Chapter 3

"But they come second, although thou wilt not acknowledge it even to thyself. Suppose thou hadst to sacrifice thy religion or thy books, never to read another? Which wouldst thou choose?"

"God of my soul! what a question! No Spanish woman was ever a truer Catholic; but to read is my happiness, the only happiness I want on earth."

"Art thou sure that to train the intellect means happiness?"

"Sure. Does it not give us the power to abstract ourselves from life when we are tired of it?"

"True, but there is another result you have not thought of. The more the intellect is developed, the more acute and aggressive is the nervous system; the more tenacious is the memory, the more has one to live with, and the higher the ideals. When the time comes for you to live you will suffer with double the intensity and depth of the woman whose nerves are dull or stunted."

"To suffer you must love, and I never shall love. Who is there to love? Books always suffice me, and I suppose there are enough in the world to make the time pass as long as I live."

I did not continue the argument, knowing the placid superiority of inexperience.

"But thou hast not yet told me which thou wouldst give up."

"The books, of course. I hope I know my duty. I would sacrifice all things to my religion. But the priests do not interfere now as they did in the last generation."

I was very religious in those days, and my heart beat with approval. "I have always said that the Church may let women read what they choose. The good principles they are born with they will adhere to."

"We are by nature conservatives, that is all. And we have need of religion. We must have something to lean on, and men are poor props, as far as I have observed. Sometimes after having read a long while in an absorbing book, particularly one that seemed to put something with a living hand into my brain and make it feel larger, I find that I am miles away from the Church; I have forgotten its existence. I always _run_ back."

"_Dios!_ I should think so. Yes, it is well we do need our religion. Men do not; for that reason they drop it the moment the wings on their minds grow fast--as they would, when the warm sun came out, drop the thick blanket of the Indian, borrowed and gratefully worn in dark uncertain weather. I do not dare ask Diego Estenega what he believes, lest he tell me he believes nothing and I should have to hear it. How dost thou like my friend, Chonita?"

"Art thou asking me how I like the enemy of my house? I hate him."

"If he goes to Santa Barbara with Alvarado this summer wilt thou ask him to be thy guest?"

"Of course. The enmity has always been veiled with much courtesy; and I would have him see that we know how to entertain."

I watched her covertly; I could detect no sign of interest. Presently she took up the volume of Landor and read aloud to me, the stately English sounding oddly with her Spanish accent.

VI.

At ten o'clock the large sala of the Governor's house was thronged with guests, and the music of the flute, harp, and guitar floated through the open windows: the musicians sat on the corridor. How harmonious was the Monterey ball-room of that day!--the women in their white gowns of every rich material, the men in white trousers, black silk jackets, and low morocco shoes; no color except in the jewels and the rich Southern faces. The bare ugly sala, from which the uglier furniture had been removed, needed no ornaments with that moving beauty; and even the coffee-colored, high-stomached old people were picturesque. I wander through those deserted salas sometimes, and, as the tears blister my eyes, imagination and memory people the cold rooms, and I forget that the dashing caballeros and lovely doñas who once called Monterey their own and made it a living picture-book are dust beneath the wild oats and thistles of the deserted cemetery on the hill. The Americans hardly know that such a people once existed.

Chonita entered the sala at eleven o'clock, looking like a snow queen. Her gold hair, which always glittered like metal, was arranged to simulate a crown; she wore a gown of Spanish lace, and no jewels but the string of black pearls. I never had seen her look so cold and so regal.

Estenega stepped out upon the corridor. "Play El Son," he said, peremptorily. Then as the vivacious music began he walked over to Chonita and clapped his hands in front of her as authoritatively as he had bidden the musicians. What he did was of frequent occurrence in the Californian ball-room, but she looked haughtily rebellious. He continued to strike his hands together, and looked down upon her with an amused smile which brought the angry color to her face. Her hesitation aroused the eagerness of the other men, and they cried loudly--

"El Son! El Son! señorita."

She could no longer refuse, and, passing Estenega with head erect, she bent it slightly to the caballeros and passed to the middle of the room, the other guests retreating to the wall. She stood for a moment, swaying her body slightly; then, raising her gown high enough for the lace to sweep the instep of her small arched feet, she tapped the floor in exact time to the music for a few moments, then glided dreamily along the sala, her willowy body falling in lovely lines, unfolding every detail of El Son, unheeding the low ripple of approval. Then, dropping her gown, she spun the length of the room like a white cloud caught in a cyclone; her garments whirred, her heels clicked, her motion grew faster and swifter, until the spectators panted for breath. Then, unmindful of the lively melody, she drifted slowly down, swaying languidly, her long round arms now lolling in the lace of her gown, now lifted to graceful sweep and curve. The caballeros shouted their appreciation, flinging gold and silver at her feet; never had El Son been given with such variations before. Never did I see greater enthusiasm until the night which culminated the tragedy of Ysabel Herrera. Estenega stood enraptured, watching every motion of her body, every expression of her face. The blood blazed in her cheeks, her eyes were like green stars and sparkled wickedly. The cold curves of her statuesque mouth were warm and soft, her chin was saucily uplifted, her heavy waving hair fell over her shoulders to her knees, a glittering veil. Where had The Doomswoman, the proud daughter of the Iturbi y Moncadas, gone?

The girls were a little frightened: this was not the Son to which they were accustomed. The young matrons frowned. The old people exclaimed, "Caramba!" "Mother of God!" "Holy Mary!" I was aghast; well as I knew her, this was a piece of audacity for which I was unprepared.

As the dance went on and she grew more and more like an untamed wood-nymph, even the caballeros became vaguely uneasy, hotly as they admired the beautiful wild thing enchaining their gaze. I looked again at Estenega and knew that his heart beat in passionate sympathy.

"I have found _her_," he murmured, exultantly. "She is California, magnificent, audacious, incomprehensible, a creature of storms and convulsions and impregnable calm; the germs of all good and all bad in her; a woman sublimated. Every husk of tradition has fallen from her."

Once, as she passed Estenega, her eyes met his. They lit with a glance of recognition, then the lids drooped and she floated on. He left the room; and when he returned she sat on a window-seat, surrounded by caballeros, as calm and as pale as when he had commanded her to dance. He did not approach her, but, joined me at the upper end of the sala, where I stood with Alvarado, the Castros, Don Thomas Larkin, the United States Consul, and a half-dozen others. We were discussing Chonita's interpretation of El Son.

"That was a strange outbreak for a Spanish girl," said Señor Larkin.

"She is Chonita Iturbi y Moncada," said Castro, severely. "She is like no other woman, and what she does is right."

The consul bowed. "True, coronel. I have seen no one here like Doña Chonita. There is a delicious uniformity about the Californian women: so reserved, shrinking yet dignified, ever on their guard. Doña Chonita changed so swiftly from the typical woman of her race to an houri, almost a bacchante,--only an extraordinary refinement of nature kept her this side of the line,--that an American would be tempted to call her eccentric."

Alvarado lifted his hand and pointed through the window to the stars. "The golden coals in the blue fire of heaven are not higher above censure," he said.

Doña Modeste raised her eyebrows. "Coals are safest when burned on the domestic hearth and carefully watched; safer still when they have fallen to ashes."

"What is this rumor of pirates on the coast?" demanded Alvarado, abruptly.

I put my hand through Estenega's arm and drew him aside. The music of the contradanza was playing, and we stood against the wall.

"Well, you know Chonita better since that dance," I said to him. "Polar stars are not unlikely to have volcanoes. Better let the deeps alone, my friend; the lava might scorch you badly. Women of complex natures are interesting studies, but dangerous to love. They wear the nerves to a point, and the tired brain and heart turn gratefully to the crystalline, idle-minded woman. She is too much like yourself, Diego. And you,--how long could you love anybody? Love with you means curiosity."

His face looked like chalk for a moment, an indication with him of suppressed and violent emotion. Then he turned his head and regarded me with a slight smile. "Not altogether. You forget that the most faithless men have been the most faithful when they have found the one woman. Curiosity and fickleness are merely parts of a restless seeking,--nothing more."

"I was sure you would acquit yourself with credit! But you have an unholy charm, and you never hesitate to exert it."

He laughed outright. "One would think I was a rattlesnake. My unholy charm consists of a reasonable amount of address born of a great weakness for women and some personal magnetism,--the latter the offspring of the habit of mental concentration--"

"And an inexorable will--"

"Perhaps. As to the exercise of it--why not? _Vive la bagatelle!_"

"It is useless to argue with you. Are you going to let that girl alone?"

"She is the only girl in the Californias whom I shall not let alone."

I could have shaken him. "To what end? And her brother? I have often wondered which would rule you in a crisis, your head or your passions."

"It would depend upon the crisis. I am afraid you are right,--that altiloquent Reinaldo will give trouble."

"Is it true that he has been conspiring with Carillo, and that an extraordinary and secret session of the Departmental Junta has been called?"

He looked down upon me with his grimmest smile. "You curious little woman! You must not put your white fingers into the Departmental pie. If you had been a man, with as good a brain as you have for a woman, you would have been an ornament to our politics. But as it is--pardon me--the better for our balancing country the less you have to do with it."

I could feel my eyes snap. "You respect no woman's mind," I said, savagely; "nothing but the woman in her. But I will not quarrel with you. Tell that baby over there to come and waltz with me."

At dawn, as we entered our room, I seized Chonita by the shoulders and shook her. "What did you mean by such a performance?" I demanded. "It was unprecedented!"

She threw back her head and laughed. "I could not help it," she said. "First I felt an irresistible desire to show Monterey that I dared do anything I chose. And then I have a wild something in me which has often threatened to break loose before; and to-night it did. It was that man. He made me."

"_Ay, Dios!"_ I thought, "it has begun already."

VII.

The festivities were to last a week, every one taking part but Alvarado and Doña Martina. The latter was not strong enough, the governor cared more for duty than for pleasure.

The next day we had a merienda on the hills behind the town. The green pine woods were gay with the bright colors of the young people. Here and there a caballero dashed up and down to show his horsemanship and the silver and embroidered silk of his saddle. Silver, too, were his jingling spurs, the eagles on his sombrero, the buttons on his colorous silken jacket. Horses, without exception handsomely trapped, were tethered everywhere, pawing the ground or nibbling the grass. The girls wore white or flowered silk or muslin gowns, and rebosos about their heads; the brown ugly dueñas, ever at their sides, were foils they would gladly have dispensed with. The tinkle of the guitar never ceased, and the sweet voices of the girls and the rich voices of the men broke forth with the joyous spontaneity of the birds' songs about them.

Chonita wore a white silk gown, I remember flowered with blue,--large blue lilies. The reboso matched the gown. As soon as we arrived--we were a little late--she was surrounded by caballeros who hardly knew whether to like her or not, but who adhered to the knowledge that she was Chonita Iturbi y Moncada, the most famous beauty of the South.

"_Dios!_ but thou art beautiful," murmured one, his dreamy eyes dwelling on her shining hair.

"_Gracias_, señor." She whispered it as bashfully as the maidens to whom he was accustomed, her eyes fixed upon a rose she held.

"Wilt thou not stay with us here in Monterey?"

She raised her eyes slowly,--he could not but feel the effort,--gave him one bewildering glance, half appealing, half protesting, then dropped them suddenly.

"Wilt thou stay with me?" panted the caballero.

"Ay, señor! thou must not speak like that. Some one will hear thee."

"I care not! God of my life! I care not! Wilt thou marry me?"

"Thou must not speak to me of marriage, señor. It is to my father thou must speak. Would I, a Californian maiden, betroth myself without his knowledge?"

"Holy heaven! I will! But give me one word that thou lovest me,--one word!"

She lifted her chin saucily and turned to another caballero, who, I doubt not, proposed also. Estenega, who had watched her, laughed.

"She acts the part to perfection," he said to me. "Either natural or acquired coquetry has more to do with saving her from the solitary plane of the intellectual woman than her beauty or her father's wealth. I am inclined to think that it is acquired. I do not believe that she is a coquette at heart, any more than that she is the marble doomswoman she fondly believes herself."

"You will tell her that," I exclaimed, angrily; "and she will end by loving you because you understand her; all women want to be understood. Why don't you go to Paris again? You have not been there for a long time."

Not deeming this suggestion worthy of answer, he left me and walked to Chonita, who was glancing over the top of her fan into the ardent eyes of a third caballero.

"You will step on a bunch of nettles in a moment," he said, practically. "Your slippers are very thin; you had better stand over here on the path." And he dexterously separated her from the other men. "Will you walk to that opening over there with me? I want to show you a better view of Monterey."

His manner had not a touch of gallantry, and she was tired of the caballeros.

"Very well," she said. "I will look at the view."

As she followed him she noted that he led her where the bushes were thinnest, and kicked the stones from her path. She also remarked the nervous energy of his thin figure. "It comes from his love of the Americans," she thought, angrily. "He must even walk like them. The Americans!" And she brought her teeth together with a sharp click.

He turned, smiling. "You look very disapproving," he said. "What have I done?"

"You look like an American! You even wear their clothes, and they are the color of smoke; and you wear no lace. How cold and uninteresting a scene would this be if all the men were dressed as you are!"

"We cannot all be made for decorative purposes. And you are as unlike those girls, in all but your dress, as I am unlike the men. I will not incur your wrath by saying that you are American: but you are modern. Our lovely compatriots were the same three hundred years ago. Will Doña California be pleased to observe that whale spouting in the bay? There is the tree beneath which Junipero Serra said his first mass in this part of the country. What a sanctimonious old fraud he must have been, if he looked anything like his pictures! Did you ever see bay bluer than that? or sand whiter? or a more perfect semicircle of hills than this? or a more straggling town? There is the Custom-house on the rocks. You will go to a ball there to-night, and hear the boom of the surf as you dance." He turned with one of his sudden impatient motions. "Suppose we ride. The air is too sharp to lie about under the trees. This white horse mates your gown. Let us go over to Carmelo."

"I should like to go," she said, doubtfully; he had made her throb with indignation once or twice, but his conversation interested her and her free spirit approved of a ride over the hills unattended by dueña. "But--you know--I do not like you."

"Oh, never mind that; the ride will interest you just the same." And he lifted her to the horse, sprang on another, caught her bridle, lest she should rebel, and galloped up the road. When they were on the other side of hill he slackened speed and looked at her with a smile. She was inclined to be angry, but found herself watching the varying expressions of his mouth, which diverted her mind. It was a baffling mouth, even to experienced women, and Chonita could make nothing of it. It had neither sweetness nor softness, but she had never felt impelled to study the mouth of a caballero. And then she wondered how a man with a mouth like that could have manners so gentle.

"Are you aware," he said, abruptly, "that your brother is accused of conspiracy?"

"What?" She looked at him as if she inferred that this was the order of badinage that an Iturbi y Moncada might expect from an Estenega.

"I am not joking. It is quite true."

"It is not true! Reinaldo conspire against his government? Some one has lied. And you are ready to believe!"

"I hope some one has lied. The news is very direct, however." He looked at her speculatively. "The more obstacles the better," he thought; "and we may as well declare war on this question at once. Besides, it is no use to begin as a hypocrite, when every act would tell her what I thought of him. Moreover, he will have more or less influence over her until her eyes are opened to his true worth. She will not believe me, of course, but she is a woman who only needs an impetus to do a good deal of thinking and noting." "I am going to make you angry," he said. "I am going to tell you that I do not share your admiration of your brother. He has ten thousand words for every idea, and although, God knows, we have more time than anything else in this land of the poppy where only the horses run, still there are more profitable ways of employing it than to listen to meaningless and bombastic words. Moreover, your brother is a dangerous man. No man is so safe in seclusion as the one of large vanities and small ambitions. He is not big enough to conceive a revolution, but is ready to be the tool of any unscrupulous man who is, and, having too much egotism to follow orders, will ruin a project at the last moment by attempting to think for himself. I do not say these things to wantonly insult you, señorita, only to let you know at once how I regard your brother, that you may not accuse me of treachery or hypocrisy later."

He had expected and hoped that she would turn upon him with a burst of fury; but she had drawn herself up to her most stately height, and was looking at him with cold hauteur. Her mouth was as hard as a pink jewel, and her eyes had the glitter of ice in them.

"Señor," she said, "it seems to me that you, too, waste many words--in speaking of my brother; for what you say of him cannot interest me. I have known him for twenty-two years; you have seen him four or six times. What can you tell me of him? Not only is he my brother and the natural object of my love and devotion, but he is Reinaldo Iturbi y Moncada, the last male descendant of his house, and as such I hold him in a regard only second to that which I bear to my father. And with the blood in him he could not be otherwise than a great and good man."

Estenega looked at her with the first stab of doubt he had felt. "She is Spanish in her marrow," he thought,--"the steadfast unreasoning child of traditions. I could not well be at greater disadvantage. But she is magnificent."

"Another thing which was unnecessary," she added, "was to defend yourself to me or to tell me how you felt toward my brother, and why. We are enemies by tradition and instinct. We shall rarely meet, and shall probably never talk together again."

"We shall talk together more times than you will care to count. I have much to say to you, and you shall listen. But we will discuss the matter no further at present. Shall we gallop?"

He spurred his horse, and once more they fled through the pine woods. Before long they entered the valley of Carmelo. The mountains were massive and gloomy, the little bay was blue and quiet, the surf of the ocean roared about Point Lobos, Carmelo River crawled beneath its willows. In the middle of the valley stood the impressive yellow church, with its Roman tower and rose-window; about it were the crumbling brown hovels of the deserted Mission. Once as they rode Estenega thought he heard voices, but could not be sure, so loud was the clatter of the horses' hoofs. As they reached the square they drew rein swiftly, the horses standing upright at the sudden halt. Then strange sounds came to them through the open doors of the church: ribald shouts and loud laughter, curses and noise of smashing glass, such songs as never were sung in Carmelo before; an infernal clash of sound which mingled incongruously with the solemn mass of the surf. Chonita's eyes flashed. Even Estenega's face darkened: the traditions planted in plastic youth arose and rebelled at the desecration.

"Some drunken sailors," he said. "There--do you see that?" A craft rounded Point Lobos. "Pirates!"

"Holy Mary!" exclaimed Chonita.

"Let down your hair," he said, peremptorily; "and follow all that I suggest. We will drive them out."

She obeyed him without question, excited and interested. Then they rode to the doors and threw them wide.

The upper end of the long church was swarming with pirates; there was no mistaking those bold, cruel faces, blackened by sun and wind, half covered with ragged hair. They stood on the benches, they bestrode the railing, they swarmed over the altar, shouting and carousing in riotous wassail. Their coarse red shirts were flung back from hairy chests, their faces were distorted with rum and sacrilegious delight. Every station, every candlestick, had been hurled to the floor and trampled upon. The crucifix stood on its head. Sitting high on the altar, reeling and waving a communion goblet, was the drunken chief, singing a blasphemous song of the pirate seas. The voices rumbled strangely down the hollow body of the church; to perfect the scene flames should have leaped among the swinging arms and bounding forms.

"Come," said Estenega. He spurred his horse, and together they galloped down the stone pavement of the edifice. The men turned at the loud sound of horses' hoofs; but the riders were in their midst, scattering them right and left, before they realized what was happening.