The Flag of Distress Part 6

This, surrounded by a parapet breast-high--beset with plants and flowering shrubs in boxes and pots, thus forming a sort of aerial garden--is reached by a stone stair, the _escalera_, which leads up out of the inner court, called _patio_. During certain hours of the day, the azotea is a favourite resort, being a pleasant place of dalliance, as also the finest for observation--commanding, as in this case it does, a view of the country at back, and the broad bay in front. To look upon this last have the two "senoritas," on the same morning, ascended--soon after breakfast, which in all parts of Spanish America is eaten at the somewhat late hour of 11 a.m.

That they do not intend staying here long, is evident from the character of their dresses. Both are costumed and equipped for the saddle; having hats of vicuna wool on their heads, riding-whips in their hands, and spurs on their heels; while in the courtyard below stand four horses, saddled and bridled, champing their bits, and impatiently pawing the flagged pavement.

Since all the saddles are such as are usually ridden by men, it may be supposed only men are to be mounted, and that the ladies' horses have not yet been brought out of the stable. This would naturally be the conjecture of a stranger to Spanish California. But one _an fait_ to its fashions would draw deductions differently. Looking at the spurred heels upon the house-top, and the saddled horses below, he would conclude that two of the steeds were intended to be ridden by the ladies; in that style of equitation with which the famed d.u.c.h.esse de Berri was accustomed to astonish the Parisians.

The other two horses, having larger and somewhat coa.r.s.er saddles, are evidently designed for gentlemen; so that the cavalcade will be symmetrically composed--two and two of each s.e.x.

The gentlemen have not yet put in an appearance; but who they are may be learnt from the dialogue pa.s.sing between the two ladies. From their elevated, position they can see the rapidly growing city of San Francisco, and the shipping in its harbour--north-east, and a little to their left. But there are several vessels riding at anchor out in front of them; one a warship, towards which the eyes of both keep continuously turning, as though they expected a boat soon to put off from her side.

As yet none such has been seen; and, withdrawing her gaze from the warship, Inez opens the conversation by a question--

"Is it really true that we're going back to Spain?"

She has been in California only a short time, since the death of her father and mother, which placed her under the guardianship of Don Gregorio. But though here, lovers have been all the while sighing around her, she longs to return to her dear Andalusia. Therefore has she asked the question with more than a common interest.

"Quite true;" says Carmen, giving the answer, "and I'm sorry it is so."

"Why should you be sorry?"

"There are many reasons."

"Give one."

"I could give twenty."

"One will be sufficient--if good."

"They're all good."

"Let me hear them, then."

"First of all, I like California--I love it. Its fine climate, and bright blue sides."

"Not a bit brighter, or bluer, than those of Spain."

"Ten times brighter, and ten times bluer. The skies of the Old-World are to those of the New as lead to _lapis lazuli_. In that respect, neither Spain nor Italy can compare with California. Its seas, too, are superior. Even the boasted Bay of Naples would be but a poor pond alongside that n.o.ble sheet of water, far-stretching before our eyes.

Look at it!"

"Looking at it through _your_ eyes, I might think so; not through mine.

For my part, I see nothing in it to be so much admired."

"But something _on_ it; for instance, that grand ship out yonder. Come, now; confess the truth! Isn't that something to admire?"

"But she don't belong to your bay," replies the Andalusian.

"No matter. There is on it now, and in it--the ship I mean--somebody who, if I mistake not, has very much interested somebody else--a certain Andalusian lady, by name Inez Alvarez."

"Your words will answer as well for a Biscayan lady--by name Carmen Montijo."

"Suppose I admit it, and say yes? Well; I will. There _is_ one in yonder ship who has very much interested me. Nay, more; I admire--ay, love him! You see I'm not ashamed to confess what the world affects to consider a weakness. We of the Celtic race don't keep secrets as you of the further South; half Moors, as you are. For all, _sobrina_, you haven't kept yours; though you tried heard enough. I saw from the first you were smitten with that young English officer, who has hair the exact colour of a carrot!"

"It isn't anything of the kind. His hair is of a much more becoming hue than that of the other English officer, who's taken your fancy, _tia_."

"Nothing to compare with it. Look at this. There's a curl; one of the handsomest that ever grew on the head of man! Dark and glossy, as the coat of the fur-seal. Beautiful! I could kiss it over, and over again!"

While speaking, she does so.

"And look at this!" cries the other, also drawing forth a lock of hair, and displaying it in the sunlight, "See how it shines--like tissue of gold! Far prettier than that you've got, and better worth kissing."

Saying which she imitates the example set her, by raising the tress to her lips, and repeatedly kissing it.

"So, so, my innocent!" exclaims Carmen, "you've been stealing too?"

"As yourself!"

"And, I suppose, you've given him a love-lock in exchange?"

"Have you?"

"I have. To you, Inez, I make no secret of it. Come, now! Be equally candid with me. Have you done so?"

"I've done the same as yourself."

"And has your heart gone with the gift? Tell the truth, _sobrina_."

"Ask your own, _tia_; and take its answer for mine."

"Enough, then; we understand each other, and shall keep the secret to ourselves. Now let's talk of other things; go back to what we began with--about leaving California. You're glad we're going?"

"Indeed, yes. And I wonder you're not the same. Dear old Spain, the finest country on earth! And Cadiz the finest city."

"Ah! about that we two differ. Give me California for a country, and San Francisco for a home; though it's not much of a city yet. It will, ere long; and I should like to stay in it. But that's not to be, and there's an end of the matter. Father has determined on leaving.

Indeed, he has already sold out; so that this house and the lands around it are no longer ours. As the lawyers have the deed of transfer, and the purchase money has been paid, we're only here on sufferance, and must soon yield possession. Then, we're to take ship for Panama, go across the Isthmus and over the Atlantic Ocean; once more to renew the Old-world life, with all its stupid ceremonies. How I shall miss the free wild ways of California--its rural sports--with their quaint originality and picturesqueness! I'm sure I shall die of _ennui_, soon after reaching Spain. Your Cadiz will kill me."

"But, Carmen; surely you can't be happy here--now that everything is so changed? Why, we can scarce walk out in safety, or take a promenade through the streets of the town, crowded with those rude fellows in red-shirts, who've come to dig for gold--Anglo-Saxons, as they call themselves."

"What! You speaking against Anglo-Saxons! And with that tress treasured in your bosom--so close to your heart!"

"Oh! _he_ is different. He's not Saxon, but Welsh--and that's Celtic, the same as you Biscayans. Besides, he isn't to be ranked with that rabble, even though he were of the same race. The Senor Cadwallader is a born hidalgo."

"Admitting him to be, I think you do wrong to these red-shirted gentry, in calling them a rabble. Rough as they may appear, they have gentle hearts under their coa.r.s.e homespun coats. Many of them are true bred-and-born gentlemen; and, what's better, behave as such. I've never received insult from them--not even disrespect--though I've been among them scores of times. Father wrongs them too: for it is partly their presence here that's causing him to quit California--as also many others of our old families. Still, as we reside in the country, at a safe distance from town, we might enjoy immunity from meeting _los barbaros_, as our people are pleased contemptuously to style them. For my part, I love dear old California, and will greatly regret leaving it. Only to think; I shall never more behold the gallant _vaquero_, mounted on his magnificent steed, careering across the plain, and launching his lazo over the horns of a fierce wild bull, ready to gore him if he but miss his aim. Ah! it's one of the finest sights in the world--so exciting in this dull prosaic age. It recalls the heroic days and deeds of the Great Conde, the Campeador, and Cid. Yes, Inez; only in this modern transatlantic land--out here, on the sh.o.r.es of the South Sea--do there still exist customs and manners to remind one of the old knight-errantry and times of the troubadours."

"What an enthusiast you are! But apropos of your knights-errant, yonder are two of them, if I mistake not, making this way. Now, fancy yourself on the donjon of an ancient Moorish castle, salute, and receive them accordingly. Ha, ha, ha!"

The clear ringing laugh of the Andalusian is not echoed by the Biscayan.

Instead, a shadow falls over her face, as her eyes become fixed upon two mounted figures just distinguishable in the distance.

"True types of your Californian _chivalry_!" adds Inez ironically.