makes. And they never speak the truth to women; alwaysthey are selfish, and think only of their own pleasure. If the womensuffer, they do not care; they do not love the women--only themselves.So I am not going to be fooled by the men. I shall enjoy life, but Ishall think of _myself_, not of the men."

  Her mother gazed at her in speechless amazement. She never had read abook in her life, and had not thought of locking from her daughterthe few volumes her dead husband had collected. Then she gasped withconsternation.

  "Por Dios, senorita, a fine woman thou wilt make of thyself with suchideas! a nice wife and mother--when the time comes. What does PadroFlores say to that, I should like to know? It is very strange that hehas let you read those books."

  "I have never told him," said Eulogia, indifferently.

  "What!" screamed her mother. "You never told at confession?"

  "No, I never did. It was none of his business what I read. Reading is nosin. I confessed all--"

  "Mother of God!" cried Dona Pomposa, and she rushed at Eulogia withuplifted hand; but her nimble daughter dived under her arm with aprovoking laugh, and ran out of the room.

  That night Eulogia pushed aside the white curtain of her window andlooked out. The beautiful bare hills encircling San Luis Obispo wereblack in the silvered night, but the moon made the town light as day.The owls were hooting on the roof of the mission; Eulogia could see themflap their wings. A few Indians were still moving among the dark hutsoutside the walls, and within, the padre walked among his olive trees.Beyond the walls the town was still awake. Once a horseman dasheddown the street, and Eulogia wondered if murder had been done in themountains; the bandits were thick in their fastnesses. She did wishshe could see one. Then she glanced eagerly down the road beneathher window. In spite of the wisdom she had accepted from the Frenchromanticist, her fancy was just a little touched by Juan Tornel. Hisblack flashing eyes could look so tender, and he rode so beautifully.She twitched the curtain into place and ran across the room, her feetpattering on the bare floor, jumped into her little iron bed, and drewthe dainty sheet to her throat. A ladder had fallen heavily against theside of the house.

  She heard an agile form ascend and seat itself on the deep window-sill.Then the guitar vibrated under the touch of master fingers, and a richsweet tenor sang to her:--

  EL CORAZON

  "El corazon del amor palpita, Al oir de tu dulce voz, Cuando mi sangre Se pone en agitacion, Tu eres la mas hermosa, Tu eres la luz del dia, Tu eres la gloria mia, Tu eres mi dulce bien.

  "Negro tienes el cabello, Talle lineas hermosas, Mano blanca, pie precioso, No hay que decir en ti:--Tu eres la mas hermosa, Tu eres la luz del dia, Tu eres la prenda mia, Tu me haras morir.

  "Que importa que noche y dia, En ti sola estoy pensando, El corazon palpitante No cesa de repetir:-- Tu eres la mas hermosa, Tu eres la luz del dia, Tu eres la prenda mia, Tu me haras morir--Eulogia!"

  Eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in the daytime, not daring to applaud,hoping fatigue had sent her mother to sleep. Her lover tuned his guitarand began another song, but she did not hear it; she was listening tofootfalls in the garret above. With a presentiment of what was aboutto happen she sprang out of bed with a warning cry; but she was toolate. There was a splash and rattle on the window-seat, a smotheredcurse, a quick descent, a triumphant laugh from above. Eulogia stampedher foot with rage. She cautiously raised the window and passed her handalong the outer sill. This time she beat the casement with both hands:they were covered with warm ashes.

  "Well, my daughter, have I not won the battle?" said a voice behind her,and Eulogia sat down on the window-seat and swung her feet in silentwrath.

  Dona Pomposa wore a rather short night-gown, and her feet were encasedin a pair of her husband's old boots. Her hair was twisted under a redsilk kerchief, and again she crossed her hands on her stomach, but thethumbs upheld a candle. Eulogia giggled suddenly.

  "What dost thou laugh at, senorita? At the way I have served thy lover?Dost thou think he will come soon again?"

  "No, mamma, you have proved the famous hospitality of the Californianswhich the Americans are always talking about. You need have no moreenvy of the magnificence of Los Quervos." And then she kicked her heelsagainst the wall.

  "Oh, thou canst make sharp speeches, thou impertinent little brat; butJuan Tornel will serenade under thy window no more. Dios! the ashes mustlook well on his pretty mustachios. Go to bed. I will put thee to boardin the convent to-morrow." And she shuffled out of the room, her amplefigure swinging from side to side like a large pendulum.

  II

  The next day Eulogia was sitting on her window-seat, her chin resting onher knees, a volume of Dumas beside her, when the door was cautiouslyopened and her Aunt Anastacia entered the room. Aunt Anastacia wasvery large; in fact she nearly filled the doorway; she also disdainedwhalebones and walked with a slight roll. Her ankles hung over her feet,and her red cheeks and chin were covered with a short black down. Herhair was twisted into a tight knot and protected by a thick net, and shewore a loose gown of brown calico, patterned with large red roses. Butgood-nature beamed all over her indefinite features, and her little eyesdwelt adoringly upon Eulogia, who gave her an absent smile.

  "Poor little one," she said in her indulgent voice. "But it was cruel inmy sister to throw ashes on thy lover. Not but what thou art too youngfor lovers, my darling,--although I had one at twelve. But times havechanged. My little one--I have a note for thee. Thy mother is out, andhe has gone away, so there can be no harm in reading it--"

  "Give it to me at once"--and Eulogia dived into her aunt's pocket andfound the note.

  "Beautiful and idolized Eulogia.--Adios! Adios! I came a stranger tothy town. I fell blinded at thy feet. I fly forever from the scornfullaughter in thine eyes. Ay, Eulogia, how couldst thou? But no! I willnot believe it was thou! The dimples that play in thy cheeks, the sparksthat fly in thine eyes--Dios de mi vida! I cannot believe that they comefrom a malicious soul. No, enchanting Eulogia! Consolation of my soul!It was thy mother who so cruelly humiliated me, who drives me from thytown lest I be mocked in the streets. Ay, Eulogia! Ay, misericordia!Adios! Adios!

  "JUAN TORNEL."

  Eulogia shrugged her shoulders. "Well, my mother is satisfied, perhaps.She has driven him away. At least, I shall not have to go to theconvent."

  "Thou art so cold, my little one," said Aunt Anastacia, disapprovingly."Thou art but fifteen years, and yet thou throwest aside a lover as ifhe were an old reboso. Madre de Dios! In your place I should have weptand beaten the air. But perhaps t
hat is the reason all the young men arewild for thee. Not but that I had many lovers--"

  "It is too bad thou didst not marry one," interrupted Eulogia,maliciously. "Perhaps thou wouldst"--and she picked up her book--"ifthou hadst read the Senor Dumas."

  "Thou heartless baby!" cried her indignant aunt, "when I love thee so,and bring thy notes at the risk of my life, for thou knowest that thymother would pull the hair from my head. Thou little brat! to say Icould not marry, when I had twenty--"

  Eulogia jumped up and pecked her on the chin like a bird. "Twenty-five,my old mountain. I only joked with thee. Thou didst not marry becausethou hadst more sense than to trot about after a man. Is it not so, myold sack of flour? I was but angry because I thought thou hadst helpedmy mother last night."

  "Never! I was sound asleep."

  "I know, I know. Now trot away. I hear my mother coming," and AuntAnastacia obediently left her niece to the more congenial company of theSenor Dumas.

  III

  The steep hills of San Luis Obispo shot upward like the sloping sides ofa well, so round was the town. Scarlet patches lay on the slopes--thewide blossoms of the low cacti. A gray-green peak and a mulberry peaktowered, kithless and gaunt, in the circle of tan-coloured hills brushedwith purple. The garden of the mission was green with fruit trees andsilver with olive groves. On the white church and long wing lay the redtiles; beyond the wall the dull earth huts of the Indians. Then thestraggling town with its white adobe houses crouching on the grass.

  Eulogia was sixteen. A year had passed since Juan Tornel serenadedbeneath her window, and, if the truth must be told, she had almostforgotten him. Many a glance had she shot over her prayer-book in themission church; many a pair of eyes, dreamy or fiery, had responded. Butshe had spoken with no man. After a tempestuous scene with her mother,during which Aunt Anastacia had wept profusely, a compromise had beenmade: Eulogia had agreed to have no more flirtations until she wassixteen, but at that age she should go to balls and have as many loversas she pleased.

  She walked through the olive groves with Padre Moraga on the morning ofher sixteenth birthday. The new padre and she were the best of friends.

  "Well," said the good old man, pushing the long white hair from his darkface--it fell forward whenever he stooped--"well, my little one, thougoest to thy first ball to-night. Art thou happy?"

  Eulogia lifted her shoulder. Her small nose also tilted.

  "Happy? There is no such thing as happiness, my father. I shall dance,and flirt, and make all the young men fall in love with me. I shallenjoy myself, that is enough."

  The padre smiled; he was used to her.

  "Thou little wise one!" He collected himself suddenly. "But thou artright to build thy hopes of happiness on the next world alone." Thenhe continued, as if he merely had broken the conversation to say theAngelus: "And thou art sure that thou wilt be La Favorita? Truly, thouhast confidence in thyself--an inexperienced chit who has not half thebeauty of many other girls."

  "Perhaps not; but the men shall love me better, all the same. Beauty isnot everything, my father. I have a greater attraction than soft eyesand a pretty mouth."

  "Indeed! Thou baby! Why, thou art no bigger than a well-grown child, andthy mouth was made for a woman twice thy size. Where dost thou keep thatextraordinary charm?" Not but that he knew, for he liked her betterthan any girl in the town, but he felt it his duty to act the part ofcurb-bit now and again.

  "You know, my father," said Eulogia, coolly; "and if you have any doubt,wait until to-morrow."

  The ball was given in the long sala of Dona Antonia Ampudia, on the edgeof the rambling town. As the night was warm, the young people dancedthrough the low windows on to the wide corridor; and, if watchful eyesrelaxed their vigilance, stepped off to the grass and wandered amongthe trees. The brown old women in dark silks sat against the wall, asdowagers do to-day. Most of the girls wore bright red or yellow gowns,although softer tints blossomed here and there. Silken black hair wasbraided close to the neck, the coiffure finished with a fringe ofchenille. As they whirled in the dance, their full bright gowns lookedlike an agitated flower-bed suddenly possessed by a wandering tribe ofdusky goddesses.

  Eulogia came rather late. At the last moment her mother had wavered inher part of the contract, and it was not until Eulogia had sworn byevery saint in the calendar that she would not leave the sala, eventhough she stifled, that Dona Pomposa had reluctantly consented to takeher. Eulogia's perfect little figure was clad in a prim white silk gown,but her cold brilliant eyes were like living jewels, her large mouth wasas red as the cactus patches on the hills, and a flame burned in eithercheek. In a moment she was surrounded by the young men who had beenwaiting for her. It might be true that twenty girls in the room weremore beautiful than she, but she had a quiet manner more effective thananimation, a vigorous magnetism of which she was fully aware, and a coolcoquetry which piqued and fired the young men, who were used to moresentimental flirtations.

  She danced as airily as a flower on the wind, but with untiringvitality.

  "Senorita!" exclaimed Don Carmelo Pena, "thou takest away my breath.Dost thou never weary?"

  "Never. I am not a man."

  "Ay, senorita, thou meanest--"

  "That women were made to make the world go round, and men to play theguitar."

  "Ay, I can play the guitar. I will serenade thee to-morrow night."

  "Thou wilt get a shower of ashes for thy pains. Better stay at home, andprepare thy soul with three-card _monte_"

  "Ay, senorita, but thou art cruel! Does no man please thee?"

  "_Men_ please me. How tiresome to dance with a woman!"

  "And that is all the use thou hast for us? For us who would die forthee?"

  "In a barrel of aguardiente? I prefer thee to dance with. To tell thetruth, thy step suits mine."

  "Ay, senorita mia! thou canst put honey on thy tongue. God of my life,senorita--I fling my heart at thy feet!"

  "I fear to break it, senor, for I have faith that it is made of thinglass. It would cut my feet. I like better this smooth floor. Who isthat standing by the window? He has not danced to-night?"

  "Don Pablo Ignestria of Monterey. He says the women of San Luis are nothalf so beautiful nor so elegant as the women of Monterey; he says theyare too dark and too small. He does not wish to dance with any one; nordo any of the girls wish to dance with him. They are very angry."

  "I wish to dance with him. Bring him to me."

  "But, senorita, I tell thee thou wouldst not like him. Holy heaven! Whydo those eyes flash so? Thou lookest as if thou wouldst fight with thylittle fists."

  "Bring him to me."

  Don Carmelo walked obediently over to Don Pablo, although burning withjealousy.

  "Senor, at your service," he said. "I wish to introduce you to the mostcharming senorita in the room."

  "Which?" asked Ignestria, incuriously.

  Don Carmelo indicated Eulogia with a grand sweep of his hand.

  "That little thing? Why, there are a dozen prettier girls in the roomthan she, and I have not cared to meet any of them!"

  "But she has commanded me to take you to her, senor, and--look at themen crowding about her--do you think I dare to disobey?"

  The stranger's dark gray eyes became less insensible. He was a handsomeman, with a tall figure, and a smooth strong face; but about him hungthe indolence of the Californian.

  "Very well," he said, "take me to her."

  He asked her to dance, and after a waltz Eulogia said she was tired, andthey sat down within a proper distance of Dona Pomposa's eagle eye.

  "What do you think of the women of San Luis Obispo?" asked Eulogia,innocently. "Are not they handsome?"

  "They are not to be compared with the women of Monterey--since you askme."

  "Because they find the men of San Luis more gallant than the Senor DonPablo Ignestria!"

  "Do they? One, I believe, asked to have me introduced to her!"

  "True, senor. I wished to meet you that you might fall in
love with me,and that the ladies of San Luis might have their vengeance."

  He stared at her.

  "Truly, senorita, but you do not hide your cards. And why, then, shouldI fall in love with you?"

  "Because I am different from the women of Monterey."

  "A good reason why I should not. I have been in every town inCalifornia, and I admire no women but those of my city."

  "And because you will hate me first."

  "And if I hate you, how can I love you?"

  "It is the same. You hate one woman and love another. Each is the samepassion, only to a different person out goes a different side. Let theperson loved or hated change his nature, and the passion will change."

  He looked at her with more interest.

  "In truth I think I shall begin with love and end with hate, senorita.But that wisdom was not born in your little head; for sixteen years, Ithink, have not sped over it, no? It went in, if I mistake not, throughthose bright eyes."

  "Yes, senor, that is true. I am not content to be just like other girlsof sixteen. I want to _know_--_to know._ Have you ever read any books,senor?"

  "Many." He looked at her with a lively interest now. "What ones have youread?"

  "Only the beautiful romances of the Senor Dumas. I have seen no others,for there are not many books in San Luis. Have you read others?"

  "A great many others. Two wonderful Spanish books--'Don Quixote de laMancha' and 'Gil Blas,' and the romances of Sir Waltere Scote--a man ofEngland, and some lives of famous men, senorita. A great man lent themto me--the greatest of our Governors--Alvarado."

  "And you will lend them to me?" cried Eulogia, forgetting her coquetry,"I want to read them."

  "Aha! Those cool eyes can flash. That even little voice can break intwo. By the holy Evangelists, senorita, thou shalt have every book Ipossess."

  "Will the Senorita Dona Eulogia favour us with a song?"

  Don Carmelo was bowing before her, a guitar in his hand, his wrathfuleyes fixed upon Don Pablo.

  "Yes," said Eulogia.

  She took the guitar and sang a love-song in a manner which can best bedescribed as no manner at all; her expression never changed, her voicenever warmed. At first the effect was flat, then the subtle fascinationof it grew until the very memory of impassioned tones was florid andsurfeiting. When she finished, Ignestria's heart was hammering upon thesteel in which he fancied he had prisoned it.

  IV

  "Well," said Eulogia to Padre Moraga two weeks later, "am I not LaFavorita?"

  "Thou art, thou little coquette. Thou hast a power over men which thoumust use with discretion, my Eulogia. Tell thy beads three times a dayand pray that thou mayest do no harm."

  "I wish to do harm, my father, for men have broken the hearts of womenfor ages--"

  "Chut, chut, thou baby! Men are not so black as they are painted. Harmno one, and the world will be better that thou hast lived in it."

  "If I scratch, fewer women will be scratched," and she raised hershoulders beneath the flowered muslin of her gown, swung her guitarunder her arm, and walked down the grove, the silver leaves shiningabove her smoky hair.

  The padre had bidden all the young people of the upper class to a picnicin the old mission garden. Girls in gay muslins and silk rebosos weresitting beneath the arches of the corridor or flitting under the treeswhere the yellow apricots hung among the green leaves. Languid andsparkling faces coquetted with caballeros in bright calico jackets andknee-breeches laced with silken cord, their slender waists girt withlong sashes hanging gracefully over the left hip. The water rilled inthe winding creek, the birds carolled in the trees; but above all rosethe sound of light laughter and sweet strong voices.

  They took their dinner behind the arches, at a table the length of thecorridor, and two of the young men played the guitar and sang, whilstthe others delighted their keen palates with the goods the padre hadprovided.

  Don Pablo sat by Eulogia, a place he very often managed to fill; but henever had seen her for a moment alone.

  "I must go soon, Eulogia," he murmured, as the voices waxed louder."Duty calls me back to Monterey."

  "I am glad to know thou hast a sense of thy duty."

  "Nothing but that would take me away from San Luis Obispo. But both mymother and--and--a dear friend are ill, and wish to see me."

  "Thou must go to-night. How canst thou eat and be gay when thy motherand--and--a dear friend are ill?"

  "Ay, Eulogia! wouldst thou scoff over my grave? I go, but it is for theeto say if I return."

  "Do not tell me that thou adorest me here at the table. I shall blush,and all will be about my smarting ears like the bees down in the padre'shive."

  "I shall not tell thee that before all the world, Eulogia. All I askis this little favour: I shall send thee a letter the night I leave.Promise me that thou wilt answer it--to Monterey."

  "No, sir! Long ago, when I was twelve, I made a vow I would never writeto a man. I never break that vow."

  "Thou wilt break it for me, Eulogia."

  "And why for you, senor? Half the trouble in the world has been made onpaper."

  "Oh, thou wise one! What trouble can a piece of paper make when it lieson a man's heart?"

  "It can crackle when another head lies on it."

  "No head will ever lie here but--"

  "Mine?"

  "Eulogia!"

  "To thee, Senorita Dona Eulogia," cried a deep voice. "May the jewels inthine eyes shine by the stars when thou art above them. May the tearsnever dim them while they shine for us below," and a caballero pushedback his chair, leaned forward, and touched her glass with his, thenwent down on one knee and drank the red wine.

  Eulogia threw him a little absent smile, sipped her wine, and went ontalking to Ignestria in her soft monotonous voice.

  "My friend--Graciosa La Cruz--went a few weeks ago to Monterey for avisit. You will tell her I think of her, no?"

  "I will dance with her often because she is your friend--until I returnto San Luis Obispo."

  "Will that be soon, senor?"

  "I told thee that would be as soon as thou wished. Thou wilt answer myletter--promise me, Eulogia."

  "I will not, senor. I intend to be wiser than other women. At the veryleast, my follies shall not burn paper. If you want an answer, you willreturn."

  "I will _not_ return without that answer. I never can see thee alone,and if I could, thy coquetry would not give me a plain answer. I mustsee it on paper before I will believe."

  "Thou canst wait for the day of resurrection for thy knowledge, then!"

  V

  Once more Aunt Anastacia rolled her large figure through Eulogia'sdoorway and handed her a letter.

  "From Don Pablo Ignestria, my baby," she said. "Oh, what a man! what acaballero! And so smart. He waited an hour by the creek in the missiongardens until he saw thy mother go out, and then he brought the note tome. He begged to see thee, but I dared not grant that, ninita, for thymother will be back in ten minutes."

  "Go downstairs and keep my mother there," commanded Eulogia, and AuntAnastacia rolled off, whilst her niece with unwonted nervousness openedthe letter.

  "Sweet of my soul! Day-star of my life! I dare not speak to thee of lovebecause, strong man as I am, still am I a coward before those mockingeyes. Therefore if thou laugh the first time thou readest that I lovethee, I shall not see it, and the second time thou mayest be more kind.Beautiful and idolized Eulogia, men have loved thee, but never will becast at thy little feet a heart stronger or truer than mine. Ay, duenoadorada, I love thee! Without hope? No! I believe that thou lovest me,thou cold little one, although thou dost not like to think that theheart thou hast sealed can open to let love in. But, Eulogia! Star of myeyes! I love thee so I will break that heart in pieces, and give theeanother so soft and warm that it will beat all through the old house towhich I will take thee. For thou wilt come to me, thou little coquette?Thou wilt write to me to come back and stand with thee in the missionwhile the good padre asks the saints to bless u
s? Eulogia, thou hastsworn thou wilt write to no man, but thou wilt write to me, my littleone. Thou wilt not break the heart that lives in thine.

  "I kiss thy little feet. I kiss thy tiny hands. I kiss--ay, Eulogia!Adios! Adios!

  "PABLO."

  Eulogia could not resist that letter. Her scruples vanished, and, afteran entire day of agonized composition, she sent these lines:--

  "You can come back to San Luis Obispo.

  "EULOGIA AMATA FRANCISCA GUADALUPE CARILLO."

  VI

  Another year had passed. No answer had come from Pablo Ignestria. Norhad he returned to San Luis Obispo. Two months after Eulogia had senther letter, she received one from Graciosa La Cruz, containing theinformation that Ignestria had married the invalid girl whose love forhim had been the talk of Monterey for many years. And Eulogia? Herflirtations had earned her far and wide the title of Dona Coquetta, andshe was cooler, calmer, and more audacious than ever.

  "Dost thou never intend to marry?" demanded Dona Pomposa one day, as shestood over the kitchen stove stirring red peppers into a saucepan fullof lard.

  Eulogia was sitting on the table swinging her small feet. "Why do youwish me to marry? I am well enough as I am. Was Elena Castanares sohappy with the man who was mad for her that I should hasten to be aneglected wife? Poor my Elena! Four years, and then consumption anddeath. Three children and an indifferent husband, who was dying of lovewhen he could not get her."

  "Thou thinkest of unhappy marriages because thou hast just heard ofElena's death. But there are many others."

  "Did you hear of the present she left her mother?"

  "No." Dona Pomposa dropped her spoon; she dearly loved a bit of gossip."What was it?"

  "You know that a year ago Elena went home to Los Quervos and begged DonRoberto and Dona Jacoba on her knees to forgive her, and they did, andwere glad to do it. Dona Jacoba was with her when she was so ill at thelast, and just before she died Elena said: 'Mother, in that chest youwill find a legacy from me. It is all of my own that I have in theworld, and I leave it to you. Do not take it until I am dead.' And whatdo you think it was? The greenhide reata."

  "Mother of God! But Jacoba must have felt as if she were already inpurgatory."

  "It is said that she grew ten years older in the night."

  "May the saints be praised, my child can leave me no such gift. But allmen are not like Dario Castanares. I would have thee marry an American.They are smart and know how to keep the gold. Remember, I have littlenow, and thou canst not be young forever."

  "I have seen no American I would marry."

  "There is Don Abel Hudson."

  "I do not trust that man. His tongue is sweet and his face is handsome,but always when I meet him I feel a little afraid, although it goes awayin a minute. The Senor Dumas says that a woman's instincts--"

  "To perdition with Senor Dumas! Does he say that a chit's instincts arebetter than her mother's? Don Abel throws about the money like rocks.He has the best horses at the races. He tells me that he has a house inYerba Buena--"

  "San Francisco. And I would not live in that bleak and sandy waste. Didyou notice how he limped at the ball last night?"

  "No. What of that? But I am not in love with Don Abel Hudson if thou artso set against him. It is true that no one knows just who he is, now Ithink of it. I had not made up my mind that he was the husband for thee.But let it be an American, my Eulogia. Even when they have no money theywill work for it, and that is what no Californian will do--"

  But Eulogia had run out of the room: she rarely listened to the end ofher mother's harangues. She draped a reboso about her head, and wentover to the house of Graciosa La Cruz. Her friend was sitting by herbedroom window, trimming a yellow satin bed-spread with lace, andEulogia took up a half-finished sheet and began fastening the drawnthreads into an intricate pattern.

  "Only ten days more, my Graciosa," she said mischievously. "Art thougoing to run back to thy mother in thy night-gown, like JosefitaOlvera?"

  "Never will I be such a fool! Eulogia, I have a husband for thee."

  "To the tunnel of the mission with husbands! I shall be an old maid likeAunt Anastacia, fat, with black whiskers."

  Graciosa laughed. "Thou wilt marry and have ten children."

  "By every station in the mission I will not. Why bring more women intothe world to suffer?"

  "Ay, Eulogia! thou art always saying things I cannot understand and thatthou shouldst not think about. But I have a husband for thee. He camefrom Los Angeles this morning, and is a friend of my Carlos. His name isnot so pretty--Tomas Garfias. There he rides now."

  Eulogia looked out of the window with little curiosity. A small youngman was riding down the street on a superb horse coloured like goldenbronze, with silver mane and tail. His saddle of embossed leather washeavily mounted with silver; the spurs were inlaid with gold and silver,and the straps of the latter were worked with gleaming metal threads. Hewore a light red serape, heavily embroidered and fringed. His botas ofsoft deerskin, dyed a rich green and stamped with Aztec Eagles, weretied at the knee by a white silk cord wound about the leg and finishedwith heavy silver tassels. His short breeches were trimmed with goldlace. As he caught Graciosa's eye he raised his sombrero, then rodethrough the open door of a neighbouring saloon and tossed off anAmerican drink without dismounting from his horse.

  Eulogia lifted her shoulders. "I like his saddle and his horse, but heis too small. Still, a new man is not disagreeable. When shall I meethim?"

  "To-night, my Eulogia. He goes with us to Miramar."

  VII

  A party of young people started that night for a ball at Miramar, thehome of Don Polycarpo Quijas. Many a caballero had asked the lady ofhis choice to ride on his saddle while he rode on the less comfortableaquera behind and guided his horse with arm as near her waist as hedared. Dona Pomposa, with a small brood under her wing, started last ofall in an American wagon. The night was calm, the moon was high, theparty very gay.

  Abel Hudson and the newcomer, Don Tomas Garfias, sat on either side ofEulogia, and she amused herself at the expense of both.

  "Don Tomas says that he is handsomer than the men of San Luis," she saidto Hudson. "Do not you think he is right? See what a beautiful curl hismustachios have, and what a droop his eyelids. Holy Mary!--how thatyellow ribbon becomes his hair! Ay, senor! Why have you come to dazzlethe eyes of the poor girls of San Luis Obispo?"

  "Ah, senorita," said the little dandy, "it will do their eyes good tosee an elegant young man from the city. And they should see my sister.She would teach them how to dress and arrange their hair."

  "Bring her to teach us, senor, and for reward we will find her a talland modest husband such as the girls of San Luis Obispo admire. DonAbel, why do you not boast of your sisters? Have you none, nor mother,nor father, nor brother? I never hear you speak of them. Maybe you growalone out of the earth."

  Hudson's gaze wandered to the canon they were approaching. "I am alone,senorita; a lonely man in a strange land."

  "Is that the reason why you are such a traveller, senor? Are you neverafraid, in your long lonely rides over the mountains, of that dreadfulbandit, John Power, who murders whole families for the sack of gold theyhave under the floor? I hope you always carry plenty of pistols, senor."

  "True, dear senorita. It is kind of you to put me on my guard. I neverhad thought of this man."

  "This devil, you mean. When last night I saw you come limping into theroom--"

  "Ay, yi, yi, Dios!" "Maria!" "Dios de mi alma!" "Dios de mi vida!""Cielo santo!"

  A wheel had given way, and the party was scattered about the road.

  No one was hurt, but loud were the lamentations. No Californian had everwalked six miles, and the wheel was past repair. But Abel Hudson came tothe rescue.

  "Leave it to me," he said. "I pledge myself to get you there," and hewent off in the direction of a ranch-house.

  "Ay! the good American! The good American!" cried the girls. "Eulogia!how canst thou be so cold to him?
The handsome stranger with the kindheart!"

  "His heart is like the Sacramento Valley, veined with gold instead ofblood." "Holy Mary!" she cried some moments later, "what is he bringing?The wagon of the country!"

  Abel Hudson was standing erect on the low floor of a wagon drawn by twostrong black mules. The wagon was a clumsy affair,--a large wooden framecovered with rawhide, and set upon a heavy axle. The wheels were made ofsolid sections of trees, and the harness was of greenhide. An Indian boysat astride one of the mules. On either side rode a vaquero, with hisreata fastened to the axle-tree.

  "This is the best I can do," said Hudson. "There is probably not anotherAmerican wagon between San Luis and Miramar. Do you think you can standit?"

  The girls shrugged their pretty shoulders. The men swore into theirmustachios. Dona Pomposa groaned at the prospect of a long ride in aspringless wagon. But no one was willing to return, and when Eulogiajumped lightly in, all followed, and Hudson placed them as comfortablyas possible, although they were obliged to sit on the floor.

  The wagon jolted down the canon, the mules plunging, the vaquerosshouting; but the moon glittered like a silvered snow peak, the wildgreen forest was about them, and even Eulogia grew a little sentimentalas Abel Hudson's blue eyes bent over hers and his curly head cut offDona Pomposa's view.

  "Dear senorita," he said, "thy tongue is very sharp, but thou hast akind heart. Hast thou no place in it for Abel Hudson?"

  "In the sala, senor--where many others are received--with mamma and AuntAnastacia sitting in the corner."

  He laughed. "Thou wilt always jest! But I would take all the rooms, andturn every one out, even to Dona Pomposa and Dona Anastacia!"

  "And leave me alone with you! God of my soul! How I should yawn!"

  "Oh, yes, Dona Coquetta, I am used to such pretty little speeches. Whenyou began to yawn I should ride away, and you would be glad to see mewhen I returned."

  "What would you bring me from the mountains, senor?"

  He looked at her steadily. "Gold, senorita. I know of many rich veins.I have a little canon suspected by no one else, where I pick out a sackfull of gold in a day. Gold makes the life of a beloved wife very sweet,senorita."

  "In truth I should like the gold better than yourself, senor," saidEulogia, frankly. "For if you will have the truth--Ay! Holy heaven! Thisis worse than the other!"

  A lurch, splash, and the party with shrill cries sprang to their feet;the low cart was filling with water. They had left the canon and werecrossing a slough; no one had remembered that it would be high tide. Thegirls, without an instant's hesitation, whipped their gowns up roundtheir necks; but their feet were wet and their skirts draggled. Theymade light of it, however, as they did of everything, and drove up toMiramar amidst high laughter and rattling jests.

  Dona Luisa Quijas, a handsome shrewd-looking woman, magnificentlydressed in yellow satin, the glare and sparkle of jewels on her neck,came out upon the corridor to meet them.

  "What is this? In a wagon of the country! An accident? Ay, Dios de mivida, the slough! Come in--quick! quick! I will give you dry clothes.Trust these girls to take care of their gowns. Mary! What wet feet!Quick! quick! This way, or you will have red noses to-morrow," and sheled them down the corridor, past the windows through which they couldsee the dancers in the sala, and opened the door of her bedroom.

  "There, my children, help yourselves," and she pulled out the capaciousdrawers of her chest. "All is at your service." She lifted out an armfulof dry underclothing, then went to the door of an adjoining room andlistened, her hand uplifted.

  "Didst thou have to lock him up?" asked Dona Pomposa, as she drew on apair of Dona Luisa's silk stockings.

  "Yes! yes! And such a time, my friend! Thou knowest that after I fooledhim the last time he swore I never should have another ball. But, Diosde mi alma! I never was meant to be bothered with a husband, and have Inot given him three children twenty times handsomer than himself? Is notthat enough? By the soul of Saint Luis the Bishop, I will continue topromise, and then get absolution at the mission, but I will not perform!Well, he was furious, my friend; he had spent a sack of gold on thatball, and he swore I never should have another. So this time I invitedmy guests, and told him nothing. At seven to-night I persuaded him intohis room, and locked the door. But, madre de Dios! Diego had forgottento screw down the window, and he got out. I could not get him back,Pomposa, and his big nose was purple with rage. He swore that he wouldturn every guest away from the door; he swore that he would be takinga bath on the corridor when they came up, and throw insults in theirfaces. Ay, Pomposa! I went down on my knees. I thought I should not havemy ball--such cakes as I had made, and such salads! But Diego saved me.He went into Don Polycarpo's room and cried 'Fire!' Of course the oldman ran there, and then we locked him in. Diego had screwed down thewindow first. Dios de mi vida! but he is terrible, that man! What have Idone to be punished with him?"

  "Thou art too handsome and too cruel, my Luisa. But, in truth, he is anold wild-cat. The saints be praised that he is safe for the night. Didhe swear?"

  "Swear! He has cursed the skin off his throat and is quiet now. Come, mylittle ones, are you ready? The caballeros are dry in Diego's clothes bythis time, and waiting for their waltzes;" and she drove them throughthe door into the sala with a triumphant smile on her dark sparklingface.

  The rest of the party had been dancing for an hour, and all gatheredabout the girls to hear the story of the accident, which was toldwith many variations. Eulogia as usual was craved for dances, but shecapriciously divided her favours between Abel Hudson and Don TomasGarfias. During the intervals, when the musicians were silent and thegirls played the guitar or threw cascarones at their admirers, she satin the deep window-seat watching the ponderous waves of the Pacific hurlthemselves against the cliffs, whilst Hudson pressed close to her side,disregarding the insistence of Garfias. Finally, the little Don from theCity of the Angels went into the dining room to get a glass of angelica,and Hudson caught at his chance.

  "Senorita," he exclaimed, interrupting one of her desultory remarks,"for a year I have loved you, and, for many reasons, I have not dared totell you. I must tell you now. I have no reason to think you care morefor me than for a dozen other men, but if you will marry me, senorita,I will build you a beautiful American house in San Luis Obispo, and youcan then be with your friends when business calls me away."

  "And where will you live when you are away from me?" asked Eulogia,carelessly. "In a cave in the mountains? Be careful of the bandits."

  "Senorita," he replied calmly, "I do not know what you mean by thethings you say sometimes. Perhaps you have the idea that I am anotherperson--John Power, or Pio Lenares, for instance. Do you wish me tobring you a certificate to the effect that I am Abel Hudson? I can doso, although I thought that Californians disdained the written formand trusted to each other's honour, even to the selling of cattle andlands."

  "You are not a Californian."

  "Ah, senorita--God! what is that?"

  A tremendous knocking at the outer door sounded above the clear sopranoof Graciosa La Cruz.

  "A late guest, no doubt. You are white like the wall. I think the lowceilings are not so good for your health, senor, as the sharp air of themountains. Ay, Dios!" The last words came beneath her breath, andshe forgot Abel Hudson. The front doors had been thrown open, and acaballero in riding-boots and a dark scrape wound about his tall figurehad entered the room and flung his sombrero and saddle-bags into acorner. It was Pablo Ignestria.

  "At your feet, senora," he said to Dona Luisa, who held out both hands,welcome on her charming face. "I am an uninvited guest, but when Iarrived at San Luis and found that all the town had come to one of DonaLuisa's famous balls, I rode on, hoping that for friendship's sake shewould open her hospitable doors to a wanderer, and let him dance off thestiffness of a long ride."

  "You are welcome, welcome, Pablo," said Dona Luisa. "Go to the diningroom and get a glass of aguardiente; then come back and dance untildawn."


  Ignestria left the room with Diego Quijas, but returned in a few momentsand walked directly over to Eulogia, ignoring the men who stood abouther.

  "Give me this dance," he whispered eagerly. "I have something to say tothee. I have purposely come from Monterey to say it."

  Eulogia was looking at him with angry eyes, her brain on fire. Butcuriosity triumphed, and she put her hand on his shoulder as themusicians swept their guitars with lithe fingers, scraped their violins,and began the waltz.

  "Eulogia!" exclaimed Ignestria; "dost thou suspect why I have returned?"

  "Why should I suspect what I have not thought about?"

  "Ay, Eulogia! Art thou as saucy as ever? But I will tell thee, belovedone. The poor girl who bore my name is dead, and I have come to beg ananswer to my letter. Ay, little one, I _feel_ thy love. Why couldst thounot have sent me one word? I was so angry when passed week after weekand no answer came, that in a fit of spleen I married the poor sickgirl. And what I suffered, Eulogia, after that mad act! Long ago I toldmyself that I should have come back for my answer, that you had swornyou would write no letter; I should have let you have your littlecaprices, but I did not reason until--"

  "I answered your letter!" exclaimed Eulogia, furiously. "You know thatI answered it! You only wished to humble me because I had sworn I wouldwrite to no man. Traitor! I hate you! You were engaged to the girl allthe time you were here."

  "Eulogia! Believe! Believe!"

  "I would not believe you if you kissed the cross! You said to yourself,'That little coquette, I will teach her a lesson. To think the littlechit should fancy an elegant Montereno could fall in love with her!' Ah!ha! Oh, Dios! I hate thee, thou false man-of-the-world! Thou art thevery picture of the men I have read about in the books of the SenorDumas; and yet I was fooled by thy first love-word! But I never lovedyou. Never, never! It was only a fancy--because you were from Monterey.I am glad you did not get my letter, for I hate you! Mother of Christ! Ihate you!"

  He whirled her into the dining room. No one else was there. He kissedher full on the mouth.

  "Dost thou believe me now?" he asked.

  She raised her little hand and struck him on the face, but the sting wasnot hotter than her lips had been.

  "May the saints roll you in perdition!" she cried hoarsely. "May theythrust burning coals into the eyes that lied to me! May the devils biteoff the fingers that made me shame myself! God! God! I hate you! I--I,who have fooled so many men, to have been rolled in the dust by you!"

  He drew back and regarded her sadly.

  "I see that it is no use to try to convince you," he said; "and I haveno proof to show that I never received your letter. But while the starsjewel the heavens, Eulogia, I shall love thee and believe that thoulovest me."

  He opened the door, and she swept past him into the sala. Abel Hudsonstepped forward to offer his arm, and for the moment Pablo forgotEulogia.

  "John Power!" he cried.

  Hudson, with an oath, leaped backward, sprang upon the window-seat, andsmashing the pane with his powerful hand disappeared before the startledmen thought of stopping him.

  "Catch him! Catch him!" cried Ignestria, excitedly. "It is John Power.He stood me up a year ago."

  He whipped his pistol from the saddle-bags in the corner, and openingthe door ran down the road, followed by the other men, shouting andfiring their pistols into the air. But they were too late. Power hadsprung upon Ignestria's horse, and was far on his way.

  VIII

  The next day Eulogia went with her mother and Aunt Anastacia to pay avisit of sympathy to Dona Jacoba at Los Quervos. Eulogia's eyes were notso bright nor her lips so red as they had been the night before, andshe had little to say as the wagon jolted over the rough road, past thecypress fences, then down between the beautiful tinted hills of LosQuervos. Dona Pomposa sat forward on the high seat, her feet danglingjust above the floor, her hands crossed as usual over her stomach, asudden twirl of thumbs punctuating her remarks. She wore a loose blackgown trimmed with ruffles, and a black reboso about her head. AuntAnastacia was attired in a like manner, but clutched the side of thewagon with one hand and an American sunshade with the other.

  "Poor Jacoba!" exclaimed Dona Pomposa; "her stern heart is heavy thisday. But she has such a sense of her duty, Anastacia. Only that makesher so stern."

  "O-h-h-h, y-e-e-s." When Aunt Anastacia was preoccupied or excited,these words came from her with a prolonged outgoing and indrawing.

  "I must ask her for the recipe for those cakes--the lard ones,Anastacia. I have lost it."

  "O-h-h, y-e-e-s. I love those cakes. Madre de Dios! It is hot!"

  "I wonder will she give Eulogia a mantilla when the chit marries. Shehas a chest full."

  "Surely. Jacoba is generous."

  "Poor my friend! Ay, her heart--Holy Mary! What is that?"

  She and Aunt Anastacia stumbled to their feet. The sound of pistol shotswas echoing between the hills. Smoke was rising from the willow forestthat covered the centre of the valley.

  The Indian whipped up his horses with an excited grunt, the two oldwomen reeling and clutching wildly at each other. At the same time theynoticed a crowd of horsemen galloping along the hill which a sudden turnin the road had opened to view.

  "It is the Vigilantes," said Eulogia, calmly, from the front seat. "Theyare after John Power and Pio Lenares and their lieutenants. After thatawful murder in the mountains the other day, the men of San Luis and theranchos swore they would hunt them out, and this morning they tracedthem to Los Quervos. I suppose they have made a barricade in thewillows, and the Vigilantes are trying to fire them out."

  "Heart of Saint Peter! Thou little brat! Why didst thou not tell us ofthis before, and not let us come here to be shot by flying bullets?"

  "I forgot," said Eulogia, indifferently.

  They could see nothing; but curiosity, in spite of fear, held them tothe spot. Smoke and cries, shouts and curses, came from the willows;flocks of agitated crows circled screaming through the smoke. The menon the hill, their polished horses and brilliant attire flashing in thesun, kept up a ceaseless galloping, hallooing, and waving of sombreros.The beautiful earth-green and golden hills looked upon a far differentscene from the gay cavalcades to which they were accustomed. Even DonRoberto Duncan, a black silk handkerchief knotted about his head, wasdashing, on his gray horse, up and down the valley between the hills andthe willows, regardless of chance bullets. And over all shone the sameold sun, indifferent alike to slaughter and pleasure.

  "Surely, Anastacia, all those bullets must shoot some one."

  "O--h--h, y--e--e--s." Her sister was grasping the sunshade with bothhands, her eyes starting from her head, although she never removed theirgaze from the central volume of smoke.

  "Ay, we can sleep in peace if those murdering bandits are killed!"exclaimed Dona Pomposa. "I have said a rosary every night for five yearsthat they might be taken. And, holy heaven! To think that we have beenpetting the worst of them as if he were General Castro or Juan Alvarado.To think, my Eulogia!--that thirsty wild-cat has had his arm about thywaist more times than I can count."

  "He danced very well--aha!"

  Aunt Anastacia gurgled like an idiot. Dona Pomposa gave a terrificshriek, which Eulogia cut in two with her hand. A man had crawled out ofthe brush near them. His face was black with powder, one arm hung limpat his side. Dona Pomposa half raised her arm to signal the men on thehill, but her daughter gave it such a pinch that she fell back on theseat, faint for a moment.

  "Let him go," said Eulogia. "Do you want to see a man cut in piecesbefore your eyes? You would have to say rosaries for the rest of yourlife." She leaned over the side of the wagon and spoke to the dazed man,whose courage seemed to have deserted him.

  "Don Abel Hudson, you do not look so gallant as at the ball last night,but you helped us to get there, and I will save you now. Get into thewagon, and take care you crawl in like a snake that you may not beseen."

  "No--no!" cried the two older women, but in trut
h they were tooterrified not to submit. Power swung himself mechanically over thewheel, and lay on the floor of the wagon. Eulogia, in spite of aprotesting whimper from Aunt Anastacia, loosened that good dame's ampleouter skirt and threw it over the fallen bandit. Then the faithfulBenito turned his horse and drove as rapidly toward the town as therough roads would permit. They barely had started when they heard agreat shouting behind them, and turned in apprehension, whilst the manon the floor groaned aloud in his fear. But the Vigilantes rode bythem unsuspecting. Across their saddles they carried the blackened anddripping bodies of Lenares and his lieutenants; through the willowsgalloped the caballeros in search of John Power. But they did notfind him, then nor after. Dona Pomposa hid him in her woodhouse untilmidnight, when he stole away and was never seen near San Luis again. Afew years later came the word that he had been assassinated by one ofhis lieutenants in Lower California, and his body eaten by wild hogs.

  IX

  "Al contado plasentero Del primer beso de amor, Un fuego devorador Que en mi pecho siento ardor.

  "Y no me vuelvas a besar Por que me quema tu aliento, Ya desfayeserme siento, Mas enbriagada de amor.

  "Si a cuantas estimas, das Beso en pruebas de amor; Si me amas hasme el favor De no besarme jamas."

  A caballero on a prancing horse sang beneath Eulogia's window, hisjingling spurs keeping time to the tinkling of his guitar. Eulogiaturned over in bed, pulling the sheet above her ears, and went to sleep.

  The next day, when Don Tomas Garfias asked her hand of her mother, DonaCoquetta accepted him with a shrug of her shoulders.

  "And thou lovest me, Eulogia?" murmured the enraptured little dandy asDona Pomposa and Aunt Anastacia good-naturedly discussed the compositionof American pies.

  "No."

  "Ay! senorita! Why, then, dost thou marry me? No one compels thee."

  "It pleases me. What affair of thine are my reasons if I consent tomarry you?"

  "Oh, Eulogia, I believe thou lovest me! Why not? Many pretty girls havedone so before thee. Thou wishest only to tease me a little."

  "Well, do not let me see too much of you before the wedding-day, or Imay send you back to those who admire you more than I do."

  "Perhaps it is well that I go to San Francisco to remain three months,"said the young man, sulkily; he had too much vanity to be enraged. "Wiltthou marry me as soon as I return?"

  "As well then as any other time."

  Garfias left San Luis a few days later to attend to important businessin San Francisco, and although Dona Pomposa and Aunt Anastacia began atonce to make the wedding outfit, Eulogia appeared to forget that sheever had given a promise of marriage. She was as great a belle as ever,for no one believed that she would keep faith with any man, much lesswith such a ridiculous scrap as Garfias. Her flirtations were morecalmly audacious than ever, her dancing more spirited; in every frolicshe was the leader.

  Suddenly Dona Pomposa was smitten with rheumatism. She groaned by nightand shouted by day. Eulogia, whose patience was not great, organizeda camping party to the sulphur springs of the great rancho, Paso desRobles. The young people went on horseback; Dona Pomposa and AuntAnastacia in the wagon with the tents and other camping necessities.Groans and shrieks mingled with the careless laughter of girls andcaballeros, who looked upon rheumatism as the inevitable sister of oldage; but when they entered the park-like valley after the ride over thebeautiful chrome mountains, Dona Pomposa declared that the keen dry airhad already benefited her.

  That evening, when the girls left their tents, hearts fluttered, andgay muslin frocks waved like agitated banners. Several Americans werepitching their tents by the spring. They proved to be a party of miningengineers from San Francisco, and although there was only one youngman among them, the greater was the excitement. Many of the girls werebeautiful, with their long braids and soft eyes, but Eulogia, inher yellow gown, flashed about like a succession of meteors, as theAmericans drew near and proffered their services to Dona Pomposa.

  The young man introduced himself as Charles Rogers. He was agood-looking little fellow, in the lighter American style. Hiswell-attired figure was slim and active, his mouse-coloured hair shortand very straight, his shrewd eyes were blue. After a few moments'critical survey of the charming faces behind Dona Pomposa, he went offamong the trees, and returning with a bunch of wild flowers walkedstraight over to Eulogia and handed them to her.

  She gave him a roguish little courtesy. "Much thanks, senor. You mustscuse my English; I no spik often. The Americanos no care for theflores?"

  "I like them well enough, but I hope you will accept these."

  "Si, senor." She put them in her belt. "You like California?"

  "Very much. It is full of gold, and, I should say, excellent foragriculture."

  "But it no is beautiful country?"

  "Oh, yes, it does very well, and the climate is pretty fair in someparts."

  "You living in San Francisco?"

  "I am a mining engineer, and we have got hold of a good thing nearhere."

  "The mine--it is yours?"

  "Only a part of it."

  "The Americanos make all the money now."

  "The gold was put here for some one to take out. You Californians hadthings all your own way for a hundred years, but you let it stay there."

  "Tell me how you take it out."

  He entered into a detailed and somewhat technical description, but herquick mind grasped the meaning of unfamiliar words.

  "You like make the money?" she asked, after he had finished.

  "Of course. What else is a man made for? Life is a pretty small affairwithout money."

  "We no have much now, but we live very happy. The Americanos love themoney, though. Alway I see that."

  "Americans have sense."

  He devoted himself to her during the ten days of their stay, and hisbusiness shrewdness and matter-of-fact conversation attracted thekeen-witted girl, satiated with sighs and serenades. Always eager forknowledge, she learned much from him of the Eastern world. She did notwaste a glance on her reproachful caballeros, but held long practicalconversations with Rogers under the mending wing of Dona Pomposa, whoapproved of the stranger, having ascertained his abilities and prospectsfrom the older men of his party.

  On the morning of their return to San Luis Obispo, Rogers and Eulogiawere standing somewhat apart, whilst the vaqueros rounded up the horsesthat had strayed at will through the valley. Rogers plucked one of thepurple autumn lilies and handed it to her.

  "Senorita," he said, "suppose you marry me. It is a good thing for a manto be married in a wild country like this; he is not so apt to gambleand drink. And although I've seen a good many pretty girls, I've seen noone so likely to keep me at home in the evening as yourself. What do yousay?"

  Eulogia laughed. His wooing interested her.

  "I promise marry another man; not I think much I ever go to do it."

  "Well, let him go, and marry me."

  "I no think I like you much better. But I spose I must get marry someday. Here my mother come. Ask her. I do what she want."

  Dona Pomposa was trotting toward them, and while she struggled for herlost breath Eulogia repeated the proposal of the American, twanging herguitar the while.

  The old lady took but one moment to make up her mind. "The American,"she said rapidly in Spanish. "Garfias is rich now, but in a few yearsthe Americans will have everything. Garfias will be poor; this man willbe rich. Marry the American," and she beamed upon Rogers.

  Eulogia shrugged her shoulders and turned to her practical wooer.

  "My mother she say she like you the best."

  "Then I may look upon that little transaction as settled?"

  "Si you like it."

  "_Which_ art thou going to marry, Eulogia?" asked one of the girls thatnight, as they rode down the mountain.

  "Neither," said Eulogia, serenely.

  X

  Eulogia had just passed through an animated interview with her mother.Dona Pomposa had stor
med and Eulogia had made an occasional reply in hercool monotonous voice, her gaze absently fixed on the gardens of themission.

  "Thou wicked little coquette!" cried Dona Pomposa, her voice almostworn out. "Thou darest repeat to me that thou wilt not marry the SenorRogers!"

  "I will not. It was amusing to be engaged to him for a time, but now Iam tired. You can give him what excuse you like, but tell him to go."

  "And the clothes I have made--the chests of linen with the beautifuldeshalados that nearly put out Aunt Anastacia's eyes! The new silkgowns! Dias de mi vida! The magnificent bed-spread with the lace as deepas my hand!"

  "They will keep until I do marry. Besides, I need some new clothes."

  "Dost thou indeed, thou little brat! Thou shalt not put on a smock ora gown in that chest if thou goest naked! But thou shalt marry him, Isay!"

  "No."

  "Oh, thou ice-hearted little devil!" Even Dona Pomposa's stomach wastrembling with rage, and her fingers were jumping. "Whom then wilt thoumarry? Garfias?"

  "No."

  "Thou wilt be an old maid like Aunt Anastacia."

  "Perhaps."

  "O--h--h--Who is this?"

  A stranger in travelling scrape and riding-boots had dashed up to thehouse, and flung himself from his horse. He knocked loudly on the opendoor, then entered without waiting for an invitation, and made a deepreverence to Dona Pomposa.

  "At your service, senora. At your service, senorita. I come from theSenor Don Tomas Garfias. Word has reached him that the Senorita Eulogiais about to marry an American. I humbly ask you to tell me if this betrue or not. I have been told in town that the wedding is set for theday after to-morrow."

  "Ask her!" cried Dona Pomposa, tragically, and she swung herself to theother end of the room.

  "Senorita, at your feet."

  "You can tell your friend that I have no more intention of marrying theAmerican than I have of marrying him."

  "Senorita! But he expected to return next week and marry you."

  "We expect many things in this world that we do not get."

  "But--a thousand apologies for my presumption, senorita--why did you notwrite and tell him?"

  "I never write letters."

  "But you could have sent word by some friend travelling to SanFrancisco, senorita."

  "He would find it out in good time. Why hurry?"

  "Ay, senorita, well are you named Dona Coquetta. You are famous even toSan Francisco. I will return to my poor friend. At your service, senora.At your service, senorita," and he bowed himself out, and galloped away.

  Dona Pomposa threw herself into her chair, and wept aloud.

  "Mother of God! I had thought to see her married to a thrifty American!What have I done to be punished with so heartless a child? And theAmericans will have all the money! The little I have will go, too! Weshall be left sitting in the street. And we might have a wooden house inSan Francisco, and go to the theatre! Oh, Mother of God, why dost thounot soften the heart of the wicked--"

  Eulogia slipped out of the window, and went into the mission gardens.She walked slowly through the olive groves, lifting her arms to partthe branches where the little purple spheres lay in their silver nests.Suddenly she came face to face with Pablo Ignestria.

  Her cynical brain informed her stormy heart that any woman must succumbfinally to the one man who had never bored her.