The Doomswoman | Page 4

to her at once; she was our leader of fashion, and we all copied the gowns that came to her from the city of Mexico.
But Chonita gave no heed to the Castros. She fixed her cold direct regard on the man who rode with them, and whom, she knew, must be Diego Estenega, for he was their guest. She was curious to see this enemy of her house, the political rival of her brother, the owner of the voice which had given her the first thrill of her life. He was dressed as plainly as Castro, and had none of the rich southern beauty of the caballeros. His hair was cut short like Alvarado's, and his face was thin and almost sallow. But the life that was in that face! the passion, the intelligence, the kindness, the humor, the grim determination! And what splendid vitality was in his tall thin figure, and nervous activity under the repose of his carriage! I remember I used to think in those days that Diego Estenega could conquer the world if he wished, although I suspected that he lacked one quality of the great rulers of men,--inexorable cruelty.
From the moment his horse carried him into the plaza he did not remove his eyes from Chonita's face. She lowered hers angrily after a moment. As he reached the house he sprang to the ground, and Alvarado presented the sponsors. He lifted his cap and bowed, but not as low as the caballeros who were wont to prostrate themselves before her. They murmured the usual form of salutation:
"At your feet, se?orita."
"I appreciate the honor of your acquaintance."
"It is my duty and pleasure to lift you to your horse." And, still holding his cap in his hand, he led her to one of the three horses which stood beside the carriage; with little assistance she sprang to its back, and he mounted the one reserved for him.
The cavalcade started. First the carriage, then Alvarado and myself, followed by the sponsors, the Castros, the members of the Departmental Junta and their wives, then the caballeros and the do?as, the old people and the Americans; the populace trudging gayly in the rear, keeping good pace with the riders, who were held in check by a fragment of pulp too young to be jolted.
"You never have been in Monterey before, se?orita, I understand," said Estenega to Chonita. No situation could embarrass him.
"No; once they thought to send me to the convent here,--to Do?a Concepcion Argu��llo,--but it was so far, and my mother does not like to travel. So Do?a Concepcion came to us for a year, and, after, I studied with an instructor who came from Mexico to educate my brother and me." She had no intention of being communicative with Diego Estenega, but his keen reflective gaze confused her, and she took refuge in words.
"Do?a Eustaquia tells me that, unlike most of our women, you have read many books. Few Californian women care for anything but to look beautiful and to marry,--not, however, being unique in that respect. Would you not rather live in our capital? You are so far away down there, and there are but few of the gente de razon, no?"
"We are well satisfied, se?or, and we are gay when we wish. There are ten families in the town, and many rancheros within a hundred leagues. They think nothing of coming to our balls. And we have grand religious processions, and bull-fights, and races. We have beautiful ca?ons for meriendas; and I could dance every night if I wished. We are few, but we are quite as gay and quite as happy as you in your capital." The pride of the Iturbi y Moncadas and of the Barbari?a flashed in her eyes, then made way for anger under the amused glance of Estenega.
"Oh, of course," he said, teasingly. "You are to Monterey what Monterey is to the city of Mexico. But, pardon me, se?orita; I would not anger you for all the gold which is said to lie like rocks under our Californias,--if it be true that certain padres hold that mighty secret. (God! how I should like to get one by the throat and throttle it out of him!) Pardon me again, se?orita; I was going to say that you may be pleased to know that there is little magnificence where my ranchos are,--high on the coast, among the redwoods. I live in a house made of big ugly logs, unpainted. There are no cavalcades in the cold depths of those redwood forests, and the ocean beats against ragged cliffs. Only at Fort Ross, in her log palace, does the beautiful Russian, Princess H��l��ne Rotscheff, strive occasionally to make herself and others forget that the forest is not the Bois of her beloved Paris, that