The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

As soon as Elena had left his room next morning, Dario returned and read the note she had put in her brother’s pocket.  It gave him courage, his dreamy eyes flashed, his sensitive mouth curved proudly.  As soon as dinner was over he followed Don Roberto up to the library.  The old man stretched himself out in the long brass and leather chair which had been imported from England for his comfort, and did not look overjoyed when his guest begged a few moments’ indulgence.

“I am half asleep,” he said.  “Is it about those cattle?  Joaquin knows as much about them as I do.”

Dario had not been asked to sit down, and he stood before Don Roberto feeling a little nervous, and pressing his hand against the mantelpiece.

“I do not wish to speak of cattle, señor.”

“No?  What then?” The old man’s face was flushed with wine, and his shaggy brows were drooping heavily.

“It is—­it is about Elena.”

The brows lifted a little.

“Elena?”

“Yes, señor.  We love each other very much.  I wish to ask your permission that we may be married.”

The brows went up with a rush; the stiff hairs stood out like a roof above the cold angry eyes.  For a moment Don Roberto stared at the speaker as if he had not heard; then he sprang to his feet, his red face purple.

“Get out of my house, you damned vagabond!” he shouted.  “Go as fast as God Almighty’ll let you.  You marry my daughter,—­you damned Indian!  I wouldn’t give her to you if you were pure-blooded Castilian, much less to a half-breed whelp.  And you have dared to make love to her.  Go!  Do you hear?  Or I’ll kick you down the stairs!”

Dario drew himself up and looked back at his furious host with a pride that matched his own.  The blood was smarting in his veins, but he made no sign and walked down the stair.

Don Roberto went at once in search of his wife.  Failing to find her, he walked straight into the sala, and taking Elena by the arm before the assembled guests, marched her upstairs and into her room, and locked the door with his key.

Elena fell upon the floor and sobbed with rebellious mortification and terror.  Her father had not uttered a word, but she knew the meaning of his summary act, and other feelings soon gave way to despair.  That she should never see Dario Castañares again was certain, and she wept and prayed with all the abandon of her Spanish nature.  A picture of the Virgin hung over the bed, and she raised herself on her knees and lifted her clasped hands to it beseechingly.  With her tumbled hair and white face, her streaming upturned eyes and drawn mouth, she looked more like the Mater Dolorosa than the expressionless print she prayed to.

“Mary!  Mother!” she whispered, “have mercy on thy poor little daughter.  Give him to me.  I ask for nothing else in this world.  I do not care for gold or ranchos, only to be his wife.  I am so lonely, my mother, for even Santiago thinks of so many other things than of me.  I only want to be loved, and no one else will ever love me who can make me love him.  Ay! give him to me! give him to me!” And she threw herself on her face once more, and sobbed until her tears were exhausted.  Then she dragged herself to the window and leaned over the deep seat.  Perhaps she might have one glimpse of him as he rode away.

She gave a little cry of agony and pleasure.  He was standing by the gates of the corral whilst the vaqueros rounded up the cattle he had bought.  His arms were folded, his head hung forward.  As he heard her cry, he lifted his face, and Elena saw the tears in his eyes.  For the moment they gazed at each other, those lovers of California’s long-ago, while the very atmosphere quivering between them seemed a palpable barrier.  Elena flung out her arms with a sudden passionate gesture; he gave a hoarse cry, and paced up and down like a race-horse curbed with a Spanish bit.  How to have one last word with her?  If she were behind the walls of the fort of Monterey it would be as easy.  He dared not speak from where he was.  Already the horses were at the door to carry the eager company to a fight between a bull and a bear.  But he could write a note if only he had the materials.  It was useless to return to his room, for Joaquin was there; and he hoped never to see that library again.  But was there ever a lover in whom necessity did not develop the genius of invention?  Dario flashed upward a glance of hope, then took from his pocket a slip of the rice-paper used for making cigaritos.  He burnt a match, and with the charred stump scrawled a few lines.

“Elena!  Mine!  Star of my life!  My sweet!  Beautiful and idolized.  Farewell!  Farewell, my darling!  My heart is sad.  God be with thee.

“DARIO.”

He wrapped the paper about a stone, and tied it with a wisp of grass.  With a sudden flexile turn of a wrist that had thrown many a reata, he flung it straight through the open window.  Elena read the meaningless phrases, then fell insensible to the floor.