The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

Eulogia had just passed through an animated interview with her mother.  Doña Pomposa had stormed and Eulogia had made an occasional reply in her cool monotonous voice, her gaze absently fixed on the gardens of the mission.

“Thou wicked little coquette!” cried Doña Pomposa, her voice almost worn out.  “Thou darest repeat to me that thou wilt not marry the Señor Rogers!”

“I will not.  It was amusing to be engaged to him for a time, but now I am tired.  You can give him what excuse you like, but tell him to go.”

“And the clothes I have made—­the chests of linen with the beautiful deshalados that nearly put out Aunt Anastacia’s eyes!  The new silk gowns!  Dias de mi vida!  The magnificent bed-spread with the lace as deep as my hand!”

“They will keep until I do marry.  Besides, I need some new clothes.”

“Dost thou indeed, thou little brat!  Thou shalt not put on a smock or a gown in that chest if thou goest naked!  But thou shalt marry him, I say!”

“No.”

“Oh, thou ice-hearted little devil!” Even Doña Pomposa’s stomach was trembling with rage, and her fingers were jumping.  “Whom then wilt thou marry?  Garfias?”

“No.”

“Thou wilt be an old maid like Aunt Anastacia.”

“Perhaps.”

“O—­h—­h—­Who is this?”

A stranger in travelling scrape and riding-boots had dashed up to the house, and flung himself from his horse.  He knocked loudly on the open door, then entered without waiting for an invitation, and made a deep reverence to Doña Pomposa.

“At your service, señora.  At your service, señorita.  I come from the Señor Don Tomas Garfias.  Word has reached him that the Señorita Eulogia is about to marry an American.  I humbly ask you to tell me if this be true or not.  I have been told in town that the wedding is set for the day after to-morrow.”

“Ask her!” cried Doña Pomposa, tragically, and she swung herself to the other end of the room.

“Señorita, at your feet.”

“You can tell your friend that I have no more intention of marrying the American than I have of marrying him.”

“Señorita!  But he expected to return next week and marry you.”

“We expect many things in this world that we do not get.”

“But—­a thousand apologies for my presumption, señorita—­why did you not write and tell him?”

“I never write letters.”

“But you could have sent word by some friend travelling to San Francisco, señorita.”

“He would find it out in good time.  Why hurry?”

“Ay, señorita, well are you named Doña Coquetta.  You are famous even to San Francisco.  I will return to my poor friend.  At your service, señora.  At your service, señorita,” and he bowed himself out, and galloped away.

Doña Pomposa threw herself into her chair, and wept aloud.

“Mother of God!  I had thought to see her married to a thrifty American!  What have I done to be punished with so heartless a child?  And the Americans will have all the money!  The little I have will go, too!  We shall be left sitting in the street.  And we might have a wooden house in San Francisco, and go to the theatre!  Oh, Mother of God, why dost thou not soften the heart of the wicked—­”

Eulogia slipped out of the window, and went into the mission gardens.  She walked slowly through the olive groves, lifting her arms to part the branches where the little purple spheres lay in their silver nests.  Suddenly she came face to face with Pablo Ignestria.

Her cynical brain informed her stormy heart that any woman must succumb finally to the one man who had never bored her.