V
The Russians were to call at the house of the Commandante on their wayto the Mission, and Concha herself made the chocolate with which theywere to be detained for another hour. It was another sparklingmorning, one of the few that came between winter and summer, summer andwinter, and made even this bleak peninsula a land of enchantment beforethe cold winds took the sand hills up by their foundations and drovethem down to Yerba Buena, submerging the battery and every green thingby the way; or the great fogs rolled down from the tule lands of thenorth and in from the sea, making the shivering San Franciscan forgetthat not ten miles away the sun was as prodigal as youth. For a fewweeks San Francisco had her springtime, when the days were warm and theair of a wonderful lightness and brightness, the atmosphere so clearthat the flowers might be seen on the islands, when man walked withwings on his feet and a song in his heart; when the past was done with,the future mattered not, the present with its ever changing hues on bayand hill, its cool electrical breezes stirring imagination and pulse,was all in all.
And it was in San Francisco's springtime that Concha Arguello madechocolate for the Russian to whom she was to give a niche in thehistory of her land; and sang at her task. She whirled the molinilloin each cup as it was filled, whipping the fragrant liquid to froth;pausing only to scold when her servant stained one of the daintysaucers or cups. Poor Rosa did not sing, although the spring attunedher broken spirit to a gentler melancholy than when the winds howledand the fog was cold in her marrow. She had been sentenced by the lastGovernor, the wise Borica, to eight years of domestic servitude in thehouse of Don Jose Arguello for abetting her lover in the murder of hiswife. Concha, thoughtless in many things, did what she could toexorcise the terror and despair that stared from the eyes of the Indianand puzzled her deeply. Rosa adored her young mistress and exultedeven when Concha's voice rose in wrath; for was not she noticed by theloveliest senorita in all the Californias, while others, envious andspiteful to a poor girl no worse than themselves, were ignored?
Concha's cheeks were as pink as the Castilian roses that grew evenbefore the kitchen door and were quivering at the moment under theimpassioned carolling of a choir of larks. Her black eyes were full ofdancing lights, like the imprisoned sun-flecks under the rose bush, andnever had indolent Spanish hands moved so quickly.
"Mira! Mira!" she cried to the luckless Rosa. "That is the third timethou hast spilt the chocolate. Thy hands are of wood when they shouldbe of air. A soft bit of linen to clean them, not that coarse rag.Dios de mi alma! I shall send for Malia."
"For the love of Mary, senorita, have pity!" wailed Rosa."There--see--thanks to the Virgin I have poured three cups withoutspilling a drop. And this rag is of soft linen. Look, Dona Concha, isit not true?"
"Bueno; take care thou leavest not one drop on a saucer and I willforgive thee--do not kiss my hand now, foolish one! How can I whirlthe molinillo? Be always good and I will burn a candle for thee everytime I go to the Mission. The Russians go to the Mission this morning.Hast thou seen the Russians, Rosa?"
"I have seen them, senorita. Did I not serve at table yesterday?"
"True; I had forgotten. What didst thou think of them?"
"What matters it to such great folk what a poor Indian girl thinks ofthem? They are very fair, which may be the fashion in their country;but I am not accustomed to it; and I like not beards."
"His excellency wore no beard--he who sat on my mother's right andopposite to me."
"He is very grand, senorita; more grand than the Governor, who afterall has red hair and is old. He is even grander than Don Jose, whommay the saints preserve; or than the padres at the mission. Perhaps heis a king, like our King and natural lord in spain. (El rey nuestro ysenor natural.) Is he a king, senorita?"
"No, but he should be. Rosa, thou mayest have my red cloak that camefrom Mexico--last year. I have a new one and that is too small. I hadintended to give it to Ana Paula, but thou art a good girl and shouldhave a gay mantle for Sunday, like the other girls. I have also a redribbon for thy hair--"
Rosa spilt half the contents of the chocolate pot on the floor andConcha gave her a sound box on the ear. However, she did not dismissher, a sentence for which the trembling girl prepared herself.
"Make more--quickly!" cried the lady of caprice. "They come. I hearthem. But this is enough for the first. Make the rest and beat withthe molinillo as I have done, and Malia will bring all to the corridor."
She ran to her room and her mirror. Both were small, the room littlemore luxurious than the cell of a nun. But the roses hung over thewindow, the birds had built in the eaves, and over the wall the sunshone in. In one corner was an altar and a crucifix. If the wallswere rough and white, they were spotless as the hands that shook outand then twisted high the fine dusky masses of hair. When a fold hadbeen drawn over either ear, in the modest fashion of the Californiamaid and wife, and the tall shell comb had fastened the rest, Conchainstead of finishing the headdress with her long Spanish pins, divestedthe stems of two half-blown roses of their thorns and thrust themobliquely through the knot. Her dress was of simple white linen madewith a very full skirt and little round jacket, but embroidered by herown deft fingers with the color she loved best. She patted her frock,rolled down her sleeves, and went out to the "corridor" to standdemurely behind her mother as the Russians, escorted by Father RamonAbella, rode into the square.
Rezanov had intended merely to pay a call of ceremony upon thehospitable Arguellos, but after he had dismounted and kissed the handsof the smiling senora and her beautiful daughter he was nothing loathto linger over a cup of chocolate.
It was served out there in the shade of the vines. Rezanov and Conchasat on the railing, and the man stared over his cup at the girl withthe roses touching her cheeks and ruffling her hair.
"Do you like chocolate, senor?" asked Concha, who was not in theintellectual mood of yesterday. "I made it myself--I and my poor Rosa."
"It is the most delectable foam I have ever tasted. I am interested toknow that it has the solid foundation of a name. What is the matterwith your Rosa?"
"She is an unfortunate. Her lover killed his wife, and it is said thatshe is not innocent herself. The lover serves in chains for eightyears, and she is with us that we may make her repent and keep her fromfurther sin. She is unhappy and will marry the man when his punishmentis over. I am very sorry for her."
"Fancy you living close to a woman like that! I find it detestable."
"Why?--if I can do her good--and make her happy, sometimes?"
"Does she ever talk about her life--before she came here?"
"Oh, no; she is far too sad. Once only, when I told her I would prayfor her in the Mission Church, she asked me to burn a candle that herlover might serve his sentence more quickly and come out and marry her.Will you light one for her to-day, senor?"
"With the greatest pleasure; if you really want your maid to marry aman who no doubt will murder her for the sake of some other woman."
"Oh, surely not! He loves her. I know that many men love more thanonce, but when they are punished like that, they must remember."
"Is it true that you are only sixteen? Is that an impertinentquestion? I cannot help it. Those years are so few, and so muchwisdom has gone into that little head."
"Sixteen is quite old." Concha drew herself up with an air of offendeddignity. "Elena Castro, who lives on the other side, is but eighteenand she has three little ones. The Virgin brought them in the nightand left them in the big rosebush you see before the door--one at atime, of course. Only the old nurse knew; the Virgin whispered itwhile she was saying a prayer for Elena; and early in the morning shecame and found the dear little baby and put it in Elena's arms. I amthe godmother of the first--Conchitita. In Santa Barbara, where welived for some years, Anita Amanda Carillo, the friend of Ana Paula, ismarried, although she is but twelve and sits on the floor all day andplays with her dolls. She prays every night to the Virgin to bring hera real baby,
but she is not old enough to take care of it and mustwait. Twelve is too young to marry." Concha shook her head. Her eyeswere wise, and Rezanov noted anew that her mouth alone was as young asher years. "My father would not permit such a thing. I am glad he isnot anxious we should marry soon. I should love to have the babies,though; they are so sweet to play with and make little dresses for.But my mother says the Virgin does not bring the little ones to goodgirls--poor Rosa had one but it died--until their parents find them ahusband first. I have never wanted a husband--" Concha darted a swiftglance over her shoulder, but Santiago was in the clutches of thelearned doctor and wishing that he knew no Latin; "so I go every dayand play with Elena's babies, which is well enough."
Rezanov listened to this innocent revelation with the utmost gravity,but for the first time in many years he was conscious of a novelfascination in a sex to which he had paid no niggard's tribute. In hisworld the married woman reigned; it was doubtful if he had ever had tenminutes' conversation with a young girl before, never with one whoseface and form were as arresting as her crystal purity. He wasfascinated, but more than ever on his guard. As he rode over the sandhills to the Mission she clung fast to his thoughts and he speculatedupon the woman hidden away in the depths of that lovely shell like thedeep color within the tight Castilian buds that opened so slowly. Herecalled the personalities of the young officers that surrounded her.They were charming fellows, gay, kindly, honest; but he felt sure thatnot one of them was fit to hold the cup of life to the exquisite younglips of Concha Arguello. The very thought disposed him to twist theirnecks.
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