It was a stolid Indian face, at the first casual glance, but lighting up
wonderfully with intelligence and a genial smile, when the little dark
man, with the Spanish bearing, was spoken to. Particularly when
addressed by one of the fairer sex, did a certain native grace of
demeanor, an air of chivalrous gallantry, distinguish him from the more
cold-blooded, though, perhaps, more fluent-spoken, Saxon people
surrounding him.
Among the many different eyes fixed upon him now and again, in the
crowded railroad-car, was one pair, of dark luminous gray, that dwelt
there longer, and returned oftener, than its owner chose to have the man
of the olive skin know. Still, he must have felt the magnetism of those
eyes; for, conversing with this, disputing with that, and greeting the
third man, he advanced, slowly but surely, to where a female figure,
shrouded in sombre black, sat close by the open window. There was
something touching in the young face that looked from out the heavy
widow's veil, which covered her small hat, and almost completely
enveloped the slender form. The face was transparently pale, the
faintest flush of pink tinging the cheeks when any emotion swayed the
breast; the lips were full, fresh, and cherry-red in color, and the
hair, dark-brown and wavy, was brushed lightly back from the temples.
The breeze at the open window was quite fresh, for the train in its
flight was nearing the spot where the chill air from the ocean draws
through the Salinos Valley. Vainly the slender fingers tried to move the
obstinate spring that held aloft the upper part of the window. The color
crept faintly into the lady's cheeks, for suddenly a hand, hardly larger
than her's, though looking brown beside it, gently displaced her fingers
and lowered the window without the least trouble. The lady's gloves had
dropped; her handkerchief had fluttered to the floor; a small basket was
displaced; all these things were remedied and attended to by the
Spaniard, who had surely well-earned the thanks she graciously bestowed.
"Excuse me," he said, with unmistakable Spanish pronunciation; "but you
do not live in our Valley—do you?"
"This is my first visit," she replied; "but I shall probably live here
for the future."
"Ah! that makes me so happy," he said, earnestly, laying his hand on his
heart.
The lady looked at him in silent astonishment. "Perhaps that is the way
of the Spanish people," she said to herself. "At any rate, he has very
fine eyes, and—it may be tedious living in Salinos."
Half an hour's conversation brought out the fact that a married sister's
house was to be the home of the lady for a while; that the sister did
not know of her coming just to-day, and that her ankle was so badly
sprained that walking was very painful to her.
From the other side it was shown that his home was in the neighborhood
of the town ("one of those wealthy Spanish rancheros," she thought);
that he was slightly acquainted with her brother-in-law; that he was a
widower, and that his two sons would be at the depôt to receive him.
These sons would bring with them, probably, a light spring-wagon from
the ranch, but could easily be sent back for the comfortable carriage,
if the lady would allow him the pleasure of seeing her safely under her
sister's roof. She said she would accept a seat in the spring-wagon, and
Senor Don Pedro Lopez withdrew, with a deep bow, to look after his
luggage.
"Poor lady!" he explained to a group of his inquiring friends, "poor
lady! She is deep in mourning, and she has much sorrow in her heart."
And he left them quickly, to assist his protégé with her wraps. Then
the train came to a halt, and Don Pedro's new acquaintance, leaning on
his arm, approached the light vehicle, at either side of which stood the
two sons, bending courteously, in acknowledgment of the lady's greeting.
When Don Pedro himself was about to mount to the seat beside her, she
waved him back, with a charmingly impetuous motion of the hand. "I am
safe enough with your sons," she laughed, pleasantly. "Do you stop at my
brother-in-law's office, pray, and tell him I have come."
Sister Anna was well pleased to greet the new arrival—"without an
attachment." Her sister Nora's "unhappy marriage" had been a source of
constant trouble and worry to her; and here she came at last—alone.
Brother-in-law Ben soon joined them, and Nora's first evening passed
without her growing seriously lonesome or depressed. Sister Anna, to be
sure, dreaded the following days. Her sister's unhappy marriage, she
confided to her nearest neighbor, had so tried the poor girl's nerves,
that she should not wonder if she sank into a profound melancholy. She
did all she could to make the days pass pleasantly; but what can you do
in a small town when you have neither carriage nor horses?
Fortunately, Don Pedro came to the rescue. He owned many fine horses and
a number of vehicles—from an airy, open buggy to a
comfortably-cushioned carriage. He made his appearance a day or two
after Nora's arrival, mounted on a prancing black steed, to whose every
step jingled and clashed the heavy silver-mounted trappings, which the
older Spaniards are fond of decking out their horses with. He came
only, like a well-bred man, to inquire after the sprained ankle; but
before he left he had made an engagement to call the very next morning,
with his easiest carriage, to take both ladies out to drive.
And he appeared, punctual to the minute, sitting stiffly in the
barouche-built carriage, on the front seat beside the driver, who, to
Nora's unpractised eye, seemed a full Indian, though hardly darker than
his master. True, the people of pure Spanish descent did say that this
same master had a slight admixture of Indian blood in his veins, too;
but Don Pedro always denied it. He was from Mexico, he said, but his
parents had come from Spain. However this might be, Nora stood in mute
dismay a moment, when the outfit drew up at the door; and she cast a
questioning glance at her sister, even after they were seated in the
carriage; but Sister Anna's eyes seemed repeating an old admonition to
Nora—"Be patient, poor child; be still." And Nora, passing her hand
across her face, heeded the admonition, gathered courage, and gave
herself up to the perfect enjoyment of the scene and the novelty of the
expedition.
It was a late spring day—the Valley still verdant with the growing
grain, the mountains mottled with spots of brown where the rain of the
whole winter had failed to make good the ravages of thousands of sheep,
or where, perhaps, a streak of undiscovered mineral lay sleeping in the
earth. Scant groups of trees dotted the Valley at far intervals, ranged
themselves in rows where a little river ran at the foot of the Gabilan,
and stood in lonely grandeur on the highest ridge of the mountain. Where
the mountain sloped it grew covered with redwood, and where the hills
shrank away they left a wide gap for the ocean breeze and the ocean fog
to roll in.
Across the Valley was another mountain, dark and grand, with flecks of
black growing chemasal in clefts and crevices, and sunny slopes and
green fields lying at its base. And oh! the charm of these mountains. In
the Valley there might be the fog and the chill of the North, but on the
mountains lay the warmth and the dreaminess of the South.
Keenly the dark eyes of the Spaniard studied the lovely face, flushed,
as it seemed, with the pleasure derived from the drive in the pure air
and the golden sunshine.
"You like our Valley?" he asked, as eagerly as though she were a
capitalist to whom he intended selling the most worthless portion of his
ranch at the highest possible figure.
"Not the Valley so much as the mountains," she returned. "We have had
fogs two days out of the week I have spent here, and I fancy I could
escape that if I could get to the top of the mountains."
"Ah! you like the sunshine and the warm air. You must go farther South
then—far South. I have thought a great deal of going there myself.
There is a beautiful rancho which I can buy—you would like it, I
know,—far down and close by the sea. And the sea is so blue there—just
like the heavens. Oh! you would like it, I know, if you could only see
it," he concluded, enthusiastically, as though this were another ranch
he was trying to sell her.
But the thought of traffic or gain was very far from his heart just
then, though Don Pedro was known to be an exceptionally good business
man and a close financier. Many of his Spanish compeers looked up to him
with a certain awe on this account. Most of them had parted with their
broad acres, their countless herds, all too easily, to gratify their
taste for lavish display and easy living, with its attendant cost under
the new American régime; or had lost them through confiding, with
their generous heart, their guileless nature, to the people whose
thoughts were bent on securing, by usury and knaves' tricks, the
possessions of the very men whose hospitable roof afforded them
shelter. "He can cope with any American," they would say, proudly,
speaking of Don Pedro; and Don Pedro would show his appreciation of the
compliment by exercising his business qualifications towards them, as
well as towards "los Americanos."
But the haughty Don was well-mannered and agreeable; and after securing
from Nora an indefinite promise that she would some time, when her ankle
got strong, ride his own saddle-horse, he left the ladies safely at
their door and retired, his heart and brain filled with a thousand happy
dreams. He had only once during the ride pointed carelessly across the
valley to where his ranch lay; but Nora had gained no definite idea of
its extent.
One pleasant afternoon the two sons of Don Pedro stopped at the door.
Their father had encouraged them to call, they said; perhaps the lady
and her sister would bestow upon them the honor of driving out with them
for an hour. Both lads spoke English with elegance and fluency (let the
good fathers of the Santa Clara College alone for that), but among
themselves their mother-tongue still asserted itself; and in their
behavior a touch of the Spanish punctilio distinguished them favorably
from the uncouth flippancy of some of their young American neighbors.
Nora cheerfully assented, and in a few minutes the whole party was
bowling along,—the eldest brother driving, the younger explaining and
describing the country and its peculiarities. Pablo and Roberto had both
been born on their ranch, though not in the large white house they saw
in the distance. That had been finished only a little while when their
mother died. The adobe which had been their birthplace stood several
miles farther back, and could not be seen from here.
"It is not on this ranch, then?" queried Nora.
"Pardon, yes; on this ranch, but several miles nearer the foothills; in
that direction—there."
"And is the land we are passing over all one ranch?" Nora continued,
persistently.
"We have been driving over our own land almost since we left town,"
replied Pablo, a little proudly. "San Jacinto is one of the largest
ranchos in the county, and the Americans have not yet succeeded in
cutting it up into building-lots and homestead blocks," he added,
laughing a frank, boyish laugh, which seemed to say, "you are as one of
us, and will not take it amiss."
Sister Anna looked stealthily at Nora, but her eyes, with a strange
light in them, were fixed on the horizon, far off, where they seemed to
read something that made her brow contract and lower a little while, and
then clear off, as, with an effort, she turned to the boy and brought up
some other topic of conversation. But her heart was not in what she
said, and Sister Anna exerted herself to cover the deficiencies that
Nora's drooping spirits left in the entertainment.
It was sunset when they reached home, and standing on the rose-covered
veranda of the little cottage a moment, Nora looked across to where the
lingering gleams of the sun were kissing the black-looming crown of the
Loma Prieta, with floods of pink and soft violet, and covering all its
base with shades of dark purple and heavy gray. She raised her clasped
hands to the mountain top.
"How glad, how thankful I could be, if from the wreck and the ruins I
could gather light and warmth enough to cover my past life and its
miseries, as the pink and the purple of the sunset cover the black
dreariness of yon mountain."
"Come in, Nora, it is getting cold," interrupted Sister Anna; "or the
next thing after having your nerves wrought up so will be a fit of
hysterics."
"Which, you will say, is one more of the bad effects of Nora's unhappy
marriage."
If Nora's wilfulness and Nora's unhappy marriage had been ever so
deeply deplored by her, the loss of Sister Anna's love, or Anna's
sisterly kindness, could not be counted among its many bad effects.
Brother-in-law Ben, too, was whole-souled and affectionate; more
practical, and a trifle more far-seeing than Anna; but he never said, "I
told you so." He quietly did all he could to bind up bleeding wounds.
It soon came to be looked upon as quite a matter of course that Don
Pedro should be seen in his carriage with the two sisters; or, that his
black steed should be led up and down before the cottage door, by one of
his servants, dark of skin, fiery-eyed, and of quiet demeanor, like his
master. Then, again, the sons were seen at the cottage, always
courteous, attentive, and scrupulously polite. If in the privacy of
their most secret communings the "Gringa" was ever spoken of as the
Gringa, it was only in the strictest privacy. Neither to Nora, nor to
any of their servants, did ever look or word betray but that in the fair
young American they saw all that their widowed father desired they
should see.
The retinue of the Whitehead family consisted of but a single Chinaman,
who was cook, laundress, maid-of-all-work; but during Nora's stay she
was never aware but that she had half-a-dozen slaves to do her bidding,
so careful, yet so delicate was Don Pedro in bestowing his attentions.
He soon hovered about the whole family like one of the genii. If Nora
just breathed to herself, "How pleasant the day is—if we only had
carriage and horses"—before the hour was over the Don, with his
carriage, or Don Pedro's boys, or an invitation to ride from the Don,
was at hand. Before she had quite concluded that fruits were not so
abundant or fine in the country as in the city markets, the Don had
contracted a pleasant habit of sending his servants with the choicest of
all his fields and store-houses contained to the little cottage in town.
Fish, fresh from the Bay of Monterey, and game, that plain and mountain
afforded, came in the run of time, quite as a matter of course, to the
kitchen and larder of Don Pedro's dear friend Whitehead. It was not to
be refused. Don Pedro had a hundred points of law that he wished
explained; had so much advice to ask in regard to some tracts of land he
meant to purchase, that Brother-in-law Ben always seemed the one
conferring the greatest favor.
It was a little singular, too, this friendship of the Don's for Lawyer
Whitehead. As a general thing, the Spanish population of California look
upon our lawyers with distrust, and have a wholesome horror of the law.
Don Pedro, though liberal-minded and enlightened, was not backward in
expressing the contempt he felt for many of our American views and
opinions; but above all he abominated our most popular institution—the
Divorce Court. Not as a Catholic only, was it an abomination to him, he
said. He had often declared to see a divorced woman gave him the same
shuddering sensation that was caused by looking upon a poisonous snake.
When her ankle had grown quite strong, Don Pedro solicited for Rosa the
honor of carrying Nora for a short ride through the country. And Nora,
mounted high on the shapely animal's back, had seemed in such pleasant
mood when they left her sister's door, that she quite bewildered her
escort by the sudden sharp tone with which she replied to the question
he asked: what feature she admired most in the landscape before them?
"Those many little lakes," she said. "They have an enticing look of
quiet and rest, and hold out a standing invitation to 'come and get
drowned,' to weary mortals like myself."
He was too delicate to allow his shocked glance to rise to her face, but
to himself he repeated, "Poor lady! she has much sorrow in her heart,"
and aloud he said:
"You are homesick, Leonora?" How much prettier it seemed to hear the
sonorous voice frame the word "Leonora," than the stiff appellation of
"Mrs. Rutherford," which the Don could hardly ever bring himself to
utter. It was so long, he excused himself, and not the custom of his
country—though, in direct contradiction to the first part of the
excuse, he would slyly smuggle in an addition—Blanca, Graciosa,
Querida—trusting for safety in her lack of acquaintance with the
Spanish tongue.
"No," she answered honestly to his question, "I have no place to be
homesick for. I am glad to be here; but—"
"Ah! but you must see the Southern country first," he interrupted,
eagerly. "I am going South this winter to purchase a ranch, on which I
shall make my home. I leave this ranch here to my two boys. Their mother
died here, and the ranch will be theirs. But my ranch in the South will
be very fine; the land is so fair—like a beautiful woman, almost."
"I shall miss you, if you leave us; particularly through the rainy
winter months," she said.
"How happy that makes me!" he exclaimed, as once before; and he did now
what had been in his heart to do then—he bent over her hand and kissed
it warmly, heedless of the swarthy Mexican who rode behind his master.
All through the summer, with its dust and its fog and its glaring sun,
did Don Pedro still find a pleasant hour, early after the fog had risen,
or late after the sun had set, to spend, on horseback or in carriage,
with "the one fair woman" who seemed to fill his whole heart. Sometimes,
when returning from an expedition on which Sister Anna had not
accompanied them, she would greet them on the veranda with uneasy,
furtive eyes; and the Don, blind to everything but his passion for Nora,
still did not observe the impatient answering glance.
Don Pedro was delicacy and chivalry itself. Bending low over her white
fingers one day, he asked, "And how long was Mr. Rutherford blessed
with the possession of this most sweet hand?"
"I was married but a year," she answered, with her teeth set, and
quickly drawing back her hand.
On reaching home she reported to her sister. "Aha," she commented, "he
wants to know how long you have been a widow, and whether it is too soon
to make more decided proposals."
Then came the early rains, and for Nora fits of passionate crying,
alternating with fits of gloomy depression. Don Pedro was in despair.
Her varying moods did not escape him, and when, to crown all, her ankle,
still weak from the sprain, began to swell with rheumatism, she took no
pains to hide her fretfulness or sadness either from her sister Anna or
the Don. In the midst of the gloom and the rain came Don Pedro one day
to announce that he was about to set out for the South, to conclude the
purchase of the ranch he had so long spoken of.
"And you are going, too?" she said, lugubriously.
"I beg you to give me permission to go. I am the slave of Leonora, La
Graciosa, and will return soon. I will not go, if you grant me not
permission; but I beg you let me go for a short time." He had sunk on
his knees by the couch on which she rested, and his eyes flashed fire
into hers for a brief moment; but he conquered himself, and veiled them
under their heavy lashes. "Let me go," he pleaded, humbly, "and give me
permission to return to you, Leonora. In my absence my sons will do all
your bidding. They know the will of their father."
Nora had extended her hand, and motioned him to a chair beside her
couch, and listened with a smile on her lips to all the arrangements he
had made for her comfort during his absence.
"Since I have allowed you your own way in everything, I must have mine
in one particular. Of course, you will take a saddle-horse for yourself
besides the spring-wagon. Now you shall not leave Rosa here for me, but
shall take her along for your own use. It is absurd for you to insist
that no one shall use her since I have ridden her; I shall not keep her
here while you are struggling over heavy roads, in the wagon, or on some
other horse."
It was, perhaps, the longest speech she had ever made to him, and it was
all about himself too, and full of consideration for him—oh! it was
delicious. With fervent gratitude he kissed her hand, called her
Preciosa, Banita, till she declared that he should not say hard things
of her in Spanish any more. He desisted for the time, on her promise
that she would try to be cheerful while he was away, and not get
homesick, unless it were for him; and they became quite gay and sociable
over a cup of tea which Sister Anna brought them into the
sitting-room—so sociable, that Nora said of the Don, after his
departure:
"If any one were to tell me that a church-steeple could unbend
sufficiently to roll ten-pins of a Sunday afternoon, I should believe it
after this."
But in a little while the fits of dejection and the fits of crying came
back again. Sister Anna did her best to break them up; she rallied her
on breaking her heart for the absent Don; she tried to interest her in
her surroundings, so that she should see the sungleams that flashed
through the winter's gloom.
"See this beautiful cala that has just opened in the garden," she would
say, with an abortive attempt at making her believe that her ankle was
strong and well.
"I cannot get up, miserable creature that I am," came back the dismal
response.
"Oh, that lovely cloth-of-gold has grown a shoot full half a yard long
since yesterday; come and see."
"I cannot."
"Yes, you can; come lean on me. Now, isn't this sunshine delightful for
December?"
Nora drew a deep breath; after a week's steady rain, the sky was clear
as crystal, and the sun laughed down on hill and valley, blossoming rose
and budding bush.
"See how the violets are covered with blue, and the honeysuckle has just
reached the farthest end of the porch. Oh, Nora, how can any one be
unhappy with flowers to tend, and a home to keep?"
"Ah! yes. You are right, sister; but it is your home—not mine."
Anna laid her arm around her as though to support her. She knew her
sister's proud spirit and yearning heart, and she only whispered, as she
had so often done, "Be patient, poor child; be still."
But that short, passionate plaint had lightened Nora's heart; after a
week's sunshine the roads were dry enough to ride out once more with Don
Pedro's sons, and when steady rain set in once more after that, she
tried to show her sister that she could take an interest in
"home"—though it was not her own.
A month had worn away, and as long as the weather permitted the regular
running of the mails, Pablo and Roberto brought greetings from their
father once a week; but when the roads grew impassable, they too were
left without news. Not an iota did they fail of their attention to Nora,
however; whatever dainties the ranch afforded were still laid at her
feet, or rather on her sister's kitchen table; and the roads were never
so bad but that they paid their respects at least twice a week.
"You have no cause to complain," said Sister Anna.
"No," replied Nora, with a yawn; "but I wish the Don would come back."
And he did come back.
"I am so glad you have come," she said, frankly, meeting him on the
threshold.
"I can read it in your eyes," he exclaimed, rapturously. "Oh, how happy
that makes me!" And if Sister Anna's head had not appeared behind Nora's
shoulder, there is no telling what might have happened.
He had brought the spring with him; mountain and valley both had clothed
itself in brightest green, in which the bare brown spots on the Gabilan
Range were really a relief to the satiated eye. In the deep clefts of
the Loma Prieta lay the blackish shade of the chemasal, and only one
degree less sombre appeared the foliage of the live-oak against the
tender green of the fresh grass. Again did Nora all day long watch the
sun lying on the mountains—a clear golden haze in the daytime; pink and
violet, and purplish gray in the evening mist.
"Is it not beautiful?" she asked of Brother-in-law Ben, one evening, as
he came up the street and entered the gate.
"You are just growing to like our Valley, I see; it is a pity that you
should now be 'borne away to foreign climes.'"
"And who's to bear me away?" she asked, laughing, as they entered the
house.
"Let me call Anna," he said; "we will have to hold family council over
this."
In council he commenced: "Don Pedro has this day requested that I, his
legal adviser, go South with him, to see that all papers are properly
made out, all preliminaries settled, before he fairly takes possession
of his land."
"Well?" queried Anna.
"Well, my dear, so much for his counsellor Whitehead. But to his friend
Benjamin's family he has extended an invitation to accompany us on this
trip, presuming that his friend's wife and sister-in-law would be
pleased to see this much-praised Southern country."
"We'll go, of course," assented Anna, artlessly.
"Certainly, my dear—of course;" affirmed easy-going Ben. "But, my dear,
I hope you both understand all the bearings of this case."
Nora's head drooped, and a flush of pain overspread her face, as she
answered, chokingly, "I do."
"Then, my dear, since Don Pedro has never mentioned Nora's name to me,
except to send message or remembrance, had I not better tell him—"
"No, no!" cried Nora, in sudden terror. "Oh, please not; leave it all to
me."
"Certainly, Mrs. Rutherford," he assented, still more slowly; "I am not
the man to meddle with other people's affairs—unasked," he added,
remembering, perhaps, his business and calling.
"Don't be angry with me, Ben," she pleaded; "you have always been so
kind to me. What should I have done without you two? But you know how I
feel about this—this miserable affair."
"All right, child," he said, pressing her hand. "I should like to give
you a piece of advice, but my lawyer's instinct tells me that you will
not take it, so that I am compelled to keep my mouth
shut—emphatically."
They set out on their Southern trip, a grand cavalcade; Don Pedro on a
charger a little taller, a little blacker than Nora's horse; in the
light wagon Anna and her husband, and behind them a heavier wagon
containing all that a leisurely journey through a thinly populated
country made desirable. For attendance they had Domingi, the Don's
favorite servant, two vaqueros, and an under-servant, all mounted on
hardy mustangs. Never did picnic party, intent on a day's pleasuring,
leave home in higher spirits. The fresh morning air brought the color to
Nora's cheeks, and her musical laugh rang out through the Valley; and
when they passed one of the little lakes, all placid and glistening in
the bright sun, Nora turned to her companion with a smile: "I don't
think those lakes were meant to drown one's self in, at all; they were
made to cast reflections. See?" and she pointed to herself, graceful and
erect, mirrored in the clear water.
"Oh, Graciosa," murmured the Spaniard.
How bright the world looked, to be sure; flowers covered the earth, not
scattered in niggardly manner, as in the older, colder Eastern States,
but covering the ground for miles, showing nothing but a sea of blue, an
ocean of crimson, or a wilderness of yellow. Then came patches where all
shades and colors were mixed; delicate tints of pink and mauve, of pure
white and deep red, and over all floated a fragrance that was never
equalled by garden-flowers or their distilled perfume.
When twilight fell, and Don Pedro informed them that they would spend
the night under the hospitable roof of his friend, Don Pamfilio
Rodriguez, Nora was almost sorry that, for the complete "romance of the
thing," they could not camp out.
"We will come to that, too," the Don consoled her, "before the journey
is over. But my friend would never forgive me, if I passed his door and
did not enter."
"But so many of us," urged Nora, regarding, if the truth must be told,
the small low-roofed adobe house with considerable disfavor.
"There would be room in my friend's house for my friends and myself,
even though my friend himself should lie across the threshold."
Nora bowed her head. She knew of the proverbial hospitality of the
Spanish—a hospitality that led them to impoverish themselves for the
sake of becomingly entertaining their guests.
Of course, only Don Pedro could lift Nora from her horse; but Sister
Anna found herself in the hands of the host, who conducted her, with
the air of a prince escorting a duchess, to the threshold, where his
wife, Donna Carmel, and another aged lady, received them. Conversation
was necessarily limited—neither Don Pamfilio nor Donna Carmel speaking
English, and Brother Ben alone being conversant with Spanish.
The ladies were shown into a low, clean-swept room, in which a bed,
draped and trimmed with a profusion of Spanish needlework and soft red
calico, took up the most space. Chairs ranged along one wall, and a
gay-colored print of Saint Mary of the Sacred Heart, over the
fire-place, completed the furnishing. Nora pleasantly returned the
salutation of the black-bearded man who entered with coals of fire on a
big garden-spade. Directly after him came a woman, with a shawl over her
head and fire-wood in her arms. She, too, offered the respectful
"buénos dias," and she had hardly left when a small girl entered, with
a broken-nosed pitcher containing hot-water, and after her came another
dark-faced man, the mayordomo, with a tray of refreshments and
inquiries as to whether the ladies were comfortable.
Nora dropped her arms by her side. "I have counted four servants now,
and Don Pedro told me particularly that his friend,
Pam—what's-his-name—was very poor."
"Spanish style," answered Anna, with a shrug of the shoulder. "But it is
very comfortable. How cold it has grown out-doors, and how dark it is. I
wonder if we shall be afraid?"
"Hush! Don't make me nervous," cried Nora, sharply, shivering with the
sudden terror that sometimes came over her.
"Be still," said Anna, soothingly; "there is nothing to be afraid of
here."
After a while they were called to supper, where, to their surprise, they
found quite a little gathering. Neighbors who spoke English had been
summoned to entertain them, and after supper, which was a marvel of
dishes, in which onions, sugar, raisins, and red pepper were softly
blended, and which was served by three more servants, they got up an
impromptu concert, on three guitars, and later an impromptu ball, at
which Nora chiefly danced with the Don.
In spite of the biting cold next morning, all the male members of last
night's company insisted on escorting our friends over the first few
miles of the road. They came to a stream which they must cross, and of
which Don Pamfilio had warned them, and the Don insisted on Nora's
getting into the wagon with her sister. The vaqueros with their horses
were brought into requisition, and Nora opened her eyes wide when,
dashing up, they fastened their long riattas to the tongue of the
wagon, wound the end of the rope around the horn of the saddle, and with
this improvised four-horse team got up the steep bank on the other side
in the twinkling of an eye.
Reaching San Luis Obispo directly, they delayed one whole day, as Nora
expressed herself charmed with what she saw of the old mission church,
and what remained of the old mission garden. A group of fig-trees here
and there, a palm-tree sadly out of place, in a dirty, dusty yard, an
agave standing stiff and reserved among its upstart neighbors, the
pea-vine and potato.
"Oh! it is pitiful," cried Nora, hardly aware of the quotation. "Even
this proud avenue of olives, towering so high above all, has been cut up
and laid out in building-lots."
"The advance of civilization," Brother Ben informed her; and, in reply,
Nora pointed silently into a yard, where a half-grown palm-tree stood
among heaps of refuse cigar-ends and broken bottles. The house to which
the yard belonged was occupied as a bar-room, and one of its patrons, a
son of Old Erin, to all appearances, lay stretched near the palm,
sleeping off the fumes of the liquor imbibed at the bar.
They laughed at Nora's illustration, and decided to move from so
untoward a spot that very afternoon, even if they should have to use
their tent and camp out all night.
More flowers, and brighter they grew as our friend travelled farther
South. On the plain the meadow-lark sang its song in the dew and the
chill of the morning, and high on the mountain, in the still noonday,
the lone cry of the hawk came down from where the bird lived in solitary
grandeur. Wherever our friends went they were made welcome. Not a
Spanish house dare the Don pass without stopping, at least for
refreshments. He had compadres and comadres everywhere, and whether
they approved of his intimate relations with the "Gringas" or not, they
showed always the greatest respect, extended always the most cheerful
hospitality.
At last they approached Santa Barbara, its white, sun-kissed mission
gleaming below them in the valley as they descended the Santa Inez
Mountains. Stately business houses and lovely country-seats, hidden in
trees and vines—the wide sea guarding all. But they tarried not. Don
Pedro announced that he had promised to make a stay of several weeks at
his particular friend's, Don Enrico del Gada. He was proud to introduce
them to this family, he said. They would become acquainted with true
Castilians—would be witness to how Spanish people lived in the Southern
country; rich people—that is—. They had always been rich, but through
some mismanagement (through the knavery of some American, Nora
interpreted it), they were greatly in danger of losing their whole
estate. A small portion of their rancho had been sold to a company of
land-speculators, and now they were trying to float the title to this
portion over the whole of the Tappa Rancho.
"Pure Castilian blood," the Don affirmed; "fair of skin, hair lighter
than Nora's tresses, and eyes blue as the sky. Such the male part of the
family. The female portion—mother and daughter—were black-eyed, and
just a trifle darker; but beauties, both. The daughter, Narcissa (Nora
fancied that a sudden twinge distorted the Don's features as he spoke
the name), was lovely and an angel; not very strong, though—a little
weak in the chest."
All the evening the Del Gadas formed the subject of conversation, so
that it is hardly surprising that morning found Nora arrayed with more
care than usual, if possible, and looking handsome enough to gratify the
heart of the most fastidious lover.
A two hours' ride brought them to the immediate enclosure of the
comfortable ranch house, and with a sonorous "buénos dias caballeros!"
the Don had led his party into the midst of a ring formed by the host,
his son, and other invited guests. Some of them had just dismounted, and
the spurs were still on their boots; some had red silk scarfs tied
gracefully around the hips, and all were handsome, chivalrous,
picturesque-looking men. Don Enrico advanced to assist Anna, while Don
Manuel, his son, strode toward Leonora's horse and had lifted her from
the saddle before Don Pedro could tell what he was about. Such clear
blue eyes as he had! All the sunshine of his native Spain seemed caught
in them; and his hand was so white! Nora's own could hardly vie with it.
His head was uncovered when he conducted her to the veranda, where the
ladies were assembled. His mother, a beauty still, dark-eyed,
full-throated, and with the haughty look and turn of the head that is
found among the Spanish people; the sister a delicate, slender being,
large-eyed, with hectic roses on her cheeks. Nora detected a strange
glimmer in her eye and a convulsive movement of the lips as she
addressed a question in a low tone to her brother, after the formal
introduction was over.
"You must excuse my sister," he apologized to Nora, "she speaks no
English. She wanted to know whether you had ridden Rosa. Long ago she
tried to ride the horse, but could not, as she is not strong. When Don
Pedro was here last she wanted to try again; but he would not consent. I
suppose she is astonished at your prowess."
Nora watched the darkened, uneasy eyes of the girl; she thought she knew
better than the unsuspecting brother what had prompted the question.
The Del Gada family, their house, their style of living, was all the Don
had claimed for them. The first day or two were devoted mainly to
out-of-door entertainments; the orange-groves, the vineyards, the
almond-plantation on the ranch were visited, and a ride to the mission
of Santa Barbara, whose Moorish bell-towers haunted Nora's brain, was
planned and undertaken.
The warm light of the spring-day shed a soft glimmer over crumbling
remnants of the monuments that the patient labor of the mission fathers
have left behind them—monuments of rock and stone, shaped by the hands
of the docile aborigines into aqueducts and fountains, reservoirs and
mill-house; monuments, too, of living, thriving trees, swaying gently in
the March wind, many of them laden with promises of a harvest of
luscious apricot or honey-flavored pear. The hands that planted them
have long fallen to dust; the humble adobe that gave shelter to the
patient toiler is empty and in ruins, but the trees he planted flourish,
and bear fruit, year after year; and from the shrine where he once knelt
to worship his new-found Saviour, there echoes still the Ave and the
Vesper-bell, though a different race now offers its devotion.
A day or two later, winter seemed to have returned in all its fury; the
rain poured ceaselessly, and swelled the creeks till their narrow banks
could hold the flood no longer; the wind tore at the roses, hanging in
clusters of creamy white and dark crimson, on trellises and high-growing
bush, and scattered showers of snow from almond and cherry trees. The
fireplaces in the Del Gada mansion were once more alive and cheerful
with a sparkling fire. It made little difference to the company
assembled at the ranch; it gave Nora and Sister Anna an opportunity of
seeing more of the home-life of the family, and impressed them with the
excellence of the haughty-looking woman at the head of the
establishment. No New England matron could be a more systematic
housekeeper, could be more religiously devoted to the welfare of her
family and servants. "And the romance of it all," Nora often repeated.
Night and morning the far-sounding bell on the little chapel in the
garden called the members of the house to worship; and Donna
Incarnacion, kneeling, surrounded by her family and servants, read in
clear tones the litanies and prayers. Once a week the priest from the
neighboring mission visited the house, and then the large drawing-room
was fitted up with altar and lights and flowers, and neighbors, high and
low, of all degrees, attended worship.
This, however, did not prevent the family from being as jolly as Spanish
people can well be, in this same drawing-room, when Mass was over, and
"the things cleared away." Of cold or rainy nights the company resorted
to this room, where they had music, conversation, refreshments. But
everything had a dash of romance to Nora's unbounded delight.
Refreshments were brought in on large trays, borne by dusk, dark-clad
women; trays loaded with oranges, pomegranates, figs, the product of the
orchards surrounding the house; and wine, sparkling red and clear amber,
pressed from grapes gathered in the vineyard that crept close up to the
door. It was not only California, but the South, of which Don Pedro had
always spoken with such enthusiasm.
"And how enthusiastic he does grow sometimes," said Nora one evening, in
the large drawing-room where they were all assembled.
Manuel, who performed on the piano as well as the flute, had just
finished a piece of music which Nora had taken from her trunk for him to
play, and she had insisted on turning the leaves for him. Don Pedro sat
near, and Nora looking up, had caught his eye. "See the enthusiasm in
his face," she said to Manuel. "How fond all of you Spaniards are of
music."
"You are mistaken in two points, Donna Leonora," the young man replied.
"Don Pedro is no Spaniard, he is a Mexican; and he has not grown
enthusiastic over the music—he has seen and has been thinking only of
you."
Nora's cheeks burned at something in Manuel's voice; but a grateful
feeling stole into her heart. To tell the truth, she had felt a pang of
something like jealousy of late, when Narcissa, who, from speaking no
English, was thrown on Don Pedro's hands, seemed to take up more of his
attention than necessary.
When the weather cleared off, our party began to talk of moving on; Don
Pedro's new possession was only one or two days' journey from here,
below San Buenaventura. There was to be a Rodeo on the Del Gada ranch,
not so much for the purpose of branding young cattle, as to give the
different rancheros an opportunity of selecting their own that might
have strayed into the mountains and found their way into the Del Gada
herds. Nora was for attending the Rodeo; she could hardly form an idea
of what it was; but she was sure, as usual, that it must be something
"highly romantic."
They were warned that they must get up early in the morning, and seven
o'clock found them already on the ground—a little valley, shut in by
mountains more or less steep. A small creek, made turbulent by the
rains, ran through the valley, where an ocean of stock seemed to roll in
uneasy billows. It was all as romantic as Nora's heart could wish. The
countless herds of cattle gathered together and kept from dispersing by
numbers of vaqueros, who darted here and there on their well-trained
horses, leaped ditches, flew up the steep mountain-sides after an
escaping steer, dashed through the foaming torrent to gather one more to
the fold, and seemed so perfectly one with their horse that from here
might have sprung the fable of the old Centaurs.
Eyes sharper than eagles had these people, master and man alike; out of
the thousands of that moving herd could they single the mighty steer
that bore their brand, or the wild-eyed cow whose yearling calf had not
yet felt the searing-iron. Into the very midst of the seething mass
would a vaquero dart, single out his victim without a moment's halt,
drive the animal to the open space, and throw his lasso with unerring
aim, if a close inspection was desirable—a doubt as to the brand to be
set aside. If a steer proved fractious, two of the Centaurs would divide
the labor; and while one dexterously threw the rope around his horns,
the other's lasso had quickly caught the hind foot, and together they
brought him to the earth, that he had spurned in his strength and pride
but a moment before.
Manuel himself could not resist the temptation of exhibiting his skill;
and when his father and one of the neighbors—of about fifty miles
away—both claimed a large black bull, almost in the centre of the herd,
he dashed in among the cattle, drove his prey out on a gallop, flung his
lasso around the animal's hind feet, and brought him to the ground as
neatly as any vaquero could have done.
He saw Nora clap her hands; he saw, too, how every ranchero of the
county had his eyes fixed on her, as she sat proudly, yet so lightly, on
the showy black horse; and sadly he owned to himself that he would risk
life and limb any time, to gain the little hand that wafted him a kiss.
But what was he? A beggar, perhaps, to-morrow, if the suit went against
them.
Meantime the sun grew hot, and they all dismounted and left the wagons,
and lunch was discussed; the élite, Americans and Spaniards alike,
assembling around the Del Gada provision wagon, while the vaqueros
were well satisfied with a chunk of bread, a handful of olives, and a
draught of wine, as they leisurely drove the cattle separated from the
Del Gada herd to their respective territory.
Then came the parting day. Donna Incarnacion stood on the veranda, as on
the day of their arrival, proudly erect, conscious of herself and the
dignity she must maintain. Beside her stood her daughter, the spots on
her cheeks larger and brighter, but a pained, restless expression in the
eager eyes, and printing itself sharply in the lines about the mouth.
Her mother seemed not to note the girl's evident distress.
Nora, Mr. and Mrs. Whitehead, and the Don had made their adieux; and
Manuel, mounted and ready to escort them, together with some half dozen
others, turned once more to the veranda to ask his sister some question.
Like a flash the truth broke on him as he caught the eager, straining
glance that followed Don Pedro's form, and with a little passionate cry
he urged his animal close to Nora's side.
"It is not my heart alone you have left desolate behind you, Leonora. My
sister's, too—oh! my poor Narcissa! Now I know why my mother said that
she would not live to see spring again; now I know why she prays to the
saints for a 'still heart,' night and morning. Oh, Leonora, think no
more of the dagger you have planted in my breast; think of poor
Narcissa, and pray for her as you would for one already dead—for the
love of a Spanish girl is deep and abiding, and cannot be outweighed by
gold and leagues of land and fine clothes."
It was well that Don Pedro came up; Nora was almost fainting in her
saddle. He did not catch the import of Don Manuel's words, but, if never
before, he recognized in him now a bold and dangerous rival. The
confusion attending a general breaking-up had covered this little
by-scene, and when the party escorting them turned back, it would have
been impossible to discover that one or two hearts throbbed wildly at
the parting words.
When they rode into San Buenaventura, with its dingy little mission
church fronting on the main street, Nora was not half so much interested
as she had been. They were right in the midst of the mission garden. The
obtrusive frame houses of the fast-crowding American population had been
set up in it; the streets had been laid out through it; the ugly,
brick-built court-house stood away down in the lower part of it, where
the blue ocean washed the shore, and murmured all day of times long past
to the tall-growing palms, that stood desolate and alone.
It made her sad, she said to the Don, when he expressed his surprise at
her silence, to see the stately olives of a century's growth spread
their great branches over flimsy little shops; to see the neglected
vines trailing their unpruned lengths over rubbish-piled open lots,
which a paper placard announced "for sale."
When night came, she retired to her up-stairs room at the hotel, put the
light out, and gazed long hours on the placid ocean.
"Let us get on as soon as possible," said Sister Anna, in confidence, to
her husband the next morning. "This place seems to have a singular
effect on Nora. She says she could not sleep last night, for thinking
whether she had a right to barter herself away, body and soul, truth and
honor, perhaps, for a grand home and a great deal of money."
So they "got on." Don Pedro was happy to gratify every wish of the
ladies, and very willing to enter upon his own territory, which lay so
near. The earth looked so smiling to Don Pedro when, together with Nora,
a little in advance of the wagons, he crossed the border of his own
domain. All the morning they had passed droves of cattle on the road,
and flocks of sheep, and the vaqueros tending them had still saluted
Don Pedro as their master. Shortly they encountered the mayordomo of
the new ranch, and after a short parley with him, the Don turned to Nora
with an apology for discussing business affairs in an unfamiliar tongue
in her presence.
"Let us make a compromise," suggested Nora; "do you take me down yonder
to that piece of white pebble-beach, by the gray rock, and you may come
back and talk to all the vaqueros and mayordomos in the land."
The mayordomo wended his way to where he saw the wagons halting in a
grove, and Nora and the Don pursued their own way. It was quite a
distance before they had reached the exact spot that Nora said she had
meant—they were out of sight of the rest. The ocean, grand and solemn,
lay before them, grassy plains around them, groups of trees and sloping
hills in the near distance, and far off the mountains in their
never-changing rest.
Lightly Don Pedro sprang to the ground, and detaining Nora one moment in
her saddle, he said, impressively: "Now you set foot upon your own land,
a territory named after you, 'La Graciosa.'"
Then he lifted her tenderly to the ground, and she sprang lightly away
from him, and lavishly praised the beauty of his new possession.
"And it is all like this," he continued, "for miles and miles, good and
beautiful, like the one for whom I named it."
"What a flatterer you are," she said, forced at last to take notice of
the name. He clasped her hand, but she uttered a little shriek, "Oh!
that wicked horse of yours has bitten my poor Rosa." A snort from the
black mare seemed to corroborate the accusation, and Nora had gained
time—to fight her battle out, and make peace with herself.
"Please get rid of that tiresome mayordomo of yours, and come back to
me. I want to stay here alone with Rosa and decide whether your ranch
has been well named." She could not prevent the kiss he imprinted on her
slender hand, but she drew it back impatiently.
"You will stay here till I return, Leonora?" he asked, earnestly.
"Yes, yes," she said, a little fretfully, and waved him off.
He had made fast her horse to the stump of a scrub-oak, that had lived
its short, mistaken life here close by the sea; and Nora, when the sound
of the other horse's hoofs had died away, stroked the animal's mane
approvingly, and patted her neck. Then she turned and walked slowly
around the abrupt gray crag, and stopped; she was alone at last. She
raised her hand, and looked from under it out on the sunlit sea. The
waves came up with a long, gentle swirl, till the light foam splashed
against the foot of the crag, then receded, leaving a strip of white,
glistening pebble exposed. She watched it silently, then turned her face
to let her eyes sweep the plain, the clumps of trees, and the rolling
hills.
"'For miles and miles,' he said," she soliloquized, "and that is not all
his fortune. And he has nothing if the suit goes against them.
American cunning matched against Spanish recklessness. But what have I
to do with that boy? All I have wanted and prayed for is a home and an
honored name; it is within my reach now; why should I let an idle dream
stand in my way?"
She stood where the ocean washed up to her feet, and when she looked
down she thought she saw two deep-blue eyes, wild with suppressed
passion, flashing up from there. She turned, for she thought she heard
behind her, in the sighing of the wind and the shriek of the sea-mews,
the cry of a tortured heart. But she banished these fancies and forced
her thoughts into other channels. She thought of her past life, of the
wish she had had, even as a child, to travel—to see strange lands. She
thought of the Pyramids of Egypt, and that her wish to see them could
now, perhaps, be gratified—in his company. Well, was it not romantic,
after all, to marry the dark-eyed Don, with the haughty bearing and the
enormous wealth? She had a lady friend once, a city acquaintance, who
had married a wealthy Spaniard. But she had been divorced after a year's
time. Divorced! what an ugly sound the word had. Was Don Pedro near? Had
his ear caught the sound? No; thank God, she was alone.
And then her thoughts strayed again to the old Gada mansion, and the
broken-hearted girl she had left there. "She will die," he had said; and
she fell to wondering whether Father Moreno would anoint those wistful
eyes with the consecrated oil, in her last hour, and mutter that "they
had looked upon unholy things," and touch the little waxen ears "because
they had listened to unchaste speech." What a mockery it seemed, in the
case of the young innocent girl. "When I die—" She stooped suddenly
to dip her hand into the water, and dashed it into her face and over her
hair. "Mea culpa!" she murmured, striking her breast, "mea culpa! mea
maxima culpa!"
And once more she pressed her hand across her face, for the gallop of
approaching hoofs fell on her ear, and directly "Leonora!" rang out in
sharp, uneasy tone.
She answered the call, and Don Pedro, panting, but with a happy smile,
reached out his hand to draw her away from the wet sand.
"I felt as though I had lost you. What would life be without you,
Graciosa?"
"You would have my god-child left," she replied, laughing.
"It would be worthless without the sponsor. I have acquired it for you.
Do you accept it?"
"With you into the bargain?" she smiled gayly as she said it. She hated
romance and sentimentality all at once, and when the Don kneeled at her
feet to kiss both her hands, she said, with a laugh:
"There will be but one Graciosa, after all, unless you take me to my
friends and the lunch-basket. I am almost starved."
"I am your slave," he avowed; "you have but to command."
He lifted her into the saddle, with trembling hands and beaming eyes.
"Oh, Graciosa! Rightly named," he cried.
"Meaning me or the ranch?" asked Nora, mischievously; and, with a touch
of the whip, she urged Rosa ahead, and threw a kiss over her shoulder to
the Don. His eyes followed her proudly awhile, ere he spurred his horse
to overtake her, and they joined Sister Anna laughing and happy as she
could wish to see them.
They camped out that night, as there was no house on that part of the
ranch, though there was one to be erected near the spot where they had
joined Sister Anna, for Nora said she liked the view there. Early next
morning they left camp, expecting to reach Los Angeles before sunset.
All day the road led along the mountain-chain, in the San Fernando
Valley—a soft, warm day, made to dream and reflect. The clear blue haze
hung, as ever, on the mountain-ridge, and the plain at the foot was
white and odorous with the wild "Forget-me-not" of California. They
looked to Nora as though passionate eyes had been raining tears on them
till the color had been blanched out; and when Don Pedro gathered a
handful and brought them to her, she said, "Don't, please; it hurts me
to see you break them off. Throw them away."
"How strange you are," he said, but he obeyed, and did not assert his
authority till some hours later, when they reached the crossing of the
Los Angeles River.—Had he not said he would be her slave?
The river rushed by them muddy and wild, spread far beyond its allotted
limits—an ugly, treacherous-looking piece of water. It was deep, too;
and while Don Pedro was giving orders in regard to arranging the
contents of the baggage wagon, Sister Anna was trying to persuade Nora
to come into their wagon while fording the stream. Nora demurred; but
the Don riding up decided the question at once.
"You must go in the wagon, Leonora," he announced, with somewhat pompous
authority. "I will not have you exposed to such danger. The river is
wide at present, and your head will get light. Mr. Whitehead and I will
go on horseback, but you must go in the wagon."
A rebellious gleam shot from Nora's eye, but Sister Anna listened with
flushed face, as to something new, but very pleasant to hear. It proved
an ugly crossing, and while the servants were rearranging the baggage,
the Don strayed a little apart with Nora, and found a seat under a clump
of willows.
"It is hard to go down into the floods when there is so much of life
and sunshine all around," and with a little nervous shiver she nestled
closer to the Don's side. Impelled by a feeling of tenderness he could
not control, the stately Don threw his arms around the supple form and
pressed the first kiss on her pale lips.
She shrank from him; had any one seen them? There was no need to spring
up; she knew he would not attempt to repeat the caress.
The City of the Angels lay before them—a dream realized.
Whatever there was unlovely about the older, adobe built portion of
the place was toned down by the foliage of waving trees, and warmed into
tropical beauty by the few isolated palms, which some blessed hand set
out long years ago. Our friends did not pass through the heart of the
city, but wended their way to the house of a wealthy Spanish family,
which lay among the gay villas and stately residences of the modern
portion of the city. Large gardens enclosed them, in many cases
surrounded by evergreen hedges of supple willow and bristly osage. Tall
spires arising from a sea of green, and imposing edifices, marked the
places where the Lord could be worshipped in style. The American element
is strong in Los Angeles.
Senor Don Jose Maria Carillo had been looking for his guests, and met
them with much state and ceremony on the highway, conducting them
grandly to the gate-posts of his garden, where they were received by
Donna Clotilda and a retinue of servants. Even the children, with their
governess, were summoned from the school-room to greet the guests, and
Spanish courtesy and Californian hospitality were never better
exemplified than in the case of our friends.
"Oh, Annie, only look!" exclaimed Nora, clasping her hands in
admiration, and pointing through the French window at the back of the
double parlors.
The house was an adobe, two stories high, which the father of the
present inmate had built, and of which the son was properly proud. He
would not have it torn down for the world, but it had been modernized to
such an extent as to rival in comfort and elegance any of the newer
American houses, though the Spanish features were still predominant. The
particular feature that had attracted Nora so strongly as to lead her
into making the hasty, unceremonious exclamation, was a remada, a kind
of open roof built of heavy timber beams, at the back of the house, and
extending over several hundred feet of the ground. It was covered with
the grape, among whose shading leaves and graceful tendrils the sunlight
glinted in and out, playing in a thousand colors on clustering vines
with bright flowers, that clung to the pillars supporting the roof.
Beyond stretched an orange-grove, where yellow fruit and snowy blossoms
glanced through the glossy leaves.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" asked a voice at her side. She had stepped
to the open French window, regardless of all etiquette, and Don Pedro
led her across the sill into the covered garden.
"Your own home shall be like this, Leonora, only finer and grander; you
shall have everything that your heart can wish."
"You are very good." It was not the conventional phrase with her; she
meant what she said, for her eyes were raised to his, and tears trembled
in the lashes.
It was a charming retreat. Donna Clotilda spoke English, though none of
the servants did, except a ten-year old Indian girl, who was detailed to
wait on the guests. There was a round of visiting and going through the
city, where every one admired Nora, and looked from her to the little
Don. And Don Pedro was proud and happy, and always sought new
opportunities of passing through the crowded thoroughfares, on foot, on
horseback, or in carriage.
"My dear," he said, one day, "I would know how handsome you are from
looking at the people who meet us, even though I had never seen your
face."
"Yes?" said Nora, a little absent and dispirited, as she sometimes was.
"Yes; one man, standing at the corner there, behind those boxes—you did
not see him—opened his eyes very wide and looked hard at you, and then
pushed his hat back till it fell to the ground. Then he saw me, and felt
ashamed, and turned quick to pick up his hat."
"What a striking appearance mine must be!" laughed Nora, restored to
good-humor, for the time.
It has often seemed to me that all Spanish people, of whatever degree,
throughout California, are either related or intimately acquainted with
each other. Thus Nora heard from the Del Gadas occasionally; nay, even
from the Rodriguez, away back in the Salinas Valley, did they hear news
and greeting once. Narcissa del Gada was dying, the Don told her; and
the twinge that had distorted his features when he first mentioned her
name again passed over them.
But all the time of our friends was not given to pleasuring; many a long
morning did Brother Ben and the Don pass together at the Court-House,
the Hall of Records, and other places where titles are examined and the
records kept. A ranch of twenty or thirty thousand acres is well worth
securing, so that through no loophole can adverse claimant creep, or
sharp-witted land-shark, with older title, spring on the unwary
purchaser.
In the meantime spring was growing into summer; the sun began to burn
more fierce, and Nora, always fond of out-doors, had made the remada
her special camping-ground. She sat there one morning, after having
declined to go on a shopping expedition with Sister Anna. It had seemed
rather ungracious, too; but Brother Ben had come to the rescue, as
usual, and had taken Nora's place. Now she sat here, pale and listless,
her hands idly folded, her eyes wandering among the shadows of the
orange grove.
There had been an arrival at the house, she thought, for she heard the
tramp of a horse as it was led around to the stables; but she took no
heed. After a while she heard the noise of one of the long windows
opening, and soon she heard steps behind her. Then a low voice said
"Leonora!" and Manuel, pale and haggard, stood before her.
All her listlessness vanished in an instant, and she would have flown
into his arms, but for something that seemed to make him unapproachable.
"Narcissa is dead," he said, monotonously, "and since coming to town I
have learned that I am a beggar; we are all homeless—outcasts."
"Oh, Manuel!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm, "my poor, poor boy.
Come with me into the open air—this place chokes me. And now tell me
about Narcissa." She drew him out into the sunshine, and back again to
the fragrant shadows of the orange grove. She sought a rustic seat for
them, but he threw himself on the sod beside it.
"Wrecked and lost and lonely," he groaned, "it is well that Narcissa is
dead; and yet she was our only comfort."
"Poor Manuel!" she repeated, softly; "my poor boy." Her fingers were
straying among the sunny waves of his hair, and he caught her hand
suddenly, and covered it with a frenzy of kisses.
"Leonora!" he cried, all the reckless fire of his nation breaking into
flames, "come with me, and we will be happy. You do not love your
wealthy affianced, you love me. Be mine; I will work and toil for you,
and you shall be my queen. Oh, Nora, I love you—I love you—I love
you."
Poor Nora! why should stern reality be so bitter? "Foolish boy," she
said, disengaging her hand, "you are mad. What if Don Pedro—"
"Ah, true; I had forgotten—you are an American. Go, then, be happy with
your wealthy husband; Manuel will never cross your path again."
"Manuel!" she cried, and she stretched out her arms towards the spot
where he had just stood, "come back, for I love you, and you alone." But
a rustling in the willow-hedge only answered to her passionate cry, and
she cowered on the garden-bench, sobbing and moaning out her helpless
grief.
The rustling in the willow-hedge behind her grew louder, so that even
she was startled by the noise.
"Ho, Nell!" The words fell on her ears like the crack of doom, her face
grew white to the very lips, and a great horror crept into her eyes. She
turned as if expecting to meet the engulfing jaws of some dread monster,
and her eyes fell upon the form of a man, whose slovenly dress and
bloated features spoke of a life of neglect and dissipation—perhaps
worse.
"Why, Nell, old girl," he continued, familiarly, "this is a pretty
reception to give your husband. I'm not a ghost; don't be afraid of me."
"Wretch!" she cried, trembling with fear and excitement. "How dare you
come here? Go at once, or I shall call for help."
"No, you won't. I'm not afraid. Come, you can get rid of me in a minute.
The truth is, I'm d——d hard up; got into two or three little
unpleasantnesses, and got out only by a scratch. I want to get away from
here—it's unhealthy here for me—but I've got no money. Saw you down
town with that pompous Greaser the other day; know him well; he's got
lots of money; and I thought that, for love and affection, as they say
in the law, and in consideration of our former relations, you might help
me to some of his spare coin."
"You miserable man," she cried, beside herself, "is it not enough that
you blasted my life's happiness? Must I be dragged down to the very
lowest degradation with you? Oh, Charlie," she added, in changed,
softened tones, "what would your mother say to all this?"
"And my daddy the parson," he laughed, hoarsely. "Yes, we know all that.
But here, Nell," he went on, while a last glimmer of shame or contrition
passed over his once handsome face, "I don't want to hurt you, my girl;
you've always been a trump, by G——; I am willing you should become the
respected wife of Don Pedro Lopez, but I must have money, or money's
worth. That cluster-diamond on your finger; tell the Greaser you lost
it. Or pull out your purse; I know it is full."
"Nothing," she said, slowly and determinedly, "nothing shall you have
from me—a woman you have so wronged and deceived—"
"Stop, Nell; I haven't time to wait for a sermon. Give me what you've
got— Oh, here's h—— to pay and no pitch hot," he interrupted himself;
"there's the Don, and he's heard it all."
He spoke true; Don Pedro stood beside them, frozen into a statue. At
last he breathed.
"Yes, heard all. And I would have made you my wife—you a divorced
woman. Oh, Santa Maria! She divorced of such a man—for I know you,
Randal," he continued, lashing himself into a fury—"horse-thief,
stage-robber, gambler. It was you who killed my friend Mariano Anzar
after robbing him at cards—murderer! You shall not escape me as you
escaped the officers of the law. Hombres! catch the murderer!" he
shouted towards the house, as he made a dart at the man, who turned at
bay, but halted when he saw that the Don was not armed.
"Stop your infernal shouting and don't touch me," he said, in a low,
threatening voice. But the Don was brave, and his blood was up; he
sprang upon the man, shouting again; they closed and struggled, and when
the man heard footsteps swiftly approaching, he drew back with an
effort, and hissing, "You would have it so, idiot," he raised his
pistol and fired.
Before the smoke cleared away he had vanished, and the people who came
found Don Pedro stretched on the ground. His life was almost spent, but
his energy had not deserted him. He gave what information and directions
were necessary for the prosecution of his murderer, and Manuel, who was
among the excited throng, threw himself on his horse to head the
fugitive off. The others lifted the wounded man tenderly from the
ground, bore him gently into the house, and frowned with hostile eyes
upon Nora; it had taken possession of their minds at once that, in some
unexplained manner, the Gringa was the cause of all this woe.
Nora followed them like an automaton; she saw them carry him through
the open door-window into the back parlor, and lay the helpless figure
on a lounge. A messenger had already been despatched for priest and
doctor, and the servants, who were not admitted into the room, lay on
their knees outside.
Then the priest came, and Nora, in a strange, dazed way, could follow
all his movements after he went into the room. The odor of burning
incense crept faintly through the closed doors, and she wondered
again—did the priest touch the white lips and say, "for they have
uttered blasphemies." The fingers were stiffening, she thought; would
the priest murmur now—"for with their hands do men steal;" the eyelids
were fluttering over the glazed eyes; the cleansing oil was dropped upon
them, for "they had looked upon unholy things."
She saw it all before her, and heard it, though her eyes were fast
closed, and her ears were muffled, for she had fallen, face down, by one
of the pillars supporting the remada, and the thick-growing tropical
vine, with its bright, crimson flowers, had buried her head in its
luxuriant foliage, and seemed raining drops of blood upon the wavy dark
brown hair.
Thus Manuel found her when he returned from the pursuit of the fugitive.
He raised her head, and looked into large, bewildered eyes. "What is
it?" she asked; "have I been asleep? Oh, is he dead?"
"The wretched man I followed? Yes; but my hand did not lay him low. The
sheriff and his men had been hunting him; he attempted to swim the river
at the ford; the sheriff fired, and he went down into the flood."
Nora's eyes had closed again during the recital, and Manuel held a
lifeless form in his arms, when Sister Anna and her husband came at
last. They had heard of the shooting of Don Pedro in the city, and the
carriage they came in bore Nora away to the hotel. Manuel did not
relinquish his precious burden till he laid the drooping form gently on
the bed at the hotel. Then the doctor came, and said brain-fever was
imminent, and the room was darkened, and people went about on tip-toe.
And when the news of the death of Don Pedro Lopez was brought down to
the hotel, Nora was already raving in the wildest delirium of the fever.
Weeks have passed, and Nora has declared herself not only well, but able
to return home. Manuel has been an invaluable friend to them all, during
these weeks of trial, and Nora has learned to look for his coming as she
looks for the day and the sunshine.
To him, too, was allotted the task to impart to Nora what it was thought
necessary for her to know—the death of Don Pedro and the finding of the
body of the other, caught against the stump of an old willow, where the
water had washed it, covered with brush and floating débris. But he
had glad news to impart, too; the report of an adverse decision from
Washington on the Del Gada suit had been false, and circulated by the
opposing party in order to secure better terms for withdrawal.
One morning Nora expressed her wish to leave Los Angeles, and Mr.
Whitehead did not hesitate to gratify her wish. An easy conveyance was
secured, the trunks sent by stage, and a quick journey anticipated.
Manuel went with them only as far as San Buenaventura, he said, for it
was on his way home. But when they got there, he said he must go to
Santa Barbara, and no one objected. At Santa Barbara Nora held out her
hand to him, with a saucy smile:
"This is the place at which you were to leave us; good-by."
"Can you tolerate me no longer, Nora?"
"You said at San Buenaventura you would try my patience only till here.
How long do you want me to tolerate you, then?"
"As long as I live. Why should we ever part? Be my wife, Nora," and he
drew her close to him, pressing his lips on hers; and she did not shrink
away from him, but threw her arm around his neck, to bend his head down
for another kiss.
"But you would never have married me—a poor man," he says, bantering.
"Nor would you have married me—a divorced woman," she returns, demurely.
