The Splendid Idle Forties Part 14

"Truly there is much to claim the interest to-night. This may be an old scene to you, but it is novel and fascinating to me. How lovely are those stately girls, half hidden by their rebosas, telling their beads as they hurry along. It is the very coquetry of religion. And those--But here we are."

The church was handsomer without than within, for the clever old padres that built it had more taste than their successors. About the whitewashed walls of the interior were poor copies of celebrated paintings--the Pa.s.sion of Christ, and an extraordinary group of nude women and grinning men representing the temptation of St. Anthony. In a gla.s.s case a beautiful figure of the Saviour reclined on a stiff couch clumsily covered with costly stuffs. The Virgin was dressed much like the aristocratic ladies of Monterey, and the altar was a rainbow of tawdry colours.

But the ceremonies were interesting, and Brotherton forgot Benicia for the hour. After the ma.s.s the priest held out a small waxen image of the infant Jesus, and all approached and kissed it. Then from without came the sound of a guitar; the wors.h.i.+ppers arose and ranged themselves against the wall; six girls dressed as shepherdesses; a man representing Lucifer; two others, a hermit and the lazy vagabond Bartola; a boy, the archangel Gabriel, entered the church. They bore banners and marched to the centre of the building, then acted their drama with religious fervour.

The play began with the announcement by Gabriel of the birth of the Saviour, and exhortations to repair to the manger. On the road came the temptation of Lucifer; the archangel appeared once more; a violent altercation ensued in which all took part, and finally the prince of darkness was routed. Songs and fanciful by-play, brief sermons, music, gay and solemn, diversified the strange performance. When all was over, the players were followed by an admiring crowd to the entertainment awaiting them.

"Is it not beautiful--our Los Pastores?" demanded Dona Eustaquia, looking up at Brotherton, her fine face aglow with enthusiasm. "Do not you feel the desire to be a Catholic, my friend?"

"Rather would I see two good Catholics united, dear senora," and he turned suddenly to Benicia, who also had remained in the church, almost at her mother's side.

"Mamacita!" cried Benicia.

Dona Eustaquia opened her arms and caught the girl pa.s.sionately to her heart; and Brotherton left the church.

XV

The April flowers were on the hills. Beds of gold-red poppies and silver-blue baby eyes were set like tiles amidst the dense green undergrowth beneath the pines, and on the natural lawns about the white houses. Although hope of driving forth the intruder had gone forever in January, Monterey had resumed in part her old gayety; despair had bred philosophy. But Monterey was Monterey no longer. An American alcalde with a power vested in no judge of the United States ruled over her; to add injury to insult, he had started a newspaper. The town was full of Americans; the United States was constructing a fort on the hill; above all, worse than all, the Californians were learning the value of money.

Their sun was sloping to the west.

A thick India shawl hung over the window of Benicia's old room in her mother's house, shutting out the perfume of the hills. A carpet had been thrown on the floor, candles burned in the pretty gold candlesticks that had stood on the altar since Benicia's childhood. On the little bra.s.s bedstead lay Benicia, very pale and very pretty, her transparent skin faintly reflecting the pink of the satin coverlet. By the bed sat an old woman of the people. Her ragged white locks were bound about by a fillet of black silk; her face, dark as burnt umber, was seamed and lined like a withered prune; even her long broad nose was wrinkled; her dull eyes looked like mud-puddles; her big underlip was pursed up as if she had been speaking mincing words, and her chin was covered with a short white stubble. Over her coa.r.s.e smock and gown she wore a black cotton reboso.

In her arms she held an infant, m.u.f.fled in a white lace mantilla.

Dona Eustaquia came in and bent over the baby, her strong face alight with joy.

"Didst thou ever nurse so beautiful a baby?" she demanded.

The old woman grunted; she had heard that question before.

"See how pink and smooth it is--not red and wrinkled like other babies!

How becoming is that mantilla! No, she shall not be wrapped in blankets, cap, and shawls."

"She catch cold, most likely," grunted the nurse.

"In this weather? No; it is soft as midsummer. I cannot get cool. Ay, she looks like a rosebud lying in a fog-bank!" She touched the baby's cheek with her finger, then sat on the bed, beside her daughter.

"And how dost thou feel, my little one? Thou wert a baby thyself but yesterday, and thou art not much more to-day."

"I feel perfectly well, my mother, and--ay, Dios, so happy! Where is Edourdo?"

"Of course! Always the husband! They are all alike! Hast thou not thy mother and thy baby?"

"I adore you both, mamacita, but I want Edourdo. Where is he?"

Her mother grimaced. "I suppose it is no use to protest. Well, my little one, I think he is at this moment on the hill with Lieutenant Ord."

"Why did he not come to see me before he went out?"

"He did, my daughter, but thou wert asleep. He kissed thee and stole away."

"Where?"

"Right there on your cheek, one inch below your eyelashes."

"When will he return?"

"Holy Mary! For dinner, surely, and that will be in an hour."

"When can I get up?"

"In another week. Thou art so well! I would not have thee draw too heavily on thy little strength. Another month and thou wilt not remember that thou hast been ill. Then we will go to the rancho, where thou and thy little one will have sun all day and no fog."

"Have I not a good husband, mamacita?"

"Yes; I love him like my own son. Had he been unkind to thee, I should have killed him with my own hands; but as he has his lips to thy little slipper, I forgive him for being an American."

"And you no longer wish for a necklace of American ears! Oh, mamma!"

Dona Eustaquia frowned, then sighed. "I do not know the American head for which I have not more like than hate, and they are welcome to their ears; but _the spirit_ of that wish is in my heart yet, my child. Our country has been taken from us; we are aliens in our own land; it is the American's. They--holy G.o.d!--permit us to live here!"

"But they like us better than their own women."

"Perhaps; they are men and like what they have not had too long."

"Mamacita, I am thirsty."

"What wilt thou have? A gla.s.s of water?"

"Water has no taste."

"I know!"

Dona Eustaquia left the room and returned with an orange. "This will be cool and pleasant on so warm a day. It is just a little sour," she said; but the nurse raised her bony hand.

"Do not give her that," she said in her harsh voice. "It is too soon."

"Nonsense! The baby is two weeks old. Why, I ate fruit a week after childing. Look how dry her mouth is! It will do her good."

She pared the orange and gave it to Benicia, who ate it gratefully.

"It is very good, mamita. You will spoil me always, but that is because you are so good. And one day I hope you will be as happy as your little daughter; for there are other good Americans in the world. No? mamma. I think--Mamacita!"

She sprang upward with a loud cry, the body curving rigidly; her soft brown eyes stared horribly; froth gathered about her mouth; she gasped once or twice, her body writhing from the agonized arms that strove to hold it, then fell limply down, her features relaxing.

"She is dead," said the nurse.

"Benicia!" whispered Dona Eustaquia. "Benicia!"

"You have killed her," said the old woman, as she drew the mantilla about the baby's face.