Mistress of Monterey
Uirqinia Stivers Bartlett - - - h ~Z::ra
I---1
CHAPTER XXVII—Continued
—23—
The priests at Mission Carmelo
were shooked and horrified when La
Gobernadora was delivered to them,
no longer hysterically screaming
as when she left the presidio, but
cold and icy, sitting regally before
the bewildered soldier on his horse.
If she had been as the Governor
had last seen her, good Fray Fer
min would have feared her less, and
thrown her to the tender mercies of
the matron of the monjera for disci
pline.
But this cold haughty queen, who
held her head so high and comport
ed herself like a prisoner of state
was someone to be feared.
So they put her quietly into the
monjera, which Junipero Serra had
long ago called a dove-cote . . •
and there, through the long spring
days, she lived with the Indian girls,
under the chaperonage of the an
cient Dona Maria. Dona Maria took
a certain grim pleasure in watching
over the proud Gobernadora, and
though she did not exceed her du
ties in regard to her, she did not
neglect any discipline which she
considered necessary. Eulalia wove
and sewed, sang psalms and prayed,
outwardly as quiet as the stupidest
Indian girl.
But when she lay at night on the
pallet they had made for her on
the floor, with a barred window high
above her head, she would cram the
coarse sheet into her mouth to keep
from screaming. She boiled and
seethed with rage, despair, outrage.
Sometimes it was directed against
the Governor, then it turned most
bitterly against herself.
“Fool! Fool!” she muttered to
herself. “Silly fool, to allow this to
happen to me! Ai, Dios! Madre de
Dios!”
There was one rule she refused
to obey. And that was to attend
the masses at the church. When
this duty was urged upon her, she
was silent, but drew her brows to
gether dangerously. Then the
priests and the matron were glad
to leave her alone.
One day the Fray Presidente
called for her, and Dona Maria es
corted her to his quarters. She
stood uncompromisingly stiff before
him, but he motioned her to a chair.
“Be seated, Senora la Goberna
dora,” he murmured.
Eulalia smiled at the title. In the
monjera she had been simply Dona
Eulalia.
The father leaned back and looked
at her curiously.
“I have been studying you since
you have been here, my daughter,”
he said, “and I must say that I
have found your conduct most ex
emplary.”
Eulalia inclined her head.
He continued. “You have been
docile, obedient, silent amid a disci
pline that must have been a severe
punishment to you. And I should
say that you have been very brave.
Now, I do not know what the pri
vate difficulties are between you
and his Excellency. I have heard,
of course, of the events that led to
your being brought here. Not offi
cially, for his Excellency did not
communicate them to me. But I
can not help feeling that there is
some grave misunderstanding be
tween you that caused you to . . .
to do as you did.”
Eulalia leaned toward him, her
hands gripping the arms of the
chair.
"Ai, Padre mio, she breathed,
"if you only knew . .
But the priest silenced her.
"I was going to say that I am
sure the fault does not lie with you,
whatever it is. For you have be
/naved under this punishment only
as one who suffers unjustly, and is
Innocent of wrongdoing.”
Eulalia leaned back and stared
at him breathlessly.
"As your spiritual father, I tell
you this. And as the spiritual fa
ther of his Excellency, Don Pedro,
I must speak to him as I have
spoken to you.”
"Ah, no!” she cried suddenly.
Then at the surprised expression on
the priest’s face, she controlled her
self hastily.
“You think, then,” she said halt
ingly, "that perhaps Don Pedro’s
conduct is . . .”
"Extraordinary, to say the least.”
Eulalia smiled a secret smile of
triumph.
She rose.
"Is that all. Father?” she asked
meekly.
“That is all, for the present. But
I am going to ask you one thing.
Come to the early mass Sunday.”
"Very well.”
When, on the next Sunday, she
entered the church with the Indian
women she was trembling nervous
ly. No comfortable chair was placed
for her, as when she had been there
before, and she needs must stand on
the cold dirt floor, and kneel upon
it, without any cushion. With her
head wrapped in a coarse black re
bozo, her face shone out, white and
drawn with the strain of her in
carceration. Dona Maria looked at
her and compressed her lips.
“I am afraid for that one,” she
thought to herself. “She looks ill."
With shaking knees and voice, Eu
lalia followed the service. Her
thoughts flew back to the first time
she had taken part in the services
in the church of Mission San Car
los, and Junipero Serra . . . She
bent her head.
There at her feet, actually be
neath her where she stood, lay his
bones.
Junipero Serra, Junipero Serra!
She nearly screamed the words
aloud. Through the wood of his
rough coffin, through the dirt that
covered him, his eyes seemed to
stare at her reproachfully, blazing
at her from fleshless sockets . . .
The strengh of pride and will that
had kept her suffering nerves in
leash these two long months de
serted her, and weeping hysterical
ly, she collapsed on Junipero Ser
ra's tomb.
When the Governor reached the
presidio, almost the first report he
had was from Angustias who told
him accusingly that La Goberna
dora, imprisoned in the monjera at
Carmel, had been very ill, but was
now better.
"No wonder," snorted the old
woman. “With no decent food or
clothes. I went over to Carmel sev
He Lifted Her in His Arms.
eral times to brush her hair, and
that old beldame, Maria, wouldn’t
let me!”
It was his first impulse to run
to her swiftly. Suddenly, more than
anything in the world, he wished to
hold her in his arms, to comfort
her as though she were a little girl.
His flower, his Eulalia! Why, it was
because she was such a spirited,
fiery little thing that he had fallen
in love with her and married her.
And after he had married her, he
had spoiled her, and been away
from her too long; was her fiery
spirit broken after these two long
months in the monjera to which he
had sentenced her?
He sent a messenger to her to
tell her to come to him as soon as
she was able.
For he could not trust himself to
go to her.
And Eulalia, in the austere mon
jera, wept.
Suddenly, to her, nothing seemed
so desirable as to be in her hus
band’s arms, wherever he might go,
whatever he might be.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Waiting restlessly for Eulalia to
come to him, Don Pedro rode out
to his vineyard in the bright spring
morning. He left his horse and
walked alone among the green
vines. Tenderly he looked at them,
admiring their robust growth, touch
ing a tendril here, stroking a glossy
leaf there. He knelt down on the
earth beside a young vine and
picked a bit of soil up in his fin
gers, as was his habit.
Over him the sky was unusually
blue for this coastal region, and
the sun was high and hot. A little
in the distance he could see his
orchard, some of the trees in early
green, some still rosy with blos
soms. And where the land was not
cultivated it bloomed with wild-flow
ers.
“California!” he breathed. “She
has given herself to me like a wom
an. Give her smiles and her tears
and fruits of her body. I shall not
leave such a fruitful mistress."
A single horse and rider came
rapidly toward the vineyard. It was
Eulalia.
Pedro Pages rose to his feet and
looked about him.
“The vines are young,” he mur
mured. “Next spring they will be
young again. Ten springs ... a
score of springs, and they will still
be young. But Eulalia . . .” He
watched, almost in fear, as she
slipped lithely from her horse and
came toward him, at first slowly,
then as she caught sight of him
when he stood upright, in a little
run, holding up her skirts, laughing
like a girl, shading her eyes with
her hand.
"But Eulalia Is young now!” he
cried to himself. “Ten springs, a
score of springs . . . and then . . .
NO!” Suddenly he brushed the soil
of California from his fingers and
sprang toward her. Dimly he no
ticed that her feet crushed the young
vines as she ran.
"Pedro! My Pedro!" She sank at
his feet in the dirt, laughing, weep
ing. "Pedro, oh, my Pedro!”
He lifted her in his«arms, then
put her on her feet, and knelt be
fore her, swinging off his sombrero.
He clasped her knees, looking up
into her face. “Eulalia, my dear,
my flower . . you are beautiful,
and pa!e. You have suffered . .
He kissed her little shoe, and no
ticed the pungency of the vines she
had crushed.
She pulled him upright to her,
and took his face between her
hands. "Pedro, my great bear, you
are so brave, so strong ... so
cruel to me ...”
"I am a great fool!" He groaned,
straining her to him. “Eulalia, I
have something to tell you. I am
resigning as Governor of the Cali
fornias, and . . .”
"And?” she exclaimed, flushing
suddenly, radiantly, “and we are
going away from here . . . back
to Mexico . . . Spain?”
Over her head he looked at the
hills, the sky, the distant mountains,
the sea, the orchards, the beloved
vineyard. Tears filled his eyes and
blurred the scene.
"Yes . . . away from here,” he
said.
CHAPTER XXIX
Triumphantly Eulalia sailed on
the first ship that put out from Mon
terey, with the two children and
Angustias. From the shore Pedro
Fages watched the ship as far as
he could see it, then turned and
rode madly to the Mission Carmelo.
He went into the little church, and
kneeling by the tomb of Junipero
Serra talked with his old friend.
Largest Indian Market in World Is in
Guatemala; Traders Are Gayly Costumed
The plaza of Santo Tomas Chichi
castenango, a village hidden far
back in the mountains of Guate
mala, is the scene of the largest
and most elaborately costumed In
dian market in Central America. On
Thursdays and Sundays it draws
as many as 5,000 traders and farm
ers from an area of several hun
dred square miles.
Mingling here on market days are
Indians from scores of villages,
each dressed in a different manner.
To the stranger it is dreamlike and
unreal. One has the feeling that
this is the opening scene of a new
opera; that presently a trumpet will
blow, an orchestra will begin to
play and all these earnest people
will drop their bargaining to burst
forth in full-throated song!
Back of the gay trappings and the
romancing of visitors, however, the
workaday life of a simple but in
dustrious people moves on. In long
rows the women squat on the hard
earth, their wares piled before
them. Some are protected from the
tropical sun by square cotton awn
ings, but most of them sit in the
open. Many plait straw for som
breros as they wait for buyers.
Hand scales measure out yellow and
blue corn, native copal incense,
soap, peppers, dried shrimps, beans
and herbs.
It is difficult for an outsider to un
derstand the status of the Indian ip
a town like Chichicastenango. Un
like the half-naked aborigines of the
jungle lowlands, or the itinerant
tradesmen and servants of the
cities, the Indians of the highlands
of Guatemala have maintained a
proud, semi-independence as farm
ers, weavers and pottery makers.
Conquered but never assimilated,
they are aristocrats among the na- j
tive peoples of Central America, and
they are sufficiently well organized
to make mass petitions to the cen
tral government when local condi
tions demand it. They have had
much less contact with other races
than Indians elsewhere have had.
Consequently, they have retained
their self-respect and are neither
subservient nor cringing.
■■■ - I
It would be a year before his suc
cessor would arrive. And the time
was all too short in which to say his
farewells to the land he had loved
so faithfully, so he had hastened
first to the old missionary.
He spent the year putting his af
fairs in order, tending, with an ach
ing heart, his trees and vines.
And at the end of the year his
successor came. On board the old
San Carlos arrived his old friend
Capitan Romeu, who had persuaded
Eulalia so long ago to come to Cal
ifornia.
A few days later the San Carlos
was due to sail. On that same day
the great Spanish explorer Malas
pina put the frigate Descubierto into
the harbor of Monterey. Those on
shore watched her launch a long
boat among the frisking whales.
When the long-boat landed there was
a bundle wrapped in sail cloth.
“A dead sailor,” said the captain.
"We wish to bury him ashore.”
So he was buried. Pedro Fages
and the new Governor of the Cali
fornias paused by his grave on their
way to the beach from where Don
Pedro was to be rowed to the San
Carlos. They examined the slab of
oakwood that bore his epitaph.
“John Graham, a seaman. Born
in Boston, Massachusetts . . .”
“Our first American,” murmured
Romeu.
reuro r ages loosed east across
the mountains. In his mind’s eye
he saw higher ranges of mountains,
deserts, prairies, rivers, more
mountains and great inland lakes.
And across that country, men has
tening to the call of the siren, Cali
fornia, and her golden lure.
“You are right,” he said, "our
first. But not, O Governor of all
the Californias, our last.”
Then he hastened to the waiting
lancha and, turning his back reso
lutely on the land, was rowed to the
waiting San Carlos. Soon the sails
filled and Romeu, watching on the
shore, saw the gallant old paquebot,
which had borne Pedro Pages to
California, slowly turn with the tide
to bear him away.
(THE END)
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