NEMESIS DON LUIS

Manvers’ reiterated question of how in the name of wonder Don Luis or anybody else knew what he had done with Manuela’s crucifix was answered before the day was over; but not by Gil Perez or the advocate whom he had engaged to defend the unhappy girl.

This personage gave him to understand without disguise that there was very little chance for Manuela. The Judge, he said, had been “instructed.” He clung to that phrase. When Manvers said, “Let us instruct him a little,” he took snuff and replied that he feared previous “instruction” might have created a prejudice. He undertook, however, to see him privately before judgment was delivered, but intimated that he must have a very free hand.

Manvers’ rejoinder took the shape of a blank cheque with his signature upon it. The advocate, fanning himself with it in an abstracted manner, went on to advise the greatest candour in the witness-box. “Beware of irritation, dear sir,” he said. “The Judge will plant a banderilla here and there, you may be sure. That is his method. You learn more from an angry man than a cool one. For my own part,” he went on, “you know how we stand without witnesses. I shall do what I can, you may be sure.”

“I hope you will get something useful from the prisoner,” Manvers said. “A little of Master Esteban’s private history should be useful.”

“It would be perfectly useless, if you will allow me to say so,” replied the advocate. “The Judge will not hear a word against a family like the Ramonez. So noble and so poor! Perhaps you are not aware that the Archbishop of Toledo is Don Luis’ first cousin? That is so.”

“But is that allowed to justify his rip of a son in goading a girl on to murder?” cried Manvers.

The advocate again took snuff, shrugging as he tapped his fingers on the box. “The Ramonez say, you see, sir, that Don Bartolome may have threatened her, moved by jealousy. Jealousy is a well-understood passion here. The plea is valid and good.”

“Might it not stand for Manuela too?” he was asked.

“I don’t think we had better advance it, Don Osmundo,” he said, after a significant pause.

Gil Perez, pale and all on edge, had been walking the room like a caged wolf. He swore to himself but in English, out of politeness to his master. “Thata dam thief! Ah, Juez of my soul, if I see you twist in ’ell is good for me.” Presently he took Manvers aside and, his eyes full of tears, asked him, “Sir, you escusa Manuela, if you please. She maka story ver’ bad to ’ear. She no like I see ’er red as fire, burn like the devil, sir. She ver’ unfortunata girl too beautiful to live. And all these ’ogs Oh, my God, what can she do?” He opened his arms, and turned his pinched face to the sky. “What can she do, Oh, my God?” he cried. “So beautiful as a rose, an’ so poor, and so a child! You sorry, sir, hey?” he asked, and Manvers said he was more sorry than he could say.

That comforted him. He kissed his master’s hand, and then told him that Manuela was glad that he knew all about her. “She dam glad, sir, that I know. She say to me las’ night ’What I shall tell the Juez will be the very truth. Senor Don Osmundo shall know what I am,’ she say. ’To ’im I could never say it. To thata Juez too easy say it. To-morrow,’ she say, ‘’e know me for what I am too bad girl!’”

“I think she is a noble girl,” said Manvers. “She’s got more courage in her little finger than I have in my body. She’s a girl in a thousand.”

Gil Perez glowed, and lifted up his beaten head. “Esplendid eh?” he cried out. “By God, I serve ’er on my knees!”

On returning to the court, the beard and patient face of Fray Juan greeted our friend. He had very little to testify, save that he was sure the Englishman had known nothing of the crime. The prisoner had told him her story without haste or passion. He had been struck by that. She said that she killed. Don Bartolome in a hurry lest he should kill both her and her benefactor. She had not informed him, nor had he reported to the gentleman, that she was going to Madrid. The Englishman said that he intended to find her, and witness had strongly advised him against it. He had told him that his motives would be misunderstood. “As, in fact, they have been, brother?” the advocate suggested. Fray Juan raised his eyebrows, and sighed. “Quién sabe?” was his answer.

Manvers then stood up and spoke his testimony. He gave the facts as the reader knows then, and made it clear that Manuela was in terror of Esteban from the moment he appeared, and even before he appeared. He had noticed that she frequently glanced behind them as they rode, and had asked her the reason. Her fear of him in the wood was manifest, and he blamed himself greatly for leaving her alone with the young man.

“I was new to the country, you must understand,” he said. “I could see that there was some previous acquaintance between those two, but could not guess that it was so serious. I thought, however, that they had made up their differences and gone off together when I returned from bathing. When Pray Juan showed me the body and told me what had been done I was very much shocked. It had been, in one sense, my fault, for if I had not rescued her, Esteban would not have suspected me, or intended my death. That I saw at once; and my desire of meeting Manuela again was that I might defend her from the consequences of an act which I had, in that one sense, brought about to which she had, at any rate, been driven on my account.”

“I will ask you, sir,” said the Judge, “one question upon that. Was that also your motive in having the crucifix set in pure gold?”

“No,” said Manvers, “not altogether. I doubt if I can explain that to you.”

“I am of that opinion myself,” said the Judge, with an elaborate bow. “But the court will be interested to hear you.”

The court was.

“This girl,” Manvers said, “was plainly most unfortunate. She was ragged, poorly fed, had been ill-used, and was being shamefully handled when I first saw her. I snatched her out of the hands of the wretches who would have torn her to pieces if I had not interfered. From beginning to end I never saw more shocking treatment of a woman than I saw at Palencia. Not to have interfered would have shamed me for life. What then? I rescued her, as I say, and she showed herself grateful in a variety of ways. Then Esteban Vincaz came up and chose to treat me as her lover. I believe he knew better, and think that my horse and haversack had more to do with it. Well, I left Manuela with him in the wood hardly, I may suggest, the act of a lover and never saw Esteban alive again. But I believe Manuela’s story absolutely; I am certain she would not lie at such a time, or to such a man as Fray Juan. The facts were extraordinary, and her crime, done as it was in defence of myself, was heroic or I thought so. Her leaving of the crucifix was, to me, a proof of her honest intention. I valued the gift, partly for the sake of the giver, partly for the act which it commemorated. She had received a small service from me, and had returned it fifty-fold by an act of desperate courage. To crown her charity, she left me all that she had in the world. I do not wonder myself at what I did. I took the crucifix to a jeweller at Valladolid, had it set as I thought it deserved and I see now that I did her there a cruel wrong.”

“Permit me to say, sir,” said the triumphant Judge, “that you also did Don Luis Ramonez a great service. Through your act, however intended, he has been enabled to bring a criminal to justice.”

“I beg pardon,” said Manvers, “she brought herself to justice so soon as Don Luis Ramonez sent his assassin out to stab me in the back, and in the dark. And this again was a proof of her heroism, since she thought by these means to satisfy his craving for human blood.”

Manvers spoke incisively and with severity. The court thrilled, and the murmuring was on his side. The Judge was much disturbed. Manuela alone maintained her calm, sitting like a pensive Hebe, her cheek upon her hand.

The Judge’s annoyance was extreme. It tempted him to wrangle.

“I beg you, sir, to restrain yourself. The court cannot listen to extraneous matter. It is concerned with the consideration of a serious crime. The illustrious gentleman of your reference mourns the loss of his only son.”

“I fail,” said Manvers, “to see how my violent death can assuage his grief.” The Judge was not the only person in court to raise his eyebrows; if Manvers had not been angry he would have seen the whole assembly in the same act, and been certified that they were not with him now. His advocate whispered him urgently to sit down. He did, still mystified. The Judge immediately retired to consider his judgment.

Manvers’ advocate left the court and was away for an hour. He returned very sedately to his place, with the plainly expressed intention of saying nothing. The court buzzed with talk, much of it directed at the beautiful prisoner, whose person, bearing, motives, and fate were freely discussed. Oddly enough, at that moment, half the men in the hall were ready to protect her.

Manvers felt his heart beating, but could neither think nor speak coherently. If Manuela were to be condemned to death, what was he to do? He knew not at all; but the crisis to which his own affairs and his own life were now brought turned him cold. He dared not look at Gil Perez. The minutes dragged on

The Judge entered the court and sat in his chair. He looked very much like a codfish with his gaping mouth and foolish eyes. He pulled one of his long whiskers and inspected the end of it; detected a split hair, separated it from its happier fellows, shut his eyes, gave a vicious wrench to it and gasped as it parted. Then he stared at the assembly before him, as if to catch them laughing, frowned at Manvers, who sat before him with folded arms; lastly he turned to the prisoner, who stood up and looked him in the face.

“Manuela,” he said, “you stand condemned upon your own confession of murder in the first degree murder of a gentleman who had been your benefactor, of whose life and protection you desired, for reasons of your own, to be ridded. The court is clear that you are guilty and cannot give you any assurance that your surrender to justice has assisted the ministers of justice. Those diligent guardians would have found you sooner or later, you may be sure. If anyone is to be thanked it is, perhaps, the foreign gentleman, whose candour” and here he had the assurance to make Manvers a bow “whose candour, I say, has favourably impressed the court. But, nevertheless, the court, in its clemency, is willing to allow you the merits of your intention. It is true that justice would have been done without your confession; but it may be allowed that you desired to stand well with the laws, after having violated them in an outrageous manner. It is this desire of yours which inclines the court to mercy. I shall not inflict the last penalty upon you, nor exact the uttermost farthing which your crime deserves. The court is willing to believe that you are penitent, and condemns you to perpetual seclusion in the Institution of the Recogidas de Santa Maria Magdalena.”

Manuela was seen to close her eyes; but she collected herself directly. She looked once, piercingly, at Manvers, then surrendered herself to him who touched her on the shoulder, turned, and went out of the court.

Everybody was against her now: they jeered, howled, hissed and cursed her. A spoiled plaything had got its deserts. Manvers turned upon them in a white fury. “Dogs,” he cried, “will nothing shame you?” But nobody seemed to hear or heed him at the moment, and Gil Perez whispered in his ear, “That no good, master. This canalla all the same swine. You come with me, sir, I tell you dam good thing.” He had recovered his old jauntiness, and swaggered before his master, clearing the way with oaths and threatenings.

Manvers followed him in a very stern mood. By the door he felt a touch on the arm, and turning, saw a tall, elderly gentleman cloaked in black. He recognised him at once by his hollow eye-sockets and smouldering, deeply set eyes. “You will remember me, senor caballero, in the shop of Sebastian the goldsmith,” he said; and Manvers admitted it. He received another bow, and the reminder. “We met again, I think, in the Church of Las Angustias in Valladolid.”

“Yes, indeed,” Manvers said, “I remember you very well.”

“Then you remember, no doubt, saying to me with regard to your crucifix, which I had seen in Sebastian’s hands, then in your own, that it was a piece of extravagance on your part. You will not withdraw that statement to-day, I suppose.”

That which lay latent in his words was betrayed by the gleam of cold fire in his eyes. Manvers coloured. “You have this advantage of me, senor,” he said, “that you know to whom you are speaking, and I do not.”

“It is very true, senor Don Osmundo,” the gentleman said severely. “I will enlighten you. I am Don Luis Ramonez de Alavia, at your service.”

Manvers turned white. He had indeed made Manuela pay double. So much for sentiment in Spain.