"On days like this, I care nothing for a single responsibility in life, nor for what to-morrow will bring, nor for a religion nor a creed, nor for the least nor greatest that civilisation has accomplished. I don"t even long for Europe and the higher intellectual life. It is enough that I am alive, that my eyes see only beauty, and my skin feels warmth. I worship the sun and the sky and the flowers and the trees and the sea, above all the warm quick atmosphere. They seem to me the only things worth loving."
"They are not the only things you love, however."
"No, I love you and my father. I hate my mother. But I always manage to forget her existence when I am off like this, and she is out of my sight--"
"Why do you hate your mother?"
"That is one of the things you are not to know yet. This week you are to hear nothing that is not pleasant. I wish you to feel like a pagan, too."
"I do. Some of your mandates are very easy to observe. We are reasonably sympathetic on more points than one."
"We will imagine that all life is to be like this week--only no allusion is to be made during this week to the future, and no allusion in the future to this week."
"I will do all I can to respect your wishes as to the first. The second is too ridiculous to notice. We will settle all that when the time comes."
To this she vouchsafed no reply, but peered up into the boughs. Her expression changed after a moment; it became impersonal, and her eyes hardened as they always did when her mind alone was at work.
"So far, California has evolved no literature," she said. "When it does, I don"t doubt it will be a literature of light and charm and comedy--and pleasurable pathos. Writers will continue to go to the dreary moorlands, the dun-coloured skies of England for tragedy settings, and for the atmosphere of tradition and history. It will be hard for any writer who has travelled over the wonderful mountains and valleys of California--you have only seen the worst of it so far--to imagine tragedy in a land of such exultant beauty, under a sun that shines in a blue sky for eight months of the year. Fancy Emily Bronte writing "Wuthering Heights" in California! The setting is all wrong for anything deeper than the picturesque crimes of desperadoes. But it is the very contrast, this very accompaniment of unreality, that makes our tragedies the harder to bear. I have thought sometimes that if I could come out here on a furious day in winter, and wander about the sand hills by myself, I"d feel as if I had a better right to be miserable--"
"I thought we were to have no more such hints this week. I am tired of innuendoes. As I have remarked before, you take an unfair advantage. Let down your hair. It looks full of gold and red in this light, and I want to see it spread out in the sun."
"Very well, put my hairpins in your pocket. Take it down yourself, and don"t pull, on your life."
X
The week pa.s.sed very gaily; the mornings in long rambles, the early afternoon in siesta, its later hours in visits to neighbouring camps, followed by strawberry picking and long evenings about the fire or walking on the beach.
Thorpe and Nina were comparatively alone most of the time; and her high spirits, her lavish charm, her sudden moments of seriousness, and her outbursts of pa.s.sionate affection completed his enthralment. Several times Thorpe caught Mr. Randolph"s eyes following him with an expression of peculiar anxiety, and it chafed him not to be able to declare his purpose plainly; but for the week he was bound.
On the whole, it was a happy week. As it neared its end, Thorpe knew that his mind was possessing hers, that her will was weakening, and love flooding reason. Once or twice she gave him a glance of timid appeal; but she would not discuss the position. His mastery was the more nearly complete as he kept his promise and ignored the future.
On the last day but one the party went down the coast to attend Don Tiburcio"s _merienda_. It was to be given in a valley about a half-mile inland, which the guests must approach through a narrow canon fronting the sea.
The walk along the beach and inland trail was easy and pleasant, but the canon was sown with rocks and sweet-brier; and the way was picked with some discomfort.
"If I stub my toe, you can carry me," said Nina.
"I will," said Thorpe, gallantly. He was feeling particularly light of heart. The week was almost over. Delightful in many ways as it had been, he was eager to take the reins into his own hands.
"Look! look!" exclaimed Nina, and the party paused simultaneously.
Don Tiburcio Castro had suddenly appeared at the head of the canon. He was mounted on a large horse of a breed peculiar to the Californias, golden bronze in colour with silver mane and tail. The trappings of the horse were of embossed leather, heavily mounted with silver. His own attire was magnificent. He wore the costume of the grandees of his time,--a time which had fallen helplessly into the past during the fourteen years of American possession; indeed, Don Tiburcio, who, like many of his brethren, had for every day use adopted the garb of modern civilisation, had the effect, as he sat motionless on his burnished steed at the head of the canon, of a symbolic figure at the end of a perspective.
He wore short clothes of red silk, the jacket open over a lace shirt clasped with jewels. His long botas of yellow leather were wound about with red and blue ribbons; his broad sombrero was heavy with silver eagles.
"I begin to feel the unreality of California," said Thorpe. "It is like a scene out of a picture-book."
"After all, it is but one phase," replied Nina.
Don Tiburcio lifted his sombrero and rode down the canon, the horse stepping daintily over the rocks. The women waved their handkerchiefs, the men their caps. Then the end of the perspective was closed once more, this time by a group of women. And they wore full flowered gowns with pointed bodice, rebosos draped about their dark graceful heads. Two tinkled the guitar. The others wielded large black fans.
"Ay!" exclaimed Mrs. Earle. "Why did I not bring my reboso? "Lupie, we shall be forgotten."
"There are men," replied Miss Hathaway, as several dark beribboned heads appeared above the rebosos. "They, too, may want a change. You can desert me, Captain Hastings. I shall amuse myself."
"I don"t doubt it," said Hastings, gloomily. "I don"t flatter myself that I could make you jealous."
"I welcome you," said Don Tiburcio, choosing his English very slowly, and reining in. "The day ees yours, my friends. I am your slave. I have prepare a little entertainment, but if it no is to your taste, but say the word, and all shall be change."
Mr. Randolph made a terse and suitable reply. Don Tiburcio stood aside that all might pa.s.s him, bowing repeatedly; and the party made its way as quickly as possible to the entrance.
Dona Eustaquia Carillo de Brotherton, one of the most famous women of the old regime, stood there, the girls making way for her, and for Dona Jacoba Duncan, Mrs. Polk,--she who was beautiful Magdalena Yorba,--and Dona Prudencia Iturbi y Moncada. The first was happy with her American husband; the second was not; Dona Jacoba"s lines were as stern as when she had beaten her beloved children with a green hide reata, her smile as brilliant; and Dona Prudencia, who still (presumably) lamented the late Reinaldo, had found mitigation in her great social importance, and in her maternal devotion to the heir of her father-in-law"s vast estates.
The women all kissed each other, and those that could talk Spanish made a soft pretty babel of sound that suggested perpetuity. The men were presented, and those of the Randolph party taken prompt possession of by the coquettish Californian girls. The men of the South were inclined to be haughty at first, but shortly succ.u.mbed to the novel charm of the American women.
"One can hardly realise the life they suggest," said Mr. Randolph to Thorpe. "Not fifty miles from San Francisco, they are still living in much of their primitive simplicity and state. In the south they are still farther removed from all that we have done. Dona Prudencia lives the life of a dowager empress."
They were in an open valley, shaded here and there with large oaks, carpeted with flowers. The women seated themselves on the warm dry ground, the caballeros,--as resplendent as Don Tiburcio,--and the more modest Americans lying at their feet, smoking the cigarito. The Californian girls tinkled their guitars and sang, with accompaniment of lash and brow. The older women smoked daintily, and talked of the gay old times. Thorpe, who was in no mood to parry coquetry,--and Nina was receiving the court of no less than three caballeros,--bestowed himself between Dona Eustaquia and Dona Prudencia, and charmed them with his unfeigned interest.
In the middle of the valley was a deep excavation. From stout poles hung two bullocks. In the course of an hour, the high beds of coals beneath the beasts were ignited, and the smell of roast meat mingled with the drowsy scent of the poppy and the salt of the sea.
When the bullocks were cooked, and the repast was spread some yards away, the guests found on the table every delicacy known to the old time. It was a very lively and a very picturesque feast, and no one felt the exhilaration of it more than Thorpe. He could not see Nina. She was on his side of the table, and eight or ten people were between; but it was enough to know that she was there, and that before the day was over they should find an hour together.
The wines until after the dessert were American; but as luncheon was concluding a servant brought a great tray covered with small gla.s.ses containing a colourless liquid.
"You must all dreenk with me to the glory and prosperity of California in my native wine, the fierce mescal," said Don Tiburcio, rising. "Every one--ah, yes, ladies, it ees strong: I would not advise you that you take mooch; but one seep, just for the toast--ah, _muchas gracias_."
The company rose. The American women made a doubtful little peck at the innocent-looking beverage, and shivered. The men consumed it heroically, repressing their tears. Thorpe felt as if he were swallowing live hornets; but, as he placed his gla.s.s on the table and bowed to the host, his face was quite stolid.
The company drove home, and retired at once to siesta. The strawberry picking was belated, and Nina gathered hers with the help of Mr. McLane.
At dinner she sat between Mr. McLane and Hastings, and did not look at Thorpe. He racked his brain to remember what he could have done to offend her.
XI
They did not walk on the beach that evening, but sat about the fire, somewhat fatigued, but still in high spirits. Nina alone was quiet.
After a time she stole away, and went down to the water. Thorpe was forced to infer that she wished to be alone, and did not follow her at once. When at the end of a half-hour she had not returned, his ill-carried impatience mastered him.
His feet made no sound on the sandy slope, nor on the beach. It was a night of perfect peace and calm and beauty. The ocean was quiet. The stars were thick; a thin young moon rode past them. But Nina was not within the flood of light about him. He turned the corner of a jutting rock, and came upon her.
She was sitting on a high stone, her hands pressed hard on her knees, staring out to sea. Thorpe had seen her face bitter, tragic, pa.s.sionate; but he had never seen it look as it looked to-night. It might have been the face of a woman cast up by the ocean, out of its depths, or a face of stone for forty years. All the youth and life were out of it. It was fixed, awful. Thorpe stood appalled. The sweet intercourse of the past week seemed annihilated, the woman removed from him by a sudden breach in time, or some tremendous crash in Circ.u.mstance. He dared not speak, offer her sympathy. He felt that whether she had loved him or not in this hour of abandonment to her despair, he must be an insignificant feature in her life.