The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The corridor of the Custom-house had been enclosed to protect the musicians and supper table from the wind and fog.  The store-room had been cleared, the floor scrubbed, the walls hung with the colours of Mexico.  All in honour of Pio Pico, again in brief exile from his beloved Los Angeles.  The Governor, blazing with diamonds, stood at the upper end of the room by Doña Modeste Castro’s side.  About them were Castro and other prominent men of Monterey, all talking of the rumoured war between the United States and Mexico and prophesying various results.  Neither Pico nor Castro looked amiable.  The Governor had arrived in the morning to find that the General had allowed pasquinades representing his Excellency in no complimentary light to disfigure the streets of Monterey.  Castro, when taken to task, had replied haughtily that it was the Governor’s place to look after his own dignity; he, the Commandante-General of the army of the Californias, had more important matters to attend to.  The result had been a furious war of words, ending in a lame peace.

“Tell us, Excellency,” said José Abrigo, “what will be the outcome?”

“The Americans can have us if they wish,” said Pio Pico, bitterly.  “We cannot prevent.”

“Never!” cried Castro.  “What?  We cannot protect ourselves against the invasion of bandoleros?  Do you forget what blood stings the veins of the Californian?  A Spaniard stand with folded arms and see his country plucked from him!  Oh, sacrilege!  They will never have our Californias while a Californian lives to cut them down!”

“Bravo! bravo!” cried many voices.

“I tell you—­” began Pio Pico, but Doña Modeste interrupted him.  “No more talk of war to-night,” she said peremptorily.  “Where is Ysabel?”

“She sent me word by Doña Juana that she could not make herself ready in time to come with me, but would follow with my good friend, Don Antonio, who of course had to wait for her.  Her gown was not finished, I believe.  I think she had done something naughty, and Doña Juana had tried to punish her, but had not succeeded.  The old lady looked very sad.  Ah, here is Doña Ysabel now!”

“How lovely she is!” said Doña Modeste.  “I think—­What! what!—­”

“Dios de mi Alma!” exclaimed Pio Pico, “where did she get those pearls?”

The crowd near the door had parted, and Ysabel entered on the arm of her uncle.  Don Antonio’s form was bent, and she looked taller by contrast.  His thin sharp profile was outlined against her white neck, bared for the first time to the eyes of Monterey.  Her shawl had just been laid aside, and he was near-sighted and did not notice the pearls.

She had sewn them all over the front of her white silk gown.  She had wound them in the black coils of her hair.  They wreathed her neck and roped her arms.  Never had she looked so beautiful.  Her great green eyes were as radiant as spring.  Her lips were redder than blood.  A pink flame burned in her oval cheeks.  Her head moved like a Californian lily on its stalk.  No Montereño would ever forget her.

“El Son!” cried the young men, with one accord.  Her magnificent beauty extinguished every other woman in the room.  She must not hide her light in the contradanza.  She must madden all eyes at once.

Ysabel bent her head and glided to the middle of the room.  The other women moved back, their white gowns like a snowbank against the garish walls.  The thin sweet music of the instruments rose above the boom of the tide.  Ysabel lifted her dress with curving arms, displaying arched feet clad in flesh-coloured stockings and white slippers, and danced El Son.

Her little feet tapped time to the music; she whirled her body with utmost grace, holding her head so motionless that she could have balanced a glass of water upon it.  She was inspired that night; and when, in the midst of the dance, De la Vega entered the room, a sort of madness possessed her.  She invented new figures.  She glided back and forth, bending and swaying and doubling until to the eyes of her bewildered admirers the outlines of her lovely body were gone.  Even the women shouted their approval, and the men went wild.  They pulled their pockets inside out and flung handfuls of gold at her feet.  Those who had only silver cursed their fate, but snatched the watches from their pockets, the rings from their fingers, and hurled them at her with shouts and cheers.  They tore the lace ruffles from their shirts; they rushed to the next room and ripped the silver eagles from their hats.  Even Pio Pico flung one of his golden ropes at her feet, a hot blaze in his old ugly face, as he cried:—­

“Brava! brava! thou Star of Monterey!”

Guido Cabañares, desperate at having nothing more to sacrifice to his idol, sprang upon a chair, and was about to tear down the Mexican flag, when the music stopped with a crash, as if musicians and instruments had been overturned, and a figure leaped into the room.

The women uttered a loud cry and crossed themselves.  Even the men fell back.  Ysabel’s swaying body trembled and became rigid.  De la Vega, who had watched her with folded arms, too entranced to offer her anything but the love that shook him, turned livid to his throat.  A friar, his hood fallen back from his stubbled head, his brown habit stiff with dirt, smelling, reeling with fatigue, stood amongst them.  His eyes were deep in his ashen face.  They rolled about the room until they met De la Vega’s.

General Castro came hastily forward.  “What does this mean?” he asked.  “What do you wish?”

The friar raised his arm, and pointed his shaking finger at De la Vega.

“Kill him!” he said, in a loud hoarse whisper.  “He has desecrated the Mother of God!”

Every caballero in the room turned upon De la Vega with furious satisfaction.  Ysabel had quickened their blood, and they were willing to cool it in vengeance on the man of whom they still were jealous, and whom they suspected of having brought the wondrous pearls which covered their Favorita to-night.

“What?  What?” they cried eagerly.  “Has he done this thing?”

“He has robbed the Church.  He has stripped the Blessed Virgin of her jewels.  He—­has—­murdered—­a—­priest of the Holy Catholic Church.”

Horror stayed them for a moment, and then they rushed at De la Vega.  “He does not deny it!” they cried.  “Is it true?  Is it true?” and they surged about him hot with menace.

“It is quite true,” said De la Vega, coldly.  “I plundered the shrine of Loreto and murdered its priest.”

The women panted and gasped; for a moment even the men were stunned, and in that moment an ominous sound mingled with the roar of the surf.  Before the respite was over Ysabel had reached his side.

“He did it for me!” she cried, in her clear triumphant voice.  “For me!  And although you kill us both, I am the proudest woman in all the Californias, and I love him.”

“Good!” cried Castro, and he placed himself before them.  “Stand back, every one of you.  What? are you barbarians, Indians, that you would do violence to a guest in your town?  What if he has committed a crime?  Is he not one of you, then, that you offer him blood instead of protection?  Where is your pride of caste? your hospitality?  Oh, perfidy!  Fall back, and leave the guest of your capital to those who are compelled to judge him.”

The caballeros shrank back, sullen but abashed.  He had touched the quick of their pride.

“Never mind!” cried the friar.  “You cannot protect him from that.  Listen!”

Had the bay risen about the Custom-house?

“What is that?” demanded Castro, sharply.

“The poor of Monterey; those who love their Cross better than the aristocrats love their caste.  They know.”

De la Vega caught Ysabel in his arms and dashed across the room and corridor.  His knife cut a long rift in the canvas, and in a moment they stood upon the rocks.  The shrieking crowd was on the other side of the Custom-house.

“Marcos!” he called to his boatman, “Marcos!”

No answer came but the waves tugging at the rocks not two feet below them.  He could see nothing.  The fog was thick as night.

“He is not here, Ysabel.  We must swim.  Anything but to be torn to pieces by those wild-cats.  Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said.

He folded her closely with one arm, and felt with his foot for the edge of the rocks.  A wild roar came from behind.  A dozen pistols were fired into the air.  De la Vega reeled suddenly.  “I am shot, Ysabel,” he said, his knees bending.  “Not in this world, my love!”

She wound her arms about him, and dragging him to the brow of the rocks, hurled herself outward, carrying him with her.  The waves tossed them on high, flung them against the rocks and ground them there, playing with them like a lion with its victim, then buried them.