The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The next morning, when Elena went to Joaquin’s room to make the bed, she found Dario’s note in the pocket of the coat, but she had had no opportunity to write one herself.  Nor did she have time to read his until after dinner, although it burned her neck and took away her appetite.  When the meal was over, she ran down to the willows and read it there, then went straight to the favourite lounging-place of an old vaquero who had adored her from the days when she used to trot about the rancho holding his forefinger, or perch herself upon his shoulder and command him to gallop.

He was smoking his pipe, and he looked up in some wonder as she stood before him, flushed and panting, her eyes-darting apprehensive glances.

“Pedro,” she said imperiously, “get down on thy hands and knees.”

Pedro was the colour of tanned leather and very hairy, but his face beamed with good-nature.  He put his pipe between his teeth and did as he was bidden.  Elena produced the pencil and paper she had managed to purloin from her father’s table, and kneeling beside her faithful vaquero, wrote a note on his back.  It took her a long time to coin that simple epistle, for she never had written a love-letter before.  But Pedro knelt like a rock, although his old knees ached.  When the note was finished she thrust it into her gown, and patted Pedro on the head.

“I love thee, my old man.  I will make thee a new salve for thy rheumatism, and a big cake.”

As she approached the house her mother stood on the corridor watching the young people mount, and Elena shivered as she met a fiery and watchful eye.  Yesterday had been a perfect day, but the chill of fear touched this.  She sprang on her horse and went with the rest to the games.  Her brother Joaquin kept persistently by her side, and Dario thought it best not to approach her.  She took little interest in the games.  The young men climbed the greased pole amidst soft derisive laughter.  The greased pig was captured by his tail in a tumult of excitement, which rivalled the death of the bull, but Elena paid no attention.  It was not until Dario, restive with inaction, entered the lists for the buried rooster, and by its head twisted it from the ground as his horse flew by, that she was roused to interest; and as many had failed, and as his was the signal victory of the day, he rode home somewhat consoled.

That night, as Dario and Elena danced the contradanza together, they felt the eyes of Dona Jacoba upon them, but he dared to whisper:—­

“To-morrow morning I speak with thy father.  Our wedding-day must be set before another sun goes down.”

“No, no!” gasped Elena; but for once Dario would not listen.