Suzanna (4 page)

It was siesta time, and, no word of Ramon's adventure having reached the rancho, the hacienda slumbered. Except for a collie dog wandering about in search of relief from the noon-time sun; the occasional flutter of a chicken's wings as it burrowed deeper into the cool earth in the shadow of the patio wall; the drone of insects; or the bawling of a calf temporarily estranged from its mother, there were few sounds of life.

The hour dragged on; higher rose the sun, reached its zenith, and then began swinging westward, a copper colored ball of fire.

At last, from across
El Camino Real
, which wound past the
caserio
, the sound of a bell penetrated the sweltering stillness. The ringing of the bell was the signal that the afternoon's work was to start; the daily siesta was over.

But although the summons of the bell had been sudden, the
caserio
awakened with deliberation to resume the day's labors. Neither the master, nor Spanish overseers, appeared to urge haste, and the Mexican peons and Indian laborers, sure of their ground, moved slowly to their appointed tasks. Therefore, a full half-hour elapsed before the rancho settled down to its work.

Facing the large
casa
of Don Fernando and the cluster of small adobes which were occupied by those employed on the rancho, and which comprised the
Caserio de Gutierrez
, stood another group of buildings belonging to the hacienda of one, Señor Don Diego de Sola.

This grouping of the buildings of one rancho in close proximity to those of another was quite the custom and no matter of accident. It afforded a degree of protection against such men as Pérez. Also, it fostered the social life of the province.

Don Diego and his daughter were sojourning in Mexico City at the present, but in their absence the crops were being gathered and the cattle worked in preparation for the fall
rodeo
.

Strong ties bound the houses of Gutierrez and de Sola. In early childhood, young Ramon had been betrothed to Chiquita de Sola, now a proud, beautiful woman. The designing fathers seeing in the alliance the creation of a princely empire over which their heirs should reign.

However worthy such plans, it is all too true that they often go amiss. Fear of such a
contretemps
now filled the heart of Don Fernando.

Presently, from within the casa, there emerged three persons—two gentlemen and a lady—who seated themselves leisurely upon the shaded portico.

The dominating figure of the trio was Don Fernando Gutierrez, tall, somewhat portly, gray-haired and mustached, epitomizing the true Castilian who ruled not only wisely, but well, over California prior and even subsequent to the Mexican war of 1845.

With characteristic Castillian courtesy, he attended the feminine member of the party—his beautiful, patrician wife, the Doña Luz,—meanwhile the other gentleman stood at respectful attention.

All three were properly, if somewhat overly-attired, in the dress of the period. Doña Luz's gown was of silk, with short sleeves and loose waist. From beneath the hem of her skirt peeped the tips of her diminutive red slippers. In her ears were jet-black pendants. Her black, gray-streaked hair was done high on top of her head and surmounted by a great mother-of-pearl comb. Over her head was drawn a large, greenish-colored mantilla of filmy lace.

Doña Luz looked toward her husband expectantly, for this meeting was in the nature of a conference bearing on no less a topic than her son's conduct.

Because of the occasion, Don Fernando had dressed elaborately, and his guest was hardly less resplendent. Each was attired in a fine linen shirt, rich with a profusion of lace and embroidery. The Señor Gutierrez's heavy silk jacket of deepest maroon, amply decorated with “frogs” and buttons, was unbuttoned, a compromise with the weather. His guest wore a jacket also, of lustrous brown equally well decorated. Their pantaloons of black velvet, decorated with rows of vermilion buttons, harmonizing well with the green sash about the waist, left a lot to be desired on this torrid day. Under the pantaloons, and visible through the knee-length slit, were boots of untanned deer-skin.

Satisfied as to the comfort of his wife, Don Fernando waved his guest to a chair, and then seated himself. Without turning, he called in husky tones, “José!” Almost immediately a Mexican
mozo
, or houseboy, appeared in the areaway.

“
Aguardiente
—brandy,” commanded the don briefly.

“
Si, señor
,” came the soft reply, and the boy disappeared across the patio.

This patio was a rectangular court surrounded on three sides by verandas upon which opened the various rooms that composed the casa. Across the southern end stretched a high wall. In the center of it was an arched door-way through which one passed from the don's patio to that of the servants.

This patio was a veritable garden of beautiful flowers and plants,—roses, geraniums, oleanders and flowering cactus. An acacia tree, in full bloom, adorned one corner, while in another was an arbor of bougainvilla. Caressing each pillar that supported the tile-roofed veranda were vines of one description or another. In the center of the patio was a well, fully fifteen feet in diameter, which supplied the house with water.

Several minutes passed before the servant returned with the brandy. Meanwhile, the three sat silent, gazing out across the garden patio and to the servants' patio beyond.

Worry wreathed the face of the Señor Gutierrez. Nervously, he gnawed the ends of his bristling gray mustache. Doña Luz frowned as she saw her lord's perturbation. Well enough she knew that he would not speak until it so pleased him. Her son's delayed arrival also wore on her. Turning away, she sent her eyes across the fields to where the Santa Cruz mountains lay basking in the sun. For all their brown, barren, forbidding appearance, she loved them. Raised, as she had been, in more urban surroundings than rural California could boast, this queenly woman had missed those niceties of life which would have been hers in a more sheltered land. Long since, she had turned to her flowers and those distant, friendly hills; and found that California could win her smiles as well as ancient Seville.

José soon reappeared with goblets, brandy and cigars—huge, cylindrical, black. He served with the sureness and precision of a trained servant, and disappeared.

The don and his guest lighted their cigars, then joined the doña in sipping from the old, hammered-silver goblets the deliciously refreshing liqueur.

For several more minutes the don looked reflectively across the patio, puffed at his cigar, and toyed with his goblet. Then turning to his visitor, who was eyeing him curiously, he said:

“Alvarez, you are my attorney; likewise, you are my friend. I have sent for you to advise me.”

Alvarez bowed his head. The don thought for a moment, then resumed:

“It is about Ramon.”

Alvarez—the boy Miguel's father—feigned his surprise. He had been quite aware of the subject to be discussed, but he was a successful lawyer; and lawyers even in that day found it passing wise to dissemble at times. He largely divided his time between Monterey and the hacienda, so it followed that he had an ear to the ground concerning what went on in the household of Don Fernando.

“Your manner, more than your words, alarms me,” he exclaimed. “I hope there is nothing of great moment involved in what you have to say.”

“I am sorry,” Señor Gutierrez replied, “but it is of the utmost concern to my wife and me. There is no need for me to tell you how I regard mixed marriages, or the store I set by my lineage. I thought that I had impounded my tastes and desires in my son. Lately, however, I have had reasons enough to doubt the truth of that. There has even been talk about the boy, and public gossip needs some foundation of fact to survive. I do not know if in your visits here you have noticed the daughter of Ruiz, the peon.”

“But, of course,” Alvarez stated, “I remember her as a child about the hacienda.”

“I would she had remained a child,” Doña Luz said pointedly.

“You echo my own wish,” Don Fernando went on. “As a child, Suzanna was an unusual little creature, considering her parentage. When Ruiz' wife died, we naturally took a greater interest in her. It was a fatal mistake. The situation that we face now is of our own making. The girl has developed into a beautiful woman, and I'll own, not without a certain sense of poise and wisdom. But she is a peon. Ramon is man grown, too. The intimacy that existed between them as children was well enough; but we cannot tolerate it now. People are coupling their names together. I know my boy's spirit, and I am at a loss what to do. A heavy hand is the last thing I want to use.”

“You don't mean that this affair has progressed to the point of love?” Alvarez asked.

“Not yet. But that it will, is most certain. Their fondness for each other has changed gradually from impersonal friendship and good-fellowship to personal regard; although I am sure that neither realizes that love exists. I should have sent the girl away long since. They have never been separated, except for the two years the boy spent in Spain. I used to laugh to see him trundling her about the hacienda.” The don slapped his knee and shook his head. “It's no laughing matter to-day,” he finished mournfully.

A period of silence followed. Alvarez' face wore a well-feigned frown. Don Fernando glanced at him sharply as he sat without replying or offering suggestion. “You know that I cannot talk to Suzanna,” the father argued. “To do so would be but to make her aware of the very thing I fear. The same thought holds good with the boy. You have got to suggest something, Alvarez.”

“It's an awkward situation,” the attorney answered. “You are sure you do not exaggerate it?”

“I suppose we do,” Doña Luz observed quietly. “But, we must not forget to mention that Ramon is betrothed to the daughter of Don Diego. The girl and her father are expected home shortly. Ramon is a dutiful son; he knows that he is pledged to wed the daughter of our dear friend and neighbor. I am sure that he has some affection for Chiquita, and that he recognizes the engagement existing between them these many years. When the time arrives for the ceremony, he may forget Suzanna entirely for one who is more beautiful and his equal in culture and blood. Remember, too, Fernando,” she went on, turning to her husband, “that Ramon has not seen Chiquita in nearly two years. The girl must have improved wonderfully, and when she comes back from the south with the glamour of the capital fresh upon her she may sweep the boy off his feet.”

Don Fernando seemed little impressed by these words.

“You know,” the Doña continued, “that in Chiquita's absence Suzanna has been the only personable girl the boy has come in contact with day after day.”

“Excepting yourself, my sweetheart,” the don complimented her.

“Ah, thou flatterer,” the señora murmured, but well pleased nevertheless. “But really, I think. we worry too much.”

“I cannot help worrying,” confessed the don, once again serious. “Something here”—placing his hand over his heart—“tells me that there are difficulties ahead.”

“There is an old Spanish proverb,
querido
,” the doña replied, “which is, in effect, ‘wind, women and fortune soon change.' You do not
know
Suzanna's feelings, and even though they are more than impersonal with respect to our Ramon, some dashing vaquero may come along and woo and win her in a day.”

“Ah, would that I were so optimistic!” the don cried feelingly.

“Pardon, señor,” murmured the attorney, injecting his suave presence into the conversation. “I feel as the señora feels: that when the time for the wedding arrives Don Ramon will not only be ready to respect your wishes that he marry Don Diego's only child, but eager to. However, to make certain that Suzanna will in no wise interfere with the marriage, I suggest that you send her away for a few years.”

“That is impossible,” Señor Gutierrez declared. “I——”

“Ah, but it is not, señor,” Alvarez interrupted quickly. “She is personable, you say? And possessed of intelligence? Very well,—then why not send her to the Mission at San Luis Bautista, and place her under the care of the good Padre Altado. Under his merciful and guiding hand, Suzanna can receive that which not one out of ten thousand peons have—an education.

“Two years must necessarily elapse before she returns. Meanwhile, Don Ramon will have wed, and—who knows?—have been blessed with a son and heir to the vast estates of Gutierrez and De Sola, which naturally are joined by the wedding.”

“Just the thing, Alvarez,” Don Fernando exclaimed excitedly. “The girl shall leave within the week. But how shall I inform her that she is going, and the reason for it?”

“Wait for a propitious moment, my friend,” Alvarez warned, “then, as though rewarding her for some service, tell her. Surely Ramon will not object. If he is anticipating marriage with her, then he would have a woman of some culture and refinement—something she is not now. Her mental education is of small moment: so few women of to-day—be they daughters of dons or of peons—are interested in aught else than to be able to look their prettiest, to act the coquette at all times, or to out-step their sisters when dancing the
jota
. Therefore, you can impress the fact upon both Ramon and Suzanna that because of her beauty and intelligence, she is to be given an opportunity to compete with her more fortunate sisters. It will he a tactful move, and one that will not commit you in any direction.”

“Capital!” Ramon's father cried enthusiastically. “You are a very wise lawyer, my Alvarez. Suzanna shall go to San Luis Bautista!”

“But Ramon,” Alvarez warned, “—I should say nothing to him about this matter until you are ready to announce your decision to Suzanna. Then, if the idea does not please him, he will have no time to plan a counter move.”

“Ramon is an obedient son,” Doña Luz hurriedly assured the lawyer. “He will not question his father's authority.”