Dona Pomposa was trotting toward them, and while she struggled for her lost breath Eulogia repeated the proposal of the American, tw.a.n.ging her guitar the while.
The old lady took but one moment to make up her mind. "The American,"
she said rapidly in Spanish. "Garfias is rich now, but in a few years the Americans will have everything. Garfias will be poor; this man will be rich. Marry the American," and she beamed upon Rogers.
Eulogia shrugged her shoulders and turned to her practical wooer.
"My mother she say she like you the best."
"Then I may look upon that little transaction as settled?"
"Si you like it."
"_Which_ art thou going to marry, Eulogia?" asked one of the girls that night, as they rode down the mountain.
"Neither," said Eulogia, serenely.
X
Eulogia had just pa.s.sed through an animated interview with her mother.
Dona Pomposa had stormed and Eulogia had made an occasional reply in her cool monotonous voice, her gaze absently fixed on the gardens of the mission.
"Thou wicked little coquette!" cried Dona Pomposa, her voice almost worn out. "Thou darest repeat to me that thou wilt not marry the Senor Rogers!"
"I will not. It was amusing to be engaged to him for a time, but now I am tired. You can give him what excuse you like, but tell him to go."
"And the clothes I have made--the chests of linen with the beautiful deshalados that nearly put out Aunt Anastacia"s eyes! The new silk gowns! Dias de mi vida! The magnificent bed-spread with the lace as deep as my hand!"
"They will keep until I do marry. Besides, I need some new clothes."
"Dost thou indeed, thou little brat! Thou shalt not put on a smock or a gown in that chest if thou goest naked! But thou shalt marry him, I say!"
"No."
"Oh, thou ice-hearted little devil!" Even Dona Pomposa"s stomach was trembling with rage, and her fingers were jumping. "Whom then wilt thou marry? Garfias?"
"No."
"Thou wilt be an old maid like Aunt Anastacia."
"Perhaps."
"O--h--h--Who is this?"
A stranger in travelling sc.r.a.pe and riding-boots had dashed up to the house, and flung himself from his horse. He knocked loudly on the open door, then entered without waiting for an invitation, and made a deep reverence to Dona Pomposa.
"At your service, senora. At your service, senorita. I come from the Senor Don Tomas Garfias. Word has reached him that the Senorita Eulogia is about to marry an American. I humbly ask you to tell me if this be true or not. I have been told in town that the wedding is set for the day after to-morrow."
"Ask her!" cried Dona Pomposa, tragically, and she swung herself to the other end of the room.
"Senorita, at your feet."
"You can tell your friend that I have no more intention of marrying the American than I have of marrying him."
"Senorita! But he expected to return next week and marry you."
"We expect many things in this world that we do not get."
"But--a thousand apologies for my presumption, senorita--why did you not write and tell him?"
"I never write letters."
"But you could have sent word by some friend travelling to San Francisco, senorita."
"He would find it out in good time. Why hurry?"
"Ay, senorita, well are you named Dona Coquetta. You are famous even to San Francisco. I will return to my poor friend. At your service, senora.
At your service, senorita," and he bowed himself out, and galloped away.
Dona Pomposa threw herself into her chair, and wept aloud.
"Mother of G.o.d! I had thought to see her married to a thrifty American!
What have I done to be punished with so heartless a child? And the Americans will have all the money! The little I have will go, too! We shall be left sitting in the street. And we might have a wooden house in San Francisco, and go to the theatre! Oh, Mother of G.o.d, why dost thou not soften the heart of the wicked--"
Eulogia slipped out of the window, and went into the mission gardens.
She walked slowly through the olive groves, lifting her arms to part the branches where the little purple spheres lay in their silver nests.
Suddenly she came face to face with Pablo Ignestria.
Her cynical brain informed her stormy heart that any woman must succ.u.mb finally to the one man who had never bored her.
THE ISLE OF SKULLS
I
The good priests of Santa Barbara sat in grave conference on the long corridor of their mission. It was a winter"s day, and they basked in the sun. The hoods of their brown habits peaked above faces lean and ascetic, fat and good-tempered, stern, intelligent, weak, commanding.
One face alone was young.
But for the subject under discussion they would have been at peace with themselves and with Nature. In the great square of the mission the Indians they had Christianized worked at many trades. The great aqueduct along the brow of one of the lower hills, the wheat and corn fields on the slopes, the trim orchards and vegetable gardens in the canons of the great bare mountains curving about the valley, were eloquent evidence of their cleverness and industry. From the open door of the church came the sound of lively and solemn tunes: the choir was practising for ma.s.s. The day was as peaceful as only those long drowsy shimmering days before the Americans came could be. And yet there was dissent among the padres.
Several had been speaking together, when one of the older men raised his hand with cold impatience.
"There is only one argument," he said. "We came here, came to the wilderness out of civilization, for one object only--to lead the heathen to G.o.d. We have met with a fair success. Shall we leave these miserable islanders to perish, when we have it in our power to save?"
"But no one knows exactly where this island is, Father Jimeno," replied the young priest. "And we know little of navigation, and may perish before we find it. Our lives are more precious than those of savages."