CHAPTER XXIV
THE STORMY PETRELAs Juanita quitted the room she heard Sarrion ask Evasio Mon if he hadlunched. And Mon admitted that he had as yet omitted that meal. Juanitashrugged her shoulders. It is only in later life that we come to realisethe importance of meals. If Mon was hungry he should have said so. Shegave no further thought to him. She hated him. She was glad to think thathe should have suffered, even if his pain was only hunger. What washunger, she asked herself, compared with a broken heart? One was apassing pang that could be alleviated, could be confessed to the firstcomer, while a broken heart must be hidden at any cost from all theworld.
She met Cousin Peligros coming towards the drawing-room in her best blacksilk dress, and in what might have been called a fluster of excitement atthe thought of a visitor, if such a word had been applicable to herplacid life of self-deception. Juanita made some small jest and laughedrather eagerly at it as she passed the pattern lady on the stairs.
She was very calm and collected; being a determined person, as manyseemingly gay and light-hearted people are. She was going to leave TorreGarda and Marcos, who had married her for her money. It is characteristicof determined people that they are restricted in their foresight. Theylook in front with eyes so steady and concentrated that they perceive noside issues, but only the one path that they intend to tread. Juanita wasgoing back to Pampeluna, to Sor Teresa at the convent school in the Callede la Dormitaleria. She recked nothing of the Carlists, of the disturbedcountry through which she had to pass.
She had never lacked money, and had sufficient now for her needs. Thevillage of Torre Garda could assuredly provide a carriage for thejourney; or, at the worst, a cart. Anything would be better thanremaining in this house--even the hated school in the Calle de laDormitaleria. She had always known that Sor Teresa was her friend, thoughthe Sister Superior's manner of indicating friendship had not beeninvariably comprehensible.
Juanita took a cloak and what money she could find. She was not a verytidy person, and the money had to be collected from odd trinket-boxes anddiscarded purses. Marcos was still talking politics with his friend fromthe mountains when she passed beneath his window. Sarrion and Evasio Monhad gone to the dining-room, where, it was to be presumed, CousinPeligros had followed them. She professed a great admiration for EvasioMon, who was on familiar terms with people of the highest distinction. Anhour's start would be sufficient. In that time she could be half-way toPampeluna. Secrecy was of course out of the question.
The drawing-room window was open. Juanita paused on the threshold for amoment. Then she went into the room and scribbled a hurried note--notinnocent of blots--which she addressed to Marcos. She left it on thewriting-table and carrying her cloak over her arm she hurried down azigzag path concealed in a thicket of scrub-oak to the village of TorreGarda.
Before reaching the village she overtook a traveling-carriage going at awalking pace down the hill. The carriage, which was old-fashioned inbuild, and set high upon its narrow wheels, was empty.
"Where are you going?" asked Juanita, of the man who took off his hat toher, almost as if he had expected her.
"I am returning to Pampeluna, empty, Excellency," he answered. "I havebrought the baggage of Senor Mon, who is traveling over the mountains onhorseback. I am hoping to get a fare from Torre Garda back to Pampeluna,if I have the good fortune."
The coincidence was rather startling. Juanita had always been considereda lucky girl, however; one for whom the smaller chances of dailyexistence were invariably kind. She accepted this as another instance ofthe indulgence of fate in small things. She was not particularly glad orsurprised. A dull indifference had come over her. The small things ofdaily life had never engrossed her mind. She was quite indifferent tothem now. It was her intention to get to Pampeluna, through alldifficulties, and the incidents of the road occupied no place in herthoughts. She was vaguely confident that no one could absolutely stand inher way. Had not Evasio Mon said that the Pope would willingly annul hermarriage?
She was thinking these thoughts as she drove through the little mountainvillage.
"What is that--it sounds like thunder or guns?" inquired Evasio Mon,pausing in his late and simple luncheon in the dining-room.
"A clerical ear like yours should not know the sound of guns," repliedSarrion with a curt laugh. "It is not that, however. It is a cart or acarriage crossing the bridge below the village."
Mon nodded his head and continued to give his attention to his plate.
"Juanita looks well--and happy," he said, after a pause.
Sarrion looked at him and made no reply. He was borrowing from the absentMarcos a trick of silence which he knew to be effective in a subtle warof words.
"Do you not think so?"
"I am sure of it, Evasio."
Sarrion was wondering why he had come to Torre Garda--this stormy petrelof clerical politics--whose coming never boded good. Mon was much toowise to be audacious for audacity's sake. He was not a theatrical man,but one who had worked consistently and steadily for a cause all throughhis life. He was too much in earnest to consider effect or heed danger.
"I am not on the winning side, but I am sure that I am on the right one,"he had once said in public. And the speech went the round of Spain.
After he had finished luncheon he spoke of taking his leave, and asked ifhe might be allowed to congratulate Marcos on his escape.
"It should be a warning to him," he went on, "not to ride at night. To doso is to court mishap in these narrow mountain roads."
"Yes," said Sarrion, slowly.
"Will his nurse allow me to see him?" asked the visitor.
"His nurse is Juanita. I will go and ask her," replied Sarrion, lookinground him quite openly to make sure that there were no letters lyingabout on the tables of the terrace that Mon might be tempted to read inhis absence.
He hurried to Marcos' room. Marcos was out of bed. He was dressing, withthe help of his servant and the visitor from the mountains. With a quickgesture, Marcos indicated the open window, through which the sound of anyexclamation might easily reach the ear of Evasio Mon.
"Juanita has gone," he said, in French. "Read that note. It is his doing,of course."
"I know now," wrote Juanita, "why you were afraid of my growing up. But Iam grown up--and I have found out why you married me."
"I knew it would come sooner or later," said Marcos, who winced as hedrew his sleeve over his injured arm. He was very quiet and collected, aspeople usually are in face of a long anticipated danger which when itcomes at last brings with it a dull sense of relief.
Sarrion made no reply. Perhaps he, too, had anticipated this moment. Agirl is a closed book. Neither knew what might be written in the hiddenpages of Juanita's heart.
A crisis usually serves to accentuate the weakness or strength of a man'scharacter. Marcos was intensely practical at this moment--more practicalthan ever. He had only one thought--the thought that filled hislife--which was Juanita's welfare. If he could not make her happy hecould, at all events, shield her from harm. He could stand between herand the world.
"She can only have gone down the valley," he said, continuing to speak inFrench, which was a second mother tongue to him. "She must have gone toSor Teresa. He has induced her to go by some trick. He would not dare tosend her anywhere else."
"I heard a carriage cross the bridge," replied Sarrion. "He heard italso, and asked what it was. The next moment he spoke of Juanita. Thesound must have put the thought of Juanita into his mind."
"Which means that he provided the carriage. He must have had it waitingin the village. Whatever he may undertake is always perfectly organised;we know that. How long ago was that?"
"An hour ago and more."
Marcos nodded and glanced at the clock.
"He will no doubt have made arrangements for her to get safely through toPampeluna."
"Then where are you going?" asked Sarrion, perceiving that Marcos wasslipping into his pocket the arm without which he never traveled in the
mountains.
"After her," was the reply.
"To bring her back?"
"No."
Marcos paused for a moment, looking from the window across the valley tothe pine-clad heights with thoughtful eyes. He held odd views--now deemedchivalrous and old-fashioned--on the question of a woman's liberty toseek her own happiness in her own way. Such views are unnecessary to-daywhen woman is, so to speak, up and fighting. They belong to the days ofour grandmothers, who had less knowledge and much more wisdom; for theyknew that it is always more profitable to receive a gift than demand aright. The measure will be fuller.
"No. Not unless it is her own wish," he said.
Sarrion made no answer. In human difficulties there is usually nothing tobe said. There is nearly always one clear course to steer and thedeviations are only found by too much talk and too much licence given tocrooked minds. If happiness is not to be found in the straight waynothing is gained by turning into by-paths to seek it. A few find it anda great number are not unhappy who have seen it down a side-path and haveyet held their course in the straight way.
"Will you keep him in the library--make the excuse that the sun is toohot on the verandah--until I am gone?" said Marcos. "I will follow and,at all events, see that she arrives safely at Pampeluna."
Sarrion gave a curt laugh.
"We may be able," he said, "to turn to good account Evasio's convictionthat you are ill in bed, when in reality you are in the saddle."
"He will soon find out."
"Of course--but in the meantime..."
"Yes," said Marcos with a slow smile ... "in the meantime." He left theroom as he spoke, but turned on the threshold to look back over hisshoulder. His eyes were alight with anger and the smile had lapsed into agrin.
Sarrion went down to the verandah to entertain the unsought guest.
"They have given us coffee," he said, "in the library. It is too hot inthe sun, although we are still in March! Will you come?"
"And what has Juanita decreed?" asked Mon, when they were seated andSarrion had lighted his cigarette.
"The verdict has gone against you," replied Sarrion. "Juanita has decreedmost emphatically that you are not to be allowed to see Marcos."
Mon laughed and spread out his hands with a characteristic gesture ofbland acceptance of the inevitable. The man, it seemed, was aphilosopher; a person, that is to say, who will play to the end a gamewhich he knows he cannot win.
"Aha!" he laughed. "So we arrive at the point where a woman holds thecasting vote. It is the point to which all men travel. They have alwaysheld the casting vote--ces dames--and we can only bow to the inevitable.And Juanita is grown up. One sees it. She is beginning to record hervote."
"Yes," answered Sarrion with a narrow smile. "She is beginning to recordher vote."
With a Spanish formality of manner, Sarrion placed his horse at thedisposition of Evasio Mon, should the traveller feel disposed to pass thenight at Torre Garda. But Mon declined.
"I am a bird of passage," he explained. "I am due in Pampeluna againto-night. I shall enjoy the ride down the valley now that yourhospitality has so well equipped me for the journey----"
He broke off and looked towards the open window, listening.
Sarrion had also been listening. He had heard the thud of Marcos' horseas it passed across the wooden bridge below the village.
"Guns again?" he suggested, with a short laugh.
"I certainly heard something," Mon answered. And rising briskly from hischair, he went to the window. Sarrion followed him, and they stood sideby side looking out over the valley. At that moment that which was moreof a vibration than a sound came to their ears across the mountains--deepand foreboding.
"I thought I was right," said Mon, in little more than a whisper. "TheCarlists are abroad, my friend, and I, who am a man of peace must getwithin the city walls."
With an easy laugh he said good-bye. In a few minutes he was in thesaddle riding leisurely down the valley of the Wolf after Juanita--withMarcos de Sarrion in between them on the road.
The Velvet Glove Page 24
