A STRANGER VISITS SEÑOR MENDOZA
"Papacito mine, I'm all ready for the party this evening. My maids
have just finished with me. What do you think of me?"
The Señorita Carmelita pirouetted into her father's sitting room, stood
on one foot, then on the other, finally turning completely around.
"Papacito, what do you think of me?" she asked again.
The father knit his brows in pretended deep consideration.
"Hurry! Hurry, papacito! Really I can't wait any longer, I'm so
anxious to know."
"My child, you make me think of a very pretty, very dainty wild flower."
"Just a flower, papacito?" in mock disappointment.
"Well, a flower with laughing eyes, splendid hair, and white plumage,"
pointing to her dress.
"That's better, little papa, somewhat better. Isn't it magnificent
that we're to have a valecito casero? In school in Mexico City we went
to bed regularly at eight o'clock. To-night it will be midnight, and
later. When I think of my present freedom and the old school days my
heart rejoices itself; yet I loved the school and everyone in it.
Often in dreams I am in those old rooms overlooking the Plaza Mercedes,
and I hear the splashing of the fountains and the singing of the birds."
"My child's heart lives in scenes left behind months ago, yet the
spirit rejoices in present liberty. Well, it is the way of the world."
Carmelita was sitting on the arm of her father's chair stroking his
face and hands, and occasionally giving gentle pulls to his long
mustache. Strangely alike were these two, the slender, dark-eyed girl,
and the stalwart, graying man, athletic-appearing even in his years.
The waving mane above his forehead was the prototype of the coal-black
hair of the señorita which billowed over her shoulders and fell below
her waist.
His cheek was bronze, showing dashes of red; hers was creamy, with the
blush of youth surmounting; but it was the contour of face and form of
both, strongly chiseled, yet superbly fine, that bespoke a model
fashioned and perfected generations before in aristocratic Spain.
"What a philosopher my father is!" Then, after a moment: "Yesterday
Señor Zelaya said to Señor Higuera, as they passed along the corridor,
'But the Administrator says that we must educate ourselves to a deeper
appreciation--' I did not catch the rest. Señor Higuera replied, 'And
the Administrator has a philosophy of deep and wide application.' Tell
me about it."
"My daughter, I think you would prefer a more interesting story. My
philosophy, if you made it rightly, has been long in coming to me. On
the other hand, the estate of womanhood now present with you seems to
have grown overnight."
Carmelita arose, curtsied to her father, then resumed her seat.
"But my philosophy touches not any abstract principle. It deals only
with powers that move the human heart."
"Vast political forces are astir in this old world of ours. The theory
that God appoints kings is rapidly dissipating. The sun of democracy,
long mantled by the fog of tyranny, shines soon in unobscured ray. In
the to-morrow of to-morrow shall the people rule, as their right
divine."
The señorita smiled into her father's eyes. "Lolita Hernandez once
said to me, a long time ago, when she was petulant, that my father is a
rebel. I replied by calling her a minx."
The old don made no reply; but continued: "'Westward the course of
empire takes its way.' An English poet sings this truly and well. To
the east of California is a republic destined to a colossal future,
because it is founded on the principle that all men are created equal,
and its national life rises toward a realization of that truth. To
that height must rise not alone the Saxon but the Latin as well.
"The geography of nations in our Western world must soon change, under
the influence of the democratic idea. As certain as the sun rose this
morning and now urges to the setting, will either the American or the
English flag float from the staff within our courtyard before our
province has seen but a few more years of life."
"But," hesitatingly from the girl, "will you not fight against this
aggression?"
"No; nor could I stem the tide if I did. The logic of events grinds,
as do the mills of the gods, exceeding fine. In the great world battle
between people and potentate, victory, final and complete, will rest
one day with the people. The cost of that battle will be measured in
centuries of time, the blood of nations, the sacrifice of warriors and
statesmen. Runnymede, in the south of England, in the year 1215, saw
the beginning of the conflict when the people forced King John to sign
the Magna Charta!"
"History speaks of the family de la Mendoza as made up of warriors.
Your own name, father mine, is mentioned, and not as the least, yet you
will never speak to me of any battle."
He pointed to a small painting. It depicted Waterloo.
"I'd give my experience of all the battles I've seen could I have stood
there that evening with Wellington, on Mount Saint Jean, when the sun
of day had set and Napoleon's sun of destiny with it. I would have
rejoiced to have chased the emperor of the French over the plowed field
at night, as does a hound drive the hare. Yet--what matters it all?
As well for Napoleon to rule, or misrule, as for any other tyrant, be
he anointed king or not. The day of the people comes, and I rejoice."
"Shall we follow new ways and customs then, my father?"
"Quite possibly. And yet, think you not it a pretty custom when the
Spaniard comes with his guitar and improvises sweet music outside the
embrasure window of the señorita? No?"
The doña blushed rosy red.
"What a papacito!" kissing him to cover her confusion. "How shall the
señorita inside the embrasure prevent the music-inclined caballero on
the outside from touching the strings of his guitar?"
Mendoza laughed while looking fondly at his daughter.
"You ask me how the doña may discourage the suitor? Ah, little one,
how can I tell you? The claws show sharp and repelling, or presto! all
is soft and smooth as velvet. What works the wonder, ask you? Ah,
Carmelita mia! Lolita Hernandez is not the only minx in the world."
The girl playfully tugged at her father's thick hair.
"What a father is mine! He has seen all things and has accomplished
all things," changing the subject. "Has ever there been an ungratified
wish in your life, except the one to chase the emperor of the French
across plowed fields? If so, now is your chance. I will be your fairy
godmother. Come, make your wish, and, behold! It is done."
She had slipped from the chair and standing, held her arms extended
over him. "Make your wish now," laughingly.
"My child, I have a wish, but its fulfillment would involve the folding
together of events that time has unfolded; indeed, the turning backward
of time."
She dropped her hands in concern. "O, papacito, tell me your desire,"
coming again to the arm of his chair.
He did not reply.
"O, little papa, you are so serious. Please tell me what it is."
"I wish, little girl, that as a stripling I had come here and had built
my life into this Western world. That favor of kings I had never
known--I care nothing for their disfavor--but of my own self, coupled
with the resources with which nature has endowed California, I had
evolved the best that fortune would have sent me, were it hacienda
house and administratorship, or a humble hut with modest plot of
ground, such as has the least of my peons."
A tap at the door.
"Enter," from Mendoza.
A peon stepped within. Thrice he bowed low to the master, then to the
doña.
"Señor Mendoza, a stranger awaits you in the outer office."
"Does he give his name?"
"Here it is, señor."
The peon porter handed Mendoza a piece of paper on which was written,
in bold, rough characters, "Charles O'Donnell."
"O'Donnell--O'Donnell--Let him enter."
The peon again bowed low to the master and his daughter. Backing
through the door, he bowed once more. Almost immediately the stranger,
O'Donnell, stood in the doorway. Señor Mendoza was on his feet
formally awaiting his visitor.
The man's broad, strong shoulders touched from doorpost to doorpost,
his head barely coming within the door without his stooping. His
buckskin shirt, opening low at the front, showed the long, red beard
which was fastened together by a cord, and disappeared into the expanse
of his chest.
His hair, darker than his beard, was long and bushy. This also was
caught by a string and was partially hidden under his shirt.
Steely-blue eyes looked out over regular features. A sombrero was in
his hand. His buckskin trousers were protected from hip to knee by
shaggy leggings of bearskin.
"Señor O'Donnell, will you enter and be seated?"
"I thank you." The stranger moved toward a chair with dignified and
soldierly step.
"Señor, the Administrator Mendoza, I am here to inquire if you know of
the present whereabouts of one Captain Farquharson, an Englishman who
left Mexico City some months ago to hunt big game in our high Sierras
here."
"Señor O'Donnell, why do you ask of me the present abiding place of
this Englishman? I am Administrator of the Mission of San José. My
jurisdiction does not reach to the high Sierras, nor to the city of
Mexico."
Mendoza's glance was careless as he thus replied to the questioner.
"Ah, worthy señor, you are a well-known man in Alta California. Not
less, perhaps, is your name known in the Mexican capital. What wonder,
then, if some leisured traveler touching that capital should bear
written words thence to you here? So I rode to you on my errand of
inquiry. If you know nothing of the man, I shall ride still farther on
my quest."
"Señor O'Donnell, famine is abroad, since the rains fall not.
Entertainment for yourself and feed for your horse are welcome to you
in my hacienda. Why not rest here for a while? Perhaps some of my
major-domos may have news of this captain, or some of the peons
recently returned from the headwaters of the river San Joaquin where
our cattle are now grazing. The Sierras lie but across from these
headwaters, and among our peons are hunters not a few. Rest among us,
my friend O'Donnell, and from some direction you may find the
information you are seeking."
The man shook his head. "My horse has carried me a hundred miles
to-day, and yet he is ready to bear me farther. With such a mount I
can find food for myself and fodder for him, easily, when night falls.
Hear now his song? Drumlummon skirls a merry note."
With a laugh the bearded man arose. The screaming neigh of a stallion
was echoing among the buildings of the hacienda.
"My horse is ready for the road. I thank you for your hospitality just
the same. Adios, noble Administrator."
"Wait, good Señor O'Donnell. A glass of wine makes readier the foot
for the stirrup."
He touched a bell. A peon came, and disappeared on his errand.
"Tell me, señor, while the wine is coming, do you know this Englishman
of whom you speak as Farquharson?"
"Several years ago I saw Captain Farquharson considerably," tersely.
"Ah, Señor O'Donnell, you too are a soldier, as your bearing shows.
You speak of your friend as Captain Farquharson. Perhaps you were
brother officers in English service. Is it so?"
"No," hoarsely replied O'Donnell in English, "it was not so. I thought
I'd done for the fellow that day on the parade ground----"
As he did not continue Señor Mendoza said: "Ah, my friend O'Donnell
speaks the English. I have studied your language and I read your
books," indicating a shelf on which were a number of works by English
historians and political economists. "Ah, here comes the wine."
"Forgive my curiosity, Señor O'Donnell, in my recent questioning. I am
greatly interested in English officers. Just before you came I was
speaking with my daughter of the battle of Waterloo. You could not
have been present. You have not years enough," looking at the face,
yet young, of the man before him.
"I was not in the army at that time," replied O'Donnell. "Allow me to
say, Señor Administrator, you serve nectar here," sipping his wine.
"This Farquharson," persisted Mendoza, "who you say is older than you,
perhaps he took part in that famous battle."
"I did not say Farquharson is older than I. I said I once knew him."
A dark look shaded O'Donnell's face as he spoke.
"Perhaps you were rivals in those times," still persisted Mendoza,
noticing the shadows. "Some wine in your glass, my friend? Well, war
and love have made many an enemy."
Again the neigh of the stallion was heard.
"Drumlummon's second call. I must be going. Perhaps Captain
Farquharson may call on you soon. Indeed, I'm sure he will; for I
remember now that he has letters of introduction to you from Don Juan
Domingo, first assistant to the secretary of state of Mexico."
Señor Mendoza bowed courteously, as if some ordinary information had
been given him.
A sound of approaching voices reached their ears.
"Papacito, our guests are arriving. I shall leave you." Carmelita
approached from the rear of the room where she had been occupied with a
book.
The squeaking of carretas (wooden wagons) was now plainly heard, also
the tramp of horses, the laughter of men, and the gay, bantering tones
of women. Anon arose the angry cry of O'Donnell's stallion.
"The guests are truly coming. Carmelita, my child, see that the
servants neglect neither duty nor courtesy."
To O'Donnell, who was standing ready to depart: "Señor, I'll attend you
myself as you go forth."
Soon the dressing rooms were filled with young girls, laughing and
joyous. A dash of powder on the face, the hair smoother, laces
adjusted, all under the watchful eye of mother or dueña.
The young dandies in their rooms were scarcely less fastidious than
their sweethearts and sisters.
At a quarter before six the company was assembled in the reception
hall. Jokes and sallies went around the room.
Carmelita noticed that her father was not present and sent a peon to
call him. The servant returned with the word that the señor and the
gringo stranger were in the outer office. He did not dare disturb them.
Five minutes passed. Merriment grew louder. Some one saw on a
secretary a chart giving the places of the guests at table. The
merrymakers crowded around.
The doña slipped away and no one noticed.
Her father and O'Donnell were standing just outside the courtyard gate.
Two or three peons were holding O'Donnell's horse which was restive,
pawing and biting at them. The two men spoke English and thus freely,
as none of the peons understood that tongue.
"Men are playing to-day and an empire makes the stake," O'Donnell said.
"Farquharson is sitting in the game, and, by faith! so am I."
Mendoza nodded.
"And, Administrator Mendoza, so are you--and the chief player! Did not
your recent visit to Mexico acquaint you with the trump card?"
Mendoza smiled pleasantly.
The stallion came closer to them, dragging the peons with him. He
seized the shirt of one of them and tore it from his back.
"Quiet, Drumlummon!" Then to the servants, "Unloose him." The huge
animal came fawning to his side.
Without touching hand to the horse O'Donnell vaulted the saddle.
"A moment, O'Donnell."
The man leaned in his saddle.
"You say I'm sitting in the game and the stake is large. Well said,
perhaps. But remember, if I play I'll use the card that means the most
to the province of California." The señor again nodded, as if
retailing some pleasantry of the day.
O'Donnell rode away.
"Papacito!" called Carmelita. "It is late. We are waiting."
In a moment they were with their guests.
Folding doors opened and the well-lighted dining room was before them.
At once dinner was under way. The peons, trained by Mendoza, served
well. The generous hospitality of early California found expression in
the viands and vintages which Mendoza offered his guests. Peons
touched fitting music from stringed instruments; others sang in the
melodious voice of the aborigine.
"Señorita Mendoza, heard you not that the great spring merienda comes
early this year by reason of the drought?" asked Captain Morando.
"Does a picnic so interest you, Comandante Morando?"
"Never have I seen such a picnic as must be the spring merienda in the
valley of Calaveras. Everywhere I hear people speak of it."
"Soon you may judge of its excellence for yourself. Now begins to sing
my peona, Modesta. Her voice equals in sweetness the notes of the
thrush. Listen, while she gives the ancient airs of Oroysom. They are
heart-touching and beautiful."
The señorita's dueña engaged Moranda's attention the moment the singing
ceased, suddenly remembering to ask for some acquaintance in San José.
"Señorita Doña Mendoza, say I have your first dance this evening?"
called Abelardo Peralto from across the table.
"I, the second," cried Miguel Soto.
"I, the third," from another.
"Señorita Doña," asked Morando as soon as he was at liberty, "have you
a dance left for me?"
"First come, first served, is the law in this province," she replied
mischievously.
"Then I am to have no dance with you to-night," despairingly.
"Did you ever hear the saying about the early bird and the worm,
Captain?" laughed Peralta.
"I object to being compared to a worm," said Carmelita. "For your
punishment, Señor Don Abelardo Peralta, I deprive you of the grand
march, which belongs to the first dance, and I give it to the Señor
Captain."
"Woe! Woe!" cried Peralta. "I will be the worm, Señorita Mendoza.
You are the beautiful early bird. O, do not punish me!"
The girl looked at him with mock severity. "I have given my sentence."
The host touched a bell.
"Are we ready for the dancing?" he asked.
The company cheered heartily.
"I hear the musicians tuning their instruments. Let us hence. If we
cannot have the patter of rain during this season of drought, we can at
least have the patter of feet."
Laughing and happy, the sons and daughters of the province repaired to
the dancing room.