Goldsmithing is the art of Valladolid, and Sebastian was its master. That was the opinion of the mystery, and his own opinion. He never concealed it; but he had now to confess that Manvers had given him a task worthy of his powers. To cut out and rivet the links of the chain, which was to sheathe a piece of string and leave it all its pliancy—"I tell you, Don Luis of my soul," he said, peering up from his board, "there is no man in our mystery who could cope with it—and very few frail ladies who could be worthy of it." Don Luis added that there could be few young men who could be capable of commanding it; but Sebastian had now conceived an admiration for his client.
"Fantasia, vaya! The English have the hearts of poets in the bodies of beeves. Did your grace ever hear of Doña Juanita—who in the French war ran half over Andalusia in pursuit of an Englishman? I heard my father tell the tale. Not his person claimed her, but his heart of a poet. Well, he married her, and from camp to camp she trailed after him, while he helped our nation beat Bonaparte. But one day they received the hospitality of a certain hidalgo, and had removed many leagues from him by the next night, when they camped beside a river. Dinner was eaten in the tents, and dessert served up in a fine bowl. 'Sola!' says the Englishman, 'that bowl—it is not ours, my heart?' 'No,' says Juanita, 'it is the hidalgo's, and was packed with our furniture in the hurry of departing.' 'Por dios!' says the Englishman, 'it must be returned to him.' But how? He could not go himself, for at that moment there entered an alguazil with news of the enemy. What then? 'Juanita will go,' says the Englishman, and went out, buckling his sword. Señor Don Luis, she went, on horseback, all those leagues, beset with foes, in the night, and rendered back the bowl. I tell you, the hearts of poets!"
Don Luis, who had been nodding his high approval, now stared. "Ah, que! But the poet was Doña Juanita, it seems to me," he said.
"Pardon me, dear sir, not at all. Our Spanish ladies are not fond of travel. It was the Englishman who inspired her. He was a poet with a vision. In his vision he saw her going. Safely then, he could say, she will go, because he, to whom time was nothing, saw her in the act. He did not give directions—he went out to engage the enemy. Then she went—vaya!"
"You may be sure," Sebastian went on, "that my client is a poet and a fine fellow. You may be sure that the gift of this trifle has touched his heart. It was not given lightly. The measure of his care is the measure of its worth in his eyes."
Don Luis allowed the possibility, by raising his eyebrows and tilting his head sideways; a shrug with an accent, as it were. Then he allowed Sebastian to clinch his argument by saying that the Englishman seemed to be getting the better of his emotion; for here was a week, said he, and he had not once been into the shop to inquire for his relic. Sebastian was down upon the admission. "What did I tell you, my friend? Is not that the precise action of our Englishman who said, 'Juanita will ride,' and went out and left her at the table? Precisely the same! And Juanita rode—and I, by God, have wrought at the work he gave me to do, and finished it. Vaya, Don Luis, it is not amiss."
It had to be confessed that it was not; and Manvers calling one morning later was as warm in his praises as his Spanish and his temperament would admit. He paid the bill without demur.
Sebastian, though he was curious, was discreet. Don Luis, however, thought proper to remark upon the crucifix, when he chanced to meet its owner in the Church of Las Angustias.
That church contains a famous statue of Juan de Juni's, aMater dolorosamost tragic and memorable. Manvers, in his week's prowling of the city, had come upon it by accident, and visited it more than once. She sits, Our Lady of Sorrows, upon a rock, in her widow's weeds, exhibiting a grief so intense that she may well have been made larger than life, in order to support a misery which would crush a mortal woman. It is so fine, this emblem of divine suffering, that it obscures its tawdry surroundings, its pinchbeck tabernacle, gilding and red paint. When she is carried in apaso, as whiles she is, no spangled robe is put over her, no priest's vestment, no crown or veil. Seven swords are driven into her bosom: she is unconscious of them. Her wounds are within; but they call her in Valladolid Señora de los Chuchillos.
It was in the presence of this august mourner that Manvers was found by Don Luis Ramonez after mass. He had been present at the ceremony, but not assisting, and had his crucifix open in the palm of his hand when the other rose from his knees and saw him.
After a moment's hesitation the old gentleman stayed till the worshippers had departed, and then drew near to Manvers, and bowed ceremoniously.
"You will forgive me for remarking upon what you have in your hand, señor caballero," he said, "when I tell you that I was present, not only at the commissioning of the work, but at its daily progress to the perfection it now bears. My friend, Don Sebastian, had every reason to be contented with his masterpiece. I am glad to learn from him that you were no less satisfied."
Manvers, who had immediately shut down his hand, now opened it. "Yes," he said, "it's a beautiful piece of work. I am more than pleased."
"It is a setting," said Don Luis, "which, in this country, we should give to a relic of the True Cross."
Manvers looked quickly up. "I know, I know. It must seem to you a piece of extravagance on my part——; but there were reasons, good reasons. I could hardly have done less."
Don Luis bowed gravely, but said nothing. Manvers felt impelled to further discussion. Had he been a Spaniard he would have left the matter where it was; but he was not, so he went awkwardly on.
"It's a queer story. For some reason or another I don't care to speak of it. The person who gave me this trinket did me—or intended me—an immense service, at a great cost."
"She too," said Don Luis, looking at the Dolorosa, "may have had her reasons."
"It was a woman," said Manvers, with quickening colour, "I see no harm in saying so. I was going to tell you that she believed herself indebted to me for some trifling attention I had been able to show her previously. That is how I explain her giving me the crucifix. It was her way of thanking me—a pretty way. I was touched."
Don Luis waved his hand. "It is very evident, señor caballero. Your way of recording it is exemplary: her way, perhaps, was no less so."
"You will think me of a sentimental race," Manvers laughed, "and I won't deny it—but it's a fact that I was touched."
Don Luis, who, throughout the conversation, had been turning the crucifix about, now examined the inscription. He held it up to the light that he might see it better. Manvers observed him, but did not take the hint which was thus, rather bluntly, conveyed him. The case once more in his breast-pocket, he saluted Don Luis and went his way.
Shortly afterwards he left Valladolid on horseback.
Perhaps a week went by, perhaps ten days; and then Don Luis had a visitor one night in the Café de la Luna, a mean-looking, pale and harassed visitor with a close-cropped head, whose eyebrows flickered like summer fires in the sky, who would not sit down, who kept his felt hat rolled in his hands, whose deference was extreme, and accepted as a matter of course. He was known in Valladolid, it seemed. Pepe knew him, called him Tormillo.
"A sus piés," was the burthen of his news so far, "a los piés de Vd, Señor Don Luis."
Don Luis took no sort of notice of him, but continued to smoke his cigarette. He allowed the man to stand shuffling about for some three minutes before he asked him what he wanted.
That was exactly what Tormillo found it so difficult to explain. His eyebrows ran up to hide in his hair, his hands crushed his hat into his chest. "Quien sabe?" he gasped to the company, and Don Luis drained his glass.
Then he looked at the man. "Well, Tormillo?"
Tormillo shifted his feet. "Ha!" he gasped, "who knows what the señores may be pleased to say? How am I to know? They ask for an interview, a short interview in the light of the moon. Two caballeros in the Campo Grande—ready to oblige your Excellency."
"And who, pray, are these caballeros? And why do they stand in the Campo?" Don Luis asked in his grandest manner. Tormillo wheedled in his explanations.
"That which they have to report, Señor Don Luis," he began, craning forward, whispering, grinning his extreme goodwill—"Oho! it is not matter for the Café. It is matter for the moon, and the shade of trees. And these caballeros——"
Don Luis paid the hovering Pepe his shot, rose and threw his cloak over his shoulder. "Follow me," he said, and, saluting the company, walked into theplaza. He crossed it, and entered a narrow street, where the overhanging houses make a perpetual shade. There he stopped. "Who are these gentlemen?" he said abruptly. Tormillo seemed to be swimming.
"Worthy men, Señor Don Luis, worthy of confidence. To me they said little; it is for your grace's ear. They have titles. They are written across their foreheads. It is not for me to speak. Who am I, Tormillo, but the slave of your nobility?"
The more he prevaricated, the less Don Luis pursued him. Stiffening his neck, shrouded in, his cloak, he now stalked stately from street to street until he came to the Puerta del Carmen, through the battlements of which the moon could be seen looking coldly upon Valladolid. He was known to the gatekeeper, who bowed, and opened for him the wicket.
The great space of the Campo Grande lay like a silver pool, traversed only by the thin shadows of the trees. At the farther end of the avenue, which leads directly from the gate, two men were standing close together. Beyond them a little were two horses, one snuffing at the bare earth, the other with his head thrown up, and ears pricked forward. Don Luis turned sharply on his follower.
"Guardia Civil?"
"Si, señor, si," whispered Tormillo, and his teeth clattered like castanets. Don Luis went on without faltering, and did not stay until he was within easy talking distance of the two men. Then it was that he threw up his head, with a fine gesture of race, and acknowledged the saluting pair. Tormillo, at this point, turned aside and stood miserably under a tree, wringing his hands.
"Good evening to you, friends. I am Don Luis Ramonez, at your service."
The pair looked at each other: presently one of them spoke.
"At the feet of Señor Don Luis."
"Your business is pressing, and secret?"
"Si, Señor Don Luis, pressing, and secret, and serious. We have to ask your grace to be prepared."
"I thank you. My preparations are made already. Present your report."
He took a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with a steady hand. The flame of the match showed his brows and deep-set eyes. If ever a man had acquaintance with grief printed upon him, it was he. But throughout the interview the glowing weed could be seen, a waxing and waning rim of fire, lighting up his grey moustache and then hovering in mid-air, motionless.
The officer appointed to speak presented his report in these terms.
"We were upon our round about the wood of La Huerca six days ago, and had occasion to visit the Convent of La Peña. Upon information received from the Prior we questioned a certain religious, who admitted that he had recently buried a man in the wood. After some hesitation, which we had the means of overcoming, he conducted us to the grave. We disinterred the deceased, who had been murdered. Señor Don Luis——"
"Proceed," said Don Luis coldly. "I am listening."
"Sir," said the officer. "It was the body of a young man who had come from Pobledo. He called himself Estéban Vincaz." Tormillo, under his tree across the avenue, howled and rent himself. Don Luis heard him.
"Precisely," he said to the officer. "Have the goodness to wait while I silence that dog over there." He went rapidly over the roadway to Tormillo, grasped him by the shoulder and spoke to him in a vehement whisper. That was the single action by which he betrayed himself. He returned to his interview.
"I am now at leisure again. Let us resume our conversation. You questioned the religious, you say? When did the assassination take place?"
"Don Luis, it was upon the twelfth of May."
"Ah," said Don Luis, "the twelfth of May? And did he know who committed it?"
"Señor Don Luis, it was a woman."
The wasted eyes were upon the speaker, and made him nervous. He turned away his head. But Don Luis continued his cross-examination.
"She was a fair woman, I believe? A Valencian?"
"Señor, si," said the man. "Fair and false, a Valencian."
Of Valencia they say, "La carne es herba, la herba agua, el hombre muger, la muger nada."
"Her name," said Don Luis, "began with M."
"Señor, si. It was Manuela, the dancing girl—called La Valenciana, La Fierita, and a dozen other things. But, pardon me the liberty, your worship had been informed?"
"I knew something," said Don Luis, "and suspected something. I am much obliged to you, my friends. Justice will be done. Good night to you." He turned, touching the brim of his hat; but the man went after him.
"A thousand pardons, señor Don Luis, but we have our duty to the State."
"Eh!" said Don Luis sharply. "Well, then, you had best set to work upon it."
"If your worship has any knowledge of the whereabouts of this woman——"
"I have none," said Don Luis. "If I had I would impart it, and when I have it shall be yours. Go now with God."
He crossed the pathway of light, laid his hand on the shoulder of the weeping Tormillo. "Come, I need you," he said. Tormillo crept after him to his lodging, and the Guardias Civiles made themselves cigarettes.
The following day a miracle was reported in Valladolid. Don Luis Ramonez was not in his place in the Café de la Luna. Sebastian the goldsmith, Gomez the pert barber, Pepe the waiter, Micael the water-seller of the Plaza Mayor knew nothing of his whereabouts. The old priest of Las Angustias might have told if his lips had not been sealed. But in the course of the next morning it was noised about that his Worship had left the city for Madrid, accompanied by a servant.
Before he left Valladolid Manvers had sold his horse for what he could get, and had taken thediligenciaas far as Segovia. Not a restful conveyance, thediligenciaof Spain: therefore, in that wonderful city of towers, silence, and guarded windows, he stayed a full week, in order, as he put it, that his bones might have time to set.
The towers of Segovia.The towers of Segovia.
The towers of Segovia.The towers of Segovia.
There it was that he became the property of Gil Perez, who met him one day on the doorstep of his hotel, saluted him with a flourish and said in dashing English, "Good morning, Mister. I am the man for you. I espeak English very good, Dutch, what you like. I show you my city; you pleased—eh?" He had a merry brown face, half of a quiz and half of a rogue, was well-dressed in black, wore his hat, which was now in his hand, rather over one ear. Manvers met his saucy eyes for a minute, saw anxiety behind their impudence, could not be angry, burst into a laugh, and was heartily joined by Gil Perez.
"That very good," said Gil. "You laugh, I very glad. That tell me is all right." He immediately became serious. "I serve you well, sir, there's no mistake. I am Gil Perez, too well known to the landlord of this hotel. You see?" He showed his teeth, which were excellent, and he had also, Manvers reflected, shown his hand, for what it was worth—which argued a certain security.
"Gil Perez," he said, on an impulse, "I shall take you at your word. Do you wait where you are." He turned back into the inn and sought his landlord, who was smoking a cigar in the kitchen while the maids bustled about. From him he learned what there was to be known of Gil Perez; that he was a native of Cadiz who had been valet to an English officer at Gibraltar, followed him out to the Crimea, nursed him through dysentery (of which he had died), and had then begged his way home again to Spain. He had been in Segovia a year or two, acting as guide or interpreter when he could, living on nothing a day mostly and doing pretty well on it.
"He has been in prison, I shall not conceal from your honour," said the landlord. "He stabbed a man under the ribs because he had insulted the English. Gil Perez loves your nation. He considers you to be the natural protectors of the poor. He will serve you well, you may be sure."
"That's what he told me himself," said Manvers.
The landlord rested his eyes—large, brown and solemn as those of an ox—upon his guest. "He told you the truth, señor. He will serve you better than he would serve me. You will be his god."
"I hope not," said Manvers, and went out to the door again. Gil Perez, who had been smoking out in the sun, threw hispapelitoaway, stood at attention and saluted smartly.
"What was the name of your English master?" Manvers asked him. Gil replied at once.
"'E call Capitan Rodney. Royalorse Artillery. 'E say 'Gunner.' 'E was a gentleman, sir."
"I'm sure he was," said Manvers.
"My master espeak very good Espanish. 'E say 'damn your eyes' all the time; and call me 'Little devil' just the same. Ah," said Gil Perez, shaking his head. "'E very good gentleman to me, sir—good master. I loved 'im. 'E dead." For a minute he gazed wistfully at the sky; then, as if to clinch the sad matter, he turned to Manvers. "I bury 'im all right," he said briskly, and nodded inward the fact.
Manvers considered for a moment. "I'll give you," he said, and looked at Gil keenly as he said it, "I'll give you onepesetaa day." He saw his eyes fade and grow blank, though the genial smile hovered still on his lips. Then the light broke out upon him again.
"All right, sir," he said. "I take, and thank you very much."
Manvers said immediately, "I'll give you two," and Gil Perez accepted the correction silently, with a bow. By the end of the day they were on the footing of friends, but not without one short crossing of swords. After dinner, when Manvers strolled to the door of the inn, he found his guide waiting for him. Gil was in a confidential humour, it seemed.
"You care see something, sir?"
"What sort of a thing, for instance?" he was asked.
Gil Perez shrugged. "What you like, sir." He peered into his patron's face, and there was infinite suggestion in his next question. "You see fine women?"
Manvers had expected something of the sort and had a steely stare ready for him. "No, thanks," he said drily, and Gil saluted and withdrew. He was at the door next morning, affable yet respectful, confident in his powers of pleasing, of interesting, of arranging everything; but he never presumed again. He knew his affair.
Three days' sightseeing taught master and man their bearings. Manvers got into the way of forgetting that Gil Perez was there, except when it was convenient to remember him; Gil, on his part, learned to distinguish between his patron's soliloquies and his conversation. He never made a mistake after the third day. If Manvers, in the course of a ramble, stopped abruptly, buried a hand in his beard and said aloud that he would be shot if he knew which way to turn, Gil Perez watched him closely, but made no remark.
Even, "Look here, you know, this won't do," failed to move him beyond a state of tension, like that of a cat in the act to pounce. He had found out that Manvers talked to himself, and was put about by interruptions; and if you realise how sure and certain he was that he knew much better than his master what was the very thing, or the last thing, he ought to do, you will see that he must have put considerable restraint upon himself.
But loyalty was his supreme virtue. From the moment Manvers had taken him on at two pesetas a day he became the perfect servant of a perfect master. He could have no doubt, naturally, of his ability to serve—his belief in himself never wavered; but he had none either in his gentleman's right to command. I believe if Manvers had desired him to cut off his right hand he would have complied with a smile. "Very good, master. You wanta my 'and? I do."
If he had a failing it was this: nothing on earth would induce him to talk his own language to his master. He was unmoved by encouragement, unconvinced by the fluency of Manvers' Castilian periods; he would have risked his place upon this one point of honour.
"Espanish no good, sir, for you an' me," he said once with an irresistible smile. "Too damsilly for you. Capitan Rodney, 'e teach, me Englisha speech. Now I know it too much. No, sir. You know what they say—themfilosofistas?" he asked him on another encounter. "They say, God Almighty 'e maka this world in Latin—ver' fine for thata big job. Whata come next? Adamo 'e love his lady in Espanish—esplendid for maka women love. That old Snaka 'e speak to 'er in French—that persuade 'er too much. Then Eva she esplain in Italian—ver' soft espeech. Adamo 'e say, That all righta. Then God Almighty ver' savage. 'E turn roun' on them two. 'E say, That be blowed, 'e say in English. They understan' 'im too much. Believe me—is the best for you an' me, sir. All people understan' that espeech."
Taken as a guide, he installed himself as body servant, silently, tactfully, but infallibly. Manvers caught him one morning putting boots by his door. "Hulloa, Gil Perez," he called out, "what are you doing with my boots?"
Gil's confidential manner was a thing to drink. "Thatmozo, master—'e fool. 'E no maka shine. I show him how Capitan Rodney lika 'is boots. See 'is a face in 'em." He smirked at his own as he spoke, and was so pleased that Manvers said no more.
The same night he stood behind his master's chair. Manvers contented himself by staring at him. Gil Perez smiled with his bright eyes and became exceedingly busy. Manvers continued to stare, and presently Gil Perez was observed to be sweating. The poor fellow was self-conscious for once in his life. Obliged to justify himself, he leaned to his master's ear.
"Thatmozo, sir, too much of a dam fool. Imposs' you estand 'im. I tell 'im, This gentleman no like garlic down his neck. I say, You breathe too 'ard, my fellow—too much garlic. This gentleman say, Crikey, what a stink! That no good."
There was no comparison between the new service and the old; and so it was throughout. Gil Perez drove out the chambermaid and made Manvers' bed; he brushed his clothes as well as his boots, changed his linen for him, saw to the wash—in fine, he made himself indispensable. But when Manvers announced his coming departure, there was a short tussle, preceded by a pause for breath.
Gil Perez inquired of the sky, searched up the street, searched down. A group of brown urchins hovered, as always, about the stranger, ready to risk any deadly sin for the chance of a maravedi or the stump of a cigar.
Gil snatched at one by the bare shoulder and spoke him burning words. "Canalla," he cried him, "horrible flea! Thou makest the air to reek—impossible to breathe. Fly, thou gnat of the midden, or I crack thee on my thumb."
The boys retired swearing, and Gil, with desperate calling-up of reserves, faced his ordeal. "Ver' good, master, we go when you like. We see Escorial—fine place—see La Granja, come by Madrid thata way. I get 'orses 'ow you please." Then he had an inspiration, and beamed all over his face. "Or mules! We 'ave mules. Mules cheap, 'orses dear too much in Segovia."
Manvers could see very well what he was driving at. "I think I'll take thediligencia, Gil Perez."
Gil shrugged. "'Ow you like, master. Fine air, thata way. Ver' cheap way to go. You take my advice, you gocoupé. I goredondamore cheap. Give me your passport, master—I take our place."
"Yes, I know," said Manvers. "But I'm not sure that I need take you on with me. I travel without a servant mostly."
Gil grappled with his task. He dropped his air of assumption; his eyes glittered.
"I save you money, master. You find me good servant—make a difference, yes?"
"Oh, a great deal of difference," Manvers admitted. "I like you; you suit me excellently well, but——" He considered what he had to do in Madrid, and frowned over it. Manuela was there, and he wished to see Manuela. He had not calculated upon having a servant when he had promised himself another interview with her, and was not at all sure that he wanted one. On the other hand, Gil might be useful in a number of ways—and his discretion and tact were proved. While he hesitated, Gil Perez saw his opportunity and darted in.
"I know Madrid too much," he said. "All the ways, all the peoples I know. Imposs' you live 'appy in Madrid withouta me." He smiled all over his face—and when he did that he was irresistible. "You try," he concluded, just like a child.
Manvers, on an impulse, drew from his pocket the gold-set crucifix. "Look at that, Gil Perez," he said, and put it in his hands.
Gil looked gravely at it, hack and front. He nodded his approval. "Pretty thing——" and he decided off-hand. "In Valladolid they make."
"Open it," said Manvers; but it was opened, before he had spoken. Gil's eyes widened, while the pupils of them contracted intensely. He read the inscription, pondered it; to the crucifix itself he gave but a momentary glance. Then he shut the case and handed it back to his master.
"I find 'er for you," he said soberly; and that settled it.
Gil Perez had listened gravely to the tale which his master told him. He nodded once or twice, and asked a few questions in the course of the narrative—questions of which Manvers could not immediately see the bearing. One was concerned with her appearance. Did she wear rings in her ears? He had to confess that he had not observed. Another was interjected when he described how she had grown stiff under his arm when Estéban drew alongside.
Gil had nodded rapidly, and became impatient as Manvers insisted on the fact. "Of course, of course!" he had said, and then he asked, Did she stiffen her arm and point the first and last fingers of it, keeping the middle pair clenched?
Manvers understood him, and replied that he had not noticed any such thing, but that he did not believe she feared the Evil Eye. He went on with his story uninterrupted until the climax. He had found the crucifix, he said, on his return from bathing, and had been pleased with her for leaving it. Then he related the discovery of the body and his talk with Fray Juan de la Cruz. Here came in Gil's third question. "Did she return your handkerchief?" he asked—and sharply.
Manvers started. "By George, she never did!" he exclaimed. "And I don't wonder at it," he said on reflection. "If she had to knife that fellow, and confess to Fray Juan, and escape for her life, she had enough to do. Of course, she may have left it in the wood."
Gil Perez pressed his lips together. "She got it still," he said. "We find 'er—I know where to look for it."
If he did he kept his knowledge to himself, though he spoke freely enough of Manuela on the way to Madrid.
"This Manuela," he explained, "is a Valenciana—where you find fair women with black men. Valencianos like Moors—love too much white women. I think Manuela is not Gitanilla; she is what you call a Alfanalf. Then she is like the Gitanas, as proud as a fire, but all the same a Christian—make free with herself. A Gitana never dare love Christian man—imposs' she do that. Sometimes all the same she do it. I think Manuela made like that."
Committed to the statement, he presently saw a cheerful solution of it. "Soon see!" he added, and considered other problems. "That dead man follow Manuela to kill 'er," he decided. "When 'e find 'er with you, master, 'e say, 'Now I know why you run,hija de perra. Now I kill two and get a 'orse.' You see?"
"Yes," said Manvers, "I see that. And you think that he told her what he meant to do?"
"Of course 'e tell," said Gil Perez with scorn. "Make it too bad for 'er. Make 'er feel sick."
"Brute!" cried Manvers; but Gil went blandly on.
"'E 'ate 'er so much that 'e feel 'ungry and thirsty. 'E eat before 'e kill. Must do it—too 'ungry. Then she go near 'im, twisting 'erself about—showing 'erself to please him. 'You kiss me, my 'eart,' she say; 'I love you all the same. Kiss me—then you kill.' 'E look at 'er—she very fine girl—give pleasure to see. 'E think, 'I love 'er first—strangle after'—and go on looking. She 'old 'im fast and drag down 'is 'ead—all the time she know where 'e keepnavaja. She cling and kiss—then nip outnavaja, andclick! 'E dead man." Enthusiasm burned in his black eyes, he stood cheering in his stirrups. "Señor Don Dios! that very fine! I give twenty dollars to see 'er make 'im love."
Manvers for his part, grew the colder as his man waxed warm. He was clear, however, that he must find the girl and protect her from any trouble that might ensue. She had put herself within the law to save him from the knife; she must certainly be defended from the perils of the law.
From what he could learn of Spanish justice that meant money and influence. These she should have; but there should be no more pastorals. Her kisses had been sweet, the aftertaste was sour in the mouth. Gil Perez with his eloquence and dramatic fire had cured him of hankering after more of them. The girl was a rip, and there was an end of it.
He did not blame himself in the least for having kissed a rip—once. There was nothing in that. But he had kissed her twice—and that second kiss had given significance to the first. To think of it made him sore all over; it implied a tender relation, it made him seem the girl's lover. Why, it almost justified that sick-faced, grinning rascal, whose staring eyes had shocked him out of his senses. And what a damned fool he had made of himself with the crucifix! He ground his teeth together as he cursed himself for a sentimental idiot.
For the rest of the way it was Gil Perez who cried up the quest—until he was curtly told by his master to talk about something else; and then Gil could have bitten his tongue off for saying a word too much.
A couple of days at the Escorial, with nothing of Manuela to interfere, served Manvers to recover his tone. Before he was in the capital he was again that good and happy traveller, to whom all things come well in their seasons, to whom the seasons of all things are the seasons at which they come. He liked the bustle and flaunt of Madrid, he liked its brazen front, its crowdedcarreras, and appetite for shows. There was hardly a day when the windows of the Puerta del Sol had not carpets on their balconies. Files of halberdiers went daily to and from the Palace and the Atocha, escorting some gilded, swinging coach; and every time the Madrileños serried and craned their heads. "Viva Isabella!" "Abajo Don Carlos!" or sometimes the other way about, the cries went up. Politics buzzed all about the square in the mornings; evening brimmed the cafés.
Manvers resumed his soul, became again the amused observer. Gil Perez bided his time, and contented himself with being the perfect body-servant, which he undoubtedly was.
On the first Sunday after arrival, without any order, he laid before his master a ticket for thecorrida, such a one as comported with his dignity; but not until he was sure of his ground did he presume to discuss the gory spectacle. Then, at dinner, he discovered that Manvers had been more interested in the spectators than the fray, and allowed himself free discourse. The Queen and the Court, thealcaldéand the Prime Minister, themanolosandmanolas—he had plenty to say, and to leave unsaid. He just glanced at the performers—impossible to omit theespada—Corchuelo, the first in Spain. But the fastidious in Manvers was awake and edgy. He had not liked the bull-fight; so Gil Perez kept out of the arena. "I see one very grand old gentleman there, master," was one of his chance casts. "You see 'im? 'E grandee of Espain, too much poor, proud all the same. Put 'is 'at on so soon the Queen come in—Don Luis Ramonez de Alavia."
"Who's he?" asked Manvers.
"Great gentleman of Valladolid," said Gil Perez. "Grandee of Espain—no money—only pride." He did not add, as he might, that he had seen Manuela, or was pretty sure that he had. That was delicate ground.
But Manvers, who had forgotten all about her, went cheerfully his ways, and amused himself in his desultory fashion. After the close-pent streets of Segovia, where the wayfarer seems throttled by the houses, and one looks up for light and pants towards the stars and the air, he was pleased by the breadth of Madrid. The Puerto del Sol was magnificent—like a lake; the Alcalá and San Geronimo were noble rivers, feeding it. He liked them at dawn when the hose-pipe had been newly at work and these great spaces of emptiness lay gleaming in the mild sunlight, exhaling freshness like that of dewy lawns. When, under the glare of noon, they lay slumbrous, they were impressive by their prodigality of width and scope; in the bustle and hum of dusk, with the cafés filling, and spilling over on to the pavements, he could not tire of them; but at night, the mystery of their magic enthralled him. How could one sleep in such a city? The Puerto del Sol was then a sea of dark fringed with shores of bright light. The two huge feeders of it—with what argosies they teemed! Shrouded craft!
Madrid by night.Madrid by night.
Madrid by night.Madrid by night.
That touch of the East, which you can never miss in Spain, wherever you may be, was unmistakable in Madrid, in spite of Court and commerce, in spite of newspaper, Stock Exchange, or Cortes. The cloaked figures moved silently, swiftly, seldom in pairs, without speech, with footfall scarcely audible. Now and again Manvers heard the throb of a guitar, now and again, with sudden clamour, the clack of castanets. But such noises stopped on the instant, and the traffic was resumed—whatever it was—secret, swift, impenetrable business.
For the most part this traffic of the night was conducted by men—young or old, as may be. Thecapahid them all, kept their semblance as secret as their affairs. Here and there, but rarely, walked a woman, superbly, as Spanish women will, with a self-sufficiency almost arrogantly strong, robed in white, hooded with a white veil. The mantilla came streaming from the comb, swathed her pale cheeks and enhanced her lustrous eyes; but from top to toe she was (whatever else; she may have been, and it was not difficult to guess) in white.
Manvers watched them pass and repass; at a distance they looked like moths, but close at hand showed the carriage and intolerance of queens. They looked at him fairly as they passed, unashamed and unconcerned. Their eyes asked nothing from him, their lips wooed him not. There was none of the invitation such women extend elsewhere; far otherwise, it was the men who craved, the women who dispensed. When they listened it was as to a petitioner on his knees, when they gave it was like an alms. Imperious, free-moving, high-headed creatures, they interested him deeply.
It was true, as Gil Perez was quick to see, that at his first bull-fight Manvers had been unmoved by the actors, but stirred to the deeps by the spectators; if he had cared to see another it would have been to explore the secrets of this wonderful people, who could become animals without ceasing to be men and women. But why jostle on a bench, why endure the dust and glare of acorridawhen you can see what Madrid can show you: the women by the Manzanares, or the nightly dramas of the streets?
Love in Spain, he began to learn, is a terrible thing; a grim tussle of wills, a matter of life and death, of meat and drink. He saw lovers, still as death, with upturned faces, tense and white, eating the iron of guarded balconies. Hour by hour they would stand there, waiting, watching, hoping on. No one interfered, no one remarked them. He heard a woman wail for her lover—wail and rock herself about, careless of who saw or heard her, and indeed neither seen nor heard. Once he saw a couple close together, vehement speech between them. A lovers' quarrel, terrible affair! The words seemed to scald. The man had had his say, and now it was her turn. He listened to her, touched but not persuaded—had his reasons, no doubt. But she! Manvers had not believed the heart of a girl could hold such a gamut of emotions. She was young, slim, very pale; her face was as white as her robe. But her eyes were like burning lakes; and her voice, hoarse though she had made herself, had a cry in it as sharp as a violin's, to out the very soul of you. She spoke with her hands too, with her shoulders and bosom, with her head and stamping foot. She never faltered though she ran from scorn of him to deep scorn of herself, and appealed in turn to his pride, his pity, his honour and his lust. She had no reticence, set no bounds: she was everything, or nothing; he was a god, or dirt of the kennel. In the end—and what a climax!—she stopped in the middle of a sentence, covered her eyes, sobbed, gave a broken cry, turned and fled away.
The man, left alone, spread his arms out, and lifted his face to the sky, as if appealing for the compassion of Heaven. Manvers could see by the light of a lamp which fell upon him that there were tears in his eyes. He was pitying himself deeply. "Señor Jesu, have pity!" Manvers heard him saying. "What could I do? Woe upon me, what could I do?"
To him there, as he stood wavering, returned suddenly the girl. As swiftly as she had gone she came back, like a white squall. "Ah, son of a thief? Ah, son of a dog!" and she struck him down with a knife over the shoulder-blade. He gasped, groaned, and dropped; and she was upon his breast in a minute, moaning her pity and love. She stroked his face, crooned over him, lavished the loveliest vocables of her tongue upon his worthless carcase, and won him by the very excess of her passion. The fallen man turned in her arms, and met her lips with his.
Manvers, shaking with excitement, left them. Here again was a Manuela! Manuela, her burnt face on fire, her eyes blown fierce by rage, her tawny hair streaming in the wind; Manuela with a knife, hacking the life out of Estéban, came vividly before him. Ah, those soft lips of hers could bare the teeth; within an hour of his kissing her she must have bared them, when she snarled on that other. And her eyes which had peered into his, to see if liking were there—how had they gleamed. upon the man she slew? Her sleekness then was that of the cat; but she had had no claws for him.
Why had she left him her crucifix? After all, had she murdered the fellow, or protected herself? She told the monk that she had been driven into a corner—to save Manvers and herself. Was he to believe that—or his own eyes? His eyes had just seen a Spanish girl with her lover, and his judgment was warped. Manuela might be of that sort—she had not been so to him. Nor could she ever be so, since there was no question of love between them now, and never could be.
"Come now," thus he reasoned with himself. "Come now, let us be reasonable." He had pulled her out of a scuffle and she had been grateful; she was pretty, he had kissed her. She was grateful, and had knifed a man who meant him mischief—and she had left him a crucifix.
Gratitude again. What had her gipsy skin and red kerchief to do with her heart and conscience? "Beware, my son, of the pathetic fallacy," he told himself, and as he turned into the carrera San Geronimo, beheld Manuela robed in white pass along the street.
He knew her immediately, though her face had but flashed upon him, and there was not a stitch upon her to remind him of the ragged creature of the plain. A white mantilla covered her hair, a white gown hid her to the ankles. He had a glimpse of a white stocking, and remarked her high-heeled white slippers. Startling transformation! But she walked like a free-moving creature of the open, and breasted the hot night as if she had been speeding through a woodland way. That was Manuela, who had lulled a man to save him.
After a moment or so of hesitation he followed her, keeping his distance. She walked steadily up thecarrera, looking neither to right nor to left. Many remarked her, some tried to stop her. A soldier followed her pertinaciously, till presently she turned upon him in splendid rage and bade him be off.
Manvers praised her for that, and, quickening, gained upon her. She turned up a narrow street on the right. It was empty. Manvers, gaining rapidly, drew up level. They were now walking abreast, with only the street-way between them; but she kept a rigid profile to him—as severe, as proud and fine as the Arethusa's on a coin of Syracuse. The resemblance was striking; straight nose, short lip, rounded chin; the strong throat; unwinking eyes looking straight before her; and adding to these beauties of contour her splendid colouring, and carriage of a young goddess, it is not too much to say that Manvers was dazzled.
It is true; he was confounded by the excess of her beauty and by his knowledge of her condition. His experiences of life and cities could give him no parallel; but they could and did give him a dangerous sense of power. This glowing, salient creature was for him, if he would. One word, and she was at his feet.
For a moment, as he walked nearly abreast of her, he was ready to throw everything that was natural to him to the winds. She stirred a depth in him which he had known nothing of. He felt himself trembling all over—but while he hesitated a quick step behind caused him to look round. He saw a man following Manuela, and presently knew that it was Gil Perez.
And Gil, with none of his own caution, walked on her side of the street and, overtaking her, took off his hat and accosted her by some name which caused her to turn like a beast at bay. Nothing abashed, Gil asked her a question which clapped a hand to her side and sent her cowering to the wall. She leaned panting there while he talked rapidly, explaining with suavity and point. It was very interesting to Manvers to watch these two together, to see, for instance, how Gil Perez comported himself out of his master's presence; or how Manuela dealt with one of her own nation. They became strangers to him, people he had never known. He felt a foreigner indeed.
The greatest courtesy was observed, the most exact distance. Gil Perez kept his hat in his hand, his body at a deferential angle. His weaving hands were never still. Manuela, her first act of royal rage ended, held herself superbly. Her eyes were half closed, her lips tightly so; and she so contrived as to get the effect of looking down upon him from a height. Manvers imagined that his name or person was being brought into play, for once Manuela looked at her companion and bowed her head gravely. Gil Perez ran on with his explanations, and apparently convinced her judgment, for she seemed to consent to something which he asked of her; and presently walked on her way with a high head, while Gil Perez, still holding his hat, and still explaining, walked with her, but a little way behind her.
A cooling experience. Manvers strolled back to his hotel and his bed, with his unsuspected nature deeply hidden again out of sight. He wondered whether Gil Perez would have anything to tell him in the morning, or whether, on the other hand, he would be discreetly silent as to the adventure. He wondered next where that adventure would end. He had no reason to suppose his servant a man of refined sensibilities. Remembering his eloquence on the road to Madrid, the paean he blew upon the fairness of Valencian women, he laughed. "Here's a muddy wash upon my blood-boltered pastoral," he said aloud. "Here's an end of my knight-errantry indeed!"
There was nearly an end of him—for almost at the same moment he was conscious of a light step behind him and of a sharp stinging pain and a blow in the back. He turned wildly round and struck out with his stick. A man, doubled in two, ran like a hare down the empty street and vanished into the dark. Manvers, feeling sick and faint, leaned to recover himself against a doorway, and probably fell; for when he came to himself he was in his bed in the hotel, with Gil Perez and a grave gentleman in black standing beside him.