The Velvet Glove Part 13

Marcos had made a round by the summit of the hill and turning to the right rejoined the high road from the Casa Blanca, crossing the ca.n.a.l again by that bridge and returning to Saragossa by the broad avenue known as the Monte Torrero.

He reined in his horse beneath the lamp that hangs from the trees opposite to the gate of the town called the Puerta de Santa Engracia, and unfolded the note that

Juanita had written to him. It was scribbled in pencil on a half sheet torn from an exercise book.

"Dear Marcos," it said. "Thank you most preposterously for the chocolates. The next time please put in some almonds. Milagros so loves almonds; and I am very fond of Milagros--Your grateful Juanita."

There was a mistake in the spelling.

CHAPTER XI

THE ROYAL ADVENTURE There are halting-places in the lives of most men when for a period the individual desire must give place to some great national need. We each live our little story through, but at times we find ourselves dragged from the narrow way into the great high road, where the history of the world blunders to an end which cannot even yet be dimly discerned.

When Marcos rode into Saragossa after nightfall he found the streets filled by groups of anxious men. The nerves of civilisation were at a great tension at this time. Sedan was past. Paris was already besieged.

All the French-speaking people thought that the end of the world must needs be at hand. The Pope had been deprived of his temporal power. The great foundations of the world seemed to tremble beneath the onward tread of inexorable history.

In Spain itself, no man knew what might happen next. There seemed no depth to which the land of ancient glory might not be doomed to descend.

Cuba was in wild revolt. Thousands of lives had been uselessly thrown away. Already the pride of the proudest nation since Rome, had been humbled by the just interference of the United States. A kingdom without a king, Spain had hawked her crown round Europe. For a throne, as for humbler posts, it is easy enough to find second-rate men who have no special groove, nor any capacity to delve one, but the first-rate men are, one discovers, nearly always occupied elsewhere. They are never waiting for something to turn up.

Spain, with her three crowns in her hand, had called at every Court in Europe. She had thrown two nations into the greatest war of civilised ages. She was still looking for a king, still calling hopelessly to the second-rate royalties. Leopold of Hohenzollern would have accepted had not France arisen to object, only to receive a sound thras.h.i.+ng for her pains. Thus, for the second time in the world's history, Spain was the means of bringing a French empire to the dust.

Ferdinand of Portugal, a cousin to the Queen of England, himself a Coburg, finally declined the honour. And Spain could not wait. There was a certain picturesqueness in Prim, the usual ornamental General through whose hands Spain has pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed during the last century. He was a hard man, and the men of Spain, unlike the French, understand a martinet. But Spain could not wait. She must have a king; for the regency was wearisome. It was weary of itself, like an old man ready to die.

There was no money in the public coffers. The Cortes was a house of words. Here eloquence reigned supreme; and eloquence never yet made an empire.

Half a dozen different parties made speeches at each other, but Spain, owing to a blessed immunity from the cheap newspaper, was spared these speeches. She was told that Castelar was the eloquent orator of the age.

She looked at Castelar, who was a fat little man with a big moustache and a small forehead, and she said: "Let us have a king!"

Prim was better. He was a man at all events, and not a word-spinner. He was from Cataluna, where they make hard men with clear heads. And he knew his own mind. And he also said: "Let us have a king."

One cried for Don Carlos, and another for Espartero. Cataluna said there was no living with Andalusia. Aragon wanted her own king and wished Valencia would go hang. Navarre was all for Don Carlos.

And when Marcos de Sarrion rode into Saragossa they were calling in the streets that only a republic was possible now.

He went home to that grim palace between the Cathedral and the Ebro and found his father gone. A brief note told him that Sarrion had gone to Madrid where a meeting of notables had been hastily summoned--and that he, Marcos, must hurry back to Torre Garda--that the Carlists were up for their king.

Marcos returned the same night to Pampeluna, and the next day rode to Torre Garda by the high road that winds up the valley of the Wolf. In his own small kingdom be soon made his iron hand felt. And these people who would pay no taxes to king or regent remained quiet amid the anarchy that reigned all over Spain.

Thus a week pa.s.sed and rumours of strange doings at Madrid reached the quiet valley. All over the country, bands of malcontents calling themselves Carlists had risen in obedience to the voice of Don Carlos'

grandson, the son of that Don Juan who had renounced a hopeless cause. To meet a soldier with his cap worn right side foremost was for the time unusual in the cities of the north. For the army no longer knew a master; and the Spanish soldier has a nave and simple way of notifying this condition by wearing the peak of his cap behind.

Marcos heard nothing of his father at Madrid, but surmised that there the talkers still held sway. The postal service of Spain is still almost mediaeval. In the princ.i.p.al cities the post-offices are to-day only opened for business during two hours of the twenty-four. In the year of the Franco-Prussian war there was no postal service at all to the disaffected parts of the northern provinces.

At the end of a week, Marcos rose at three o'clock and rode sixty miles before sunset to keep his word with Juanita. He did not trust the railway, which indeed was in constant danger of being cut by Carlist or Royalist, but performed the distance by road where he met many friends from Navarre and one or two from the valley of the Wolf. A thousand reports, a hundred rumours and lies innumerable, were on the roads also, traveling hither and thither over Spain. And Marshall Prim seemed to be the favoured G.o.d of the moment.

Marcos was at his post outside the convent school wall at seven o'clock.

He heard the clock of San Fernando strike eight. In these Southern lat.i.tudes the evenings are not much longer in summer than in winter. It was quite dark by eight o'clock when Marcos rode away. He was not given to a display of emotion. He was an eminently practical man. Juanita would have come if she could, he reflected. Why could she not keep her appointment?

He rode to the main gate and asked if he could see Sor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--for the monastic life was forbidden by law at this time in Spain, and this was no nunnery; though, as in all such places, certain mediaeval follies were carefully fostered.

"Sor Teresa is not here," was the reply through the grating.

"Then where is she?"

But there was no reply to this plain question.

"Has she gone to Pampeluna?"

The little shutter behind the grating was softly closed. And Marcos turned his horse's head with a quiet smile. His face, beneath the shadow of his wide hat, was still and hard. He had ridden sixty miles since morning, but he sat upright in his saddle. This was a man, as Juanita had observed, not to say things, but to do them.

It was not difficult for him to find out during the next few weeks that Juanita had been sent to Pampeluna, whither also Sor Teresa had been commanded to go. Saragossa has a playful way of sacking religious houses, which the older-world city of Navarre would never permit. In Pampeluna the religious habit is still respected, and a friar may carry his shaven head high in the windy streets.

Pampeluna, it was known, might at any moment be in danger of attack, but not of bombardment by the Carlists, who had many friends within the walls. Juanita was as safe perhaps in Pampeluna as anywhere in Northern Spain. So Marcos went back to Torre Garda and held his valley in a quiet grip. The harvests were gathered in, and starvation during the coming winter was, at all events, avoided.

The first snow came and still Marcos had no news of Juanita. He knew, however, that both she and Sor Teresa were still at Pampeluna in the great yellow house in the Calle de la Dormitaleria, nearly opposite the Cathedral gate, from whence there is constant noiseless traffic of sisters and novices hurrying across, with lowered eyes, to the sanctuary, or back to their duties, with the hush of prayer still upon them.

In November Marcos received a letter from his father, sent by hand all the way from the capital. Prim had re-established order, he wrote. There was hope of a settlement of political differences. A king had been found, and if he accepted the crown all might yet go well with Spain.

A week later came the news that Amedeo of Savoy, the younger son of that brave old Victor Emmanuel, who faced the curse of a pope, had been declared King of Spain.

Amedeo of Savoy, Duke of Aosta, was not a second-rate man. He was brave, honest, and a gentleman--qualities to which the throne of Spain had been stranger while the Bourbons sat there.

Sarrion summoned Marcos to Madrid to meet the new king. The wise men of all parties knew that this was the best solution of the hopeless difficulties into which Spain had been thrust by the Bourbons and the tonguesters. A few honest politicians here and there set aside their own interests in the interest of the country, which action is worth recording--for its rarity. But the country in general was gloomy and indifferent. Spain is slow to learn, while France is too quick; and her knowledge is always superficial.

"Give us at all events a Spaniard," muttered those who had cried "Down with liberty," when that arch-scoundrel, Fernando the Desired, returned to his own.

"Give us money and we will give you Don Carlos," returned the ca.s.socked canva.s.sers of that monarch in a whisper.

It was evening when Marcos arrived at Madrid, and the station, like all the trains, was crowded. All who could were traveling to Madrid to meet the king--for one reason or another.

Marcos was surprised to see his father on the platform among those waiting for the train from the capitals of the North.

"Come," said Sarrion, "let us go out by the side door; I have the carriage there, the streets are impa.s.sable. No one knows where to turn.

There is no head in Spain now; they a.s.sa.s.sinated him last night."

"Whom?" asked Marcos.

"Prim. They shot him in his carriage, like a dog in a kennel--five of them--with guns. One has no pride in being a Spaniard now."

Marcos followed his father through the crowd without replying.

There seemed nothing, indeed, to be said; nothing to be added to the simple observation that it was a humiliation for a man to have to admit in these days that he was a Spaniard.

"He was a Catalonian to the last," said Sarrion, when they were seated in their carnage. "He walked dying up his own stairs, so that his wife might be spared the sight of seeing him carried in. Stubborn and brave! One of the best men we have seen."

"And the king?"