The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The guests and family met again at supper; but yards of linen and mounds of plate, spirited, quickly turning heads, flowered muslin gowns and silken jackets, again separated Dario and Elena.  He caught a glimpse now and again of her graceful head turning on its white throat, or of her sad pure profile shining before her mother’s stern old face.

Immediately after supper the bride and groom led the way to the sala, the musicians tuned their violins and guitars, and after an hour’s excited comment upon the events of the day the dancing began.  Doña Jacoba could be very gracious when she chose, and she moved among her guests like a queen to-night, begging them to be happy, and electrifying them with her brilliant smile.  She dispelled their awe of her with magical tact, and when she laid her hand on one young beauty’s shoulder, and told her that her eyes put out the poor candles of Los Quervos, the girl was ready to fling herself on the floor and kiss the tyrant’s feet.  Elena watched her anxiously.  Her father petted her in his harsh abrupt way.  If she had ever received a kiss from her mother, she did not remember it; but she worshipped the blinding personality of the woman, although she shook before the relentless will.  But that her mother was pleased to be gracious tonight was beyond question, and she gave Dario a glance of timid encouragement, which brought him to her side at once.

“At your feet, señorita,” he said; “may I dare to beg the honour of the contradanza?”

She bent her slender body in a pretty courtesy.  “It is a small favour to grant a guest who deigns to honour us with his presence.”

He led her out, and when he was not gazing enraptured at the graceful swaying and gliding of her body, he managed to make a few conventional remarks.

“You did not like bull-fighting, señorita?”

“He watched me,” she thought.  “No, señor.  I like nothing that is cruel.”

“Those soft eyes could never be cruel.  Ay, you are so beautiful, señorita.”

“I am but a little country girl, señor.  You must have seen far more beautiful women in the cities.  Have you ever been in Monterey?”

“Yes, señorita, many times.  I have seen all the beauties, even Doña Modeste Castro.  Once, too—­that was before the Americans came—­I saw the Señorita Ysabel Herrera, a woman so beautiful that a man robbed a church and murdered a priest for her sake.  But she was not so beautiful as you, señorita.”

The blood throbbed in the girl’s fair cheeks.  “He must love me,” she told herself, “to think me more beautiful than Ysabel Herrera.  Joaquin says she was the handsomest woman that ever was seen.”

“You compliment me, señor,” she answered vaguely.  “She had wonderful green eyes.  So has the Señora Castro.  Mine are only brown, like so many other girls’.”

“They are the most beautiful eyes in California.  They are like the Madonna’s.  I do not care for green eyes.”  His black ones flashed their language to hers, and Elena wondered if she had ever been unhappy.  She barely remembered where she was, forgot that she was a helpless bird in a golden cage.  Her mate had flown through the open door.

The contradanza ends with a waltz, and as Dario held her in his arms his last remnant of prudence gave way.

“Elena, Elena,” he murmured passionately, “I love thee.  Dost thou not know it?  Dost thou not love me a little?  Ay, Elena!  I have not slept one hour since I saw thee.”

She raised her eyes to his face.  The sadness still dwelt in their depths, but above floated the soft flame of love and trust.  She had no coquetry in her straightforward and simple nature.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I love thee.”

“And thou art happy, querida mia?  Thou art happy here in my arms?”

She let her cheek rest for a moment against his shoulder.  “Yes, I am very happy.”

“And thou wilt marry me?”

The words brought her back to reality, and the light left her face.

“Ay,” she said, “why did you say that?  It cannot ever be.”

“But it shall be!  Why not?  I will speak with Don Roberto in the morning.”

The hand that lay on his shoulder clutched him suddenly.  “No, no,” she said hurriedly; “promise me that you will not speak to him for two or three days at least.  My father wants us all to marry Englishmen.  He is kind, and he loves me, but he is mad for Englishmen.  And we can be happy meanwhile.”

The music stopped, and he could only murmur his promises before leading her back to her mother.

He dared not take her out again, but he danced with no one else in spite of many inviting eyes, and spent the rest of the night on the corridor, where he could watch her unobserved.  The walls were so thick at Los Quervos that each window had a deep seat within and without.  Dario ensconced himself, and was comfortable, if tumultuous.