her silence, to see the stately olives of a century's growth spread
their great branches over flimsy little shops; to see the neglected
vines trailing their unpruned lengths over rubbish-piled open lots,
which a paper placard announced "for sale."
When night came, she retired to her up-stairs room at the hotel, put the
light out, and gazed long hours on the placid ocean.
"Let us get on as soon as possible," said Sister Anna, in confidence, to
her husband the next morning. "This place seems to have a singular
effect on Nora. She says she could not sleep last night, for thinking
whether she had a right to barter herself away, body and soul, truth and
honor, perhaps, for a grand home and a great deal of money."
So they "got on." Don Pedro was happy to gratify every wish of the
ladies, and very willing to enter upon his own territory, which lay so
near. The earth looked so smiling to Don Pedro when, together with Nora,
a little in advance of the wagons, he crossed the border of his own
domain. All the morning they had passed droves of cattle on the road,
and flocks of sheep, and the _vaqueros_ tending them had still saluted
Don Pedro as their master. Shortly they encountered the _mayordomo_ of
the new ranch, and after a short parley with him, the Don turned to Nora
with an apology for discussing business affairs in an unfamiliar tongue
in her presence.
"Let us make a compromise," suggested Nora; "do you take me down yonder
to that piece of white pebble-beach, by the gray rock, and you may come
back and talk to all the _vaqueros_ and _mayordomos_ in the land."
The _mayordomo_ wended his way to where he saw the wagons halting in a
grove, and Nora and the Don pursued their own way. It was quite a
distance before they had reached the exact spot that Nora said she had
meant--they were out of sight of the rest. The ocean, grand and solemn,
lay before them, grassy plains around them, groups of trees and sloping
hills in the near distance, and far off the mountains in their
never-changing rest.
Lightly Don Pedro sprang to the ground, and detaining Nora one moment in
her saddle, he said, impressively: "Now you set foot upon your own land,
a territory named after you, 'La Graciosa.'"
Then he lifted her tenderly to the ground, and she sprang lightly away
from him, and lavishly praised the beauty of his new possession.
"And it is all like this," he continued, "for miles and miles, good and
beautiful, like the one for whom I named it."
"What a flatterer you are," she said, forced at last to take notice of
the name. He clasped her hand, but she uttered a little shriek, "Oh!
that wicked horse of yours has bitten my poor Rosa." A snort from the
black mare seemed to corroborate the accusation, and Nora had gained
time--to fight her battle out, and make peace with herself.
"Please get rid of that tiresome _mayordomo_ of yours, and come back to
me. I want to stay here alone with Rosa and decide whether your ranch
has been well named." She could not prevent the kiss he imprinted on her
slender hand, but she drew it back impatiently.
"You will stay here till I return, Leonora?" he asked, earnestly.
"Yes, yes," she said, a little fretfully, and waved him off.
He had made fast her horse to the stump of a scrub-oak, that had lived
its short, mistaken life here close by the sea; and Nora, when the sound
of the other horse's hoofs had died away, stroked the animal's mane
approvingly, and patted her neck. Then she turned and walked slowly
around the abrupt gray crag, and stopped; she was alone at last. She
raised her hand, and looked from under it out on the sunlit sea. The
waves came up with a long, gentle swirl, till the light foam splashed
against the foot of the crag, then receded, leaving a strip of white,
glistening pebble exposed. She watched it silently, then turned her face
to let her eyes sweep the plain, the clumps of trees, and the rolling
hills.
"'For miles and miles,' he said," she soliloquized, "and that is not all
his fortune. And _he_ has nothing if the suit goes against them.
American cunning matched against Spanish recklessness. But what have I
to do with that boy? All I have wanted and prayed for is a home and an
honored name; it is within my reach now; why should I let an idle dream
stand in my way?"
She stood where the ocean washed up to her feet, and when she looked
down she thought she saw two deep-blue eyes, wild with suppressed
passion, flashing up from there. She turned, for she thought she heard
behind her, in the sighing of the wind and the shriek of the sea-mews,
the cry of a tortured heart. But she banished these fancies and forced
her thoughts into other channels. She thought of her past life, of the
wish she had had, even as a child, to travel--to see strange lands. She
thought of the Pyramids of Egypt, and that her wish to see them could
now, perhaps, be gratified--in his company. Well, was it not romantic,
after all, to marry the dark-eyed Don, with the haughty bearing and the
enormous wealth? She had a lady friend once, a city acquaintance, who
had married a wealthy Spaniard. But she had been divorced after a year's
time. Divorced! what an ugly sound the word had. Was Don Pedro near? Had
his ear caught the sound? No; thank God, she was alone.
And then her thoughts strayed again to the old Gada mansion, and the
broken-hearted girl she had left there. "She will die," he had said; and
she fell to wondering whether Father Moreno would anoint those wistful
eyes with the consecrated oil, in her last hour, and mutter that "they
had looked upon unholy things," and touch the little waxen ears "because
they had listened to unchaste speech." What a mockery it seemed, in the
case of the young innocent girl. "When _I_ die--" She stooped suddenly
to dip her hand into the water, and dashed it into her face and over her
hair. "_Mea culpa!_" she murmured, striking her breast, "_mea culpa! mea
maxima culpa!_"
And once more she pressed her hand across her face, for the gallop of
approaching hoofs fell on her ear, and directly "Leonora!" rang out in
sharp, uneasy tone.
She answered the call, and Don Pedro, panting, but with a happy smile,
reached out his hand to draw her away from the wet sand.
"I felt as though I had lost you. What would life be without you,
Graciosa?"
"You would have my god-child left," she replied, laughing.
"It would be worthless without the sponsor. I have acquired it for you.
Do you accept it?"
"With you into the bargain?" she smiled gayly as she said it. She hated
romance and sentimentality all at once, and when the Don kneeled at her
feet to kiss both her hands, she said, with a laugh:
"There will be but one Graciosa, after all, unless you take me to my
friends and the lunch-basket. I am almost starved."
"I am your slave," he avowed; "you have but to command."
He lifted her into the saddle, with trembling hands and beaming eyes.
"Oh, Graciosa! Rightly named," he cried.
"Meaning me or the ranch?" asked Nora, mischievously; and, with a touch
of the whip, she urged Rosa ahead, and threw a kiss over her shoulder to
the Don. His eyes followed her proudly awhile, ere he spurred his horse
to overtake her, and they joined Sister Anna laughing and happy as she
could wish to see them.
They camped out that night, as there was no house on that part of the
ranch, though there was one to be erected near the spot where they had
joined Sister Anna, for Nora said she liked the view there. Early next
morning they left camp, expecting to reach Los Angeles before sunset.
All day the road led along the mountain-chain, in the San Fernando
Valley--a soft, warm day, made to dream and reflect. The clear blue haze
hung, as ever, on the mountain-ridge, and the plain at the foot was
white and odorous with the wild "Forget-me-not" of California. They
looked to Nora as though passionate eyes had been raining tears on them
till the color had been blanched out; and when Don Pedro gathered a
handful and brought them to her, she said, "Don't, please; it hurts me
to see you break them off. Throw them away."
"How strange you are," he said, but he obeyed, and did not assert his
authority till some hours later, when they reached the crossing of the
Los Angeles River.--Had he not said he would be her slave?
The river rushed by them muddy and wild, spread far beyond its allotted
limits--an ugly, treacherous-looking piece of water. It was deep, too;
and while Don Pedro was giving orders in regard to arranging the
contents of the baggage wagon, Sister Anna was trying to persuade Nora
to come into their wagon while fording the stream. Nora demurred; but
the Don riding up decided the question at once.
"You must go in the wagon, Leonora," he announced, with somewhat pompous
authority. "I will not have you exposed to such danger. The river is
wide at present, and your head will get light. Mr. Whitehead and I will
go on horseback, but you must go in the wagon."
A rebellious gleam shot from Nora's eye, but Sister Anna listened with
flushed face, as to something new, but very pleasant to hear. It proved
an ugly crossing, and while the servants were rearranging the baggage,
the Don strayed a little apart with Nora, and found a seat under a clump
of willows.
"It _is_ hard to go down into the floods when there is so much of life
and sunshine all around," and with a little nervous shiver she nestled
closer to the Don's side. Impelled by a feeling of tenderness he could
not control, the stately Don threw his arms around the supple form and
pressed the first kiss on her pale lips.
She shrank from him; had any one seen them? There was no need to spring
up; she knew he would not attempt to repeat the caress.
The City of the Angels lay before them--a dream realized.
Whatever there was unlovely about the older, _adobe_ built portion of
the place was toned down by the foliage of waving trees, and warmed into
tropical beauty by the few isolated palms, which some blessed hand set
out long years ago. Our friends did not pass through the heart of the
city, but wended their way to the house of a wealthy Spanish family,
which lay among the gay villas and stately residences of the modern
portion of the city. Large gardens enclosed them, in many cases
surrounded by evergreen hedges of supple willow and bristly osage. Tall
spires arising from a sea of green, and imposing edifices, marked the
places where the Lord could be worshipped in style. The American element
is strong in Los Angeles.
Senor Don Jose Maria Carillo had been looking for his guests, and met
them with much state and ceremony on the highway, conducting them
grandly to the gate-posts of his garden, where they were received by
Donna Clotilda and a retinue of servants. Even the children, with their
governess, were summoned from the school-room to greet the guests, and
Spanish courtesy and Californian hospitality were never better
exemplified than in the case of our friends.
"Oh, Annie, only look!" exclaimed Nora, clasping her hands in
admiration, and pointing through the French window at the back of the
double parlors.
The house was an _adobe_, two stories high, which the father of the
present inmate had built, and of which the son was properly proud. He
would not have it torn down for the world, but it had been modernized to
such an extent as to rival in comfort and elegance any of the newer
American houses, though the Spanish features were still predominant. The
particular feature that had attracted Nora so strongly as to lead her
into making the hasty, unceremonious exclamation, was a _remada_, a kind
of open roof built of heavy timber beams, at the back of the house, and
extending over several hundred feet of the ground. It was covered with
the grape, among whose shading leaves and graceful tendrils the sunlight
glinted in and out, playing in a thousand colors on clustering vines
with bright flowers, that clung to the pillars supporting the roof.
Beyond stretched an orange-grove, where yellow fruit and snowy blossoms
glanced through the glossy leaves.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" asked a voice at her side. She had stepped
to the open French window, regardless of all etiquette, and Don Pedro
led her across the sill into the covered garden.
"Your own home shall be like this, Leonora, only finer and grander; you
shall have everything that your heart can wish."
"You are very good." It was not the conventional phrase with her; she
meant what she said, for her eyes were raised to his, and tears trembled
in the lashes.
It was a charming retreat. Donna Clotilda spoke English, though none of
the servants did, except a ten-year old Indian girl, who was detailed to
wait on the guests. There was a round of visiting and going through the
city, where every one admired Nora, and looked from her to the little
Don. And Don Pedro was proud and happy, and always sought new
opportunities of passing through the crowded thoroughfares, on foot, on
horseback, or in carriage.
"My dear," he said, one day, "I would know how handsome you are from
looking at the people who meet us, even though I had never seen your
face."
"Yes?" said Nora, a little absent and dispirited, as she sometimes was.
"Yes; one man, standing at the corner there, behind those boxes--you did
not see him--opened his eyes very wide and looked hard at you, and then
pushed his hat back till it fell to the ground. Then he saw me, and felt
ashamed, and turned quick to pick up his hat."
"What a striking appearance mine must be!" laughed Nora, restored to
good-humor, for the time.
It has often seemed to me that all Spanish people, of whatever degree,
throughout California, are either related or intimately acquainted with
each other. Thus Nora heard from the Del Gadas occasionally; nay, even
from the Rodriguez, away back in the Salinas Valley, did they hear news
and greeting once. Narcissa del Gada was dying, the Don told her; and
the twinge that had distorted his features when he first mentioned her
name again passed over them.
But all the time of our friends was not given to pleasuring; many a long
morning did Brother Ben and the Don pass together at the Court-House,
the Hall of Records, and other places where titles are examined and the
records kept. A ranch of twenty or thirty thousand acres is well worth
securing, so that through no loophole can adverse claimant creep, or
sharp-witted land-shark, with older title, spring on the unwary
purchaser.
In the meantime spring was growing into summer; the sun began to burn
more fierce, and Nora, always fond of out-doors, had made the _remada_
her special camping-ground. She sat there one morning, after having
declined to go on a shopping expedition with Sister Anna. It had seemed
rather ungracious, too; but Brother Ben had come to the rescue, as
usual, and had taken Nora's place. Now she sat here, pale and listless,
her hands idly folded, her eyes wandering among the shadows of the
orange grove.
There had been an arrival at the house, she thought, for she heard the
tramp of a horse as it was led around to the stables; but she took no
heed. After a while she heard the noise of one of the long windows
opening, and soon she heard steps behind her. Then a low voice said
"Leonora!" and Manuel, pale and haggard, stood before her.
All her listlessness vanished in an instant, and she would have flown
into his arms, but for something that seemed to make him unapproachable.
"Narcissa is dead," he said, monotonously, "and since coming to town I
have learned that I am a beggar; we are all homeless--outcasts."
"Oh, Manuel!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm, "my poor, poor boy.
Come with me into the open air--this place chokes me. And now tell me
about Narcissa." She drew him out into the sunshine, and back again to
the fragrant shadows of the orange grove. She sought a rustic seat for
them, but he threw himself on the sod beside it.
"Wrecked and lost and lonely," he groaned, "it is well that Narcissa is
dead; and yet she was our only comfort."
"Poor Manuel!" she repeated, softly; "my poor boy." Her fingers were
straying among the sunny waves of his hair, and he caught her hand
suddenly, and covered it with a frenzy of kisses.
"Leonora!" he cried, all the reckless fire of his nation breaking into
flames, "come with me, and we will be happy. You do not love your
wealthy affianced, you love me. Be mine; I will work and toil for you,
and you shall be my queen. Oh, Nora, I love you--I love you--I love
you."
Poor Nora! why should stern reality be so bitter? "Foolish boy," she
said, disengaging her hand, "you are mad. What if Don Pedro--"
"Ah, true; I had forgotten--you are an American. Go, then, be happy with
your wealthy husband; Manuel will never cross your path again."
"Manuel!" she cried, and she stretched out her arms towards the spot
where he had just stood, "come back, for I love you, and you alone." But
a rustling in the willow-hedge only answered to her passionate cry, and
she cowered on the garden-bench, sobbing and moaning out her helpless
grief.
The rustling in the willow-hedge behind her grew louder, so that even
she was startled by the noise.
"Ho, Nell!" The words fell on her ears like the crack of doom, her face
grew white to the very lips, and a great horror crept into her eyes. She
turned as if expecting to meet the engulfing jaws of some dread monster,
and her eyes fell upon the form of a man, whose slovenly dress and
bloated features spoke of a life of neglect and dissipation--perhaps
worse.
"Why, Nell, old girl," he continued, familiarly, "this is a pretty
reception to give your husband. I'm not a ghost; don't be afraid of me."
"Wretch!" she cried, trembling with fear and excitement. "How dare you
come here? Go at once, or I shall call for help."
"No, you won't. I'm not afraid. Come, you can get rid of me in a minute.
The truth is, I'm d----d hard up; got into two or three little
unpleasantnesses, and got out only by a scratch. I want to get away from
here--it's unhealthy here for me--but I've got no money. Saw you down
town with that pompous Greaser the other day; know him well; he's got
lots of money; and I thought that, for love and affection, as they say
in the law, and in consideration of our former relations, you might help
me to some of his spare coin."
"You miserable man," she cried, beside herself, "is it not enough that
you blasted my life's happiness? Must I be dragged down to the very
lowest degradation with you? Oh, Charlie," she added, in changed,
softened tones, "what would your mother say to all this?"
"And my daddy the parson," he laughed, hoarsely. "Yes, we know all that.
But here, Nell," he went on, while a last glimmer of shame or contrition
passed over his once handsome face, "I don't want to hurt you, my girl;
you've always been a trump, by G----; I am willing you should become the
respected wife of Don Pedro Lopez, but I must have money, or money's
worth. That cluster-diamond on your finger; tell the Greaser you lost
it. Or pull out your purse; I know it is full."
"Nothing," she said, slowly and determinedly, "nothing shall you have
from me--a woman you have so wronged and deceived--"
"Stop, Nell; I haven't time to wait for a sermon. Give me what you've
got-- Oh, here's h---- to pay and no pitch hot," he interrupted himself;
"there's the Don, and he's heard it all."
He spoke true; Don Pedro stood beside them, frozen into a statue. At
last he breathed.
"Yes, heard all. And I would have made you my wife--you a divorced
woman. Oh, Santa Maria! She divorced of such a man--for I know you,
Randal," he continued, lashing himself into a fury--"horse-thief,
stage-robber, gambler. It was you who killed my friend Mariano Anzar
after robbing him at cards--murderer! You shall not escape me as you
escaped the officers of the law. _Hombres!_ catch the murderer!" he
shouted towards the house, as he made a dart at the man, who turned at
bay, but halted when he saw that the Don was not armed.
"Stop your infernal shouting and don't touch me," he said, in a low,
threatening voice. But the Don was brave, and his blood was up; he
sprang upon the man, shouting again; they closed and struggled, and when
the man heard footsteps swiftly approaching, he drew back with an
effort, and hissing, "You _would_ have it so, idiot," he raised his
pistol and fired.
Before the smoke cleared away he had vanished, and the people who came
found Don Pedro stretched on the ground. His life was almost spent, but
his energy had not deserted him. He gave what information and directions
were necessary for the prosecution of his murderer, and Manuel, who was
among the excited throng, threw himself on his horse to head the
fugitive off. The others lifted the wounded man tenderly from the
ground, bore him gently into the house, and frowned with hostile eyes
upon Nora; it had taken possession of their minds at once that, in some
unexplained manner, the Gringa was the cause of all this woe.
Nora followed them like an automaton; she saw them carry him through
the open door-window into the back parlor, and lay the helpless figure
on a lounge. A messenger had already been despatched for priest and
doctor, and the servants, who were not admitted into the room, lay on
their knees outside.
Then the priest came, and Nora, in a strange, dazed way, could follow
all his movements after he went into the room. The odor of burning
incense crept faintly through the closed doors, and she wondered
again--did the priest touch the white lips and say, "for they have
uttered blasphemies." The fingers were stiffening, she thought; would
the priest murmur now--"for with their hands do men steal;" the eyelids
were fluttering over the glazed eyes; the cleansing oil was dropped upon
them, for "they had looked upon unholy things."
She saw it all before her, and heard it, though her eyes were fast
closed, and her ears were muffled, for she had fallen, face down, by one
of the pillars supporting the _remada_, and the thick-growing tropical
vine, with its bright, crimson flowers, had buried her head in its
luxuriant foliage, and seemed raining drops of blood upon the wavy dark
brown hair.
Thus Manuel found her when he returned from the pursuit of the fugitive.
He raised her head, and looked into large, bewildered eyes. "What is
it?" she asked; "have I been asleep? Oh, is he dead?"
"The wretched man I followed? Yes; but my hand did not lay him low. The
sheriff and his men had been hunting him; he attempted to swim the river
at the ford; the sheriff fired, and he went down into the flood."
Nora's eyes had closed again during the recital, and Manuel held a
lifeless form in his arms, when Sister Anna and her husband came at
last. They had heard of the shooting of Don Pedro in the city, and the
carriage they came in bore Nora away to the hotel. Manuel did not
relinquish his precious burden till he laid the drooping form gently on
the bed at the hotel. Then the doctor came, and said brain-fever was
imminent, and the room was darkened, and people went about on tip-toe.
And when the news of the death of Don Pedro Lopez was brought down to
the hotel, Nora was already raving in the wildest delirium of the fever.
Weeks have passed, and Nora has declared herself not only well, but able
to return home. Manuel has been an invaluable friend to them all, during
these weeks of trial, and Nora has learned to look for his coming as she
looks for the day and the sunshine.
To him, too, was allotted the task to impart to Nora what it was thought
necessary for her to know--the death of Don Pedro and the finding of the
body of the other, caught against the stump of an old willow, where the
water had washed it, covered with brush and floating _débris_. But he
had glad news to impart, too; the report of an adverse decision from
Washington on the Del Gada suit had been false, and circulated by the
opposing party in order to secure better terms for withdrawal.
One morning Nora expressed her wish to leave Los Angeles, and Mr.
Whitehead did not hesitate to gratify her wish. An easy conveyance was
secured, the trunks sent by stage, and a quick journey anticipated.
Manuel went with them only as far as San Buenaventura, he said, for it
was on his way home. But when they got there, he said he must go to
Santa Barbara, and no one objected. At Santa Barbara Nora held out her
hand to him, with a saucy smile:
"This is the place at which you were to leave us; good-by."
"Can you tolerate me no longer, Nora?"
"You said at San Buenaventura you would try my patience only till here.
How long do you want me to tolerate you, then?"