The dwelling of Don Gregorio Montijo, as already stated, is
terrace-topped, that style of roof in Spanish countries termed _azotea_.
This, surrounded by a parapet breast-high--beset with plants and
flowering shrubs in boxes and pots, thus forming a sort of aerial
garden--is reached by a stone stair, the _escalera_, which leads up out
of the inner court, called _patio_. During certain hours of the day,
the azotea is a favourite resort, being a pleasant place of dalliance,
as also the finest for observation--commanding, as in this case it does,
a view of the country at back, and the broad bay in front. To look upon
this last have the two "senoritas," on the same morning, ascended--soon
after breakfast, which in all parts of Spanish America is eaten at the
somewhat late hour of 11 a.m.
That they do not intend staying here long, is evident from the character
of their dresses. Both are costumed and equipped for the saddle; having
hats of vicuna wool on their heads, riding-whips in their hands, and
spurs on their heels; while in the courtyard below stand four horses,
saddled and bridled, champing their bits, and impatiently pawing the
flagged pavement.
Since all the saddles are such as are usually ridden by men, it may be
supposed only men are to be mounted, and that the ladies' horses have
not yet been brought out of the stable. This would naturally be the
conjecture of a stranger to Spanish California. But one _an fait_ to
its fashions would draw deductions differently. Looking at the spurred
heels upon the house-top, and the saddled horses below, he would
conclude that two of the steeds were intended to be ridden by the
ladies; in that style of equitation with which the famed Duchesse de
Berri was accustomed to astonish the Parisians.
The other two horses, having larger and somewhat coarser saddles, are
evidently designed for gentlemen; so that the cavalcade will be
symmetrically composed--two and two of each sex.
The gentlemen have not yet put in an appearance; but who they are may be
learnt from the dialogue passing between the two ladies. From their
elevated, position they can see the rapidly growing city of San
Francisco, and the shipping in its harbour--north-east, and a little to
their left. But there are several vessels riding at anchor out in front
of them; one a warship, towards which the eyes of both keep continuously
turning, as though they expected a boat soon to put off from her side.
As yet none such has been seen; and, withdrawing her gaze from the
warship, Inez opens the conversation by a question--
"Is it really true that we're going back to Spain?"
She has been in California only a short time, since the death of her
father and mother, which placed her under the guardianship of Don
Gregorio. But though here, lovers have been all the while sighing
around her, she longs to return to her dear Andalusia. Therefore has
she asked the question with more than a common interest.
"Quite true;" says Carmen, giving the answer, "and I'm sorry it is so."
"Why should you be sorry?"
"There are many reasons."
"Give one."
"I could give twenty."
"One will be sufficient--if good."
"They're all good."
"Let me hear them, then."
"First of all, I like California--I love it. Its fine climate, and
bright blue sides."
"Not a bit brighter, or bluer, than those of Spain."
"Ten times brighter, and ten times bluer. The skies of the Old-World
are to those of the New as lead to _lapis lazuli_. In that respect,
neither Spain nor Italy can compare with California. Its seas, too, are
superior. Even the boasted Bay of Naples would be but a poor pond
alongside that noble sheet of water, far-stretching before our eyes.
Look at it!"
"Looking at it through _your_ eyes, I might think so; not through mine.
For my part, I see nothing in it to be so much admired."
"But something _on_ it; for instance, that grand ship out yonder. Come,
now; confess the truth! Isn't that something to admire?"
"But she don't belong to your bay," replies the Andalusian.
"No matter. There is on it now, and in it--the ship I mean--somebody
who, if I mistake not, has very much interested somebody else--a certain
Andalusian lady, by name Inez Alvarez."
"Your words will answer as well for a Biscayan lady--by name Carmen
Montijo."
"Suppose I admit it, and say yes? Well; I will. There _is_ one in
yonder ship who has very much interested me. Nay, more; I admire--ay,
love him! You see I'm not ashamed to confess what the world affects to
consider a weakness. We of the Celtic race don't keep secrets as you of
the further South; half Moors, as you are. For all, _sobrina_, you
haven't kept yours; though you tried heard enough. I saw from the first
you were smitten with that young English officer, who has hair the exact
colour of a carrot!"
"It isn't anything of the kind. His hair is of a much more becoming hue
than that of the other English officer, who's taken your fancy, _tia_."
"Nothing to compare with it. Look at this. There's a curl; one of the
handsomest that ever grew on the head of man! Dark and glossy, as the
coat of the fur-seal. Beautiful! I could kiss it over, and over
again!"
While speaking, she does so.
"And look at this!" cries the other, also drawing forth a lock of hair,
and displaying it in the sunlight, "See how it shines--like tissue of
gold! Far prettier than that you've got, and better worth kissing."
Saying which she imitates the example set her, by raising the tress to
her lips, and repeatedly kissing it.
"So, so, my innocent!" exclaims Carmen, "you've been stealing too?"
"As yourself!"
"And, I suppose, you've given him a love-lock in exchange?"
"Have you?"
"I have. To you, Inez, I make no secret of it. Come, now! Be equally
candid with me. Have you done so?"
"I've done the same as yourself."
"And has your heart gone with the gift? Tell the truth, _sobrina_."
"Ask your own, _tia_; and take its answer for mine."
"Enough, then; we understand each other, and shall keep the secret to
ourselves. Now let's talk of other things; go back to what we began
with--about leaving California. You're glad we're going?"
"Indeed, yes. And I wonder you're not the same. Dear old Spain, the
finest country on earth! And Cadiz the finest city."
"Ah! about that we two differ. Give me California for a country, and
San Francisco for a home; though it's not much of a city yet. It will,
ere long; and I should like to stay in it. But that's not to be, and
there's an end of the matter. Father has determined on leaving.
Indeed, he has already sold out; so that this house and the lands around
it are no longer ours. As the lawyers have the deed of transfer, and
the purchase money has been paid, we're only here on sufferance, and
must soon yield possession. Then, we're to take ship for Panama, go
across the Isthmus and over the Atlantic Ocean; once more to renew the
Old-world life, with all its stupid ceremonies. How I shall miss the
free wild ways of California--its rural sports--with their quaint
originality and picturesqueness! I'm sure I shall die of _ennui_, soon
after reaching Spain. Your Cadiz will kill me."
"But, Carmen; surely you can't be happy here--now that everything is so
changed? Why, we can scarce walk out in safety, or take a promenade
through the streets of the town, crowded with those rude fellows in
red-shirts, who've come to dig for gold--Anglo-Saxons, as they call
themselves."
"What! You speaking against Anglo-Saxons! And with that tress
treasured in your bosom--so close to your heart!"
"Oh! _he_ is different. He's not Saxon, but Welsh--and that's Celtic,
the same as you Biscayans. Besides, he isn't to be ranked with that
rabble, even though he were of the same race. The Senor Cadwallader is
a born hidalgo."
"Admitting him to be, I think you do wrong to these red-shirted gentry,
in calling them a rabble. Rough as they may appear, they have gentle
hearts under their coarse homespun coats. Many of them are true
bred-and-born gentlemen; and, what's better, behave as such. I've never
received insult from them--not even disrespect--though I've been among
them scores of times. Father wrongs them too: for it is partly their
presence here that's causing him to quit California--as also many others
of our old families. Still, as we reside in the country, at a safe
distance from town, we might enjoy immunity from meeting _los barbaros_,
as our people are pleased contemptuously to style them. For my part, I
love dear old California, and will greatly regret leaving it. Only to
think; I shall never more behold the gallant _vaquero_, mounted on his
magnificent steed, careering across the plain, and launching his lazo
over the horns of a fierce wild bull, ready to gore him if he but miss
his aim. Ah! it's one of the finest sights in the world--so exciting in
this dull prosaic age. It recalls the heroic days and deeds of the
Great Conde, the Campeador, and Cid. Yes, Inez; only in this modern
transatlantic land--out here, on the shores of the South Sea--do there
still exist customs and manners to remind one of the old knight-errantry
and times of the troubadours."
"What an enthusiast you are! But apropos of your knights-errant, yonder
are two of them, if I mistake not, making this way. Now, fancy yourself
on the donjon of an ancient Moorish castle, salute, and receive them
accordingly. Ha, ha, ha!"
The clear ringing laugh of the Andalusian is not echoed by the Biscayan.
Instead, a shadow falls over her face, as her eyes become fixed upon
two mounted figures just distinguishable in the distance.
"True types of your Californian _chivalry_!" adds Inez ironically.
"True types of Californian _villainy_!" rejoins Carmen, in serious
earnest.