The Doomswoman: An Historical Romance of Old California

The festivities were to last a week, every one taking part but Alvarado and Doña Martina.  The latter was not strong enough, the governor cared more for duty than for pleasure.

The next day we had a merienda on the hills behind the town.  The green pine woods were gay with the bright colors of the young people.  Here and there a caballero dashed up and down to show his horsemanship and the silver and embroidered silk of his saddle.  Silver, too, were his jingling spurs, the eagles on his sombrero, the buttons on his colorous silken jacket.  Horses, without exception handsomely trapped, were tethered everywhere, pawing the ground or nibbling the grass.  The girls wore white or flowered silk or muslin gowns, and rebosos about their heads; the brown ugly dueñas, ever at their sides, were foils they would gladly have dispensed with.  The tinkle of the guitar never ceased, and the sweet voices of the girls and the rich voices of the men broke forth with the joyous spontaneity of the birds’ songs about them.

Chonita wore a white silk gown, I remember flowered with blue,—­large blue lilies.  The reboso matched the gown.  As soon as we arrived—­we were a little late—­she was surrounded by caballeros who hardly knew whether to like her or not, but who adhered to the knowledge that she was Chonita Iturbi y Moncada, the most famous beauty of the South.

“Dios! but thou art beautiful,” murmured one, his dreamy eyes dwelling on her shining hair.

“Gracias, señor.”  She whispered it as bashfully as the maidens to whom he was accustomed, her eyes fixed upon a rose she held.

“Wilt thou not stay with us here in Monterey?”

She raised her eyes slowly,—­he could not but feel the effort,—­gave him one bewildering glance, half appealing, half protesting, then dropped them suddenly.

“Wilt thou stay with me?” panted the caballero.

“Ay, señor! thou must not speak like that.  Some one will hear thee.”

“I care not!  God of my life!  I care not!  Wilt thou marry me?”

“Thou must not speak to me of marriage, señor.  It is to my father thou must speak.  Would I, a Californian maiden, betroth myself without his knowledge?”

“Holy heaven!  I will!  But give me one word that thou lovest me,—­one word!”

She lifted her chin saucily and turned to another caballero, who, I doubt not, proposed also.  Estenega, who had watched her, laughed.

“She acts the part to perfection,” he said to me.  “Either natural or acquired coquetry has more to do with saving her from the solitary plane of the intellectual woman than her beauty or her father’s wealth.  I am inclined to think that it is acquired.  I do not believe that she is a coquette at heart, any more than that she is the marble doomswoman she fondly believes herself.”

“You will tell her that,” I exclaimed, angrily; “and she will end by loving you because you understand her; all women want to be understood.  Why don’t you go to Paris again?  You have not been there for a long time.”

Not deeming this suggestion worthy of answer, he left me and walked to Chonita, who was glancing over the top of her fan into the ardent eyes of a third caballero.

“You will step on a bunch of nettles in a moment,” he said, practically.  “Your slippers are very thin; you had better stand over here on the path.”  And he dexterously separated her from the other men.  “Will you walk to that opening over there with me?  I want to show you a better view of Monterey.”

His manner had not a touch of gallantry, and she was tired of the caballeros.

“Very well,” she said.  “I will look at the view.”

As she followed him she noted that he led her where the bushes were thinnest, and kicked the stones from her path.  She also remarked the nervous energy of his thin figure.  “It comes from his love of the Americans,” she thought, angrily.  “He must even walk like them.  The Americans!” And she brought her teeth together with a sharp click.

He turned, smiling.  “You look very disapproving,” he said.  “What have I done?”

“You look like an American!  You even wear their clothes, and they are the color of smoke; and you wear no lace.  How cold and uninteresting a scene would this be if all the men were dressed as you are!”

“We cannot all be made for decorative purposes.  And you are as unlike those girls, in all but your dress, as I am unlike the men.  I will not incur your wrath by saying that you are American:  but you are modern.  Our lovely compatriots were the same three hundred years ago.  Will Doña California be pleased to observe that whale spouting in the bay?  There is the tree beneath which Junipero Serra said his first mass in this part of the country.  What a sanctimonious old fraud he must have been, if he looked anything like his pictures!  Did you ever see bay bluer than that? or sand whiter? or a more perfect semicircle of hills than this? or a more straggling town?  There is the Custom-house on the rocks.  You will go to a ball there to-night, and hear the boom of the surf as you dance.”  He turned with one of his sudden impatient motions.  “Suppose we ride.  The air is too sharp to lie about under the trees.  This white horse mates your gown.  Let us go over to Carmelo.”

“I should like to go,” she said, doubtfully; he had made her throb with indignation once or twice, but his conversation interested her and her free spirit approved of a ride over the hills unattended by dueña.  “But—­you know—­I do not like you.”

“Oh, never mind that; the ride will interest you just the same.”  And he lifted her to the horse, sprang on another, caught her bridle, lest she should rebel, and galloped up the road.  When they were on the other side of hill he slackened speed and looked at her with a smile.  She was inclined to be angry, but found herself watching the varying expressions of his mouth, which diverted her mind.  It was a baffling mouth, even to experienced women, and Chonita could make nothing of it.  It had neither sweetness nor softness, but she had never felt impelled to study the mouth of a caballero.  And then she wondered how a man with a mouth like that could have manners so gentle.

“Are you aware,” he said, abruptly, “that your brother is accused of conspiracy?”

“What?” She looked at him as if she inferred that this was the order of badinage that an Iturbi y Moncada might expect from an Estenega.

“I am not joking.  It is quite true.”

“It is not true!  Reinaldo conspire against his government?  Some one has lied.  And you are ready to believe!”

“I hope some one has lied.  The news is very direct, however.”  He looked at her speculatively.  “The more obstacles the better,” he thought; “and we may as well declare war on this question at once.  Besides, it is no use to begin as a hypocrite, when every act would tell her what I thought of him.  Moreover, he will have more or less influence over her until her eyes are opened to his true worth.  She will not believe me, of course, but she is a woman who only needs an impetus to do a good deal of thinking and noting.”  “I am going to make you angry,” he said.  “I am going to tell you that I do not share your admiration of your brother.  He has ten thousand words for every idea, and although, God knows, we have more time than anything else in this land of the poppy where only the horses run, still there are more profitable ways of employing it than to listen to meaningless and bombastic words.  Moreover, your brother is a dangerous man.  No man is so safe in seclusion as the one of large vanities and small ambitions.  He is not big enough to conceive a revolution, but is ready to be the tool of any unscrupulous man who is, and, having too much egotism to follow orders, will ruin a project at the last moment by attempting to think for himself.  I do not say these things to wantonly insult you, señorita, only to let you know at once how I regard your brother, that you may not accuse me of treachery or hypocrisy later.”

He had expected and hoped that she would turn upon him with a burst of fury; but she had drawn herself up to her most stately height, and was looking at him with cold hauteur.  Her mouth was as hard as a pink jewel, and her eyes had the glitter of ice in them.

“Señor,” she said, “it seems to me that you, too, waste many words—­in speaking of my brother; for what you say of him cannot interest me.  I have known him for twenty-two years; you have seen him four or six times.  What can you tell me of him?  Not only is he my brother and the natural object of my love and devotion, but he is Reinaldo Iturbi y Moncada, the last male descendant of his house, and as such I hold him in a regard only second to that which I bear to my father.  And with the blood in him he could not be otherwise than a great and good man.”

Estenega looked at her with the first stab of doubt he had felt.  “She is Spanish in her marrow,” he thought,—­“the steadfast unreasoning child of traditions.  I could not well be at greater disadvantage.  But she is magnificent.”

“Another thing which was unnecessary,” she added, “was to defend yourself to me or to tell me how you felt toward my brother, and why.  We are enemies by tradition and instinct.  We shall rarely meet, and shall probably never talk together again.”

“We shall talk together more times than you will care to count.  I have much to say to you, and you shall listen.  But we will discuss the matter no further at present.  Shall we gallop?”

He spurred his horse, and once more they fled through the pine woods.  Before long they entered the valley of Carmelo.  The mountains were massive and gloomy, the little bay was blue and quiet, the surf of the ocean roared about Point Lobos, Carmelo River crawled beneath its willows.  In the middle of the valley stood the impressive yellow church, with its Roman tower and rose-window; about it were the crumbling brown hovels of the deserted Mission.  Once as they rode Estenega thought he heard voices, but could not be sure, so loud was the clatter of the horses’ hoofs.  As they reached the square they drew rein swiftly, the horses standing upright at the sudden halt.  Then strange sounds came to them through the open doors of the church:  ribald shouts and loud laughter, curses and noise of smashing glass, such songs as never were sung in Carmelo before; an infernal clash of sound which mingled incongruously with the solemn mass of the surf.  Chonita’s eyes flashed.  Even Estenega’s face darkened:  the traditions planted in plastic youth arose and rebelled at the desecration.

“Some drunken sailors,” he said.  “There—­do you see that?” A craft rounded Point Lobos.  “Pirates!”

“Holy Mary!” exclaimed Chonita.

“Let down your hair,” he said, peremptorily; “and follow all that I suggest.  We will drive them out.”

She obeyed him without question, excited and interested.  Then they rode to the doors and threw them wide.

The upper end of the long church was swarming with pirates; there was no mistaking those bold, cruel faces, blackened by sun and wind, half covered with ragged hair.  They stood on the benches, they bestrode the railing, they swarmed over the altar, shouting and carousing in riotous wassail.  Their coarse red shirts were flung back from hairy chests, their faces were distorted with rum and sacrilegious delight.  Every station, every candlestick, had been hurled to the floor and trampled upon.  The crucifix stood on its head.  Sitting high on the altar, reeling and waving a communion goblet, was the drunken chief, singing a blasphemous song of the pirate seas.  The voices rumbled strangely down the hollow body of the church; to perfect the scene flames should have leaped among the swinging arms and bounding forms.

“Come,” said Estenega.  He spurred his horse, and together they galloped down the stone pavement of the edifice.  The men turned at the loud sound of horses’ hoofs; but the riders were in their midst, scattering them right and left, before they realized what was happening.

The horses were brought to sudden halt.  Estenega rose in his stirrups, his fine bold face looking down impassively upon the demoniacal gang who could have rent him apart, but who stood silent and startled, gazing from him to the beautiful woman, whose white gown looked part of the white horse she rode.  Estenega raised his hand and pointed to Chonita.

“The Virgin,” he said, in a hollow, impressive voice.  “The Mother of God.  She has come to defend her church.  Go.”

Chonita’s face blanched to the lips, but she looked at the sacrilegists sternly.  Fortune favored the audacity of Estenega.  The sunlight, drifting through the star-window above the doors at the lower end of the church, smote the uplifted golden head of Chonita, wreathing it with a halo, gifting the face with unearthly beauty.

“Go!” repeated Estenega, “lest she weep.  With every tear a heart will cease to beat.”

The chief scrambled down from the altar and ran like a rat past Chonita, his swollen mouth dropping.  The others crouched and followed, stumbling one over the other, their dark evil faces bloodless, their knees knocking together with superstitious terror.  They fled from the church and down to the bay, and swam to their craft.  Estenega and Chonita rode out.  They watched the ugly vessel scurry around Point Lobos; then Chonita spoke for the first time.

“Blasphemer!” she exclaimed.  “Mother of God, wilt thou ever forgive me?”

“Why not call me a Jesuit?  It was a case where mind or matter must triumph.  And you can confess your enforced sin, say a hundred aves or so, and be whiter than snow again; whereas, had our Mission of Carmelo been razed to the ground, as it was in a fair way to be, California would have lost an historical monument.”

“And Junipero Serra’s bones are there, and it was his favorite Mission,” said the girl, unwillingly.

“Exactly.  And now that you are reasonably sure of being forgiven, will not you forgive me?  I shall ask no priest’s forgiveness.”

She looked at him a moment, then shook her head.  “No:  I cannot forgive you for having made me commit what may be a mortal sin.  But, Holy Heaven!—­I cannot help saying it—­you are very quick!”

“For each idea is a moment born.  Upon whether we wed the two or think too late depends the success or the failure of our lives.”

“Suppose,” she said, suddenly,—­“suppose you had failed, and those men had seized me and made me captive:  what then?”

“I should have killed you.  Not one of them should have touched you.  But I had no doubts, or I should not have made the attempt.  I know the superstitious nature of sailors, especially when they are drunk.  Shall we gallop back?  They will have eaten all the dulces.”