Even though the girl was saddle-wise, she complained at the pace Guara set. But Guara was deaf to her complaints. They should rest at Los Pinos by noon, and it followed that when the sun reached its zenith they rode into the cooling shade of the pines at the springs of Los Pinos.
Suzanna had heard of the life and color which flowed along El Camino Real. So far she had seen nothing but sun-burnt hills, wide, parched valleys and unending stretches of dust-covered road. Therefore, she was quite unprepared for the reception which greeted her as she rode into the shelter of the trees. Before her reclined at least a score of men clad in the blue and red uniforms of Mexico. It was obviously, a detachment of troops on its way to the Presidio at Monterey. The officer in charge, a loose-lipped lieutenant overly brave in his display of gold lace, smiled at her ingratiatingly, but not until his sensuous eyes had properly appraised this morsel which the saints had sent hither to break the monotony of this God-forsaken country.
Suzanna shared her master’s contempt for most things Mexican. Still, it was not her hatred of Mexican officialdom which made her lips curl scornfully as she faced this young subaltern. The look in the man’s eyes made this encounter a matter of personal hatred. Suzanna saw that Guara was little pleased at having stumbled into this hornet’s nest. Mexican soldiery had a little way of silencing an offending Indian. Guara was alive to the main chance, and he told himself that it would be very, very unwise to offend these miserable señors. Suzanna, however, was of sterner stuff. To rest here was but courting trouble. With a toss of her head, she turned and addressed her Indian guide.
“Guara,” she said evenly, “our horses have quenched their thirst. Let us be on our way.”
The lieutenant reached for her bridle at that.
“But, pretty one,” he said with a fine show of feeling, “where does one journey to that she can afford to turn her back on the cooling shade of this enticing spot?”
“The Mexican government having no word of me,” Suzanna answered tartly, “I presume my answer to be none of your business.”
The officer was not abashed by this.
“You force me to make it my business, now,” he said insinuatingly. “Here is food and drink,— do I seem so ill in your eyes that you disdain to break bread with me?” He caught Suzanna’s wrist as she glared at him. “Come, now. You are going to repay my hospitality with a smile. Four weeks have we been on our way, without a pretty face to rest my eyes. They are hungry to feast upon the loveliness of one so beautiful as you.”
The officer’s men were keenly interested in what went on before them. They were all low fellows, the most of them but lately free of some prison. They voiced a ruffianly laugh as they saw Suzanna lift her hand and roundly slap the lieutenant’s face.
Their ribald laughter infuriated him a great deal more than did the smack which this pretty girl gave him. The man had but little power over his men, but even so, that little trembled in the balance now. Realizing that he played for a larger stake than the favor of this peon, he determined to waste no further time. Jerking her arm savagely, he pulled Suzanna so far forward that she lost her balance and almost fell into his embrace.
Guara sat his horse unmoved; he knew that a dozen pairs of eyes watched him, daring him to betray even the slightest interest in what went on before him.
The laugh with which the young officer had received his burden was short-lived, for Suzanna became a scratching, clawing fiend. He tried to hide his face from her nails, by covering it with his arms as he unhanded her and stepped back. Suzanna was after him as quickly as Timoteo had taken after Miguel’s cowardly rooster.
And now, although Suzanna would have been equally in danger with any single one of them, the soldiers became her supporters, and cheered her on to further indignities upon their leader. For the lieutenant, the incident became a catastrophe. And then, when he was seen at his very worst, a coach-and-four wheeled around a curve in the road and came to a dizzy halt before him.
The mein of the gentleman who leaped to the ground and faced him belligerently, as well as the costly trappings of the splendid coach, said all too plainly that here was a man of some estate. That a girl of ripe beauty, the man’s daughter no doubt, was a passenger within the coach and pulled the curtains now and studied him coldly, did not lesson the lieutenant’s embarrassment.
“What play is this we have here?” the owner of the carriage demanded hastily.
At the sound of his voice, Suzanna screamed.
“Don Diego!” she repeated again and again. And seeing that recognition of herself did not come to Don Diego’s eyes, she said eagerly, her body trembling with emotion:
“Don’t you remember little Suzanna?”
“Suzanna?” Don Diego gasped. “No? It isn’t —it can’t be little tomboy Suzanna?”
“But don’t you see that it is,—that you find me unchanged, thanks to this beast, here.”
Señor de Sola came close to the girl’s side, and seeing that she was indeed his godchild, the daughter of his friend Fernando’s Ruiz, he caught her to him and kissed her paternally.
“Child, child,” he murmured, “you have grown into a beautiful woman. But tell me, what is the meaning of this scene?”
Don Diego heard her out with some impatience. Turning on the soldier he said:
“I have heard tales of outrages here in California, but I, with many others in the city, have had a habit of believing less than half of the rumors which we heard. It is plain they were not fabrications after all. You will have good cause to regret your action to-day. But for men of your type, we would hear no talk of separatists in California. You serve your country most illy, and the Presidio shall be so informed. And now, with what courtesy you can muster, withdraw yourself and your men to such a distance that I may converse freely with this child.”
The power of wealth and social position was as great in that distant day as it is now, and the lieutenant soon removed his command to the corral among the trees where their horses awaited their pleasure.
“This Indian is with you, eh?” Don Diego exclaimed when they were alone. “But whither are you bound? You are a full thirty leagues from home.”
“I am being sent away,” Suzanna answered mournfully.
“Sent away?” Señor de Sola queried. “To where, and for what reason?”
“To the Mission San Luis Bautista,” the girl replied. “I am to be educated.”
“And does that make you so unhappy, child?” asked Don Diego.
“The very thought of it strangles me. It is like being sent away to prison. I shall die so far from all that I love. Don Fernando tries to help me, I know. But what is a peon to do with an education?”
Truly, this was a question not easily answered. Don Diego chose to put it aside, and instead of answering it, he demanded brusquely:
“Does your master know how miserable your going makes you? He is a kind, just man, less stern than most. He evidently must believe he moves to please you in this thing.”
“Oh, no, no,” Suzanna murmured, her eyes filling with tears as her mind went back to the scene in the altar room of Don Diego’s home. “Don Fernando knows that my heart is breaking.”
“There, there,” Don Diego said sympathetically as Suzanna’s tears got the better of her. He was a sorely puzzled gentleman at the present moment, and for reasons which may not be apparent to those not familiar with the customs of Latin countries, and of California, of this period, in particular.
Don Diego and the peon Ruiz were compadres, —a relation between a child’s own father and its godfather which was regarded as more sacred than any that blood alone could convey. Among peons and the lower classes this feeling ran so strongly as to often induce a man to name his own brother as his compadre so that their relation to each other should he even more intimate and sacred.
Usually, the godfather was in a position to dispense favors, and a man of Don Diego’s standing would have many ahijados (godsons). Especially was this true in the rural coun
try. More than once Indians have been known to die willingly for their compadres. Being a padrino (godfather) incurred responsibilities which no worthy man would shirk. A father could die with the perfect assurance that his compadre would care for his son or daughter with devotion equal to his own.
Understanding this, it is easy to see that by the very sacredness of the relation between godfather and child that the godfather acquired almost paternal control of the latter. The aristocrats, as well as the poorer classes, respected this. Of all Spanish institutions it was one of the noblest, and yet, it sometimes led to embarrassing situations. Don Diego found himself facing such a one at present.
Suzanna, as Ruiz daughter, belonged to his friend Gutierrez. That was the plain intent of peonage. Don Fernando, therefore, was well within his rights, according to custom, in ordering the girl about as he desired. Don Diego, as Suzanna’s padrino, had the right to protest whenever he felt that his godchild got less than her deserts. He could even go so far as to pay Don Fernando a sum, which would equal Suzanna’s debt to the Hacienda de Gutierrez, and become her master.
This procedure was often resorted to, but the question of friendship entered here. And Don Diego was loath to do ought which would offend the head of the house to which his daughter was betrothed.
“You have not offended Don Fernando or Doña Luz, have you?” Don Diego asked seeking for the reason which had led to the girl’s exile.
“Not Doña Luz,” Suzanna replied. “These clothes I have on, she gave me but last evening. But Don Fernando says I have demoralized every servant he has by my pranks,—and laziness.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” Señor de Sola exclaimed, remembering the tomboy girl Suzanna had been, and finding in her words the real reason for Don Fernando’s conduct. “Work ever was distasteful to you, child. If I take you back, will you show by your conduct that you have learned your lesson?”
“Oh, can I go back?” Suzanna asked eagerly, grasping Don Diego’s hand in her excitement.
Moved by this show of affection, Señor de Sola had not the heart to deny her.
“You can, if you will give over your mischievous ways. I have as little time for pranks and laziness as my good friend Gutierrez.”
The significance of this speech was not lost on Suzanna.
“You mean that I am to go to your hacienda?” she asked breathlessly.
“I will arrange it. My daughter has need of a maid. Señor Gutierrez will not be stubborn when he learns that she has decided on having you.”
Suzanna’s head whirled at this good news. Don Fernando might be powerful and able to order the lives of his servants as he willed; but here was her champion,—a man equally strong in his ways. The poor girl turned adoring eyes upon her savior as the full import of his marvelous intervention in her behalf sank into her consciousness.
“Let us go back to the coach,” Don Diego suggested. “You can ride with us. My daughter will be glad to see you again, and pleased that I have found one whom she knows to be her maid.”
Chiquita had been an interested observed of the little scene between her father and Suzanna. She found the girl grown quite beautiful, but without any sense of dress or style, judged by the standards which she allowed herself. But as critical as she was, Chiquita had to admit that Suzanna had little of the peon about her. With an amused smile, she saw her father and the girl start toward the coach.
“Chiquita, don’t you remember little Suzanna?” Don Diego asked when he had opened the carriage door.
Chiquita’s reply was an indifferent nod to the girl.
Suzanna stood somewhat in awe of the fine young lady before her. Her own clothes were mean in comparison. And too, she was not slow to see the superior manner with which Don Diego’s daughter greeted her. The two girls were of an age and had spent many of their childhood hours together. Here was a time for unbending for old time’s sake; but Suzanna searched Chiquita’s face in vain for the least sign of good-will or came-raderie. She sensed that the other saw in her but a peon, and that it was Chiquita’s intention that she should know it.
Poor Suzanna’s heart sank at the thought of having to serve her. For a second she almost wished that she had not asked to go back. As lonely and miserable as San Luis Bautista might prove it could be no worse than dancing attendance on this haughty girl who came home only to take Ramon away from her.
Don Diego took no heed of her wavering.
“Suzanna is going back with us,” he went on. “She will make you an excellent maid.”
“But Don Fernando?” Chiquita queried, not displeased at the thought of having Suzanna so squarely set in her place.
“I will arrange the matter with him,” the girl’s father replied. He directed Suzanna to get into the coach, and with an order to the Indian to follow, the horses were started.
Don Diego asked many questions as the heavy carriage rocked back and forth on its leather straps. Suzanna’s interest in them overcame her fears and she was soon chattering like a magpie.
The coach was over-due by several hours when it came within sight of those waiting at the hacienda. A cry went up as it wheeled into view. The rest of the journey was down-hill, and the tired horses, scenting water and rest, bore away with a burst of speed.
Ramon had returned from Monterey to find Suzanna gone. Don Fernando had been hard put to stop the boy from racing after her. The incident had so upset the elder Gutierrez that he glanced uneasily at Ramon now, dreading to find the boy still sulking, with Don Diego and his daughter almost upon them.
What he read in the boy’s expression gave him small comfort. Ramon was in a beastly temper. The holiday air of those about him but angered him more. He knew what was expected of him,—the fatuous greetings, the extravagant compliments, and the proper sort of pride in his wife-to-be.
God! how he hated it. Hot rebellion surged within him as he saw himself welcoming Chiquita de Sola while the girl whom he loved was miles away to the south, miserable and alone, save for a worthless Indian.
Pancho Montesoro, resplendent and debonair, lounged into the patio as the boy brooded. The sight of the man but added fuel to the fire raging in Ramon’s brain. The fellow’s impudence toward Suzanna still smarted. He had long since worn out his welcome, and had he been of thinner skin, he would not have asked for plainer evidence of the fact.
Pancho was quite pleased with himself over the turn events had taken. For one thing, Suzanna was beyond babbling to Chiquita. He had been at the hacienda so long that he did not fear that Don Diego would look upon him with suspicion. Hence, he could meet Chiquita without embarrassment. He felt very sure of himself as far as she was concerned. In fact, of all those gathered to greet the coach, Pancho Montesoro felt most certain of himself.
A cry broke from the lips of the crowd as the carriage swung into the patio. The servants, burdened with armfuls of flowers rushed forward as the driver brought his horses to a halt. A second later the door of the carriage opened, and as if by pre-arranged plan, the servitors of Don Fernando let loose a shower of blossoms which almost covered the person alighting from the coach. The surprise of this reception forced a thoroughly feminine cry from the startled recipient.
The crowd’s excitement subsided abruptly as it sensed a familiar note. Don Fernando and Doña Luz caught it, also. Pancho, Ruiz, Ramon—they looked at one another in surprise. And then, as the blossoms ceased falling, they saw Suzanna standing before them.
Ramon shouldered his way to her side, and not too soon either; his father being scarcely a step behind him.
The sight of the girl sent a hush over the assemblage. In that day, news was scarce, an incidents which would ordinarly go unnoticed because of their unimportance to those not vitally interested, were seized upon and passed from mouth to mouth. Hence it happened that Suzanna’s departure that morning was known to all. The ostensible reason for her going had caused a murmur of approval among the peons of the two haciendas. They naturally wondered, now, what reason she had for being back. As is
the way of men and women in their social position, they looked to their master for enlightenment, and the scowl which they saw upon Don Fernando’s face, as well as the strained look in the eyes of Dona Luz, hinted that all was not well.
But as great as was Don Fernando’s surprise upon beholding Suzanna, it did not match his son’s. Ramon blinked his eyes as he stared at her, believing they deceived him. What sort of miracle had happened to bring Suzanna here? As he continued to gaze at her spellbound, he saw her raise her eyes to him appealingly. The unfriendly attitude of those who confronted her had chilled the girl to her soul, and she turned to Ramon beseechingly.
“You?” Don Fernando thundered as his father glared at her. “What does this mean?”
Don Diego stepped out then, and threw his arms about his old friend.
“It means that I took mercy on her. It was worthy of you, old friend, to want to educate her, but as Suzanna asked me,—what can a peon do with an education?”
CHAPTER XIII
BLOOD WILL TELL
IT cannot be said that Suzanna’s return cast a shadow over the festivities Don Fernando and Doña Luz had arranged in honor of their neighbor. For, no matter what secret misgivings the girl’s presence caused Señor Gutierrez and his wife, they had no desire to let Don Diego see how sorely Ramon’s conduct tried them.
Even as short as was the distance between the two haciendas, Don Fernando felt that it offered some obstacle to a clandestine affair, and so he readily consented to having Suzanna become Chiquita’s maid. This move was particularly galling to Ramon. If his father had deliberately tried to show him the gulf between Suzanna and himself, he could not have moved more surely. The boy felt that it was a slap at him, and he resented it bitterly.
Ramon’s parents found Chiquita very beautiful; but Doña Luz viewed her imperious ways with some alarm. She knew her son well enough to know that arrogance would never win him. Don Fernando was deaf to this criticism of his friend’s daughter. He could not close his eyes, however, to the fact Chiquita had not swept his son off his feet, for the boy made no effort to see her, but kept to himself, sullen and untalkative.
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