XXIV

"We should all wear black for so mournful an occasion," said Rafaella

Sal, spreading out her scarlet skirts.

"Father Abella is right. The occasion is sad enough without giving it

the air of a funeral."

"Sad! Dios de mi alma! Will he return?"

Elena Castro shook her wise head. She was nearly twenty, and four

years of matrimony had made her sceptical of man's capacity for

romance. "Two years are long, and he will see many girls, and become

one again of a life that is always more brilliant than our sun in May.

His eyes will be dazzled, his mind distracted, full to the brim. To

sit at table with the Tsar, to talk with him alone in his cabinet, to

have for the asking audience of the Pope of Rome and the King of Spain!

Ay yi! Ay yi! Perhaps he will be made a prince when he returns to St.

Petersburg and all the beautiful princesses will want to marry him.

Can he remember this poor little California, and even our lovely

Concha? I doubt! Valgame Dios, I doubt!"

"Concha has always been too fortunate," said Rafaella with a touch of

spite, for years of waiting had tried her temper and the sun always

freckled her nose. The flower of California stood on the corridor of

the Mission and before the church awaiting the guest of honor and his

escort. A mass was to be said in behalf of the departing guests; the

Juno would sail with the turn of the afternoon tide. Men and women were

in their gayest finery, an exotic mass of color against the rough

white-washed walls, chattering as vivaciously as if the burden of their

conversation were not regret for the Chamberlain and his gay young

lieutenants. Concha, alone, wore no color; her frock was white, her

mantilla black. She stood somewhat apart, but although she was pale

she commanded her eyes to dwell absently on the shifting sand far down

the valley, her haughty Spanish profile betraying nothing of the

despair in her soul.

"Yes, Concha has always been too fortunate," repeated Rafaella. "Why

should she be chosen for such a destiny--to go to the Russian court and

wear a train ten yards long of red velvet embroidered with gold, a

white veil spangled with gold, a headdress a foot high set so thick

with jewels her head will ache for a week--Madre de Dios! And we stay

here forever with white walls, horsehair furniture, Baja California

pearls and three silk dresses a year!"

"No one in all Russia will look so grand in court dress as our

Conchita," said Elena loyally. "But I doubt if it is the dress and the

state she thinks of losing to-day. She will not talk even to me of

him-- Ay yi! she grows more reserved every day, our Concha!--except to

say she will wed him when he returns, and that I know, for did not I

witness the betrothal? She only mocks me when I beg her to tell me if

she loves him, languishes, or sings a bar of some one of our beautiful

songs with ridiculous words. But she does. She did not sleep last

night. Her room is next to mine. No, it is of Rezanov she thinks, and

always. Those proud, silent girls, who jest when others would weep and

use many words and must die without sympathy--they have tragedy in

their souls, ay yi! And you think she is fortunate? True she is

beautiful, she is La Favorita, she receives many boxes from Mexico, and

she has won the love of this Russian. But--I have not dared to remind

her--I remembered it only yesterday--she came into this world on the

thirteenth of a month, and he into her life but one day before the

thirteenth of another--new style! True some might say that it was an

escape, but if he came on the twelfth, it was on the thirteenth she

began to love him--on the night of the ball; of that I am sure."

Rafaella shuddered and crossed herself. "Poor Concha! Perhaps in the

end she will always stand apart like that. Truly she is not as others.

I have always said it. Thanks be to Mary it was Luis that wooed me,

not the Russian, for I might have been tempted. True his eyes are

blue, and only the black could win my heart. But the court of St.

Petersburg! Dios de mi vida! Did I lie awake at night and think of

Concha Arguello in red velvet and jewels all over, I should hate her.

But no--to-day--I cannot. Two years! Have I not waited six? It is

eternity when one loves and is young."

"They come," said Elena.

The cavalcade was descending the sand hills on the left, Rezanov in

full uniform between the Commandante and Luis Arguello and followed by

a picked escort of officers from Presidio and Fort. The Californians

wore full-dress uniform of white and scarlet, Don Jose a blue velvet

serape, embroidered in gold with the arms of Spain.

As they dismounted Rezanov bowed ceremoniously to the party on the

corridor, and they returned his salutation gravely, suddenly silent.

He walked directly over to Concha.

"We will go in together," he said. "It matters nothing what they

think. I kneel beside no one else."

And Concha, with the air of leading an honored guest to the banquet,

turned and walked with him into the dark little church.

"Why did you not wear a white mantilla?" he whispered. "I do not like

that black thing."

"I am not a bride. I knew we should kneel together--it would have been

ridiculous. And I could not wear a colored reboso to-day."

"I should have liked to fancy we were here for our nuptials. Delusions

pass but are none the less sweet for that."

They knelt before the altar, the Commandante, Dona Ignacia, Luis,

Santiago, Rafaella Sal and Elena Castro just behind; the rest of the

party, their bright garments shimmering vaguely in the gloom, as they

listened; and enough fervent prayers went up to insure the health and

safety of the departing guests for all their lives.

Rezanov, who had much on his mind, stared moodily at the altar until

Concha, who had bowed her head almost to her knees, finished her

supplication; then their eyes turned and met simultaneously. For a

moment their brains did swim in the delusion that the priest with his

uplifted hands pronounced benediction upon their nuptials, that

probation was over and union nigh. But Father Abella dismissed all

with the same blessing, and they shivered as they rose and walked

slowly down the church.

Dona Ignacia took her husband's arm, and muttering that she feared a

chill, hurried the others before her. The priests had gone to the

sacristy. Before they reached the door Rezanov and Concha were alone.

His hands fell heavily on her shoulders.

"Concha," he said, "I shall come back if I live. I make no foolish

vows, so idle between us. There is only one power that can prevent our

marriage in this church not later than two years from to-day. And

although I am in the very fulness of my health and strength, with my

work but begun, and all my happiness in the future, and even to a less

sanguine man it would seem that his course had many years to run, still

have I seen as much as any man of the inconsequence of life, of the

insignificance of the individual, his hopes, ambitions, happiness, and

even usefulness, in the complicated machinery of natural laws. It may

be that I shall not come back. But I wish to take with me your promise

that if I have not returned at the end of two years or you have

received no reason for my detention, you will believe that I am dead.

There would be but one insupportable drop in the bitterness of death,

the doubt of your faith in my word and my love. Are you too much of a

woman to curb your imagination in a long unbroken silence?"

"I have learned so much that one lesson more is no tax on my faith.

And I no longer live in a world of little things. I promise you that I

shall never falter nor doubt."

He bent his head and kissed her for the first time without passion, but

solemnly, as had their nuptials indeed been accomplished, and the

greater mystery of spiritual union isolated them for a moment in that

twilight region where the mortal part did not enter.

As they left the church they saw that all the Indians of the Mission

and neighborhood, in a gala of color, had gathered to cheer the

Russians as they rode away. Concha was to return as she had come,

beside the carreta of her mother, and as Rezanov mounted his horse she

stood staring with unseeing eyes on the brilliant, animated scene.

Suddenly she heard a suppressed sob, and felt a touch on her skirt.

She looked round and saw Rosa, kneeling close to the church. For a

moment she continued to stare, hardly comprehending, in the intense

concentration of her faculties, that tangible beings, other than

herself and Rezanov, still moved on the earth. Then her mind relaxed.

She was normal in a normal world once more. She stooped and patted the

hands clasping her skirts.

"Poor Rosa!" she said. "Poor Rosa!"

Over the intense green of islands and hills were long banners of yellow

and purple mist, where the wild flowers were lifting their heads. The

whole quivering bay was as green as the land, but far away the

mountains of the east were pink. Where there was a patch of verdure on

the sand hills the warm golden red of the poppy flaunted in the

sunshine. All nature was in gala attire like the Californians

themselves, as the Juno under full sail sped through "The Mouth of the

Gulf of the Farallones." Fort San Joaquin saluted with seven guns; the

Juno returned the compliment with nine. The Commandante, his family

and guests, stood on the hill above the fort, cheering, waving

sombreros and handkerchiefs. Wind and tide carried the ship rapidly

out the straits. Rezanov dropped the cocked hat he had been waving and

raised his field-glass. Concha, as ever, stood a little apart. As the

ship grew smaller and the company turned toward the Presidio, she

advanced to the edge of the bluff. The wind lifted her loosened

mantilla, billowing it out on one side, and as she stood with her hands

pressed against her heart, she might, save for her empty arms, have

been the eidolon of the Madonna di San Sisto. In her eyes was the same

expression of vague arrested horror as she looked out on that world of

menacing imperfections the blind forces of nature and man had created;

her body was instinct with the same nervous leashed impotent energy.