(This story first appeared in the Anglo-Saxon Review, and isrepublished by kind permission of Mrs. George Cornwallis-West)
I
The Se駉ra as usual had written a formal little note in the morningasking John Talbot to eat his birthday dinner at the Rancho de losOlivos. Although he called on the Se駉ra once a week the year round, shenever offered him more than a glass of angelica or a cup of chocolate onany other occasion; but for his natal day she had a turkey killed, andher aged cook prepared so many hot dishes and dulces of the old timethat Talbot was a wretched man for three days. But he would have enduredmisery for six rather than forego this feast, and the brief embrace ofhome life that accompanied it.
The Se駉ra and the padre of the Mission were Talbot's only companions inSanta Ursula, although for political reasons he often dropped in at thesaloon of the village and discussed with its polyglot customers suchaffairs of the day as penetrated this remote corner of California. Andyet for twenty-three years he had lived in Santa Ursula, year in andyear out, save for brief visits to San Francisco, Sacramento, and theSouthern towns.
Why had he stayed on in this God-forsaken hole after he had become arich man? He asked himself the question with some humor as he walked upand down the corridor of the Mission on this his fortieth birthday; andhe had asked it many times.
To some souls the perfect peace, the warm drowsy beauty of the scenewould have been a conclusive answer. Two friars in their brown robespassed and repassed him, reading their prayers. Beyond the arches of thecorridor, abruptly below the plateau on which stood the long whiteMission, was, so far as the eye was responsible, an illimitable valley,cutting the horizon on the south and west, cut by the mountains of SantaBarbara on the east. The sun was brazen in a dark-blue sky, and underits downpour the vast olive orchard which covered the valley looked likea silver sea. The glittering ripples met the blue of the horizonsharply, crinkled against the lower spurs of the mountain. As a birdthat had skimmed its surface, then plunged for a moment, rose again,Talbot almost expected to see it shake bright drops from its wings. Hesighed involuntarily as he reflected that in the dark caves and arborsbelow it was very cool, far cooler than he would be during an eight-mileride under the mid-day sun of Southern California. Then he rememberedthat the Se駉ra's sala was also dark and cool, and that part of hisway lay through the cotton-woods and willows by the river; and he smiledwhimsically again. He had salted his long sojourn at Santa Ursula withmuch philosophy.
One mountain-peak, detached from the range and within a mile of theMission, was dense and dark with forest, broken only here and there bythe bowlders the earth had flung on high in her restless youth. Therewas but a winding trail to the top, and few had made acquaintance withit. John Talbot knew it well, and that to which it led--a lake in thevery cup of the peak, so clear and bright that it reflected every needleof the dark pines embracing it.
And to the west of the Mission--past the river with its fringe ofcotton-woods and willows, beyond a long dusty road which led throughfields and ca駉n and over more than one hill--was the old adobe house ofthe Rancho de los Olivos.
Talbot was a practical man of business to-day. The olive orchard washis, the toy hotel at the end of the plateau, the land upon which hadgrown the rough village, with its one store, its prosperous saloon, itspost-office, and several shanties of citizens not altogether estimable.He was also a man of affairs, for he had represented the district fortwo years at the State Legislature, and was spoken of as a futureSenator. It cannot be said that the people among whom he had spent somany years of his life loved him, for he was reserved and had never beenknown to slap a man on the back. Moreover, it was believed that hesubscribed to a San Francisco daily paper, which he did not place onfile in the saloon, and that he had a large library of books in one ofhis rooms at the Mission. As far as the neighbors could see, the priestwas the only man in the district in whom he found companionship.Nevertheless he was respected and trusted as a man must be who has neverbroken his word nor taken advantage of another for twenty-three years;and even those who resented the manifest antagonism of his back to thenational familiarity felt that the dignity and interest of the Statewould be safe in his hands. Even those most in favor of rotation hadconcluded that it would not be a bad idea to put him in Congress forlife, after the tacit fashion of the New England States. At all eventsthey would try him in the House of Representatives for two or threeterms, and then, if he satisfied their expectations and demonstrated hisusefulness, they would "work" the State and send him to the UnitedStates Senate. Santa Ursula had but one street, but its saloon was theheart of a hundred-mile radius. And it was as proud as an old don. Whenits leading citizen became known far and wide as "Talbot of Ursula," atitle conferred by the members of his Legislature to distinguish himfrom two colleagues of the same name, its pride in him knew no bounds.The local papers found it an effective head-line, and the title clung tohim for the rest of his life.
It was only when a newspaper interviewed Talbot after his election tothe State Senate that his district learned that he was by birth anEnglishman. He had emigrated with his parents at the age of fourteen,however, and as the population of his district included Germans, Irish,Swedes, Mexicans, and Italians, his nationality mattered little.Moreover, he had made his own fortune, barring the start his uncle hadgiven him, and he was an American every inch of him. England was but apeaceful dream, a vale of the hereafter's rest set at the wrong end oflife. He recalled but one incident of that time, but on that incidenthis whole life had hinged.
It was some years now since it had grouped itself, a tableau of grayghosts, in his memory, but he invoked it to-day, although it seemed tohave no place in the hot languid morning with that Southern sea hidingits bitter fruit breaking almost at the feet of this long whitered-tiled Mission whose silver bells had once called hundreds of Indiansto prayer. (They rang with vehemence still, but few responded.)Nevertheless the memory rose and held him.
His mother, a widow, had kept a little shop in his native village. Hehad gone to school since the tender age of five, and had paid moreattention to his books than to the village battle-ground, for he grewrapidly, and was very delicate until the change to the new world made aman of him. But he loved his books, the other boys were kind to him, andaltogether he was not ill-pleased with his life when one day his motherbade him put on his best clothes and come with her to a wedding. Hegrumbled disdainfully, for he had an interesting book in his hand; buthe was used to obey his mother; he tumbled into his Sunday clothes andfollowed her and other dames to the old stone church at the top of thevillage. The daughter of the great family of the neighborhood was to bemarried that morning, and all the little girls of John's acquaintancewere dressed in white and had strewn flowers along the main street andthe road beyond as far as the castle gates. He thought it a sillybusiness and a sinful waste of posies; but in the church-yard he tookhis place in the throng with a certain feeling of curiosity.
The bride happened to be one of the beauties of her time; but it was notso much her beauty that made John stare at her with expanding eyes andmouth as she drove up in an open carriage, then walked down the longpath from the gate to the church. He had seen beauty before; but neverthat look and air of a race far above his own, of light impertinentpride, never a lissome daintily stepping figure, and a head carried asif it bore a star rather than a bridal wreath. He had not dreamed ofanything alive resembling this, and he knew she was not an angel. Aftershe had entered the church he drew a long breath and glanced sharply atthe village beauties. They looked like coarse red apples; and, alas, hismother was of their world.
When the bride reappeared he stared hard at her again, but this time henoticed that there were similar delicate beings in her train. She wasnot the only one of her kind, then. The discovery filled him withamazement, which was followed by a curious sensation of hope. He brokeaway from his mother and ran after the carriage for nearly a mile,determined to satisfy his eager eyes as long as might be. The bridenoticed him, and, smiling, tossed him a rose from her bouquet. He hadthat flower yet.
It was a week before he confided to his mother that when he grew up heintended to marry a lady. Mrs. Talbot stared, then laughed. But when herepeated the statement a few evenings later during their familiar hour,she told him peremptorily to put such ideas out of his head, that thelikes of him didn't marry ladies. And when she explained why, with thebrutal directness she thought necessary, John was as depressed as a boyof fourteen can be. It was but a week later, however, that his mother,upon announcing her determination to emigrate to America, said to him:"And perhaps you'll get that grand wish of yours. Out there I've heardsay as how one body's as good as another, so if you're a good boy andmake plenty of brass, you can marry a lady as well as not." She forgotthe words immediately, but John never forgot them.
Mrs. Talbot died soon after their arrival in New York, and the brotherwho had sent for her put John to school for two years. One day he toldhim to pack his trunk and accompany him to California in search of gold.They bought a comfortable emigrant wagon and joined a large party aboutto cross the plains in quest of El Dorado. During that long momentousjourney John felt like a character in a book of adventures, for they hadno less than three encounters with red Indians, and two of his partywere scalped. He always felt young again when he recalled that time. Itwas one of those episodes in life when everything was exactly as itshould be.
He and his uncle remained in the San Joaquin valley for a year, andalthough they were not so fortunate as many others, they finally movedto San Francisco the richer by a few thousands. Here Mr. Quick opened agambling-house and saloon, and made money far more rapidly than he haddone in the northern valley--where, in truth, he had lost much by nightthat he had panned out by day. But being a virtuous uncle, if animperfect member of society, he soon sent John to the country to lookafter a ranch near the Mission of Santa Ursula. The young man never knewthat this fine piece of property had been won over the gambling tablefrom Don Roberto Ortega, one of the maddest grandees of the Californias.His grant embraced some fifty thousand acres and was bright in patcheswith little olive orchards. John planted with olive-trees, at his ownexpense, the twelve thousand acres which had fallen to his uncle'sshare; the two men were to be partners, and the younger was to inheritthe elder's share. He inherited nothing else, for his uncle married aMexican woman who knifed him and made off with what little money hadbeen put aside from current extravagances. But John worked hard, boughtvaras in San Francisco whenever he had any spare cash, supplied almostthe entire State with olives and olive-oil, and in time became a richman.
And his ideal? Only the Indians had driven it temporarily into theunused chambers of his memory. Not gold-mines, nor his brief taste ofthe wild hot life of San Francisco, nor hard work among his olive-trees,nor increasing wealth and importance, had driven from his mind thatdesire born among the tombstones of his native village. It was the womanherself with a voice as silver as his own olive leaves, who laughed hisdream to death, and left him, still handsome, strong, and lightlytouched by time, a bachelor at forty.
He saw nothing of women for several years after he came to the Mission,for the one ranch house in the neighborhood was closed, and there was novillage then. He worked among his olive-trees contentedly enough,spending long profitable evenings with the intellectual priests, whomade him one of their family, and studying law and his favorite science,political economy. Although the boy was very handsome, with hissun-burned, well-cut face and fine figure, it never occurred to thepriests that the most romantic of hearts beat beneath that shrewd,accumulative brain. Of women he had never spoken, except when he hadconfided to his friends that he was glad to get away from the very sightof the terrible creatures of San Francisco; and that he dreamed forhours among his olive-trees of the thoroughbred creature who was one dayto reward his labors and make him the happiest of mortals never enteredthe imagination of the good padres.
He was twenty and the ranch was his when he met Delfina Carillo. DonRoberto Ortega had opportunely died before gambling away more than halfof his estate, and his widow, who was delicate, left the ranch nearMonterey, where they had lived for many years, and came to bake brown inthe hot suns of the South. Her son, Don Enrique, came with her, and Johnsaw him night and morning riding about the country at top speed, andsometimes clattering up to the corridor of the Mission and calling for aglass of wine. He was a magnificent caballero, slim and dark, withlarge melting eyes and long hair on a little head. He wore small-clothesof gayly colored silk, with much lace on his shirt and silver on hissombrero. His long yellow botas were laced with silver, and his saddlewas so loaded with the same metal that only a Californian horse couldhave carried it. John turned up his nose at this gorgeous apparition,and likened him to a "play actor" and a circus rider; nevertheless, hewas very curious to see something of the life of the Californiangrandee, of which he had heard much and seen nothing, and when PadreOrtega, who was a cousin of the widow, told him that a large company wasexpected within a fortnight, and that he had asked permission to takehis young friend to the ball with which the festivities would open, Johnbegan to indulge in the pleasurable anticipations of youth.
But he did not occupy the interval with dreams alone. He went to SanFrancisco and bought himself a wardrobe suitable for polite society. Itwas an American outfit, not Californian, but had John possessed thewealth of the northern valleys he could not have been induced to puthimself into silk and lace.
The stage did not go to Santa Ursula, but a servant met him at a stationtwenty miles from home with a horse, and a cart for his trunk. Hewashed off the dust of three days' travel in a neighboring creek, thenjumped on his big gray mare, and started at a mild gallop for his ranch.He felt like singing his contentment with the world, for the morning wasradiant, he was on one of the finest horses of the country, and he wasas light of heart as a boy should be who has received a hint fromfortune that he is one of the favorites. He looked forward to the socialordeal without apprehension, for by this time he had all the nativeAmerican's sense of independence, he had barely heard the word"gentleman" since his arrival in the new country, his education was allthat could be desired, he was a landed proprietor, and intended to be arich and successful man. No wonder he wanted to sing.
He had ridden some eight or ten miles, meeting no one in that greatwilderness of early California, when he suddenly drew rein and listened.He was descending into a narrow ca駉n on whose opposite slope the roadcontinued to the interior; his way lay sharply to the south when hereached the narrow stream between the walls of the ca駉n. The sound ofmany voices came over the hills opposite, and the voices were light, andyoung, and gay. John remembered that it was time for Do馻 Martina'svisitors to arrive, and guessed at once that he was about to fall inwith one of the parties. The young Californians travelled on horsebackin those days, thinking nothing of forty miles under a midsummer sun.John, who was the least self-conscious of mortals, was moved togratitude that he wore a new suit of gray serge and had left the dust ofstage travel in the creek.
The party appeared on the crest of the hill, and began the descent intothe ca駉n. John raised his cap, and the caballeros responded with aflourish of sombreros. It would be some moments before they could meet,and John was glad to stare at the brilliant picture they made. Lifesuddenly seemed unreal, unmodern to him. He forgot his olive-trees, andrecalled the tales the priests had told him of the pleasures andmagnificence of the Californian dons before the American occupation.
The caballeros were in silk, every one of them, and for variety of huethey would have put a June garden to the blush. Their linen and silverwere dazzling, and the gold-colored coats of their horses seemed areflection of the sun. These horses had silver tails and manes, andseemed invented for the brilliant creatures who rode them. The girlswere less gorgeous than the caballeros, for they wore delicate floweredgowns, and a strip of silk about their heads instead of sombrerostrimmed with silver eagles. But they filled John's eye, and he forgotthe caballeros. They had long black braids of hair and large dark eyesand white skins, and at that distance they all looked beautiful; butalthough John worshipped beauty, even in the form of olive-trees andpurple mists, it was not the loveliness of these Spanish girls that sethis pulses beating and sent the blood to his head. This was almost hisfirst sight of gentlewomen since the memorable day in his nativevillage, and the certainty that his opportunity had come at last filledhim with both triumph and terror as he spurred down the slope, thenpaused and watched the cavalcade pick their way down through the goldengrass and the thick green bush of the ca駉n. In a moment he recognizedDon Enrique Ortega, who spoke to him pleasantly enough as he rode intothe creek and dropped his bridle that his horse might drink. The twoyoung men had met at the Mission, and although Enrique regarded theconquerors of his country as an inferior race, John was as good as anyof them, and doubtless it was best to make no enemies. Moreover, hismanners were very good.
"Ah, Don Juan," he exclaimed, "you have make the visit to YerbaBuena--San Francisco you call him now, no? I go this morning to meet myfriends who make for the Rancho de los Olivos so great an honor. Si youpermit me I introduce you, for you are the friend de my cousin, PadreOrtega."
The company had scattered down the stream to refresh their horses,making a long banner of color in the dark ca駉n. Don Enrique led Johnalong the line, and presented him solemnly to each in turn. Thecaballeros protested eternal friendship with vehement insincerity, andthe girls flashed their eyes and teeth at the blue-eyed young Americanwithout descending from their unconscious pride of sex and race. Theyhad the best blood of Spain in them, and an American was an American, behe never so agreeable to contemplate.
The girls looked much alike in the rebosos which framed their faces soclosely, and John promptly fell in love with all of them at once.Selection could take place later; he was too happy to think of anythingso serious as immediate marriage. But one of them he determined to have.
He rode out of the ca駉n with them, and they were gracious, andchattered of the pleasures to come at the Rancho de los Olivos.
John noticed that Enrique kept persistently at the side of one maiden,and rode a little ahead with her. She was very tall and slim, and sograceful that she swayed almost to her horse's neck when branchesdrooped too low. John began to wish for a glimpse of her face.
"That is Delfina Carillo," said the girl beside him, following his gaze."She go to marry with Enrique, I theenk. He is very devot, and I thinkshe like him, but no will say."
Perhaps it was merely the fact that this dainty flower hung a littlehigher than the others that caused John's thoughts to concentrate uponher, and roused his curiosity to such an extent that he drew hiscompanion on to talk of the girl who was favored by Enrique Ortega. Helearned that she was the daughter of a great rancher near Santa Barbara,and was La Favorita of all the country round.
"She have the place that Chonita Iturbi y Moncada have before, and manycaballeros want to marry with her, but she no pay much attention; onlynow I think like Enrique. Ay, he sing so beautiful, Se駉r, no wonder sishe loving him. Serenade her every night, and she love the musica."
"It certainly must be that," thought John, "for he hasn't an idea in hishead."
He did not see her until that night. The priest wore the brown robe ofhis order to the ball, and John his claw-hammer. They both looked out ofplace among those birds of brilliant plumage.
Do馻 Martina, large and coffee-colored, with a mustache and manyjewels, sat against the wall with other se駉ras of her kind. They woreheavy red and yellow satins, but the girls wore light silks thatfluttered as they walked.
Do馻 Martina gave him a sleepy welcome, and he turned his attention tothe dancing, in which he could take no part. He knew that his mannerswere good and his carriage easy, but the lighter graces had not come hisway.
At the moment a girl was dancing alone in the middle of the sala, andJohn knew instinctively that she was Delfina Carillo. Like the othergirls, she wore her hair high under a tall comb, but her gown was whiteand trimmed with the lace of Spain. Her feet, of course, were tiny, andshowed plainly beneath her slightly lifted skirts; and she danced withno perceptible effort, rather as if swayed by a light wind, like thependent moss in the woods. She had just begun to dance when Johnentered, and the company was standing against the wall in silence; butin a few moments the young men began to mutter, then to clap and stamp,then to shout, and finally they plunged their hands wildly into theirpockets and flung gold and silver at her feet. But she took no noticebeyond a flutter of nostril, and continued to dance like a thing oflight and air.
Her beauty was very great. John, young as he was, knew that it washardly likely he should ever see beauty in such perfection again. It wasnot an intellectual face, but it was faultless of line and delicate ofcoloring. The eyes were not only very large and black, but the lasheswere so long and soft the wonder was they did not tangle. Her skin waswhite, her cheeks and lips were pink, her mouth was curved and flexible;and her figure, her arms and hands and feet had the expression in theirperfect lines that her face lacked. John noticed that she had a shortupper lip, a haughty nostril, and a carriage that expressed pride bothlatent and active. It was with an effort that she bent her headgraciously as she glided from the floor, taking no notice of theofferings that had been flung at her feet.
And John loved her once and for all. She was the sublimation of everydream that his romantic heart had conceived. He felt faint for a momentat the difficulties which bristled between himself and this superlativebeing, but he was a youthful conqueror, and life had been very amiableto him. He shook courage into his spirit and asked to be presented toher at once.
Her eyes swept his face indifferently, but something in his intenseregard compelled her attention, and although she appeared to scornconversation, she smiled once or twice; and when she smiled her facewas dazzling.
"That was very wonderful, that dance, se駉rita; but does it not tireyou?"
"No."
"You are glad to give such great pleasure, I suppose?"
"Si--"
"You are so used to compliments--I know how the caballeros go on--youwon't mind my saying it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw--and Ihave been about the world a bit."
"Si?"
"I wish I could dance, if only to dance with you."
"You no dance?" Her tone expressed polite scorn, although her voice wasscarcely audible.
"Would--would--you talk out a dance with me?"
"Oh no." She looked as astonished as if John had asked her to shutherself up alone in her room for the rest of the evening, and she swayedher back slowly upon him and lifted her hand to the shoulder of Enrique.In another moment she was gliding down the room in his arm, and Johnnoted that the color in her cheek was deeper.
"It is impossible that she can care for that doll," he thought;"impossible."
But in the days that followed he realized that the race was to be a hotone. He was included in all the festivities, and they went tomeriendas among the cotton-woods by the river and in the hills, dancedevery night, were entertained by the priests at the Mission, and hadbull-fights, horse-races, and many games of skill. Upon one occasionJohn was the happy host of a moonlight dance among his olive-trees.
Enrique's attentions to his beautiful guest were persistent andunmistakable, and, moreover, he serenaded her nightly. John, ridingabout the ranch late, too restless to sleep, heard those dulcet tonesraining compliments and vows upon Delfina's casement, and swore sofuriously that he terrified the night birds.
But he, too, managed to keep close to Delfina, in spite of an occasionalscowl from Enrique, who, however, held all Americans in too lofty acontempt to fear one. John had several little talks apart with her, andit was not long before he discovered that nature had done little for theinterior of that beautiful shell. She had read nothing, and thoughtalmost as little. What intelligence she had was occupied with herregalities, and although sweet in spite of her hauteur, and unselfishnotwithstanding her good-fortune, as a companion she would mean littleto any man. John, however, was in the throes of his first passion, andhis nature was ardent and thorough. Had she been a fool, simperinginstead of dignified, he would not have cared. She was beautiful andmagnetic, and she embodied an ideal. The ideal, however, or rather theambition that was its other half, played no part in his mind as his lovedeepened. He wanted the woman, and had he suddenly discovered that shewas a changeling born among the people, his love and his determinationto marry her would have abated not a tittle.
His olive-trees were neglected, and he spent the hours of theirseparations riding about the country with as little mercy on his horsesas had he been a Californian born. Sometimes, touched by the youthfulfervor in his eyes, Delfina would melt perceptibly and ask him aquestion or two about himself, a dazzling favor in one who held thatwords were made to rust. And once, when he lifted her off her horseunder the heavy shadow of the trees, she gave him a glance which sentJohn far from her side, lest he make a fool of himself before the entirecompany. Meanwhile he was not unhappy, in spite of the wildness in hisblood, for he found the tremors of love and hope and fear as sweet asthey were extraordinary.
One evening the climax came.
Delfina expressed a wish to see the lake on the summit of the solitarypeak. It had been discovered by the Indians, but was unknown to theluxurious Californians. The company was assembled on the long corridortraversing the front of the Casa Ortega when Delfina startled Enrique bya command to take them all to the summit that night.
"But, se駉rita mia," exclaimed Enrique, turning pale at the thought ofoffending his goddess, "there is no path. I do not know the way. And itis as steep as the tower of the Mission--"
John came forward. "There is an Indian trail," he said, "and I haveclimbed it more than once. But it is very narrow--and steep, certainly."
Delfina's eyes, which had flashed disdain upon Enrique, smiled uponJohn. "We go with you," she announced; "to-night, for is moon. And Iride in front with you."
On the whole, thought Talbot, glancing towards the great peak whosewilderness was still unrifled, that was the happiest night of his life.They outdistanced the others by a few yards, and they were obliged toride so close that their shoulders touched. It was the full of the moon,but in the forest there was only an occasional splash of silver. Theymight have fancied themselves alone in primeval solitude had it notbeen for the gay voices behind them. And never had Delfina been soenchanting. She even talked a little, but her accomplished coquetryneeded few words. She could express more by a bend of the head or aninflection of the voice than other women could accomplish withvocabularies and brains. John felt his head turning, but retained wisdomenough to wait for a moment when they should be quite alone.
The lake looked like a large reflection of the moon itself, for theblack trees shadowed but the edge of the waters. So great was the beautyof the scene that for a few moments the company gazed at it silently,and the mountain-top remained as still as during its centuries ofloneliness. But, finally, some one exclaimed, "Ay, yi!" and then rosea chorus, "Dios de mi alma!" "Dios de mi vida!" "Ay, California!California!" "Ay, de mi, de mi, de mi!"
Everybody, even Enrique, was occupied. John caught the bridle ofDelfina's horse, and forced it back into the forest. And then his wordstumbled one over the other.
"I must, I must!" he said wildly, keeping down his voice withdifficulty. "I've scarcely had a chance to make you love me, but I can'twait to tell you--I love you. I love you! I want to marry you! Oh--I amchoking!" He wrenched at his collar, and in truth he felt as if the verymountain were trembling.
Delfina had thrown back her head. "Ay!" she remarked. Then she laughed.
She had no desire to be cruel, but her manifest amusement brought theblood down from John's head, and he shook from head to foot. His whiteface showed plainly in this fringe of the forest, and she ceasedlaughing and spoke kindly.
"Poor boy, I am sorry si I hurt you, but I no can marry you. Never I canlove the Americano; no is like our men, so handsome, so graceful, sosplendid. I like you, for are very nice boy, but I go to marry withEnrique. So no theenk more about it." Then as he continued to stare, theyouthful agony in his face touched her, and she leaned forward and saidsoftly, "Can kiss me once si you like. You are boy to me, no more, so Ino mind." And he kissed her with a violence of despair and passion whichcaused her maiden mind to wonder, and which she never experienced again.
He went no more to the Casa Ortega, and hid among his olive-trees whenthe company clattered by the Mission. At the end of another week shereturned to her home, and three months later she returned as the brideof Enrique Ortega.
Talbot smiled slightly as he recalled the sufferings of the boy longdead. There had been months when he had felt half mad; then hadsucceeded several years of melancholy and a distaste for everything inlife but work. He could not bring himself to sell the ranch and fleefrom the scene of his disappointment, for he was young enough to take amorbid pleasure in the very theatre of his failure.
He did not see Delfina again for three years. By that time she had threechildren and had begun to grow stout. But she was still very beautiful,and John kept out of her way for several years more.
But the years rolled round very swiftly. Do馻 Martina died. So did sixof the ten children Delfina bore. Then Enrique died, leaving hisdiminished estates, his wife, and his four little girls to the care ofJohn Talbot.
This was after fourteen years of matrimony and six years of intimacybetween Talbot and the family of Los Olivos. One day Enrique, indesperation at the encroachments of certain squatters, had bethoughthimself of the American, now the most influential man in the county, andgone to him for advice. Talbot had found him a good lawyer, lent him thenecessary money, and the squatters were dispossessed. Enrique'sgratitude for Talbot knew no bounds; he pressed the hospitality of LosOlivos upon him, and in time the two became fast friends.
Ortega and Delfina had jogged along very comfortably. She was anexemplary wife, a devoted mother, and as excellent a housekeeper asbecame her traditions. He made a kind and indulgent husband, and ifneither found much to say to the other, their brief conversations wereamiable. Enrique developed no wit with the years, but he was always acourteous host and played a good game of billiards, besides taking amild interest in the affairs of the nation. John soon fell into thehabit of spending two nights a week at the Rancho de los Olivos, andnever failed to fill his pockets with sweets for the little girls, whopreferred him to their father.
And his love! He used to fancy it was buried somewhere in the mausoleumof flesh which had built itself about Delfina Carillo. She weighed twohundred pounds, and her black hair and fine teeth were the only remnantsof her splendid beauty. Her face was large and brown, and although sheretained her dignity of carriage and moved with the old slow grace, shelooked what she was, the Spanish mother of many children.
The change was gradual, and brought no pang with it. John's memory was agood one, and sometimes when it turned to his youth and the one passionof his life, he felt something like a sob in his soul, a momentary echoof the old agony. But it was only an echo; he had outgrown it all longsince. He sometimes wondered that he loved no other woman, why hisambition to have an aristocratic wife had died with his first passion;and concluded that the intensity of his nature had worn itself out inthat period of prolonged suffering, and that he was incapable of lovingagain. And the experience had satisfied him that marriage without lovewould be a poor affair. Once in a while, after leaving the plaincoffee-colored dame who filled the doorway as she waved him good-bye, hesighed as he recalled the exquisite creature of his youth. But thesesighs grew less and less frequent, for not only was the grass high abovethat old grave in his heart and he a busy and practical man, but theSe駉ra Ortega had become the most necessary of his friends. What shelacked in brain she made up in sympathy, and she had developed a certainamount of intelligence with the years. It became his habit to talk toher of all his ambitions and plans, particularly after the death ofEnrique, when they had many uninterrupted hours together.
Upon Ortega's death Talbot took charge of the estate at once, and intothe particulars of her handsome income it never occurred to the widow toinquire. One by one the girls married, and Talbot dowered them all. Theywere pretty creatures, and John loved them, for each had in her face amorsel of Delfina Carillo's lost beauty; and if they recalled the painof his youth they recalled its sweetness too. The Se駉ra recalledneither.
For the last year she had been quite alone. Two of her daughters livedin the city of Mexico. One had married a Spanish Consul and returnedwith him to Spain. The other lived in San Francisco, and as soon asdomestic affairs would permit intended to visit her sisters. Talbot,when at home, called on the Se駉ra once a week and always carried anovel or an illustrated paper in his saddle-bag.
"Is the tragedy at this end or the other?" thought Talbot, as he walkedup and down the Mission corridor on his fortieth birthday--"that I couldnot have her when I was mad about her, or that I can have her now anddon't want her?"
He knew that the Se駉ra was lonesome in her big house and would havewelcomed a companion, but he knew also that the desire moved sluggishlyin the depths of her lazy mind. If he were willing, well and good. Ifotherwise, it mattered not much.
His Indian servant cantered up with his horse, he gave a last regretfulglance at the cool corridor of the Mission, and then went out into thehot sun.
He was only a stone heavier than in the old days, but he rode moreslowly, for this his favorite mare was no longer young. His day forbreaking in bucking mustangs was over, and he liked an animal that wouldbehave itself as became the four-footed companion of his years.
The road through the pale green cotton-woods and willows that wooded thebanks of the river--as dry as the heavens--was almost cold, andrefreshingly dim; but when the bed and its fringe turned abruptly to thesouth his way led for five sweltering miles through sun-burned fieldsand over hills as yellow as polished gold. The sky looked like dark-bluemetal in which a hole had been cut for a lake of fire. The heat itemptied quivered visibly in the parched fields, and the mountains swamin a purple haze. Talbot had a grape-leaf in his hat, and the suns ofCalifornia had baked his complexion long since, but he wished that hisbirthday occurred in winter, as he had wished many a time before.
It was an hour and a half before he rode into the grounds surroundingCasa Ortega. Then he spurred his horse, for here were many old oak-treesand the atmosphere was twenty degrees cooler. A Mexican servant met him,and he dismounted and walked the few remaining yards to the house. Hesighed as he remembered that Herminia, the last of the girls to marry,had been there to kiss him on his last birthday. He would gladly havehad all four back again, and now they had passed out of his lifeforever.
The Casa Ortega was a very long adobe house one story in height and oneroom deep, except in an ell where a number of rooms were bunchedtogether. The Se駉ra had it whitewashed every year, and the red tiles onthe roof renewed when necessary; therefore it had none of the patheticlook of old age peculiar to the adobe mansions of the dead grandees.
A long veranda traversed the front, supported by pillars and furnishedwith gayly painted chairs; but it was empty, and Talbot entered thesala at once. It was a long room, severely furnished in the old style,and facing the door was a painting of Delfina Carillo. Talbot rarelyallowed his eyes to wander to this portrait. Had he dared he would haveasked for its removal. The grass was long above the grave, but therewere such things as ghosts.
The Se駉ra was sitting in a corner of the dim cool room, and rose atonce to greet him. She came forward with a grace and dignity of carriagethat still had the power to prick his admiration. But she was very dark,and the old enchanting smile had lost its way long since in the largecheeks and heavy chin. Even her eyes no longer looked big, and thefamous lashes had been worn down by many tears; for there were sixlittle graves in the Ortega corner of the Mission church-yard, and shehad loved her children devotedly. She carried her two hundred pounds asunconsciously as she had once carried her willowy inches, and she woresoft black cashmere in winter and lawn in summer, fastened at the throatwith a miniature of the husband of her youth. She was only thirty-nine,but there was not a vestige of youth about her anywhere, and her wholebeing expressed a life lived, and a sleepy contentment with the fact.Talbot often wondered if she had no hours of insupportable loneliness;but she gave no sign, and he concluded that novels and religionsufficed.
"So hot it is, no?" she said in her soft hardly audible tones, that,like her carriage and manner, were unchanged. "You have the face veryred, but feel better in a little while. Very cool here, no?"
"I feel ten years younger than I did a quarter of an hour ago. Therewas a time--alas!--when I could stand the suns of California for sixhours at a stretch, but--"
"Ay, yes, we grow more old every year. Is twenty now since we meriendaall day and dance all night--when I am a visitor here, no more; and youare the thin boy with the long arms, and legs, and try to grow themustache."
It was the first time she had ever referred to their youth, and hestared at her. But her face was as placid as if she had been helping himto chicken with Chile-sauce, and he wondered if it could change.Involuntarily he glanced at the portrait. It seemed alive withexpression, and--the room was almost dark--he fancied the eyes weretragic.
"How can she stand it?" he thought. "How can she?"
"You are improve," she continued politely. "The American mens no growold like the Spanish--or like the women that have ten children and getso stout and have the troubles--"
"You have retained much, Se駉ra," exclaimed Talbot, blundering over thefirst compliment he he had paid her in twenty years.
She smiled placidly and moved her head gently; the word "shake" couldnever apply to any of her movements. "I have the mirror--and thepicture. And I no mind, Don Juan. When the woman bury the six children,no care si she grow old. The more soon grow old the more soon die andsee the little ones--am always very fond of Enrique also," she added,"but when am young love more. He is very good man always, but he growold like myself and very fat. Only you are improve, my friend. That onereason why always I am so glad to see you. Remind me of that time whenall are young and happy."
Old Marcia announced dinner, and Talbot sprang to his feet with asensation of relief and offered the Se駉ra his arm. She made no furtherreferences to their youth during the excellent and highly seasonedrepast, but discussed the possibilities of the crops and listened withdeep attention to the political forecast. She knew that politics werebecoming the absorbing interest in the life of her friend, and althoughshe also knew that they would one day put a continent between herselfand him, she had long since ceased to live for self, and never failed toencourage him.
When the last dulce had been eaten they went out upon the veranda andtalked drowsily of minor matters until both nodded in their comfortablechairs, and finally fell asleep.
For a time the heavy dinner locked Talbot's brain, but finally he beganto dream of his youth, and the scenes of which Delfina Carillo had beenthe heroine were flung from their rusty frames into the hot light of hismemory, until he lived again the ecstasy and the anguish of that time.The morning's reminiscences had moved coldly in his mind, but so intensewas his vision of the woman he had worshipped that she seemed bathed inlight.
He awoke suddenly. The Se駉ra still slept, and her face was as placid asin consciousness. It was slightly relaxed, but the time had not yet comefor the pathetic loss of muscular control. Still, she looked so largeand brown and stout that Talbot rose abruptly with an echo of the agonythat had returned in sleep, and entered the sala and stooddeliberately before the portrait. It had been painted by an artist ofmuch ability. There was atmosphere behind it, which in the dim roomdetached it from the canvas; and the curved red mouth smiled, the eyesflashed with the triumph of youth and much conquest, the skin was aswhite as the moon-flowers in the fields at night.
Talbot recalled the night he had taken this woman in his arms--not thewoman on the veranda--and involuntarily he raised them to the picture."And I thought it was over," he muttered, with a terrified gasp. "But Ibelieve I would give my immortal soul and everything I've accomplishedin life if she would come out of the frame and the past for an hour andlove me."
"Whatte you say?" drawled a gentle voice. "I fall asleep, no? Si youring that little bell Marcia bring the chocolate. You find it too hotout here?"
"Oh, no; I prefer it out-of-doors. It is cooler now, and I like all theair I can get."
He longed to get away, but he sipped his chocolate and listened to thedomestic details of his four vicarious daughters. The Se駉ra wasimmensely proud of her five grandchildren. Their photographs were allover the house.
At six o'clock he shook hands with her and sprang on his horse. Half-waydown the avenue he turned his head, as usual. She stood on the verandastill, and smiled pleasantly to him, moving one of her large brown handsa little. He never saw the Se駉ra again.
II
Talbot was obliged to go to San Francisco a day or two later, and whenhe returned the Se駉ra was in bed with a severe cold. He sent her a boxof books and papers, and another of chocolates, and then forgot her inthe excitement of the elections. It was the autumn of the year 1868, andhe was an enthusiastic admirer of Grant. He stumped the State for thatadmirable warrior and indifferent statesman, with the result that hisown following increased; and his interest in politics waxed with each ofseveral notable successes in behalf of the candidate. He finallyannounced decisively that he should run for Congress at the nextelections, and a member of the House of Representatives from hisdistrict dying two days later, he was appointed at once to fill thevacant chair.
The Se駉ra was still in bed with a persistent cold and cough when heleft for Washington late in November, but he rode over to leave agood-bye with old Marcia, and ordered a bookseller in San Francisco tosend her all the illustrated papers and magazines.
She entered his mind but seldom during those interesting months inWashington. Talbot became sure of his particular talent at last, anddetermined to remain in politics for the rest of his life. Moreover, theexcitement until the 4th of March was intense, for Southern blood wasstill hot and bitter, and there were rumors in the air that Grant wouldbe assassinated on the day of his inauguration. He was not, however,and Talbot was glad to be in Washington on that memorable day. He wrotethe Se駉ra an account both of the military appearance of the city and ofthe brilliant scene in the Senate Chamber, but she had ceased, for thetime, to be a weekly necessity in his life.
And being a bachelor, wealthy, handsome, and properly launched, he wassoon skimming that social sea of many crafts. For the first time sincehis abrupt severance from the Los Olivos festivities he enjoyed society.San Francisco's had seemed a poor imitation of what novels described,but Washington was full of brilliant interest. And he met more than onewoman who recalled his boyish ideals, women who were far more like thevision in the English church-yard than Delfina Carillo; who, indeed, hadnot resembled the English girl in anything but manifest of race, and hadbeen an ideal apart, never to be encountered again in this world.
It was a long and exciting session, and he gave all the energies of hismind to the great question of reconstruction, but more than once heasked himself if the time had not come to marry, if it were not a dutyto his old self to gratify the ambition to which he owed the foundationsof his success with life. A beautiful and high-bred wife would stillafford him profound satisfaction, no doubt of that. He could in the lastten or twelve years have married more than one charming San Franciscogirl, but that interval of passionate love between his youthful ambitionand his many opportunities had given him a distaste for a lukewarmmarriage. Here in Washington, however, California seemed a long way off,and he was only forty, in the very perfection of mental and physicalvigor. Could he not love again? Surely a man in the long allotted spanmust begin life more than once. He found himself, after an hour, in somebeautiful woman's boudoir, or with a charming girl in the paleillumination of a conservatory, longing for the old tremors of hope anddespair, and he determined to let himself go at the first symptom. Buthe continued to be merely charmed and interested. If the turbulentwaters were in him still, they had fallen far below their banks andwould not rise at his bidding.
It was not to be expected that the Se駉ra would write; she hated thesight of a pen, and only wrote once a month--with sighs of protest thatwere almost energetic--to her daughters. Padre Ortega was too old forcorrespondence; consequently Talbot heard no news of Santa Ursula exceptfrom his major-domo, who wrote a monthly report of the progress of theolive-trees and the hotel. This person was not given to gossip, andTalbot was in ignorance of the health of his old friend, in spite of oneor two letters of inquiry, until almost the end of the session. Then themajor-domo was moved to write the following postscript to one of his dryreports:--
The Se駉ra is dying, I guess--consumption, the galloping kind. You may see her again, and you main't. We're all sorry here, for she's always bin square and kind.
There still remained three weeks of the session, but Talbot's committeehad finished its work, and he was practically free. He paired with afriendly Democrat, and started for California the day he received theletter. The impulse to go to the bedside of his old friend had beenimmediate and peremptory. He forgot the pleasant women in Washington,his new-formed plans. The train seemed to walk.
They were not sentimental memories that moved so persistently in hismind during that long hot journey overland. Had they risen they wouldhave been rebuked, as having no place in the sad reality of to-day. Anold friend was dying, the most necessary and sympathetic he had known.He realized that she had become a habit, and that when she left theworld he would be very much alone. His mind dwelt constantly on thatlarge brown kindly presence, and he winked away more than one tear as hereflected that he should go to her no more for sympathy, do nothingfurther to alleviate the loneliness of her life. In consequence he wasin no way prepared for what awaited him at Los Olivos.
He arrived at night. Padre Ortega was away, so he could get no news ofthe Se駉ra except that she was still alive. He sent her a note at once,telling her to expect him at eleven the next morning.
Again he took a long hot ride over sun-burned hills and fields, for itwanted but a few weeks of his birthday. As he cantered through the oaksnear the house he saw that a hammock was swung across the veranda, andthat some one lay in it--a woman, for a heavy braid of black hair hungover the side and trailed on the floor.
"Surely," he thought, "surely--it cannot be the Se駉ra--in a hammock!"And then he suddenly realized that the disease must have taken herflesh.
His hands trembled as he dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, and helingered as long as he could, for he felt that his face was white. Buthe was a man long used to self-control, and in a moment he walkedsteadily forward and ascended the steps to the veranda. And then as hestood looking down upon the hammock he needed all the control hepossessed.
For the Se駉ra had gone and Delfina Carillo lay there. Not themagnificent pulsing creature of old, for her face was pinched and littleblue veins showed everywhere; but the ugly browns had gone with herflesh, her skin was white, and her cheeks flamed with color. Her eyeslooked enormous, and her mouth had regained its curves and mobility,although it drooped. She wore a soft white wrapper with much lace aboutthe throat; and she looked twenty-six, and beautiful, wreck as she was.
"Delfina!" he articulated. "Delfina!" And then he sat down, for hisknees were shaking. The blood seemed rushing through his brain, andafter that first terrible but ecstatic moment of recognition, he wasconscious of a poignant regret for the loss of his brown old friend. Heglanced about, involuntarily. Where had she gone--that otherpersonality? For even the first soul of the woman looked from the greateyes in the hammock.
Delfina stared at him for some moments, without speaking. Then she said,with a sigh, "Ay--it is Juan."
She sat up abruptly. "Listen," she said, speaking rapidly. "At first Ino know you, for the mind wander much; and then Marcia tell me I thinkalways I am the girl again. Sometimes, even when I have the sense, Itheenk so too, for am alone, have nothing to remind, and I like theenkthat way. When I am seeck first Herminia coming to see me, but I writeher, after, am well again, for I know she and the husband want to go toMexico. Then, after I get worse, I am very glad she going, that all mygirls are away; for the dreams I have when the mind is no right give mepleasure and bring back the days when am young and so happy. I feel gladI go to die that way and not like the old peoples. So happy I amsometimes, Juan, you cannot theenk! Was here, you remember, for twomonths before I marry, and often I see you and Enrique and all myfriends, and myself so gay and beautiful, and all the caballeros socrazy for me, and all the splendid costumes and horses. Ay California!Her youth, too, is gone, Juan! Never she is Arcadia again." She paused,but did not lie down, and in a few moments went on: "And often I theenkof you--often. So strange, for love Enrique then; but--I noknow--missing you terreeblay when you go to Washington, and read allthey say about you in the papers. So long now since Enrique going, andthe love go long before--the love that make me marry him, I mean, foralways love the husband; that was my duty. So, when my youth come back,though I think some by Enrique, suppose you are more in the mind, which,after all, is old, though much fall away. And I want, want to see you,but no like to ask you to come, for you are so busy and so ambeetious,and I know I live till you come again si is a year, and that make mefeel happy. No cry, my friend. I no cry, for is sweet to be young again.Often I no can understand why not loving you then; you are so fine mannow--but was boy then, and I admeer so much the caballeros, so splendid,and talk so graceful; no was use then to the other kind. But, although Ino theenk much before--have so many babies and so much trouble, and,after, nothing no matter--always I feel deep down I have miss somethingin life; often I sigh, but no know why. But theenk much when go to die,and now I know that si I am really young again, and well, I marry youand am happy in so many ways with you, and have the intelligence. NeverI really have been alive. I know that now."
She fell back, panting a little, and her voice, always very low, hadbecome almost inaudible. She motioned to a bottle of angelica on thetable beside her, and John took her in his arms and put the glass toher lips. It brought the color back to her face, and she lifted her armsand crossed them behind his neck.
"Juan," she whispered coaxingly, "you have love me once--I know, andsometimes have cried, because theenk how I have made you suffer. Makethe believe I am really the young girl again, and love me like then.Going very soon now--and will make me very happy."
"It is easy enough to imagine," he said; "easy enough! It will be aghastly travesty, God knows, but could I have foreseen to-day duringthat terrible time, I would have welcomed it as better than nothing."
THE END.
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