The Velvet Glove Part 33

She had caught, moreover, the trick of slurring from one note to the other, which must a.s.suredly have been left in Spain by the Moors. It comes from the Far East. It was probably characteristic of those songs that they could not sing by the waters of Babylon, when they hanged their harps upon a tree in the strange land. For it gives to songs, sad or gay, the minor, low clear note of exile. It rings out unexpectedly in strange places. The boatmen of the Malabar Coast face the surf singing no other than the refrain that the Basque women murmur over the cradle. "It keeps Marcos quiet," said Juanita.

"I suppose," she suggested to Marcos one day when she returned to his room and found him quiet, "that when you are well enough to ride you will begin your journeys up and down the valley."

"Yes."

"And your endless watch over the Carlists?"

"They are making good use of their time, I hear," replied Marcos, with the grave appreciation of a good fighter for a worthy foe.

Juanita remembered this now as she stood on the balcony. For he of the Short Knife and Marcos were talking politics--those rough and ready politics of the valley of the Wolf, which dealt but little in words and very considerably in deeds of a b.l.o.o.d.y nature.

She could hear Marcos talking of the near future when he should be in the saddle again. And her eyes grew gloomy and dark with those velvet depths that lie in hazel eyes when they are grave. Her kingdom was slipping away from her.

She was standing thus when the sound of a horse's feet caught her attention. A horseman was coming up the slope from the village to the castle of Torre Garda.

She looked at him with eyes that had been trained by Marcos in the holiday times to see great distances in the mountains. Then she turned and reentered the sick man's room.

"There is another visitor coming to make inquiry into your welfare--it is Senor Mon."

And she looked for the gleam that immediately lighted Marcos' dark eyes.

Sarrion was out. He had ridden to a distant hamlet earlier in the day.

The tidings of this journey might well have reached Evasio Mon's ears.

Cousin Peligros was taking the siesta by which she sought to forestall a possible fatigue later in the day. There are some people who seem to have the misfortune to be absent on the rare occasions when they are wanted.

"He is not coming into this room," said Juanita, coolly. "I will go down and see him."

Evasio Mon greeted her with a gay smile.

"I am so glad," he said, "to hear that all goes well with Marcos. We heard of his accident at Pampeluna. I had a day of leisure so I rode out to pay my respects."

He glanced at her, but did not specify whether he had come to pay his respects to her as a bride or to Marcos as an invalid.

"It is a long way to come for a mere politeness," replied Juanita, who could meet smile with smile if need be. But the eyes before which Evasio Mon turned aside were grave enough.

"It is not a mere politeness," he answered. "I have known Marcos since he was a child; and have watched his progress in the world--not always with a light heart."

"That is kind of you," replied Juanita. "But why watch him if it gives you pain?"

Mon laughed. He was quick to see a joke and Juanita, he knew, was a gay soul.

"One cannot help taking an interest in one's friends and is naturally sorry to see them drifting..."

"Into what...?" asked Juanita turning to the table where a servant had placed coffee for the visitor.

"Politics."

"Are politics a crime?"

"They lead to many--but do not let us talk of them--" he broke off with a light gesture dismissing as it were an unpleasant topic. "Since you are happy," he concluded, looking at her with benevolent eyes.

He was a man of quick gesture and slow precise speech. He always seemed to mean much more than was conveyed by the mere words he enunciated.

Juanita looked quickly at him. What did he know of her happiness? Was she happy--when she came to think of it? She remembered her gloomy thoughts of a few minutes earlier on the balcony. When we are young we confound thoughts with facts. When the heart is young it makes for itself a new heaven and a new earth from a word, a glance, a silence. It is a different earth from this one, but who can tell that it is not the same heaven as that for which men look?

Marcos was talking politics in the room overhead, forgetting her perhaps by now. Evasio Mon's suggestion had come at an opportune moment.

"Leon is much exercised on your account," said Mon, quietly, as if he had divined her thoughts. It was unlike Leon, perhaps, to be exercised about anything but his own soul; for he was a very devout man. But Juanita was not likely to pause and reflect on that point.

"Why?" she asked.

"He naturally dislikes the idea of your being dragged into politics,"

answered Mon, gently.

"I? Why should I be dragged into politics?"

Mon made a deprecatory gesture. It seemed that he found himself drawn again to speak of a subject that was distasteful to him. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

"Well," he said, half to himself, "we live in a practical age. Let us be practical. But he would have preferred that you should marry for love.

Come, let us change the subject, my child. How is Sarrion? In good health, I hope."

"It is very kind of Leon to exercise his mind on my account," said Juanita steadily. "But I can manage my own affairs."

"Those are my own words," answered Mon soothingly. "I said to him: 'Juanita is no longer a child; Marcos is honest, he will not have deceived her; he must have told her that such a marriage is a mere question of politics; that there is no thought of love.'"

He glanced sharply at her. It was almost prophetic; for Marcos had used the very words. It is not difficult to be prophetic if one can sink self sufficiently to cloak one's thoughts with the mind of another and thus divine the workings of his brain. Juanita remembered that Marcos had told her that this was a matter of politics. Mon was only guessing; but he guessed right. The greatest men the world has produced only guessed after all; but they did not guess wrong.

"Such a fortune as yours," he said, with an easy laugh, "would make or mar any cause you see. Your fortune is perhaps your misfortune--who knows?"

Juanita laughed also, as at a pleasant conceit. The wit that had baffled Father Muro was ready for Evasio Mon. A woman will take her stand before her own heart and defy the world. Juanita's eyes flashed across the man's gentle face.

"But," she said, "if the fortune is my own; if I prefer that Marcos should have it--to the church?"

Evasio Mon smiled gently.

"Of course," he murmured. "That is what I said to Leon, and to Sor Teresa also, who naturally is troubled about you. Though there are other alternatives. Neither Marcos nor the Church need have it. You could have it yourself as your father, my old and dear friend, intended it."

"How could I have it myself?" asked Juanita, whose curiosity was aroused.

Mon shrugged his shoulders.

"The Pope could annul such a marriage as yours by a stroke of the pen if he wished." He paused, looking at her beneath his light lashes. "And I am told he does wish it. What the Pope wishes--well, one must try to be a good Catholic if one can."

Juanita smiled. She did not perhaps consider herself called upon to admit the infallibility of his Holiness in matters of the heart. She knew better than the Pope. Mon saw that he had struck a false note.

"I am a sentimentalist myself," he said, with a frank laugh. "I should like every girl to marry for love. I should like love to be treated as something sacred--not as a joke. But I am getting to be an old man, Juanita. I am behind the times. Do I hear Sarrion in the pa.s.sage?"

He rose as he spoke and went towards the door. Sarrion came in at that moment. The Spanish sense of hospitality is strongly Arabic. Mon had ridden many miles. Sarrion greeted him almost eagerly.