FURTHER EPISODES IN THE LIFE OF DON LUIS RAMONEZ

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 Dona 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. Senor 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 Dona 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, a Mater dolorosa most 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 a paso, 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 Senora 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, senor 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, senor 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 Cafe 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 pies,” was the burthen of his news so far, “a los pies de V|d|, Senor 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. “Quién 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 senores 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, Senor Don Luis,” he began, craning forward, whispering, grinning his extreme goodwill “Oho! it is not matter for the Cafe. 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 the plaza. 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, Senor 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, senor, 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 Senor Don Luis.”

“Your business is pressing, and secret?”

“Si, Senor 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 Pena. 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. Senor 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 Esteban 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?”

“Senor 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?”

“Senor, 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.”

“Senor, 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, senor 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 Cafe 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.