Читать книгу Folded Hills - Stewart Edward White - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Andy was not yet californio in all things. His Anglo-Saxon mind required a little room to turn from its old ideas as to such matters. It was with a distinct effort that he learned to accept the fact that his wife’s condition, so far from being a matter of secrecy, was to be made known at once to family, friends, and neighbors. The padrinos, the godparents, must be chosen without delay, that they might offer their candles and their prayers. So Ramón came from the hacienda, together with Don Sylvestre and Doña Engracia and a host of parientes; and Conchita de la Questa, who was to marry Ramón in the spring, and another host of her parientes; and good old padre Seria made the journey from Nuestra Señora de la Soledad for the ceremony. Andy was, for the moment, a trifle appalled as to what was to be done with so many people. But he need have had no fear. The women of the visiting parties took over the whole place, and each immediately went about the various tasks and duties as though this household had been her own. Indeed many of the less pretentious of the parientes brought with them accumulations of their own laundry, and after the ceremony of the padrinos, they had a grand sociable wash-up in the creek bottoms, followed by a feast and an informal dance, and so departed, both their linen and their social consciences clean.

The rancho wore a smiling face. Even grim Panchito’s saturnine countenance, incapable of alteration from its carved and wooden lines, nevertheless glowed with an inner illumination. Riding in from his long day in the hills, he would pluck from his hatband a handful of mariposa lilies, or flaming poppies—somewhat wilted, to be sure, by the heat of the sun—and thrust them into Carmel’s hands.

“For the little patrón,” he would say gruffly and turn away on his spurred heel.

“The little one thanks you, Panchito,” Carmel would answer graciously, without embarrassment.

As for Benito, he was always making excuse to toil up the sun-soaked hill from the milpas in the valley, bearing especial vegetables or fruits. He stood respectfully, his hat in his two hands, and small beads of perspiration glistened on his round kindly face. He liked to linger and chat, and had theories of his own as to diet, which he expounded directly and earnestly.

“These things I have found to be true,” said he, “for, as you know, the good Lord has blessed me with many, as, I doubt not He will bless you, too, señora, for we Riveras are good soil for the planting. But later, when one must think of the milk....”

He went on calmly in discussion of intimate detail, often stoutly maintaining his point against the scorn of Vicenta, the too fat one, who considered such matters her own province. She stormed and browbeat Benito, who remained placidly unmoved in face of her contention that he was a mere man.

“But I have had many,” he repeated, “and we Riveras ...” Which latter exasperated Vicenta almost, but not quite, beyond words; for Benito was undoubtedly a Rivera—which Vicenta was not—though over the left shoulder, a fact that did not trouble him in the least. Sometimes their contentions caused Andy, if he happened to be present, to beat a hasty retreat. Carmel was unmoved, smiling faintly into mysterious distance. And in time Andy himself warmed to open and joyous acceptance of the shining blessing.