WITH HANNAH MARIA
About this time the report of a civil revolution in Mexico was
confirmed. Paredes, the erstwhile president, had been made prisoner and
Gomez Farias declared president. The one-time favorite, Santa Anna, was
recalled by his fickle people to be placed at the head of the army. On
the 20th of September began the battle of Monterey, which lasted three
days and resulted in victory to the Americans. In spite of this fact
Ampudia still blustered and Santa Anna, still arrogant and confident,
refused to consider overtures for peace. After the fall of Monterey an
armistice of eight weeks was declared and for a time all was quiet.
This war of invasion, so far from being looked upon as a disaster by
the Mexican non-combatants, appears to have been regarded as bringing
about rather a desirable condition of affairs. Good prices and “spot
cash” obtained in the towns taken, the people were kindly treated,
and prosperity seemed the order of the day wherever the Americans
entered. No wonder they were welcomed and treated as friends, rather
than foes, by a large portion of the inhabitants. To be sure the
inflammatory bulletins issued by the Mexican generals served to rouse
many to a pitch of animosity, and by a certain class the Americans were
considered as “barbaric northern invaders.” So bitter, indeed were this
latter class that even the women were ready to join in battle, and it
is told that at Monterey a company of Lancers were led by a woman who
swore she would never yield till the last Americano should be driven
from the land.
All these pieces of news interested Christine and Alison greatly. For
some time they had been established under the roof of Bud and Hannah
Maria Haley, it being the universal opinion that two young girls ought
not to remain in their house alone with no other protector than old
Pedro, who, because of his being a Mexican, was not regarded in high
esteem, and who, at his best, was not a vigorous fighter.
Accustomed to cleanliness and a well-ordered household, both Christine
and Alison had long held out against the suggestion that they should
go to the Haleys’, for a slip-shod, down-at-heel condition, such as
often obtained in Texas, characterized the place which Bud called his.
Two or three negroes served to perform all the labor Bud required. For
about one month in the year he devoted himself to his stock, driving
his cattle into the pen, marking the calves after they were roped in,
and so on. But this performance was generally made the occasion of a
frolic, the neighbors flocking to the different ranchos and assisting
one another when spring brought around this duty. Bud raised a little
corn, a little cotton, no more than it pleased him to look after, and
enough hogs to supply the family with all the pork they wanted. The
house required little attention from Hannah Maria, one negro woman
doing the work in her own fashion. The daily fare of corn-bread, bacon
and muddy coffee was supplemented infrequently by sweet potatoes,
a little milk and poor butter, a bill of fare not requiring great
skill in its preparation, and a very different sort of diet from that
considered necessary by the Rosses. Alison especially rebelled against
it, and declared to Christine that she would rather eat Lolita’s
frijoles and tortillas.
“I get so desperately tired of it all,” she said. “Pone and fry and
coffee, coffee and fry and pone. Nowhere to sleep but in the room where
we can see the sky through the rafters. Nothing to do but to listen to
Hannah Maria’s incessant chatter. It may amuse you, Tina, to talk to
her and to Cynthia Thompson and Laura Van Dorn, when they come in, but
as for me I get tired of them. I enjoy Lolita much more. She is really
entertaining and far more lovable. Besides we teach each other many
things.” So off Alison would go to spend the morning with Lolita, while
Christine would turn her attention to whatever she could find to occupy
her. The place was not very attractive, she was forced to agree with
Alison, and though she expostulated with her sister upon her frequent
abscondings, she did not blame the girl.
The house certainly had no claim to either comfort or beauty. The main
room, about twenty feet square, served as living-room, bedroom and
dining-room. The kitchen, a small log structure, stood some yards to
the rear of the house. The family table-ware, the stock of groceries
and all wearing apparel found place in the living-room. A great canopy
bed, which both Christine and Alison shared with Hannah Maria, filled
a large space in one corner, a table stood in the middle of the floor,
several chairs seated with untanned deer-skin were pushed against the
wall haphazard; over the mantelpiece hung a rifle, powder-horn, and
pouches; a bureau held its place as general receptacle for anything
which could not be poked away elsewhere. A Bible occupied one end of
the mantel; on the other end was a Connecticut clock supporting a card
to which was pinned a flashy breastpin. On state occasions, such as
funerals and weddings, Hannah Maria wore the pin.
It was not the home of elegance, but there was easy content and rough
kindliness of the truest sort. If both Christine and Alison had elected
to spend the remainder of their mortal existences under Bud’s roof,
they would have been as cordially welcome as if they were members of
the family. Indeed, it was because any other arrangement would have
given offense that they were obliged to accept this ready hospitality.
Fortunately it was mild weather, and, unless a norther drove every one
within doors to seek the fire, the gallery was the gathering place
for all, and here, on a pallet, Bud was wont to sleep in summer. The
Haleys’, being the centre of neighborhood news, was seldom passed by
those going up or down the road, and the gallery was usually occupied
by half a dozen persons during the greater part of the day, for even if
Hannah Maria had gone forth on some charitable errand, incidental to
gathering news, Bud would be at home; or if Bud were away Hannah Maria
would be found surrounded by the hounds and shooing off chickens from
her untidy flower-beds, but ready to smile a welcome to whomever should
ride up.
The lock of hair had been sent by a safe hand to Ira, and every day
some of the boys managed to bring a report of Louisa. “Old Cy has some
scheme in his head,” Bud told the girls. “I don’t know jest what. I
think he’d send Pike about his business if he dared. As for Jabe he’s
easier managed; he wants Lou, but he’s divided between his desire
for her and his love of his money-bags, so he’ll only come up to the
scratch when it’s now or never.”
Hannah Maria, softly plump and comfortable, nodded approvingly from
her rocking-chair. She considered that Bud was a person of marked
perspicuity and his opinions those of great weight. She was a great
lover of the romantic and was continually seeking out sentimental
motives. Christine’s sad little story interested her deeply and she
would talk for hours upon the possibility of Steve’s return. It must
be said that her cheerful optimism was a good thing for Christine who,
from constant brooding and from being much alone, was in danger of
becoming morbid. Alison was a very much less interesting companion to
Hannah Maria, for Alison laughed at her sentimentalities, refused to
talk of love affairs, and though Hannah Maria declared it was unnatural
in a girl nearly seventeen to fight shy of love-making, Alison insisted
that she was not yet ready for anything of the kind.
“The very idear of it,” said Hannah Maria, as Alison vanished from the
house one day. “I never see a young gal so sot agin love stories.”
Christine smiled. “She isn’t so indifferent as she seems. She thinks
a lot about such things, but they are all imaginary ones so far. She
hasn’t met her knight yet.”
“Maybe she has, an’ maybe she hain’t,” said Hannah Maria. “There’s
young Van Dorn thinks a mighty heap of her an’ he mought be jedge some
day.”
“That some day is a long way off yet,” returned Christine. “I am glad
Alison is in no haste. She seems such a child.”
“Laws, Tiny, when gals is so skeerce they git married dreadful airly,
an’ sixteen’s the age fer most of ’em to be pickin’ out their husbands.
You don’t want her to be a old maid.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Christine; “it’s what I expect to be and
it would be rather nice for us to live together.”
“But you won’t be. Your time’ll come, too. Nobody can’t make me believe
Steve won’t come back. Why, I remember jest how he looked the very
day he was missin’. He come by an’ says: ‘I’m expectin’ John back in
a few days, an’ I’ll be expectin’ you to dance at my weddin’ purty
soon, Hannah Maria. If you’ll make my weddin’ cake I’ll see that you
git a sweetheart.’ Jest like his jokin’; always purtendin’ I ain’t got
married ’cause I kain’t git ary man ter hev me. I says, ‘I reckon ’most
anybody could git married in this country if they wanted to pick up
a crooked stick like some I could name,’ an’ he laughed and said I’d
better look out or I’d git a crooked stick myself if I waited too long.
He knows as well as anybody thet I’ve hed chances and thet nobody could
induce me to leave Bud while he’s single. There, I declar’ ef Laura Van
Dorn ain’t a-comin’. She will be disapp’inted not to see Allie. She’s
real fond of Allie, on her brother’s account, I reckon. I wonder if he
came with her.”
“Heard the news?” said Laura as she entered.
“No. What is it?” said Hannah Maria eagerly.
“The Dutch have taken Holland,” returned Laura laughing.
“Oh, git out,” cried Hannah Maria. “You’re always foolin’. I thought it
was something from the seat of war.”
“It’s likely to be quiet down there for awhile,” said Laura, swinging
her sunbonnet by its strings. “Where’s Allie?”
“Gone over home. She’s daft about that place and that little greaser
gal, pretty little thing she is, and well-behaved as any lady I ever
saw. Her father’s kep’ her good and quiet an’ she’s real superior,
though I ain’t much for them greasers at the best. Still, I dunno that
she’ll do Allie any harm.”
“I certainly don’t think she will,” put in Christine. “I should not let
Alison be so intimate with her if I did not think it was perfectly safe
for her. Lolita is very quick to learn and you would be surprised to
see what a good appearance she makes anywhere. Alison watches her like
a hawk, to be sure, and brings her to task if she commits any mistake
at table, or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“You ought just to see some of ’em,” said Hannah Maria. “They ain’t no
idea of usin’ anything but their fingers when they eat, an’ such messes
as they do cook would make a cat sick. I reckon Lolita has some good
blood in her. They say old Pedro belonged to right nice folks. Blythe
come over, Laura?”
“Yes, I left him talking to Bud. When he finds Alison has gone I
suppose he will be ready to ride after her.”
Hannah Maria looked interested, and her fancy went galloping to the
meeting between the two. “Now ain’t it purty,” she said after a pause,
“to see a young fellow that ain’t backward; some of ’em is so shy.
How’s Cynthy, Laura?”
“She’s well.”
“Polly Sanders’s baby any more fits?”
“Not that I’ve heard of.”
“Tom M’Gee got back?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Heerd any more about Manthy Lance?”
“No.”
“I reckon that’ll be a match,” said Hannah Maria dwelling upon the
subject of Manthy and Tom. “Bud thinks they’ll be married before the
year’s out. How’s Jim Steele, Laura?”
Laura hung her head and ceased to swing her bonnet. “I suppose he’s
well,” she replied. “Have you heard any news from your brother,
Christine?” she asked, turning the subject.
“Nothing very lately. I hoped he would be back by this time.”
“I certainly will be glad to see all them soldier boys,” said Hannah
Maria, “but I’ll be sorry to lose you and Allie, Christine. It’s lucky
how all them boys has escaped. I was afraid it would finish some of
’em. They say Monterey was a terrible battle and that we’d oughter
be proud of our side. They’ve been laying out to take the place ever
since May, but they say it’s a perfect Giberalter, and it’s a wonder
anybody escaped. I should think by this time the Mexicans would see we
can fight and that they’d give in, but Bud don’t believe they will till
there’s more fightin’. For my part, I wish it was all over and done
with and everybody back home. I reckon you’re glad Blythe didn’t go,
Laura.”
“Indeed I am. I think they have enough without him. He’s the only son
of a widow, you know, and he’s got a good excuse.”
“So he is, but your mother’s got your sister’s husband there, that’s
just like a son to her. He looks after things real good, don’t he?”
“Yes, he does, or else Blythe would have to give up his idea of
studying law. Mother is real well off with Ellen and Henry and three or
four hands in the field.”
This was the kind of talk which failed to interest Alison, who by
this time had reached the cabin where Pedro and Lolita lived, and
was greeted with soft Spanish endearments by Lolita. Even the very
modest abode of these despised Mexicans appeared more attractive in
Alison’s eyes than the one occupied by the Haleys. Lolita was on her
knees deftly rubbing the metate stone in order to prepare the corn
for tortillas. Jumping from her horse Alison watched her and presently
joined her in slapping the thin round cakes, winning praise for her
skill from her little friend.
“Oh, I assure you,” said Alison, laughing, “I am mightily pleased to be
eating tortillas with you to-day and I hope we are to have frijoles and
tamales as well, for I am hungrier than you can imagine. I never can
eat heartily of the breakfasts that Hannah Maria likes.”
Lolita promised her the frijoles and the tamales, and Alison sat
contentedly slapping out tortillas while Lolita prepared the black
beans and the meat compound, well seasoned with red pepper and onions
and done up in corn husks, a savory dish to those who could stand the
pepper.
Presently Lolita, who had been busy over her work, exclaimed: “Señor
Van Dorn, cara mia.”
“Dear me,” Alison did not look up, “let him find me if he can. Is he
coming this way, Lolita?”
“He look you all place. No is find.”
“It won’t hurt him to hunt awhile longer. He should know that I am
here.” And, indeed, Blythe did soon become aware of the fact, for it
was not long before he sauntered up to the two girls.
“Well, Miss Alison,” he said, “are you turning Mexican?”
“Yes, I am fain to come over here once in a while to earn my dinner or
else die of ’og and ’ominy, as old British Tom calls it. Don’t you like
tortillas?”
“When they are prepared by such fair hands as yours.”
“Nonsense, that has nothing to do with it,” said Alison, unresponsive
to his sentimentality. “Lolita makes them far better than I do. Did you
want to see Pedro? He is out by the hog-yard, or somewhere about.”
“You know I have no business with Pedro.”
“Have you business with anybody?” asked Alison saucily.
“If you would permit it.”
“I’ve nothing to do with business of any kind at present,--I am all for
pleasure. That’s why I came over to help Lolita make tortillas.”
“May I stay and help you eat them?”
“You must ask Lolita.”
As Blythe was not yet very apt with Spanish he preferred his request in
his own tongue and was surprised that Lolita answered him in perfectly
correct English, telling him he was quite welcome. “She certainly is
a beauty,” whispered the young man to Alison. “It is a pity she is a
Mexican.”
“And why?” asked Alison.
“She might marry well; perhaps one of her American neighbors.”
“She has no taste for Americanos, except for our family.”
“Where did she learn English?”
“I am her teacher. She teaches me Spanish, so we can converse in either
language.”
“I shouldn’t mind being her pupil.”
Alison gave her head a toss. “You will not be permitted to enter her
class.”
“Ah, you misunderstand me. I meant that I should like the privilege of
sharing the lessons with you.”
“I don’t believe you meant any such thing, but we will let that pass.”
“You know she is not the type I most admire.”
“How should I know?”
“Because she is your opposite.”
“That’s nonsense, too.”
“I wish I knew what style of man you admire.”
“I’ll tell you some time. I can’t now, because I am busy with these
tortillas. Have you ever eaten a real Mexican meal?”
“No, you know we have not been long in the country, and I have not
traveled through this section very much.”
Alison smiled in anticipated amusement and when the hour came for the
noonday meal she watched the young man slyly. There was neither fork
nor spoon with which to convey the frijoles to his mouth. He looked at
them helplessly and both the girls laughed merrily. “You must roll
up your tortillas so, and make a spoon,” Alison told him, and when he
awkwardly tried to follow her directions she laughed at him the more.
So the meal passed amid much merriment, for Blythe was good-nature
itself and even Pedro’s gravity relaxed at the joyousness of the young
people.
“Now you will take a walk with me, won’t you?” said Blythe to Alison
when the meal was over and they had wandered to where a cottonwood
afforded some shelter from the heat of noon. Pedro was taking his
siesta, and Lolita, too, had curled herself up in the long grass, sleep
already causing her long lashes to droop over the soft curve of her
cheek.
“It is too hot for a walk, don’t you know that?” said Alison. “You’ve a
lot to learn about this part of the country, Mr. Van Dorn of New York
State. This is the time for rest. Not a Mexican but has sense enough
to remain absolutely quiet after a full meal! Pedro thinks it a mortal
sin to exercise after eating, and was just telling me the story of the
man whom his master found lying under a tree, when his companions were
working in the cane.”
“I have never heard the story.”
“His master came along and asked why he was not working, and the man
made answer: ‘Empty sack can’t stand.’ His master sent him to the
house for a good meal. An hour after the master came that way again
and there was the man as before lying under the tree. ‘Why are you not
at work?’ asked he. ‘An hour ago you gave as an excuse that you were
empty. Have you not eaten as I told you to do?’ ‘Full sack can’t bend,’
said the man.”
Blythe laughed. “Then I will have mercy on you and we will rest here.”
“Not here, but over by that oak yonder where it is more shady; this
cottonwood’s foliage is so light and thin it does not protect one near
so well as the oak. I will walk that far, although it is against my
principles.”
They established themselves comfortably, Alison leaning against the
trunk of the tree and Blythe half reclining at her feet. “And now tell
me what is your favorite type of man,” said the lad, pulling a blade of
the dry grass and drawing it between his fingers.
“You tell me first what is your ideal of womanhood.”
“That is easy to do. She must be young and fair.”
“She couldn’t keep so, you know, in this climate.”
Blythe did not heed the interruption. “She must be rather tall, not
too plump, with blue eyes that look right at you and do not droop or
languish but are honest and fearless. She must have hair the color
of ripe corn husks, a tinge of yellow in it. She must have courage
and daring without being bold. She must be gentle yet not too meek;
amiable, yet able to stand up for the right. She must have womanly
tastes yet be ready to ride a horse, hit a mark and rope in a calf as
well as she can cook a meal and sew a seam. She must not be ignorant
of books, like too many of the women one meets about here, and she
must have a care to the neatness of her dress, something also often
overlooked by our good neighbors.”
“Dear me, I shall write that all down as soon as I get home,” said
Alison. “You certainly require a paragon. I don’t know where you will
find her.”
“I know only one who answers to my description.”
“Oh, you do know one?”
“Yes, and she is not a mile away, but is as hard to approach as a star.”
“My, but you are poetical. I wonder you left such an intellectual spot
as New York for these wilds.”
“I came because my father did, and now he is gone I stay because my
mother and sister do so. Since my eldest sister has married here it
seems as if we may as well remain, for there is always a future for an
enterprising young man in a new country. When I am judge you will see
how well I have done for myself.”
“That seems a great many years to look ahead when one is not yet of
age,” remarked Alison. “I am afraid you will get discouraged long
before that.”
“Not if I have the proper incentive, if the girl I want will encourage
me. Tell me now what you admire in a man.”
Alison tipped back her head upon her clasped hands and fixed her eyes
upon the fleecy clouds drifting across the blue sky. “He must not
be too young,” she began, “nor too wise in such things as I cannot
understand, like Latin and--law. He must be tall and muscular and
rather dark than fair. He must be brave and cheerful under difficulties
and true as steel, loving the things that grow out of doors, and
animals and skies and streams more than books. He must make me feel
that wherever he is I have a sure protection, for he must be a ready
fighter either for his country or for me, yet he must not be one who
tries to pick a quarrel or is coarse and ignorant and shiftless. He
must know how to make his way among men, but must be chivalrous towards
women; not a dandy, though, nor one who makes pretty speeches and then
lets a woman wait on him and do the things which it is his right to do.
He must love his home, but be no loafer and idler. He must be witty and
entertaining, but not silly. Of course he must ride and shoot and do
all those things well and must have a reputation as an Indian fighter
and all that.”
“You require a great deal,” said Blythe in a dejected tone.
“Not more than you.”
“But I have found my ideal.”
“And I have not, unless it be my brother John, for he is my pattern.”
Blythe turned from her, resting himself upon his two elbows: “It would
take a great many years for a man to fit himself to that pattern,” he
said.
“Yes, he’d have to begin young, as young even as you, I suppose,” said
Alison nonchalantly.
“And by the time he had reached your ideal the girl he cared for would
be married.”
“Very likely; if she were to marry at all. She might be like Hannah
Maria and be fond of all love stories except her own.”
“The girl I mean could never be like Hannah Maria.”
Alison laughed merrily. “You don’t know what twenty years can do to a
woman, especially down here where people grow careless.”
Blythe’s eyes roved over Alison’s neat dress, her soft hair, smooth and
tidy except where the little curling tendrils were blown about her face
by the breeze, and he shook his head. “She could never look like Hannah
Maria,” he insisted.
“If she turns out to be half as good and unselfish, she may count
herself lucky,” said Alison. “Hannah Maria may not be beautiful in face
and figure, but she has a beautiful spirit, as our minister at home
used to say. Do you ever get homesick, Blythe? I do.”
“Yes, I do sometimes, but never when I am with you.”
“You should not get homesick when you are not with me, for you have a
home and a mother. I wish I had a mother.”
“You don’t know how good my mother is,” said Blythe eagerly. “She
often says that when I bring home a wife she will love her as her own
daughter.”
“How pleasant for your wife. I hope that in that long, long time to
come, when you are judge and have found the right girl, your mother
will still feel the same way. I shall probably have been married years
by that time, and I will come to your wedding and say, ‘Law, I remember
when Blythe Van Dorn was a snip of a boy and used to tell me what he
meant to do when he was a man. He hasn’t married a girl a bit like what
he thought he would.’”
At this final shot the boy of twenty grew suddenly moody, arose from
his place in the oak tree’s cool shade and went to where his horse was
picketed. “Good-bye,” he said.
“Going?” called Alison cheerily. “If you see Hannah Maria as you are
passing, tell her I shall be home in time for supper.”