The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The April flowers were on the hills.  Beds of gold-red poppies and silver-blue baby eyes were set like tiles amidst the dense green undergrowth beneath the pines, and on the natural lawns about the white houses.  Although hope of driving forth the intruder had gone forever in January, Monterey had resumed in part her old gayety; despair had bred philosophy.  But Monterey was Monterey no longer.  An American alcalde with a power vested in no judge of the United States ruled over her; to add injury to insult, he had started a newspaper.  The town was full of Americans; the United States was constructing a fort on the hill; above all, worse than all, the Californians were learning the value of money.  Their sun was sloping to the west.

A thick India shawl hung over the window of Benicia’s old room in her mother’s house, shutting out the perfume of the hills.  A carpet had been thrown on the floor, candles burned in the pretty gold candlesticks that had stood on the altar since Benicia’s childhood.  On the little brass bedstead lay Benicia, very pale and very pretty, her transparent skin faintly reflecting the pink of the satin coverlet.  By the bed sat an old woman of the people.  Her ragged white locks were bound about by a fillet of black silk; her face, dark as burnt umber, was seamed and lined like a withered prune; even her long broad nose was wrinkled; her dull eyes looked like mud-puddles; her big underlip was pursed up as if she had been speaking mincing words, and her chin was covered with a short white stubble.  Over her coarse smock and gown she wore a black cotton reboso.  In her arms she held an infant, muffled in a white lace mantilla.

Doña Eustaquia came in and bent over the baby, her strong face alight with joy.

“Didst thou ever nurse so beautiful a baby?” she demanded.

The old woman grunted; she had heard that question before.

“See how pink and smooth it is—­not red and wrinkled like other babies!  How becoming is that mantilla!  No, she shall not be wrapped in blankets, cap, and shawls.”

“She catch cold, most likely,” grunted the nurse.

“In this weather?  No; it is soft as midsummer.  I cannot get cool.  Ay, she looks like a rosebud lying in a fog-bank!” She touched the baby’s cheek with her finger, then sat on the bed, beside her daughter.  “And how dost thou feel, my little one?  Thou wert a baby thyself but yesterday, and thou art not much more to-day.”

“I feel perfectly well, my mother, and—­ay, Dios, so happy!  Where is Edourdo?”

“Of course!  Always the husband!  They are all alike!  Hast thou not thy mother and thy baby?”

“I adore you both, mamacita, but I want Edourdo.  Where is he?”

Her mother grimaced.  “I suppose it is no use to protest.  Well, my little one, I think he is at this moment on the hill with Lieutenant Ord.”

“Why did he not come to see me before he went out?”

“He did, my daughter, but thou wert asleep.  He kissed thee and stole away.”

“Where?”

“Right there on your cheek, one inch below your eyelashes.”

“When will he return?”

“Holy Mary!  For dinner, surely, and that will be in an hour.”

“When can I get up?”

“In another week.  Thou art so well!  I would not have thee draw too heavily on thy little strength.  Another month and thou wilt not remember that thou hast been ill.  Then we will go to the rancho, where thou and thy little one will have sun all day and no fog.”

“Have I not a good husband, mamacita?”

“Yes; I love him like my own son.  Had he been unkind to thee, I should have killed him with my own hands; but as he has his lips to thy little slipper, I forgive him for being an American.”

“And you no longer wish for a necklace of American ears!  Oh, mamma!”

Doña Eustaquia frowned, then sighed.  “I do not know the American head for which I have not more like than hate, and they are welcome to their ears; but the spirit of that wish is in my heart yet, my child.  Our country has been taken from us; we are aliens in our own land; it is the American’s.  They—­holy God!—­permit us to live here!”

“But they like us better than their own women.”

“Perhaps; they are men and like what they have not had too long.”

“Mamacita, I am thirsty.”

“What wilt thou have?  A glass of water?”

“Water has no taste.”

“I know!”

Doña Eustaquia left the room and returned with an orange.  “This will be cool and pleasant on so warm a day.  It is just a little sour,” she said; but the nurse raised her bony hand.

“Do not give her that,” she said in her harsh voice.  “It is too soon.”

“Nonsense!  The baby is two weeks old.  Why, I ate fruit a week after childing.  Look how dry her mouth is!  It will do her good.”

She pared the orange and gave it to Benicia, who ate it gratefully.

“It is very good, mamita.  You will spoil me always, but that is because you are so good.  And one day I hope you will be as happy as your little daughter; for there are other good Americans in the world.  No? mamma.  I think—­Mamacita!”

She sprang upward with a loud cry, the body curving rigidly; her soft brown eyes stared horribly; froth gathered about her mouth; she gasped once or twice, her body writhing from the agonized arms that strove to hold it, then fell limply down, her features relaxing.

“She is dead,” said the nurse.

“Benicia!” whispered Doña Eustaquia.  “Benicia!”

“You have killed her,” said the old woman, as she drew the mantilla about the baby’s face.

Doña Eustaquia dropped the body and moved backward from the bed.  She put out her hands and went gropingly from the room to her own, and from thence to the sala.  Brotherton came forward to meet her.

“Eustaquia!” he cried.  “My friend! My dear!  What has happened?  What—­”

She raised her hand and pointed to the cross.  The mark of the dagger was still there.

“Benicia!” she uttered.  “The curse!” and then she fell at his feet.