Suzanna (19 page)

“In the kitchen, no doubt,” he muttered to himself, “wearing her fingers off for my future wife,—ha!” With an exclamation of disgust he went, back to the ladder.

Montesoro confronted him as he stepped to the ground.

“Yours is rather strange conduct, señor,” Pancho ground out sullenly. “I had hardly expected to see a man who is to be married in the morning, leaving the room of another woman the night before; and as the other woman happens to be my promised wife, I resent it.”

Even though he was in a beastly temper, Ramon could not repress a start at the boldness with which Montesoro coupled his own name with Suzanna's.

“You are still my father's guest,” the boy whipped out savagely, “albeit you are heartily unwelcome. Even so, I am hard pressed to be civil to you. But man to man, you know that you are nought to her whose name you mention.”

“You are certain, eh,—señor?” Montesoro drawled sarcastically. “Permit me to suggest that you may change your mind on the morrow.”

The note of confidence in his voice was too genuine to be ignored.

“Do you mean that you have tricked her into marrying you?” Ramon exclaimed.

“I mean that we will be married in the morning,” Pancho shot back. “Don Diego has just given his consent.”

The boy went weak all of a sudden. The desire to kill this man swept over him as a fire sweeps a forest. And Suzanna,—had she loved him so little? Ramon asked. And then his conduct this past week came back to smite him. He saw now how he had seemed to spurn her. He had brought this calamity upon himself. He was the great fool!

Could this be the end of his dreaming, Ramon asked himself. Was it possible that Suzanna had accepted this man? But why not? Montesoro was the type of man to stampede a girl. And himself, what had he done that he could expect Suzanna to wait for him? Nothing! And what could he do, even now, in the short space of time before he led Chiquita to the altar?

In a voice that he failed to recognize for his own he addressed himself to Montesoro.

“If we were two strange men, one of us would die here. To my great regret we are not. But mark this well,—if you persist in what you have told me to-night,—it will lead to your death!”

CHAPTER XXI

D
ON
D
IEGO
unlocked the door of his study to admit Suzanna. He showed his surprise at seeing her.

“What is it, child?” he questioned kindly.

“I have come to ask the greatest favor a peon girl can ask of her master,” Suzanna replied steadily.

“So?” Don Diego exclaimed. “You know full well that I am not one to deny you, Suzanna. Come, sit down,” and Don Diego led her into his apartment.

The girl felt a great longing to fly into the anns of this kindly gentleman. Although he was only her god-father, Don Diego had ever shown her more consideration than the man whom she called father. In the days of her childhood she had turned to him instinctively, and her faith in his generosity and justness had not abated since she had grown to womanhood. So, with less trepidation than might be supposed she spoke to him now.

“Don Diego,” she murmured softly, her eyes unafraid, “I want your permission to marry.”

“To do what?” Señor de Sola demanded.

“To marry,” Suzanna repeated.

“Well! Well!—Well!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in wonderment. “So my little Suzanna is to be married. But who is the fortunate man? Is he one of Don Fernando's vaqueros or mine?”

“He is not a vaquero, Don Diego. It is Señor Montesoro.”

“Humph!” Don Diego cleared his throat, not as well pleased as he might have been. Suzanna had held a peculiar attraction for him, and he was loath to see her wed a man, who although of better social position, was one about whom he knew but little.

“You love the man?” he asked at last.

“He has been very kind to me, Don Diego.”

“Well, Suzanna, it is not in my heart on this night to deny anyone of my people, you least of all. I have heard no bad word of Montesoro. He seems to be a gentleman, as some members of his calling have proven themselves; for all that it is a profession given to licentiousness. I hear that he has secured the patronage of some wealthy gentlemen in Monterey. For your sake, I hope he does well. I had rather expected the man to contract a more propitious marriage. This news will come as a great surprise to all of us.”

“Do I understand that you give me permission to marry him, Don Diego?” Suzanna inquired nervously.

“If it pleases you, yes. Have you thought of a day?”

“To-morrow,—if it could be arranged,—before the padres leave?”

“Send Señor Montesoro to me this evening,” Don Diego answered. “I will ask the Bishop to acquiesce in the matter of the bans. And now, child, come to my arms for my own blessing.”

Tears filled the girl's eyes as Don Diego released her.

“Tears of happiness,” he murmured, “—they are the only tears worth while.”

With a protecting arm about her, he led her to the door.

“Do not fear that you will go to your husband a penniless bride,” he whispered in her ear as she bade him good-night. “Your
padrino
will see to that.”

Don Diego had sent for Chiquita upon entering his study, earlier, and the girl appeared as Suzanna was leaving. Don Diego called her back.

“Here is a surprise, my daughter,” he said to Chiquita. “Little Suzanna is going to be married to-morrow.”

“Wha-t-t!” Chiquita gasped.

“I knew you would be surprised,” Señor de Sola reiterated. “She is to become the wife of Señor Montesoro.”

“Why—why—it is impossible!” Chiquita cried. She could not believe her ears. What devil's revenge was this that Pancho had contrived? She seemed about to faint. Don Diego put his arms about her, his eyes wide with surprise.

“What is it, Chiquita?” he asked. “Does this news effect you so?”

“No—no,” the girl answered. “I'm overly tired. But it is a surprise, father.” She spoke to Suzanna then. “Do you love the man?” she demanded.

Suzanna but looked at her and smiled. It was her moment.

“He swears that he loves me,” she murmured. “That is enough. Seldom does a girl marry the man she loves.”

Chiquita winced. She understood the other's meaning. A fitting retort trembled upon her tongue, but Don Diego's questioning eyes stilled it. Leaning heavily upon his arm, Chiquita implored him to lead her into his study. Suzanna knew that she was dismissed, and she bowed respectfully.

Chiquita was at some pains to turn the query in Don Diego's eyes at her conduct. This she did at last, and the good man chided her kindly for not having warned him that she had undertaken too much in arranging for her wedding in such a brief time.

“I sent for you, Chiquita,” he said finally, “to have a last minute or two alone with you before you pass from my care to your husband's. You know full well how happy you have made me by accepting Ramon. Already you have had substantial proof of my gratitude; but I hold that what I have done is no proper gift. I have here, however, that which I hold dearest of all my possessions. It is my wish, my daughter, to present it to you now.”

Don Diego unlocked his desk and withdrew a small, iron-bound casket. Chiquita's breath came unevenly as she watched him. She divined the contents of this chest.

Señor de Sola opened it and bid her look. An array of sparkling jewels greeted her eyes. The girl had often heard of the de Sola heirlooms, but she had never put eyes to them until now.

Don Diego thrilled at the sound of the glad cry which escaped Chiquita. Impulsively he put his hand into the casket and brought forth a magnificent string of lustrous pearls. With the grace of a courtier, he dropped them about her shoulders.

“My daughter,” murmured huskily, his voice heavy with emotion, “these are the most prized possessions of our family. Kings and queens have worn these jewels; they are fit only for kings and queens. And because you are a queen,—the queen of my heart, I bestow them on you, with no other wish than that you may be as happy as those others who have worn them with such pride and honor. They are yours, my daughter,—my wedding gift to you and Ramon.”

Not until she had fondled each separate jewel would Chiquita consent to their being placed into the vault for the night. So great was her joy in this wonderful gift that she quite forgot Montesoro for the minute. Had she been so minded, Chiquita could have read her own character from this fact. She was an individualist. She took; but she never gave.

An hour later, however, thought of the man did come to her, and she cursed him for shaming her by marrying a peon beneath her very nose. And yet so perverse was her nature that. her infatuation for the man but grew, in that he could be so superbly cruel to her.

She gave no thought to the man she was to wed within a few hours. In fairness, let it be said, Ramon gave no thought to her. He had returned to the waiting padre, and made his pre-nuptial confession. But it was significant of how little weight the customs of the Church had with him, that once finished with the priest, he went in search of Guara, the Indian, and sent him off with a note post-haste to no other than the outlaw, Pérez.

The fact that in his need of an ally he should be forced to turn to one who roamed the country with a price on his head made him smile mirthlessly. It was a grim indictment of his fellow men; but who else would dare what he asked of Pérez?

The letter which Ramon handed to Guara, read:

“Pérez, I need you. Unless you can contrive to prevent it, Suzanna will be married to-morrow morning to Montesoro. It is too late for argument. No matter what the danger, I beg you to carry her off. I guarantee you with my life that you shall not come to harm.

My hand on it,

R
AMON
G
UTIERREZ
.”

“I do not know where you will find the man, Guara,” the boy said to the Indian. “He is somewhere in the Santa Cruz hills. Take a lead horse with you; drive them to the limit. There is no danger for you in this, except you fail me. The night is clear: you know the trails well. Go!—And by the blood of your fathers, Guara, swear to me that you will find him.”

CHAPTER XXII

M
ORNING
dawned without the Indian having returned. Ramon tramped his room impatiently. In two hours his father would be coming for him. What had happened to Guara? Had his fear of Pérez proven greater than his devotion to his master's son? Glancing from his window, Ramon saw that already the carriage in which he and Chiquita were to ride away had drawn up before Don Diego's house, its wheels and body covered with flowers. The patios of his own home were a riot of color as servants and guests moved about in holiday splendor.

The hoy had his coffee served to him in his room. Fifteen minutes later his father sent word that it was time to dress. Ramon stole to the roof of the house and swept the horizon for sight of Guara as soon as the servant had left. The road was dotted with many traveling hitherward; but the pace at which they moved was proof enough that the Indian was not among them.

Despairing, his brain dulled to what went on about him, he stumbled downstairs to his room. His father's barber awaited him. Mechanically, Ramon permitted the man to shave him. The barber had not left before another servant arrived to lay out his wedding garments, and to help his young master don them.

The boy's indifference hindered the man, and before the dressing was accomplished Ramon's father came in. Don Fernando was fully attired for the wedding, and he raised his eyebrows at his son's apparent tardiness.

“We have but a quarter of an hour,” he warned. “Your mother is waiting already.”

Ramon nodded his head silently.

“Join us as soon as you can, then,” his father ordered. “Everything has been attended to.”

Ramon's thoughts as he surveyed himself in his mirror were the bitterest of his life. In his resplendent clothes of velvet and doeskin, he was a handsome figure. Somehow the scowl on his face hut enhanced the quality of his strong features.

The servant begged him to come to the window for a glimpse of the bridal procession which was forming in Don Diego's patio. Ramon glared at the man for his trouble. Now, that it was too late, the boy could have leaped from that window and dashed for the distant hills.

Trapped, his heart dead within him, he joined his parents. A cry broke from the crowd as they stepped from the house. It was for Ramon, and the boy bowed in recognition. Then with full regard for the dignity of the occasion, Don Fernando led the way to Don Diego's mansion.

Señor de Sola met them and escorted them into his study. He noted the paleness of Ramon's face.

“My son,” he whispered to him. “Let me get you a nip of the best brandy in California. This day is ever one of terror for a man. Come.” And placing his arm through the boy's, he led him away, vouchsafing a smile to Don Fernando and Doña Luz.

Every step that Ramon took was one of fear. He refused to think what he would do if he should encounter Suzanna. The corridors were filled with hurrying servants. Only a miracle could prevent their meeting. And yet, they did not, for at that very moment Suzanna was donning her own wedding dress.

By the time that Don Diego and Ramon returned to the study it was time for the marriage to occur. Kissing his mother, the boy permitted himself to be led to his position before the chancel in the chapel.

Barely had he taken his place when the Bishop and his assistants appeared. Ramon eyed them stonily as they mounted the altar steps. The Bishop began the mass, the audience singing the responses; but Ramon gave no heed to the multitude or its whispered comments. Solemn, erect, he stood as a man stands before a firing squad. But once did he smile, and it was his mother who won it from him as she took her position on the opposite side of the chancel. There was such sadness in his eyes that Doña Luz' heart bled for him. She fancied she knew the sacrifice this son of hers made.