The Velvet Glove Part 10

"I must see Juanita," he said, at length, after a long silence, and Sarrion's wise eyes were softened by a smile which flitted across them like a flash of sunlight across a darkened field.

"Remember," he said, "that Juanita is a child. She cannot be expected to know her own mind for at least three years."

Marcos nodded his head, as if he knew what was coming.

"And remember that the danger is imminent--that Evasio Mon is not the man to let the gra.s.s grow beneath his feet--that we cannot let Juanita wait... three weeks."

"I know," answered Marcos.

CHAPTER IX

THE QUARRY Sarrion called at the convent school of the Sisters of the True Faith the next morning, and was informed through the grating that the school was in Retreat.

"Even I, whose duty it is to speak to you, shall have to perform penance for doing so," said the doorkeeper, in her soft voice through the bars.

"Then do an extra penance, my sister," returned Sarrion, "and answer another question. Tell me if the Sor Teresa is within?"

"The Sor Teresa is at Pampeluna, and the Mother Superior is here in the school herself. The Sor Teresa is only Sister Superior, you must know, and is therefore subordinate to the Mother Superior."

Sarrion was a pleasant-spoken man, and a man of the world. He knew that if a woman has something to tell of another she is not to be frightened into silence by the whole Court of Cardinals and eke, the Pope of Rome himself. So he drew his horse nearer to the forbidding wooden gate, and did not ride away from it until he had gained some sc.r.a.ps of information and saddled the lay sister with a burden of penances to last all through the Retreat.

He learnt that his sister had been sent to Pampeluna, where the Sisters of the True Faith conducted another school, much patronised by the poor n.o.bility of that priest-ridden city. He was made to understand, moreover, that Juanita de Mogente had been given special opportunities for prayer and meditation owing to an unchristian spirit of resentment and revenge, which she had displayed on learning the Will of Heaven in regard to her abandoned, and it was to be feared, heretic father.

"Which means, my sister?"

"That neither you nor any other in the world may see or speak to her--but I must close the grille."

And the little shutter was sharply shut in Sarrion's face.

This was the beginning of a quest which, for a fortnight, continued entirely fruitless. Evasio Mon it appeared was on a pilgrimage. Sor Teresa had gone to Pampeluna. The inexorable gate of the convent school remained shut to all comers.

Sarrion went to Pampeluna to see his sister, but came back without having attained his object. Marcos took up the trail with a patient thoroughness learnt at the best school--the school of Nature. He was without haste, and expressed neither hope nor discouragement. But he realised more and more clearly that Juanita was in genuine danger. By one or two moves in this subtle warfare, Sarrion had forced his adversary to unmask his defenses. Some of the obstructions behind which Juanita was now concealed could scarcely have originated in chance.

Marcos had, in the course of his long antagonism against wolf or bear or boar in the Central Pyrenees, more than once experienced that sharp shock of astonishment and fear to which the big-game hunter can scarcely remain indifferent when he finds himself opposed by an unmistakable sign of an intelligence equal to his own or an instinct superior to it, subtly meeting his subtle attack. This he experienced now, and knew that he himself was being watched and his every action forestalled. The effect was to make him the more dogged, the more cunning in his quest. Because he knew that Juanita's cause was in competent hands, or for some other reason, Sarrion withdrew from taking such an active part as heretofore.

His keen and careful eyes noted a change in Marcos. Juanita's helplessness seemed to have aroused a steady determination to help her at any cost. Weakness is an appeal that strength rarely resists.

It was Marcos who finally discovered an opportunity, and with characteristic patience he sifted it, and organised a plan of action before making anything known to his father.

"There is a service in the Cathedral of La Seo tomorrow evening," he announced suddenly at midnight one night on his return from a long and tiring day. "All the girls of the convent schools will be there."

"Ah!" said Sarrion, looking his son up and down with a speculative eye.

"Well?"

"My aunt... Sor Teresa... is likely to be there. She has returned to Saragossa to-day. The Mother Superior--by the grace of G.o.d--has indigestion. I have got a letter safely through to Sor Teresa. The service is at seven o'clock. The Archbishop will go in procession round the Cathedral to bless the people. The Cathedral is very dark. There will be considerable confusion when the doors are opened and the people crowd out. I have a few men--of the road, from the Posada de los Reyes--who will add to the confusion under my instructions. I think if you help me we can get Juanita separated from the rest. I will take her home and see to it that she arrives at the school at the same time as the others. We can arrange it, I think."

"Yes," answered Sarrion. "I have no doubt that we can arrange it."

And they sat far into the night, after the manner of conspirators, discussing Marcos' plans, which were, like himself, quite simple and direct.

The Cathedral of the Seo in Saragossa is one of the most ancient in Spain, and bears in its architecture some resemblance to the Moorish mosque that once stood on the same spot. It is a huge square building, dimly lighted by windows set high up in the stupendous roof. The choir is a square set down in the middle--a church within a Cathedral. There are two princ.i.p.al entrances, one on the Plaza de la Seo, where the fountain is, and where, in the sunshine, the philosophers of Saragossa sit and do nothing from morn till eve. The other entrance is that which is known as the grand portal, and with a wrong-headedness characteristic of the Peninsular, it is situated in a little street where no man pa.s.ses.

Marcos knew that the grand portal was used by the religious communities and devout persons who came to church for the good motive, while those who praised G.o.d that man might see them entered, and quitted the Cathedral by the more public doorway on the Plaza. He knew also that the convent schools took their station just within the great porch, which, during the day, is the parade ground for those authorised beggars who wear their number and licence suspended round their necks as a guarantee of good faith.

The Cathedral was crammed to suffocation when Marcos and his father entered by this door. At the foot of the shallow steps descending from the porch to the floor of the Cathedral, Sor Teresa's white cap rose above the heads of the people. Here and there a nun's cap or the blue veil of a nursing sister showed itself amidst the black mantillas. Here and there the white head of some old man made its mark among the sunburnt faces. For there were as many men as women present. The majority of them looked about them as at a show, but all were silent and respectful. All made room readily enough for any who wished to kneel. There was no pushing, no impatience. All were polite and forbearing.

The Archbishop's procession had already left the door of the choir, and was moving slowly round the building. It was preceded by a chorister and a boy, who sang in unison with a strange, uncomfortable echo in the roof.

Immediately on their heels followed a man in his usual outdoor clothes, who accompanied them on a haut-boy with queer, snorting notes, and nodded to his friends as he perceived their faces dimly looming in the light of the flickering candles carried by acolytes behind him.

They stopped at intervals and sang a verse. Then the organ, far above their heads, rolled in its solemn notes, and the whole choir broke into song as they moved on.

The Archbishop, preceded by the Host borne aloft beneath a silken canopy, wore a long red silk robe, of which the train was carried by two careless acolytes, a red silk biretta and red gloves.

As the Host pa.s.sed the people knelt and rose, and knelt again as the Archbishop came--a sort of human tide, rising and kneeling and rising again, to dust their knees and stare about them, which was not without a symbolical meaning for those who know the history of the Church in Latin countries.

The face of the Archbishop struck a sudden and startling note of sincerity as he pa.s.sed on with upheld hand and eyes turning from side to side with a luminous look of love and tenderness as he silently invoked G.o.d's blessing on these his people. He pa.s.sed on, leaving in some doubting hearts, perhaps, the knowledge that amid much that was mistaken, and tawdry and superst.i.tious and evil, here at all events was one good man.

Immediately behind him, came the beadle in vestments and a long flaxen wig ill-combed, put on all awry, making room with his staff and hitting the people if they would not leave off praying and get out of the way.

Then followed the choir--a living study in evil countenances-- perfunctory, careless, snuff-blown and ill-shaven, with cold hard faces like Inquisitors.

All the while the great bell was booming overhead, and the whole atmosphere seemed to vibrate with sound and emotion. It was moving and impressive, especially for those who think that the Almighty is better pleased with abject abas.e.m.e.nt than a plain common-sense endeavour to do better, and will accept a long tale of public penance before the record of simple daily duties honestly performed.

Near the great porch on either side of the bishop's path were ranged the seminarists, in ca.s.socks of black with a dark blue or red hood--depressing looking youths with flaccid faces and an unhealthy eye.

Behind them stood a group of friars in rough woolen garments of brown, with heads clean shaven all but an inch of closely cut hair like a halo on a saint. They seemed cheerful and were laughing and joking among themselves while the procession pa.s.sed.

Behind these, on their knees, were the girls of the convent school--and all around them closed in the crowd. Juanita was at one end of the row and Sor Teresa at the other. Juanita was looking about her. Her special opportunities for prayer and reflection had perhaps had the effect that such opportunities may be expected to have, and she was a little weary of all this to-do about the world to come; for she was young and this present world seemed worthy of consideration. She glanced backwards over her shoulder as the Archbishop pa.s.sed with his following of candles, and gave a little start. Marcos was kneeling on the pavement behind her. Sor Teresa was looking straight in front of her between the wings of her great cap. It was hard to say whether she saw Juanita, or was aware that a man was kneeling immediately behind herself, almost on the hem of her flowing black robes--her own brother, Sarrion.

The procession moved away down the length of the great building and left darkness behind it. Already there was a stir among the people, for it was late and many had come from a distance.

The great doors, rarely used, were slowly cast open and in the darkness the crowd surged forward. Juanita was nearest to the door. She looked round and Sor Teresa made a motion with her head telling her to lead the way. Marcos was at her side. A few men in cloaks, and some in shirt-sleeves, seemed to be grouped by chance around him. He looked back and made a little movement of the head towards his father.

Juanita felt herself pushed from behind. Before her, singularly enough, was a clear pathway between the crowds. Behind her a thousand people pressed forward towards the exit. She hurried out and glancing back on the steps saw that she had become separated from the school and from the nuns by a number of men. But Marcos' hand was already on her arm.

"Come," he said, "I want to speak to you. It is all right. My father is beside Sor Teresa."

"What fun!" she answered in a whisper. "Let us be quick."

And a moment later they were running side by side down a narrow street, where a single lamp swung from a gibbet at the corner and flickered in the wind of Saragossa.

It was Juanita who stopped suddenly.

"Oh, Marcos," she cried, "I forgot; we are not to walk home. There is an omnibus to meet us as usual at these late services."

"It will not come," replied Marcos. "The driver is waiting to tell Sor Teresa that his horses are lame and he cannot come."