The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The next morning at eight, Francisca stood before the altar in the chapel, looking very handsome in her rich gown and soft mantilla.  The bridegroom, a sensible-looking young Englishman, was somewhat nervous, but Francisca might have been married every morning at eight o’clock.  Behind them stood Don Roberto in a new suit of English broadcloth, and Doña Jacoba in heavy lilac silk, half covered with priceless lace.  The six bridesmaids looked like a huge bouquet, in their wide delicately coloured skirts.  Their dark eyes, mischievous, curious, thoughtful, flashed more brilliantly than the jewels they wore.

The sala and Don Roberto’s room beyond were so crowded that some of the guests stood in the windows, and many could not enter the doors; every family within a hundred leagues had come to the wedding.  The veranda was crowded with girls, the sparkling faces draped in black mantillas or bright rebosos, the full gay gowns fluttering in the breeze.  Men in jingling spurs and all the bravery of gold-laced trousers and short embroidered jackets respectfully elbowed their way past brown and stout old women that they might whisper a word into some pretty alert little ear.  They had all ridden many leagues that morning, but there was not a trace of fatigue on any face.  The court behind the sala was full of Indian servants striving to catch a glimpse of the ceremony.

Dario stood just within the front door, his eyes eagerly fixed upon Elena.  She looked like a California lily in her white gown; even her head drooped a little as if a storm had passed.  Her eyes were absent and heavy; they mirrored nothing of the solemn gayety of the morning; they saw only the welts on her brother’s back.

Dario had not seen her since Santiago’s arrival.  She had not appeared at supper, and he had slept little in consequence; in fact, he had spent most of the night playing monte with Joaquin and a dozen other young men in the billiard-room.

During the bridal mass the padre gave communion to the young couple, and to those that had made confession the night before.  Elena was not of the number, and during the intense silence she drew back and stood and knelt near Dario.  They were not close enough to speak, had they dared; but the Californian had other speech than words, and Dario and Elena made their confession that morning.

During breakfast they were at opposite ends of the long table in the dining room, but neither took part in the songs and speeches, the toasts and laughter.  Both had done some manoeuvring to get out of sight of the old people, and sit at one of the many other tables in the sala, on the corridor, in the court; but Elena had to go with the bridesmaids, and Joaquin insisted upon doing honour to the uninvited guest.  The Indian servants passed the rich and delicate, the plain and peppered, dishes, the wines and the beautiful cakes for which Doña Jacoba and her daughters were famous.  The massive plate that had done duty for generations in Spain was on the table; the crystal had been cut in England.  It was the banquet of a grandee, and no one noticed the silent lovers.

After breakfast the girls flitted to their rooms and changed their gowns, and wound rebosos or mantillas about their heads; the men put off their jackets for lighter ones of flowered calico, and the whole party, in buggies or on horseback, started for a bull-fight which was to take place in a field about a mile behind the house.  Elena went in a buggy with Santiago, who was almost as pale as she.  Dario, on horseback, rode as near her as he dared; but when they reached the fence about the field careless riders crowded between, and he could only watch her from afar.

The vaqueros in their broad black hats shining with varnish, their black velvet jackets, their crimson sashes, and short, black velvet trousers laced with silver cord over spotless linen, looked very picturesque as they dashed about the field jingling their spurs and shouting at each other.  When the bulls trotted in and greeted each other pleasantly, the vaqueros swung their hissing reatas and yelled until the maddened animals wreaked their vengeance on each other, and the serious work of the day began.

Elena leaned back with her fan before her eyes, but Santiago looked on eagerly in spite of his English training.

“Caramba!” he cried, “but that old bull is tough.  Look, Elena!  The little one is down.  No, no!  He has the big one.  Ay! yi, yi!  By Jove! he is gone—­no, he has run off—­he is on him again!  He has ripped him up!  Brava! brava!”

A cheer as from one throat made the mountains echo, but Elena still held her fan before the field.

“How canst thou like such bloody sport?” she asked disgustedly.  “The poor animals!  What pleasure canst thou take to see a fine brute kicking in his death-agony, his bowels trailing on the ground?”

“Fie, Elena!  Art thou not a Californian?  Dost thou not love the sport of thy country?  Why, look at the other girls!  They are mad with excitement.  By Jove!  I never saw so many bright eyes.  I wonder if I shall be too stiff to dance to-night.  Elena, she gave me a beating!  But tell me, little one, why dost thou not like the bull-fight?  I feel like another man since I have seen it.”

“I cannot be pleased with cruelty.  I shall never get used to see beasts killed for amusement.  And Don Dario Castañares does not like it either.  He never smiled once, nor said ‘Brava!’”

“Aha!  And how dost thou know whether he did or not?  I thought thy face was behind that big black fan.”

“I saw him through the sticks.  What does ‘By Jove’ mean, my Santiago?”

He enlightened her, then stood up eagerly.  Another bull had been brought in, and one of the vaqueros was to fight him.  During the next two hours Santiago gave little thought to his sister, and sometimes her long black lashes swept above the top of her fan.  When five or six bulls had stamped and roared and gored and died, the guests of Los Quervos went home to chocolate and siesta, the others returned to their various ranchos.

But Dario took no nap that day.  Twice he had seen an Indian girl at Elena’s window, and as the house settled down to temporary calm, he saw the girl go to the rancheria among the willows.  He wrote a note, and followed her as soon as he dared.  She wore a calico frock, exactly like a hundred others, and her stiff black hair cut close to her neck in the style enforced by Doña Jacoba; but Dario recognized her imitation of Elena’s walk and carriage.  He was very nervous, but he managed to stroll about and make his visit appear one of curiosity.  As he passed the girl he told her to follow him, and in a few moments they were alone in a thicket.  He had hard work to persuade her to take the note to her mistress, for she stood in abject awe of Doña Jacoba; but love of Elena and sympathy for the handsome stranger prevailed, and the girl went off with the missive.

The staircase led from Don Roberto’s room to Doña Jacoba’s; but the lady’s all-seeing eyes were closed, and the master was snoring in his library.  Malia tiptoed by both, and Elena, who had been half asleep, sat up, trembling with excitement, and read the impassioned request for an interview.  She lifted her head and listened, panting a little.  Then she ran to the door and looked into the library.  Her father was sound asleep; there could he no doubt of that.  She dared not write an answer, but she closed the door and put her lips to the girl’s ear.

“Tell him,” she murmured, horrified at her own boldness—­“tell him to take me out for the contradanza tonight.  There is no other chance.”  And the girl went back and delivered the message.