by Talbot Mundy
“A letter for Miss Jacqueline, please.”
A sweet wise smile by way of answer — a little nod of acknowledgment and a glance at the address on the envelope. Nothing incorrect, or even unusual. Letters intended for young ladies in the convent never reach them until after they have been opened and read, but Consuelo might have handed it to any of the sisters; nevertheless, it was very right and proper of Consuelo to take such full precaution. Anything else? Certainly she might see Miss Jacqueline. Another smile from under a snow-white bandeau; then the face disappeared as the head bent forward, and a hand such as Tintoretto painted went on writing, writing with a golden pen. Consuelo bobbed her way out backward, all the steam gone out of her.
Then Jacqueline in the drawing-room in the plain blue dress that Consuelo hated, and with her hair mismanaged scandalously, and Consuelo unaccountably wet-eyed, which led, of course, to instant urgent questions about Desmio. But Desmio had sent kind messages, along with the flowers and a veritable load of chocolates, and was feeling so much better that he hoped to be able to come neat week.
“Then why are you crying, Consuelo?”
“Honey, dear, I don’t know — I’ve done my best for you, that’s all. Oh, honey, and you so innocent! And them so bent on — Listen, be still a while and listen!”
Consuelo looked up through the tears at Jacqueline, who was standing beside her with her arm on the chair-back, wondering. The young heart was beating almost as violently as the old one. Every imaginable fear was in the air — the worse — the most unspeakable — that Consuelo might have fallen foul at last of Donna Isabella and have been dismissed.
“Conchita, don’t admit a thing! Don’t let them trick you into a confession that you’ve given that Calhoun boy as much as a glimpse of a smile!”
“But I have smiled, Consuelo.”
“Don’t admit it! There’s a trap laid, child. They’re going to catch you in it, if you’re not careful, and marry you off to that jackanapes — and they’ll make Don Andres agree to it by pretending to him that you’ve been giving Calhoun encouragement on the sly.”
“But I haven’t, Consuelo. You know that.”
“Lord knows I know it, honey.”
“Who are ‘they,’ Consuelo?”
“Him and her — the jackanapes and Donna Isabella.”
“How I do wish Desmio knew!”
“He does, honey. I told him.”
Instant electric change in the whole world atmosphere, and Jacqueline herself again! She laughed aloud — kissed Consuelo — petted her — had Consuelo smiling in a minute — praised her — danced, to the scandal of the image of Saint Pierre in the niche above the mantelpiece — (or perhaps he was a saint who knew a good thing when he saw it, for there are such) — made such a merry noise of steps and laughter that Sister Helena came in to discover what on earth was happening, and laughed too.
“Showing her the new dance, Jacqueline? Do you think you ought to do that in here, dear? Things should be kept in their proper places.”
“Isn’t everywhere a proper place to dance when you feel happy?” Jacqueline answered. She would have danced with Sister Helena and devil take the consequences, if that had not been a place where they understand the management of buoyant young humans. Sister Helena forestalled indignity by meeting Jacqueline midway and, with an arm on her shoulder, switched attention firmly on Consuelo.
“How nice that she should be so glad to see you. You must come again.”
Which was hint sufficient. Under Donna Isabella’s regime one learned to read hints swiftly, and Consuelo hurried her departure as if she were almost guilty of sacrilege in having stayed so long. Jacqueline was led back to the study hall, both arms full of chocolate, and turned loose to distribute them. She was kept back that day after the lesson and was made to do six sums on the blackboard; but not even that subdued her thoroughly, and her eyes were full of laughter even when she was summoned to the Sister Superior’s office before supper.
But you could feel subdued in the Sister Superior’s presence. You could not feel otherwise. It needed no sense of guilt — no evil conscience to make you stand silent before the desk and wait until the veined patrician hand laid down the golden pen, the bandeau was slowly raised, and the face framed in white looked at you searchingly.
“How many letters, since you have been in the convent, have you received from Mr. Calverly-Calhoun, Jacqueline?”
“None, Sister Theresa.”
The answer was prompt, and qualified by nothing except surprise. Jacqueline’s frown appeared, aggravatingly mischievous, but the Sister Superior was not to be easily deceived by surface indications.
“Are you quite sure, Jacqueline?”
“Quite sure, Sister.”
“A letter has come addressed to you from Mr. Calverly-Calhoun, and I have been told that he saw you to the convent gate on your return from the Easter Congé. Does Don Andres know of his attentions to you?”
“Yes, Sister.”
That answer was triumphant — not a doubt of it.
“Does he approve?”
“I — I don’t know — I haven’t spoken to him.”
The frown again, followed by the first shade of doubt in the Sister Superior’s eyes.
“You were always such a good girl, Jacqueline. We have been so proud of you.”
Silence — the frown dancing on her forehead, making pretense of all the comical emotions which Jacqueline did not feel.
“In his letter, Mr. Calhoun mentions previous notes that he has written to you.”
Jacqueline shook her head.
“Have you received none? You are sure?”
Again the head-shake.
“None at home during the Congé?”
“None at any time, Sister.”
Long silence. Eyes, hidden by the white bandeau, studying something which a book on the desk concealed from Jacqueline.
“Then why should Mr. Calverly-Calhoun distinctly assert that he has written to you repeatedly, and upbraid you for not answering?”
Rebellion — high chin and flashing eyes — Jacqueline at her very loveliest, indignant.
“I don’t know, Sister Theresa. I know nothing of his letters, I don’t know why he should write or pretend to have written.”
Triumph again — a short, angry little nod. Desmio knew, and that settled it.
“How do you account for it that Mr. Calverly-Calhoun should write you a letter couched in most ardent terms, and make pointed reference to previous letters, if you have given him no encouragement, Jacqueline?”
“May I see the letter, Sister?”
“No. I will send it to Don Andres.”
“No — no! Oh, please don’t. Desmio is ill and a shock might—”
The last word froze on frightened lips. She could not force herself to speak of the horror of Desmio’s possible death on her account. But fear is all too easily misinterpreted, and those little furrows over her eyes suggested panic without explaining it.
“You should have thought of that before you let yourself be led into this. Now go to your own room, Jacqueline, and search your heart and consider whether you have told me the whole truth.”
Fiat lex! There was no appeal from the Sister Superior’s decision, nor any argument permitted once the order had gone forth. Jacqueline went to her room. The Sister Superior sat reconsidering a letter in a man’s handwriting — almost able to discern the handsome, impetuous, bold graceless features of the man who wrote, in the sentences that all began carefully and all ended in a hurry, in disorder, with a dash in place of full stop.
Dearest, most delightful Jacqueline!
You know you are mine — you know it! Why be cruel to me? Why first encourage me with those smiles that set my heart on fire, and then treat me coldly? — Again and again I have written to you — am I never to receive an answer?
Are you afraid of me? Then why? Would I not rather die than do you injury or see you harmed? Jacqueline! Love such as mine can no
t be refused! It is all- conquering! You are mine — you are mine — for I love you!
Loveliest torturer! Be generous! Unwelcome business drags me away to Cuba, where I must attend to my estates — estates that you shall some day turn into heaven for me. Must I eat my heart out all these miles away, wondering what your silence means? Jacqueline, I must go in two days. Write to me! Or at the least send me word by Consuelo that I may hope — that you are not cold toward me — that, if only a little, you reciprocate my love!
Forever and forever yours with all my heart,
Jack Calverly-Calhoun.
The Sister Superior returned the letter to its envelope and placed that into a larger one along with a two-page letter in her own fine Italian hand addressed to Don Andres. Five minutes later the sister on duty carried it out and locked it into the mail bag with the rest — a hundred or more letters (all censored) to a hundred homes, and a score or so of business communications, all looking just as harmless on the outside.
And in her room up two flights of polished stairs Jacqueline lay on her bed torn between triumph, indignation and anxiety. Search her heart? She had nothing to search it for! She did not know whether the letter from Jack Calhoun had come through the post or whether Consuelo had brought it, but she suspected Consuelo naturally — else why the tears? Was that what Consuelo meant by saying she had done her best? It was rather bewildering. She felt confused, and inclined to cry, the whole thing was so underhanded and contemptible.
But emotions came in waves, and presently were mixed in a maelstrom of perplexity. Why had the Sister Superior doubted her? What did she mean by suspecting her of not having told the whole truth? Excepting only Donna Isabella, nobody before in all her life had dared so much as to hint she was a liar. The thought made her furious. It made her even more furious that a shock of any kind should come to Desmio through her.
She did not doubt Desmio loved her more than anything else in the world, since he had said so more than once, and he never said what was not absolutely true. It was cruel — unjust — wicked! How dared Jack Calhoun insert himself into her life?
What did that Jack Calhoun mean by daring to say she had received other letters from him? What did he intend by it? He must have known the letter would be intercepted. Not even Consuelo would have dared to bring her a letter without the Mother Superior’s knowledge. Was it a trick then? Was that what Consuelo meant by saying a trap was laid for her?
Then came the thought of running away. If the Sister Superior thought her a liar, she would not stay under the roof another minute! She would escape — run all the way on foot back home to Desmio. She would make sheets into a rope, the way they did in story-books, and let herself down from the window and run — perhaps not go straight to Desmio, but hide somewhere and send for him. But she knew all the while she could never escape from the convent, however hard she might try. The impossibility of escaping made her feel angrier than ever.
Sleep. Even an ocean wearies in the end. Calm follows a typhoon. Deep dreamless sleep from which — all powers be praised! — no misery can keep any of us too long.
So — bringing supper on a tray — Sister Michaela found her with one arm under head, her hair disheveled, and her body looking as if waves had tossed it on the beach of time. Even with the electric light turned on, she did not wake for several minutes, and Sister Michaela stood watching her, telling beads by habit rather than intention. She had reached the thirteenth bead before Jacqueline awoke.
“Are you feeling better, Jacqueline?”
She sat up, recognized a friend and answered — as Sister Michaela noted — without the least trace of a desire to hide her thoughts.
“I don’t know, I’m all different, I feel as if something had happened. It’s—”
A long pause, only broken by the regularly measured click-click-click of beads, like the sound of water dripping.
“Sister Michaela — what did you mean by telling me not to put my trust in princes?”
“You’ll find out. Only remember, dear. And don’t forget the rest of it — always to trust your intuition. That is the Voice within. Now eat your supper, and I’ll come for the tray by and by.”
Sister Michaela went straight to the Sister Superior and talked to her without emphasis, but with assurance.
“She is perfectly innocent. But she’s romantic, and she has a capacity for building mountains out of molehills. Her geese are all swans. She will magnify evil in the same way unless taught not to.”
“Even the best ones sometimes have to learn that in a hard school,” said the Sister Superior, nodding comprehension.
CHAPTER 6.
“Poison — brewed in mine own house!”
Don Andres Miro, inheritor of self-command as well as too much pride, never cared to show his hand until he judged the proper moment had arrived. The drawers of his desk, and the safe in the closet, were always locked. He kept his own keys and counsel.
So Donna Isabella did not even know that a letter came from the Mother Superior, although she carried in the mail-bag and sat down facing her brother. She had had no further word with Consuelo about Jack Calhoun’s love letter, being minded to let the nurse bear the full weight of responsibility in case of accident. The Sister Superior would certainly write to Don Andres. Donna Isabella was determined to be on hand and informed of that move of events in order to snatch the advantage and tell her own version of Jacqueline’s intrigue with Jack Calhoun at the moment when it would have most weight.
“I am expecting one or two important letters, Andres. Won’t you please open the bag?”
His eyes met hers incuriously. His voice was exactly as usual.
“Important letters? Certainly, Isabella. I will send them to you as usual in the drawing-room.”
“They are letters I don’t wish the servants to see. Open the bag and give them to me, Andres.”
But he did not yield an inch of ground, or fail of a moment’s courtesy.
“In that case I will bring them to you with my own hand, Isabella.”
She mastered her exasperation and contrived to smile. “Why trouble, Andres? With your heart so weak you should spare yourself. Give me the letters now.”
“When my health is too far gone to permit me to cross the patio it will be time for me to change all my old habits,” he answered suavely. “For the present I am aware that habits cling to me.”
“God aids him who changes!” she retorted, quoting the old Spanish proverb. Then she rose and left the room with all the air of indifference she could master — which was rather less than she could wish. Don Andres’ eyes smiled as the door shut with a snap behind her, and he inserted the key in the mail-bag lock.
The Sister Superior’s letter emerged first. He sat turning it over and over without opening it. He scented danger — nodded — put the letter in his pocket and began to sort over the rest of the contents of the bag. Two minutes later he crossed the patio and opened the drawing-room door.
“No letters for you, Isabella.”
She felt obliged to look surprised, and he looked sorry to have brought her disappointing news, but that was all. She decided she had hoped too soon. The next day’s mail, or the next, would bring it.
But Don Andres returned to the library and sat for a whole hour reading and rereading — first the Sister Superior’s fine script — and then the bold impulsive hand of Jack Calhoun, that began its sentences so downrightly and ended them in a scrawl and a dash toward the next.
It hurt. For a while his face grew ashen-gray as the weakening heart- valves failed under the mental pressure. He leaned his head back on the chair.
Slowly at first, and then with a wave of energy, Don Andres seemed almost to renew his youth. His face grew hard — the mask was off. He returned the letters to his pocket. No need to read them again, for he had them by heart and could see them, paragraph by paragraph, as if projected on a screen before his eyes.
“ — a good girl, and always truthful. What I do not unders
tand is the young man’s reference to previous letters, which he complains of her not answering. She denies all knowledge of them.”
“No ‘and’ about it! Jacqueline denies. That ends the argument.”
He knew who the enemy was, although characteristically even then he named no names — not even to himself unheard and unseen in a room regarded as his sanctuary. He rose, surprised at his own weakness and, summoning physical strength by an effort of will, walked over to the door and locked it. Then he sat down again to review the situation in all its bearings.
“Poison,” he muttered to himself. “A pen dipped in poison brewed in mine own house!”
He recalled Consuelo’s impassioned outburst, word by word, and the orders he had given her.
“Good, faithful woman!” he said, nodding. “She shall be trusted further.”
He smiled as he recalled his sister’s anxiety about the mail-bag — naming no names — merely smiling. He understood that some one was in league with young Calhoun. Sufficient that he understood it.
Jack Calhoun. Forbid him the house? Perhaps, after all, not necessary. Cuba. Very fortunate for all concerned, including Jack Calhoun, whose absence would preserve him from indignity. There were rumors of financial trouble in connection with that Cuban plantation; and he rather thought, Don Andres did, that before Mr. Jack Calhoun could return from Cuba circumstances would have changed surprisingly — whereafter he at least hoped Jack Calhoun would know enough to keep his hands off.
“There is no other way — at any rate no better way,” he muttered.
It annoyed him that he had been so long in making up his mind, but he knew that it was only his anxiety on Jacqueline’s account that had made him over-cautious. Now he threw, not caution, but procrastination to the winds. He went first of all to the desk and answered the Sister Superior’s letter, lest Jacqueline should suffer an unnecessary moment’s anguish.
“ — grateful to you for your vigilance, and, if that were possible, more sure than ever of your judgment since you confirm my own conviction that she is always truthful.
