Part 26 (1/2)
”And why for you, senor? Half the trouble in the world has been made on paper.”
”Oh, thou wise one! What trouble can a piece of paper make when it lies on a man's heart?”
”It can crackle when another head lies on it.”
”No head will ever lie here but--”
”Mine?”
”Eulogia!”
”To thee, Senorita Dona Eulogia,” cried a deep voice. ”May the jewels in thine eyes s.h.i.+ne by the stars when thou art above them. May the tears never dim them while they s.h.i.+ne for us below,” and a caballero pushed back his chair, leaned forward, and touched her gla.s.s with his, then went down on one knee and drank the red wine.
Eulogia threw him a little absent smile, sipped her wine, and went on talking to Ignestria in her soft monotonous voice.
”My friend--Graciosa La Cruz--went a few weeks ago to Monterey for a visit. You will tell her I think of her, no?”
”I will dance with her often because she is your friend--until I return to San Luis Obispo.”
”Will that be soon, senor?”
”I told thee that would be as soon as thou wished. Thou wilt answer my letter--promise me, Eulogia.”
”I will not, senor. I intend to be wiser than other women. At the very least, my follies shall not burn paper. If you want an answer, you will return.”
”I will _not_ return without that answer. I never can see thee alone, and if I could, thy coquetry would not give me a plain answer. I must see it on paper before I will believe.”
”Thou canst wait for the day of resurrection for thy knowledge, then!”
V
Once more Aunt Anastacia rolled her large figure through Eulogia's doorway and handed her a letter.
”From Don Pablo Ignestria, my baby,” she said. ”Oh, what a man! what a caballero! And so smart. He waited an hour by the creek in the mission gardens until he saw thy mother go out, and then he brought the note to me. He begged to see thee, but I dared not grant that, ninita, for thy mother will be back in ten minutes.”
”Go downstairs and keep my mother there,” commanded Eulogia, and Aunt Anastacia rolled off, whilst her niece with unwonted nervousness opened the letter.
”Sweet of my soul! Day-star of my life! I dare not speak to thee of love because, strong man as I am, still am I a coward before those mocking eyes. Therefore if thou laugh the first time thou readest that I love thee, I shall not see it, and the second time thou mayest be more kind.
Beautiful and idolized Eulogia, men have loved thee, but never will be cast at thy little feet a heart stronger or truer than mine. Ay, dueno adorada, I love thee! Without hope? No! I believe that thou lovest me, thou cold little one, although thou dost not like to think that the heart thou hast sealed can open to let love in. But, Eulogia! Star of my eyes! I love thee so I will break that heart in pieces, and give thee another so soft and warm that it will beat all through the old house to which I will take thee. For thou wilt come to me, thou little coquette?
Thou wilt write to me to come back and stand with thee in the mission while the good padre asks the saints to bless us? Eulogia, thou hast sworn thou wilt write to no man, but thou wilt write to me, my little one. Thou wilt not break the heart that lives in thine.
”I kiss thy little feet. I kiss thy tiny hands. I kiss--ay, Eulogia!
Adios! Adios!
”PABLO.”
Eulogia could not resist that letter. Her scruples vanished, and, after an entire day of agonized composition, she sent these lines:--
”You can come back to San Luis Obispo.