XXII.
We spent the next day at the race-field. Many of the caballeros hadbrought their finest horses, and Reinaldo's were famous. The vaquerosthrew off their black glazed sombreros and black velvet jackets,wearing only the short black trousers laced with silver, a shirt ofdazzling whiteness, a silk handkerchief twisted about the head, andhuge spurs on their bare brown heels. Some of us stood on a platform,others remained on their horses; all were wild with excitement andscreamed themselves hoarse. The great dark eyes of the girls flashed,their red mouths trembled with the flood of eager exclamations; thelace mantilla or flowered reboso fluttered against hot cheeks, to betorn off, perhaps, and waved in the enthusiasm of the moment. Theyforgot the men, and the men forgot them. Even Chonita was oblivious toall else for the hour. She was a famous horsewoman, and keenly aliveto the enchantment of the race-field. The men bet their ranchos, wholecaponeras of their finest horses, herds of cattle, their saddles andtheir jewels. Estenega won largely, and, as it happened, from Reinaldoparticularly. Don Guillermo was rather pleased than otherwise, holdinghis son to be in need of further punishment; but Reinaldo was obligedto call upon all the courtesy of the Spaniard and all the falseness ofhis nature to help him remember that his enemy was his guest.
We went home to siesta and long gay supper, where the races were theonly topic of conversation; then to dance and sing and flirtuntil midnight, the people in the booths as tireless as ourselves.Valencia's attentions to Estenega were as conspicuous as usual, but hemanaged to devote most of his time to Chonita.
* * * * *
That night Chonita had a dream. She dreamed that she awoke withouta soul. The sense of vacancy was awful, yet there was a singularundercurrent consciousness that no soul ever had been withinher,--that it existed, but was yet to be found.
She arose, trembling, and opened her door. Santa Barbara was asquiet as all the world is in the chill last hours of night. Shehalf expected to see something hover before her, a will-o'-the-wisp,alluring her over the rocky valleys and towering mountains until deathgave her weary feet rest. She remembered vaguely that she had readlegends of that purport.
But there was nothing,--not even the glow of a late cigarito or theflash of a falling star. Still she seemed to know where the soulawaited her. She closed her door softly and walked swiftly down thecorridor, her bare feet making no sound on the boards. At a door onthe opposite side she paused, shaking violently, but unable to passit. She opened the door and went in. The room, like all the others inthat time of festivity, had more occupants than was its wont; a bedwas in each corner. The shutters and windows were open, the moonlightstreamed in, and she saw that all were asleep. She crossed the roomand looked down upon Diego Estenega. His night garment, low about thethroat, made his head, with its sharply-cut profile, look like theheads on old Roman medallions. The pallor of night, the extremerefinement of his face, the deep repose, gave him an unmortalappearance. Chonita bent over him fearfully. Was he dead? Hisbreathing was regular, but very quiet. She stood gazing down upon him,the instinct of seeking vanished. What did it mean? Was this her soul!A man? How could it be? Even in poetry she had never read of a manbeing a woman's soul,--a man with all his frailties and sins, for themost part unrepented. She felt, rather than knew, that Estenega hadtrampled many laws, and that he cared too little for any law but hisown will to repent. And yet, there he lay, looking, in the gray lightand the impersonality of sleep, as sinless as if he had been createdwithin the hour. He looked not like a man but a spirit,--a soul; andthe soul was hers.
Again she asked herself, what did it mean? Was the soul but brain? Sheand he were so alike in rudiments, yet he so immeasurably beyond herin experience and knowledge and the stronger fiber of a man's mind--
He awoke suddenly and saw her. For a moment he stared incredulously,then raised himself on his hand.
"Chonita!" he whispered.
But Chonita, with the long glide of the Californian woman, faded fromthe room.
When she awoke the next morning she was assailed by a distressingfear. Had she been to Estenega's room the night before? The memory wastoo vivid, the details too practical, for a sleep-vagary. At breakfastshe hardly dared to raise her eyes. She felt that he was watching her;but he often watched her. After breakfast they were alone at one endof the corridor for a moment, and she compelled herself to raise hereyes and look at him steadily. He was regarding her searchingly.
She was not a woman to endure uncertainty.
"Tell me," she cried, trembling from head to foot, the blood rushingover her face, "did I go to your room last night?"
"Dona Chonita!" he exclaimed. "What an extraordinary question! Youhave been dreaming."
The Doomswoman: An Historical Romance of Old California Page 22