The Velvet Glove

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER II

  EVASIO MONThere are some people whose presence in a room seems to establish amental centre of gravity round which other minds hover uneasily,conscious of the dead weight of that attraction.

  "I have known Evasio all my life," the Count de Sarrion once said to hisson. "I have stood at the edge of that pit and looked in. I do not knowto this day whether there is gold at the bottom or mud. I have neverquarreled with him, and, therefore, we have never made it up."

  Which, perhaps, was as good a description of Evasio Mon as any man hadgiven. He had never quarreled with any one. He was, in consequence, alonely man. For the majority of human beings are gregarious. They meettogether in order to quarrel. The majority of women prefer to sit andsquabble round one table to seeking another room. They call it thedomestic circle, and spend their time in straining at the family tie inorder to prove its strength.

  It was Evasio Mon who, standing at the open window of his apartment inthe tall house next door to the Posada de los Reyes on the Paseo delEbro, had observed with the help of a field-glass, that a traveler wascrossing the river by the ferry-boat after midnight. He noted the unusualproceeding with a tolerant shrug. It will be remembered that he closedhis glasses with a smile--not a smile of amusement or of contempt--noteven a deep smile such as people wear in books. It was merely a smile,and could not be construed into anything else by any physiognomist. Thewrinkles that made it were deeply marked, which suggested that Evasio Monhad learnt to smile when he was quite young. He had, perhaps, beentaught.

  And, after all, a man may as well show a smile to the world as a worriedlook, or a mean look, or one of the countless casts of countenance thatare moulded by conceit and vanity. A smile is frequently misconstrued bythe simple-hearted into the outward sign of inward kindness. Many thinkthat it conciliates children and little dogs. But that which the manythink is usually wrong.

  If Evasio Mon's face said anything at all, it warned the world that ithad to deal with a man of perfect self-control. And the man who controlshimself is usually able to control just so much of his surrounding worldas may suit his purpose.

  There was something in the set of this man's eyes which suggested no easyvictory over self. For his eyes were close together. His hair was almostred. His face was rather narrow and long. It was not the face of aneasy-going man as God had made it. But years had made it the face of aman that nothing could rouse. He was of medium height, with rather narrowshoulders, but upright and lithe. He was clean shaven and of a pleasantruddiness. His eyes were a bluish gray, and looked out upon the worldwith a reflective attention through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, with whichhe had a habit of amusing himself while talking, examining theirmechanism and the knot of the fine black cord with a bat-like air ofblindness.

  In body and mind he seemed to be almost a young man. But Ramon de Sarrionsaid that he had known him all his life. And the Count de Sarrion hadspoken with Christina when that woman was Queen of Spain.

  Mon was still astir, although the bells of the Cathedral of the Virgin ofthe Pillar, immediately behind his house, had struck the half hour. Itwas more than thirty minutes since the ferry-boat had sidled across theriver, and Mon glanced at the clock on his mantelpiece. He expected, itwould seem, a sequel to the arrival which had been so carefully noted.

  And at last the sequel came. A soft knock, as of fat fingers, made Monglance towards the door, and bid the knocker enter. The door opened, andin its darkened entry stood the large form of the friar who had renderedsuch useful aid to a stricken traveler. The light of Mon's lamp showedthis holy man to be large and heavy of face, with the narrow forehead ofthe fanatic. With such a face and head, this could not be a clever man.But he is a wise worker who has tools of different temper in his bag. Toofine a steel may snap. Too delicately fashioned an instrument may turn inthe hand when suddenly pressed against the grain.

  Mon held out his hand, knowing that there would be no verbal message.From the mysterious folds of the friar's sleeves a letter instantlyemerged.

  "They have blundered. The man is still living. You had better come," itsaid; and that was all.

  "And what do you know of this affair, my brother?" asked Mon, holding theletter to the candle, and, when it was ignited, throwing it on to thecold ashes in the open fireplace, where it burnt.

  "Little enough, Excellency. One of the Fathers, praying at his window,heard the sound of a struggle in the street, and I was sent out to seewhat it signified. I found a man lying on the ground, and, according toinstructions, did not touch him, but went back for help."

  Mon nodded his compact head thoughtfully.

  "And the man said nothing?"

  "Nothing, Excellency."

  "You are a wise man, my brother. Go, and I will follow you."

  The friar's meek face was oily with that smile of completeself-satisfaction which is only found when foolishness and fervour meetin one brain.

  Mon rose slowly from his chair and stretched himself. It was evident thathad he followed his own inclination he would have gone to bed. He perhapshad a sense of duty. He had not far to go, and knew the shortest waysthrough the narrow streets. He could hear a muleteer shouting at hisbeasts on the bridge as he crossed the Calle Don Jaime I. The streetswere quiet enough otherwise, and the watchman of this quarter could beheard far away at the corner of the Plaza de la Constitucion calling tothe gods that the weather was serene.

  Evasio Mon, cloaked to the eyes against the autumn night, hurried downthe Calle San Gregorio and turned into an open doorway that led into thepatio of a great four-sided house. He climbed the stone stair and knockedat a door, which was instantly opened.

  "Come!" said the man who opened it--a white-haired priest of benevolentface. "He is conscious. He asks for a notary. He is dying! I thoughtyou--"

  "No," replied Mon quickly. "He would recognise me, though he has not seenme for twenty years. You must do it. Change your clothes."

  He spoke as with authority, and the priest fingered the silken cordaround his waist.

  "I know nothing of the law," he said hesitatingly.

  "That I have thought of. Here are two forms of will. They are written sosmall as to be almost illegible. This one we must get signed if we can;but, failing that, the other will do. You see the difference. In this onethe pin is from left to right; in that, from right to left. I will waithere while you change your clothes. As emergencies arise we will meetthem."

  He spoke the last sentence coldly, and followed with his narrow gaze themovements of the old priest, who was laying aside his cassock.

  "Let us have no panics," Evasio Mon's manner seemed to say. And his airwas that of a quiet pilot knowing his way through the narrow waters thatlay ahead.

  In a small room near at hand, Francisco de Mogente was facing death. Helay half dressed upon a narrow bed. On a table near at hand stood abasin, a bottle, and a few evidences of surgical aid. But the doctor hadgone. Two friars were in the room. One was praying; the other was thebig, strong man who had first succoured the wounded traveler.

  "I asked for a notary," said Mogente curtly. Death had not softened him.He was staring straight in front of him with glassy eyes, thinking deeplyand quickly. At times his expression was one of wonder, as if aconviction forced itself upon his mind from time to time against his willand despite the growing knowledge that he had no time to waste inwondering.

  "The notary has been sent for. He cannot delay in coming," replied thefriar. "Rather give your thoughts to Heaven, my son, than to notaries."

  "Mind your own business," replied Mogente quietly. As he spoke the dooropened and an old man came in. He had papers and a quill pen in his hand.

  "You sent for me--a notary," he said. Evasio Mon stood in the doorway ayard behind the dying man's head. The notary moved the table so that inlooking at his client he could, with the corner of his eye, see also theface of Evasio Mon.

  "You wish to make a statement or a last testament?" said the notary.

  "A statement--no. It is useless since they h
ave killed me. I will make astatement ... Elsewhere."

  And his laugh was not pleasant to the ear.

  "A will--yes," he continued--and hearing the notary dip his pen--

  "My name," he said, "is Francisco de Mogente."

  "Of?" inquired the notary, writing.

  "Of this city. You cannot be a notary of Saragossa or you would knowthat."

  "I am not a notary of Saragossa--go on."

  "Of Saragossa and Santiago de Cuba. And I have a great fortune to leave."

  One of the praying friars made a little involuntary movement. The love ofmoney perhaps hid itself beneath the brown hood of the mendicant. The manwho spoke was dying; already his breath came short.

  "Give me," he said, "some cordial, or I shall not last."

  After a pause he went on.

  "There is a will in existence which I now cancel. I made it when I was ayounger man. I left my fortune to my son Leon de Mogente. To my daughterJuanita de Mogente I left a sufficiency. I wish now to make a will infavour of my son Leon"--he paused while the notary's quill pen ran overthe paper--"on one condition."

  "On one condition"--wrote the notary, who had leant forward, but satupright rather suddenly in obedience to a signal from Evasio Mon in thedoorway. He had forgotten his tonsure.

  "That he does not go into religion--that he devotes no part of it to thebenefit or advantage of the church."

  The notary sat very straight while he wrote this down.

  "My son is in Saragossa," said Mogente suddenly, with a change of manner."I will see him. Send for him."

  The notary glanced up at Evasio Mon, who shook his head.

  "I cannot send for him at two in the morning."

  "Then I will sign no will."

  "Sign the will now," suggested the lawyer, with a look of doubt towardsthe dark doorway behind the sick man's head. "Sign now, and see your sonto-morrow."

  "There is no to-morrow, my friend. Send for my son at once."

  Mon grudgingly nodded his head.

  "It is well, I will do as you wish," said the notary, only too glad, itwould seem, to rise and go into the next room to receive further minuteinstructions from his chief.

  The dying man laid with closed eyes, and did not move until his son spoketo him. Leon de Mogente was a sparely-built man, with a white andoddly-rounded forehead. His eyes were dark, and he betrayed scarcely anyemotion at the sight of his father in this lamentable plight.

  "Ah!" said the elder man. "It is you. You look like a monk. Are you one?"

  "Not yet," answered the pale youth in a low voice with a sort ofsuppressed exultation. Evasio Mon, watching him from the doorway, smiledfaintly. He seemed to have no misgivings as to what Leon might say.

  "But you wish to become one?"

  "It is my dearest desire."

  The dying man laughed. "You are like your mother," he said. "She was afool. You may go back to bed, my friend."

  "But I would rather stay here and pray by your bedside," pleaded the son.He was a feeble man--the only weak man, it would appear, in the room.

  "Then stay and pray if you want to," answered Mogente, without eventroubling himself to show contempt.

  The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by anupward glance.

  "You will, perhaps, leave your fortune," he suggested at length, "to--tosome good work."

  But Evasio Mon was shaking his head.

  "To--to--?" began the notary once more, and then lapsed into a puzzledsilence. He was at fault again. Mogente seemed to be failing. He layquite still, looking straight in front of him.

  "The Count Ramon de Sarrion," he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa?"

  "No," answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door."No--but your will--your will. Try and remember what you are doing. Youwish to leave your money to your son?"

  "No, no."

  "Then to--your daughter?"

  And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behindit.

  "To your daughter?" he repeated more confidently. "That is right, is itnot? To your daughter?"

  Mogente nodded his head.

  "Write it out shortly," he said in a low and distinct voice. "For I willsign nothing that I have not read, word for word, and I have but littletime."

  The notary took a new sheet of paper and wrote out in bold and, it is tobe presumed, unlegal terms that Francisco de Mogente left his earthlypossessions to Juanita de Mogente, his only daughter. Being no notary,this elderly priest wrote out a plain-spoken document, about which therecould be no doubt whatever in any court of law in the world, which isprobably more than a lawyer could have done.

  Francisco de Mogente read the paper, and then, propped in the arms of thebig friar, he signed his name to it. After this he lay quite still, sostill that at last the notary, who stood watching him, slowly knelt downand fell to praying for the soul that was gone.