“A hospitable gate unbarred to all.”
“All aboard for Castle Dome,” and the baron’s party filed up the
carpeted gang plank, and looked smilingly about them.
“I have often heard of the sumptuousness of the Mississippi steamers,
now grown traditional, but this exceeds even their reputation,”
commented Miss Winters.
“This is the Morning line, madame,” answered the gaudily-dressed steward
boastfully, “and they do nothing by halves, you know,” and he pompously
led the way to the ladies’ saloon.
“Except by half millions,” returned the doctor jocosely.
“These steamers were built for the accommodation of the people who came
to the World’s Fair at Chicago,” explained the steward. “Morning’s a
queer sort of fellow”—and he grew confidential. “He could have brought
his air ships and new-fangled things, such as he had on exhibition at
the fair, but he wouldn’t. He said it was kind o’ throwing off on
nature, that God never made but one Colorado River, and he for one
hadn’t the brass to discount it.”
“Do you have many visitors belonging to the nobility?” asked Mrs.
Thornton, evidently inclined to change the conversation from its
personal trend.
“Oh, lots of ’em! There’s a Spanish count and an Italian prince stopping
up at the Gonzales place now. The Italian has been there some time,
making himself solid with the señorita, I reckon. And we are expecting a
party this week, Baron Von Boodle, or some such name, with his
friends”—here the baron rose abruptly and walked out of the saloon—“at
least Mr. Morning telegraphed the captain from San Diego that when this
party arrived he meant to run over here and make his first visit to
Castle Dome, which will be an event, for, after all the millions of
money he has spent on the place, he has never been near it, and
everybody is wondering at it.”
After a night’s rest at the great Rio Colorado Hotel, built upon the
bluff at Yuma, the party had made an early start, and had been on board
the _Undine_ for some time before the line was thrown in and the steamer
began to move.
The steward bustled away, and the baroness rose, with a deep breath of
relief, and walked to the mirror. It may have been observed of many
women that any new or sudden sensation or condition or emotion suggests
a looking-glass. Not that they see or are thinking of themselves, but
they seem thus best able to collect their thoughts. So it was with this
woman, only that now she did observe two very bright eyes and a radiant
face, with the swift blood coursing back from her cheeks, across the
smooth white surface of her neck, to the closely-defined growth of
hair—that oracle of beauty which no ugly woman ever wore, whatever her
features. She turned quickly away, and, following the doctor and her
father, the three ladies went out to view the scenery.
“You observe this bend in the river,” a voice was saying, “where many a
poor fellow has gone to his death, for there swoops the most fatal pool
of eddies, perhaps, to be found in the whole channel of these whimsical
waters.”
The baroness turned to look for the speaker, whose voice seemed
familiar, and there, under the shade of the awning, in full silhouette,
looking in the face of her husband, with whom he was pleasantly
conversing, stood David Morning.
Her first thought was to retreat to the saloon and wait for him to
present himself, but as his swift eye swept the deck, he caught sight of
her face, and came quickly over, followed by the baron, saying, as he
cordially took her hand, and held it closely for a long time, “I enjoy
one advantage over you, baron, my acquaintance with the baroness dates
back of yours. I hope she has not forgotten me.”
The woman made no reply to this remark; she simply said, “How do you do,
Mr. Morning,” and presented him to her friends.
The brief trip up the river among the cliffs and cascades and whirlpools
and caves and cañons and towering cathedral rocks, furnished prolific
and auspicious topics for conversation, but it need not be said that
neither the baroness nor Mr. Morning knew altogether what they were
talking about. She could not fail to see the pupils of his sea-grey eyes
grow very large when he looked at her, and he in turn observed that she
scarcely looked at him at all.
The professor talked a little dryly at first, and Mrs. Thornton sat
apart, evidently nursing her chagrin, for Mr. Morning was at this moment
not only the wealthiest but the most famous and powerful man in all the
world, and, had he sought it, could have obtained orders of high
nobility from every crowned head in Europe. The baron, who would have
seen “Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt,” if that brow possessed the
attribute of Midas, looked at the situation from an altogether different
standpoint, and was thinking at what period of the new-formed
acquaintance it would be prudent to ask the loan of a few, or, possibly,
more than a few, thousand pounds.
Presently the boat rounded into a little cove and stopped. The brief but
eventful journey was over, and the party stepped from the boat to a
flight of marble-flagged steps, leading up to shining floors, out of
which arose columns supporting a light roof in Pagoda style. Easy
swinging seats, with hammocks and tables, with a few racks and stands,
completed the pretty “Rest” for the landing, and the party began to look
about for the path of ascent.
Suddenly a tinkling sound was heard, and, softly as if it fell from the
clouds, a car, sumptuously carpeted, cushioned, and canopied, appeared
before them. It was, evidently, meant for the accommodation of the
party, and one by one they stepped in. Morning was the last to follow,
and as he came aboard and closed the plate-glass door, it shut with a
tinkle, and the car arose, moving proportionately aslant as the grade of
the terrace—which had been fashioned and grown in the short space of two
years—inclined.
“My invention works like a charm,” Morning was heard to mutter to the
outer air, as they neared the summit and surveyed the height. The
awe-filling overhanging crags, thousands of centuries old, had been
blasted and chiseled and coaxed into shelves, and steps, and nooks, and
resting-places, softly carpeted with moss, and decorated with growing
ferns and lichens. The wind came down the river and shook the leaves
above their heads, and stirred the birds into a flood of song, and larks
sat upon the twigs and warbled with joy.
“Only two years,” said Miss Winters, as they stepped from the car; “’tis
not so long in which to make a beautiful world.”
“It is much more difficult to people it with the right sort,” mused
Morning.
“The first builders had to try that two or three times, if my memory
serves me,” remarked the doctor.
“Are these people of the right sort?” asked Mrs. Thornton significantly.
The baroness shot a quick glance at Morning, and looked over at her
rather too loquacious maternal.
“I am too much of an ingrate to answer for them,” said Morning,
undismayed. “I only know that I owe them my life, and that I have never
had the grace to come and thank them.”
They had now arrived at the main entrance to the grounds, and the scene
presented was one of indescribable beauty and splendor. The dazzling
proportions of the structure rose into the air with such exceeding
lightness and grace of outline, melting away against the silvery
softness of the clouds, that it seemed swinging in the ambient air, and
only for the cornices and columns and spires and turrets of onyx and
agate which defined the outlines against the sky, one would look to see
it float away like dissolving views of the Celestial City. The
magnificent dome was rounded with bent and many-colored glasses, the
eloquent figures storying events of history both classic and local, in
pigments not known since the days of Donatello, who went mad because his
figure could not speak. And there, upon its pedestal of purest
alabaster, stood the chaste statue of Psyche, just as Morning had hewn
it out of his captious fancy so long ago, and Cupid opposite, half
eager, half evasive, and restless. Ah, well! and he looked into the
deep, appreciative eyes of the woman by his side, and said not a word.
Having selected the most thoroughly skilled architects, artists, and
artisans, and no limit having been placed to expenditure, it was evident
that every detail of Morning’s plan had been faithfully executed. But
beyond this his power, or, rather, his supervision or direction, had
ceased. At last it was the estate and home of the Gonzales family and
not his own, and concerning its management, or the manner in which they
should enjoy it, he did not offer even a suggestion. Morning’s
instructions, left with the Bank of California more than two years
before, were to pay all checks signed by the Señora or the Señorita
Gonzales, no matter what amount, and charge them to his account.
The Gonzales family had taken their good fortune with great equanimity.
Their inclinations led them to a generous and exceedingly promiscuous
hospitality, and they had not hesitated to arrange the ménage of their
household without regard to conventionalities. Instead of the solemn and
ubiquitous functionary at the open door, there was vacancy, while the
party stood upon the tessellated floor of the broad vestibule for
several minutes.
Presently a young Spaniard in boots and clanking spurs, with
silver-laced sombrero and flaming tie, threw wide the door, and
simultaneously Morning caught a glimpse through an open court of a
female figure leaning upon the rosewood balustrade, mounted with a cable
of silver, which surrounded a corridor, and idly tossing with her fan
the light, half-curling locks of a man who sat upon a low seat, resting
his head against her knee.
It was only a glance as the sun strikes against the steel, sharply
cutting its way upon the eye, or like the incisive impress of some
exceptional face in passing, whereby one seizes every detail of color
and form, void of conscious effort. It was easy to recognize the
graceful outline of the swaying figure as she sat poised under the
sunlight, and swift and unbidden even as the _coup d’œil_ was, the
senses of David Morning thrilled with gladness. Was it the sight of
Murella again that sent that shaft of ecstasy through his soul? or was
it the all up-building, all-leveling lesson that the Señorita Gonzales
was being amused?
The arrival of the party had been manifestly unexpected, and no formal
announcement was made, but no sooner had they entered the magnificent
reception hall at one extremity than Señorita Gonzales appeared at the
other. She entered with a movement of the most exquisite grace, robed,
rather than dressed, in a gown of acanthus green satin, flowing in the
back from the half-bared neck to the gold-embroidered border of the
demi-train. The front was gathered at the shoulder and fell with lengths
of creamy lisse to the perfect foot, with its slippers of gold. A
corselet of rich embroideries rounded the waist. The sleeves were
loosely puffed and draped with softest lace to the white and flexible
wrist, while the web-like lace of her mantilla rested lightly upon the
shining coils of her abundant hair.
As Mr. Morning advanced toward the center of the room to greet his
beautiful hostess, she drew an audible breath, and lifted her
finely-arched brows, but no sign betrayed other emotion. Mr. Morning
presented his friends in the most casual and easy manner, but when the
Baroness Von Eulaw came forward, taller by some inches than the Señorita
Gonzales, and with an exquisite manner was about to speak, the little
hostess, with an air of special affability and simplicity, asked,
showing her small white teeth the while:—
“To who owe I a the honor of this visite of a noble baroness?”
It was a bombshell in satin and lace which fell at the feet of Morning,
and for an instant he saw no way to the rescue of the baroness. Then,
rallying, he quickly replied:—
“To the reputation for hospitality of the fair owner of this house, and
that of her charming family.”
“I no know if my name travel so long time a,” she rejoined, looking at
Morning.
The baron then came forward, and, politely holding her fingers, said in
Spanish, “I hope that the Señorita and Señora Gonzales are quite well,
as who should not be in this Italy of rare delights?”
“Oh, Italy! that is the home of my parteekler friend. He paint Italia,
he sing Italia, and he make me promise for go many times.”
“That settles it,” Morning muttered sententiously, but no one heard.
Then the conversation became general, the baroness commenting kindly
upon the encroachments upon the time of the señorita in receiving
curious visitors.
“Oh,” retorted Murella with pretty nonchalance, “I no care! I lofe amuse
myself,” leading the way to the main saloon. “I haf always parteekler
frent, same as baroness, ess it not?” and she sank indolently into the
cushioned depths of a primrose sofa, waving the baroness to a place
beside her, and leaving the party to make choice of seats.
A glance at the original design and superb appointments of this interior
suggested the incongruity of hammocks and _ollas_, yet here they were
many times repeated, for “ice is the devil’s nectar,” runs a Spanish
proverb, and the _olla_ has no rival save the mescal jug.
Every well-to-do Mexican family keeps beneath its roof a corps of female
retainers, who are neither servants nor guests, but something between
the two. They dine—except on occasions—at the family board, and mingle
always at the family gathering, but they assist in the household labors,
and sometimes, though not often, receive a stated money compensation.
They are usually relatives, more or less distant, of the mistress of the
household. The beautiful casa and great wealth of the Gonzales family
had nearly depopulated the neighboring Mexican State of Sonora of all
the needy Alvarados who could claim kinship with the Donna Maria, and a
dozen of these señoritas now appeared shyly at the doors, their
mantillas closely drawn, though the day was warm, and many voices and
excellent music were heard from all quarters of the house and grounds.
After a few moments the Señora Gonzales, with her brother, Don Manuel
Alvarado, who acted as major-domo of the estate, were presented, but the
señora soon glided away unobserved, leaving her brother to the honors of
guide over the mansion.
“You are very beautiful,” spoke Murella with apparent naiveté, as they
arose to follow the party who had preceded them.
The smile of the baroness was tinged with bitterness as she turned to
look into the Madonna face beside her, and ventured to reply.
“And Señor Morning lofes you like heaven and the angels,” she continued
unctuously.
“Señorita, you forget that I have a husband.”
“Is he jealous?”
“Surely no,” replied the baroness sincerely.
“Then I no know what you mean a.”
“I mean that I owe a wife’s duty to the baron,” slowly, with rising
color.
“And what you owe a to the other fellow?” meaning Morning.
The baroness was too much confused to speak.
“You know him a long time?”
“Before I married the baron and went abroad.”
“And you lofe him all these a year? Oh thunner!”
Murella’s English must be taken with many grains of allowance. The
strongest words in a foreign or unfamiliar tongue seem ineffectual and
weak.
“I must plead the indulgence of a guest,” laughed the baroness, “and
withdraw myself from the searching operations of your cunning catechism,
or turn the lights upon you. How long have you known—”
But the señorita had softly glided away, standing apart and giving
hurried orders for luncheon.
Morning was in a dilemma. It will have been observed that, after the
first moment of greeting, Murella had given him no farther thought.
Gratitude is not with the Spaniard one of the cardinal virtues, as he
was aware, so that was an unvexed question. If his name had not been so
prominently before the world, doubtless they would—the entire family
included—have forgotten it ere this. But was it pique, was it pride, or
was it embarrassment, that led Murella to thus overlook him?
Certainly she had recognized the baroness at the first glance, to his
amazement and bewilderment, for the episode of her examination and
temporary custody of the photograph was unknown to him, and just so
surely her first impulse had been to render that lady as uncomfortable
as possible. But, with her usual swift sagacity, she had, with an eye
single to her own cunning tactics, quite changed her base of action,
and, with admirable finesse, proceeded at once to make a friend of the
baroness, through her charming frankness and unsophisticated
confidences. The steady, unflinching eye of Morning, therefore, while
trained as the eagle’s to catch the fiercest rays of the noonday sun,
could no more follow the erratic and elusive movements of the elfish
fancy of this fascinating woman than the eye of his horse could follow
the flash of a meteor.
“Come, señora,” said Murella to the baroness a moment later, “I know the
ting you was ask a me, how long time I know Señor Morning lofe a you.”
The baroness knew that she had not meant to ask any such question, but
rather how long the señorita had known Mr. Morning. But she had scarcely
opened her lips when Murella talked on.
“You tink I no know lof when a I see a? Eh! what that on his face when
he a tak a your hand for make a me know you Baroness Von Eulaw? Eh? what
you call proud, courage, lof, beautiful life!” and her flashing eyes
burned like stars in heaven’s night.
Strange caprice! the track was cold over which she had set out to run
the race for a life, and many a prize had been won and thrown away since
then, and now she was burning with the wish that her rival should gain
that which she had lost. Was it magnanimity, or was it a natural-born
desire to defraud some man of his marital rights, and give some woman a
victory?
“Now we will go to the Morning room so I call a;” and together they
walked over the exquisite mosaic floors, and halls of parquetry, and
stairway glittering as the sun, and figures of classic art looked down,
and fold on fold of hues of soft-blent shadows dropped from tinted panes
and fell around them. In apparently the most casual way they passed a
studio filled with light and color, where, in violet velvet blouse, and
cap upon his poetic locks, worked and smoked the master of Italian art.
“This is my parteekler fren—the Baroness Von Eulaw, Señor Fillipo,” and
they hurried on.
Arrived at the suite, they first entered the dressing room. It was
plainly finished in French gray, with gold and blue enamel, the same
colors repeated in drapery and cushions. But one piece attracted
particular attention. It was an alabaster fountain, the elaborate
accessories half concealing a full-sized bust of Morning, the identity
of which could not be mistaken. It was exquisitely chiseled, and falling
jets, and icy foam, and cascades like cobwebs, built up masses of soft,
misty whiteness, shutting back all save an incidental glimpse of
outline, and thickening by contrast the boldness of the water plants at
the base.
“A very pretty conceit,” said the baroness, approvingly. “Who is the
designer?”
“Me,” said the señorita, coldly, leading the way to the main chamber, to
which apartment Murella carried the key. Unlocking the door, the
baroness had scarcely time to take in the mute, indescribable effects of
the auroral tints on the walls, stippled and faded into thinnest ether,
with its golden sky overspread with winged cherubs in high relief, laid
in tints such as are only painted on angels, when the baron’s party were
heard approaching. One thing, however, had struck the baroness, even at
a cursory glance. The dust lay thick and undisturbed over all the
furniture of the room. A superb curtain of corn-colored brocade hung
over one end of the apartment, which also showed signs of not having
been disturbed at least for a term of many months. A gesture of
impatience was made by Murella as she spoke, in an irascible tone of
voice, “What for a he bring a they here?”
However, the party, following their guide, entered, expressing surprise
at finding the ladies had preceded them.
The baron at once walked over and engaged their pretty hostess in
conversation, laughing genuinely at her piquant expressions and
unworldly-wise ways, while Morning talked about some irrelevant thing
with Miss Winters, and the rest of the company sauntered to the remoter
quarters of the apartments. Mrs. Thornton, however, coveted a view
behind the maize curtain, and to this end plied the major-domo with such
blandishments as were at her command, and using vigorously the little
Spanish she possessed. The Spaniard turned to look for the señorita—she
had momentarily disappeared with the baron—and he flung aside the fatal
curtain.
There, in a regal frame, in a painting by the famous hand of Prince
Fillipo Colonna, master of arts in the Royal Academy at Rome, appeared
two full-sized figures. They were those of David Morning and Señorita
Gonzales. It was an interior of an adobe house. The saints upon the mud
walls, with rosaries suspended beneath them, and the crude decorations
about the fireplace, with the hammocks in the shadow were dimly visible.
Light came in through a low window, and fell upon the white face of
Morning, just tinged with returning health. One hand held suspended a
pencil, while with the other, just discernible from out the shadows, he
clasped the girlish figure of Murella Gonzales.
It was a master work of art, and more than condoned all malicious or
vain intent on the part of the author. The expression upon Morning’s
face was one of placid amusement, while that upon the girl’s was anxious
and arch, questioning and trusting, open, yet elusive, like the mimosa
growing sturdily from the potted earth in the rude casement, which
receded at a sound of the human voice. The noble artist had evidently
caught an inspiration from the local color—filtrated through the hot
brain of the lovely señorita—and had touched the face of Morning with
the light of his lovely companion.
Mr. Morning had just crossed over to catch a word with the baroness when
the tableau was unveiled. Her whitening face frightened him, and he
looked quickly over her shoulder at the picture. At the same moment a
piercing shriek, and Señorita Murella rushed wildly down the room.
“_Madre de Dios!_” she yelled. “What a you do that a for?” and she
menaced the poor Spaniard with her small fist.
“It was I, it was I,” pleaded Mrs. Thornton. “Don’t blame him.” But
Murella turned from her with high scorn.
“Fool, I will kill a him,” she shrieked, again turning to the place
where the man had stood.
But Señor Don Manuel Jose Maria Ignacio Cervantes Alvarado, knowing
something of the temper of his niece, had attended not upon the order of
his going, but slipped away, and in his place stood Morning. For one
brief moment Murella looked at him, then, drawing a pearl-handled
stiletto from beneath her girdle, she gashed and stabbed the unconscious
canvas in twice a dozen places, crying all the time, “Take a that, and a
that, and a that!”
Morning thought that his time had come, but he manfully stood his
ground, secretly smiling at the bloodless assassination, until,
exhausted, Murella fell upon the carpet in a genuine hysterical rage.
After a moment he lifted her to her feet, placed her hand within his
arm, and led her unresistingly from the room.
An hour later she stood at the boathouse, leaning upon the arm of Prince
Fillipo, and gayly waving an adieu to the party, Morning among them;
then, with the artist’s arm about her waist, they slowly returned up the
terrace steps, while the decorated steamer went out of sight around the
cove.
And the Baroness Von Eulaw guessed now who it was that had made the pin
holes in her eyes.