BALDER THE BEAUTIFUL
They were planning at the school for a May Celebration. They would go
clear up the bay in a boat to San Pablo, and have a picnic and a dance
out of doors, and come home in the moonlight.
So it was a little late, and Bruno stood watching out for her. "Good
old fellow!" she said, with a pat. Miss Holmes had a visitor, she saw
through the open window. She went round by the kitchen.
Bruno tugged at her skirt.
"What is it, Bruno?"
His eyes had a sorrowful look, she thought. "What is it, what do you
want?"
He tugged again at her skirt.
"Well, come on. Though I've stacks of lessons to learn. Look at all
those books."
She dropped them on the step, and followed the dog. Up the winding
path, and now there was water enough for a musical trickle over the
stones.
There was Balder's basin, where he was so fond of disporting himself
after the rains filled it up. Oh, what was that lying on the side,
that still white thing glistening in the sunshine!
"Bruno?" She stamped her foot and looked upbraidingly at him. Had he
been playing roughly with her pet? Oh, what was the meaning of these
blood-stained feathers about his neck! She flung herself down beside
him. The eyes were dull and partly closed. She stroked the white
feathers with tender hands.
"Bruno, I shall never love you again, never! Oh, how could you!"
He took a few steps away. Then he dragged some tumbled gray thing to
her feet. Why, that was a fox, with his bushy tail. They had been
hunted a good deal and were giving civilization a rather wide berth.
She looked at the dog, who told the story with his eyes as he glanced
from one to the other. She reached up and put her arms about his neck.
"Oh, Bruno, I'm sorry I blamed you. I thought perhaps you were a
little rough, but you cared so for my beautiful Balder that I might
have known you couldn't hurt him! And that wicked, wretched fox! Well,
I am glad he has his deserts. But that will not bring back my dear
Balder. Oh, have you gone to join the old heroes in Valhalla? For I
can't think you were just a common bird. You would have gone back to
your kind if you had been. I ought to write a lament for you."
Pablo was coming up the road with a back load of brush. But he dropped
it in dismay as she called.
Bruno pawed the fox, then gave it a push, and glanced up at Pablo.
"You see--the fox must have crept up here, and seized my dear Balder
by the neck and killed him. And Bruno made him pay for it."
When Pablo was deeply moved or amazed, he went back to his Mexican
patois, that Bruno had come to understand very well, and nodded
sagaciously.
"The thief! The murderer! Last year, you know, your uncle and I shot
two of the bloody thieves over the ridge there, and I've not seen one
since. Bruno seized him by the throat, and has torn him well. Look at
the brush--why, a lady could put it on her tippet. And the skin--I'll
have that. We'll throw him out to feed the hawks. Oh, the poor gull!
He was like folks, Missy, you had all trained him so much. Oh, don't
cry so, Missy."
Bruno came up and rubbed her shoulder, licked her hand, and gave a
low, mournful lament of sympathy.
Laverne rose and took the dead bird in her arms. The visitor had gone,
and Miss Holmes stood out by the door, wondering. The procession took
their way thither.
"The mean, sneaking brute, that he should have come just when I had
gone. The bird was so fond of paddling round there. Strange that he
never wanted to go with his kind, but most things want to keep by you,
Missy."
They told the sad story over. Laverne laid the gull down tenderly on a
bit of matting.
"Pablo, will you wash his neck and have him all clean and white?"
"My dear," Miss Holmes said, and clasped the child in her arms,
letting her cry out her sorrow. She and Bruno went down to meet Uncle
Jason presently. No grief, hardly a disappointment, had come near her
until now. How could he comfort his darling? And he felt with Pablo
that the bird had been almost human.
"I wonder," he said in the evening, "if you would like to have him
mounted. There's an old Frenchman down in Rincon Street who does this
to perfection. The birds look alive."
Laverne considered. "No, I believe I would rather have him buried. I
should think how the sly fox crept up and dragged him out before he
could turn to defend himself. We will put him in a box and bury him.
Oh, Balder, I shall miss you so much."
"I think I could capture one easily."
"To be sure you could. They're stupid things," subjoined Pablo.
"But he wasn't. Uncle Jason, I think some wicked fairy changed him
from something else, for he used to look at times as if he had a story
in his eyes. No, I don't want another. And I should always be afraid
of a fox."
He snuggled her up with his arm close about her. So they sat until the
stars came out, twinkling like live spirits in the cloudless blue. It
was warm, with all manner of odors in the air, and the hum of the
city, lying below them, came up faintly. Oh, how he loved her. And he
prayed there might never come any deeper sorrow to touch her tender
heart.
Pablo dug a grave the next morning, and they buried Balder the
beautiful. All day she dreamed of the Norse gods, and of Hermod, who
took the journey to the barred gates of Hell, at Frigga's earnest
persuasion, and how every rock, and tree and all living things wept
for him, except one old hag, sitting in the mouth of a cavern, who
refused because she hated him, and so Balder could not return. She was
a little absent, and missed two or three questions, and Miss Bain
asked her if her head ached, she made such an effort to keep the tears
from her eyes.
So Balder slept under a straight young pine near the little lake they
had made for him. Pablo skinned the fox with great zest, and made of
it a fine rug, with a strip of black bearskin for a border.
She wondered whether she ought to feel merry enough to go on the May
party. But the children insisted. The boat was a fine strong one, and
there really was no danger; Uncle Jason was assured of that. Then it
was such a glorious day. There was a fog early in the morning, and the
fight between the golden arrows of the sun and the gray armor that
came up out of the sea. Sometimes it did conquer, and came over the
city, but this morning it was pierced here and there, and then torn to
tatters, driven out beyond the strait, into the ocean.
Miss Bain took supervision of her scholars, and Miss Holmes had many
charges not to let the little girl out of her sight a moment. There
were a number of schools, but some of the children preferred the May
walk, and the treat afterward. They started off with flags flying, and
the young Geary Band had volunteered their services. There were a
drum, two fifes, a cornet, and a French horn, and the boys began with
the stirring patriotic tunes. But even here the old negro melodies had
found their way, many of them pathetic reminders of the cotton fields
of the South, that seemed to gain melody from the stretch of bay.
They passed Fort Point and Alcatraz Island, where the government was
beginning magnificent defences, its high point looming up grandly.
Angel Island, then almost covered with a forest of oak, yet oddly
enough containing a fine quarry, where laborers were at work, hewing
into the rock, almost under the shadow of the waving trees. Yerba
Buena, with its fragrant odors blown about by the wind, smaller
islands, big rocks rising out of the sea, the inhabitants being
chiefly birds; vessels of nearly every description, and intent mostly
upon trade, plied hither and thither. Here was another strait opening
into San Pablo Bay, into which emptied creeks and rivers, the
Sacramento washing down golden sands; and the San Joaquin. And up
there was the wonderful land where the Argonauts were searching for
treasure with less toil and anxiety than the elder Jason, though here,
too, there were treachery and murder.
Almost by the strait there was a beautiful point of land jutting out
in the water, and nearly covered with magnificent trees, that had
grown so close together that the branches interlaced and made arches,
while underneath were aisles, carpeted with fallen leaves and moss,
that made you feel as if you were walking over velvet. You could see
San Raphael and San Quentin, and the mountain range with the one high
peak, as you looked westward; eastward there was, after the woodland,
meadows of richest verdure, with their thousand blooms nodding gayly
to each other, and softly gossiping, perhaps about these strange
newcomers, who were presently to disturb their long, long
possessorship. There the great, grand Sierras, that looked so near in
the marvellously clear air.
They found a choice spot, and built a fire--it would not have been a
picnic without that. There were boys, of course, though a girl was
restricted to a brother or cousin. I fancy some cousins were smuggled
in. They ran about; they were even young enough to play "tag," and
"blind man in a ring," and "fox and geese," which was the greatest fun
of all. Then they spread out their tablecloths on a level space, and
though real paper plates and thin wooden ones had not come in yet,
they had made some for themselves that answered the purpose. They were
merry enough with jests and laughter.
Olive Personette was quite the heroine of the day. Miss Isabel's
engagement to Captain Gilbert, who had been appointed to take some
charge at Alcatraz, and had come of an old Californian family, beside
being educated at West Point, was still a topic of interest, because
there had been two other aspirants for her hand who had quarrelled and
fought a duel, which was quite an ordinary matter in those days,
though frowned upon by the best people. So neither had won her heart.
One was lying in the hospital, the other had fled northward. But it
had made quite a stir.
Of course, she had asked Victor, importuned him, though he had meant
all the time to come. He was a fine, manly fellow now, and the girls
_did_ flock about him. He had such a grave, courteous manner, and
never descended into rudeness, though he was quick enough at fun, and
it does not need an intricate order of wit to amuse before one is
twenty.
Olive picked out the most prominent girls for him, and kept him busy
enough. But he managed now and then to pass Laverne and say a word to
show that she was in his mind.
"I think Isola wanted to come very much," he announced to her once.
"She's taking such an interest in the pleasures that girls have, and
she has grown stronger. Father is planning some day to take a sail all
around the bay, just a little party of us, and we want you and Miss
Holmes."
That was such a delight. She did not refuse to talk to other boys, but
she liked the girls better. Her rather secluded life had not given her
so much interest in hunting and fishing and ball-playing and
race-running. Then on Sunday there was always horse-racing up on the
track by the old Mission. Church-going people, not really members, but
those who considered it the proper thing to pay a decorous attention
to religion, went to church in the morning and drove out in the
afternoon. Throngs of fine carriages, and handsomely dressed ladies,
men on horseback, with enough of the old-style attire to stamp them as
Mexican, Spanish, or the more than half Old Californian. Many of the
more successful ones began to plume themselves on a sort of
aristocracy.
The boys knew the favorite horses, some of their fathers owned a fast
trotter. But somehow she did not care much to talk about them, though
she had gone out occasionally with Uncle Jason, and it was exciting to
witness the trials of speed. But she liked better to jog about on
Pelajo and talk in the lovely by-paths they were always finding.
After the repast they swung in hammocks and talked over plans, or
rambled about, then the band played for dancing. No gathering would
have been perfect without that. Of course, they flirted a little, that
was in the young blood, but they came home merry, and had not disputed
unduly about their respective admirers.
Victor found time to say that he should come over next Saturday.
"We'll have a nice time, all to ourselves," he whispered, and she
glanced up with delighted eyes.
All her life thus far had been very quiet, in spite of the fact that
she was in such a turbulent place, and with all sorts of people,
gathered from the ends of the earth; where seldom a day passed without
some tragedy. And it seemed as if the city was coming nearer and
nearer, though it went southward, too, and all along the bay, docks
and wharves and warehouses were springing up in a night.
Victor came over the following Saturday as he had promised. They sat
under the pine tree and wrote verses to Balder's memory. Victor had
found a volume of Scandinavian legends and poems, and they were
fascinated with it.
"Of course, we can't write anything like that," she said simply, "but
you notice these do not rhyme. Do you not think it really grander,
tenderer?"
"I heard a voice that cried
'Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!
And through the misty air,
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.'"
"You repeat poetry so beautifully," he exclaimed, enchanted with the
pathetic voice, that could express so much, yet was so simply sweet.
They were not born poets. He had great trouble about his Latin
hexameters. He could feel it floating through his brain, but it was
very elusive, vanishing before it was caught. She made a few little
lines without rhyming.
Then he told her of the other god that had ruled a realm of lovely
thoughts, until, as the legend ran, when Christ, the Redeemer of
mankind, was born, a great groan was heard all over the isles of
Greece, the rushes bowed their heads, and the waves shuddered when it
was proclaimed that Olympus was dethroned, and Pan was dead.
"And that dismal cry rose slowly,
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit's melancholy
And eternity's despair
As they heard the words it said--
Pan is dead, great Pan is dead--
Pan, Pan is dead."
And then, as they listened, the gulls' cry came to them, toned by the
distance, softened by the murmur of the wind into a requiem for the
dead Balder.
After all he did not tell her what he had meant to. He would put off
the evil day.
Everybody--children, I mean--was anxious about examinations. Very few
really longed for them, but there was the vacation beyond.
She had been wandering about one afternoon, Bruno keeping close to her
side, though there was little to call strangers up this way. The view
was finer from the Presidio, and the principal fishing ground was
farther down below. So, when Bruno gave a growl, she started and
glanced about, and saw some one toiling over the rocks with a cane. A
very old woman it seemed, as she leaned upon her stick, and hardly
knew which way to go.
"Hush, Bruno, hush!" she commanded.
The figure came nearer. Bruno was not at all pleased with it.
The rough hair was a grayish white. A flowered handkerchief was tied
over it with a knot that hid the chin. The garments were coarse and
faded, the short skirt of a Mexican woman, and clumsy shoes.
"It is Laverne Chadsey." Something in the voice connected it with the
past. And now that she straightened herself up, she was quite tall.
"But I don't know you," Laverne said, rather hesitatingly.
"Then the disguise must be very good. I am an old--shall I say, old
friend? We were not very warm friends when I knew you."
Was it a school friend playing a prank?
"I am so tired." She dropped down on a stone. "I wanted to see you
first--I am a little afraid of Miss Holmes." Then she pulled off the
headgear, afterward the gray wig.
Laverne stood astounded. "It isn't, it surely isn't Carmen Estenega!"
"Why--yes; you know you saw me last at the Convent."
"And you were going to be married."
"Oh, what a blind idiot I was! But it was considered a great thing,
and I didn't know how any one might love then. I know now. I have run
away. I would kill myself sooner than marry Pascuel Estenega."
Laverne drew a long breath. Yes, this really was Carmen. The eyes, the
mouth, when she talked, but there was a fire in the face that had not
been there in childhood, and a spirit that half frightened Laverne.
"I want to see your uncle. I have a note to him, from--from a person
he has confidence in. And I want to tell him my story. I think men
take a different view, of some things, at least I believe he will, and
another person thinks so."
She blushed as she uttered this.
"You ran away--from the Convent?"
"Yes. It was very skilfully planned. They were not quite so strict--I
was to be married in a month, there in the chapel, and they allowed me
time to myself. I had a--a girl devoted to me, who did embroidery and
sewing, and she carried notes. Then there was a place in the old
garden where the railing was broken, but it was hidden by the
shrubbery. A girl had seen a snake there, and no one would go near it.
We used to meet there when his vessel came in. And it was all
planned."
"He--who? Not----" and Laverne hardly knew how to put her question.
"Oh, not Pascuel Estenega. He love a girl!"
The face seemed to quiver with scornful indignation, and the eyes
fairly blazed.
"He is an American. He is in the employ of your uncle, and he will be
good to us both. Perhaps in his youth he knew what love was. We are
going to trust him. He comes up with the trading vessel on Saturday.
He put me on another, the _Lulita_, an old Spanish thing, and I was an
old Mexican woman. No one suspected. We came in at noon, and I walked
off. Gracious! how the world has changed. I had to ask the way; no one
paid any attention to an old woman with a stick, and bent in the
shoulders."
She gave a triumphant laugh.
"But--your marriage----"
She seemed to study Laverne from head to foot, and the girl shrank a
little.
"Holy Mother, what a child you are! Not in long skirts yet! And you
know nothing about love; but you may some day. Not like the heat that
is in the Spanish blood, when it is roused, but many a woman is given
in marriage who knows no more about it than a child. Papa Estenega
came to see me when I had been in the Convent some months. I do not
understand, but mamacita has some old portraits and archives and
jewels, that came from Spain, and we are the last of the two houses.
He was very anxious for these, and mamacita had no son. So when she
came they signed a marriage contract. Pascuel had been ill, and the
doctor had taken him away for his health. We went out to the estate.
It is a splendid old place. I was very proud then of being chosen as
its mistress. Well, perhaps I held my head too lofty. Then I heard
that years before Pascuel had wedded a young girl, and when her baby
was born dead, he treated her very bitterly, and one night she threw
herself down an old well, though it was said she had gone out of her
mind. He came to the convent after a while, and I thought I should
faint when I saw him. He was a shrunken-up thing, a good head shorter
than his father. Oh, I do believe I could have married Papa Estenega
more willingly. His eyes were small and cruel, he had a great
mustache, over a hanging lip, and his hair was already turning white.
Then I began to place some credence in what one of the girls said, and
repeated it to mamacita. Panchita was sent away from school the next
week, and no one knew just why. Mamacita would not hear a word, and
said it was sheer envy; that any girl would be proud of reigning
there, and being the mother of an Estenega heir. And then I saw Señor
José Hudson, the American, and my heart seemed to go out of me at
once. We talked with our eyes, and then he sent me a note. He came to
church two or three times, but of course we hardly dared look at each
other. He found this broken place, and I used to steal down there. Oh,
it was delicious! I told him all the story, and he said we would run
away and that I should be his wife. He had no estate, but he could
make enough money to take care of me, and that we would go farther
north, and be, oh, so happy with each other. So I seemed to give in,
and fretted mamacita no more, and they began with the trousseau. Señor
Hudson planned it all, and brought me the wig and the garments. And
one day, just dusk, I slipped out, a lame old woman, and a servant
took me to the boat. He was waiting there, and we had a talk. You see,
it would not have been best for me to come on his boat. When he asked
me if I had any trusty friend in San Francisco, I spoke of you, and he
said, 'Oh, that is my master. Jason Chadsey owns the boat. I have
worked for him two years. Go straight to him and he will befriend
you.' So he wrote the letter I have in my hand. I could not seek him
in that busy place, where there were crowds of men around, so I found
my way up here. Juana had written me about it, though I was frightened
at every step. And I found you. I saw you up here with the dog. You
know in that old time I did not care much for you, we were taught that
the Americanos were interlopers, and would sweep us out of our homes,
drive us, heaven only knew where, but now, because I have found one so
sweet and noble and tender, I can see the virtues and graces in you
all. And I know you will befriend me."
She knelt suddenly at Laverne's feet, and snatching her hands, covered
them with kisses. Isola Savedra sometimes did this. The child was
confused, helpless.
"And the Señor Chadsey will be good to me for the sake of Señor
Hudson. It will be only two days. And will you beseech your Señora to
be kind and pitiful, and to pardon this attire, as if I was a beggar?"
A bell rang then. It was Miss Holmes' call for a return home, a
warning that it was near supper time.
"Come," Laverne said. She was still bewildered, but led the way. And
there, turning round the corner, she saw Uncle Jason, so she ran
forward with outstretched arms, her light hair flying like a cloud.
"Well, little one!" smiling fondly.
"Something so queer has happened." She was out of breath, and flushed,
for her heart was beating tremendously. "Carmen Estenega is here and
she is going to marry the man you have talked about, Joseph Hudson."
"Why, the vessel has not come in, will not be in until Saturday."
"Yes. She wants to wait here for him. Oh, Uncle Jason, you will be
good to her. She has run away from the convent, and it is like a story
from a book. Come!"
Carmencita stood where Laverne had left her. For the first time she
began to feel frightened. "Oh," she cried, "have pity on me; do not
send me away until Señor Hudson comes, and you will see that my story
is true."
"What is all this?" He looked from one to the other. Miss Holmes came
out. Then Carmen turned scarlet, remembering her attire.
"It is--" Miss Holmes looked her over.
"Carmencita Estenega, who asks shelter for two days, and prays that
you will not betray her to a cruel life. Oh, like the other poor lady,
I should drown myself."
"You have run away from a convent?"
"Oh, let me explain!"
She told the story over again as they stood there, now her voice
athrill with love, now piteous with entreaty. And it did move Jason
Chadsey's heart. Besides, he had found the young fellow trusty, and
liked him, and his note was very straightforward.
"We will talk more at length about it," he said gravely, "and I dare
say supper is ready."