The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

A few hours later Doña Eustaquia sat in the large and cooler sala with Captain Brotherton.  He read Shakespeare to her whilst she fanned herself, her face aglow with intelligent pleasure.  She had not broached to him the uprising in the South lest it should lead to bitter words.  Although an American and a Protestant, few friends had ever stood so close to her.

He laid down the book as Russell and Benicia entered the room.  Doña Eustaquia’s heavy brows met.

“Thou knowest that I do not allow thee to walk with on the street,” she said in Spanish.

“But, mamacita, he is my husband.  We were married this morning at Blandina’s,” Excitement had tuned Benicia’s spirit to its accustomed pitch, and her eyes danced with mischief.  Moreover, although she expected violent reproaches, she knew the tenacious strength of her mother’s affection, and had faith in speedy forgiveness.

Brotherton opened his eyes, but Doña Eustaquia moved back her head impatiently.  “That silly joke!” Then she smiled at her own impatience.  What was Benicia but a spoiled child, and spoiled children would disobey at times.  “Welcome, my son,” she said to Russell, extending her hand.  “We celebrate your marriage at the supper to-night, and the Captain helps us, no? my friend.”

“Let us have chicken with red pepper and tomato sauce,” cried Russell.  “And rice with saffron; and that delightful dish with which I remonstrate all night—­olives and cheese and hard-boiled eggs and red peppers all rolled up in corn-meal cakes.”

“Enchiladas?  You have them!  Now, both you go over to the corner and talk not loud, for I wish to hear my friend read.”

Russell, lifting his shoulders, did as he was bidden.  Benicia, with a gay laugh, kissed her mother and flitted like a butterfly about the room, singing gay little snatches of song.

“Oh, mamacita, mamacita,” she chanted.  “Thou wilt not believe thou hast lost thy little daughter.  Thou wilt not believe thou hast a son.  Thou wilt not believe I shall sleep no more in the little brass bed—­”

“Benicia, hold thy saucy tongue!  Sit down!” And this Benicia finally consented to do, although smothered laughter came now and again from the corner.

Dona Eustaquia sat easily against the straight back of her chair, looking very handsome and placid as Brotherton read and expounded “As You Like It” to her.  Her gown of thin black silk threw out the fine gray tones of her skin; about her neck and chest was a heavy chain of Californian gold; her dense lustreless hair was held high with a shell comb banded with gold; superb jewels weighted her little white hands; in her small ears were large hoops of gold studded with black pearls.  She was perfectly contented in that hour.  Her woman’s vanity was at peace and her eager mind expanding.

The party about the supper table in the evening was very gay.  The long room was bare, but heavy silver was beyond the glass doors of the cupboard; a servant stood behind each chair; the wines were as fine as any in America, and the favourite dishes of the Americans had been prepared.  Even Brotherton, although more nervous than was usual with him, caught the contagion of the hour and touched his glass more than once to that of the woman whose overwhelming personality had more than half captured a most indifferent heart.

After supper they sat on the corridor, and Benicia sang her mocking love-songs and danced El Son to the tinkling of her own guitar.

“Is she not a light-hearted child?” asked her mother.  “But she has her serious moments, my friend.  We have been like the sisters.  Every path of the pine woods we walk together, arm in arm.  We ride miles on the beach and sit down on the rocks for hours and try to think what the seals say one to the other.  Before you come I have friends, but no other companion; but it is good for me you come, for she think only of flirting since the Americans take Monterey.  Mira!  Look at her flash the eyes at Señor Russell.  It is well he has the light heart like herself.”

Brotherton made no reply.

“Give to me the guitar,” she continued.

Benicia handed her the instrument and Doña Eustaquia swept the chords absently for a moment then sang the song of the troubadour.  Her rich voice was like the rush of the wind through the pines after the light trilling of a bird, and even Russell sat enraptured.  As she sang the colour came into her face, alight with the fire of youth.  Her low notes were voluptuous, her high notes rang with piercing sadness.  As she finished, a storm of applause came from Alvarado Street, which pulsed with life but a few yards below them.

“No American woman ever sang like that,” said Brotherton.  He rose and walked to the end of the corridor.  “But it is a part of Monterey.”

“Most enchanting of mothers-in-law,” said Russell, “you have made it doubly hard for us to leave you; but it grows late and my wife and I must go.  Good night,” and he raised her hand to his lips.

“Good night, my son.”

“Mamacita, good night,” and Benicia, who had fluttered into the house and found a reboso, kissed her mother, waved her hand to Brotherton, and stepped from the corridor to the street.

“Come here, señorita!” cried her mother.  “No walk to-night, for I have not the wish to walk myself.”

“But I go with my husband, mamma.”

“Oh, no more of that joke without sense!  Señor Russell, go home, that she have reason for one moment.”

“But, dear Doña Eustaquia, won’t you understand that we are really married?”

Doña Eustaquia’s patience was at an end.  She turned to Brotherton and addressed a remark to him.  Russell and Benicia conferred a moment, then the young man walked rapidly down the street.

“Has he gone?” asked Doña Eustaquia.  “Then let us go in the house, for the fog comes from the bay.”

They went into the little sala and sat about the table.  Doña Eustaquia picked up a silver dagger she used as a paper cutter and tapped a book with it.

“Ay, this will not last long,” she said to Brotherton.  “I much am afraid your Commodore send you to the South to fight with our men.”

“I shall return,” said Brotherton, absently.  His eyes were fixed on the door.

“But it will not be long that you will be there, my friend.  Many people are not killed in our wars.  Once there was a great battle at Point Rincon, near Santa Barbara, between Castro and Carillo.  Carillo have been appointed governor by Mejico, and Alvarado refuse to resign.  They fight for three days, and Castro manage so well he lose only one man, and the others run away and not lose any.”

Brotherton laughed.  “I hope all our battles may be as bloodless,” he said, and then drew a short breath.

Russell, accompanied by Don Jorje and Doña Francesca Hernandez and the priest of Monterey, entered the room.

Doña Eustaquia rose and greeted her guests with grace and hospitality.

“But I am glad to see you, my father, my friends.  And you always are welcome, Señor Russell; but no more joke.  Where is our Blandina?  Sit down—­Why, what is it?”

The priest spoke.

“I have that to tell you, Doña Eustaquia, which I fear will give you great displeasure.  I hoped not to be the one to tell it.  I was weak to consent, but these young people importuned me until I was weary.  Doña Eustaquia, I married Benicia to the Señor Russell to-day.”

Doña Eustaquia’s head had moved forward mechanically, her eyes staring incredulously from the priest to the other members of the apprehensive group.  Suddenly her apathy left her, her arm curved upward like the neck of a snake; but as she sprang upon Benicia her ferocity was that of a tiger.

“What!” she shrieked, shaking the girl violently by the shoulder.  “What! ingrate! traitor!  Thou hast married an American, a Protestant!”

Benicia burst into terrified sobs.  Russell swung the girl from her mother’s grasp and placed his arm around her.

“She is mine now,” he said.  “You must not touch her again.”

“Yours!  Yours!” screamed Doña Eustaquia, beside herself.  “Oh, Mother of God!” She snatched the dagger from the table and, springing backward, plunged it into the cross.

“By that sign I curse thee,” she cried.  “Accursed be the man who has stolen my child!  Accursed be the woman who has betrayed her mother and her country!  God!  God!—­I implore thee, let her die in her happiest hour.”