leaned back in the arm-chair, and shaded her eyes with her fan. Crimson
Tuft went out, with his heart beating wild in a tumult of conflicting
emotions.
On the morrow, again she called him to the library, and locked the door.
“I have made my will,” she said, “and you are handsomely provided for,
in consideration of your proving faithful to the trust I repose in you.
Besides this, while I live, you shall never want for gold. Is it all
fully understood?”
Then Crimson Tuft said, “It is understood, señora, fully.” And she
took from her desk a carefully sealed paper, which she wrapped in
sheep-skin, and, again sealing it, gave it to the boy. “This paper,”
she said, “describes the exact spot where a great treasure is hidden
upon my hacienda, near the City of Mexico. There is no chance of your
gaining this for yourself for there are two other persons living who
have similar papers; indeed, precautions, that I shall not tell you of,
have been taken, so that it must fall to the Donna Leota at last, for
she is the only true heiress. You see I am cautious, very cautious,”
she added, the old look of suspicion rising in her face.
From this day Crimson Tuft was her chief adviser. He and the dwarf made
all preparations for the journey. In about a week all was ready, and
they went to San Francisco in a carriage, which drove immediately down
to the steamer, and they were soon comfortably settled on board.
“Now,” said Crimson Tuft, “there is still time, and I can walk
about the city for half an hour.” But the señora grew excited, and
exclaimed, “No! no! you might get lost; remember, you are a stranger.”
And the Donna Leota said, softly, “Surely, you will not go away!”
So the dwarf performed all the commissions, and for an hour the señora
was absent; but, before leaving, she had said to Crimson Tuft, “I leave
the Donna Leota in your care.”
At length the ship sailed. Then came the long, sluggish, dreamy days
at sea. Crimson Tuft and Leota were often together upon the deck, for
the old señora would not allow her there alone. What golden days they
were to the poor Crimson Tuft. More and more he was growing to love the
pretty young señorita, and she could not resist the powerful spell of
his luminous eyes.
One night she rushed wildly through the saloon to his state-room. The
grandmother had been taken suddenly very ill, and must see Crimson
Tuft.
She breathed with great difficulty, and her words came low and broken:
“If I live to reach Mexico, you will not need this paper; but I am
old,” she added, bitterly, “and the old must die.”
With great pain she went on: “If I should not live to reach the
hacienda, you will see the child has her own. Dig up the treasure
yourself, and do not defraud her of one single gold piece, or the curse
of a dying woman will follow you, even from the darkness of the grave.”
Then again Crimson Tuft promised, and, taking the paper, left her alone
with “the child,” as she still fondly called the Donna Leota.
This attack passed away, but another soon followed, and again Crimson
Tuft was summoned to her side. Her glazed eye brightened as she saw
him. “Remember,” was all she could say, and again he made the solemn
promise. It was the third and last time. With the old señora all was
now over.
Leota trembled with fear, and wept bitterly. The grandmother had loved
her, and now there was no one left, only Crimson Tuft, who sat by her
side all through the silent hours.
The next evening, at sunset, the old señora was buried in the sea.
No one wept but the beautiful young maiden, as the steamer went on,
leaving in its wake the cold, lifeless body, wrapped in its shroud of
sparkling waters.
At length the good ship arrived safely in Mexico, and Crimson Tuft took
the proud young heiress to the hacienda, where a crowd of friends and
retainers awaited her.
The will was opened, and there was a large legacy left to Crimson Tuft.
But it was as nothing to him. With so much ugliness, what had he to
hope for!
In the last paper the señora had handed him, there was a still fuller
description of the spot where the treasure was hidden, and a night
appointed for him to seek it. It was the eighteenth birthnight of the
Donna Leota. Till then, she was to be placed in a convent, and Crimson
Tuft was to have the best tutors in the City of Mexico. This would make
a man of him.
So the young people were separated for a time, but the two years soon
rolled by, and Crimson Tuft returned to the hacienda with his papers.
What a change there was in him. His brown, dark face had grown every
day more fair, and his stiff red hair more soft and silky, and of
a rich brown color. It was really wonderful. The young man was
transformed, day by day, from the ugly Crimson Tuft to the handsome
Paul.
The Donna Leota had become the beautiful woman that her childhood
promised, and when she met Paul after the two years of separation, she
felt that the great mystery was solved, and knew that she could never
love any one else. So they were betrothed, and she was to be made his
wife on her eighteenth birthday.
At the appointed time, Paul sought and found the great treasure that
had been hidden for so long. There were immense iron pots, full of
shining gold pieces, that had been hidden during one of the many
Mexican revolutions. Thus it was found that the Donna Leota was the
richest maiden in all Mexico, and she had many suitors among the
wealthy Spanish hidalgoes; but she cared only for Paul, for the spell
of the wonderful eyes, which had been Crimson Tuft’s, was upon her.
At last, the joyous wedding-day came, and every one said, “What a
tall, handsome señor is the bridegroom, and how very lovely the bride.
The sun shines upon them and it will be a happy marriage.”
Soon after, they went to San Francisco, and Paul felt the old dream
returning.
One day, as he walked through the market-place, he came to a vegetable
stand. Behind it sat a sorrowful woman, with a sad, mild face, that
woke the sleeping memories of his heart. “Mother!” he exclaimed, with
a thrill of tenderness in his voice that raised the bowed head of the
lonely one. She gave one look into the eyes that, once seen, could
never be forgotten, and cried, “Paul! my son, my son!” and opening her
arms, received upon her bosom the head of her long lost treasure.
How she wept, and smiled, and pressed him to her heart; then held him
off, that she might gaze upon the dear handsome face.
Then they went home to the father, who was old and sick. He had lost
strength and heart years ago, and they were very poor. “He has never
held up his head,” so the mother said, “since our boy was taken from
us.”
But that was all over; the lost was found; poverty, sorrow, and
sickness fled with his presence.
He took the old father and mother home to Leota, who received them into
her own heart; for, were they not his parents and hers?
At first the old vegetable woman stood a little in awe of her high-born
daughter, but that soon melted away in the warmth of the dainty little
Señora’s affection; and the father, mother, son, and daughter, lived
all their lives together, a happy family, united in heart and mind by
the silken bonds of a true, earnest affection.
SNOWDROP AND ROSEBUD.
A CALIFORNIA STORY.
Years ago, before the gold-seekers came to California, there lived at
the Mission of San Gabriel, a Spaniard, whose beautiful vineyard was
admired by all the country.
In early life he had been a great traveler, and while in Germany, he
met a fair golden-haired maiden, whom he loved and married. After a
few years he emigrated to America, and settled at the Mission of San
Gabriel--near the town of Los Angeles.
There he prospered greatly, his cattle increased to great herds,
covering the green hill-sides, and his vineyard was the pride of his
heart. He built a pleasant house, and surrounded it with a garden
filled with all kinds of fruit. In that delicious climate, fruits of
the tropic and temperate zones grow together; while the white flowers
of the North, and their crimson-hued sisters of the South, blossom side
by side.
There seemed nothing wanting to make his happiness complete but
children. The house was too silent; he wished for the silvery laughter
of childish voices; he longed to press little ones to his heart, and
call them his own.
At last, God gave him two little girls; but the fair, golden-haired
mother lived only to bless them, and was then buried by the clear “Lake
of the Tulés.” At first he was inconsolable, and for months refused to
see his little ones; but one day, while he slept, the old Indian nurse
took them into his room, and laid them on the bed by his side.
Little Snowdrop nestled in his bosom, but Rosebud ran her fingers into
his beard, and pulled it so hard that she woke him. There she was, when
he opened his eyes, crowing with delight--her little rosy lips close to
his, and the fair Snowdrop in his bosom.
Then all the father’s love, which had only slept, awoke, and he pressed
the little ones to his heart, weeping; but especially he loved the
beautiful Snowdrop, she was so like her mother.
After this, although he still mourned greatly for his wife, he loved
these little ones very dearly; and as years passed by, became happy in
the absorbing devotion to them, which filled his whole heart.
He watched over them with the most jealous care. Even in childhood,
he would not allow them to play with other children; and as they grew
older, his fear was awakened lest some of the young señors of Los
Angeles should see and fall in love with them. For his daughters to
form a mèsalliance, he was quite sure would break his heart.
As he was obliged often to go from home on business, he employed an old
Indian woman as duenna, and charged her never to allow the girls out of
her sight for a moment.
Rosebud was a Spanish girl, with purple-tinged hair, soft black eyes,
and clear olive complexion. Through the satin skin the warm blood
flushed her cheeks, and her lips were more tempting than ripe cherries;
but Snowdrop was a rare German maiden in complexion, clear and fair as
the noonday. Her eyes were like violets. Her hair in the sunshine was
like fine spun gold, and so long that it reached to her feet, and hung
like a mantle of glory about her.
It was no wonder the old man guarded his daughters so carefully; for
though so different, they were equally beautiful, and all the young men
of good family were anxious to pay court to them.
Day by day they sat upon the piazza of the inner court, reading the
fascinating romances of old Spain, which was to them the dreamland of
delight. They longed very much to go out, and see something of life
among the rich Spanish families about San Gabriel and Los Angeles, but
their father would not allow it; and the old duenna was always near
them; even when they walked through the vineyard or the orange orchard,
she followed them.
One day, Rosebud called Snowdrop into the garden, and sitting under a
large almond-tree, she said: “Look over this book of prints with me,
while we talk softly, for the duenna must not hear every thing.”
Snowdrop rested her golden tresses upon her sister’s arm, and, turning
over the leaves of the book, they talked together.
“Sister dear,” said Rosebud, “we lead a very dull life here. All young
girls are gay and happy. What is the use of being beautiful, with no
one to see us but servants and old women?” A look of conscious beauty
gathered around her pouting lips, as she ran her dainty fingers through
the silken meshes of her sister’s golden hair.
“Our dear papa loves us,” said Snowdrop, “but I do wish to be loved
by others,” she added--her violet eyes softening, and a faint flush
spreading over her fair cheeks and neck.
“And I to be admired! but how can we be either?” replied Rosebud,
“shut up here, with the old duenna to watch every thing we do? God made
us beautiful, and I’m sure he intended us to be seen. And for my part,
I am determined to go to the consul’s grand ball, if I have to run
away!” and her pretty dark eyes filled with tears.
“Oh! sister Rosebud, think of the dear papa!” said Snowdrop.
“He did not tell us not to go out of the garden alone; he only told
the duenna to watch us. If we could only manage her,” said Rosebud,
thoughtfully.
“I am afraid it would not be right,” replied Snowdrop, “but I want
to go very much. We will make an altar-cloth, and embroider it with
gold, as an offering to the Blessed Virgin. Perhaps she will pity our
loneliness, and help us.”
So they wrought an altar-cloth of purple and gold, and spread it upon
the altar, before the picture of the Blessed Mother, in their own
chamber; putting vases of beautiful flowers upon it. When it was
finished they were quite happy, and sat down with their guitars, and
sang very sweetly together, till their father came home.
The next morning, an old Mexican woman, with baskets of trinkets for
sale, knocked at the garden gate.
When she was admitted, she spread out her finery before the young
señoritas. The duenna hastened to the piazza where they were
sitting--for no one was more fond of looking over the _vendedora’s_
basket than she, always finding something she could not do without
among its tempting stores--this time it was a gay-colored shawl, and
she ran away for her purse.
As soon as she was out of sight, the old woman whispered:--
“Pretty señoritas, I have charms to sell. This will make you admired,
and this loved,” she said, holding up two curious little bags--one tied
with long pink ribbon, the other with blue--“and this,” pointing to a
third, “will make you sleep. It contains a powder. You must drop one
grain into a glass of water. It is perfectly tasteless, but it brings
on a sleep so profound, that until the effect passes away, nothing
could awaken you from pleasant dreams.”
The young girls bought the charms. Snowdrop took the one tied with blue
ribbon, and placing it in her bosom, whispered, “Now I may be loved.”
“And I will be admired,” said Rosebud, taking the other; but the charm
for sleep she concealed in her pocket, just as the old duenna returned,
eager for her purchases.
“I have pretty slippers for little dancing feet,” said the old woman,
holding up two pairs of the daintiest white satin slippers you could
imagine.
“The señoritas have no use for them,” exclaimed the duenna, frowning;
but the young girls found that they fitted so nicely, and looked so
pretty, they bought them.
“Papa is rich enough to give us any thing we want, and we fancy these,”
said Rosebud. They bought strings of beads, ribbons, and combs for
their hair, until the old duenna was nearly frantic. What they could
want of all these, shut up as they were, she could not tell.
Then Rosebud said:--“We will have some new dresses;” so they bought
fine white muslin and lace. Snowdrop bought a bright-colored
handkerchief, which she gave the duenna, who was so much pleased that
she promised to help them make their dresses.
As soon as the old woman went away, they all sat upon the piazza,
shaded with vines, and commenced cutting and stitching upon the
delicate fabric so busily, that by evening the skirts of their dresses
were quite finished.
The next morning they were early at work again.
“Why do you hurry so much,” said the duenna, who never liked to work
very long at a time.
“To have it over the sooner, dear duenna,” answered Snowdrop, smiling
so sweetly that the duenna took her needle again quite pleasantly.
Snowdrop’s dress was trimmed with blue ribbon, Rosebud’s with crimson
and gold. The young girls wrought upon them all their pretty fancies,
till, when they were finished, the duenna thought them beautiful enough
for a queen.
At evening the work was all done; and the duenna, quite fatigued with
her unaccustomed task, sat dozing in her arm-chair.
Suddenly she roused herself, exclaiming:--“How warm it is! I am very
thirsty.”
Rosebud jumped up quickly, saying, “I will bring you fresh water;” so
she ran down to the spring at the foot of the garden, and there she met
the faithful old Miguel--who had been in the family for years before
she was born, and loved the young señoritas as though they were his own
children.
Rosebud caught him by the arm, and whispered:--“Have the horses at the
back garden-gate to-night at nine o’clock, you dear old Miguel, for you
shall take us to the consul’s ball.”
“But the señor?” said the old servant, in astonishment.
“Never mind the señor, you dear, careful man.”
“But the duenna?” he continued.
“Never mind! never mind! I tell you I will go! so be sure you are ready
in time,” said Rosebud, laughing, and shaking her finger as she ran
away.
Poor old Miguel was in a great dilemma. He loved the pretty señoritas,
and wanted to help them; but he feared the señor.
“It may cost me my place; and in this family I have lived, and here I
would die; but my pretty children are so lonely, it is too bad to shut
them up--and old Miguel will not fail them.”
Thus his fond love for the fair girls he had carried in his arms in
their helpless infancy, conquered his discretion; and he went to the
stable to groom the horses.
Rosebud brought the water--clear, cool, and sparkling--to the old
duenna, and she drank it eagerly in her thirst, little dreaming of the
sleep-charm the gay young señorita had dropped into the cup.
Almost instantly she became very drowsy, and, closing her eyes, she
fell asleep in her chair. In a short time her heavy breathing told how
surely the charm had taken effect.
“Now for the ball!” said Rosebud. So the young girls dressed themselves
quickly, but with great care--looping their sleeves with rare flowers
from the garden, and tying their ribbons very tastefully.
“I think we shall do,” said Rosebud, looking at the beautiful girl
reflected from her mirror, then at the softer beauty of her sister.
Snowdrop answered by a kiss, and they went out softly, and down the
garden path to the gate, where the faithful Miguel waited for them.
An hour’s ride brought them to the brilliantly lighted mansion of the
consul, and all the young señors were delighted at the arrival of the
fair sisters.
No one was so much courted and admired, among all the fair señoritas
at the ball that night, as Snowdrop and Rosebud; and none of the gay
hidalgoes were more happy than old Miguel, who was peeping from behind
the hall door, enjoying the triumph of his darlings. At last he became
uneasy, and, approaching them with a respectful bow, told them it was
time to go home.
Taking special leave of their host and hostess, bowing gracefully to
the guests, they started for home--leaving all, admirers, and many
lovers behind them.
When they entered their chamber, they found the duenna still sleeping
soundly. They undressed themselves noiselessly, putting away all their
clothes but their slippers, which they forgot.
In the morning, when the sun arose, the duenna awoke, and was much
surprised to find herself sitting in a chair, instead of being in bed.
She had but a confused recollection of things, and began to think she
must have taken a little more wine than she intended at dinner the day
before. She thought she remembered Rosebud giving her a glass of water
when she was very thirsty, but she was not sure that it might not have
been wine.
She looked around, but could discover nothing to help her. The two
girls were sleeping soundly, and upon the face of Rosebud there was a
smile. She was dreaming of the ball--again surrounded by a crowd of
admirers.
Snowdrop dreamed of the dear papa; he was angry with them for their
disobedience, and her long eyelashes were wet with tears.
“How different they are in their ways, even in sleep!” said the duenna.
She turned away, and as her eye fell upon the forgotten slippers, her
searching glance detected that they had been worn.
“What does this mean? So much worn, and bought yesterday! ’Tis very
strange!” mused she, and put them in her pocket.
She woke the young girls, but they fell asleep again. They were so
unused to dancing late at night, that they were very tired; and when
the bell rang for breakfast, they did not appear.
“Where are my dear daughters?” said the father, with a clouded face.
She could only tell him that they were still asleep, and seemed very
tired.
“So are my horses,” replied he, angrily; “but I will see about this.”
The duenna was afraid to show him the shoes, lest he should blame her;
but in her confusion, as she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, one
of them dropped out upon the floor.
“What is this?” said the señor, sternly; and she was obliged to tell
him all she knew.
For some time the troubled father walked the floor with great agitation
without speaking, while the duenna stood trembling before him. Then,
turning to her quickly, he said:--
“Call my daughters;” and he rang the bell for Miguel.
All three came into the room with fearful hearts; but Snowdrop’s face
was covered with her golden hair, and the tears were shining through
it.
Turning to Miguel, he said, sternly, with a black frown covering his
whole face:--
“Stand here, and tell me how it is, that this morning I find my horses
reeking with foam?”
The old man only answered, “I alone am to blame, señor. Pardon your old
servant, who loves you and yours!” and he clasped his hands, and looked
imploringly at the dark, angry face that frowned upon him.
Then Snowdrop could bear it no longer, so she ran to the
father--throwing her white arms around his neck, and resting her
golden-crowned head upon his bosom, she said:--
“Dear papa, I will tell you all! Only do not blame dear, good old
Miguel.”
Then she told him of all their loneliness, and eager longings for
companions of their own age; about the altar-cloth and all, without
reserving one thing. “And now we are sorry; it was wrong; but the dear
papa will forgive!” and she raised her pretty face, all shining with
tears, and begged him to kiss her.
How like her mother she was! and the father thought of the sunny days
of his youth, when he had wandered on the banks of the Rhine with the
fair German maiden, and wondered how he could forget that the young and
ardent hearts of his children must be like the heart of his youth.
He kissed the innocent face upturned to his, and forgave them, saying,
“I, too, have been to blame; and, in future, I will go with you to all
places, my darlings, where it is proper, and right for you to go.”
Snowdrop and Rosebud were delighted, and willingly promised never
again to deceive “the dear papa;” and from that day there was mutual
confidence and love between the young girls and the father.
After a time, when two brave and gallant knights sought of the father
the hands of the fair señoritas in marriage, he answered, “Let the
hearts of my dear children decide for you. My only wish is to see them
happy.”
There was a great feast made at their marriage; and the old Spanish
house, so long wrapped in seclusion, resounded with joyous music and
the merry laughter of light hearts. Again old Miguel stood behind the
door, and rejoiced to see his darlings loved, admired, and happy.
LAZARUS AND BUMMER.
It was a dark rainy day in the land where the rain makes the winter,
and the sunshine and blue sky the pleasant summer-time.
Through the Golden Gate, came the ship to the new city of hope, and all
the people on board thought, “how happy and rich we shall become in the
Gold Land. Though the city is now only a miserable place of tents and
sand hills, one day how great it will be, and we shall live to see it.
The fair Golden City.”
On the rude wharf stood the expectant crowd. To them the ship was the
beautiful carrier-dove, with its white wings spread to bring them news
of home.
“Perhaps there will be some one from the old home,” said a young man,
with his brown eyes filled with eager longing. “The dark old Atlantic!
how its breakers used to dash upon the rocks in sight of home. It was
glorious. To-morrow will be Christmas! I wonder, will they remember
all, as I do!”
By his side stood a great shaggy dog, who belonged to nobody.
He talked only in the dog language, but was very learned, and
understood all the young man said. He was a wonderful dog, and had his
thoughts. “I am my own master,” he said, “and that is pleasant--yet one
likes to be cared for, and nobody cares for me. I shall get no news
from home, and to-morrow will be Christmas. This is not as it should
be; I must see to it.”
The great dog was getting quite out of temper, and, with a surly growl,
he turned round so quickly, that he gave the young man a start.