The Splendid Idle Forties | Page 4

town he broke
from it and ascended the hill to carry the news to Ysabel Herrera.

Monterey, rising to her pine-spiked hills, swept like a crescent moon
about the sapphire bay. The surf roared and fought the white sand hills
of the distant horn; on that nearest the town stood the fort, grim and
rude, but pulsating with military life, and alert for American onslaught.
In the valley the red-tiled white adobe houses studded a little city which
was a series of corners radiating from a central irregular street. A few
mansions were on the hillside to the right, brush-crowded sand banks
on the left; the perfect curve of hills, thick with pine woods and dense
green undergrowth, rose high above and around all, a rampart of
splendid symmetry.
"Ay! Ysabel! Ysabel!" cried the young people, as they swept down the
broad street. "Bring her to us, Excellency. Tell her she shall not know
until she comes down. We will tell her. Ay! poor Guido!"
The Governor turned and waved his hand, then continued the ascent of
the hill, toward a long low house which showed no sign of life.
He alighted and glanced into a room opening upon the corridor which
traversed the front. The room was large and dimly lighted by deeply set
windows. The floor was bare, the furniture of horse-hair; saints and
family portraits adorned the white walls; on a chair lay a guitar; it was a
typical Californian sala of that day. The ships brought few luxuries,
beyond raiment and jewels, to even the wealthy of that isolated
country.
"Ysabel," called the Governor, "where art thou? Come down to the
town and hear the fortune of the races. Alvarado Street streams like a
comet. Why should the Star of Monterey withhold her light?"
A girl rose from a sofa and came slowly forward to the corridor.
Discontent marred her face as she gave her hand to the Governor to kiss,
and looked down upon the brilliant town. The Señorita Doña Ysabel
Herrera was poor. Were it not for her uncle she would not have where
to lay her stately head--and she was La Favorita of Monterey, the
proudest beauty in California! Her father had gambled away his last
acre, his horse, his saddle, the serape off his back; then sent his
motherless girl to his brother, and buried himself in Mexico. Don

Antonio took the child to his heart, and sent for a widowed cousin to be
her dueña. He bought her beautiful garments from the ships that
touched the port, but had no inclination to gratify her famous longing to
hang ropes of pearls in her soft black hair, to wind them about her
white neck, and band them above her green resplendent eyes.
"Unbend thy brows," said Pio Pico. "Wrinkles were not made for
youth."
Ysabel moved her brows apart, but the clouds still lay in her eyes.
"Thou dost not ask of the races, O thou indifferent one! What is the
trouble, my Ysabel? Will no one bring the pearls? The loveliest girl in
all the Californias has said, 'I will wed no man who does not bring me a
lapful of pearls,' and no one has filled the front of that pretty flowered
gown. But have reason, niña. Remember that our Alta California has no
pearls on its shores, and that even the pearl fisheries of the terrible
lower country are almost worn out. Will nothing less content thee?"
"No, señor."
"Dios de mi alma! Thou hast ambition. No woman has had more
offered her than thou. But thou art worthy of the most that man could
give. Had I not a wife myself, I believe I should throw my jewels and
my ugly old head at thy little feet."
Ysabel glanced with some envy at the magnificent jewels with which
the Governor of the Californias was hung, but did not covet the owner.
An uglier man than Pio Pico rarely had entered this world. The upper
lip of his enormous mouth dipped at the middle; the broad thick
underlip hung down with its own weight. The nose was big and coarse,
although there was a certain spirited suggestion in the cavernous
nostrils. Intelligence and reflectiveness were also in his little eyes, and
they were far apart. A small white mustache grew above his mouth;
about his chin, from ear to ear, was a short stubby beard, whiter by
contrast with his copper-coloured skin. He looked much like an
intellectual bear.

And Ysabel? In truth, she had reason for her pride. Her black hair,
unblemished by gloss or tinge of blue, fell waving to her feet.
California, haughty, passionate, restless, pleasure-loving, looked from
her dark green eyes; the soft black lashes dropped quickly when they
became too expressive. Her full mouth was deeply red,