Fog everywhere. Congealed fog dripped from the roofs of Monterey. It fell, drop, drop, drop, in elongated pearls, on the slippery flag walks around the houses. Mountains of fog lay over the city, and slid in huge avalanches into the valleys. The harbor and near-about sea were filled with vapor-hills and crags. Fog blanketed the streets, blurred the trees, blotted the symmetry of buildings into bewildering shapelessness, and peopled the town with weird specters.
Occasionally a candle-point showed feebly in a corner lamp. Once in a while the dimness was accentuated by a lighted space streaking a yellowish gleam into the semiopaqueness—the candle of some early-rising Montereyan shining from his window. There were few of these lights to aid the passer-by; and there were few passers-by. Not only was the hour early for the people to be about, but the city itself was almost tenantless.
It was the beginning of the fifth day since the English fleet had sailed into Monterey, and out again.
Colonel Barcelo, with his soldiers, had marched away to Alisal, the colors from the fort and from the square emblazoned at the head of his column. After him rode the most of the wealth and fashion of the capital; that is, the most of those who had not preceded him.
The Colonel declared that he had satisfied honor, and that he would now retire in face of superior force.
Calmness of weather had succeeded wind-storm; still the fort slept peacefully beneath the empty flagpole, and the city plaza caught no shadow of foreign banner floating from the lofty staff in its center.
A horseman rode into town, made his way hurriedly through the plaza and crossed to a smaller plaza. He drew in sharply when he reached a house in which a light was showing through the railing of a veranda on the second story. He turned into the porte cochere. A vague figure was heaped across the threshold of the front door.
"Ola! Ola! Benito!" called the rider.
The figure resolved itself into a man wrapped in a blanket. Turtlelike his head emerged from its folds.
"Benito is with Colonel Barcelo. I am Alberto, peon of Señor Miramonte."
"Has Señora Valentino returned to the capital? Do you know?"
"The señora returned last night, señor."
"Is she within?"
"She is not, señor."
"Where is she?"
"She's away, señor."
The man loosened rein and started down the street.
"Captain Farquharson," called the peon, in tardy recognition.
"Many pardons, but may I make free to speak? The señora brought my wife, Lupincha, and me along as servants, since she heard the Barcelo place is vacant. Señora Miramonte lent us. May I say, Captain, my lady has taken Lupincha with her and, attended by a peon guard, is now at the castle, leaving an hour ago?"
"At the castle? An hour ago?"
"Si, Señor Captain. Breakfast is to be served there."
"Breakfast—at the castle!" the man speaking half to himself, and as if perplexed.
Alberto arose, huddled his blanket more closely about his shoulders, and came to the rider. "Several señoras and señors will be at the meal," he said in a low voice. In yet lower tone he added: "They are there to see the arrival of the English, and the defeat of the gringos Americanos—the Bostons." Bowing obsequiously, he glided over to his place on the threshold.
"Señora Valentino and friends are now at the castle, you say?"
"Si, señor."
Farquharson galloped back to the city plaza. He paused for a moment. The horse was restless in the chilly air. Its shod hoofs, clattering on the pavement, struck showers of sparks. He rode on a few steps, and stopped again, listening intently.
"'Tis only the boom of the surf," and started out briskly for the castle. On arriving he saw light coming through the windows, and heard the voices and laughter of men and women. Two or three peons bearing baskets appeared at the postern.
"I wish to speak with Señora Valentino. Tell her Captain Farquharson is here."
The señora soon was at the door.
"I'm here, Captain."
"Barcelo's in the sulks."
"As I expected."
"As to his giving the right hand of fellowship to Fairbanks, that is not to be thought of."
"Again, as I expected."
"When I saw him he was as savage as a caged bear."
The señora nodded her head meditatively.
"It's well the cannon are spiked."
"They have been unspiked. Some one has drilled out the priming tubes."
"You don't mean it, señora!"
"Exactly."
"My hat! It's enough to drive one mad."
"Last night, about midnight, I heard Fairbanks off Point Pinos signaling the other vessels in his fleet; so he's near at hand, and I've got together a little company to welcome him."
"To think that this of all days should see such blooming fog. If 'twould only clear up so the Admiral could get in, it would end all this fuss. But, something must be done about Barcelo. Some of these men hereabouts are talking more and more in favor of a California republic. Their nonsense has evidently got into the Colonel's system."
"And disappointed ambition might have another chance if such a republic came into being. My brother-in-law has a good deal of the bulldog in him."
"I am willing to believe almost anything of him now. But we've got to get to work; otherwise he'll be down here, likely as not, blowing off his fireworks again."
"Have you a suggestion, Captain?"
"No. I've thought till I can't think any longer. In the first place, I can't do anything with him; and it's too far for you to go out there. In the second place——"
"It will be best for me to be here when Fairbanks comes. When he once gets in we must take him by the hand and keep him here."
"We are in a deuce of a fix, between the devil and the deep sea, so to speak. On one hand, Barcelo, sulky and savage, and threatening to blow the British fleet off the map. On the other hand, Fairbanks so scrupulous he's ready to throw the gifts of the gods back into their arms, at the slightest excuse. When I left you yesterday at Miramonte's I hurried south to run down rumors. I've caught up with the rumors but haven't accomplished anything else. I have men watching Barcelo's movements. What else to do I don't know."
"Well, Captain, let's do nothing for the present—since there's nothing to be done."
"If this accursed fog would only lift."
"Our standing here won't lift it. Come in and breakfast with us."
"Thank you, but I want to go back to the hills to see if the sentinels have possibly caught sight of the fleet through some rift in the fog-banks."
"The fleet is off the harbor all right, my friend. What matter whether you see it or not? You will do better for having had refreshment."
"Not now. Perhaps I'll return later. I haven't yet inquired how you are. How is it with you?"
"I am all right, thank you. I could ride to Alisal."
"But you cannot be spared from here when the fog lifts. Talk about a California republic! Señora, you should be ruler of the Californias, including Texas and Oregon."
"Captain! Captain!" her merry laugh sounding within the old castle. "Again, my friend, breakfast. Hot coffee will go well, I am sure."
"You are very good, but I will decline for the present. Good-bye for a while. If anything comes up, I'll let you know. By the way, why not make Barcelo governor and general? Morando says he won't have the office, anyway, and it might save no end of confusion."
"Don't think it. It would only add fuel to the flame. Crisostimo's pride would be seriously touched at being made second choice. Besides, he isn't the man for the place, and the home office would justly blame us. He has been a brave and efficient fighting soldier, but never could be executive or diplomatic."
Rider and horse were soon lost to sight.
The señora returned to her friends.
Breakfast was served immediately. A table had been made ready in the old armory. Vacant musket racks and empty ammunition boxes were strange adornment for a breakfast, the room itself cobwebbed and dusty. Sperm-oil lanterns furnished needed light.
Peons served coffee and tortillas, accompanied by sea-trout browned to a turn over charcoal. This was followed with a delicious dish made of chicken and green corn boiled together, and the inevitable frijoles. Strawberries, large and luscious, which had been soaked in Mission wine, were plentifully distributed at each plate, of which the breakfasters partook at intervals throughout the meal, eating the fruit from the stem. Fresh figs stewed in sherry completed the repast.
There was little conversation in this company made up of individuals usually vivacious and talkative. The tenseness of eager expectation held everyone quiet.
The meal was not much more than finished when Captain Farquharson entered the room unannounced. The men and women sprang up.
"Señora Valentino," the Captain called.
She stepped to his side.
"My scouts have rushed word to me that Barcelo has left Alisal and is stampeding to Monterey."
"What is that you say, Captain?" from the señora, incredulously.
"Barcelo is but a few miles from the outskirts of town, saying he is going to proclaim himself dictator of a California republic, and calling down vengeance on anyone opposing. The fat's in the fire if Fairbanks gets wind of this."
"I must ride at once and meet the Colonel."
"Would that I could meet him with my old company in the Coldstream Guards! Bull-dog or no, he'd not forget the hour. I'll go along with you, señora, but it's precious little that anyone can do with such a man."
After requesting those present to await her return, the señora mounted her horse and rode rapidly toward El Camino Real, Farquharson riding with her as far as the city limits, when she said to him:
"I will go on now by myself, Captain."
"As you wish. I'll stay here, then, till you come back."
Time dragged.
Captain Farquharson dismounted and nervously led his animal back and forth.
An hour passed, and yet another. Still the Captain was at his post. For the hundredth time he fiercely drew his watch from his pocket, scowled at its face and as fiercely thrust it back.
In sudden desperation the man sprang to horse. With two fingers on his lips he began a whistle-call, but stopped abruptly. The señora had emerged from the fog.
"Señora Valentino, long ago I sent men to see if you were safe. They reported that you and Barcelo were riding up and down an outer street talking, talking, talking. You have been in conference with him over two hours. Of course nothing could be done with him."
"Colonel Barcelo has gone home, after sending his men to the barracks. When Fairbanks comes the Colonel will turn the government over to him formally, and give him the right hand of fellowship."
"How did you manage?" he asked.
"By making appeal both to his less worthy nature and to his higher."
"How do you mean?"
"First, by arousing jealousy, convincing him that a California republic would surely make Mendoza its president. Second, in appealing to his nobler side. I said to him that a California republic would mean internecine strife—Monterey, the brain and heart of the province, fighting the north and the south, its hands and feet. So between the two arguments the cause was won."
"You actually induced him to go home?"
"He has gone," smiling. "Sister Clarinda aided me, a wife's influence, you know."
Farquharson wrinkled his forehead knowingly.
Together they returned to the castle. The little knot of people anxiously gathered around them. To their excited questionings the señora replied: "All's well that ends well."
"Your meaning, señora?" asked one.
"That we've nothing to do now—but disperse the fog."
Señora Valentino went to an upper corner of the castle, and into a room now seldom used. It had once been a sentinel chamber, and surveyed harbor and sea. More than once had she come to this place, time permitting, to revel in its loneliness.
To-day the fog drew dark shades over the windows, enveloping the room in twilight. A slow wind was blowing, enough to move the casements. This augured well. Afternoon would, more than likely, see clear skyline.
The woman's mood was to be alone. Closing the old door on its rusty hinges she turned the grating lock, and looked around with a sigh of satisfaction.
The former governor had been an intimate of this room. Here he would steal away to read and dream. The furnishings were his, and he had not seen fit to disturb them when leaving for Mexico. On shelves were books of poems and romances. On the floor lay rugs of tasteful pattern and coloring. A few very good pictures were on the wall, while an easy chair or two stood invitingly. On one side jutted a stone fireplace, a pile of ashes on the hearth telling its own story. All these things were strangely out of keeping with the rest of the castle.
In a cupboard the señora found wood and paper in abundance, placed there by the former governor, mindful of his comfort.
"I'm cold," she shivered. "I'll call Lupincha and have a fire. No, I'll build it myself."
The dry fuel and the paper, ignited by a flint spark, soon made flames that roared into the chimney.
"Now it is cheery and warm. I'll look over one of Governor Moncada's romances till the fleet enters. Well, here's Don Quixote. He won't do—I've fought windmills myself—it's monotonous. And here, El Cid. Not to-day—more heroics. I want a book written about life as it is, not as it ought to be."
She took up a manuscript, "Ode to Falling Rain," by the Governor himself.
"Señor Moncada, why was it not an 'Ode to a Lifting Fog'? Because it is not, into the fire you go, you wrinkled bit of paper. Ah! it burns well despite the title. My brother-in-law once spoke of the governor as a fussy old curmudgeon. It would be interesting to know what the Señora Moncada thinks of the Señor Barcelo."
A knock interrupted her musing. She kept perfectly quiet. Again, the knock, a little louder, a little more insistent. She snuggled closer into the chair. Suddenly the thought came to her that it might be Farquharson with some message of importance. She quickly unlocked the door.
"Señora Valentino, may I come in? The peona Lupincha told me I would find you here."
"Certainly, Captain Morando, come in. My friends in the castle are variously occupying themselves till the great moment strikes. I," looking around, "chose to come off here by myself," her manner charmingly cordial.
The señora was again in her chair. The comandante sat opposite. There was silence, each seeming to find nothing to say to the other.
Under the firelight the doña appeared more beautiful than ever, her form unusually petite and girlish. To the soldier she had been a piece of exquisite workmanship, cameo-cut, a rare jewel to be admired. To-day she was this, plus woman's sweetness and gentleness. His heart gave an appreciative throb.
"Silvia," abruptly, "will you be my wife?"
She flashed her eyes at him. "Captain, it is curious, isn't it? about most people. They roll along in their groove, at about the same speed, and reach a certain point at a certain time, regularly enough. Have you ever thought of it?"
"Well, no—or, perhaps, yes."
"In the old stories the chapters end with the proposal, the puppets are disposed of, the book closed. You have, then, reached this point?"
"But, Silvia, you and I have been so frank that nothing preliminary seemed left for me to say—if that is what you mean—so I asked the question as I did. I vow to you by my manhood——"
She stood before him.
"Captain Morando, it was love for an ideal man that really brought me to California."
"Señora, I did not know——" also rising.
"No. You did not know," her lips hardening ever so little. "Yes, an ideal. Him I love with my heart, my soul; every energy I have. Gladly would I live for him. Equally gladly would I die for him."
"Then, señora, there is no room in your life for me? Another fills it? Why, I thought—I believed——"
"You thought! you believed! O, Alfredo!"
"You have never cared for me. You never can care. You——"
"Do not trouble either of us with further questioning. I answer, No, I do not care for you—have never cared for you."
"Señora, even but now I dared think——"
"Dare think nothing!"
"Then, Doña Silvia, I erred, that is all. My intentions were worthy. You never intimated to me anything of this—this affection. I step out of the way of this other whom you so fully love. May you be happy, and may he endow your life with all joy. I leave you now."
"No, Alfredo, not yet," her voice shaking a little. "Do you not know who it is that has impersonated my ideal?"
"No, I do not know."
"And can you not even conjecture?" a little wistfully.
"How could I?"
"You are right. How could you?" with an enigmatic smile.
She looked at him with a penetratingly appraising gaze.
"I will enlighten you. It is you—you—Señor Captain Morando—you!"
"I?"
"Yes. I tried to cheat myself. I lied to myself about you. I kept you on a pedestal for my worshiping. You, Captain Morando, are nothing to me, but the man, the ideal man, whom I hoped was inclosed in that goodly form of yours, he it is whom I love." Her tones were low and even.
"Señora, it is to me a regret that your ideal has been so misplaced."
"It is but one more link in that chain of disillusionment—my life. I suppose I should not complain. What does it matter?" Her words betokened a resignation which her glowing eyes did not verify.
The Captain moved his chair closer to her and took her hand.
"Señora, though disillusionment has passed me by, disappointment has not. Let us make common cause, and fight the battle of life together. Wounds quiver and smart in the past of both of us. Why not let the future in years of devotion each to the other, bring consoling balm to these wounds?"
Her hand remained in his, but she did not speak.
"Señora—Silvia—let us go away from here, and, in the quiet of home life, let time do its work in scattering into forgetfulness the ashes of old heartburnings."
"And what of my lost ideal, Alfredo?"
"Señora doña, theory is one thing, fact another; and life is fact. Why not accept things as they are?"
"Many would say you speak well. And yet—rather than sacrifice my ideal would I choose to sleep forever at the bottom of the sea."
"Señora, do you believe that ideals are ever realized in this world?"
"Perhaps not. But, to come from abstract thought to concrete application. When the señorita of the window pane looked down on the parade ground facing old Pilar Convent the place widened into fields of conquest. The flashing sword in the hand of her cadet-officer became a marshal's baton, the sword-belt, a viceroy's sash. Her eaglet would fly straight-winged into the face of the sun. Though storms above the clouds might whirl him like a dried and broken branch, and hurl him back to earth, yet ever upward would be his purpose. Don Alfredo, have you ever tried your wings? Don't speak, soldier. I will answer for you. Like the pet chick, pinions folded, have you been content with hopping fences—the eaglet-cadet a village comandante."
"I am fulfilling my duty to the best of my ability."
She drew her hand away, and looked him squarely in the face.
"Fulfilling duty! Alfredo, you exhaust my patience. I have power; I have influence, I have standing at the court of Saint James. Under Lord Aberdeen's written promise to me, would he make high place for you in Europe, or in vast India. You yawned. My offer was unconsidered.
"A strange contempt for opportunity seems ever to have been your make-up. As in manhood, so in your youth. Alfredo, during those three years at Pilar you blew a kiss to me from the parade ground; or, was it twice? or, perhaps thrice? or, even more. A valiant conquistador-in-the-making, disregarding barrier, would have reached the topmost span of that forbidding cloister, to salute the lips of the watching maiden at closer range than fifty paces.
"But to return to later times. If Britain possesses California, a viceroyship must go to some one. You shrugged when I spoke of tossing it to you; yet, it is a catch for which many an ambitious caballero would stretch ready hands."
"I am not ambition's fool, neither am I without ambition. If I rise, my own feet shall lift me, step by step," in his voice a ring of challenge.
"In other words, you prefer to protect the flocks of rich herdsmen against marauding aborigine—if not in California, elsewhere. No?"
"Silvia, let us cease this exchange of words. We have much in common. Come with me. Be my household queen. In coming here to-day not the least in my thought was the wish to take you away from the politics of the world. Come, Silvia, come."
"And, over there—in the distance—beyond the shadows—would be my ideal calling to me, chiding me, telling me of my unfaithfulness. No, Alfredo, I lie to myself no longer.
"The other morning, as I left your official sitting room in San José, the King's Highway to Monterey became another road to Damascus. The scales fell from my eyes, as they did from Saul of Tarsus. I cursed myself for the lie to which I had sworn in the sanctuary of my soul—the lie making you, Alfredo Morando, the personification of my ideal.
"I lashed my horse. I wished—I even prayed—that the beast might spring to the rocky depths of the cañon at my side, that I might find release in the parting of my body and its soul."
"Señora Valentino, the artist sometimes so arranges the lights and shades on his sitter that he brings in relief certain lineaments to the obscuring of others, producing, often, a fancy picture rather than a portrait. Your delineation of my character, emphasizing certain points, neglecting others, seems to be hardly fair. But, doña, I scorn the pleader's place. I admit my unworthiness. Your word, then—is final?" arising and taking up his cap, dignity vesting speech and manner.
"Yes, Alfredo, final—final. Go, continue to be a comandante-protector of sheep. Gallop across the plains to Mission San José. Improvise dawdling love-songs, twangle the guitar, and strut about by the light of the moon. The Señorita de la Mendoza may again dance El Son, to bring you to her side. No longer will I keep you from her, with the vain hope that, in the capitals of the nations, you and I, uniting our mentalities and working hand in hand, might have no small part in the history-making of our generation. Good-by, Alfredo." She extended her hand.
"Good-by, Silvia."
He opened the door and hesitated at the threshold.
"Señora, once more, is it final?"
The color faded from her face. Her features set in emotionless expression.
"Yes, Alfredo—yes."
******
Over the sea strong wind flowed. Bank after bank of fog, rocked under powerful propulsion, was lifted into the air, and disappeared. Finally, from Point Pinos to Santa Cruz the waters laughed and sparkled in the late-coming sun. Eleven men-of-war were disclosed in the outer harbor, their wilderness of spars clustering beneath the Union Jack.
Within the inner harbor two smaller vessels were at anchor, the springs in their cables allowing them to swing end to end in the shifting tides. On their decks grim-visaged men stood at the guns. Their masts were tipped with the Stars and Stripes.
The frigate United States and the sloop-of-war Cyane had warped off the bar of Half Moon Bay. Under cover of night, and undeterred by danger, they had slipped past the English fleet which was nodding lazily in the smooth sea, awaiting the coming of dawn and the clearing of the fog. Into the harbor, up to the very eyes of the castle, they came.
With the sun's unveiling American marines rushed into boats, hurried ashore and took possession of the city. The Red, White and Blue snapped saucily over plaza and fort.
Signals fluttered on Admiral Fairbanks's flagship, whipping the air in persistent command. In reluctant obedience the warships, for the second time, wheeled slowly back to the ocean, the Vanguard in the rear, like a stern parent driving his half-rebellious brood before him.
In the upper room of the castle Silvia Valentino was cognizant of none of these things. In the moment of Captain Morando's departure she had thrown herself, face downward, on the floor, and lay weeping out her heart.