Overland :: :: University of Virginia Library

IN those days, Santa Fé, New Mexico, was an undergrown, decrepit, out at-elbows
ancient hidalgo of a town, with not a scintillation of prosperity or
grandeur about it, except the name of capital.

It was two hundred and seventy years old; and it had less than five thousand
inhabitants. It was the metropolis of a vast extent of country, not destitute
of natural wealth; and it consisted of a few narrow, irregular streets, lined
by one-story houses built of sun-baked bricks. Owing to the fine climate, it was
difficult to die there; but owing to many things not fine, it was almost equally
difficult to live.

Even the fact that Santa Fé had been for a period under the fostering wings
of the American eagle did not make it grow much. Westward-ho emigrants
halted there to refit and buy cattle and provisions; but always started resolutely
on again, westward-hoing across the continent. Nobody seemed to want to
stay in Santa Fé, except the aforesaid less than five thousand inhabitants, who
were able to endure the place because they had never seen any other, and who
had become a part of its gray, dirty, lazy lifelessness and despondency.

For a wonder, this old atom of a metropolis had lately had an increase of
population, which was nearly as great a wonder as Sarah having a son when she
was “well stricken in years.” A couple of new-comers—not a man nor woman
less than a couple—now stood on the flat roof of one of the largest of the sun-baked
brick houses. By great good luck, moreover, these two were, I humbly
trust, worthy of attention. The one was interesting because she was the handsomest
girl in Santa Fé, and would have been considered a handsome girl anywhere;
the other was interesting because she was a remarkable woman, and
even, as Mr. Jefferson Brick might have phrased it, “one of the most remarkable
women in our country, sir.” At least so she judged, and judged it too with very
considerable confidence, being one of those persons who say, “If I know myself,
and I think I do.”

The beauty was of a mixed type. She combined the blonde and the brunette
fashions of loveliness. You might guess at the first glance that she had in her
the blood of both the Teutonic and the Latin races. While her skin was clear

and rosy, and her curling hair was of a light and bright chestnut, her long, shadowy
eyelashes were almost black, and her eyes were of a deep hazel, nearly allied
to blackness. Her form had the height of the usual American girl, and the
round plumpness of the usual Spanish girl. Even in her bearing and expression
you could discover more or less of this union of different races. There was
shyness and frankness; there was mistrust and confidence; there was sentimentality
and gayety. In short, Clara Muñoz Garcia Van Diemen was a handsome
and interesting young lady.

Now for the remarkable woman. Sturdy and prominent old character, obviously.
Forty-seven years old, or thereabouts; lots of curling iron-gray hair
twisted about her round forehead; a few wrinkles, and not all of the newest.
Round face, round and earnest eyes, short, self-confident nose, chin sticking out
in search of its own way, mouth trembling with unuttered ideas. Good figure—
what Lord Dundreary would call “dem robust,” but not so sumptuous as to be
merely ornamental; tolerably convenient figure to get about in. Walks up and
down, man-fashion, with her hands behind her back—also man-fashion. Such is
Mrs. Maria Stanley, the sister of Clara Van Diemen's father, and best known to
Clara as Aunt Maria.

“And so this is Santa Fé?” said Aunt Maria, rolling her spectacles over the
little wilted city. “Founded in 1581; two hundred and seventy years old. Well,
if this is all that man can do in that time, he had better leave colonization to
woman.”

Clara smiled with an innocent air of half wonder and half amusement, such
as you may see on the face of a child when it is shown some new and rather
awe-striking marvel of the universe, whether a jack-in-a-box or a comet. She
had only known Aunt Maria for the last four years, and she had not yet got used
to her rough-and-ready mannish ways, nor learned to see any sense in her philosophizings.
Looking upon her as a comical character, and supposing that she
talked mainly for the fun of the thing, she was disposed to laugh at her doings
and sayings, though mostly meant in solemn earnest.

“But about your affairs, my child,” continued Aunt Maria, suddenly gripping
a fresh subject after her quick and startling fashion. “I don't understand them.
How is it possible? Here is a great fortune gone; gone in a moment; gone
incomprehensibly. What does it mean? Some rascality here. Some man at
the bottom of this.”

“I presume my relative, Garcia, must be right,” commenced Clara.

“No, he isn't,” interrupted Aunt Maria. “He is wrong. Of course he's
wrong. I never knew a man yet but what he was wrong.”

“You make me laugh in spite of my troubles,” said Clara, laughing, however,
only through her eyes, which had great faculties for sparkling out meanings.
“But see here,” she added, turning grave again, and putting up her hand to ask
attention. “Mr. Garcia tells a straight story, and gives reasons enough. There
was the war,” and here she began to count on her fingers. “That destroyed a
great deal. I know when my father could scarcely send on money to pay my
bills in New York. And then there was the signature for Señor Pedraez. And
then there were the Apaches who burnt the hacienda and drove off the cattle.
And then he—”

Her voice faltered and she stopped; she could not say, “He died.”

“My poor, dear child!” sighed Aunt Maria, walking up to the girl and caressing
her with a tenderness which was all womanly.

“That seems enough,” continued Clara, when she could speak again. “I

suppose that what Garcia and the lawyers tell us is true. I suppose I am not
worth a thousand dollars.”

“Will a thousand dollars support you here?”

“I don't know. I don't think it will.”

“Then if I can't set this thing straight, if I can't make somebody disgorge
your property, I must take you back with me.”

“Oh! if you would!” implored Clara, all the tender helplessness of Spanish
girlhood appealing from her eyes.

“Of course I will,” said Aunt Maria, with a benevolent energy which was
almost terrific.

“I would try to do something. I don't know. Couldn't I teach Spanish?”

“You shan't,” decided Aunt Maria. “Yes, you shall. You shall be professor
of foreign languages in a Female College which I mean to have founded.”

Clara stared with astonishment, and then burst into a hearty fit of laughter,
the two finishing the drying of her tears. She was so far from wishing to be a
strong-minded person of either gender, that she did not comprehend that her
aunt could wish it for her, or could herself seriously claim to be one. The talk
about a professorship was in her estimation the wayward, humorous whim of an
eccentric who was fond of solemn joking. Mrs. Stanley, meanwhile, could not
see why her utterance should not be taken in earnest, and opened her eyes at
Clara's merriment.

We must say a word or two concerning the past of this young lady. Twenty-five
years previous a New Yorker named Augustus Van Diemen, the brother of
that Maria Jane Van Diemen now known to the world as Mrs. Stanley, had migrated
to California, set up in the hide business, and married by stealth the
daughter of a wealthy Mexican named Pedro Muñoz. Muñoz got into a Spanish
Catholic rage at having a Yankee Protestant son-in-law, disowned and formally
disinherited his child, and worried her husband into quitting the country.
Van Diemen returned to the United States, but his wife soon became homesick
for her native land, and, like a good husband as he was, he went once more to
Mexico. This time he settled in Santa Fé, where he accumulated a handsome
fortune, lived in the best house in the city, and owned haciendas.

Clara's mother dying when the girl was fourteen years old, Van Diemen felt
free to give her, his only child, an American education, and sent her to New York,
where she went through four years of schooling. During this period came the
war between the United States and Mexico. Foreign residents were ill-treated;
Van Diemen was sometimes a prisoner, sometimes a fugitive; in one way or another
his fortune went to pieces. Four months previous to the opening of this
story he died in a state little better than insolvency. Clara, returning to Santa
Fé under the care of her energetic and affectionate relative, found that the deluge
of debt would cover town house and haciendas, leaving her barely a thousand
dollars. She was handsome and accomplished, but she was an orphan and
poor. The main chance with her seemed to lie in the likelihood that she would
find a mother (or a father) in Aunt Maria.

Yes, there was another sustaining possibility, and of a more poetic nature.
There was a young American officer named Thurstane, a second lieutenant acting
as quartermaster of the department, who had met her heretofore in New
York, who had seemed delighted to welcome her to Santa Fé, and who now
called on her nearly every day. Might it not be that Lieutenant Thurstane
would want to make her Mrs. Thurstane, and would have power granted him to
induce her to consent to the arrangement? Clara was sufficiently a woman, and

sufficiently a Spanish woman especially, to believe in marriage. She did not
mean particularly to be Mrs. Thurstane, but she did mean generally to be Mrs.
Somebody. And why not Thurstane? Well, that was for him to decide, at
least to a considerable extent. In the mean time she did not love him; she only
disliked the thought of leaving him.

While these two women had been talking and thinking, a lazy Indian servant
had been lounging up the stairway. Arrived on the roof, he advanced to La
Señorita Clara, and handed her a letter. The girl opened it, glanced through it
with a flushing face, and cried out delightedly, “It is from my grandfather. How
wonderful! O holy Maria, thanks! His heart has been softened. He invites
me to come and live with him in San Francisco. O Madre de Dios!”

Although Clara spoke English perfectly, and although she was in faith quite
as much of a Protestant as a Catholic, yet in her moments of strong excitement
she sometimes fell back into the language and ideas of her childhood.

“Child, what are you jabbering about?” asked Aunt Maria.

“There it is. See! Pedro Muñoz! It is his own signature. I have seen
letters of his. Pedro Muñoz! Read it. Oh! you don't read Spanish.”

Then she translated the letter aloud. Aunt Maria listened with a firm and
almost stern aspect, like one who sees some justice done, but not enough.

“He doesn't beg your pardon,” she said at the close of the reading.

Clara, supposing that she was expected to laugh, and not seeing the point of
the joke, stared in amazement.

“But probably he is in a meeker mood now,” continued Aunt Maria. “By
this time it is to be hoped that he sees his past conduct in a proper light. The
letter was written three months ago.”

“Three months ago,” repeated Clara. “Yes, it has taken all that time to
come. How long will it take me to go there? How shall I go?”

“We will see,” said Aunt Maria, with the air of one who holds the fates in
her hand, and doesn't mean to open it till she gets ready. She was by no means
satisfied as yet that this grandfather Muñoz was a proper person to be intrusted
with the destinies of a young lady. In refusing to let his daughter select her
own husband, he had shown a very squinting and incomplete perception of the
rights of woman.

“Old reprobate!” thought Aunt Maria. “Probably he has got gouty with
his vices, and wants to be nursed. I fancy I see him getting Clara without going
on his sore marrow-bones and begging pardon of gods and women.”

“Of course I must go,” continued Clara, unsuspicious of her aunt's reflections.
“At all events he will support me. Besides, he is now the head of my family.”

“Head of the family!” frowned Aunt Maria. “Because he is a man? So
much the more reason for his being the tail of it. My dear, you are your own
head.”

“Ah—well. What is the use of all that?” asked Clara, smiling away those
views. “I have no money, and he has.”

“Well, we will see,” persisted Aunt Maria. “I just told you so. We will
see.”

The two women had scarcely left the roof of the house and got themselves
down to the large, breezy, sparsely furnished parlor, ere the lazy, dawdling Indian
servant announced Lieutenant Thurstane.

Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane was a tall, full-chested, finely-limbed gladiator
of perhaps four and twenty. Broad forehead; nose straight and high enough;
lower part of the face oval; on the whole a good physiognomy. Cheek bones

rather strongly marked; a hint of Scandinavian ancestry supported by his name
Thurstane is evidently Thor's stone or altar; forefathers priests of the god of
thunder. His complexion was so reddened and darkened by sunburn that his
untanned forehead looked unnaturally white and delicate. His yellow, one
might almost call it golden hair, was wavy enough to be handsome. Eyes quite
remarkable; blue, but of a very dark blue, like the coloring which is sometimes
given to steel; so dark indeed that one's first impression was that they were
black. Their natural expression seemed, to be gentle, pathetic, and almost imploring;
but authority, responsibility, hardship, and danger had given them an
ability to be stern. In his whole face, young as he was, there was already the
look of the veteran, that calm reminiscence of trials endured, that preparedness
for trials to come. In fine, taking figure, physiognomy, and demeanor together,
he was attractive.

He saluted the ladies as if they were his superior officers. It was a kindly
address, but ceremonious; it was almost humble, and yet it was self-respectful.

“I have some great news,” he presently said, in the full masculine tone of
one who has done much drilling. “That is, it is great to me. I change station.”

“How is that?” asked Clara eagerly. She was not troubled at the thought
of losing a beau; we must not be so hard upon her as to make that supposition;
but here was a trustworthy friend going away just when she wanted counsel and
perhaps aid.

“I have been promoted first lieutenant of Company I, Fifth Regiment, and I
must join my company.”

“Promoted! I am glad,” said Clara.

“You ought to be pleased,” put in Aunt Maria, staring at the grave face of
the young man with no approving expression. “I thought men were always
pleased with such things.”

“So I am,” returned Thurstane. “Of course I am pleased with the step.
But I must leave Santa Fé. And I have found Santa Fé very pleasant.”

There was so much meaning obvious in these last words that Clara's face
colored like a sunset.

“I thought soldiers never indulged in such feelings,” continued the unmollified
Aunt Maria.

“Soldiers are but men,” observed Thurstane, flushing through his sunburn.

“And men are weak creatures.”

Thurstane grew still redder. This old lady (old in his young eyes) was always
at him about his manship, as if it were a crime and disgrace. He wanted
to give her one, but out of respect for Clara he did not, and merely moved uneasily
in his seat, as men are apt to do when they are set down hard.

“How soon must you go? Where?” demanded Clara.

“As soon as I can close my accounts here and turn over my stores to my
successor. Company I is at Fort Yuma on the Colorado. It is the first post
in California.”

“California!” And Clara could not help brightening up in cheeks and
eyes with fine tints and flashes. “Why, I am going to California.”

“We will see,” said Aunt Maria, still holding the fates in her fist.

Then came the story of Grandfather Muñoz's letter, with a hint or two concerning
the decay of the Van Diemen fortune, for Clara was not worldly wise
enough to hide her poverty.

Thurstane's face turned as red with pleasure as if it had been dipped in the

sun. If this young lady was going to California, he might perhaps be her
knight-errant across the desert, guard her from privations and hardships, and
crown himself with her smiles. If she was poor, he might—well, he would not
speculate upon that; it was too dizzying.

We must say a word as to his history in order to show why he was so shy
and sensitive. He had been through West Point, confined himself while there
closely to his studies, gone very soon into active service, and so seen little society.
The discipline of the Academy and three years in the regular army had ground
into him the soldier's respect for superiors. He revered his field officers; he
received a communication from the War Department as a sort of superhuman
revelation; he would have blown himself sky-high at the command of General
Scott. This habit of subordination, coupled with a natural fund of reverence,
led him to feel that many persons were better than himself, and to be humble in
their presence. All women were his superior officers, and the highest in rank
was Clara Van Diemen.

Well, hurrah! he was to march under her to California! and the thought
made him half wild. He would protect her; he would kill all the Indians in the
desert for her sake; he would feed her on his own blood, if necessary.

As he considered these proper and feasible projects, the audacious thought
which he had just tried to expel from his mind forced its way back into it. If
the Van Diemen estate were insolvent, if this semi-divine Clara were as poor as
himself, there was a call on him to double his devotion to her, and there was a
hope that his worship might some day be rewarded.

How he would slave and serve for her; how he would earn promotion for
her sake; how he would fight her battle in life! But would she let him do it?
Ah, it seemed too much to hope. Poor though she was, she was still a heaven
or so above him; she was so beautiful and had so many perfections!

Oh, the purity, the self-abnegation, the humility of love! It makes a man
scarcely lower than the angels, and quite superior to not a few reverenced saints.