Concha boxed Rosa's ears twice while being dressed for the ball that
evening. It was true that excitement had reigned throughout the
Presidio all day, for never had a ball been so hastily planned. Don
Luis had demurred when Concha proposed it at breakfast; officially to
entertain strangers not yet officially received exceeded his authority.
Concha, waxing stubborn with opposition, vowed that she would give the
ball herself if he did not. Business immediately afterward took the
Commandante ad. in. down to the Battery at Yerba Buena. Before he left
he gave orders that the large hall in the barracks, where balls usually
were held, should be locked and the key given up to no one but himself.
He returned in the afternoon to find that Concha had outwitted him.
The sala of the Commandante's house was very large. The furniture had
been removed and the walls hung with flags, those of Spain on three
sides, the Russian, borrowed by Santiago from the ship, at the head of
the room. Concha laughed gaily as Luis stormed about the sala rasping
his spurs on the bare floor.
"Whitewashed walls for guests from St. Petersburg!" she jeered, as Luis
menaced the flags. "We have little enough to offer. Besides--what
more wise than to flaunt our flag in the face of the Russian bear?
Their flag, of course, is a mere idle compliment. Let me tell you two
things, Luis mio: this morning I invited the Russians to dance
to-night, and told Padre Abella to ask all our neighbors of the Mission
besides; and Rafaella Sal helped me to drape every one of those flags.
When I told her you might tear them down, she vowed that if you did she
would dance all night with the Bostonian."
Luis lifted his shoulders and mustache to express an attitude of
contemptuous resignation, but his face darkened, and a moment later he
left the room and strolled up the square to the grating of Rafaella Sal.
Concha well knew that the frank gray eyes of the Bostonian--all
citizens of the United States were Bostonians in that part of the
world, for only Boston skippers had the enterprise to venture so
far--were for no one but herself. But his face was bony and freckled,
and his figure less in height and vigor than her own. He was rich and
well-born, but shy and very modest. Concha Arguello, La Favorita of
California, was for some such dashing caballero as Don Antonio Castro
of Monterey, or Ignacio Sal, the most adventurous rider of the north.
Meanwhile he could look at her and adore her in secret, and Dona
Rafaella Sal was very kind and danced as well as himself. He never
dreamed that he was being used as a stalking horse to keep alive in the
best match in the Californias the jealous desire for exclusive
possession that had animated him in 1800 when he had applied through
the Viceroy of Mexico for royal consent to his marriage with the
Favorita of her year. That was six years ago and never a word had come
from Madrid. Luis was faithful, but men were men, and girls grew older
every day. So the wise Rafaella was alternately indifferent and
alluring, the object of more admiration than a maid could always repel,
yet with wells of sentiment that only one man could discover. And the
American was patient, and even had he known, would not in the least
have minded the use she made of him. He still could look at Concha
Arguello.
William Sturgis had sailed in one of his father's ships, now six years
ago, from Boston in search of health. The ship in a dense fog had gone
on the rocks in the straits between the Farallones and the Bay of San
Francisco. He alone, and after long hours of struggle with the wicked
currents, not even knowing in what direction land might be, was flung,
senseless, on the shore below the Fort. For the next month he was an
invalid in the house of the Commandante. Fortunately, his papers and
money were sewn in an oilskin belt and his father's name was well known
in California. Moreover, there never was a more likable youth. His
illness interested all the matrons and maids of the Presidio in his
fate; when he recovered, his good dancing and unselfishness gave him a
permanent place in the regard of the women, while his entire absence of
beauty, and his ability to hold his own in the mess room, established
his position with the men.
In due course word of his plight reached Boston, and a ship was
immediately despatched, not only to bring the castaway home, but with
the fine wardrobe necessary to a young gentleman of his station. But
the same ship brought word of his father's death--his mother had gone
long since--and as there were brothers enamored of the business he
hated, he decided to remain in the country that had won his heart and
given him health. For some time there was demur on the part of the
authorities; Spain welcomed no foreigners in her colonies. But Sturgis
swore a mighty oath that he would never despatch a letter uninspected
by the Commandante, that he would make no excursions into the heart of
the country, that he would neither engage in traffic nor interfere in
politics. Then having already won the affections of the Governor, he
was permitted to remain, even to rent an acre of land from the Church
in the sheltered Mission valley, and build himself a house. Here he
raised fruit and vegetables for his own hospitable table, chickens and
game cocks. Books and other luxuries came by every ship from Boston;
until for a long interval ships came no more. One of these days, when
the power of the priests had abated, and the jealousy which would keep
all Californians landless but themselves was counterbalanced by a great
increase in population, he meant to have a ranch down in the south
where the sun shone all the year round and he could ride half the day
with his vaqueros after the finest cattle in the country. He should
never marry because he could not marry Concha Arguello, but he could
think of her, see her sometimes; and in a land where a man was neither
frozen in winter nor grilled in summer, where life could be led in the
open, and the tendency was to idle and dream, domestic happiness called
on a feebler note than in less equable climes. In his heart he was
desperately jealous of Concha's favored cavaliers, but it was a
jealousy without hatred, and his kind, earnest, often humorous eyes,
were always assuring his lady of an imperishable desire to serve her
without reward. Of course Concha treated him with as little
consideration as so humble a swain deserved; but in her heart she liked
him better than either Castro or Sal, for he talked to her of something
besides rodeos and balls, racing and cock-fights; he had taught her
English and lent her many books. Moreover, he neither sighed nor
languished, nor ever had sung at her grating. But she regarded him
merely as an intelligence, a well of refreshment in her stagnant life,
never as a man.
"Rose," she said, as she caught her hair into a high golden comb that
had been worn in Spain by many a beauty of the house of Moraga, and
spiked the knot with two long pins globed at the end with gold, while
the maid fastened her slippers and smoothed the pink silk stockings
over the thin instep above; "what is a lover like? Is it like meeting
one of the saints of heaven?"
"No, senorita."
"Like what, then?"
"Like--like nothing but himself, senorita. You would not have him
otherwise."
"Oh, stupid one! Hast thou no imagination? Fancy any man being well
enough as he is! For instance, there is Don Antonio, who is so
handsome and fiery, and Don Ignacio, who can sing and dance and ride as
no one else in all the Californias, and Don Weeliam Sturgis, who is
very clever and true. If I could roll them into one--a tamale of corn
and chicken and peppers--there would be a man almost to my liking. But
even then--not quite. And one man--what nonsense! I have too much
color to-night, Rosa."
"No, senorita, you have never been so beautiful. When the lover comes
and you love him, senorita, you will think him greater than our natural
king and lord, and all other men poor Indians."
"But how shall I know?"
"Your heart will tell you, senorita."
"My heart? My father and my mother will choose for me a husband whom I
shall love as all other women love their husbands--just enough and no
more. Then--I suppose--I shall never know?"
"Would you marry at your parents' bidding, like a child, senorita? I
do not think you would."
Concha looked at the girl in astonishment, but with a greater
astonishment she suddenly realized that she would not. Even her little
fingers stiffened in a rush of personality, of passionate resentment
against the shackles bound by the ages about the feminine ego. Her
individuality, long budding, burst into flower; her eyes gazed far
beyond her radiant image in the mirror with a look of terrified but
dauntless insight; then moved slowly to the girl that sat weeping on
the floor.
"I know not what thy sin was," she said musingly. "But I have heard it
said thou didst obey no law but thine own will--and his. Why should
the punishment have been so terrible? Thou hast sworn to me thou didst
not help to murder the woman."
"I cannot tell you, senorita. You will never know anything of sin; but
of love--yes, I think you will know that, and before very long."
"Before long?" Concha's lips parted and the nervous color she had
deprecated left her cheeks. "What meanest thou, Rosa?" Her voice rose
hoarsely.
And the Indian, with the insight of her own tragedy, replied: "The
Russian has come for you, senorita. You will go with him, far away to
the north and the snow. These others never could win your heart; but
this man who looks like a king, and as if many women had loved him, and
he had cared little-- Oh, senorita, Carlos was only a poor Indian, but
the men that women love all have something that makes them
brothers--the Great Russian and the poor man who goes mad for a moment
and kills one woman that he may live with another forever. The great
Russian is free, but he is the same, senorita--he too could kill for
love, and such are the men we women die for!"
Concha, ambitious and romantic, eager for the brilliant life the advent
of this Russian nobleman seemed to herald, had assured Santiago that he
would love her; but they had been the empty words of the Favorita of
many conquests; of love and passion she had known, suspected, nothing.
As she watched Rosa, huddled and convulsed, little pointed arrows flew
into her brain. Girls in those old Spanish days went to the altar with
a serene faith in miracles, and it was a matter of honor among those
that preceded their friends to abet the parents in a custom which
assuredly did not err on the side of ugliness. Concha had a larger
vocabulary than other Californians of her sex, for she had read many
books, and if never a novel, she knew something of poetry. Sturgis had
filled the sala with the sonorous roll of his favorite masters and it
had pleased her ear; but the language of passion had been so many
beautiful words, neither vibrating nor lingering in her consciousness.
But the rude expression of the miserable woman at her feet, whose sobs
grew more uncontrollable every moment, made it forever impossible that
she should prattle again as she had to Santiago and Rezanov in the last
day and night; and although she felt as if straining her eyes in the
dark, her cheeks burned once more, and she rose uneasily and walked to
the window.
She returned in a moment and stood over Rosa, but her voice when she
spoke had lost its hoarseness and was cold and irritated.
"Control thyself," she said. "And go and bathe thine eyes. Wouldst
look like a tomato when it is time to pass the dulces and wines? And
think no more of thy lover until he can come out of prison and marry
thee." She drew herself away as the woman attempted to clutch her
skirts. "Go," she said. "The musicians are tuning."