CHAPTER XXIV.
“A hospitable gate unbarred to all.”
“All aboard for Castle Dome,” and the baron’s party filed up the carpeted gang plank, and looked smilingly about them.
“I have often heard of the sumptuousness of the Mississippi steamers, now grown traditional, but this exceeds even their reputation,” commented Miss Winters.
“This is the Morning line, madame,” answered the gaudily-dressed steward boastfully, “and they do nothing by halves, you know,” and he pompously led the way to the ladies’ saloon.
“Except by half millions,” returned the doctor jocosely.
“These steamers were built for the accommodation of the people who came to the World’s Fair at Chicago,” explained the steward. “Morning’s a queer sort of fellow”—and he grew confidential. “He could have brought his air ships and new-fangled things, such as he had on exhibition at the fair, but he wouldn’t. He said it was kind o’ throwing off on nature, that God never made but one Colorado River, and he for one hadn’t the brass to discount it.”
“Do you have many visitors belonging to the nobility?” asked Mrs. Thornton, evidently inclined to change the conversation from its personal trend.
“Oh, lots of ’em! There’s a Spanish count and an Italian prince stopping up at the Gonzales place now. The Italian has been there some time, making himself solid with the señorita, I reckon. And we are expecting a party this week, Baron Von Boodle, or some such name, with his friends”—here the baron rose abruptly and walked out of the saloon—“at least Mr. Morning telegraphed the captain from San Diego that when this party arrived he meant to run over here and make his first visit to Castle Dome, which will be an event, for, after all the millions of money he has spent on the place, he has never been near it, and everybody is wondering at it.”
After a night’s rest at the great Rio Colorado Hotel, built upon the bluff at Yuma, the party had made an early start, and had been on board the Undine for some time before the line was thrown in and the steamer began to move.
The steward bustled away, and the baroness rose, with a deep breath of relief, and walked to the mirror. It may have been observed of many women that any new or sudden sensation or condition or emotion suggests a looking-glass. Not that they see or are thinking of themselves, but they seem thus best able to collect their thoughts. So it was with this woman, only that now she did observe two very bright eyes and a radiant face, with the swift blood coursing back from her cheeks, across the smooth white surface of her neck, to the closely-defined growth of hair—that oracle of beauty which no ugly woman ever wore, whatever her features. She turned quickly away, and, following the doctor and her father, the three ladies went out to view the scenery.
“You observe this bend in the river,” a voice was saying, “where many a poor fellow has gone to his death, for there swoops the most fatal pool of eddies, perhaps, to be found in the whole channel of these whimsical waters.”
The baroness turned to look for the speaker, whose voice seemed familiar, and there, under the shade of the awning, in full silhouette, looking in the face of her husband, with whom he was pleasantly conversing, stood David Morning.
Her first thought was to retreat to the saloon and wait for him to present himself, but as his swift eye swept the deck, he caught sight of her face, and came quickly over, followed by the baron, saying, as he cordially took her hand, and held it closely for a long time, “I enjoy one advantage over you, baron, my acquaintance with the baroness dates back of yours. I hope she has not forgotten me.”
The woman made no reply to this remark; she simply said, “How do you do, Mr. Morning,” and presented him to her friends.
The brief trip up the river among the cliffs and cascades and whirlpools and caves and cañons and towering cathedral rocks, furnished prolific and auspicious topics for conversation, but it need not be said that neither the baroness nor Mr. Morning knew altogether what they were talking about. She could not fail to see the pupils of his sea-grey eyes grow very large when he looked at her, and he in turn observed that she scarcely looked at him at all.
The professor talked a little dryly at first, and Mrs. Thornton sat apart, evidently nursing her chagrin, for Mr. Morning was at this moment not only the wealthiest but the most famous and powerful man in all the world, and, had he sought it, could have obtained orders of high nobility from every crowned head in Europe. The baron, who would have seen “Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt,” if that brow possessed the attribute of Midas, looked at the situation from an altogether different standpoint, and was thinking at what period of the new-formed acquaintance it would be prudent to ask the loan of a few, or, possibly, more than a few, thousand pounds.
Presently the boat rounded into a little cove and stopped. The brief but eventful journey was over, and the party stepped from the boat to a flight of marble-flagged steps, leading up to shining floors, out of which arose columns supporting a light roof in Pagoda style. Easy swinging seats, with hammocks and tables, with a few racks and stands, completed the pretty “Rest” for the landing, and the party began to look about for the path of ascent.
Suddenly a tinkling sound was heard, and, softly as if it fell from the clouds, a car, sumptuously carpeted, cushioned, and canopied, appeared before them. It was, evidently, meant for the accommodation of the party, and one by one they stepped in. Morning was the last to follow, and as he came aboard and closed the plate-glass door, it shut with a tinkle, and the car arose, moving proportionately aslant as the grade of the terrace—which had been fashioned and grown in the short space of two years—inclined.
“My invention works like a charm,” Morning was heard to mutter to the outer air, as they neared the summit and surveyed the height. The awe-filling overhanging crags, thousands of centuries old, had been blasted and chiseled and coaxed into shelves, and steps, and nooks, and resting-places, softly carpeted with moss, and decorated with growing ferns and lichens. The wind came down the river and shook the leaves above their heads, and stirred the birds into a flood of song, and larks sat upon the twigs and warbled with joy.
“Only two years,” said Miss Winters, as they stepped from the car; “’tis not so long in which to make a beautiful world.”
“It is much more difficult to people it with the right sort,” mused Morning.
“The first builders had to try that two or three times, if my memory serves me,” remarked the doctor.
“Are these people of the right sort?” asked Mrs. Thornton significantly.
The baroness shot a quick glance at Morning, and looked over at her rather too loquacious maternal.
“I am too much of an ingrate to answer for them,” said Morning, undismayed. “I only know that I owe them my life, and that I have never had the grace to come and thank them.”
They had now arrived at the main entrance to the grounds, and the scene presented was one of indescribable beauty and splendor. The dazzling proportions of the structure rose into the air with such exceeding lightness and grace of outline, melting away against the silvery softness of the clouds, that it seemed swinging in the ambient air, and only for the cornices and columns and spires and turrets of onyx and agate which defined the outlines against the sky, one would look to see it float away like dissolving views of the Celestial City. The magnificent dome was rounded with bent and many-colored glasses, the eloquent figures storying events of history both classic and local, in pigments not known since the days of Donatello, who went mad because his figure could not speak. And there, upon its pedestal of purest alabaster, stood the chaste statue of Psyche, just as Morning had hewn it out of his captious fancy so long ago, and Cupid opposite, half eager, half evasive, and restless. Ah, well! and he looked into the deep, appreciative eyes of the woman by his side, and said not a word.
Having selected the most thoroughly skilled architects, artists, and artisans, and no limit having been placed to expenditure, it was evident that every detail of Morning’s plan had been faithfully executed. But beyond this his power, or, rather, his supervision or direction, had ceased. At last it was the estate and home of the Gonzales family and not his own, and concerning its management, or the manner in which they should enjoy it, he did not offer even a suggestion. Morning’s instructions, left with the Bank of California more than two years before, were to pay all checks signed by the Señora or the Señorita Gonzales, no matter what amount, and charge them to his account.
The Gonzales family had taken their good fortune with great equanimity. Their inclinations led them to a generous and exceedingly promiscuous hospitality, and they had not hesitated to arrange the ménage of their household without regard to conventionalities. Instead of the solemn and ubiquitous functionary at the open door, there was vacancy, while the party stood upon the tessellated floor of the broad vestibule for several minutes.
Presently a young Spaniard in boots and clanking spurs, with silver-laced sombrero and flaming tie, threw wide the door, and simultaneously Morning caught a glimpse through an open court of a female figure leaning upon the rosewood balustrade, mounted with a cable of silver, which surrounded a corridor, and idly tossing with her fan the light, half-curling locks of a man who sat upon a low seat, resting his head against her knee.
It was only a glance as the sun strikes against the steel, sharply cutting its way upon the eye, or like the incisive impress of some exceptional face in passing, whereby one seizes every detail of color and form, void of conscious effort. It was easy to recognize the graceful outline of the swaying figure as she sat poised under the sunlight, and swift and unbidden even as the coup d’œil was, the senses of David Morning thrilled with gladness. Was it the sight of Murella again that sent that shaft of ecstasy through his soul? or was it the all up-building, all-leveling lesson that the Señorita Gonzales was being amused?
The arrival of the party had been manifestly unexpected, and no formal announcement was made, but no sooner had they entered the magnificent reception hall at one extremity than Señorita Gonzales appeared at the other. She entered with a movement of the most exquisite grace, robed, rather than dressed, in a gown of acanthus green satin, flowing in the back from the half-bared neck to the gold-embroidered border of the demi-train. The front was gathered at the shoulder and fell with lengths of creamy lisse to the perfect foot, with its slippers of gold. A corselet of rich embroideries rounded the waist. The sleeves were loosely puffed and draped with softest lace to the white and flexible wrist, while the web-like lace of her mantilla rested lightly upon the shining coils of her abundant hair.
As Mr. Morning advanced toward the center of the room to greet his beautiful hostess, she drew an audible breath, and lifted her finely-arched brows, but no sign betrayed other emotion. Mr. Morning presented his friends in the most casual and easy manner, but when the Baroness Von Eulaw came forward, taller by some inches than the Señorita Gonzales, and with an exquisite manner was about to speak, the little hostess, with an air of special affability and simplicity, asked, showing her small white teeth the while:—
“To who owe I a the honor of this visite of a noble baroness?”
It was a bombshell in satin and lace which fell at the feet of Morning, and for an instant he saw no way to the rescue of the baroness. Then, rallying, he quickly replied:—
“To the reputation for hospitality of the fair owner of this house, and that of her charming family.”
“I no know if my name travel so long time a,” she rejoined, looking at Morning.
The baron then came forward, and, politely holding her fingers, said in Spanish, “I hope that the Señorita and Señora Gonzales are quite well, as who should not be in this Italy of rare delights?”
“Oh, Italy! that is the home of my parteekler friend. He paint Italia, he sing Italia, and he make me promise for go many times.”
“That settles it,” Morning muttered sententiously, but no one heard.
Then the conversation became general, the baroness commenting kindly upon the encroachments upon the time of the señorita in receiving curious visitors.
“Oh,” retorted Murella with pretty nonchalance, “I no care! I lofe amuse myself,” leading the way to the main saloon. “I haf always parteekler frent, same as baroness, ess it not?” and she sank indolently into the cushioned depths of a primrose sofa, waving the baroness to a place beside her, and leaving the party to make choice of seats.
A glance at the original design and superb appointments of this interior suggested the incongruity of hammocks and ollas, yet here they were many times repeated, for “ice is the devil’s nectar,” runs a Spanish proverb, and the olla has no rival save the mescal jug.
Every well-to-do Mexican family keeps beneath its roof a corps of female retainers, who are neither servants nor guests, but something between the two. They dine—except on occasions—at the family board, and mingle always at the family gathering, but they assist in the household labors, and sometimes, though not often, receive a stated money compensation. They are usually relatives, more or less distant, of the mistress of the household. The beautiful casa and great wealth of the Gonzales family had nearly depopulated the neighboring Mexican State of Sonora of all the needy Alvarados who could claim kinship with the Donna Maria, and a dozen of these señoritas now appeared shyly at the doors, their mantillas closely drawn, though the day was warm, and many voices and excellent music were heard from all quarters of the house and grounds.
After a few moments the Señora Gonzales, with her brother, Don Manuel Alvarado, who acted as major-domo of the estate, were presented, but the señora soon glided away unobserved, leaving her brother to the honors of guide over the mansion.
“You are very beautiful,” spoke Murella with apparent naiveté, as they arose to follow the party who had preceded them.
The smile of the baroness was tinged with bitterness as she turned to look into the Madonna face beside her, and ventured to reply.
“And Señor Morning lofes you like heaven and the angels,” she continued unctuously.
“Señorita, you forget that I have a husband.”
“Is he jealous?”
“Surely no,” replied the baroness sincerely.
“Then I no know what you mean a.”
“I mean that I owe a wife’s duty to the baron,” slowly, with rising color.
“And what you owe a to the other fellow?” meaning Morning.
The baroness was too much confused to speak.
“You know him a long time?”
“Before I married the baron and went abroad.”
“And you lofe him all these a year? Oh thunner!”
Murella’s English must be taken with many grains of allowance. The strongest words in a foreign or unfamiliar tongue seem ineffectual and weak.
“I must plead the indulgence of a guest,” laughed the baroness, “and withdraw myself from the searching operations of your cunning catechism, or turn the lights upon you. How long have you known—”
But the señorita had softly glided away, standing apart and giving hurried orders for luncheon.
Morning was in a dilemma. It will have been observed that, after the first moment of greeting, Murella had given him no farther thought. Gratitude is not with the Spaniard one of the cardinal virtues, as he was aware, so that was an unvexed question. If his name had not been so prominently before the world, doubtless they would—the entire family included—have forgotten it ere this. But was it pique, was it pride, or was it embarrassment, that led Murella to thus overlook him?
Certainly she had recognized the baroness at the first glance, to his amazement and bewilderment, for the episode of her examination and temporary custody of the photograph was unknown to him, and just so surely her first impulse had been to render that lady as uncomfortable as possible. But, with her usual swift sagacity, she had, with an eye single to her own cunning tactics, quite changed her base of action, and, with admirable finesse, proceeded at once to make a friend of the baroness, through her charming frankness and unsophisticated confidences. The steady, unflinching eye of Morning, therefore, while trained as the eagle’s to catch the fiercest rays of the noonday sun, could no more follow the erratic and elusive movements of the elfish fancy of this fascinating woman than the eye of his horse could follow the flash of a meteor.
“Come, señora,” said Murella to the baroness a moment later, “I know the ting you was ask a me, how long time I know Señor Morning lofe a you.”
The baroness knew that she had not meant to ask any such question, but rather how long the señorita had known Mr. Morning. But she had scarcely opened her lips when Murella talked on.
“You tink I no know lof when a I see a? Eh! what that on his face when he a tak a your hand for make a me know you Baroness Von Eulaw? Eh? what you call proud, courage, lof, beautiful life!” and her flashing eyes burned like stars in heaven’s night.
Strange caprice! the track was cold over which she had set out to run the race for a life, and many a prize had been won and thrown away since then, and now she was burning with the wish that her rival should gain that which she had lost. Was it magnanimity, or was it a natural-born desire to defraud some man of his marital rights, and give some woman a victory?
“Now we will go to the Morning room so I call a;” and together they walked over the exquisite mosaic floors, and halls of parquetry, and stairway glittering as the sun, and figures of classic art looked down, and fold on fold of hues of soft-blent shadows dropped from tinted panes and fell around them. In apparently the most casual way they passed a studio filled with light and color, where, in violet velvet blouse, and cap upon his poetic locks, worked and smoked the master of Italian art.
“This is my parteekler fren—the Baroness Von Eulaw, Señor Fillipo,” and they hurried on.
Arrived at the suite, they first entered the dressing room. It was plainly finished in French gray, with gold and blue enamel, the same colors repeated in drapery and cushions. But one piece attracted particular attention. It was an alabaster fountain, the elaborate accessories half concealing a full-sized bust of Morning, the identity of which could not be mistaken. It was exquisitely chiseled, and falling jets, and icy foam, and cascades like cobwebs, built up masses of soft, misty whiteness, shutting back all save an incidental glimpse of outline, and thickening by contrast the boldness of the water plants at the base.
“A very pretty conceit,” said the baroness, approvingly. “Who is the designer?”
“Me,” said the señorita, coldly, leading the way to the main chamber, to which apartment Murella carried the key. Unlocking the door, the baroness had scarcely time to take in the mute, indescribable effects of the auroral tints on the walls, stippled and faded into thinnest ether, with its golden sky overspread with winged cherubs in high relief, laid in tints such as are only painted on angels, when the baron’s party were heard approaching. One thing, however, had struck the baroness, even at a cursory glance. The dust lay thick and undisturbed over all the furniture of the room. A superb curtain of corn-colored brocade hung over one end of the apartment, which also showed signs of not having been disturbed at least for a term of many months. A gesture of impatience was made by Murella as she spoke, in an irascible tone of voice, “What for a he bring a they here?”
However, the party, following their guide, entered, expressing surprise at finding the ladies had preceded them.
The baron at once walked over and engaged their pretty hostess in conversation, laughing genuinely at her piquant expressions and unworldly-wise ways, while Morning talked about some irrelevant thing with Miss Winters, and the rest of the company sauntered to the remoter quarters of the apartments. Mrs. Thornton, however, coveted a view behind the maize curtain, and to this end plied the major-domo with such blandishments as were at her command, and using vigorously the little Spanish she possessed. The Spaniard turned to look for the señorita—she had momentarily disappeared with the baron—and he flung aside the fatal curtain.
There, in a regal frame, in a painting by the famous hand of Prince Fillipo Colonna, master of arts in the Royal Academy at Rome, appeared two full-sized figures. They were those of David Morning and Señorita Gonzales. It was an interior of an adobe house. The saints upon the mud walls, with rosaries suspended beneath them, and the crude decorations about the fireplace, with the hammocks in the shadow were dimly visible. Light came in through a low window, and fell upon the white face of Morning, just tinged with returning health. One hand held suspended a pencil, while with the other, just discernible from out the shadows, he clasped the girlish figure of Murella Gonzales.
It was a master work of art, and more than condoned all malicious or vain intent on the part of the author. The expression upon Morning’s face was one of placid amusement, while that upon the girl’s was anxious and arch, questioning and trusting, open, yet elusive, like the mimosa growing sturdily from the potted earth in the rude casement, which receded at a sound of the human voice. The noble artist had evidently caught an inspiration from the local color—filtrated through the hot brain of the lovely señorita—and had touched the face of Morning with the light of his lovely companion.
Mr. Morning had just crossed over to catch a word with the baroness when the tableau was unveiled. Her whitening face frightened him, and he looked quickly over her shoulder at the picture. At the same moment a piercing shriek, and Señorita Murella rushed wildly down the room.
“Madre de Dios!” she yelled. “What a you do that a for?” and she menaced the poor Spaniard with her small fist.
“It was I, it was I,” pleaded Mrs. Thornton. “Don’t blame him.” But Murella turned from her with high scorn.
“Fool, I will kill a him,” she shrieked, again turning to the place where the man had stood.
But Señor Don Manuel Jose Maria Ignacio Cervantes Alvarado, knowing something of the temper of his niece, had attended not upon the order of his going, but slipped away, and in his place stood Morning. For one brief moment Murella looked at him, then, drawing a pearl-handled stiletto from beneath her girdle, she gashed and stabbed the unconscious canvas in twice a dozen places, crying all the time, “Take a that, and a that, and a that!”
Morning thought that his time had come, but he manfully stood his ground, secretly smiling at the bloodless assassination, until, exhausted, Murella fell upon the carpet in a genuine hysterical rage. After a moment he lifted her to her feet, placed her hand within his arm, and led her unresistingly from the room.
An hour later she stood at the boathouse, leaning upon the arm of Prince Fillipo, and gayly waving an adieu to the party, Morning among them; then, with the artist’s arm about her waist, they slowly returned up the terrace steps, while the decorated steamer went out of sight around the cove.
And the Baroness Von Eulaw guessed now who it was that had made the pin holes in her eyes.