Suzanna

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  Miguel had seized his father’s dilemma as fitting excuse for turning from his conquest of Suzanna. But although the boy made a great show of searching for his parent, it is all too true that he took exceeding care to he back at the caserio before sundown.

  Montesoro smiled to himself as he watched the boy; glad to see his attentions to Suzanna at an end. In fact, Suzanna and Pancho laughed together over Miguel. Montesoro was playing his cards with all the skill he possessed. Day by day he saw that Suzanna leaned upon him more and more.

  Ramon had made no attempt to see her since the fiesta. The boy was in the depths. A hurried cup of coffee in the early morning, and he was off for the day, treading lonely cañons and mountain plateaus; his thoughts as grim as the country through which he rode.

  Montesoro suspected as much; but with extreme satisfaction he saw the effect of Ramon’s absence on Suzanna. The boy’s failure to see the girl but proved what he had told her,—that Ramon would do as his father ordered. Pancho’s confidence grew. Let the boy stay away until the wedding and nothing could stop him from winning Suzanna.

  Suzanna was forced to aid in the preparations for the forthcoming marriage; and each hour seemed to bring a fresh heartache, for in every conceivable way Chiquita wounded her pride. Ruiz kept away from her, and so she turned to Montesoro as her only friend.

  Six days had passed without a word from Ramon. This alone told her, better than words, how foolish she had been to hope that in spite of everything he would claim her.

  Every one had so much to do in the day that remained that Suzanna failed of even a kind word from Don Diego. This day, too, Chiquita went to the altar room and rehearsed the wedding ceremony. It meant agony for Suzanna. In spite of herself tears filled her eyes, and Chiquita reprimanded her. She knew what Suzanna was going through. The pity, that she was mean and small enough to take pleasure from humbling one who was impotent to turn her scorn!

  Montesoro had worried through the day. He had promised himself that if Ramon did not seek Suzanna by evening that he would risk his own chance of success in an attempt to stampede the girl into marrying him at once.

  Ramon did not come, so Pancho made his toss with fate. And again luck favored him, for Suzanna’s pride still smarted from the hurt Chiquita had given it.

  Montesoro showed a distinct aversion to words as he sat beside her in the garden. It was a peaceful night. He had brought his guitar and he strummed it softly without conscious effort. Lights glowed in the kitchen where work went on unabated this night of nights. From above came the mellow laughter of men who had dined well,—Don Diego, the Bishop of Monterey, and his three assistants.

  Suzanna was glad of the man’s silence; so they sat, each busy with his or her own thoughts; but ever and anon Pancho’s guitar whispered its rich, sonorous music. And as it kept on without ever a lost beat, it caught up the thoughts of both of them. Its insistence seemed to hypnotize the girl. As she listened she fancied it saying, “Why be unhappy?— Why be unhappy? Life is all about you; life is good; but youth is soon lost. Come,—come before it is too late.”

  And as Pancho’s fingers continued to dance over the strings the voice of the guitar argued its plea so persistently that Suzanna nodded her head unconsciously. As from a distance she heard Pancho say:

  “It is as I have said, precious one; he does not come.”

  Without glancing at her, he set his fingers to moving over the strings of the guitar again. Three or four minutes passed before he next addressed her.

  “I have had good news this day. My patrons in Monterey have advanced me a hundred English pounds.”

  He spoke disinterestedly in a monotone that placed no inflection on his words. As he finished, he turned to his guitar again. And thus, a sentence or two at a time, did he make known his mind. He expected no answer, nor did he wait to receive one, and never did eagerness creep into his voice.

  The hypnosis of the thing not only caught Suzanna, but the man as well. When he laid down his guitar and turned to her impulsively, he believed he spoke the truth, so thoroughly had he steeped himself in his own magic.

  “To-morrow at this time they will be gone,” he began. “Have you given any thought to what your life is going to be when they return?”

  Suzanna answered honestly. She had seen tomorrow as the end of all things.

  “They will come back, you know,” Pancho went on. “Honeymoons do not last forever. That devil will take delight in keeping you as her maid. What better chance does she want to humble you continuously?—to let you see the happiness which you fancied might have been yours? She is as cruel as the Inquisition. And if you dare to resent her, what happens to you? No! No!” he exclaimed angrily. “You are not going to submit to that. You have pride; so have I. Do you think that I am going to allow you to be shamed by her? Never! I have more than enough to support us in far better style than you live in here. Say that you will be mine, Suzanna. Let me take you to Monterey. There are no blooded bulls in California. What have I to fear in the ring? I shall earn much money. Every tiniest wish of yours will be fulfilled. Look at me, my treasure, my heart, my life! I think only of you. Tell me that you love me. Let me kiss you; hold you close to my heart, for I am dying of love for you.”

  His appeal was more than Suzanna’s love-hungry heart could withstand, and in a daze she felt herself drawn into his arms, and his lips pressed to her own.

  And now the fervor of the man near ruined his chances, for his base nature flamed at Suzanna’s surrender. He felt her draw away, and some warning sense of his danger coming to him, he released her reluctantly.

  “Never fear, precious one, we shall humble her who has thought to humble you. Have you wedding garments?”

  “Sufficient,” Suzanna answered. “Don Fernando presented me with a chest on my last birthday.”

  “Then we shall wed to-morrow!” Pancho exclaimed determinedly. “On the very day the other wedding is to occur! There are priests aplenty to hand. Gold can arrange it. Tell me, my heart’s blood, that you are willing.”

  Here was revenge! Poor Suzanna was only human. And what difference did it make whether she wed this man to-morrow or a month from tomorrow? No matter what Ramon’s duty was, he could have found time for a word,—a last farewell with her. And then too, girls had to marry. Many wed without hope of love; and to less personable men than this handsome torero. Anything was better than to stay here serving the woman who had taken Ramon from her.

  Montesoro did not hurry her for an answer. He watched her face, though, and saw the emotions which crossed it, and knew that he was winning. So when Suzanna nodded her head, he was ready with suggestion.

  “Speak to Don Diego at once,” he begged. “I hear him in his study now. I will arrange with the priest when you return. Until you are back I will wait at the foot of the ladder beneath your window. Art bashful at speaking to your master, Suzanna?”

  Suzanna smiled bravely, and moved slowly away toward the house, little aware that as she did so Ramon scaled the patio wall.

  The boy had ridden untold miles that day, torn between his duty to his father and his love for Suzanna. The forfeiting of his estate he held lightly enough. Even the difference of castes did not hold him back. The love he bore his father and mother, his duty to them, the breaking of their hearts,—these were the real barriers.

  Dinner time had found him miles from home. In the last three days he had tasted but sparingly of food. His horse begged for his head that he might race over the long miles to the caserio. Home was the last place Ramon wanted to see. This lonely spot fitted his mood. The whippoorwills were winging over the sage already, their plaintive call no more sad than his heart.

  For a full hour the boy held his position upon the rim of the mesa. Night was at hand when still decisionless, he began the long journey homeward. He held himself a coward, a weakling, for he knew that he waited now for something outside of himself to force a decision for him.

  In this bitter mood he had arrived home only to find
a priest waiting to confess him. The sight of the good man wrenched a groan from the boy’s lips. The padre’s mission here brought home what the morrow held more poignantly than aught else could.

  In a blind rage, Ramon had hurled himself from the room, and rushed off to find Suzanna. He dared not ask for admission at the patio gate, so moving stealthily, he had climbed the wall and dropped safely to the ground.

  Without hesitation he moved toward the ladder which lead to Suzanna’s quarters. Even now, he did not know what he would say to her; but the desire to be with her, to hear her voice and look into her eyes had swept away all other considerations. Deftly, he ascended to her room and looked for her. A glance told him she was not there.

  “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

  “PÉREZ, I NEED YOU!”

  DON DIEGO 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 wit
hdrew 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?