Suzanna (17 page)

Don Fernando kissed her fatherly. “It can be arranged,” he announced. “We have waited overlong already. Is a week from to-day too soon?”

“It is quite agreeable to me,” Chiquita answered humbly. “My father presented me with a most wonderful trousseau before we left Mexico City.”

“Then it is arranged!” exclaimed Don Diego, a broad smile on his face. “The other matters can be attended to in time.”

Don Fernando's eyes swept the room in search of his son. Ramon and Suzanna had just finished their dance, and the girl was seated upon his knee now, out of breath.

The crowd made way for Don Fernando who, without considering Suzanna, took Ramon by the arm and led him toward the table where Chiquita, Don Diego and Doña Luz were waiting. The crowd, sensing something out of the ordinary, closed in behind them. And poor Suzanna, startled out of a year's growth, was left alone in the center of the floor, trying to imagine what the trouble might he. She was not long in doubt, for above the murmuring of the crowd, Don Diego's soft voice arose portentously.

“My friends,” he said, “this is one of the happiest moments of my life. I take infinite pleasure in informing you that my daughter Chiquita wishes her betrothal to Don Ramon, son of my beloved friend, Don Fernando, announced this night. And further, that the wedding shall take place one week from this day. Will you drink with me, my friends, to their unending happiness?”

A great cry arose as this startling news swept over the room. Goblets were held aloft and their contents drained with avidity. Ladies and gentlemen, peons, unlettered Indians,—all crowded about the betrothed couple and their parents, showering them with congratulations and good-will.

Dumbly, Ramon heard himself addressed and complimented. His mumbled replies were unintelligible to both his friends and himself. The suddenness with which he had been plunged to the depths left him helpless. With eyes hard, his lips compressed as his teeth sank into them, he sent an appealing glance toward the spot where he had left Suzanna. But Suzanna did not catch the look, for fainting, she had sank to her knees; and as Ramon stared, he saw Pancho lift her to her feet and lead her out into the patio.

Chiquita caught the look on Ramon's face, and felt well repaid for what her decision cost her.

Montesoro's interest in Suzanna, however; did not rest so well with her. Her keen eyes had seen how tenderly he had lifted the girl to her feet. The protecting arm which he had placed about her as he led her from the room hinted at more than the courtesy of a gentleman to one who was socially his inferior. A tragic thought swept through Chiquita's brain as she considered this. Was it possible that the man was in love with that peon? Had she bewitched him as she had Ramon? Could it be possible that Pancho had spurned her so that he could advance his position with her maid?

The thought continued to grow on her as she faced it, and she was more than pleased when Don Diego, who having noticed her nervousness, suggested that she excuse herself to her guests. Alone in her room, Chiquita's emotion overcame her, but she consoled herself with one thought. Come what may, she had Ramon.

CHAPTER XVIII

S
UZANNA
'S heart was breaking as Montesoro led her to a bench in the moonlit garden and sat down beside her. And though her lips quivered, strange as it may seem, her eyes were dry. Don Diego's announcement had sounded the knell of dreams which she had not known were her life's blood.

Pancho knew what she was passing through, and as immeasurable as his ego was, he rose above it now and consoled her as best he could. Fate played into his hands this once, for inasmuch as he was the only one who seemed to care what happened to her, Suzanna warmed to him as most human beings would have done in the same circumstance.

For the first time, Montesoro saw that his tenderness toward her was not repulsed. With rare wisdom he kept from trying to advance his own cause by word of mouth; and not until Suzanna had found relief in tears did he try to influence her.

“But surely you had been warned that this was to happen,” he murmured softly. “That it came to-night, Suzanna, was largely your fault.”

“My—my—fault?” Suzanna asked between sobs.

“Yes. I guessed it some time before Don Diego spoke. Chiquita's eyes never left you as you danced with Ramon. She saw the truth in a flash. If ever jealousy swept a woman off her feet it did to-night. I know her better than you suppose. She's got the temper of a fiend.”

“Well I know it,” Suzanna answered, staring off into space.

“Do you think that I would have come all the way from Mexico City to be near her if I had known that she was betrothed to another man? Even though I am not the son of a blueblood, I bow my head to none. She but played with me at first, and I knew it. I swore to myself that I would humble her, and I did. She begged me,—actually begged me to run away with her.”

Pancho's speech grew so vehement that Suzanna looked at him rather fearfully.

“Maybe you can understand, now, why she hates and despises me,” he went on. “She was ripe for what happened to-night. She knew she had lost me, and I could see her asking herself if you, a peon, were to steal this other man away from her. She thinks to hurt me, too.”

Pancho laughed at the impossibility of it.

“When she learns that it is you whom I really love she will die of hatred.”

“Oh, hush,” Suzanna begged as he reached for her hand. “Please don't.”

“It's the truth, and you know it. Surely, Suzanna, you did not expect Ramon to renounce the empire which will be his when his father dies, or to disregard the fact that you are of peon stock. No! In the short time that I have been here I have seen that Don Fernando sets more store by his lineage than he does by his wealth. The boy has been brought up to believe the same. He is only a human being, Suzanna,—you ask too much of him.”

The man but echoed her own thoughts, so Suzanna could do naught but nod her head affirmatively.

“Don't think that Ramon does not care for you,” he declared with fervor. “He does! The associations of childhood, the many happy hours you spent together,—he is not deaf to them. But” and Pancho shook his head sadly, “it is not the affection a man has for a woman without whom life is impossible. If what I say is not true, do you think he would have left you alone to-night without a word? When a man loves, as I love you, he would do anything to win the heart of her whom he adores,—and not count the cost, either.”

Suzanna glanced at him beseechingly.

“Please,” she entreated, “Do not talk of love to me to-night. My heart is far too heavy to listen.”

“Forgive me,” Pancho begged. “My own heart breaks to see you so unhappy. I want to take you into my arms and caress you and drive your tears away. But here I sit, helpless before you.”

And because she was so distraught and because the man revealed himself so different from what he had been, Suzanna gave him her hand. The man's eagerness almost overcame him. He but pressed it tenderly.

“You have seen me at my worst,” he said haltingly as he got to his feet. “I am done with idling. My one thought from now on is to make myself worthy of you, for come what may I shall make you my wife, Suzanna. And now, if you are composed, we will go back to the others.”

“Leave me alone here, please, for a few minutes,” Suzanna replied. “I want to be by myself for a moment or two.”

Pancho bowed, and with a fervent word, went hack to the house. The man had reason to congratulate himself. He had not made a single mis-step.

CHAPTER XIX

Now, it so happened that the poor friar, who had been invited to join the guests of Don Diego, had partaken too often of his host's rare wines, and in consequence, he had sought refuge in a shady bower within the patio some time since. For one who was supposed to have succumbed to the sprites which lurk in the flowing bowl, he had taken a very keen interest in what went on between Suzanna and Montesoro. The stillness of the garden made it no great task to overhear what had been said. He sat now with a puzzled frown upon his broad features. The man was plainly nettled, and most certainly not the worse for liquor. He was seated so that he could study the girl as she sat by herself, lost in her thoughts. It was while engaged in this pleasant occupation that Alvarez and Miguel came into the patio. They entered by a side door which led them onto a path that wound by the bower in which the humble padre sat.

The friar closed his eyes and resumed his snoping as the two approached him. Señor Alvarez was speaking as Miguel caught sight of the man and cautioned his father accordingly.

“'Tis but a drunken friar, who half-starved from his infernal fasting has fallen an easy prey to Don Diego's cellar,” Alvarez assured his son. “Come, find Suzanna. She is alone here somewhere. There,—do you see her?” Alvarez looked at Miguel for an answering nod. “Well, remember she is in a mood for kind words. Do not scold her for daring to raise her eyes to Ramon. Use diplomacy,—be affable, remind her that she would do well to accept your name.”

Alvarez paused, and then in a voice which carried its own threat he warned:

“Do not forget what I said to you in Monterey. You
must
win her. If you fail to make her your wife I shall cut you off without a cent. Some boys with half your prospects would lead her to the altar in less time that it takes to tell it. Do not come hack to me with more excuses.”

Miguel had no protest to make. He had long since exhausted argument. For some unknown reason his father had doomed him to the fate ahead of him, and he was powerless to do aught but proceed as he was ordered.

The snoring friar sat erect immediately that he was alone. First making. sure that Alvarez had actually returned to the house, he sat himself to watch the movements of Miguel.

Suzanna, weary in body and soul, greeted the boy as though he were another torture which she had to bear. Miguel began his protestations at once, and the girl, too weary to stop him, permitted him to run on without interruption.

What he said was lost on Suzanna. She was aware of it only as one is conscious of the droning of a bee. The boy began to realize as much, and he stopped short.

“Won't you even answer me?” he demanded humbly.

“Yes, go!” Suzanna snapped. “Get out! Leave me alone! I am wearied to death with your chattering.”

“But my father,” Miguel protested. “I have got to marry you. He demands it.”

“What,—your father?” demanded Suzanna, showing interest for the first time in the boy's words. “What fool's talk is this? Why should your father insist that you marry me?”

“I do not know,” the unhappy Miguel replied. “He sent me here.”

“Well, I'll send you back to him! And tell him that I would not marry you if you were the last man in the world. Tell him that I am promised to another,” Suzanna lied as she sent the boy away. “Tell him anything you please; but this for you,—if you come near me again I shall let Timoteo claw your eyes out.”

The friar sat where he was for some time after Miguel had gone. Tears were stealing down Suzanna's cheeks, and when the sound of her crying reached him, he got up, and after pulling his hood low over his head, walked toward her.

Suzanna heard the pebbles crunching under his feet as he approached, and she looked up at him as he stopped in front of her.

“Child,” he said kindly, “you seem most unhappy, and that too amidst scenes of great gayety. Allow me to solace you.”

Without further ado he took the seat Miguel had so recently quitted, and turning toward Suzanna found her staring at him curiously.

“Your voice is strangely familiar, good padre,” she exclaimed. “By what name are you called?”

“Lores,—Padre Lores, my child,” the friar replied. “From yonder bower I have seen you dismiss two young men within the last half hour; both of whom seemed most intent on winning your favor. And yet from experience with youth do I know that only a young man can be the excuse for the tears which I see in your eyes. Tell me, what manner of man can he he to seek for fairer face than yours?”

The friar had taken Suzanna's hand within his own, and he petted it gently as he waited for her to reply. The man's presence seemed to give her comfort, and without knowing why, she found herself anxious to talk to him.

“He is a noble gentleman, Padre Lores,” Suzanna murmured wistfully. “I—as you see from my clothes—am a peon. I have wrought my own unhappiness. I should have known that the liberties allowed me in childhood were only indulgences to a child; that the barrier against my class would be raised as I approached womanhood.”

“You almost tell me the gentleman's name. For what should send you away from the gay throng inside but the announcement of the betrothal?”

The friar was silent for a moment, looking off at the distant hills outlined by the rising moon. Suzanna thought she felt a tremor pass through his body.

“And you love him so?” he asked tenderly.

“More than I can say,” Suzanna replied so softly that Padre Lores had to bend close to catch her words.

The friar muttered to himself as he repeated the girl's words.

“And this young gentleman,—has he no thought for you? Does he hold his wealth and position dearer than his love for you? Time there was when men sacrificed their all for love. It seems to me 'twere easy to steal away in this broad country; to find a priest; yes, and to win a livelihood had one the courage.”

“The thought is not priestly, Padre Lores,” Suzanna exclaimed. “Would you advise a worthy son to desert his parents; to turn his back on a princely fortune; to contract a mixed marriage?”

“Indeed I would!” the friar declared emphatically. “Were I this boy, I would dare the devil himself for you! And this talk of mixed marriages,—what does it amount to? I have watched you, and I have seen you more the lady than those who so loudly proclaim themselves such. There is no place here for the cant and narrowness of Spain. This is a new land. I love it; and I have gloried in spoiling the schemes of those who try to perpetuate the injustices of Mexico and Spain within its borders.”