The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

“Tell us, tell us, Mariquita, does she water the rose-tree every night?”

“Every night, ay, yi!”

“And is it big yet?  Ay, but that wall is high!  Not a twig can I see!”

“Yes, it grows!”

“And he comes not?”

“He write.  I see the letters.”

“But what does he say?”

“How can I know?”

“And she goes to the balls and meriendas no more.  Surely, they will forget her.  It is more than a year now.  Some one else will be La Favorita.”

“She does not care.”

“Hush the voices,” cried Faquita, scrubbing diligently.  “It is well that she stay at home and does not dance away her beauty before he come.  She is like a lily.”

“But lilies turn brown, old Faquita, when the wind blow on them too long.  Dost thou think he will return?”

“Surely,” said Faquita, stoutly.  “Could any one forget that angel?”

“Ay, these men, these men!” said Francesca, with a sigh.

“Oh, thou old raven!” cried Mariquita.  “But truly—­truly—­she has had no letter for three months.”

“Aha, señorita, thou didst not tell us that just now.”

“Nor did I intend to.  The words just fell from my teeth.”

“He is ill,” cried Faquita, angrily.  “Ay, my probrecita!  Sometimes I think Ysabel is more happy under the rocks.”

“How dost thou know he is ill?  Will he die?” The wash-tub mail had made too few mistakes in its history to admit of doubt being cast upon the assertion of one of its officials.

“I hear Captain Brotherton read from a letter to Doña Eustaquia.  Ay, they are happy!”

“When?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Then we know before the town—­like always.”

“Surely.  Do we not know all things first?  Hist!”

The women dropped their heads and fumbled at the linen in the water.  La Tulita was approaching.

She came across the meadow with all her old swinging grace, the blue gown waving about her like the leaves of a California lily when the wind rustled the forest.  But the reboso framed a face thin and pale, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes.  She passed the tubs and greeted the old women pleasantly, walked a few steps up the hill, then turned as if in obedience to an afterthought, and sat down on a stone in the shade of a willow.

“It is cool here,” she said.

“Yes, señorita.”  They were not deceived, but they dared not stare at her, with Faquita’s scowl upon them.

“What news has the wash-tub mail to-day?” asked the girl, with an attempt at lightness.  “Did an enemy invade the South this morning, and have you heard it already, as when General Kearney came?  Is General Castro still in Baja California, or has he fled to Mexico?  Has Doña Prudencia Iturbi y Moncada given a ball this week at Santa Barbara?  Have Don Diego and Doña Chonita—?”

“The young Lieutenant is ill,” blurted out one of the old women, then cowered until she almost fell into her tub.  Faquita sprang forward and caught the girl in her arms.

“Thou old fool!” she cried furiously.  “Thou devil!  Mayst thou find a tarantula in thy bed to-night.  Mayst thou dream thou art roasting in hell.”  She carried La Tulita rapidly across the meadow.

“Ah, I thought I should hear there,” said the girl, with a laugh.  “Thank heaven for the wash-tub mail.”

Faquita nursed her through a long illness.  She recovered both health and reason, and one day the old woman brought her word that the young Lieutenant was well again—­and that his illness had been brief and slight.