The Conquest of Dona Jacoba
By Gertrude Franklin Horn
Atherton
1
A forest of willows cut by a forking creek, and held apart here and there
by fields of yellow mustard blossoms fluttering in their pale green nests,
or meadows carpeted with the tiny white and yellow flowers of early summer.
Wide patches of blue where the willows ended, and immense banks of daisies
bordering fields of golden grain, bending and shimmering in the wind with
the deep even sweep of rising tide. Then the lake, long, irregular, half
choked with tules, closed by a marsh. The valley framed by mountains of
purplish gray, dull brown, with patches of vivid green and yellow;
a solitary gray peak, barren and rocky, in sharp contrast to the rich
Californian hills; on one side fawn-coloured slopes, and slopes
with groves of crouching oaks in their hollows; opposite and beyond the
cold peak, a golden hill rising to a mount of earthy green; still lower,
another peak, red and green, mulberry and mould; between and afar, closing
the valley, a line of pink-brown mountains splashed with blue.
Such was a fragment of Don Roberto Duncans vast rancho, Los Quervos,
and on a plateau above the willows stood the adobe house, white
and red-tiled, shaped like a solid letter H. On the deep veranda,
sunken between the short forearms of the H, Dona Jacoba could stand and
issue commands in her harsh imperious voice to the Indians in the
rancheria among the willows, whilst the long sala behind overflowed with
the gay company her famous hospitality had summoned, the bare floor
and ugly velvet furniture swept out of thought by beautiful faces and
flowered silken gowns.
Behind the sala was an open court, the grass growing close to the great
stone fountain. On either side was a long line of rooms, and above the
sala was a library opening into the sleeping room of Dona Jacoba on one
side, and into that of Elena, her youngest and loveliest daughter, on
the 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 the
manufactories of the Indians. Somewhat apart was a large building with
a billiard-room in its upper story and sleeping rooms below. From her
window Elena could look down upon the high-walled corral with its prancing
horses always in readiness for the pleasure-loving guests, and upon the
broad road curving through the willows and down the valley.
The great house almost shook with life on this brilliant day of the month
of June, 1852. Don Roberto Duncan, into whose shrewd Scotch hands
California had poured her wealth for forty years, had long ago taken to
himself a wife of Castilian blood; to-morrow their eldest remaining daughter
was to be married to a young Englishman, whose father had been a merchant
in California when San Francisco was Yerba Buena. Not a room was vacant
in the house. Young people had come from Monterey and San Francisco, Santa
Barbara and Los Angeles. Beds had been put up in the library and billiard-room,
in the store-rooms and attics. The corral was full of strange horses,
and the huts in the willows had their humbler guests.
Francisca sat in her room surrounded by a dozen chattering girls. The
floor beneath the feet of the Californian heiress was bare, and the heavy
furniture was of uncarved mahogany. But a satin quilt covered the
bed, lavish Spanish needlework draped chest and tables, and through
the open window came the June sunshine and the sound of the splashing
fountain.
Francisca was putting the last stitches in her wedding-gown, and the
girls were helping, advising, and commenting.
Art thou not frightened, Panchita, demanded one of the girls,
to go away and live with a strange man? Just think, thou hast seen
him but ten times.
What of that? asked Francisca, serenely, holding the
rich corded silk at arms length, and half closing her eyes as she
readjusted the deep flounce of Spanish lace. Remember, we
shall ride and dance and play games together for a week with all of you,
dear friends, before I go away with him. I shall know him quite well by
that time. And did not my father know him when he was a little boy? Surely,
he cannot be a cruel man, or my father would not have chosen him for my
husband.
I like the Americans and the Germans and the Russians, said
the girl who had spoken, particularly the Americans. But these English
are so stern, 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 fathers hard mould, and her frame was large
and sturdy, but she had the black luxuriant hair of Spain, and
much grace 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 girl
of perfect loveliness, who sat behind a table, her chin resting on her
clasped hands.
Thou wouldst marry whom our father told thee to marry, Elena,
said her sister, severely. What hast thou to say about it?
I will marry a Spaniard, said Elena, rebelliously. A
Spaniard, and no other.
Thou wilt do what? asked a cold voice from the door. The
girls gave a little scream. Elena turned pale, even Franciscas hands
twitched.
Dona Jacoba was an impressive figure as she stood in the doorway; a tall
unbowed woman with a large face and powerful penetrating eyes. A thin
mouth covering white teeth separated the prominent nose and square
chin. A braid of thick black hair lay over her fine bust, and a black
silk handkerchief made a turban for her lofty head. She wore a
skirt of heavy black silk and a shawl of Chinese crepe, one end thrown
gracefully over her shoulder.
What didst thou say? she demanded again, a sneer on her lips.
Elena made no answer. She stared through the window at the servants laying
the table in the dining room on the other side of the court, her breath
shortening as if the room had been exhausted of air.
Let me hear no more of that nonsense, continued her mother.
A strange remark, truly, to come from the lips of a Californian!
Thy father has said that his daughters shall marry men of his racemen
who belong to that island of the North; and I have agreed, and thy sisters
are well married. No women are more virtuous, more industrious, more religious,
than ours; but our menour young menare a set of drinking gambling
vagabonds. Go to thy room and pray there until supper.
Elena ran out of an opposite door, and Dona Jacoba sat down on a high-backed
chair and held out her hand for the wedding-gown. She examined it, then
smiled brilliantly.
The lace is beautiful, she said. There is no richer
in California, and I have seen Dona Trinidad Iturbi y Moncadas and
Dona Modeste Castros. Let me see thy mantilla once more.
Francisca opened a chest nearly as large as her bed, and shook out a
long square of superb Spanish lace. It had arrived from the city of Mexico
but a few days before. The girls clapped their admiring hands, as if they
had not looked at it twenty times, and Dona Jacoba smoothed it tenderly
with her strong hands. Then she went over to the chest and lifted the
beautiful silk and crepe gowns, one by one, her sharp eyes detecting no
flaw. She opened another chest and examined the piles of underclothing
and bed linen, all of finest woof, and deeply bordered with the
drawn work of Spain.
All is well, she said, returning to her chair. I see
nothing more to be done. Thy brother will bring the emeralds, and the
English plate will come before the week is over.
Is it sure that Santiago will come in time for the wedding?
asked a half-English granddaughter, whose voice broke suddenly at her
own temerity.
But Dona Jacoba was in a gracious mood.
Surely. Has not Don Roberto gone to meet him? He will be here at
four to-day.
How glad I shall be to see him! said Francisca. Just
think, my friends, I have not seen him for seven years. Not since he was
eleven years old. He has been on that cold dreadful island in the North
all this time. I wonder has he changed!
Why should he change? asked Dona Jacoba. Is he not
a Cortez and a Duncan? Is he not a Californian and a Catholic? Can a few
years in an English school make him of another race? He is seven years
older, that is all.
True, assented Francisca, threading her needle; of
course he could not change.
Dona Jacoba opened a large fan and wielded it with slow curves of her
strong wrist. She had never been cold in her life, and even a June day
oppressed her.
We have another guest, she said in a momenta
young man, Don Dario Castanares 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. Don
Dario Castanares, said one; I have heard of him. He is very
rich and very handsome, they say.
Yes, said Dona Jacoba, indifferently. He is
not ugly, but much too dark. 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 she
possessed a key. As it was, she indulged in a burst of tears at the prospect
of marrying an Englishman, then consoled herself with the thought
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 shapely
head. The flush faded out of her white cheeks, and her eyelids were less
heavy. But the sadness did not leave her eyes nor the delicate curves
of her mouth. She had the face of the Madonna, stamped with the
heritage of suffering; a nature so keenly capable of joy
and pain that she drew both like a magnet, and would so long as life stayed
in her.
She curled herself in the window-seat, looking down the road for the
gray cloud of dust that would herald her brother. But only black
flocks of crows mounted screaming from the willows, to dive and rise again.
Suddenly she became conscious that she was watched, and her gaze swept
downward to the corral. A stranger stood by the gates, giving orders to
a 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 dark
as an Indians, but set with features so perfect that no one but
Dona Jacoba had ever found fault with his skin. Below his dreaming ardent
eyes was a straight delicate nose; the sensuous mouth was half
parted over glistening teeth and but lightly shaded by a silken mustache.
About his graceful figure hung a dark red serape embroidered and fringed
with gold, and his red velvet trousers were laced, and his yellow riding-boots
gartered, with silver.
Elena rose quickly and pulled the curtain across the window; the blood
had 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 the
ceiling, her dark upturned eyes full of terror. For many moments she stood
so, hardly conscious of what she was doing, seeing only the implacable
eyes of her mother. Then down the road came the loud regular hoof-falls
of galloping horses, and with an eager cry she flung aside the curtain,
forgetting the stranger.
Down the road, half hidden by the willows, came two men. When they reached
the rancheria, Elena saw the faces: a sandy-haired hard-faced old Scotsman,
with cold blue eyes beneath shaggy red brows, and a dark slim lad, every
inch a Californian. Elena waved her handkerchief and the lad his hat.
Then the girl ran down the stairs and over to the willows. Santiago sprang
from his horse, and the brother and sister clung together kissing and
crying, hugging each other until her hair fell down and his hat was in
the dust.
Thou hast come! cried Elena at last, holding him at arms
length that she might see him better, then clinging to him again with
all her strength. Thou never wilt leave me againpromise me!
Promise me, my Santiago! Ay, I have been so lonely.
Never, my little one. Have I not longed to come home that I might
be with 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 in CaliforniaI 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; but how I have longed to see her!
They ran to the house, passing the stranger, who had watched them with
folded arms and scowling brows. Santiago rushed impetuously at
his mother; 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,
and led him down the sala to the chapel at the end. It was arranged for
the wedding, with all the pomp of velvet altar-cloth and
golden candelabra. He looked at it wonderingly. Why had she brought
him to look upon this before giving him a mothers greeting?
Kneel down, she said, and repeat the prayers of thy
Churchprayers of gratitude for thy safe return.
The boy folded his hands deprecatingly.
But, mother, remember it is seven long years since I have said
the Catholic 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 dark
cheeks.
What! she screamed incredulously. Thou hast
forgotten the prayers of thy Churchthe 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 the shoulder again and almost hurled him from the room. Then she
locked her hand about his arm and dragged him down the sala to his fathers
room. She took a greenhide reata from the table and brought it down upon
his back with long sweeps of her powerful arm, but not another word came
from her rigid lips. The boy quivered with the shame and pain,
but made no resistancefor he was a Californian, and she was his
mother.
III
Joaquin, the eldest son, who had been hunting bear with a number of his
guests, returned shortly after his brothers arrival and was met
at the door 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.
We have an unexpected guest, Joaquin. He leans there against the treeDon
Dario Castanares. Thou knowest who he is. He comes to buy cattle of thy
father, and will remain some days. Thou must share thy room with him,
for there is no other placeeven on the billiard-table.
Joaquin liked the privacy of his room, but he had all the hospitality
of his 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 his shrewd warmly coloured face.
The house is at your service, Don Dario, he said, shaking
the newcomers hand. We are honoured that you come in time
for my sisters wedding. It distresses me that I cannot offer you
the best room in the house, but, Dios! we have a company here. I have
only the half of my poor 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 greater
happiness than to try to make you comfortable in my poor room. Will you
come now and take a siesta before supper?
Dario followed him to the house, protesting at every step, and Joaquin
threw open the door of one of the porch rooms.
At your service, senoreverything 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.
You will find about thirty thousand dollars there. We sold some
cattle a days 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 the
lady had kissed another man as if she had no love to spare. True, it was
but her brother she had kissed, but would she have eyes for any one else
during a strangers brief visit? And how, in this crowded house,
could he 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 of aguardiente.
When he had burnt his throat, he felt better. I will stay until
I have won her, if I remain a month, he vowed. It will be
some time before Don Roberto will care to talk business.
But Don Roberto was never too occupied to talk business. After he had
taken his bath and siesta, he sent a servant to request Don Dario Castanares
to come up to the library, where he spent most of his time, received all
his visitors, reprimanded his children, and took his after-dinner
naps. It was a luxurious room for the Californian of that day. A thick
red English carpet covered the floor; one side of the room was concealed
by a crowded bookcase, and the heavy mahogany furniture was handsomely
carved, although upholstered with horse-hair.
In an hour every detail of the transaction had been disposed of,
and Dario had traded a small rancho for a herd of cattle. The young mans
face was very long when the last detail had been arranged, but he had
forgotten that his host was as Californian as himself. Don Roberto poured
him a brimming glass of angelica and gave him a hearty slap on the back.
The cattle will keep for a few days, Don Dario, he said,
and you shall not leave this house until the festivities are over.
Not until a week from to-morrowdo you hear? I knew your father.
We had many a transaction together, and I take pleasure in welcoming
his son under my roof. 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
the chapel, looking very handsome in her rich gown and soft mantilla.
The bridegroom, a sensible-looking young Englishman, was somewhat nervous,
but Francisca might have been married every morning at eight oclock.
Behind them stood Don Roberto in a new suit of English broadcloth, and
Dona Jacoba in heavy lilac silk, half covered with priceless lace. The
six bridesmaids looked like a huge bouquet, in their wide delicately coloured
skirts. Their dark eyes, mischievous, curious, thoughtful, flashed
more brilliantly than the jewels they wore.
The sala and Don Robertos room beyond were so crowded that some
of the guests stood in the windows, and many could not enter the doors;
every family within a hundred leagues had come to the wedding. The veranda
was crowded with girls, the sparkling faces draped in black mantillas
or bright rebosos, the full gay gowns fluttering in the breeze. Men in
jingling spurs and all the bravery of gold-laced trousers and short embroidered
jackets respectfully elbowed their way past brown and stout old women
that they might whisper a word into some pretty alert little ear. They
had all ridden many leagues that morning, but there was not a trace of
fatigue on any face. The court behind the sala was full of Indian
servants striving to catch a glimpse of the ceremony.
Dario stood just within the front door, his eyes eagerly fixed upon Elena.
She looked like a California lily in her white gown; even her head drooped
a little as if a storm had passed. Her eyes were absent and heavy; they
mirrored nothing of the solemn gayety of the morning; they saw
only the welts on her brothers back.
Dario had not seen her since Santiagos arrival. She had not appeared
at supper, and he had slept little in consequence; in fact, he had spent
most of the night playing monte with Joaquin and a dozen other
young men in the billiard-room.
During the bridal mass the padre gave communion to the young couple,
and to those that had made confession the night before. Elena was not
of the number, and during the intense silence she drew back and stood
and knelt near Dario. They were not close enough to speak, had they dared;
but the Californian had other speech than words, and Dario and Elena made
their confession that morning.
During breakfast they were at opposite ends of the long table in the
dining room, but neither took part in the songs and speeches, the toasts
and laughter. Both had done some manoeuvring to get out of sight of the
old people, and sit at one of the many other tables in the sala, on the
corridor, in the court; but Elena had to go with the bridesmaids, and
Joaquin insisted upon doing honour to the uninvited guest. The Indian
servants passed the rich and delicate, the plain and peppered, dishes,
the wines and the beautiful cakes for which Dona Jacoba and her daughters
were famous. The massive plate that had done duty for generations in Spain
was on the table; the crystal had been cut in England. It was the banquet
of a grandee, and no one noticed the silent lovers.
After breakfast the girls flitted to their rooms and changed their
gowns, and wound rebosos or mantillas about their heads; the men put off
their jackets for lighter ones of flowered calico, and the whole party,
in buggies or on horseback, started for a bull-fight which was to take
place in a field about a mile behind the house. Elena went in a buggy
with Santiago, who was almost as pale as she. Dario, on horseback, rode
as near her as he dared; but when they reached the fence about the field
careless riders crowded between, and he could only watch her from afar.
The vaqueros in their broad black hats shining with varnish, their black
velvet jackets, their crimson sashes, and short, black velvet trousers
laced with silver cord over spotless linen, looked very picturesque
as they dashed about the field jingling their spurs and shouting at each
other. When the bulls trotted in and greeted each other pleasantly, the
vaqueros swung their hissing reatas and yelled until the maddened animals
wreaked their vengeance on each other, and the serious work
of the day began.
Elena leaned back with her fan before her eyes, but Santiago looked on
eagerly in spite of his English training.
Caramba! he cried, but that old bull is tough. Look,
Elena! The little one is down. No, no! He has the big one. Ay! yi, yi!
By Jove! he is goneno, he has run offhe is on him again! He
has ripped him up! Brava! brava!
A cheer as from one throat made the mountains echo, but Elena still held
her fan before the field.
How canst thou like such bloody sport? she asked disgustedly.
The poor animals! What pleasure canst thou take to see a fine brute
kicking in his death-agony, his bowels trailing on the ground?
Fie, Elena! Art thou not a Californian? Dost thou not love the
sport of thy 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 too stiff 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 another
man since I have seen it.
I cannot be pleased with cruelty. I shall never get used to see
beasts killed 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
face was 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 brought
in, and one of the vaqueros was to fight him. During the next two hours
Santiago gave little thought to his sister, and sometimes her long black
lashes swept above the top of her fan. When five or six bulls had stamped
and roared and gored and died, the guests of Los Quervos went home to
chocolate and siesta, the others returned to their various ranchos.
But Dario took no nap that day. Twice he had seen an Indian girl at Elenas
window, and as the house settled down to temporary calm, he saw the girl
go to the rancheria among the willows. He wrote a note, and followed her
as soon as he dared. She wore a calico frock, exactly like a hundred others,
and her stiff black hair cut close to her neck in the style enforced by
Dona Jacoba; but Dario recognized her imitation of Elenas walk and
carriage. He was very nervous, but he managed to stroll about and make
his visit appear one of curiosity. As he passed the girl he told her to
follow him, and in a few moments they were alone in a thicket. He had
hard work to persuade her to take the note to her mistress, for she stood
in abject awe of Dona Jacoba; but love of Elena and sympathy for
the handsome stranger prevailed, and the girl went off with the
missive.
The staircase led from Don Robertos room to Dona Jacobas;
but the ladys all-seeing eyes were closed, and the master was snoring
in his library. Malia tiptoed by both, and Elena, who had been half asleep,
sat up, trembling with excitement, and read the impassioned request
for an interview. She lifted her head and listened, panting a little.
Then she ran to the door and looked into the library. Her father was sound
asleep; there could he no doubt of that. She dared not write an answer,
but she closed the door and put her lips to the girls ear.
Tell him, she murmured, horrified at her own boldnesstell
him to take me out for the contradanza tonight. There is no other chance.
And the girl went back and delivered the message.
V
The guests and family met again at supper; but yards of linen
and mounds of plate, spirited, quickly turning heads, flowered muslin
gowns and silken jackets, again separated Dario and Elena. He caught a
glimpse now and again of her graceful head turning on its white throat,
or of her sad pure profile shining before her mothers 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 hours
excited comment upon the events of the day the dancing began. Dona Jacoba
could be very gracious when she chose, and she moved among her guests
like a queen to-night, begging them to be happy, and electrifying them
with her brilliant smile. She dispelled their awe of her with magical
tact, and when she laid her hand on one young beautys shoulder,
and told her that her eyes put out the poor candles of Los Quervos, the
girl was ready to fling herself on the floor and kiss the tyrants
feet. Elena watched her anxiously. Her father petted her in his harsh
abrupt way. If she had ever received a kiss from her mother, she did not
remember it; but she worshipped the blinding personality of the woman,
although she shook before the relentless will. But that her mother was
pleased to be gracious tonight was beyond question, and she gave Dario
a glance 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 the contradanza?
She bent her slender body in a pretty courtesy. It is a small favour
to grant a guest who deigns to honour us with his presence.
He led her out, and when he was not gazing enraptured at the graceful
swaying and gliding of her body, he managed to make a few conventional
remarks.
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 more
beautiful women in the cities. Have you ever been in Monterey?
Yes, senorita, many times. I have seen all the beauties, even Dona
Modeste Castro. Once, toothat was before the Americans cameI
saw the Senorita Ysabel Herrera, a woman so beautiful that a man robbed
a church and murdered a priest for her sake. But she was not so beautiful
as you, senorita.
The blood throbbed in the girls fair cheeks. He must love
me, she told herself, to think me more beautiful than Ysabel
Herrera. Joaquin says she was the handsomest woman that ever was seen.
You compliment me, senor, she answered vaguely. She
had wonderful green eyes. So has the Senora Castro. Mine are only brown,
like so many other girls.
They are the most beautiful eyes in California. They are like the
Madonnas. I do not care for green eyes. His black ones flashed
their language to hers, and Elena wondered if she had ever been unhappy.
She barely remembered where she was, forgot that she was a helpless bird
in a golden cage. Her mate had flown through the open door.
The contradanza ends with a waltz, and as Dario held her in his arms
his last remnant of prudence gave way.
Elena, Elena, he murmured passionately, I love thee.
Dost thou not know it? Dost thou not love me a little? Ay, Elena! I have
not slept one hour since I saw thee.
She raised her eyes to his face. The sadness still dwelt in their depths,
but above floated the soft flame of love and trust. She had no coquetry
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 am very 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 the
morning.
The hand that lay on his shoulder clutched him suddenly. No, no,
she said hurriedly; promise me that you will not speak to him for
two or three days at least. My father wants us all to marry Englishmen.
He is kind, and he loves me, but he is mad for Englishmen. And we can
be happy meanwhile.
The music stopped, and he could only murmur his promises before leading
her back to her mother.
He dared not take her out again, but he danced with no one else in spite
of 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 Los Quervos
that each window had a deep seat within and without. Dario ensconced
himself, and was comfortable, if tumultuous.
VI
With dawn the dancing ended, and quiet fell upon Los Quervos. But at
twelve gay voices and laughter came through every window. The family and
guests were taking their cold bath, ready for another eighteen hours of
pleasure.
Shortly after the long dinner, the iron-barred gates of the corral were
thrown open and a band of horses, golden bronze in colour, with silvern
mane and tail, silken embroidered saddles on their slender backs, trotted
up to the door. The beautiful creatures shone in the sun like burnished
armour; they arched their haughty necks and lifted their small
feet as if they were Californian beauties about to dance El Son.
The girls wore short riding-skirts, gay sashes, and little round hats.
The men wore thin jackets of brightly coloured silk, gold-laced knee-breeches,
and silver spurs. They tossed the girls upon their saddles, vaulted into
their own, and all started on a wild gallop for the races.
Dario, with much manoeuvring, managed to ride by Elenas side. It
was impossible to exchange a word with her, for keen and mischievous
ears were about them; but they were close together, and a kind of ecstasy
possessed them both. The sunshine was so golden, the quivering visible
air so full of soft intoxication! They were filled with a reckless
animal joy of livingthe divine right of youth to exist and
be happy. The bars of Elenas cage sank into the warm resounding
earth; she wanted to cry aloud her joy to the birds, to hold and kiss
the air as it passed. Her face sparkled, her mouth grew full. She looked
at Dario, and he dug his spurs into his horses flanks.
The representatives of many ranchos, their wives and daughters, awaited
the party from Los Quervos. But none pushed his way between Dario and
Elena that day. And they both enjoyed the races; they were in a mood to
enjoy anything. They became excited and shouted with the rest as the vaqueros
flew down the field. Dario bet and lost a ranchita, then bet and won another.
He won a herd of cattle, a band of horses, a saddle-bag of 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 the cliffs and sands, watching
the ponderous waves fling themselves on the rocks, then retreat
and rear their crests, to thunder on again.
The fog! cried some one. The fog! And with shrieks
of mock terror they turned their horses heads and raced down the
valley, the fog after them like a phantom tidal wave; but they outstripped
it, and sprang from their horses at the corridor of Los Quervos with shouts
of triumph and lightly blown kisses to the enemy.
After supper they found eggs piled upon silver dishes in the sala, and
with cries of Cascaron! Cascaron! they flung them at each
other, the cologne and flour and tinsel with which the shells were filled
deluging and decorating them.
Dona Jacoba again was in a most gracious mood, and leaned against the
wall, an amused smile on her strong serene face. Her husband stood
by her, 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 the handsomest of all our children, viejo.
Yes, he said, something like tenderness in his cold blue
eyes, there is no prettier girl on twenty ranchos. She shall marry
the finest Englishman of them all.
Elena threw a cascaron directly into Darios mouth, and although
the cologne scalded his throat, he heroically swallowed it, and revenged
himself by covering her black locks with flour. The guests, like the children
they were, chased each other all over the house, up and down the stairs;
the men hid under tables, only to have a sly hand break a cascaron
on the back of their heads, and to receive a deluge down the spinal
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
a flash and caught her in his arms and kissed her. For a second she tried
to free herself, mindful that her sisters had not kissed their lovers
until they stood with them in the chapel; but she was made for love, and
in a moment her white arms were clinging about his neck. People were shouting
around them; there was time for but few of the words Dario wished to say.
Thou must write me a little note every day, he commanded.
Thy brothers coat, one that he does not wear, hangs behind
the door in my room. 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! and they separated suddenly, to speak no more that night.
VII
The next morning, when Elena went to Joaquins room to make the
bed, she found Darios note in the pocket of the coat, but she had
had no opportunity to write one herself. Nor did she have time to read
his until after dinner, although it burned her neck and took away her
appetite. When the meal was over, she ran down to the willows and read
it there, then went straight to the favourite lounging-place of
an old vaquero who had adored her from the days when she used to trot
about the rancho holding his forefinger, or perch herself upon his shoulder
and command him to gallop.
He was smoking his pipe, and he looked up in some wonder as she stood
before 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 face beamed
with good-nature. He put his pipe between his teeth and did as he was
bidden. Elena produced the pencil and paper she had managed to purloin
from her fathers table, and kneeling beside her faithful vaquero,
wrote a note on his back. It took her a long time to coin that simple
epistle, for she never had written a love-letter before. But Pedro
knelt like a rock, although his old knees ached. When the note was finished
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
thy rheumatism, and a big cake.
As she approached the house her mother stood on the corridor watching
the young people mount, and Elena shivered as she met a fiery and watchful
eye. Yesterday had been a perfect day, but the chill of fear touched this.
She sprang on her horse and went with the rest to the games. Her brother
Joaquin kept persistently by her side, and Dario thought it best not to
approach her. She took little interest in the games. The young men climbed
the greased pole amidst soft derisive laughter. The greased pig
was captured by his tail in a tumult of excitement, which rivalled
the death of the bull, but Elena paid no attention. It was not until Dario,
restive with inaction, entered the lists for the buried rooster,
and by its head twisted it from the ground as his horse flew by, that
she was roused to interest; and as many had failed, and as his
was the signal victory of the day, he rode home somewhat consoled.
That night, as Dario and Elena danced the contradanza together, they
felt 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 set before 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 read
the note she had put in her brothers pocket. It gave him courage,
his dreamy eyes flashed, his sensitive mouth curved proudly. As soon as
dinner was over he followed Don Roberto up to the library. The old man
stretched himself out in the long brass and leather chair which had been
imported from England for his comfort, and did not look overjoyed when
his guest begged a few moments indulgence.
I am half asleep, he said. Is it about those cattle?
Joaquin knows as much about them as I do.
Dario had not been asked to sit down, and he stood before Don Roberto
feeling a little nervous, and pressing his hand against the mantelpiece.
I do not wish to speak of cattle, senor.
No? What then? The old mans face was flushed with wine,
and his shaggy brows were drooping heavily.
It isit is about Elena.
The brows lifted a little.
Elena?
Yes, senor. We love each other very much. I wish to ask your permission
that we may be married.
The brows went up with a rush; the stiff hairs stood out like a roof
above the cold angry eyes. For a moment Don Roberto stared at the speaker
as if he had not heard; then he sprang to his feet, his red face purple.
Get out of my house, you damned vagabond! he shouted.
Go as fast as God Almightyll let you. You marry my daughter,you
damned Indian! I wouldnt give her to you if you were pure-blooded
Castilian, much less to a half-breed whelp. And you have dared to make
love to her. Go! Do you hear? Or Ill kick you down the stairs!
Dario drew himself up and looked back at his furious host with a pride
that matched his own. The blood was smarting in his veins, but he made
no sign and walked down the stair.
Don Roberto went at once in search of his wife. Failing to find her,
he walked straight into the sala, and taking Elena by the arm before the
assembled guests, marched her upstairs and into her room, and locked the
door with his key.
Elena fell upon the floor and sobbed with rebellious mortification
and terror. Her father had not uttered a word, but she knew the meaning
of his summary act, and other feelings soon gave way to despair. That
she should never see Dario Castanares again was certain, and she wept
and prayed with all the abandon of her Spanish nature. A picture of the
Virgin hung over the bed, and she raised herself on her knees and lifted
her clasped hands to it beseechingly. With her tumbled hair and
white face, her streaming upturned eyes and drawn mouth, she looked more
like the 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 for gold or ranchos, only to be his wife. I am so lonely,
my mother, for even Santiago thinks of so many other things than of me.
I only want to be 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 face once more, and sobbed until her tears were exhausted. Then
she dragged herself to the window and leaned over the deep seat. Perhaps
she might have one glimpse of him as he rode away.
She gave a little cry of agony and pleasure. He was standing by the gates
of the corral whilst the vaqueros rounded up the cattle he had bought.
His arms were folded, his head hung forward. As he heard her cry, he lifted
his face, and Elena saw the tears in his eyes. For the moment they gazed
at each other, those lovers of Californias long-ago, while the very
atmosphere quivering between them seemed a palpable barrier. Elena
flung out her arms with a sudden passionate gesture; he gave a hoarse
cry, and paced up and down like a race-horse curbed with a Spanish bit.
How to have one last word with her? If she were behind the walls of the
fort of Monterey it would be as easy. He dared not speak from where he
was. Already the horses were at the door to carry the eager company to
a fight between a bull and a bear. But he could write a note 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. But was there ever
a lover in whom necessity did not develop the genius of invention? Dario
flashed upward a glance of hope, then took from his pocket a slip of the
rice-paper used for making cigaritos. He burnt a match, 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, he
flung it straight through the open window. Elena read the meaningless
phrases, then fell insensible to the floor.
IX
It was the custom of Dona Jacoba personally to oversee her entire establishment
every day, and she always went at a different hour, that laziness might
never feel sure of her back. To-day she visited the rancheria immediately
after dinner, and looked through every hut with her piercing eyes. If
the children were dirty, she peremptorily ordered their stout mammas
to put them into the clean clothes which her bounty had provided. If a
bed was unmade, she boxed the ears of the owner and sent her spinning
across the room to her task. But she found little to scold about; her
discipline was too rigid. When she was satisfied that the huts
were in order, she went down to the great stone tubs sunken in the ground,
where the women were washing in the heavy shade of the willows. In their
calico gowns they made bright bits of colour against the drooping green
of the trees.
Maria, she cried sharply, thou art wringing that fine
linen too harshly. Dost thou wish to break in pieces the bridal
clothes of thy senorita? Be careful, or I will lay the whip across thy
shoulders.
She walked slowly through the willows, enjoying the shade. Her fine old
head was held sternly back, and her shoulders were as square as her youngest
sons; but she sighed a little, and pressed a willow branch to her
face with a caressing motion. She looked up to the gray peak standing
above its fellows, bare, ugly, gaunt. She was not an imaginative
woman, but she always had felt in closer kinship with that solitary peak
than with her own blood. As she left the wood and saw the gay cavalcade
about to startthe burnished horses, the dashing caballeros,
the girls with their radiant faces and jaunty habitsshe
sighed again. Long ago she had been the bride of a brilliant young Mexican
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 back of
the house. Approving here, reproaching there, she walked leisurely
through the various rooms where the Indians were making lard, shoes, flour,
candles. She was in the chocolate manufactory when her husband found her.
Comecome at once, he said. I have good news for
thee.
She followed him to his room, knowing by his face that tragedy had visited
them. But she was not prepared for the tale he poured forth with violent
interjections of English and Spanish oaths. She had detected a flirtation
between her daughter and the uninvited guest, and not approving of flirtations,
had told Joaquin to keep his eyes upon them when hers were absent; but
that the man should dare and the girl should stoop to think of marriage
wrought in her a passion to which her husbands seemed the calm flame
of a sperm-candle.
What! she cried, her hoarse voice breaking. What! A
half-breed aspire to a Cortez! She forgot her husbands
separateness with true Californian pride. My daughter and the son
of an Indian! Holy God! And she has dared!she has dared! The little
imbecile! The littleBut, 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 rage through the
floor, she turned the key in the door of her daughters room and
strode in. The girl still lay on the floor, although consciousness had
returned. As Elena saw her mothers face she cowered pitifully.
That terrible temper seldom dominated the iron will of the woman, but
Santiago had shaken it a few days ago, and Elena knew that her turn had
come.
Dona Jacoba shut the door and towered above her daughter, red spots on
her face, her small eyes blazing, an icy sneer on her mouth. She did not
speak a word. She caught the girl by her delicate shoulder, jerked her
to her feet, and lashed her with the heavy whip until screams mingled
with the gay laughter of the parting guests. When she had beaten her until
her own arm ached, she flung her on the bed and went out and locked the
door.
Elena was insensible again for a while, then lay dull and inert
for hours. She had a passive longing for death. After the suffering and
the hideous mortification of that day there seemed no other climax.
The cavalcade rode beneath her windows once more, with their untired
laughter, their splendid vitality. They scattered to their rooms
to don their bright evening gowns, then went to the dining room and feasted.
After supper Francisca unlocked Elenas door and entered with a
little tray on her hand. Elena refused to eat, but her sisters presence
roused her, and she turned her face to the wall and burst into
tears.
Nonsense! said Francisca, kindly. Do not cry, my sister.
What is a lover? The end of a little flirtation? My father will find thee
a husbanda strong fair English husband like mine. Dost thou not
prefer blondes to brunettes, my sister? I am sorry my mother beat thee,
but she has such a sense of her duty. She did it for thy good, my Elena.
Let me dress 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 marks
of the whip. Come down and play cascarones and dance until dawn and forget
all about it.
But Elena only wept on, and Francisca left her for more imperative
duties.
The next day the girl still refused to eat, although Dona Jacoba opened
her mouth and poured a cup of chocolate down her throat. Late in the afternoon
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 into
her hand. Here it is. He is in San Luis Obispo and says he will
stay there. Remember it is but a few miles away. My
Elena sank back with a cry, and Santiago blasphemed in English.
Dona Jacoba unlocked her daughters hand, took the note, and led
Santiago from the room. When she reached her own, she opened a drawer
and handed him a canvas bag full of gold.
Go to San Francisco and enjoy yourself, she said. Interfere
no farther between your sister and your parents, unless you prefer that
reata to gold. Your craft cannot outwit mine, and she will read no notes.
You are a foolish boy to set your sense against your mothers. I
may 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
know that my nature is of iron. No child of mine shall marry a lazy vagabond
who can do nothing but lie in a hammock and bet and gamble and make love.
And a half-breed! Mother of God! Now go to San Francisco, and send for
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 nature
demanded nothing of life but love, and that denied her, she could find
no reason for living. She was not sport-loving like Joaquin, nor practical
like Francisca, nor learned like Santiago, nor ambitious to dance through
life like her many nieces. She was but a clinging unreasoning creature,
with warm blood and a great heart. But she no longer prayed to have Dario
given her. It seemed to her that after such suffering her saddened and
broken spirit would cast its shadows over her happiest moments, and she
longed only for death.
Her mother, becoming alarmed at her increasing weakness, called in an
old woman who had been midwife and doctor of the county for half
a century. She came, a bent and bony woman who must have been majestic
in her youth. Her front teeth were gone, her face was stained with dark
splashes like the imprint of a pre-natal hand. Over her head she
wore a black shawl; and she looked enough like a witch to frighten her
patients into eternity had they not been so well used to her. She prodded
Elena all over as if the girl were a loaf of bread and her knotted fingers
sought a lump of flour in the dough.
The heart, she said to Dona Jacoba with sharp emphasis, her
back teeth meeting with a click, as if to proclaim their existence. I
have no herbs for that, and she went back to her cabin by the ocean.
That night Elena lifted her head suddenly. From the hill opposite her
window came the sweet reverberation of a guitar: then a voice,
which, though never heard by her in song before, was as unmistakable as
if it had serenaded beneath her window every night since she had
known Dario Castanares.
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; the
frogs chanted their midnight mass by the creek in the willows; the coyotes
wailed; the owls hooted. But nothing could drown that message of love.
Elena lit a candle and held it at arms length before the window.
She knew that its ray went straight through the curtains to the singer
on the hill, for his voice broke suddenly, then swelled forth in passionate
answer. He sat there until dawn singing to her; but the next night he
did not come, and Elena knew that she had not been his only audience.
X
The week of festivity was over; the bridal pair, the relatives, the friends
went away. Quiet would have taken temporary possession of Los Quervos
had it not been for the many passing guests lavishly entertained
by 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 three
weeks Dona Jacoba was thoroughly alarmed, and Don Roberto sent Joaquin
to 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, he found
Don Roberto and Dona Jacoba awaiting him in the library. They were ready
to accept his word as law, for he was an Englishman, and had won high
reputation during his short stay in the new country.
He spoke with curt directness. My dear sir, your child is
dying because she does not wish to live. People who write novels call
it dying of a broken heart; but it does not make much difference about
the name. Your child is acutely sensitive, and has an extremely
delicate constitutionpredisposition to consumption. Separation
from the young man she desires to marry has prostrated her to such
an extent that she is practically dying. Under existing circumstances
she will not live two months, and, to be brutally frank, you will
have killed her. I understand that the young man is well-born on his fathers
side, and possessed 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 unless you send for the young man, and he walked down the
stair and made ready for 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 let me see her again.
He went down the stair, filled a small bag with gold, and gave it to
the doctor. He found Joaquin and bade him go for Dario, then shut himself
in a 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, a pair of your shoes and stockings. She walked about
the room until the girls return, her face terrible in its repressed
wrath, its gray consciousness of defeat. When Malia came with the garments
she told her to follow, and went into Elenas room and stood beside
the bed.
Get up, she said. Dress thyself in thy bridal clothes.
Thou art going to 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 our daughter marry the half-breed or answer to God for her murder.
She turned to the maid: Malia, go downstairs and make a cup of chocolate
and bring it up. Bring, too, a glass of angelica.
But Elena needed neither. She forgot her desire for death, her misgivings
of the future; she slipped out of bed, and would have taken a pair of
silk stockings from the chest, but her mother stopped her with an imperious
gesture, and handed her the coarse shoes and stockings the maid had brought.
Elena raised her eyes wonderingly, but drew them on her tender feet without
complaint. Then her mother gave her the shapeless undergarments, the gaudy
calico frock, and she put them on. When the maid returned with the chocolate
and wine, she drank both. They gave 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 gowns that were hers no longer.
There are horses hoofs, said Dona Jacoba. Leave
thy fathers house and go to thy lover.
Elena followed her from the room, walking steadily, although she was
beginning to tremble a little. As she passed the table in the library,
she picked up an old silk handkerchief of her fathers and tied it
about her head and face. A smile was on her lips, but no joy could crowd
the sadness from her eyes again. Her spirit was shadowed; her nature had
come to its own.
They walked through the silent house, and to Elenas memory came
the picture of that other bridal, when the very air shook with pleasure
and the rooms were jewelled with beautiful faces; but she would not have
exchanged her own nuptials for her sisters calm acceptance.
When she reached the veranda she drew herself up and turned to
her mother with all that strange old womans implacable bearing.
I demand one wedding present, she said. The greenhide
reata. I wish it as a memento of my mother.
Dona Jacoba, without the quiver of a muscle, walked into her husbands
room and returned with the reata and handed it to her. Then Elena turned
her back upon her fathers house and walked down the road through
the willows. Dario did not notice the calico frock or the old handkerchief
about 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 Luis Obispo.
Dona Jacoba turned her hard old face to the wall.
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