Pedro was absorbed by Luisa. How had he ever been able for one moment to forget her? Surely it was by the grace of God that he hadbeen led back through the ups and downs of fortune to his true allegiance. Gracias a Dios!
Of course there was the inevitable small talk. Had the voyage been pleasant? Tell them of New Spain. On that topic, he found himself talking too readily; for, though Don Francisco and Dona Maria drank in every word, and the Marquis combed his beard in attention, Luisa's eyes wandered.
"What funny names!" she smiled. And at another point, "General Cortes sounds sweet.''
It was a remark which somehow forced him to change the subject.
A footman with a salver passed wine.
Then a pause came. The Marquis exchanged nods with Don Francisco. The solemn moment had struck; and, while Doiia Maria expanded with pride, and the old gentlemen looked sentimental, Pedro took Luisa's hand. How soft it felt, how small!
"I, Pedro, will take you, Luisa, for my wife."
"And I, Luisa, will take you, Pedro, for my husband."
De Vargas motioned to one of the panached Indians, who brought a small case. He opened it and drew out a heavy gold ring set with one huge emerald. It was part of his loot in the taking of Tenochtitlan.
No amount of training could hide the dazzlement in Luisa's eyes. She held the ring up in the candlelight.
"But, sefior, how glorious! How beautiful!"
"If it pleases you, it is indeed glorious. It belonged to an Aztec prince, one Guatemozin." But he could see that she wasn't listening, and he broke off.
The Marquis begged for a nearer look. An expert in jewels, he guessed at the value—between four and five thousand pesos. In contrast, the rose diamond which Luisa now presented to Pedro, thus completing the ritual exchange of rings, seemed insignificant. But Carvajal, in a whispered aside to Dona Maria, spoke of it as a family heirloom; and Pedro, pushing it halfway up his finger, kissed it gallantly.
The betrothal goblet was now brought. Luisa drank first, her eyes on Pedro. Then de Vargas, turning the cup to the place her lips had touched, drank in turn.
After they had kissed and the priest had given his blessing in behalf of the Church, the betrothal was complete.
Complete. It struck Pedro suddenly that by this very act his whole life was changed. Feeling the seriousness of the moment, he winced upon finding Luisa already back to her ring, turning it this way and that.
The doors at the end of the sala were thrown wide upon a supper room opening onto the terrace. With apologies by Carvajal for the simpHcity of the entertainment and with compHments on the part of his guests, the company betook itself to a table heavy with wine, friiit, and silver, and lighted by massive candelabra.
Seated at Luisa's left, Pedro watched the play of the candles on her face. She was almost too beautiful. He found himself wishing that he could have found at least one imperfection.
The Marquis, silver goblet in hand, now stood up and made a speech of congratulation. It was long and polished. He sipped the words in a fashion that reminded Pedro of his last visit to the palace when Carvajal had preached on a different text. De Vargas had grown wiser since then. He saw perfectly through the shallow, pretentious man and wondered behind his polite smile how such a father could have produced such a daughter.
"I have an eye for men," said the Marquis. "It is the single talent upon which I venture to pride myself. At the beginning of my acquaintance with Captain de Vargas, I once had the honor of receiving him in my chamber. Rightly he turned to me, the old and devoted friend of your noble house, senores, for redress against an injustice which even now fills me with indignation," Carvajal paused to control his feeling. "How touched I was by his confidence! How eagerly I placed myself at his service! But that is beside the point. What I would say is that even then I clearly discerned his future greatness. 'There,' I said, 'is a cavalier born for success and fame.' "
"Why, bless my soul!" thought Pedro. "What an old cockroach it is!" He could not help glancing at Luisa, whose eyes were on the emerald. In view of their marriage, he must accept Carvajal's hypocrisy. Why quarrel with a man to whom sincerity and insincerity were the same thing? "My greatness!" he reflected. "Because Coatl handed me a weight of gold. That's my greatness."
"And so, illustrious friends," the Marquis concluded, "I drink to this happy occasion and to the union of our two houses."
At the touch of his wife's foot under the table, Don Francisco gave a start and a hurried amen, evidently under the impression that he was in church. With advancing years, he often grew drowsy in the evening. Then, to cover up his slip, he drank the health with a flourish and remarked : —
"On my honor, Don Luis, you have the gift of eloquence. I cannot put my tongue to such choice phrases, being only a humdrum soldier. But in plain language I thank you. May God bless our children and,"
he added with a wink, "bring us a strapping grandson before the year's out!"
The ladies blushed, and the Marquis smiled, indulgent of his noble friend's limitations.
Talk drifted on, with Don Francisco trying to show his son off on the subject of America. It was not difficult. Pedro's face took on a different cast when he spoke of the New World, of the company, of the beloved captains. But at last, seeing the vagueness in Luisa's eyes, he stopped.
"Ladies, my humble excuses. I tire you."
"Ah, no, sefior."
"Well then, I tire myself." He glanced at the moonlit terrace beyond the threshold of the room. "To discuss old wars on such a night! Beautiful sefioras, if you would invite me to a view of the garden. Remember, I have not seen it for a long time."
The old people exchanged knowing glances.
"By all means," said Carvajal. "Mars cannot compete with Cupid on such a night, nor age with youth. Their Excellencies and I will debate the past and let you young ones debate the future in the garden." He added with a twitch of the eyebrow that Seiiora Hernandez understood perfectly, "Dona Antonia, remember your duty."
"Of course, my lord."
And of course, after a few turns up and down the terrace, she excused herself for a moment. Luisa and Pedro wandered down from terrace to terrace and were soon lost in the mazes of the garden.
It was exactly as he had remembered it: the shadowy masses of foliage, the moonlit spaces between, the heavy scent of flowers. A nightingale, hidden in some dark thicket, took up its call.
Yes, destiny had kept faith with Pedro de Vargas. From that first moment of the ray of light in church, through all the ways and days, it had led him to this hour, had crossed every t and dotted every i of the contract—even down to the nightingale. He had reached the perfect goal. Now was the time to take up the thread broken ofT four years ago, continue on the same tone of romance and chivalry, kneel at the feet of his Lady of Honor, and express himself in the grand manner.
But suddenly, with a queer shock, as if he had bumped up against an unexpected wall, he realized that he could not. He had seen too much, lived too hard. Here was his Lady of Honor at the end of the quest, and he hadn't the proper words for her. Destiny had done everything except restore his boyish point of view.
Clearly Luisa expected the former romantic commonplaces. She murmured: "Well, Sir Cavalier, you have kept your vow. In arms and in love you have been faithful." (She spoke her piece so tenderly that no one could have guessed how often she had rehearsed it.) "My prayers have brought you back to me."
He forced himself to answer, "Aye, sweet lady, and now I come for my guerdon."
"Alas, sir, what guerdon worthy of so high and mighty a knight?"
He said mechanically, "A guerdon of which no man on earth is worthy: your love, reina mia—yourself."
It was proper at this point that dramatic silence should follow. He felt inadequate and artificial.
At the right instant, she said softly, "I am yours."
He should then have kneeled, taken her hand, and burst into rhapsody. Som.ehow, he could only answer sincerely enough, "And I a
m the happiest of men."
She waited for more, but put his silence down to emotion and added lightly: "My token, sir, the handkerchief I gave you—did you wear it in battle? Do you still keep it?"
The question was natural but unfortunate. It recalled that June night in Tenochtitlan, de Silva's big ears and crooked eyebrows; the passion of that night; what Pedro would have liked to forget, that his Queen of Honor had once lain in de Silva's arms. More unfortunate still, it recalled Catana and how he had given her Luisa's token. The garden faded out. He saw only for a moment the dim sleeping room in their quarters, Catana's tanned face, darker in the half-light. He could feel her body against his and could hear his own voice, "Say now that I don't love you!" A hotter vintage than this.
The scene vanished. But Catana had entered the garden.
"You do not answer, my lord."
He lied of course. "I plead guilty, seiiora. We lost everything but our skins in the Noche Triste."
Naturally Luisa did not care, except that she wanted to fill these uncomfortable pauses in the conversation. She wondered what the trouble was and then instinctively she guessed. He did not know how to shift from one level to the other with her. Cosa de risa! She could help him there. She too had grown up and was a little tired of fine language.
But a person who has been long identified with one role should be careful about shifting to another. Better to remain ideal and aloof than to become trivial.
On a stone bench ensconced among the laurel, she talked amusingly
about the gossip of Jaen; coyly forbade him to frighten her with stories of battles in New Spain, but wanted to know whether Indian ladies set their caps for him; asked how he had got so rich. His account of the caverns at Cacahuamilpa interested her most.
Little by little, she drew him on. His pulses quickened. She was glad that she had taken Antonia's advice about the wider application of the rose water.
"La, my lord!" she protested feebly. "Fie, my dear lord!" But she returned his kisses.
As a Queen of Honor, Luisa had stood alone; as an amorous woman, she invited comparisons. Pedro was used to headier wine than these lemonade intimacies.
Imperceptibly the dream element of the evening shredded off. He looked at Luisa no longer as a poetic abstraction, but as a pretty coquette with a good deal of experience. He was soon to become her husband. And all at once he realized that between him and her stretched and would stretch forever four years, the flaming center of his life, in which she had no part.
He thought of Olmedo on the hill at Trinidad. "After your gold and your lady, Pedro de Vargas, what then?" He thought of Cortes on the crowning day of victory in the ruins of Tenochtitlan.
He thought of Gatana.
The wooden panels of Luisa's corset cut into his arm.
"Alas, senora," he said finally without too much regret, "here comes Dofia Antonia, I think. She's tactful enough to make a noise."
LXXVI
When elected Alcalde, Don Francisco had taken a spacious house on the Plaza Santa Maria, as befitted his official position, and for the time being had closed the Casa de Vargas; but the furniture of his cabinet had been brought up entire from the old house. There were the prie-dieu, the crucifix in front of it on the wall, the narrow black table, the high candlesticks, the rigid, high-backed chairs, the half-dozen books, the stands of armor. Nothing but the shape of the study had changed. Into this more familiar room, the three de Vargases turned as a matter of course upon arriving home from the Carvajal Palace. It was the moment for talking over the big event of the evening before retiring. But instead of the high spirits that might have been expected, a
certain constraint, emanating from Pedro, showed itself. His father eyed him curiously. Doiia Maria, sitting down, plucked at her skirt.
"Well, I must say!" she remarked finally. "Have we been to a betrothal or a funeral? When Pedrito ought to be in the seventh heaven, he acts like a pallbearer. Not a word on the way home except about the horse Campeador you bought back for him, husband!"
"Now, now, Madrecita! What should I say? Can words describe her?"
"Looks can, Pedrito. At least you can look happy. My faith!"
"But I am happy. 'Sblood! Would you have me caper like a dancing master?"
Doiia Maria's lips trembled. "And I who laid such store by it! Planned for it this long time, because I thought— What's happened, querido?"
"Nothing." Pedro flung his hands wide. "What should happen? The Lady Luisa is perfection. I am unworthy of her least smile. But, Sefiora Mother, marriage is a serious step. It is not to be taken lightly."
"Nonsense!"
"Nay, wife," put in Don Francisco, "there's truth in what the boy says. You wouldn't have him behave too popinjay about it."
"Words!" Dofia Maria retorted. "A man's either happy about his marriage or he isn't. . . . Pedrito mio, darling, your father and I have no one else in the world to love. Don't you know how we've thought and talked of you these years and prayed for your safety and looked forward to your coming? Open your heart to us like you used—or has it changed in the New World?"
Don Francisco nodded. "Yes, speak out, son, if there's anything on your mind—whatever it is. We only want to help. Sometimes it eases a man to talk openly. But suit yourself. Your thoughts are your own. And I'm not one to go ferreting into what doesn't concern me."
Pedro hesitated. A sudden pulse of warmth throbbed under the ice which during the past months had been thickening around his spirit. Before the fire of his parents' love, he realized how much, since his break with Catana and Garcia, he had missed the companionship of people who cared and with whom he did not have to be on his guard. But the trouble vas that he hardly knew what ailed him.
"How shall I say?" he groped. "Spain has a different feel from the New World. I'm not used to it yet. It's like putting on plate armor again when you haven't worn it for a while. Life's freer, bigger, over there. I don't know."
"I'll tell you," said his father. "You feel like I did, getting back from
a campaign. Missed the good comrades, the camp ways. Found Hfe finicky."
"Something like that," Pedro agreed, warming still more. "People seem younger over there. It's as if time were starting again. Not only a new country but a new age. People don't fuss so much about show. And then, Sefior Father, as you said, the good comrades. . . . But I'll get used to it. If we win our suit before the Emperor, I can hope for a command in Italy. Our kinsman, Don Juan Alonso—"
"Alack!" Dofia Maria interrupted. "You come from your betrothal and talk of leaving for the wars. We were discussing your marriage, son. You went to the Carvajal Palace happy and come back with a long face. Why? If the marriage doesn't please you— "
"Nay, Madrecita, it pleases me. I would be a fool else."
"You didn't write like that on your return. Your letters from Seville—"
"Yes, I know." In a flash he realized what weighed upon him. "I know. But tonight—" The ice cracked. He couldn't help speaking. "I remembered someone I loved in New Spain. I'll always love her. I can't help it."
Dofia Maria's gray eyes turned to o's of curiosity. "Who was she?"
Pedro already regretted the slip of his tongue. How could Don Francisco and Dofia Maria, aristocrats rigid as the chairs they sat in, understand about Catana?
"Sefiora my Mother, if I told you, it would only give you pain. Why talk of it?"
But she was not to be put off. "Some camp follower, I warrant."
"Yes."
"A fine compliment to the Lady Luisa—to be rated below a draggle-tail slut! I know the kind. At least it might have been an Indian princess, like the one you told me General Cortes had. Or perhaps she was"—Seiiora de Vargas dropped her voice—"perhaps you meant that."
"No, a Castilian girl."
"And a camp follower? Then in plain terms, my son, a whore."
Pedro gripped the arms of his chair. "Peace, seiiora! I'll have no one, not even you, couple that name with her. By God, madam—"
The slight in his voice stung Pedro as much as Dofia Maria's frankness.
"Aye, sir. But as it happens, you know her right well. If you will have it, it was Catana Perez of the Rosario tavern. She came with her brother to the Islands, followed our company to New Spain. . . . Or," he added bitterly, "have you forgotten her?"
Doiia Maria drew a sharp breath. The elder de Vargas straightened in his chair.
"Catana Perez!" he exclaimed. "Well, by the Lord, why could you not say so at first? Do you take me for a dog? Am I the kind to forget who saved our lives? She and the Seiior Garcia. A gallant wench! Except for her, we'd none of us be here tonight."
Dofia Maria relented. "Forgive me, son. I didn't know. I love her for her kindness. . . . Tell us about her."
Pedro's eyes blurred. He had misjudged his parents. Aristocrats, but not too rigid for gratitude.
"I thank you, Seiiora my Mother, Sefior my Father. . . . There's not much to tell."
But gradually, as he talked, he found that there was very much to tell. The stored-up memories unfolded. The frozen silence of the past year found an outlet. He told them of the marches and bivouacs, the dangers shared, the joys and sorrow. Now and then he found it hard to talk at all.
"We had a daughter there—in Coatl's country-. A sweet little one. Could you but have seen her, Madrecita! She had eyes like yours. She died of the viruelas. It was bitter hard."
A tear crossed Dofia Maria's cheek. Don Francisco cleared his throat.
"Often I see her that way—by the grave. She would not be my wife. She thought never of herself—only of me. She said it was not fitting. Not fitting! Christ! . . . Now God knows where she may be. She went off with Juan Garcia. A good man, a heart of gold. I suppose they married."
He paused a moment. "Love her? The word's cheap. For her and me, it had nothing to do with prattle and poetr)-. I'd rather say I didn't love her. Only a part of me—I don't know how to put it—a part of me—" He broke off. "That's the sum of it."
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