The Velvet Glove

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER III

  WITHIN THE HIGH WALLSIn these degenerate days Saragossa has taken to itself a suburb--thefirst and deadliest sign of a city's progress. Thirty years ago, however,Torrero did not exist, and those terrible erections of white stone andplaster which now disfigure the high land to the south of the city hadnot yet burst upon the calm of ancient architectural Spain. Here, onMonte Torrero, stood an old convent, now turned into a barrack. Herealso, amid the trees of the ancient gardens, rises the rounded dome ofthe church of San Fernando.

  Close by, and at a slightly higher level, curves the Canal Imperial, 400years old, and not yet finished; assuredly conceived by a Moorish love ofclear water in high places, but left to Spanish enterprise and incompleteness when the Moors had departed.

  Beyond the convent walls, the canal winds round the slope of the brownhill, marking a distinctive line between the outer desert and the greenoasis of Saragossa. Just within the border line of the oasis, just belowthe canal, on the sunny slope, lies the long low house of the ConventSchool of the Sisters of the True Faith. Here, amid the quiet oforchards--white in spring with blossom, the haunt of countlessnightingales, heavy with fruit in autumn, at all times the home of aluxuriant vegetation--history has surged to and fro, like the tidesdrawn hither and thither, rising and falling according to the dictates ofa far-off planet. And the moon of this tide is Rome.

  For the Sisters of the True Faith are a Jesuit corporation, and theirConvent School is, now a convent, now a school, as the tide may rise orfall. The ebb first came in 1555, when Spain threw out the Jesuits. Theflow was at its height so late as 1814, when Ferdinand VII--a Bourbon,of course--restored Jesuitism and the Inquisition at one stroke. Andbefore and after, and through all these times, the tide of prosperity hasrisen and fallen, has sapped and sagged and undermined with a noiselessenergy which the outer world only half suspects.

  In 1835 this same long, low, quiet house amid the fruit-trees was sackedby the furious populace, and more than one Sister of the True Faith, itis whispered, was beaten to the ground as she fled shrieking down thehill. In 1836 all monastic orders were rigidly suppressed by Mendizabal,minister to Queen Christina. In 1851 they were all allowed to live againby the same Queen's daughter, Isabel II. So wags this world into whichthere came nineteen hundred years ago not peace, but a sword; a world allstirred about by a reformed rake of Spain who, in his own words, came "tosend fire throughout the earth;" whose motto was, "Ignem veni metteri interram, et quid volo nisi ut accendatur."

  The road that runs by the bank of the canal was deserted when the Countde Sarrion turned his horse's head that way from the dusty high roadleading southwards out of Saragossa. Sarrion had only been in Saragossatwenty-four hours. His great house on the Paseo del Ebro had not beenthrown open for this brief visit, and he had been content to inhabit tworooms at the back of the house. From the balcony of one he had seen theincident related in the last chapter; and as he rode towards the conventschool he carried in his hand--not a whip--but the delicately-wroughtsword-stick which had fallen from the hand of Francisco de Mogente intothe gutter the night before.

  In the grassy sedge that bordered the canal the frogs were calling toeach other with that conversational note of interrogation in theirthroats which makes their music one of Nature's most sociable andcompanionable sounds. In the fruit-trees on the lower land thenightingales were singing as they only sing in Spain. It was nearly dark,a warm evening of late spring, and there was no wind. Amid the thousandscents of blossom, of opening buds, and a hundred flowering shrubs therearose the subtle, soft odour of sluggish water, stirred by frogs, tellingof cool places beneath the trees where the weary and the dusty might liein oblivion till the morning.

  The Count of Sarrion rode with a long stirrup, his spare form, six feetin height, a straight line from heel to shoulder. His seat in the saddleand something in his manner, at once gentle and cold, something mysticthat attracted and yet held inexorably at arm's length, lent at once adeeper meaning to his name, which assuredly had a Moorish ring in it. Thelittle town of Sarrion lies far to the south, on the borders of Valencia,in the heart of the Moorish country. And to look at the face of Ramon deSarrion and of his son, the still, brown-faced Marcos de Sarrion, was toconjure up some old romance of that sun-scorched height of theJavalambre, where history dates back to centuries before Christ--whereassuredly some Moslem maiden in the later time must have forsaken all forlove of a wild yet courteous Spanish knight of Sarrion, bequeathing toher sons through all the ages the deep, reflective eyes, the impenetrabledignity, of her race.

  Sarrion's hair was gray. He wore a moustache and imperial in the Frenchfashion, and looked at the world with the fierce eyes and somewhat of theair of an eagle, which resemblance was further accentuated by afinely-cut nose. As an old man he was picturesque. He must have been veryhandsome in his youth.

  It seemed that he was bound for the School of the Sisters of the TrueFaith, for as he approached its gate, built solidly within the thicknessof the high wall, without so much as a crack or crevice through which thecurious might peep, he drew rein, and sat motionless on his well-trainedhorse, listening. The clock at San Fernando immediately vouchsafed theinformation that it was nine o'clock. There was no one astir, no one onthe road before or behind him. Across the narrow canal was a bare field.The convent wall bounded the view on the left hand.

  Sarrion rode up to the gate and rang a bell, which clanged with a sort ofsurreptitiousness just within. He only rang once, and then waited,posting himself immediately opposite a little grating let into the solidwood of the door. The window behind the grating seemed to open and shutwithout sound, for he heard nothing until a woman's voice asked who wasthere.

  "It is the Count Ramon de Sarrion who must without fail speak to theSister Superior to-night," he answered, and composed himself again in thesaddle with a southern patience. He waited a long time before the heavydoors were at length opened. The horse passed timorously within, withjerking ears and a distended nostril, looking from side to side. Heglanced curiously at the shadowy forms of two women who held the door,and leant their whole weight against it to close it again as soon aspossible.

  Sarrion dismounted, and drew the bridle through a ring and hook attachedto the wall just inside the gates. No one spoke. The two nuns noiselesslyreplaced the heavy bolts. There was a muffled clank of large keys, andthey led the way towards the house.

  Just over the threshold was the small room where visitors were asked towait--a square, bare apartment with one window set high in the wall, withone lamp burning dimly on the table now. There were three or four chairs,and that was all. The bare walls were whitewashed. The Convent School ofthe Sisters of the True Faith did not err, at all events, in the heathenindiscretion of a too free hospitality. The visitors to this room werebarely beneath the roof. The door had in one of its panels the usualgrating and shutter.

  Sarrion sat down without looking round him, in the manner of a man whoknew his surroundings, and took no interest in them.

  In a few minutes the door opened noiselessly--there was a too obtrusivenoiselessness within these walls--and a nun came in. She was tall, andwithin the shadow of her cap her eyes loomed darkly. She closed the door,and, throwing back her veil, came forward. She leant towards Sarrion, andkissed him, and her face, coming within the radius of the lamp, was theface of a Sarrion.

  There was in her action, in the movement of her high-held head, a suddenand startling self-abandonment of affection. For Spanish women understandabove all others the calling of love and motherhood. And it seemed thatSor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--had, like many women,bestowed a thwarted love--faute de mieux--upon her brother.

  "You are well?" asked Sarrion, looking at her closely. Her face, framedby a spotless cap, was gray and drawn, but not unhappy.

  She nodded her head with a smile, while her eyes flitted over his faceand person with that quick interrogation which serves better than words.A woman never asks minutely after the health of one in whom she i
s reallyinterested. She knows without asking. She stood before him with her handscrossed within the folds of her ample sleeves. Her face was lost again inthe encircling shadow of her cap and veil. She was erect and motionlessin her stiff and heavy clothing. The momentary betrayal of womanhood andaffection was passed, and this was the dreaded Sister Superior of theConvent School again.

  "I suppose," she said, "you are alone as usual. Is it safe, afternightfall--you, who have so many enemies?"

  "Marcos is at Torre Garda, where I left him three days ago. The snows aremelting and the fishing is good. It is unusual to come at this hour, Iknow, but I came for a special purpose."

  He glanced towards the door. The quiet of this house seemed to arouse asense of suspicion and antagonism in his mind.

  "I wished, of course, to see you also, though I am aware that theaffections are out of place in this--holy atmosphere."

  She winced almost imperceptibly and said nothing.

  "I want to see Juanita de Mogente," said the Count. "It is unusual, Iknow, but in this place you are all-powerful. It is important, or Ishould not ask it."

  "She is in bed. They go to bed at eight o'clock."

  "I know. Is not that all the better? She has a room to herself, Irecollect. You can arouse her and bring her to me and no one need knowthat she has had a visitor--except, I suppose, the peeping eyes thathaunt a nunnery corridor."

  He gave a shrug of the shoulder.

  "Mother of God!" he exclaimed. "The air of secrecy infects one. I am nota secretive man. All the world knows my opinions. And here am I plottinglike a friar. Can I see Juanita?"

  And he laughed quietly as he looked at his sister.

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  He nodded his thanks.

  "And, Dolores, listen!" he said. "Let me see her alone. It may savecomplications in the future. You understand?"

  Sor Teresa turned in the doorway and looked at him.

  He could not see the expression of her eyes, which were in deep shadow,and she left him wondering whether she had understood or not.

  It would seem that Sor Teresa, despite her slow dignity of manner, was aquick person. For in a few moments the door of the waiting-room was againopened and a young girl hastened breathlessly in. She was not more thansixteen or seventeen, and as she came in she threw back her dark hairwith one hand.

  "I was asleep, Uncle Ramon," she exclaimed with a light laugh, "and thegood Sister had to drag me out of bed before I would wake up. And then,of course, I thought it was a fire. We have always hoped for a fire, youknow."

  She was continuing to attend to her hasty dress as she spoke, tying theribbon at the throat of her gay dressing-gown with careless fingers.

  "I had not even time to pull up my stockings," she concluded, making goodthe omission with a friendly nonchalance. Then she turned to look at SorTeresa, but her eyes found instead the closed door.

  "Oh!" she cried, "the good Sister has forgotten to come back with me. Andit is against the rules. What a joke! We are not allowed to see visitorsalone--except father or mother, you know. I don't care. It was not myfault."

  And she looked doubtfully from the door to Sarrion and back again to thedoor. She was very young and gay and careless. Her cheeks still flushedby the deep sleep of childhood were of the colour of a peach that hasripened quickly in the glow of a southern sun. Her eyes were dark andvery bright; the bird-like shallow vivacity of childhood still sparkledin them. It seemed that they were made for laughing, not for tears orthought. She was the incarnation of youth and springtime. To find suchignorance of the world, such innocence of heart, one must go to a nunneryor to Nature.

  "I came to see you to-night," said Sarrion, "as I may be leavingSaragossa again to-morrow morning."

  "And the good Sister allowed me to see you. I wonder why! She has beencross with me lately. I am always breaking things, you know."

  She spread out her hands with a gesture of despair.

  "Yesterday it was an altar-vase. I tripped over the foot of that stupidSt. Andrew. Have you heard from papa?"

  Sarrion hesitated for a moment at the sudden question.

  "No," he answered at length.

  "Oh! I wish he would come home from Cuba," said the girl, with a passinggravity. "I wonder what he will be like. Will his hair be gray? Not thatI dislike gray hair you know," she added hurriedly. "I hope he will benice. One of the girls told me the other day that she disliked herfather, which seems odd, doesn't it? Milagros de Villanueva--do you knowher? She was my friend once. We told each other everything. She has redhair. I thought it was golden when she was my friend. But one can seewith half an eye that it is red."

  Sarrion laughed rather shortly.

  "Have you heard from your father?" he asked.

  "I had a letter on Saint Mark's Day," she answered. "I have not heardfrom him since. He said he hoped to give me a surprise, he trusted apleasant one, during the summer. What did he mean? Do you know?"

  "No," answered Sarrion, thoughtfully. "I know nothing."

  "And Marcos is not with you?" the girl went on gaily. "He would not dareto come within the walls. He is afraid of all nuns. I know he is, thoughhe denies it. Some day, in the holidays, I shall dress as a nun, and youwill see. It will frighten him out of his wits."

  "Yes," said Sarrion looking at her, "I expect it would. Tell me," he wenton after a pause, "Do you know this stick?"

  And he held out, under the rays of the lamp, the sword-stick he hadpicked up in the Calle San Gregorio.

  She looked at it and then at him with startled eyes.

  "Of course," she said. "It is the sword-stick I sent papa for the NewYear. You ordered it yourself from Toledo. See, here is the crest. Wheredid you get it? Do not mystify me. Tell me quickly--is he here? Has hecome home?"

  In her eagerness she laid her hands on his dusty riding coat and lookedup into his face.

  "No, my child, no," answered Sarrion, stroking her hair, with atenderness unusual enough to be remembered afterwards. "I think not. Thestick must have been stolen from him and found its way back to Saragossain the hand of the thief. I picked it up in the street yesterday. It is acoincidence, that is all. I will write to your father and tell him ofit."

  Sarrion turned away, so that the shade of the lamp threw his face intodarkness. He was afraid of those quick, bright eyes--almost afraid thatshe should divine that he had already telegraphed to Cuba.

  "I only came to ask you whether you had heard from your father and tohear that you were well. And now I must go."

  She stood looking at him, thoughtfully pulling at the delicate embroideryof her sleeves, for all that she wore was of the best that Saragossacould provide, and she wore it carelessly, as if she had never knownother, and paid little heed to wealth---as those do who have always hadit.

  "I think there is something you are not telling me," she said, with theever-ready laugh twinkling beneath her dusky lashes. "Some mystery."

  "No, no. Good-night, my child. Go back to your bed."

  She paused with her hand on the door, looking back, her face all shadedby her tumbled hair hanging to her waist.

  "Are you sure you have not heard from papa?"

  "Quite sure--! I wish I had," he added when the door was closed behindher.