XIV.

Chonita, clad in a black gown, walked slowly up and down the corridor

of Casa Grande. The rain should have dripped from the eaves, beaten

with heavy monotony upon the hard clay of the court-yard, to accompany

her mood, but it did not. The sky was blue without fleck of cloud, the

sun like the open mouth of a furnace of boiling gold, the air as warm

and sweet and drowsy as if it never had come in shock with human care.

Prudencia sat on the green bench, drawing threads in a fine linen

smock, her small face rosy with contentment.

"Why dost thou wear that black gown this beautiful morning?" she

demanded, suddenly. "And why dost thou walk when thou canst sit down?"

"I had a dream last night. Dost thou believe in dreams?" She had as

much regard for her cousin's opinion as for the twittering of a bird,

but she felt the necessity of speech at times, and at least this child

never remembered what she said.

"Sure, my Chonita. Did not I dream that the good captain would bring

pink silk stockings? and are they not my own this minute?" And she

thrust a diminutive foot from beneath the hem of her gown, regarding

it with admiration. "And did not I dream that Tomaso and Liseta would

marry? What was thy dream, my Chonita?"

"I do not know what the first part was; something very sad. All I

remember is the roar of the ocean and another roar like the wind

through high trees. Then a moment that shook and frightened me, but

sweeter than anything I know of, so I cannot define it. Then a swift

awful tragedy--I cannot recall the details of that, either. The whole

dream was like a black mass of clouds, cut now and again by a scythe

of lightning. But then, like a vision within a dream, I seemed to

stand there and see myself, clad in a black gown, walking up and

down this corridor, or one like it, up and down, up and down, never

resting, never daring to rest, lest I hear the ceaseless clatter of

a lonely fugitive's horse. When I awoke I was as cold as if I had

received the first shock of the surf. I cannot say why I put on this

black gown to-day. I make no haste to feel as I did when I wore it in

that dream,--the desolation,--the endlessness; but I did."

"That was a strange dream, my Chonita," said Prudencia, threading her

needle. "Thou must have eaten too many dulces for supper: didst thou?"

"No," said Chonita, shortly, "I did not."

She continued her aimless walk, wondering at her depression of

spirits. All her life she had felt a certain mental loneliness, but

a healthy body rarely harbors an invalid soul, and she had only to

spring on a horse and gallop over the hills to feel as happy as a

young animal. Moreover, the world--all the world she knew--was at her

feet; nor had she ever known the novelty of an ungratified wish. Once

in a while her father arose in an obdurate mood, but she had only to

coax, or threaten tears,--never had she been seen to shed one,--or

stamp her foot, to bring that doting parent to terms. It is true

that she had had her morbid moments, an abrupt impatient desire for

something that was not all light and pleasure and gold and adulation;

but, being a girl of will and sense, she had turned resolutely from

the troublous demands of her deeper soul, regarding them as coals

fallen from a mind that burned too hotly at times.

This morning, however, she let the blue waters rise, not so much

because they were stronger than her will, as because she wished to

understand what was the matter with her. She was filled with a dull

dislike of every one she had ever known, of every condition which

had surrounded her from birth. She felt a deep disgust of placid

contentment, of the mere enjoyment of sunshine and air. She recalled

drearily the clock-like revolutions of the year which brought

bull-fights, races, rodeos, church celebrations; her mother's

anecdotes of the Indians; her father's manifold interests, ever the

theme of his tongue; Reinaldo's grandiloquent accounts of his exploits

and intentions; Prudencia's infinite nothings. She hated the balls of

which she was La Favorita, the everlasting serenades, the whole life

of pleasure which made that period of California the most perfected

Arcadia the modern world has known. Some time during the past few

weeks the girl had crossed her hands over her breast and lain down in

her eternal tomb. The woman had arisen and come forth, blinded as yet

by the light, her hands thrust out gropingly.

"It is that man," she told herself, with angry frankness. "I had

not talked with him ten minutes before I felt as I do when the scene

changes suddenly in one of Shakespeare's plays,--as if I had been

flung like a meteor into a new world. I felt the necessity for mental

alertness for the first time in my life; always, before, I had striven

to conceal what I knew. The natural consequences, of course, were

first the desire to feel that stimulation again and again, then to

realize the littleness of everything but mental companionship. I have

read that people who begin with hate sometimes end with love; and if I

were a book woman I suppose I should in time love this man whom I now

so hate, even while I admire. But I am no lump of wax in the hands

of a writer of dreams. I am Chonita Iturbi y Moncada, and he is Diego

Estenega. I could no more love him than could the equator kiss the

poles. Only, much as I hate him, I wish I could see him again. He

knows so much more than any one else. I should like to talk to him,

to ask him many things. He has sworn to marry me." Her lip curled

scornfully, but a sudden glow rushed over her. "Had he not been an

Estenega,--yes, I could have loved him,--that calm, clear-sighted

love that is born of regard; not a whirlwind and a collapse, like most

love. I should like to sit with my hands in my lap and hear him talk

forever. And we cannot even be friends. It is a pity."

The girl's mind was like a splendid castle only one wing of which had

ever been illuminated. By the light of the books she had read, and

of acute observation in a little sphere, she strove to penetrate the

thick walls and carry the torch into broader halls and lofty towers.

But superstition, prejudice, bitter pride, inexperience of life,

conjoined their shoulders and barred the way. As Diego Estenega had

discerned, under the thick Old-World shell of inherited impressions

was a plastic being of all womanly possibilities. But so little did

she know of herself, so futile was her struggle in the dark with only

sudden flashes to blind her and distort all she saw, that with nothing

to shape that moulding kernel it would shrink and wither, and in a few

years she would be but a polished shell, perfect of proportion, hollow

at the core.

But if strong intellectual juices sank into that sweet, pliant kernel,

developing it into the perfected form of woman, establishing the

current between the brain and the passions, finishing the work, or

leaving it half completed, as Circumstance vouchsafed?--what then?

"Ay, Señor!" exclaimed Prudencia, as two people, mounted on horses

glistening with silver, galloped into the court-yard. "Valencia and

Adan!"

I came out of the sala at that moment and watched them alight: Adan,

that faithful, dog-like adorer, of whose kind every beautiful woman

has a half-dozen or more, Valencia the bitter-hearted rival of

Chonita. She was a tall, dazzling creature, with flaming black eyes

large and heavily lashed, and a figure so lithe that she seemed to

sweep downward from her horse rather than spring to the ground. She

had the dark rich skin of Mexico--another source of envy and hatred,

for the Iturbi y Moncadas, like most of the aristocracy of the

country, were of pure Castilian blood and as white as porcelain in

consequence--and a red full mouth.

"Welcome, my Chonita!" she cried. "_Valgame Dios!_ but I am glad to

see thee back!" She kissed Chonita effusively. "Ay, my poor brother!"

she whispered, hurriedly. "Tell him that thou art glad to see him."

And then she welcomed me with words that fell as softly as rose-leaves

in a zephyr, and patted Prudencia's head.

Chonita, with a faint flush on her cheek, gave Adan her hand to kiss.

She had given this faithful suitor little encouragement, but his

unswerving and honest devotion had wrung from her a sort of careless

affection; and she told me that first night in Monterey that if she

ever made up her mind to marry she thought she would select Adan: he

was more tolerable than any one she knew. It is doubtful if he had

crossed her mind since; and now, with all a woman's unreason, she

conceived a sudden and violent dislike for him because she had treated

him too kindly in her thoughts. I liked Adan Menendez; there was

something manly and sure about him,--the latter a restful if not a

fascinating quality. And I liked his appearance. His clear brown eyes

had a kind direct regard. His chin was round, and his profile a little

thick; but the gray hair brushed up and away from his low forehead

gave dignity to his face. His figure was pervaded with the indolence

of the Californian.

"At your feet, señorita mia," he murmured, his voice trembling.

"It gives me pleasure to see thee again, Adan. Hast thou been well and

happy since I left?"

It was a careless question, and he looked at her reproachfully.

"I have been well, Chonita," he said.

At this moment our attention was startled by a sharp exclamation from

Valencia. Prudencia had announced her engagement. Valencia had refused

many suitors, but she had intended to marry Reinaldo Iturbi y Moncada.

Not that she loved him: he was the most brilliant match in three

hundred leagues. Within the last year he had bent the knee to the

famous coquette; but she had lost her temper one day,--or, rather, it

had found her,--and after a violent quarrel he had galloped away, and

gone almost immediately to Los Angeles, there to remain until Don

Juan went after him with a bushel of gold. She controlled herself in

a moment, and swayed her graceful body over Prudencia, kissing her

lightly on the cheek.

"Thou baby, to marry!" she said, softly. "Thou didst take away my

breath. Thou dost look no more than fourteen years. I had forgotten

the grand merienda of thy eighteenth birthday."

Prudencia's little bosom swelled with pride at the discomfiture of the

haughty beauty who had rarely remembered to notice her. Prudencia was

not poor; she owned a goodly rancho; but it was an hacienda to the

state of a Menendez.

"Thou wilt be one of my bridesmaids, no, Doña Valencia?" she asked.

"That will be the proud day of my life," said Valencia, graciously.

"We have a ball to-night," said Chonita.

"Thou wouldst have had word to-day. Thou wilt stay now, no? and not

ride those five leagues twice again? I will send for thy gown."

"Truly, I will stay, my Chonita. And thou wilt tell me all about thy

visit to Monterey, no?"

"All? Ay! sure!"

Adan kissed both Prudencia's little hands in earnest congratulation.

As he did so, the door of Reinaldo's room opened, and the heir of the

Iturbi y Moncadas stepped forth, gorgeous in black silk embroidered

with gold. He had slept off the effects of the night's debauch, and

cold water had restored his freshness. He kissed Prudencia's hand, his

own to us, then bent over Valencia's with exaggerated homage.

"At thy feet, O loveliest of California's daughters. In the immensity

of thought, going to and coming from Los Angeles, my imagination has

spread its wings like an eagle. Thou hast been a beautiful day-dream,

posing or reclining, dancing, or swaying with grace superlative on thy

restive steed. I have not greeted my good friend Adan. I can but look

and look and keep on looking at his incomparable sister, the rose of

roses, the queen of queens."

"Thy tongue carols as easily as a lark's," said Valencia, with but

half-concealed bitterness. "Thou couldst sing all day,--and the next

forget."

"I forget nothing, beautiful señorita,--neither the fair days of

spring nor the ugly storms of winter. And I love the sunshine and flee

from the tempest. Adan, brother of my heart, welcome as ever to Casa

Grande--Ay! here is my father. He looks like Sancho Panza."

Don Guillermo's sturdy little mustang bore him into the court-yard,

shaking his stout master not a little. The old gentleman's black

silk handkerchief had fallen to his shoulders: his face was red, but

covered with a broad smile.

"I have letters from Monterey," he said, as Reinaldo and Adan ran down

the steps to help him alight. "Alvarado goes by sea to Los Angeles

this month, but returns by land in the next, and will honor us with

a visit of a week. I shall write to him to arrive in time for the

wedding. Several members of the Junta come with him,--and of their

number is Diego Estenega."

"Who?" cried Reinaldo. "An Estenega? Thou wilt not ask him to cross

the threshold of Casa Grande?"

"I always liked Diego," said the old man, somewhat confusedly. "And he

is the friend of Alvarado. How can I avoid to ask him, when he is of

the party?"

"Let him come," cried Reinaldo. "God of my life!--I am glad that he

comes, this lord of redwood forests and fog-bound cliffs. It is well

that he see the splendor of the Iturbi y Moncadas,--our pageants and

our gay diversions, our cavalcades of beauty and elegance under a

canopy of smiling blue. Glad I am that he comes. Once for all shall

he learn that, although his accursed family has beaten ours in war and

politics, he can never hope to rival our pomp and state."

"Ah!" said Valencia to Chonita, "I have heard of this Diego Estenega.

I too am glad that he comes. I have the advantage of thee this time,

my friend. Thou and he must hate each other, and for once I am without

a rival. He shall be my slave." And she tossed her spirited head.

"He shall not!" cried Chonita, then checked herself abruptly, the

blood rushing to her hair. "I hate him so," she continued hurriedly

to the astonished Valencia, "that I would see no woman show him favor.

Thou wilt not like him, Valencia. He is not handsome at all,--no color

in his skin, not even white, and eyes in the back of his head. No

mustache, no curls, and a mouth that looks,--oh, that mouth, so grim,

so hard!--no, it is not to be described. No one could; it makes you

hate him. And he has no respect for women; he thinks they were made to

please the eye, no more. I do not think he would look ten seconds at

an ugly woman. Thou wilt not like him, Valencia, sure."

"Ay, but I think I shall. What thou hast said makes me wish to see him

the more. God of my life! but he must be different from the men of the

South. And I shall like that."

"Perhaps," said Chonita, coldly. "At least he will not break thy

heart, for no woman could love him. But come and take thy siesta,

no? and refresh thyself for the dance. I will send thee a cup

of chocolate." And, bending her head to Adan, she swept down the

corridor, followed by Valencia.