The Velvet Glove Part 31

"Lie still," she said. "Why do you want to see him? Is it about the war?"

"Yes."

Juanita reflected for a moment.

"Then you had better see him," she said conclusively. "I will go and fetch him."

She went to the window and pa.s.sed out on to the balcony. Sarrion had, in obedience to her wishes, gone to his room. He was now sitting on a long chair on the balcony, apparently watching the dawn.

"Of what are you thinking as you sit there watching the new light in the mountains?" she asked gaily.

He looked at her with a softness in the eyes which usually expressed a tolerant cynicism.

"Of you," he answered. "I heard the murmur of your voices. You need not tell me that he has recovered consciousness."

"He wants to see you," she said. "I think he was surprised not to see you--to see only me--when he regained his senses."

There was the faintest suspicion of resentment in her voice.

"But I thought that the apothecary said that he was to be kept absolutely quiet," said Sarrion, rising.

"So he did. But he is only a man, you know, just like you and Marcos--and he doesn't understand."

"Oh!" said Sarrion meekly, as he followed her. She led the way into Marcos' room. She was as fresh and rosy as the morning itself, with the delicate pink and white of the convent still in her cheeks. It was on Sarrion's face that the night's work had left its mark.

"Here he is," she said. "He was not asleep. Is it a secret? I suppose it is--you have so many, you two."

She laughed, and looked from one to the other. But neither answered her.

"Shall I go away, Marcos?" she asked abruptly, turning towards the bed, as if she knew at all events that from him she would get a plain answer.

And it came, uncompromisingly.

"Yes," he said.

She went to the door with a curt laugh and closed it behind her, with decision. Sarrion looked after her with a sudden frown. He looked for an instant as if he were about to suggest that Marcos might have made a different reply, and then decided to hold his peace. He was perhaps wise in his generation. Politeness never yet won a woman's love.

Marcos had noted Juanita's lightness of heart. On recovering his senses the first use he had made of them was to observe her every glance and silence. There was no sign of present anxiety or of great emotion. The incident of the ring had no other meaning therefore, than a girlish love of novelty or a taste not hitherto made manifest, for personal ornament.

It might have deceived any one less observant than Marcos; less in the habit of watching Nature and dumb animals. He was patient, however, and industrious in the collection of evidence against himself. And she had startled him by saying that she was grown-up; though he perceived soon after, that it was only a manner of speaking; for she was still careless and happy, without a thought of the future, as children are.

These things, however, he kept to himself. He had not sent for his father to talk to him of Juanita. Men never discuss a woman in whom they are really interested, though fools do.

"That horse didn't fall," said Marcos to his father. "He was thrown.

There was a wire across the road."

"There was none when I got there," replied Sarrion.

"Then it had been removed. I saw it as we fell. My foot caught in it or I could have thrown myself clear in the usual way."

Sarrion reflected a moment.

"Let me look at the note that Zeneta wrote you," he said.

"You will find it in my pocket, hanging behind the door. I was a fool. I was in too great a hurry. Now that I think of it, Zeneta would not have written a note like that."

"Then he never wrote it at all," said Sarrion, who had found the paper and was reading it near the window. The clear morning light brought out the wrinkles and the crow's-feet with inexorable distinctness on his keen narrow face.

"What does it mean?" he asked at length, folding the letter and replacing it in the pocket from which he had taken it.

Marcos roused himself with an effort. He was sleepy.

"I think it means that Evasio Mon is about," he answered.

"No man in the valley would have done it," suggested Sarrion.

"If any man in the valley had done it he would have put his knife into me when I lay on the road, which would have been murder."

He gave a short laugh and was silent.

"And the hand inside the velvet glove does not risk murder," reflected Sarrion, "They have not given up the game yet. We must be careful of ourselves."

"And of Juanita."

"I count her as one of ourselves," replied Sarrion quickly, for he heard her voice in the pa.s.sage. With a brief tap on the door she came in. She was struggling with Perro.

"You have had long enough for your secrets," she said. "And now Marcos must go to sleep. I have brought Perro to see him. He is so uneasy in his canine mind."

Perro, low-born and eager, needed restraint to keep him from the bed where his master lay, and Juanita continued to hold him while she spoke.

"You must remember," she said, "that it is owing to Perro that you are here at all. If he had not come back and awakened us all you would have been on the road still."

Sarrion glanced sharply at her, his attention caught by her version of that which had really happened. She did not want Marcos to know that it was she who had heard Perro; she, who had insisted that something had happened to Marcos.

"And some Jesuit coming along the road might have found you there," she said, "and pushed you over. It would have been so easy."

Marcos and Sarrion glanced at each other, and possibly Juanita saw the glance as she held Perro back from his master.

"You do not know, Marcos, how they hate you. They could not hate you more if you were a heretic. I have always known it, because Father Muro was always trying to find things out about you in confession. He asked questions about you--who your confessor was; if you did a pilgrimage. I said--be quiet, Perro!--I said you never did a pilgrimage, and you were always changing your confessor because no holy father could stand the strain for long."

She forcibly ejected Perro from the room, and came back breathless and laughing. "She has not a care in the world," thought Marcos, who knew well enough the danger that he had pa.s.sed through.

"But Father Muro is such an innocent old love," she went on, "that he did it badly. He had been told to do it by the Jesuits and he made a bungle of it. He thought that he could make a schoolgirl answer a question if she did not want to. And no one was afraid of him. He is a dear, good, old saint, and will a.s.suredly go to Heaven. He is not a Jesuit, you know, but he is afraid of them, as everybody else is, I think--" She paused and closed the shutters to soften the growing day.

"Except Marcos," she threw back over her shoulder towards the bed, with some far-off suggestion of anger still in her voice.

"And now he must be allowed to sleep until the doctor comes from Pampeluna," she concluded.

She left the room as she spoke to warn the servants, who were already astir, to do their work as noiselessly as possible. When she returned Marcos was asleep.

"The doctor cannot be here for another hour, at least," whispered Sarrion, who was standing by the window watching Marcos. "It is too far for a man of his age to ride, and he has no carriage. There may be some delay in finding one to do so great a distance at this time in the morning. You must take the opportunity to get some sleep."