He did not go north for a month. His letter to Angela contained a check,
which she at once invested in very becoming mourning, for which she of
course had to journey to Los Angeles.
With her went Don Eduardo Downing and his wife, Dona Maria, who, with
Rafael, had unpleasant business to transact with the bishop, and were
irritable in consequence. Bryton called upon them at the home of the
ex-Governor of California. After Angela's first emotional outburst at
the details of Teddy's death and burial,--and regret that a Protestant
clergyman was not to be had,--she managed to come back to subjects
nearer home, and retail a few of the changes since the death of Dona
Luisa.
There had not been time for many. Yet--well--there had been the
marriage, of course; and the relations who thought it so fine a thing
that Rafael married an heiress and a saint were not so sure now. The
tone of Angela and her slight shrug of contempt showed that she shared
their doubts.
Raquel Estevan de Arteaga was in the city. She had ridden the sixty
miles on horseback, and all the old Spanish families were entertaining
her in a style magnificent as their means would allow; but all who cared
to have her must invite no heretic Americans, and it was understood to
be a promise to Dona Luisa. She did not wish to meet the
English-speaking people; not one had yet crossed her threshold; even Don
Eduardo, sharing some business interests with her husband, was not
welcomed, because he held fields of the old Mission, for which the
Church was fighting in the courts of law.
The bishop himself had set the pace for courtesy toward Raquel. He had
called on her personally, had a long private interview (Angela's opinion
of clerical private interviews with young wives was expressed by another
shrug), and he made a point of calling on several families where she
visited.
Dona Maria was of course justly offended. Her estates had been greater
than those of the Arteagas, and her family name was older in the land
than Estevan, which after all was only Spanish for Stevens. On this
subject it was easy to see Angela agreed perfectly with the wife of her
cousin. Each had built her own plan for certain social supremacies in
the little kingdom of San Juan, but neither had reckoned with the fact
that the girl from a convent in Mexico would assume a rule there such as
no one else had ever dared attempt, and emphasize it by barring out
heretics, even when married into Catholic families.
What Rafael thought of it no one yet knew. He hated the old Mission,
above all places. The only time it was worth while was when the dances
were held in the old dining-room; and when his mother died he thought of
course no woman would ever wish to live there. A town residence was
assured, and thus closer connection with the new, progressive people.
But the bride of a day had decided differently: when a home befitting
their station was built for her in San Juan, she would move to it; until
then the Mission rooms would serve, and they must arrange it with the
bishop.
To tell her that the bishop no longer had jurisdiction over the property
was of no use whatever. She had listened quietly to the legal details of
the auction sale, when it had all been bought by Eduardo Downing and
Miguel Arteaga.
"That is right, to buy it when the place was sold for debt; any son of
the Church should do that," she conceded; "but to hold it,--to treat it
as a quarry from which to mine bricks and blocks of stone,--may the
saints intercede for your brother in his grave, who did such wickedness!
If your mother had known that a son of hers was fighting in the courts
of law against the Church, it would have killed her the day the word
reached her. If you people value money more than the blessing of God, I
will give you money for it--to you and your English partner; but not
another blast of powder must shatter the place of the altar."
It was in vain they told her Dona Maria had a pious plan to blow down
the stonework--the most magnificent monument of such Indian labor ever
erected in that part of Mexico which is now United States,--and to build
on its site an adobe chapel of her own design. Raquel Estevan de Arteaga
listened quietly to all the plans, but shook her head.
"It is sacrilege; it shall not be," she repeated. "Since gold is the god
of the English people, we will give them gold."
"But you forget, beloved," put in Rafael. "Dona Maria is Catholic--is
Spanish--is--"
"Rafael," said his bride, quietly, "will you listen a little? Then it
will be no need to speak of those things again--we will both
understand. The padre comes a stranger to San Juan as I do, but he comes
from a strange land, and cares not anything for these different races.
But I have all the names of those people from your mother, that I know
whom to avoid in this life--and in the next."
"My mother was one of the old Spanish people; they were slow. Times
change."
"Yes, times did change when men like Alvarado were pushed aside and a
quadroon ruled the politics and the Mission property. Thus California
paved the way for American rule. In politics and business men must meet
unpleasant people often, but it is not ever necessary for the ladies of
any family to do so; and, Rafael, here before your padre, two things I
must say. The heretics I have promised never to meet except as God sends
them in our path. As for the Spanish ladies you mention, if you do not
know that there is not a woman of noble Spanish blood in the length of
this valley, then you shut your eyes very tight when you might see. The
daughters of Don Juan Alvara have one Spanish strain in them; the others
are mixed people of Mexican, Indian, and negro, and few of them care to
remember their grandmothers. When you bring into my house Spanish ladies
of good breeding, I shall be glad to make them welcome, but I do not
care for the substitutes. The Indios by the river are of more interest,
for they need to be taught."
This conversation had been repeated by Padre Andros to Dona Maria over a
game of _malilla_ and a glass of the new American drink called
whiskey,--a gift from the army officers, and enjoyed very much by the
ladies of San Juan; it suggested a drink made of chilis, because of the
appetizing burn it gave the throat.
Padre Andros was frightened when he saw the effect of his recital. Dona
Maria was not so stout as most of the women of the mixed races; but as
he saw the dark color mount luridly to her face, and her eyes look
almost bloodshot with sudden fury, he set down the glass of whiskey to
cross himself, and dropped an ace in his perturbation.
"For the love of God! senora," he exclaimed; and then it was Angela
entered the room and found her cousin's wife ill with a fury she durst
express only in prayers and maledictions against this girl brought to
San Juan by Dona Luisa to ruin them all!
Only fragments of the cause of her fury reached Angela, despite all her
sudden sympathetic interest in the wife of her cousin, to whom she had
heretofore been rather indifferent. But she pieced the fragments
together, and as she told them to Bryton he could, with his own
knowledge of the early racial mixtures in the land, get a very fair idea
of the situation. The girl from Mexico had dared open the closet of a
forgotten skeleton.
"Of course she rules Rafael just now, to a certain extent," conceded
Angela, carelessly. "He sees the Church and half the town at her feet
here; she is a novelty, and he sees everyone turn to look at her. But at
San Juan she will find no one at her feet, and her churchmen will be far
enough away. The padre there detests her; she stopped him from selling
bricks from the cloister pillars."
"The padre and Dona Maria should make a strong team," observed Bryton.
"The woman need be strong to win against them--is she?"
"How do I know? I've never spoken to her. She has nasty eyes. That's all
I can remember of her."
"Nasty?"
"Oh, it is the expression. I saw them once, and she made me nervous.
Perhaps it was because she divined that I was one of the 'accursed
heretics.' I understand that is the way the lower order speak of
Protestants!"
"But she cannot be quite of the lower order, can she? Her father was of
the best Spanish and American blood ever joined on this coast, far
above the Arteagas."
"Oh! So you also look up pedigrees here; I wonder why."
"It is a country where you hear of them without question," he returned,
indifferently. "The people are always sparring among themselves and
referring to their ancestors--if they dare. Dona Luisa was a pure-blood
Spanish woman, but the Arteagas had a bad Indian and Mexican streak. She
saw it develop in her own children, and it gave her a bad fright. She
counted on this marriage bringing the last of them back to the old
conservative manner of life."
"Ah!" She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously; "but you forget that
Raquel, the present Senora Arteaga, has also a Mexican streak."
"No, I don't forget; but there are high class and low of every race.
Noble Indians and high-class Mexicans have gone into history. The
American makes a great mistake when he judges the high classes by the
masses. In this land one has to dig out the facts of each individual
line, if he wants to know the truth of a pedigree. But the lady from
Mexico seems to have drawn her distinctions very closely, and realizing
her own superiority, she dares dictate."
"Even to her--husband?" There was just the slightest possible hesitation
at the title.
"Why not, if she is the superior?"
"But--oh, can't you see how all these marriages are a barter-and-sale
family affair,--money that is married, instead of people? If she was in
love with him as a--a real woman would be, she never would know she was
superior, never! Not that I believe she is," she added with a shrug; "to
me she looks as wooden as the saints on her own altar."
He arose and walked to the window, staring out over the heads of the
people.
"She may not be wooden to those she cares for," he said at last.
"Perhaps not; but I'm certain of one thing: if she ever cared for any
one, it is not the man she married. If she cared, she would forget that
rigid fanatic sense of duty sometimes."
"I came to talk of your affairs," he said, abruptly. "Teddy left some
mining shares; they may pan out later on. I have talked with a lawyer
about them; this is his address," and he handed her a slip of paper.
"Whatever funds are procurable he will turn over to you quarterly. Is
there anything else I can do for you at present?"
"Yes," she returned; "you might be a bit human and sympathetic. You
seem to forget," and her red lip quivered in self-pity, "how utterly
alone I am among these Mexicans, and all their women jealous as fiends."
He regarded her with a long, steady stare, and then smiled as he rose.
"I don't blame them," he observed, quietly. "You have given more
attention to several of their men than you ever gave to poor Ted.
Where's your baby?"
"Heavens! Do you suppose I could drag her on this trip, and a Mexican or
Indian nurse?" she demanded, impatiently. "That's so like a man! They
think a woman with a child should be merely a domestic animal, like
those dunces of Spanish women. I feel as if I were in jail, hedged
around with all their conventions. I don't dare walk on the street
alone, or with a man; I don't dare ride in a carriage with a man, and
it's no pleasure to go with those empty-headed women. Dona Maria is as
bad as the rest since I'm in mourning; it is a sort of prison,
forbidding the wearer a free breath!"
"Take it off," he suggested, so quietly that he quite deceived her, and
she uttered a little cry of shocked appeal.
"Keith! And poor Teddy--"
"Angela!" and his hand fell heavy on her shoulder, "listen to me just
once. When Ted was alive I could bear to hear you mention his name, but
now that he is dead I--can't. He belongs to me now, and I forbid it."
"Keith!" She gasped again, but this time in sheer fright. "And the
money--the shares you--"
He laughed mirthlessly, and took his hand from her shoulder. His moment
of feeling gave place to amused appreciation of the real woman poor Ted
had never known.
"Who says women are inconsistent?" he queried. "You are a living
illustration of the contrary. I have never seen you vary a
hair's-breadth from my first instinctive feeling concerning you, you
pretty baby kitten! You needn't look so frightened; you will get
whatever money is in reach. Now, don't go to whimpering! Get on your
bonnet, if Dona Maria may think it allowable for me to take you both for
a carriage drive. I promised Ted to do things for you, and I must make a
beginning."
"Is that the only reason?" she began, with righteous indignation.
"That is the only reason, my lady," he returned. "Are you coming?"
A little later they were rolling along Spring Street, past the plaza,
and many heads turned to look at the golden-haired girlish little figure
in mourning, drooping beside Dona Maria, whose rigid, unsmiling, dark
features were the best possible foil. Keith Bryton, sitting opposite,
noticed the admiration she aroused. The caballeros who had swept
sombreros to the ground at the passage of the carriage in which Raquel
and the bishop were riding did so as a matter of reverence to a devotee;
but the rule of the woman whom Keith had called a baby kitten would
always be one of childish appeal, personal to a degree.
Looking at her cynically, he tried to fancy her twenty years ahead,--the
mother of a grown daughter,--but failed. The daughter would have to be
guardian; the mother would always need one. She was watching him
furtively to see the effect this open admiration might have upon him. He
was the one man of them all who had ever dared treat her so carelessly.
His attitude had piqued her to the point where she had a brief tigerish
desire to rend his heart--his affections--if he had any! And Teddy was
the weapon.
Of course she had regretted it all--there were other men with so much
more money. Still, as it had turned out, it was not so bad. She was
installed as a member of his family, and that was better than to
depend entirely on the cousinship to the Mexican Dona Maria. She was
really a little afraid of the swarthy black-browed women of the country.
To be sure, they sat around in fat content, with their bits of
embroidery or drawn work, and seemed to see nothing else; but she had
seen Dona Maria whip an Indian servant with her own hands one day, and
the blind rage in the dark face had ever after made Angela a trifle more
respectful. It was not nice to be entirely at the mercy of ignorant
power. Don Eduardo was always ready with gold pieces for a pretty woman,
but even the distant cousinhood might not be all the protection required
for a lady of Angela's beauty, if any animosity should ever take root in
Dona Maria's mind.
So it was all well as things stood. Keith Bryton would, she knew, keep
to both letter and spirit of any promise he had made poor Teddy, and she
felt sure the fond boy had exacted much of the brother who he thought
could accomplish all things.
Thus she decided, as she watched and weighed his apparent amused
indifference to the admiration she excited. Fair women were at a premium
in the City of the Angels. He had just arrived from the dusky tribes of
Mexico; before that he had ranged the desert land; but she realized with
resentment that no beauty of hers would ever make an oasis for him.
The men who did admire her he regarded as fools.
He saw her glance from him, and she set her white teeth together with a
little click of absolute frustration. She had accepted his ungracious
invitation in order to show him the admiration her mere appearance on
the drive would excite, and it all weighed not an iota. Would he ever
really care for any one? Had he ever cared?
Then he moved his hand, and the sun gleamed on the ring he wore, the
Mexican onyx with the Aztec eagle. It recalled the adventure over which
she had laughed at the Mission. She had never believed Teddy when he
declared that Keith's attraction for that queer Mexican nun was a
serious fact. Teddy knew so little, so very little, of the real feelings
of either men or women. He had gone to his death buoyed for any sort of
adventure by the absolute conviction that his wife adored him. Poor
Teddy! Never would any woman be able to fool Keith Bryton like
that,--not even the woman he would care for, if she ever did appear.
While she thought so, and watched him, his face grew suddenly rigid and
colorless. The carriage of the bishop came down the street, the
palomentos with their golden coats and silver manes and tails shining
like satin in the sunlight. Rafael sat with his back to the horses,
looking very much bored indeed, but beside the bishop sat the woman who
had faced her on the hill of San Juan, and who had held her horse in the
middle of the road.
She was prepared for the sudden light of appreciation in Rafael's
beautiful eyes, as he lifted his hat and let his glance linger and meet
hers for one swift instant of comprehension, but she was not prepared
for the sudden leaning forward of his dark-browed bride, and the quick
look with which she took in the two women in the carriage, and then the
colorless face of their escort.
He looked at her levelly as he lifted his hat in acknowledgment of her
husband's salutation. If his glance held ever so slight a suggestion of
warning, it was unheeded by her. Her dark eyes glowed, her red lips
parted and lost their color as she rested one slender jewelled hand on
the carriage frame, and stared at him with incredulous eyes; one could
see that she did not even breathe as the carriages whirled past each
other; at least Angela noted it.
By turning her head she saw Rafael put out his hand suddenly to his
wife, who had sunk back on the cushions beside the bishop. His manner
suggested that he thought her ill. Keith could see the same without
turning his head. But even after he observed the lace-draped shoulders
straighten themselves, and the head held again proudly erect under the
mantilla, he continued to gaze after them, unconscious that the blue
eyes opposite him were alive with curiosity.
"One would think you were a long-lost brother, from the way that woman
stared," she remarked. "One would think she would show more restraint
when riding in state beside the bishop, and with her husband opposite."
Keith recovered himself and turned his attention to her.
"Was that Rafael Arteaga's wife?" he asked, carelessly. "I supposed it
was, but have not had the honor of being presented."
"Well, they told me she would not notice heretics, but one heretic was
the only person she noticed in this carriage. How she looked at you! I
told you she had nasty staring eyes, like augers boring through one. Did
you see, Dona Maria? Did you not fear she would disgrace us all by
leaping into the carriage?"
Dona Maria's black, bead-like eyes were regarding the young man
curiously.
"It may be a custom of Mexico for ladies to show attention to strange
men in that way," she observed, guardedly. "It may be so. I had never
heard of it. The new lady of the Mission is teaching San Juan many new
things, but I do not think she will teach it that sort of manners. They
do not compare well with the American ladies' manners--no?"
"I fancy it was only as your escort she was gracious enough to turn and
look at me; she might have fancied I was known to her. She looks very
young."
"You would forget she was young if you heard her talk to the padre,"
returned Dona Maria, significantly. "It was enough to bring a
malediction on all our heads to listen to it!"
"The bishop has forgiven her; at least it looks so."
"Oh, she is clever! He thinks she is a saint, this bishop. But the padre
knows!"
She did not add, "and I know," but her thin cold lips with their
satisfied smile suggested as much, and Bryton, observing it, felt anew
that the girl from Mexico had a strong team to fight in Dona Maria and
the padre.
[Music: _The Magpie's Reveille_ (Indian Gambling Song)]
"A'a'a'i-ne! A'a'a'i-ne!
Ta'a'-ni-aine! Ta'a'-ni-aine!
Bita alkaigi dike yiska ne.
Gayelka'! Gayelka'!"
TRANSLATION.
The magpie, the magpie, here underneath,
In the white of his wings
are the footsteps of the morning.
It dawns! It dawns!
[Music]