s for such poor comfort as my house affords--I take no
denial. Concha will remain at Juan Moraga's for the present."

XXI

Concha, after her father left her, sat for a long while in an attitude
of such complete repose that Sturgis, watching her miserably from the
veranda, remembered the consolations of his sketch book; and he was
able to counterfeit the graceful, proud figure, under the wall and
roses, before she stirred.

Concha had sent her father away deeply puzzled. When, after embracing
her with unusual emotion, he had informed her of his consent to her
marriage, she had received the news as a matter of course, her hopes
and desires having mounted too high to contemplate a fall. Then the
Commandante, after dwelling at some length upon his discussions with
the Governor and the priests, and admonishing her against conceiving
herself too important a factor in what might prove to be an alliance of
international moment (she had laughed merrily and called him the most
callous of parents and subtlest of diplomats), had announced with some
trepidation and his most official manner that the consent of the Pope
and the King would be sought by Rezanov in person, involving a delay
and separation of not less than two years. But to his surprise she did
not fling herself upon his neck with blandishments and tears. She
merely became quite still, her light high spirits retreating as a
breeze might before one of Nature's sudden and portentous calms. Don
Jose, after a fruitless attempt to recapture her interest, mounted his
horse and rode away; and Concha sat down on a bench under the wall and
thought for an hour without moving a finger.

Her first sensation was one of bitter anger and disappointment with
Rezanov. He had, apparently, in the first brief interview with their
tribunal, given his consent to this long delay of their nuptials.

Her thoughts since his advent had flown on many journeys and known
little rest. She had been rudely awakened and stripped of her girlish
illusions in those days and nights of battle between pride and her
dazzled womanhood when, in the new humility of love, she believed
herself to be but one of a hundred pretty girls in the eyes of this
accomplished and fortunate Russian. The interval had been brief, but
not long enough for the grandeur in her nature to awaken almost
concurrently with her passions, and she had planned a life, in which,
guided and uplifted by the star of fidelity, and d