Читать книгу The Squatter and the Don - María Amparo Ruiz de Burton - Страница 9

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Three large wagons, each drawn by six horses, were hauling the lumber for Mr. Darrell's house, which was already commenced.

Victoriano, riding across the valley, had to stop to let the heavily loaded wagons pass. This gave Clarence time to overtake him.

“Good morning,” said he, “I am glad to catch up with you, Don Victoriano. I have been wanting to speak to you.”

Victoriano bowed, saying, “Will you go to my house?”

“No, I'd rather not. I am not dressed to be seen by ladies. I would rather speak to you here.”

“You are going to build a large house, Mr. Darrell?” said Victoriano, turning his horse so as to ride beside Clarence; “judging by the amount of lumber being hauled.”

“Yes; rather. We are a large family, and require a good deal of room. But before we do any more work I want to speak with your father. I want to ask him—ask him as a favor—and yet, as a business proposition”—he hesitated; he was evidently embarrassed; but Victoriano, not guessing the drift of his words, remained waiting silently, offering no assistance. “Well,” he continued, “I mean this: I don't like this fashion of taking people's lands, and I would like to pay to Señor Alamar for what has been located by us, but at the same time I do not wish my father to know that I have paid for the land, as I am sure he would take my action as a reproach—as a disclaimer of his own action, and I don't wish to hurt his feelings, or seem to be disrespectful or censorious.”

“I understand, and I think my father will be willing to sell the land. He is at home now. Let us go up to see him.”

“Had you not better speak to him, and make an appointment for me to see him to-morrow, or some other time? I'd rather not risk being seen by the ladies in this blue flannel shirt and heavy boots. I look too rough—like a smuggler or a squatter, sure.”

“I can call my father to speak to you outside, so that the ladies need not see you. But if they should, that needn't disturb you. They have too much sense not to know that you would not be working in white kid gloves. Come on. The front veranda is empty. Mother and three of my sisters are at the Mechlin's. Mercedes is the only one at home, and she is too busy with her embroidery in Madam Halier's room to come near you. I'll bring father to the front veranda.”

Clarence and Victoriano tied their horses by the garden gate and walked to the piazza. The hall door was ajar. Clarence saw no ladies about and felt reassured.

There were three steps leading from the walk through the garden up to the front veranda. These steps were exactly opposite to the hall door.

Victoriano took the path to the right, saying: “Go up and sit down. I'll bring my father here.”

“Do not disturb him if he is taking his siesta.”

“The siesta hour is past, I'll find him at the office,” said he, going round the corner, leaving Clarence to walk up the front step. As he did so, he heard a tinkling of little bells and rushing of feet, as if somebody was running. Then a laughing voice, the timbre of which was sweetly pleasing, saying:

“Stop, Milord! you bad dog! Milord! Milord!”

At the same moment, through the narrow opening of the door, out darted a little white dog, dragging after him a large and much entangled skein of bright-colored silk. Clarence was nearly stepping on the little runaway, when the door was flung open, and a girl rushed out, coming against him before she could check herself. In her effort to do so she turned her foot and staggered forward, but before she realized she was in any one's presence, she felt two strong arms holding her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as a sharp, hot pain darted through her ankle. She saw that the two arms which held her were none of her father or brothers', and that they were covered with blue flannel.

Looking up to see the face above them, their eyes met. Hers expressed surprise, his merriment. But a change in their expression flashed instantaneously, and both felt each other tremble, thrilled with the bliss of their proximity. Her face was suffused with burning blushes. She was bewildered, and without daring to meet his eyes again, stammered an apology; extending her hand, to reach some chair or table to hold herself, but they all were crowded at both ends of the piazza.

“You are hurt. I am afraid you are hurt,” said he, with pale lips, reflecting the pallor he saw come to her face, succeeding her crimson blush. “I know you are suffering. What can I do? I am so sorry!”

“O no, I only turned my foot a little,” she answered, venturing to look at him for an instant. “I shall be all right in a minute.”

“If you turned your foot, don't put any weight upon it. Do not try to walk, let me carry you to a chair.”

“O no, no! I am not so much hurt as to require giving all that trouble.”

“Please let me. It will be no trouble; only a great pleasure.” He was in earnest and spoke quite seriously. “Are you afraid I could not carry you?”

“No, not that, but it is not necessary,” and she tried to walk. A quick, sharp, burning pain through her ankle admonished her that she was more hurt than she had believed. A slight contraction of her brows betrayed her pain.

“There! You will hurt yourself worse,” said he, and before she knew what he was going to do, he stooped a little and lifted her as easily as if she had been a little child. She had no time to think whether to be grateful or offended, for he quickly walked to the further end of the piazza and carefully placed her in a roomy arm chair. Then bending a knee before her, said:

“Forgive my lifting you without your permission. I knew you would not give it, and I knew also that you were suffering. Will you forgive me?” His voice was soft, caressing, pleading, but his eyes seemed to her to emit rays full of attractive, earnest force which she felt had great power. They dazzled her, and yet those eyes were so mild, so kind. She looked down, making no answer. “When Don Victoriano comes he can carry you to bed, and—please—take my advice, stay there until the pain has entirely left your foot.”

She ventured to look at his eyes again. Who could this strong young man be, so bold, and yet so gentle, so courteous and yet waiting for no permission to take so positively hold of her, to carry her bodily half the length of the piazza. And now so respectfully asking on his knees to be forgiven? Asking with tones of tender humility in his voice, while his eyes she knew could emanate subduing magnetic beams.

“How do you know Victoriano is coming? He went out riding,” she said, evading the question of forgiveness, and for the sake of making some reply that would hide her confusion.

“Yes, but I met him and he returned with me. He has gone to look for Señor Alamar, I came to see him on business,” said the respectful young man, still on his knees.

“Do you know my father?”

“Only very slightly.” They were silent. He added: “I met him a few days ago when he had that meeting with the squatters.”

“Were you at the meeting?” said she, avoiding his gaze.

“Yes,” he said, watching her beautiful face. What would she think of him, believing him a Squatter, one who came to take land that did not belong to him? How he wished that she would look up, that he might see her lovely eyes again, for if to her his eyes seemed so glorious, to him hers fascinated, conquered, with a power that he never thought could exist in any human being. Trembling, he felt that he was madly in love with her. Yes, already in love. Love at first sight, surely. But if it killed him, no matter, he would love her to the last instant of his life.

Voices were heard approaching through the hall. He stood up and walked towards the door. Señor Alamar came forward and shook hands with him. Victoriano explained the reason of his delay being, that he had to look for his father all over the house, and at last found him in the furthest “corral” looking at some new colts just brought in.

“I am glad that Mercedes came to converse with you,” said Victoriano.

“I did not come to converse. I did not know that the gentleman was here. I came by accident,” she hastened to reply. “I was trying to catch Milord when I stumbled and would have fallen, had not this gentleman prevented it.” So saying, she blushed anew; her blushes being immediately reflected on Clarence's forehead, made them both look like a couple of culprits.

“I fear the lady's foot is hurt,” said he.

“Is it?” exclaimed Don Mariano, going towards Mercedes. “Does it pain you baby?”

“Yes papa, a little. It burns me. Do you think it would be bad for me to walk to my room?”

“Of course it would,” Clarence said, and blushed redder yet at his temerity.

“Can you stand on your foot?” Victoriano asked.

“I don't know.”

“Don't try. I'll carry you to your room,” said her father.

“Women have no business to have such small feet. They are always stumbling and can't walk worth a cent,” said Victoriano, going to look at his sister's foot. “See here. No wonder they stumble. Look at the little slipper. Why don't they wear good broad boots?” So saying he took off the little slipper, which seemed made for a Cinderella.

“You are too absurd,” said Mercedes, blushing again, to see her slipper brandished aloft, in the face of a stranger.

“I ain't. It's women's feet that are absurd.”

“When we want the ladies to be infantry soldiers, then we will ask them to cultivate big feet,” said Don Mariano, laughing.

“But not until then, please,” said Clarence, smiling.

“Aha! I see you cherish the general male weakness,” said Victoriano, kneeling before his sister to put on the little slipper. “I am the only strong-minded man, I know. Come, pussy, I'll carry you to your room.”

“No, no. You take me, papa, Tano might drop me.”

“Nonsense; as if I couldn't carry a kitten like you.”

“Papa, you take me, but not to bed. Put me on the lounge in mamma's room, and call Madam Halier to me.”

“All right; anything to please the children,” said Don Mariano, stooping to lift her.

She put her arms around his neck, and whispered: “Papa, who is this young man? I never saw him.”

“That is a fact,” said Don Mariano, taking her up, and turning toward Clarence, said: “Mr. Darrell, permit me to present you to my daughter, Mercedes, ‘our baby.’ ” So saying, he dandled her a little in his arms.

“Oh, papa, you make me ridiculous! How can I bow like a lady, when you are rocking me like an infant!” she said, laughing, but blushing again like a rose.

“Shake hands with the gentleman, that's a dear,” said Victoriano, talking baby talk to her.

“Oh, papa, make Tano hush. Mr. Darrell, I am afraid that I shall always seem ridiculous to you.”

“Not at all; I don't see why,” Clarence replied, “but I fear that your hurt might be serious.”

“That's it. You might be ridiculous, but your hurt might be serious,” said Victoriano.

It was Clarence's turn to blush now, but he smiled good naturedly.

“You won't be serious, though. I wish you were, and polite, too,” said Mercedes. “I don't know what Mr. Darrell will think of us.”

“Mr. Darrell will see us often, I hope, and think better of Tano,” said Don Mariano, carrying away his precious burden.

“My opinion is all that you could wish, Miss Mercedes,” said Clarence, and their eyes met, transmitting that strange thrill to both.

Don Mariano placed Mercedes tenderly on her mamma's lounge, called Madam Halier to attend to the sprained ankle, and returned to the veranda.

Clarence made no delay in stating the object of his visit. He said:

“Since the meeting I have had several talks with the settlers, and the result has been my conviction, that they will not accept your generous offer. They, no doubt, wish to take up more land, and think it cannot be done if they bind themselves to put up fences by accepting your proposition. How short-sighted they are time alone will show, for at present they will not listen to reason.”

“I am very sorry. There is no alternative for me but to sell all my cattle as soon as possible, and in the meantime drive all I can to the mountains.”

“But that will be ruinous, father. How can we herd them in the mountains? They will all become wild and run away,” said Victoriano.

“I am afraid they will. I am sure of it, in fact. But there is no other way to save any at all.”

“I think this ‘no fence’ law the most scandalous, bare-faced outrage upon the rights of citizens that I ever heard of,” said Clarence, warmly. “It is like setting irresponsible trespassers loose upon a peaceable people, and then rewarding their outrage. To let any one take up your lands right before your eyes is outrage enough, but to cap the climax by authorizing people to plant crops without fences and then corral your cattle, which must be attracted to the green grass, I call positively disgraceful, in a community which is not of vandals. It is shameful to the American name. I am utterly disgusted with the whole business, and the only thing that will make matters a little tolerable to me will be for you to do me the favor of permitting me to pay for the land we have located.”

“Does your father wish to pay?”

“I do not know whether he would or not. I fear he would not. My father is a blind worshiper of the Congress of these United States, and consequently it is difficult to persuade him that our legislators might possibly do wrong. He believes that Congress has the right to declare all California open to pre-emption, and all American citizens free to choose any land not already patented. Thus, he thinks he has the right to locate on your land (according to law, mind you), because he believes your title has been rejected. But as my faith in our law-givers is not so blind, my belief is that Congress had no more right to pass any law which could give an excuse to trespass upon your property, than to pass a law inviting people to your table. I feel a sort of impatience to think that in our country could exist a law which is so outrageously unjust. My pride as an American is somewhat different from that of my father. He thinks it is a want of patriotism to criticise our legislation. Whereas, I think our theory of government is so lofty, so grand and exalted, that we must watch jealously that Congress may not misinterpret it; misrepresent the sentiments, the aspirations of the American people, and thus make a caricature of our beautiful ideal. It is our duty and privilege to criticise our laws, and criticise severely. As long as you, the native Californians, were to be despoiled of your lands, I think it would have been better to have passed a law of confiscation. Then we would have stood before the world with the responsibility of that barbarous act upon own shoulders. That would have been a national shame, but not so great as that of guaranteeing, by treaty, a protection which was not only withheld, but which was denied—snatched away, treacherously—making its denial legal by enactments of retroactive laws. This I call disgraceful to the American name. Therefore, in my humble way and limited sphere, if I cannot repeal, I will at least evade such unjust laws to the best of my ability, and make them ineffective as far as I am individually concerned. I only wish I could wipe out those stains on our national honor, by repealing at once laws so discreditable to us. Yes, the more so, as they bear directly upon the most defenseless, the most powerless of our citizens—the orphaned Spano-Americans. So, then, I hope you will help me to avoid this American shame, by permitting me to pay for our land whatever price you think just.”

“Very well,” said Don Mariano, pleased with Clarence's honest warmth, and to hear him express opinions and sentiments so very similar to his own. “You can pay whatever you wish, or we can make an agreement that I will sell to you when I get my patent. Such is my understanding with Mr. Mechlin and also with your father.”

“That is rather vague. I would prefer to pay to you now so much per acre. With the understanding that my father (or any one else) is not to know I have made this purchase. I mean not for the present.”

“Would your father object to it?”

“Perhaps not. And yet he might see in it a disclaimer from my part—a criticism. He is a settler—a ‘Squatter’—you know, and consequently very sensitive about (what they call) ‘rights of settlers under the law.’ He knows my sentiments, but one thing is my expressing them to him, and another is to pay money for land he thinks he has lawfully appropriated. It might seem to him, I imply that his locating perhaps was not altogether as honorable a transaction in my eyes, as it may be lawful in the eyes of the lawmakers.”

“You are certainly very honorable, and I am willing to abide by your wishes in the matter,” said Don Mariano. “You view this question exactly as I do.”

Clarence blushed with pleasure and bowed, saying:

“You are very kind, and that you, who are so generous, should be made to suffer as you have, it is, I assure you, so revolting to me (as an American and a civilized being) that I have felt great desire to go away rather than to live among these short-sighted and unappreciative people that have unfortunately fallen upon you.”

Don Mariano laughed and said, “No don't go away. Let me have one friend at least, among so many opponents. Pay whatever you wish, and take as much land as you desire to have, but don't go.”

“I thank you, indeed, but will you not name the price? I don't think it is right for me to put a price upon your property.”

“My dear sir, that would be so if my property was not going into—smoke of sulphur—but as it is, and growing fast so ‘beautifully less’ that I suppose even the $1.25 of government price ought to be a handsome figure to my weary eyes. So name any price you wish.”

It was agreed that Clarence would pay $10.00 per acre, and take up 640 acres where his father had already located. It was also understood that the purchase should not be mentioned to any one. Don Mariano excepted only his son Gabriel. Clarence said he would except his mother, inasmuch as she had told him to pay for the land or else she would not come to reside upon it.

Don Mariano said that he would like to mention it to his family and the Mechlins, but feared that if only some allusion was overheard by the servants, it would be repeated.

“I have no objection to Mr. Mechlin knowing it,” Clarence said.

“No, but they have for servants Hogsden and his wife, and they are very dishonorable. They would repeat it if by accident they heard it.”

“It is a pity that Mrs. Mechlin don't send those two thieves away,” Victoriano said.

“Yes, I hear that the woman Hogsden repeats things she hears at the Mechlins,” Clarence said.

“Of course she does, and steals too, and yet Mrs. Mechlin keeps them,” Victoriano said, impatiently.

“Perhaps it would be best to say nothing, and I will watch my chance to tell my father myself, that I paid for the land,” Clarence said. He then rose to go.

As he went down the veranda steps he met Milord returning, still dragging the skein of silk. But this was no longer of bright variegated hues, it was black with mud and sadly masticated by Milord's sharp teeth, which proudly held it as if challenging any one to take it.

“You wicked Milord. See what you have done with your poor mistress' silk. She will be distressed,” said Victoriano.

On hearing himself thus apostrophised, Milord ran off again with his plunder, and it was with difficulty that by the combined efforts of Victoriano and Clarence he was at last captured, but the bright colors of the silk had all disappeared, a blackened skein resembling a piece of wet rope was pulled from Milord's sharp teeth.