Mariquita Part 22

"You may be sure," she said, in case later on any such affectionate misgiving should trouble him, "that she will be happy. Unseen by you or us she will do great things for G.o.d and His children. You shall share in it by giving her to Him when He calls. She is your only child ("As yet,"

thought Don Joaquin, even now more concerned for her brother, than for her) and G.o.d will reward your generosity. He never lets Himself be outstripped in that. For the gift of Abraham's son He blest his whole race."

Don Joaquin knew very little about Abraham, but he understood that all the Jews since his time had been notably successful in finance.

It did not cause him any particular emotion to leave his daughter. She was being left where she liked to be, and would doubtless be at home among these holy women who seemed to think so much of her, and to be so fond of her. He had forgiven her for wis.h.i.+ng to be a nun and thought highly of himself for having given his permission.

The nuns thought he concealed his feelings to spare Mariquita's, and praised G.o.d for the unselfishness of parents.

Mariquita had never expected tenderness from him, but she thought him a good man and a good father, and was very grateful for his concession in abandoning his insistence on her marriage, and sanctioning her choice of her own way of life. And he did embrace her on parting, and bade G.o.d bless her, reminding her that it would be her duty to pray much for himself and Sarella. At the range he found a letter, which had arrived late on the day on which he had left home with her, and this letter he took as a proof that she had prayed to some purpose. The dispensation was granted and he could now fix his marriage for any date he chose.

"Did she send me her love?" Sarella asked, jealous of being at all forgotten.

"Yes, twice; and when I kissed her she said, 'Kiss Sarella for me.' Also she sent you a letter."

Sarella received very few letters and liked getting them. She was rather curious to see what sort of letter Mariquita would write, and made up her mind it would be "nunnish and poky."

Whether "nunnish" or no, it was not "poky," but pleasant, very cheerful and bright, and very affectionate. It contained little jokish allusions to home matters, and former confidential talks, and one pa.s.sage (much valued by Sarella) concerning a gown, retracting a former opinion and subst.i.tuting another backed by most valid reasons. "If those speckled hens go on eating each other's feathers," said the letter, "you'll have to kill them and eat them. Once they start they never give it up, and it puts the idea in the others' heads. Feathers don't suit everybody, but fowls look wicked without them. I hope poor old Jack doesn't miss me; give him and Ginger my love, and ask him to forgive me for not marrying Mr. Gore--he gave me a terrible lecture about it, and Ginger said, 'Quit it, Dad! I _knew_ she wouldn't. I know sweethearts when I see them--though I never did see one--not of my own.' I expect Larry Burke will show her one soon, don't you, Sarella? It will do very well; Larry will have the looks and Ginger will have the sense, and teach him all he needs. He has such a good heart he can get on without _too_ much sense...."

Sarella liked her letter, and decided that Mariquita was not lost, though removed.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

"I suppose," Don Joaquin remarked in a disengaged manner, "that, after all your preparations, we can fix the day for our wedding any time now."

Sarella was not in the least taken in by his elaborate air of having been able, for _his_ part, to have fixed a day long ago.

It was, however, part of her system to fall in with people's whimsies when nothing was to be gained by opposing or exposing them.

"Oh, yes," she agreed, most amiably. "It will take three Sundays to publish the banns--any day after that. Meanwhile I should be received.

Sister Aquinas says I am ready. As soon as we have settled the exact time, we must let Mariquita know, and you can, when the time comes, go over and fetch her home."

Don Joaquin consented, and Sarella thought she would go and deliver Mariquita's message to Jack and his daughter. She found them together and began by saying, smilingly:

"I expect you have known for a long while that there was a marriage in the air?"

Old Jack had not learned to like her, and Ginger still disliked her smile.

"I don't believe," she said perversely, for, of course, both she and her father understood perfectly, "that Miss Mariquita is going to be married. She's not that way."

This was a discouraging opening, for it seemed to cast a sort of slur on young women who _were_ likely to be married.

"Mr. Gore's never asked again!" cried Jack.

"Dad, don't you be silly," Ginger suggested; "everyone knows Miss Mariquita wants to be a nun."

"Yes," said Sarella with impregnable amiability, "but we can't all be nuns. Miss Mariquita doesn't seem to think _you_ likely to be one. She sent me back by her father such a nice letter. She sends Jack and you her love, and, though she doesn't send Larry Burke her love, thinking of you evidently makes her think of him."

Ginger visibly relaxed, and her father stared appallingly with his one eye.

"Good Lord!" quoth he in more sincere than flattering astonishment.

"Well, he is good," Ginger observed cooly, "and there's worse folk than Larry Burke, or me either."

"Miss Mariquita thinks it would be such a good thing for him," Sarella reported. "So must any one."

Ginger felt that this, after her unpleasantness to the young lady who brought the message, was handsome.

"He might do better," she declared, "and he might do worse."

"Has he _said_ anything?" her father inquired with undisguised incredulity.

"What he's said is nothing," Ginger calmly replied. "It's what I think as matters. He's no Cressote, but he's got a bit--or ought, if he hasn't spent it. I'd keep his money together for him, and he'd soon find it a saving. And I could do with him--for if his head's soft so's his heart.

I think, Dad," she concluded, willing "to take it out" of her father for his unflattering incredulity, "you may as well, when Miss Sarella's gone, tell him to step round. I'll soon fix it."

"I couldn't do that," Jack expostulated.

"Why not?" Ginger demanded with fell determination.

"I really don't see why you shouldn't," Sarella protested, much amused though not betraying it. "It's all for his good," she added seriously.

Jack was shaken, but not yet disposed to obedience.

"Larry," Sarella urged, "won't be so much surprised as you think. Miss Mariquita, you see, wants him and Ginger to make a match of it--"

"But does _he_?" Jack pleaded, moved by Mariquita's opinion, but not so sure it would reduce Larry to subjection.

"Tut!" said Ginger impatiently. "What's _he_ to do with it? If he don't know what's best for him, I do. So does Miss Sarella. So does Miss Mariquita."

"And," Sarella added, "you may be sure Miss Mariquita would never have said a word about it if she hadn't felt pretty sure it was to come off.

She's never been one to be planning marriages. Why, Larry must have made it as plain as a pikestaff that he was ready, or she would never have guessed it."

The weight of this argument left Jack defenseless.

"Hadn't you better wait, Ginger," he attempted to argue with shallow subtlety; "he's like enough to step round after supper. Then I'd clear, and you could say when you liked."

"No," Ginger decided, "I'm tired of him stepping round after supper, just to chatter. He'd be prepared if you told him I'd said he was to come. He'd know something was wanted. In fact, you'd better tell him."

"Tell him? Me? Tell him what?"

"Just that I'd made up my mind to say 'yes' if he'd a question to ask me."

"Why," cried Jack, aghast, "he'd get on his horse and scoot."

"Not far," Ginger opined, entirely unmoved. "He'd ride back. He's not pluck enough to be such a coward as to scoot for good. Just you try."