The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The people of Monterey danced every night of their lives, and went nowhere so promptly as to the great sala of Doña Modeste Castro, their leader of fashion, whose gowns were made for her in the city of Mexico.

Ysabel envied her bitterly.  Not because the Doña Modeste’s skin was whiter than her own, for it could not be, nor her eyes greener, for they were not; but because her jewels were richer than Pio Pico’s, and upon all grand occasions a string of wonderful pearls gleamed in her storm-black hair.  But one feminine compensation had Ysabel:  she was taller; Doña Modeste’s slight elegant figure lacked Ysabel’s graceful inches, and perhaps she too felt a pang sometimes as the girl undulated above her like a snake about to strike.

At the fashionable hour of ten Monterey was gathered for the dance.  All the men except the officers wore black velvet or broadcloth coats and white trousers.  All the women wore white, the waist long and pointed, the skirt full.  Ysabel’s gown was of embroidered crêpe.  Her hair was coiled about her head, and held by a tortoise comb framed with a narrow band of gold.  Pio Pico, splendid with stars and crescents and rings and pins, led her in, and with his unique ugliness enhanced her beauty.

She glanced eagerly about the room whilst replying absently to the caballeros who surrounded her.  Don Vicente de la Vega was not there.  The thick circle about her parted, and General Castro bent over her hand, begging the honour of the contradanza.  She sighed, and for the moment forgot the Southerner who had flashed and gone like the beginning of a dream.  Here was a man—­the only man of her knowledge whom she could have loved, and who would have found her those pearls.  Californians had so little ambition!  Then she gave a light audacious laugh.  Governor Pico was shaking hands cordially with General Castro, the man he hated best in California.

No two men could have contrasted more sharply than José Castro and Pio Pico—­with the exception of Alvarado the most famous men of their country.  The gold trimmings of the general’s uniform were his only jewels.  His hair and beard—­the latter worn à la Basca, a narrow strip curving from upper lip to ear—­were as black as Pio Pico’s once had been.  The handsomest man in California, he had less consciousness than the least of the caballeros.  His deep gray eyes were luminous with enthusiasm; his nose was sharp and bold; his firm sensitive mouth was cut above a resolute chin.  He looked what he was, the ardent patriot of a doomed cause.

“Señorita,” he said, as he led Ysabel out to the sweet monotonous music of the contradanza, “did you see the caballero who rode with me to-day?”

A red light rose to Ysabel’s cheek.  “Which one, commandante?  Many rode with you.”

“I mean him who rode at my right, the winner of the races, Vicente, son of my old friend Juan Bautista de la Vega y Arillaga, of Los Angeles.”

“It may be.  I think I saw a strange face.”

“He saw yours, Doña Ysabel, and is looking upon you now from the corridor without, although the fog is heavy about him.  Cannot you see him—­that dark shadow by the pillar?”

Ysabel never went through the graceful evolutions of the contradanza as she did that night.  Her supple slender body curved and swayed and glided; her round arms were like lazy snakes uncoiling; her exquisitely poised head moved in perfect concord with her undulating hips.  Her eyes grew brighter, her lips redder.  The young men who stood near gave as loud a vent to their admiration as if she had been dancing El Son alone on the floor.  But the man without made no sign.

After the dance was over, General Castro led her to her dueña, and handing her a guitar, begged a song.

She began a light love-ballad, singing with the grace and style of her Spanish blood; a little mocking thing, but with a wild break now and again.  As she sang, she fixed her eyes coquettishly on the adoring face of Guido Cabañares, who stood beside her, but saw every movement of the form beyond the window.  Don Guido kept his ardent eyes riveted upon her but detected no wandering in her glances.  His lips trembled as he listened, and once he brushed the tears from his eyes.  She gave him a little cynical smile, then broke her song in two.  The man on the corridor had vaulted through the window.

Ysabel, clinching her hands the better to control her jumping nerves, turned quickly to Cabañares, who had pressed behind her, and was pouring words into her ear.

“Ysabel!  Ysabel! hast thou no pity?  Dost thou not see that I am fit to set the world on fire for love of thee?  The very water boils as I drink it—­”

She interrupted him with a scornful laugh, the sharper that her voice might not tremble.  “Bring me my pearls.  What is love worth when it will not grant one little desire?”

He groaned.  “I have found a vein of gold on my rancho.  I can pick the little shining pieces out with my fingers.  I will have them beaten into a saddle for thee—­”

But she had turned her back flat upon him, and was making a deep courtesy to the man whom General Castro presented.

“I appreciate the honour of your acquaintance,” she murmured mechanically.

“At your feet, señorita,” said Don Vicente.

The art of making conversation had not been cultivated among the Californians, and Ysabel plied her large fan with slow grace, at a loss for further remark, and wondering if her heart would suffocate her.  But Don Vicente had the gift of words.

“Señorita,” he said, “I have stood in the chilling fog and felt the warmth of your lovely voice at my heart.  The emotions I felt my poor tongue cannot translate.  They swarm in my head like a hive of puzzled bees; but perhaps they look through my eyes,” and he fixed his powerful and penetrating gaze on Ysabel’s green depths.

A waltz began, and he took her in his arms without asking her indulgence, and regardless of the indignation of the mob of men about her.  Ysabel, whose being was filled with tumult, lay passive as he held her closer than man had ever dared before.

“I love you,” he said, in his harsh voice.  “I wish you for my wife.  At once.  When I saw you to-day standing with a hundred other beautiful women, I said:  ‘She is the fairest of them all.  I shall have her.’  And I read the future in”—­he suddenly dropped the formal “you”—­“in thine eyes, cariña.  Thy soul sprang to mine.  Thy heart is locked in my heart closer, closer than my arms are holding thee now.”

The strength of his embrace was violent for a moment; but Ysabel might have been cut from marble.  Her body had lost its swaying grace; it was almost rigid.  She did not lift her eyes.  But De la Vega was not discouraged.

The music finished, and Ysabel was at once surrounded by a determined retinue.  This intruding Southerner was welcome to the honours of the race-field, but the Star of Monterey was not for him.  He smiled as he saw the menace of their eyes.

“I would have her,” he thought, “if they were a regiment of Castros—­which they are not.”  But he had not armed himself against diplomacy.

“Señor Don Vicente de la Vega y Arillaga,” said Don Guido Cabañares, who had been selected as spokesman, “perhaps you have not learned during your brief visit to our capital that the Señorita Doña Ysabel Herrera, La Favorita of Alta California, has sworn by the Holy Virgin, by the blessed Junipero Serra, that she will wed no man who does not bring her a lapful of pearls.  Can you find those pearls on the sands of the South, Don Vicente?  For, by the holy cross of God, you cannot have her without them!”

For a moment De la Vega was disconcerted.

“Is this true?” he demanded, turning to Ysabel.

“What, señor?” she asked vaguely.  She had not listened to the words of her protesting admirer.

A sneer bent his mouth.  “That you have put a price upon yourself?  That the man who ardently wishes to be your husband, who has even won your love, must first hang you with pearls like—­” He stopped suddenly, the blood burning his dark face, his eyes opening with an expression of horrified hope.  “Tell me!  Tell me!” he exclaimed.  “Is this true?”

For the first time since she had spoken with him Ysabel was herself.  She crossed her arms and tapped her elbows with her pointed fingers.

“Yes,” she said, “it is true.”  She raised her eyes to his and regarded him steadily.  They looked like green pools frozen in a marble wall.

The harp, the flute, the guitar, combined again, and once more he swung her from a furious circle.  But he was safe; General Castro had joined it.  He waltzed her down the long room, through one adjoining, then into another, and, indifferent to the iron conventions of his race, closed the door behind them.  They were in the sleeping-room of Doña Modeste.  The bed with its rich satin coverlet, the bare floor, the simple furniture, were in semi-darkness; only on the altar in the corner were candles burning.  Above it hung paintings of saints, finely executed by Mexican hands; an ebony cross spread its black arms against the white wall; the candles flared to a golden Christ.  He caught her hands and led her over to the altar.

“Listen to me,” he said.  “I will bring you those pearls.  You shall have such pearls as no queen in Europe possesses.  Swear to me here, with your hands on this altar, that you will wed me when I return, no matter how or where I find those pearls.”

He was holding her hands between the candelabra.  She looked at him with eyes of passionate surrender; the man had conquered worldly ambitions.  But he answered her before she had time to speak.

“You love me, and would withdraw the conditions.  But I am ready to do a daring and a terrible act.  Furthermore, I wish to show you that I can succeed where all other men have failed.  I ask only two things now.  First, make me the vow I wish.”

“I swear it,” she said.

“Now,” he said, his voice sinking to a harsh but caressing whisper, “give me one kiss for courage and hope.”

She leaned slowly forward, the blood pulsing in her lips; but she had been brought up behind grated windows, and she drew back.  “No,” she said, “not now.”

For a moment he looked rebellious; then he laid his hands on her shoulders and pressed her to her knees.  He knelt behind her, and together they told a rosary for his safe return.

He left her there and went to his room.  From his saddle-bag he took a long letter from an intimate friend, one of the younger Franciscan priests of the Mission of Santa Barbara, where he had been educated.  He sought this paragraph:—­

“Thou knowest, of course, my Vicente, of the pearl fisheries of Baja California.  It is whispered—­between ourselves, indeed, it is quite true—­that a short while ago the Indian divers discovered an extravagantly rich bed of pearls.  Instead of reporting to any of the companies, they have hung them all upon our Most Sacred Lady of Loreto, in the Mission of Loreto; and there, by the grace of God, they will remain.  They are worth the ransom of a king, my Vicente, and the Church has come to her own again.”