by Bret Harte
CHAPTER III.
THE CHARMING MRS. SEPULVIDA.
If there was a spot on earth of which the usual dead monotony of theCalifornia seasons seemed a perfectly consistent and natural expression,that spot was the ancient and time-honoured _pueblo_ and Mission of theblessed St. Anthony. The changeless, cloudless, expressionless skies ofsummer seemed to symbolise that aristocratic conservatism which repelledall innovation, and was its distinguishing mark. The stranger who rodeinto the _pueblo_, in his own conveyance,--for the instincts of SanAntonio refused to sanction the introduction of a stage-coach ordiligence that might bring into the town irresponsible and vagabondtravellers,--read in the faces of the idle, lounging _peons_ the factthat the great _rancheros_ who occupied the outlying grants had refusedto sell their lands, long before he entered the one short walled streetand open plaza, and found that he was in a town where there was no hotelor tavern, and that he was dependent entirely upon the hospitality ofsome courteous resident for a meal or a night's lodging.
As he drew rein in the courtyard of the first large adobe dwelling, andreceived the grave welcome of a strange but kindly face, he saw aroundhim everywhere the past unchanged. The sun shone as brightly andfiercely on the long red tiles of the low roofs, that looked as if theyhad been thatched with longitudinal slips of cinnamon, even as it hadshone for the last hundred years; the gaunt wolf-like dogs ran out andbarked at him as their fathers and mothers had barked at the precedingstranger of twenty years before. There were the few wild half-brokenmustangs tethered by strong riatas before the verandah of the long low_Fonda_, with the sunlight glittering on their silver trappings; therewere the broad, blank expanses of whitewashed adobe walls, as barren andguiltless of record as the uneventful days, as monotonous andexpressionless as the staring sky above; there were the white,dome-shaped towers of the Mission rising above the green of olives andpear-trees, twisted, gnarled, and knotted with the rheumatism of age;there was the unchanged strip of narrow white beach, and beyond, thesea--vast, illimitable, and always the same. The steamers that creptslowly up the darkening coast line were something remote, unreal andphantasmal; since the Philippine galleon had left its bleached andbroken ribs in the sand in 1640, no vessel had, in the memory of man,dropped anchor in the open roadstead below the curving Point of Pines,and the white walls, and dismounted bronze cannon of the Presidio, thatlooked blankly and hopelessly seaward.
For all this, the _pueblo_ of San Antonio was the cynosure of thecovetous American eye. Its vast leagues of fertile soil, its countlessherds of cattle, the semi-tropical luxuriance of its vegetation, thesalubrity of its climate, and the existence of miraculous mineralsprings, were at once a temptation and an exasperation to greedyspeculators of San Francisco. Happily for San Antonio, its squareleagues were held by only a few of the wealthiest native gentry. Theranchos of the "Bear," of the "Holy Fisherman," of the "BlessedTrinity," comprised all of the outlying lands, and their titles werepatented and secured to their native owners in the earlier days of theAmerican occupation, while their comparative remoteness from thepopulous centres had protected them from the advances of foreigncupidity. But one American had ever entered upon the possession andenjoyment of this Californian Arcadia, and that was the widow of DonJos['e] Sepulvida. Eighteen months ago the excellent Sepulvida had died atthe age of eighty-four, and left his charming young American wife thesole mistress of his vast estate. Attractive, of a pleasant, socialtemperament, that the Donna Maria should eventually bestow her hand andthe estate upon some loser _Americano_, who would bring ruin in thehollow disguise of "improvements" to the established and conservativelife of San Antonio, was an event to be expected, feared, and, ifpossible, estopped by fasting and prayer.
When the Donna Maria returned from a month's visit to San Franciscoafter her year's widowhood, alone, and to all appearances as yetunattached, it is said that a _Te Deum_ was sung at the Mission church.The possible defection of the widow became still more important to SanAntonio, when it was remembered that the largest estate in the valley,the "Rancho of the Holy Trinity," was held by another member of thisdeceitful sex--the alleged natural half-breed daughter of a deceasedGovernor--but happily preserved from the possible fate of the widow byreligious preoccupation and the habits of a recluse. That the irony ofProvidence should leave the fate and future of San Antonio so largelydependent upon the results of levity, and the caprice of a susceptiblesex, gave a sombre tinge to the gossip of the little _pueblo_--if thegrave, decorous discussion of Se[~n]ores and Se[~n]oras could deserve thatname. Nevertheless it was believed by the more devout that a miraculousinterposition would eventually save San Antonio from the _Americanos_and destruction, and it was alleged that the patron saint, himselfaccomplished in the art of resisting a peculiar form of temptation,would not scruple to oppose personally any undue weakness of vanity orthe flesh in helpless widowhood. Yet, even the most devout and trustfulbelievers, as they slyly slipped aside veil or _manta_, to peepfurtively at the Donna Maria entering chapel, in the heathenishabominations of a Parisian dress and bonnet, and a face rosy withself-consciousness and innocent satisfaction, felt their hearts sinkwithin them, and turned their eyes in mute supplication to the gaunt,austere patron saint pictured on the chancel wall above them, who,clutching a skull and crucifix as if for support, seemed to glare uponthe pretty stranger with some trepidation and a possible doubt of hisbeing able to resist the newer temptation.
As far as was consistent with Spanish courtesy, the Donna Maria wassubject to a certain mild espionage. It was even hinted by some of themore conservative that a _duenna_ was absolutely essential to the properdecorum of a lady representing such large social interests as the widowSepulvida, although certain husbands, who had already suffered from theimperfect protection of this safeguard, offered some objection. But thepretty widow, when this proposition was gravely offered by her ghostlyconfessor, only shook her head and laughed. "A husband is the best_duenna_, Father Felipe," she said, archly, and the conversation ended.
Perhaps it was as well that the gossips of San Antonio did not know howimminent was their danger, or how closely imperilled were the vastsocial interests of the _pueblo_ on the 3rd day of June 1854.
It was a bright, clear morning--so clear that the distant peaks of theSan Bruno mountains seemed to have encroached upon the San Antoniovalley overnight--so clear that the horizon line of the vast Pacificseemed to take in half the globe beyond. It was a morning, cold, hard,and material as granite, yet with a certain mica sparkle in itsquality--a morning full of practical animal life, in which bodilyexercise was absolutely essential to its perfect understanding andenjoyment. It was scarcely to be wondered that the Donna MariaSepulvida, who was returning from a visit to her steward and major-domo,attended by a single _vaquero_, should have thrown the reins forward onthe neck of her yellow mare, "Tita," and dashed at a wild gallop downthe white strip of beach that curved from the garden wall of the Missionto the Point of Pines, a league beyond. "Concho," the venerable_vaquero_, after vainly endeavouring to keep pace with his mistress'sfiery steed, and still more capricious fancy, shrugged his shoulders,and subsided into a trot, and was soon lost among the shifting sanddunes. Completely carried away by the exhilarating air and intoxicationof the exercise, the Donna Maria--with her brown hair shaken loose fromthe confinement of her little velvet hat, the whole of a pretty foot,and at times, I fear, part of a symmetrical ankle visible below theflying folds of her grey riding-skirt, flecked here and there with theracing spume of those Homeric seas--at last reached the Point of Pineswhich defined the limits of the peninsula.
But when the gentle Mistress Sepulvida was within a hundred yards of thePoint she expected to round, she saw with some chagrin that the tide wasup, and that each dash of the breaking seas sent a thin, reaching filmof shining water up to the very roots of the pines. To her still furtherdiscomfiture, she saw also that a smart-looking cavalier had likewisereined in his horse on the other side of the Point, and was evidentlywatching her movements with great interest, and, as
she feared, withsome amusement. To go back would be to be followed by this stranger, andto meet the cynical but respectful observation of Concho; to go forward,at the worst, could only be a slight wetting, and a canter beyond thereach of observation of the stranger, who could not in decency turn backafter her. All this Donna Maria saw with the swiftness of feminineintuition, and, without apparently any hesitation in her face of herintent, dashed into the surf below the Point.
Alas for feminine logic! Mistress Sepulvida's reasoning was perfect, buther premises were wrong. Tita's first dash was a brave one, and carriedher half round the Point, the next was a simple flounder; the nextstruggle sunk her to her knees, the next to her haunches. She was in aquicksand!
"Let the horse go. Don't struggle! Take the end of your riata. Throwyourself flat on the next wave, and let it take you out to sea!"
Donna Maria mechanically loosed the coil of hair rope which hung overthe pommel of her saddle. Then she looked around in the direction of thevoice. But she saw only a riderless horse, moving slowly along thePoint.
"Quick! Now then!" The voice was seaward now; where, to her frightenedfancy, some one appeared to be swimming. Donna Maria hesitated nolonger; with the recoil of the next wave, she threw herself forward andwas carried floating a few yards, and dropped again on the treacheroussand.
"Don't move, but keep your grip on the riata!"
The next wave would have carried her back, but she began to comprehend,and, assisted by the yielding sand, held her own and her breath untilthe under-tow sucked her a few yards seaward; the sand was firmer now;she floated a few yards farther, when her arm was seized; she wasconscious of being impelled swiftly through the water, of being draggedout of the surge, of all her back hair coming down, that she had lefther boots behind her in the quicksand, that her rescuer was a stranger,and a young man--and then she fainted.
When she opened her brown eyes again she was lying on the dry sandbeyond the Point, and the young man was on the beach below her, holdingboth the horses--his own and Tita!
"I took the opportunity of getting your horse out. Relieved of yourweight, and loosened by the tide, he got his foot over the riata, andCharley and I pulled him out. If I am not mistaken, this is Mrs.Sepulvida?"
Donna Maria assented in surprise.
"And I imagine this is your man coming to look for you." He pointed toConcho, who was slowly making his way among the sand dunes towards thePoint. "Let me assist you on your horse again. He need not know--nobodyneed know--the extent of your disaster."
Donna Maria, still bewildered, permitted herself to be assisted to hersaddle again, despite the consequent terrible revelation of her shoelessfeet. Then she became conscious that she had not thanked her deliverer,and proceeded to do so with such embarrassment that the stranger'slaughing interruption was a positive relief.
"You would thank me better if you were to set off in a swinging gallopover those sun-baked, oven-like sand-hills, and so stave off a chill!For the rest, I am Mr. Poinsett, one of your late husband's legaladvisers, here on business that will most likely bring us together--Itrust much more pleasantly to you than this. Good morning!"
He had already mounted his horse, and was lifting his hat. Donna Mariawas not a very clever woman, but she was bright enough to see that hisbusiness _brusquerie_ was either the concealment of a man shy of women,or the impertinence of one too familiar with them. In either case it wasto be resented.
How did she do it? Ah me! She took the most favourable hypothesis. Shepouted, I regret to say. Then she said--
"It was all your fault!"
"How?"
"Why, if you hadn't stood there, looking at me and criticising, Ishouldn't have tried to go round."
With this Parthian arrow she dashed off, leaving her rescuer haltingbetween a bow and a smile.
