The Splendid Idle Forties | Page 7

spokesman, "perhaps you have not learned
during your brief visit to our capital that the Señorita Doña Ysabel
Herrera, La Favorita of Alta California, has sworn by the Holy Virgin,
by the blessed Junipero Serra, that she will wed no man who does not
bring her a lapful of pearls. Can you find those pearls on the sands of

the South, Don Vicente? For, by the holy cross of God, you cannot
have her without them!"
For a moment De la Vega was disconcerted.
"Is this true?" he demanded, turning to Ysabel.
"What, señor?" she asked vaguely. She had not listened to the words of
her protesting admirer.
A sneer bent his mouth. "That you have put a price upon yourself? That
the man who ardently wishes to be your husband, who has even won
your love, must first hang you with pearls like--" He stopped suddenly,
the blood burning his dark face, his eyes opening with an expression of
horrified hope. "Tell me! Tell me!" he exclaimed. "Is this true?"
For the first time since she had spoken with him Ysabel was herself.
She crossed her arms and tapped her elbows with her pointed fingers.
"Yes," she said, "it is true." She raised her eyes to his and regarded him
steadily. They looked like green pools frozen in a marble wall.
The harp, the flute, the guitar, combined again, and once more he
swung her from a furious circle. But he was safe; General Castro had
joined it. He waltzed her down the long room, through one adjoining,
then into another, and, indifferent to the iron conventions of his race,
closed the door behind them. They were in the sleeping-room of Doña
Modeste. The bed with its rich satin coverlet, the bare floor, the simple
furniture, were in semi-darkness; only on the altar in the corner were
candles burning. Above it hung paintings of saints, finely executed by
Mexican hands; an ebony cross spread its black arms against the white
wall; the candles flared to a golden Christ. He caught her hands and led
her over to the altar.
"Listen to me," he said. "I will bring you those pearls. You shall have
such pearls as no queen in Europe possesses. Swear to me here, with
your hands on this altar, that you will wed me when I return, no matter
how or where I find those pearls."

He was holding her hands between the candelabra. She looked at him
with eyes of passionate surrender; the man had conquered worldly
ambitions. But he answered her before she had time to speak.
"You love me, and would withdraw the conditions. But I am ready to
do a daring and a terrible act. Furthermore, I wish to show you that I
can succeed where all other men have failed. I ask only two things now.
First, make me the vow I wish."
"I swear it," she said.
"Now," he said, his voice sinking to a harsh but caressing whisper,
"give me one kiss for courage and hope."
She leaned slowly forward, the blood pulsing in her lips; but she had
been brought up behind grated windows, and she drew back. "No," she
said, "not now."
For a moment he looked rebellious; then he laid his hands on her
shoulders and pressed her to her knees. He knelt behind her, and
together they told a rosary for his safe return.
He left her there and went to his room. From his saddle-bag he took a
long letter from an intimate friend, one of the younger Franciscan
priests of the Mission of Santa Barbara, where he had been educated.
He sought this paragraph:--
"Thou knowest, of course, my Vicente, of the pearl fisheries of Baja
California. It is whispered--between ourselves, indeed, it is quite
true--that a short while ago the Indian divers discovered an
extravagantly rich bed of pearls. Instead of reporting to any of the
companies, they have hung them all upon our Most Sacred Lady of
Loreto, in the Mission of Loreto; and there, by the grace of God, they
will remain. They are worth the ransom of a king, my Vicente, and the
Church has come to her own again."
III

The fog lay thick on the bay at dawn next morning. The white waves
hid the blue, muffled the roar of the surf. Now and again a whale threw
a volume of spray high in the air, a geyser from a phantom sea. Above
the white sands straggled the white town, ghostly, prophetic.
De la Vega, a dark sombrero pulled over his eyes, a dark serape
enveloping his tall figure, rode, unattended and watchful, out of the
town. Not until he reached the narrow road through the brush forest
beyond did he give his horse rein. The indolence of the Californian was