by Gwen Bristow
Since nobody in the family could understand English but Mr. Kerridge, John was speaking Spanish. At intervals he paused to make sure Garnet and Florinda were following him, and sometimes Florinda asked him to translate. Garnet did not interrupt him. She sat with her head bent over her crochet. The candlelight was hardly strong enough for such fine work, but she kept at it because it gave her something to look at besides John. Her eyes wanted to follow his every movement, in a way that would have betrayed what she was thinking as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. But now and then she could not help looking up, and when she did John’s eyes would catch hers, and hold them with a brief intensity that she could feel almost like a kiss.
John told them the name of the northern village Yerba Buena had been changed to San Francisco. Florinda nodded with approval. “San Francisco,” she repeated. “That’s easier to say.”
John thought this was the reason the name had been changed. The village was growing fast; it now had close to four hundred people, nearly all of them Yankees, and they found the words Yerba Buena too much of a lip-twister. As the town stood at the edge of San Francisco Bay, the American alcalde had issued an order saying that hereafter the town was to have the same name as the bay.
John also told them that still more American soldiers had lately arrived. A battalion of Mormons had reached San Diego after an overland march, and they were going to garrison Los Angeles.
“Mormons?” Florinda repeated. “What are they?”
John explained to her in English. The Mormons were believers in a new religion, he said. They had been living mostly in Missouri and Illinois, but people of other faiths had come to dislike them violently, and last year about twenty thousand Mormons had been driven out of their homes. The elders of the church were now planning to take their people into the West, where they could set up their own community. On the outbreak of the war the Mormon leader Brigham Young had offered a battalion to President Polk. It was a canny move, John observed. Brigham Young wanted to prove the patriotism of the Mormons—whose enemies had been calling them anti-American—and also he wanted to have a lot of healthy young men in the West ready to join the Mormon colony after the war.
“How many of them are there?” Florinda asked.
“I’m not sure. Three or four hundred.”
She gave a satisfied smile, evidently counting the value of so many new customers at the bar, but John, with an amused glance at her, shook his head.
“They don’t drink,” he said.
Florinda stared in dismay. “What’s the matter with them?”
Garnet thought any other man would have made a bright remark about Florinda’s not drinking either, but John seldom said the obvious. He answered,
“Their church forbids it. Oh, I suppose some of them drink, there never was a church yet that could make all its members keep the rules, but generally they’re a very sober lot. However, the bar doesn’t need them. Silky is doing a thriving business.”
“Then he must have saved the whiskey!” Florinda exclaimed.
John nodded, and Florinda listened jubilantly while he told her about it. As Silky and Florinda rented the saloon from Mr. Abbott, Silky had adroitly figured that Mr. Abbott would not like to see them go broke. So he had left the whiskey in Mr. Abbott’s care. Mr. Abbott was married to a native woman and had three stalwart sons who were Angelenos by birth but who had a good share of their father’s Yankee enterprise. These three sons had seen to it that the saloon stayed locked up. Mickey had continued to live there, sleeping under the roof of the back porch, while Isabel supplied him with beans.
“And where did Mr. Abbott go during the troubles?” Florinda asked.
John chuckled. Mr. Abbott had not been on a horse in twenty years and no war could make him get on one now. When the other Yankees fled from Los Angeles Mr. Abbott had merely retired to an upper room of his own house. He closed the shutters, settled his huge bulk into an armchair, and while his family told people he had left town Mr. Abbott passed a pleasant winter reading the old American newspapers that he generally kept stacked on the counter of his store. Florinda laughed too. Then with a glance at Garnet she said,
“Oh yes, something else we’ve been wondering about. What’s become of our precious friend Charles?”
John asked the others to forgive him if he went on speaking English for a few minutes. There were some details Florinda had not understood. He said Charles had been very busy of late. Charles was a leading American ranchero and he had lost no time letting the American army know it. He had given the army considerable aid in the form of shelter and supplies, and shortly after they entered Los Angeles he had come there too, and had been bustling about importantly. “But he didn’t stay in Los Angeles long after the occupation,” John added. “He went north early in the year. Monterey, and probably San Francisco too.”
“What’s he doing up there?” Florinda asked.
“Oh, sniffing around,” said John. “A man never can tell when he might run into a good thing, you know.”
“Sure, I understand,” agreed Florinda. “Well, I hope he stays out of our place. He makes me think of an attic full of cobwebs.”
Doña Manuela woke up again. This time she announced that it was time for bed. It was, in fact, past midnight, long after their usual bedtime, so the others were quite willing to obey her.
Garnet and Florinda went to their room. But Garnet wanted to be by herself a while and think about John. She said she had a headache from crocheting in the dim light—which was true—and would like to get some fresh air before she went to bed. Wrapping a shawl around her she went down the corridor to the door leading out to the girls’ courtyard.
The court was chilly and rustling and very dark. There were stars overhead, but only a faint scrap of moon, and the trees had been planted thickly for daytime shade. Closing the door behind her, Garnet walked toward a group of lemon trees by the enclosing wall. The air was full of pungent odors, refreshing after the smoky parlor, and she liked the feel of the wind in her hair. On the wall the grapevines were swishing like taffeta petticoats. Breaking a leaf off a lemon tree Garnet crushed it in her hand and drew in a long breath of fragrance. Her foot touched a bench in the velvet blackness under the tree and she sat down, leaning back and singing a little tune. Alone in the dark she had a sense of freedom and privacy. She hoped Florinda was falling asleep.
Suddenly, beside her on the wall she heard a rustling like a gust of wind. Over her head the branches shook with a soft clatter, and a man swung down from the tree to the grass. Garnet had sprung to her feet, but before she could move away she heard him whisper, “It’s only me, Garnet—John.”
She could see him only as a thicker blackness in the dark. For an instant she shivered at the risk he was running, for Doña Manuela’s sons would not have hesitated to shoot at any male figure they saw prowling in the court that opened from their sisters’ bedrooms. “John!” she gasped. “Do you know where this is?”
“Why yes,” said John, “I’ve got no business being here.” His voice was so low that she could barely hear him above the rattling leaves, but she thought she would have recognized that note of cool amusement anywhere in the world. “I was crossing the outer court,” he went on, “when I heard somebody singing on this side of the wall. It could have been you, so I came close and listened. The words were English and the voice wasn’t Florinda’s, and I knew then it was you. So I scrambled over.” He laughed under his breath. “Most reprehensible. But I wanted so much to kiss you good night. Do you mind?”
He swept her into his arms and kissed her. For an instant Garnet was aware that the trees were murmuring around her and the wind was blowing John’s hair down over her eyes, and then she was not aware of anything except that now at last John was holding her close to him and she loved him. She loved the strength and fire and gentleness of him, and she wanted him to belong to her completely and forever.
She had no idea of time. But all at once the hall door began to bang
in the wind. None of the doors had locks, and the latches were so flimsy that if you were not careful to catch them properly the doors would blow open at the first breeze. Garnet started at the noise, but John said “Sh!” and she stood still, his arm around her and his hand holding her head against his shoulder as he kissed her hair. An instant later they heard the voice of one of the little girls, roused by the banging door. A light shone from the far end of the corridor, and Doña Manuela’s voice called to the child that it was only the wind, and she was coming to shut the door herself.
John drew Garnet deeper into the blackness of the trees. His lips close to her ear, he whispered, “You aren’t frightened, are you? She can’t lock you out.”
Garnet began to laugh silently. She was so happy she could not help it. She whispered to John, “What will Doña Manuela do if she sees us?”
“Something violent, no doubt,” John said, and his words too were quivering with laughter. “But I don’t think she’ll see us. I can’t even see you myself.”
In the doorway appeared Doña Manuela’s vast figure, vaster than ever in the shawl she had thrown over her nightgown. Behind her was a servant girl carrying a candle. Luckily John and Garnet were over in a far corner, but Doña Manuela had heard a movement. “¿Quién está ahí?” she demanded loudly.
“Answer her,” John whispered. Garnet called back, giving her name and saying she had come out for some air.
Doña Manuela repeated her name sharply.
“Sí, señora,” said Garnet.
She was still laughing, though at the same time she felt a twinge of apprehension lest Doña Manuela snatch the candle and come waddling out. She did not know what would happen if John should be found with her. Probably they would both be sent off in disgrace. She would not have minded, if only she and John were sent together, but after Doña Manuela’s kindness she would have been sorry to seem careless of the rules of her house. Fortunately, however, the wind was cold, and Doña Manuela had drunk a lot of angelica and was very sleepy. She shouted to Garnet again, ordering her to come to bed at once before the night air gave her a string of ailments Garnet had never heard of before. Garnet answered that she was coming right in. The little girl was calling again, and Doña Manuela, giving the servant a poke with her elbow, turned around and started for the child’s room. “I must go now,” Garnet whispered to John.
His arm tightened around her. The fingers of his other hand felt along the line of her temple and down her cheek. Garnet was thinking, I wish I could see his eyes. Right now, he is looking at me the way he looks at the hills when they are full of flowers.
“All right,” John whispered reluctantly. “You must go now. When can we be together again?”
“Tomorrow.”
“In the morning? Early?”
“As early as you please.”
“As soon as it’s light, then. In the outer courtyard. The olive grove toward the east.” He kissed the edge of her eyebrow. “Good night, my dear.”
With a great effort she made herself let him go. Throwing her shawl over her head so it would cast a shadow lest her face was betraying too much, she ran to the house. But to her relief Doña Manuela had gone to the child’s bedside, and the hall was dark and empty.
In the doorway, Garnet paused to look back. The sturdy old lemon tree creaked as John caught a branch of it, swung himself up, and vaulted over the wall. Garnet blew a kiss into the darkness after him as she closed the door. This time she made sure the latch was tight. From one of the bedrooms came Doña Manuela’s voice, sweet as a cradle song as she soothed her little girl back to sleep. Garnet felt her way along the hall to her room, where a line of light under the door showed that Florinda had left the candle burning to guide her.
Florinda was asleep. Garnet went to the glass and took the pins out of her hair. She smiled at her reflection. In the dim light her face seemed to have a radiance of its own. It was the first time she had ever genuinely thought she looked beautiful.
When the girl brought the early chocolate Garnet sprang up eagerly and opened the shutters to see the weather. The wind had died down, but a mist had gathered and the air was damp and cold. Florinda squealed, and Garnet closed the shutters again.
Florinda was sitting up in bed, sipping her chocolate and voicing her regular morning grumble about people who made you get up at this ungodly time of night. She always grumbled, but she always got up, for she liked the morning rides. However, she was in no such hurry to be out as Garnet was, and she was still yawning and stretching when Garnet left her. Garnet said over her shoulder that she would not ride this morning. She did not say why, though she thought Florinda probably guessed.
Carrying Stephen, she found his nurse Luisa having her chocolate in the outdoor kitchen. Garnet gave her the baby, and told her she was walking out to the olive grove.
She made her way among the trees. The night-fog was going, but it was not yet gone, and in the east she could see the purple hilltops rising here and there above the mist. They looked like plums in a bowl of cream. Around her the trees were bright with dampness. When she brushed them as she passed, the leaves tossed little showers at her cheeks. She could hear the birds twittering, and she could smell the fresh odors of the garden. The path turned, and she saw John.
He stood with one foot on an adobe bench and his elbow on his knee, watching a black-and-gold butterfly that had lit on a twig. As he heard the rustle of her skirts he turned his head, and with a quick eagerness he came to meet her. Lifting her hands he turned them over and kissed the palms, grinning at her across them as if he and she were sharing a delicious secret that nobody knew but themselves.
“I do like you, Garnet,” he said. “Why didn’t you keep me waiting till noon?”
“Noon?” she repeated laughing. “Because I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”
“That’s why I like you,” said John. “No coquetry and no pretenses. Come over here.” He led her to the bench. She sat down, and John sat turned so as to face her, one leg across the other and his long brown hands laced around his knee. With a quiver of humor on his lips he asked, “Should I apologize for being so impulsive last night? I’m not at all sorry, you know.”
“I’m not sorry either,” said Garnet, and she laughed again as she thought, No coquetry, no pretenses, well, thank heaven he likes me this way, because it’s the way I am. She said aloud, “Now at last I can ask you something. John, why did you take so long to come back? Why did you send me that frosty little note instead of coming with the Brute on your way down from Monterey?”
“You still don’t know?” he asked with some surprise.
She shook her head.
“I was scared,” John answered simply.
“Scared?” Garnet echoed. “You’re not scared of anything!” Somewhere away back in her mind she heard, “Not anything he can shoot.” For the moment she could not remember who had said that, and she wished the line had not pushed its way into her head. She pushed it back, exclaiming, “What were you scared of?”
“You,” said John.
“Oh John! Oh my dear,” she protested, and put her hands over his, which were still clasped around his knee. “Do you mean—you were scared I wouldn’t have you?”
“No, I was scared you would. For the wrong reasons.” He smiled a little. “Is that foolish?”
“I don’t know,” said Garnet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” said John. His green eyes were looking straight into hers, and he spoke with a smiling candor. “I wanted you more than I had ever wanted any other woman. I couldn’t tell whether you wanted me that much or not. But I thought you might say you did.”
He stood up abruptly, walked a few steps away from her, and turned around.
“There. That’s out. Now tell me I’m a fool, and the louder you say it the happier I’ll be. Understand?”
“I do not,” said Garnet. “You’re not as rich as all that, are you? If I didn’t love you,
what reason could I have for taking you?”
John answered with a terseness that was almost like anger. “Gratitude, damn you!”
For a moment she stared at him, her eyes wide and her mouth open, then she began to laugh at him. “Oh you fool. You dear incredible goose. John Ives, do you think I’d have you or any other man because I was grateful to him?”
“Then,” he demanded, “what made you babble so much about it? Why in God’s name did you keep talking as if you owed me a debt? As if you were expecting that any day I was going to ask for payment?”
“John,” she said, “I swear to you, I never thought of any such thing.”
“Well, I thought of it,” he returned. “And I don’t want to be a sense of duty to anybody. Least of all to you.” He broke a couple of leaves off the tree. “So I went away and stayed away till you’d had time to know I wasn’t going to demand anything. Then when I rode in yesterday—” He smiled at her frankly. “You were glad to see me, weren’t you?”
“I was never so happy to see anybody in my life,” said Garnet. “I had been wanting you every minute since you waved goodby. Didn’t I look like it?”
“Yes,” said John, “you looked like it. You were shining all over at the sight of me. And you couldn’t have looked like that if you hadn’t meant it.” With a flicker of amusement he added, “Florinda, yes, she’s very skillful at that sort of thing. But not you. So when I saw you yesterday I knew you were glad to see me.”
Garnet leaned back against the trunk of the tree behind her and looked up at him, laughing happily. John stood with one hand on the limb of the tree and the other hand caught in his belt. It was a fine tooled leather belt with a silver buckle. He said,