Suzanna (18 page)

In his excitement Padre Lores' hood had fallen about his shoulders. The moon was high enough to cast her light into the patio, and his face was boldly outlined. Suzanne's hands went to her heart as she recognized him.

“No wonder I recognized your voice,” she gasped. “You are no priest at all. You are Benito Pérez!”

“What use to deny the truth?” Pérez asked. “But I beg of you, do not whisper the name again. And think not, little one, that I have tricked you. I have waited since noon for a word with you. Give over any evil thought you have toward me, for I would serve you as few men would. You are not for me,—'tis my great regret; but I am no less your servant.”

“But what do you here?” Suzanna questioned nervously.

“A—matter of business,” Pérez answered noncommittally. “But let us talk of yourself. I overheard that bootlicking Alvarez tell his son that if he failed to wed you that he would cut him off without a cent. I see that is not news to you. But does it not strike you as strange that the father, who has ever tried for money and position, should force his son to wed you, a penniless peon?”

“I thought the boy but talked words. Now, that you state it for the truth, I am amazed. What reason can the man have?”

“Be sure he has one, and to his advantage, too,” Pérez warned. “The man lives by scheming. The world allows me some sense of cleverness; but I am dull this once, or else the man is overly sharp. I would go to no little trouble to spoil any plan of his; and I swear to you that I shall have his secret. But now the guests are leaving, and you'll be looked for, little one. Go back to your friends. Remember, I am never far away. A word from you and I will come no matter the risk. And take courage; for no man is married until the priest has done with him. Your eyes are too pretty for tears. Reward me with a smile before you go.”

The personality of the bandit won her respect. She knew him for a man of action, of truth. Many far greater than she would have counted themselves fortunate to have claimed his friendship. The smile she gave him, he won from her; but of her own accord, she offered the man her hand, and Pérez bowed low over it as he brushed it with his lips.

He followed her with his eyes until she entered the house. He permitted himself a moment's retrospection before he moved on. Suzanna stirred the best that was within him.

“Holy Mother,” he breathed half-aloud, “she is worth it. I shall leave no stone unturned to bring her happiness; and if my Lord Gutierrez does not take her to wife, it will be through no fault of mine.”

The time for sentiment this night was at an end with Pérez. Business had brought him to the hacienda; although it was business of a nefarious nature. Such as it was, the moment to busy himself with it had arrived, and he dismissed Suzanna from his thoughts. So while others slept, he toiled.

And in the morning Don Diego found that Padre Lores had disappeared; and also, sad to relate, most of the de Sola silver. Its loss so absorbed Don Diego's attention that he did not notice until hours later that his very dear friend, the Señor Alvarez was also missing. Pinned to the man's bedroom door by a heavy-handled knife was this note:

“Señor Alvarez has been called to the court of last resort.
P
ÉREZ
.”

CHAPTER XX

D
ON
D
IEGO
and Don Fernando organized their best men immediately and scoured the hills for Pérez. Nothing came of it, for the good reason that the vaqueros had no personal quarrel with the bandit. In secret, they admired, even worshiped the man. How else could he have roamed the countryside at will these many years? Pérez had foreseen that he would be harried sore for this exploit, and he had put many miles between himself and the hacienda before daybreak.

The excitement which the man left behind him threatened to delay Chiquita's wedding. Even Don Diego suggested it to her; but the girl would not listen to such an arrangement. A week was a short enough time in which to make ready; and now that two days had been lost in chasing Pérez, the time remaining had needs be taken advantage of in every way.

Don Diego repaired to Monterey at once, Don Fernando and his wife accompanying him. An orgy of buying followed. And while they were gone, things went on without a wasted moment at the hacienda. Don Fernando had loaned his friend a score of servants, captained by Ruiz. The man could be relied on to get the most out of his men.

Don Fernando, though, had noted a change in his old servitor. The man had not shown the interest in Ramon's wedding that his master had expected of him. Ruiz' face was seldom pleasant to see, but this last day or two, he had worn the look of one about to be sent to his death.

In Ruiz' mind no less a catastrophe impended. But he was between fires. A word from him and this wedding would never take place. But how could he utter that word? Death, indeed, stared at him if he did. As the days wore on, he went to bed with the firm resolve to speak to Don Fernando in the morning; but when morning came, he always found it expedient to wait until evening. And so, whatever courage he possessed failed him, and helpless, he waited for the inevitable to happen.

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.