The Doomswoman: An Historical Romance of Old California

The guests of Casa Grande—­there were many besides Alvarado and his party; the house was full again—­were gathered with the family on the corridor as Estenega, Chonita, and Prudencia dismounted at the extreme end of the court-yard.  As Reinaldo saw the enemy of his house approach he ran down the steps, advanced rapidly, and bowed low before him.

“Welcome, Señor Don Diego Estenega,” he said,—­“welcome to Casa Grande.  The house is thine.  Burn it if thou wilt.  The servants are thine; I myself am thy servant.  This is the supreme moment of my life, supremer even than when I learned of my acquittal of the foul charges laid to my door by scheming and jealous enemies.  It is long—­alas!—­since an Estenega and an Iturbi y Moncada have met in the court-yard of the one or the other.  Let this moment be the seal of peace, the death of feud, the unification of the North and the South.”

“You have the hospitality of the true Californian, Don Reinaldo.  It gives me pleasure to accept it.”

“Would, then, thy pleasure could equal mine!” “Curse him!” he added to Chonita, as Estenega went up the steps to greet Don Guillermo and Doña Trinidad, “I have just received positive information that it was he who kept me from distinguishing myself and my house in the Departmental Junta, he who cast me in a dungeon.  It poisons my happiness to sleep under the same roof with him.”

“Ay!” exclaimed Chonita.  “Why canst thou not be more sincere, my brother?  Hospitality did not compel thee to say so much to thine enemy.  Couldst thou not have spoken a few simple words like himself, and not blackened thy soul?”

“My sister! thou never spokest to me so harshly before.  And on my marriage eve!”

“Forgive me, my most beloved brother.  Thou knowest I love thee.  But it grieves me to think that even hospitality could make thee false.”

When they ascended the steps, not a woman was to be seen; all had followed Prudencia to her chamber to see the donas of the groom, which had arrived that day from Mexico.  Chonita tarried long enough to see that her father had forgotten the family grievance in his revived susceptibility to Estenega, then went to Prudencia’s room.  There women, young and old, crowded each other, jabbering like monkeys.  The little iron bed, the chairs and tables, every article of furniture, in fact, but the altar in the corner, displayed to advantage exquisite materials for gowns, a mass of elaborate underclothing, a white lace mantilla to be worn at the bridal, lace flounces fine and deep, crêpe shawls, sashes from Rome, silk stockings by the dozen.  On a large table were the more delicate and valuable gifts:  a rosary of topaz, the cross a fine piece of carving; a jeweled comb; a string of pearls; diamond hoops for the ears; a large pin painted with a head of Guadalupe, the patron saint of California; and several fragile fans.  Quite apart, on a little table, was the crown and pride of the donas,—­six white cobweb-like smocks, embroidered, hemistitched, and deshaladoed.  Did any Californian bridegroom forget that dainty item he would be repudiated on his wedding-eve.

“God of my life!” murmured Valencia, “he has taste as well as gold.  And all to go on that round white doll!”

There was little envy among the other girls.  Their eyes sparkled with good-nature as they kissed Prudencia and congratulated her.  The older women patted the things approvingly; and, between religion, a donas to satisfy an angel, and prospective bliss, Prudencia was the happiest little bride-elect in all The Californias.

“Never were such smocks!” cried one of the girls.  “Ay! he will make a good husband.  That sign never fails.”

“Thou must wear long, long trains now, my Prudencia, and be as stately as Chonita.”

“Ay!” exclaimed Prudencia.  Did not every gown already made have a train longer than herself?

“Thou needst never wear a mended stocking with all these to last thee for years,” said another:  never had silk stockings been brought to the Californias in sufficient plenty for the dancing feet of its daughters.

“I shall always mend my stockings,” said Prudencia, “I myself.”

“Yes,” said one of the older women, “thou wilt be a good wife and waste nothing.”

Valencia laid her arm about Chonita’s waist.  “I wish to meet Don Diego Estenega,” she said.  “Wilt thou not present him to me?”

“Thou art very forward,” said Chonita, coldly.  “Canst thou not wait until he comes thy way?”

“No, my Chonita; I wish to meet him now.  My curiosity devours me.”

“Very well; come with me and thou shalt know him.—­Wilt thou come too, Eustaquia?  There are only men on the corridor.”

We found Diego and Don Guillermo talking politics in a corner, both deeply interested.  Estenega rose at once.

“Don Diego Estenega,” said Chonita, “I would present you to the Señorita Doña Valencia Menendez, of the Rancho del Fuego.”

Estenega bowed.  “I have heard much of Doña Valencia, and am delighted to meet her.”

Valencia was nonplussed for a moment; he had not given her the customary salutation, and she could hardly murmur the customary reply.  She merely smiled and looked so handsome that she could afford to dispense with words.

“A superb type,” said Estenega to me, as Don Guillermo claimed the beauty’s attention for a moment.  “But only a type; nothing distinctive.”

Nevertheless, ten minutes later, Valencia, with the manoeuvring of the general of many a battle, had guided him to a seat in the sala under Doña Trinidad’s sleepy wing, and her eyes were flashing the language of Spain to his.  I saw Chonita watch them for a moment, in mingled surprise and doubt, then saw a sudden look of fear spring to her eyes as she turned hastily and walked away.

Again I shared her room,—­the thirty rooms and many in the out-buildings were overflowing with guests who had come a hundred leagues or less,—­and after we had been in bed a half-hour, Chonita, overcome by the insinuating power of that time-honored confessional, told me of her meeting with Estenega at the Mission.  I made few comments, but sighed; I knew him so well.  “It will be strange to even seem to be friends with him,” she added,—­“to hate him in my heart and yet delight to talk with him, and perhaps to regret when he leaves.”

“Are you sure that you still hate him?”

She sat up in bed.  The solid wooden shutters were closed, but over the door was a small square aperture, and through this a stray moonbeam drifted and fell on her.  Her hair was tumbling about her shoulders, and she looked decidedly less statuesque than usual.

“Eustaquia,” she said, solemnly, “I believe I can go to confession.”