The party deserted the table for the garden, there to idle until
evening should give them the dance. All of the men and most of the
women smoked cigaritos, the latter using the gold or silver holder,
supporting it between the thumb and finger. The high walls of the
garden were covered with the delicate fragrant pink Castilian roses,
and the girls plucked them and laid them in their hair.
"Does it look well, Don Diego?" asked one girl, holding her head
coquettishly on one side.
"It looked better on its vine," he said, absently. He was looking for
Chonita, who had disappeared. "Roses are like women: they lose their
subtler fragrance when plucked; but, like women, their heads always
droop invitingly."
"I do not understand thee, Don Diego," said the girl, fixing her wide
innocent eyes on the young man's inscrutable face. "What dost thou
mean?"
"That thou art sweeter than Castilian roses," he said and passed on.
"And how is, thy little one?" he asked a young matron whose lithe
beauty had won his admiration a year ago, but to whom maternity had
been too generous. She raised her soft brown eyes out of which the
coquettish sparkle had gone.
"Beautiful! Beautiful!" she cried. "And so smart, Don Diego. He beats
the air with his little fists, and--Holy Mary, I swear it!--he winks
one eye when I tickle him."
Estenega sauntered down the garden endeavoring to imagine Chonita fat
and classified. He could not. He paused beside a woman who did not
raise her eyes at once, but coquettishly pretended to be absorbed in
the conversation of those about her. She too had been married a year
and more, but her figure had not lost its elegance, and she was very
handsome. Her coquetry was partly fear. Estenega's power was felt
alike by innocent girls and chaste matrons. There were few scandals in
those days; the women of the aristocracy were virtuous by instinct
and rigid social laws; but, how it would be hard to tell, Estenega
had acquired the reputation of being a dangerous man. Perhaps it had
followed him back from the city of Mexico, where at one time, he had
spent three years as diputado, and whence returned with a brilliant
and startling record of gallantry. A woman had followed on the next
ship, and, unless I am much mistaken, Diego passed many uneasy
hours before he persuaded her to return to Mexico. Then old Don José
Briones' beautiful young wife was found dead in her bed one morning,
and the old women who dressed the body swore that there were marks of
hard skinny fingers on her throat. Estenega had made no secret of his
admiration of her. At different times girls of the people had left
Monterey suddenly, and vague rumors had floated down from the North
that they had been seen in the redwood forests where Estenega's
ranchos lay. I asked him, point-blank, one day, if these stories were
true, prepared to scold him as he deserved; and he remarked coolly
that stories of that sort were always exaggerated, as well as a man's
success with women. But one had only to look at that face, with its
expression of bitter-humorous knowledge, its combination of strength
and weakness, to feel sure that there were chapters in his life that
no woman outside of them would ever read. I always felt, when with
Diego Estenega, that I was in the presence of a man who had little
left to learn of life's phases and sensations.
"The sun will freckle thy white neck," he said to the matron who would
not raise her eyes.
"Shall I bring thy mantilla, Doña Carmen?"
She looked up with a swift blush, then lowered her soft black eyes
suddenly before the penetrating gaze of the man who was so different
from the caballeros.
"It is not well to be too vain, señor. We must think less of those
things and more of--our Church."
"True; the Church may be a surer road to heaven than a good
complexion, if less of a talisman on earth. Still I doubt if a
freckled Virgin would have commanded the admiration of the centuries,
or even of the Holy Ghost."
"Don Diego! Don Diego!" cried a dozen horrified voices.
"Diego Estenega, if it were any man but thou," I exclaimed, "I would
have thee excommunicated. Thou blasphemer! How couldst thou?"
Diego raised my threatening hand to his lips. "My dear Eustaquia, it
was merely a way of saying that woman should be without blemish. And
is not the Virgin the model for all women?"
"Oh," I exclaimed, impatiently, "thou canst plant an idea in people's
minds, then pluck it out before their very eyes and make them believe
it never was there. That is thy power,--but not over me. I know thee."
We were standing apart, and I had dropped my voice. "But come and talk
to me awhile. I cannot stand those babies," and I indicated with a
sweep of my fan the graceful, richly-dressed caballeros whose soft
drooping eyes and sensuous mouths were more promising of compliments
than conversation. "Neither Alvarado nor Castro is here. Thou too
wouldst have gone in a moment had I not captured thee."
"On the contrary, I should have captured you. If we were not too old
friends for flirting I should say that your handsome-ugly face is the
most attractive in the garden. It is a pretty picture, though,"
he went on, meditatively,--"those women in their gay soft gowns,
coquetting demurely with the caballeros. Their eyes and mouths are
like flowers; and their skins are so white, and their hair so black.
The high wall, covered with green and Castilian roses, was purposely
designed by Nature for them. Sometimes I have a passing regret that
it is all doomed, and a half-century hence will have passed out of
memory."
"What do you mean?" I asked, sharply.
"Oh, we will not discuss the question of the future. I sent Castro
away from the table in a towering rage, and it is too hot to excite
you. Even the impassive Doomswoman became so angry that she could not
eat her dinner."
"It is your old wish for American occupation--the bandoleros! No; I
will not discuss it with you: I have gone to bed with my head bursting
when we have talked of it before. You might have spared poor José. But
let us talk of something else--Chonita. What do you think of her?"
"A thousand things more than one usually thinks of a woman after the
first interview."
"But do you think her beautiful?"
"She is better than beautiful. She is original."
"I often wonder if she would be La Favorita of the South if it were
not for her father's great wealth and position. The men who profess to
be her slaves must have absorbed the knowledge that she has the
brains they have not, although she conceals her superiority from them
admirably: her pride and love of power demand that she shall be La
Favorita, although her caballeros must weary her. If she made them
feel their insignificance for a moment they would fly to the standard
of her rival, Valencia Menendez, and her regalities would be gone
forever. A few men have gone honestly wild over her, but I doubt if
any one has ever really loved her. Such women receive a surfeit of
admiration, but little love. If she were an unintellectual woman she
would have an extraordinary power over men, with her beauty and her
subtle charm; but now she is isolated. What a pity that your houses
are at war!"
He had been looking away from me. As I finished speaking he turned
his face slowly toward me, first the profile, which looked as if cut
rapidly with a sharp knife out of ivory, then the full face, with its
eyes set so deeply under the scraggy brows, its mouth grimly humorous.
He looked somewhat sardonic and decidedly selfish. Well I knew what
that expression meant. He had the kindest heart I had ever known, but
it never interfered with a most self-indulgent nature. Many times I
had begged him to be considerate of some girl who I knew charmed him
for the moment only; but one secret of his success with women was his
unfeigned if brief enthusiasm.
"Let her alone!" I exclaimed. "You cannot marry her. She would go into
a convent before she would sacrifice the traditions of her house. And
if you were not at war, and she married you, you would only make her
miserably happy."
He merely smiled and continued to look me straight in the eyes.