Within the great rose of the cathedral with its leaf-green brocade and massed pale pink-and-white blossom, under the silver shimmer of the chandeliers, the people had stumbled to their feet and stood, electrified, looking towards the West door. At its centre, a rose in the heart of a rose, the Grand Duchess knelt in her rose-pink gown and her leaf-green cloak and only the fire-flash of diamonds gave away the trembling of her hands. The Grand Duke, royally aloof in the presence of danger, had continued unmoved at his prie-Dieu, the magnificent head held proudly still, the great shoulders tensed beneath the velvet cloak; caged within the altar rail, the celebrant and acolytes turned backs to the vision, craning to see over the heads of the people thronging the naves and aisle. Only the dead man, seraphically smiling, remained with his fixed, blind, witless stare turned up unwaveringly to the saint.
El Margherita had not, during her lifetime on the table-top, been remarkable for her tolerance. Now, however, she waited with exemplary patience while her public reassembled itself: Miss Cockrill, a trifle dithery, stumping back to her place, picking up as she went the brown handbag which meanwhile had received scant care from Winsome Foley, Tomaso di Goya being dragged, more dead than alive, to stand with hanging head, surrounded by politio, behind the Grand Duke’s prie Dieu. But when all was quiet again at last, she raised her hand. “My children …”
Like the roar of the sea, the tumbling of the breakers against the rocks, the surge of a thousand voices beat against the towering cliffs of the red brick walls. Juanita! Juanita! Santa Juanita, Margherita del isla nostra, pray for us, intercede for us before the throne of God, remember us, thy children, oh blesséd one in Paradise.…
Juanita was on her high horse again. Gone was the cross old woman who had argued, with the familiar cackle of laughter, against poor Tomaso’s attempts to discredit her. She was back to the mystery and majesty of her first apparition. With uplifted hand, she stilled the tempest of their importunings. “My children—hear me!” She gestured, pointing down to where the golden head of the Grand Duchess gleamed beneath the black lace veil. “At the voice of this, our daughter, I have come to you. To her prayer, I have answered: ‘Go in peace, Bellissima, Rose of our Island, mother of island princes to be.…’ To you, my children, I promise happiness, prosperity and peace. To this doubting one”—she waved her hand again, imperiously—“forgiveness; for him I invoke the clemency of the Grand Duke. And for myself …” The squat figure bowed forward, humbly, hands clasped together in an attitude of self-abasement. “For myself, I ask nothing but the love and remembrance of my children here together in our island home; I ask only the obscurity in which I lived and died. Make no plea for me, my children, raise no clamour for title and honours for El Margherita. Let my memory dwell, a pearl in your hearts alone; and in token of this, I shall send you … I shall send you …” The voice broke and faltered, the light about her wavered and began to fade. A low moan broke from the people, Juanita, Juanita, stay with us, don’t leave us; a great sigh that swept through the cathedral like a gust of wind through a forest of leaves. And, as the radiance about her faded to nothingness, like the first rain on the leaves, a little, light pattering began.… A little light pattering, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, like the new rain pitter-pattering on dry leaves; and, like raindrops pattering down upon the heads of the people, pattering down upon their suddenly upturned faces, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, silky-soft and warm as April raindrops—a shower of tiny pearls. The light faded and died about the vision, a hand moved in a final gesture of blessing—and El Margherita, Pearl of San Juan was gone. But with her going all the great cathedral, all its light and shadow, all its galleries, naves, aisle, sanctuary, flower-festooned, silken-hung, was filled with the patter, patter, patter of hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of tiny pearls.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN the blue of the Juanese evening, both the horse and Miss Cockrill had dispensed with their shady straw hats: unlike Miss Cockrill, however, the horse wore, slightly askew, a wreath of white roses. Friendly and willing, it rattled them gaily through the rejoicing streets of Barrequitas, out to the steep road leading up the hill to the Palace. Mr Cecil was convinced they had met before. “One knows its face.”
“Perhaps it’s the one you rode behind, that night poor Winsome went down to Toscanita?”
“I said its face, dear,” said Mr Cecil.
Not that she could be called Poor Winsome, any more. Exhilarated, ecstatic, perched on a very pinnacle of self-sufficiency, Winsome Foley was independent at last—independent of Major Bull, independent of Cousin Hat, independent for ever of Trusty Spade and Hogarth and Bootsis Library and Busy Bee.… Whirling like a dervish, the mauve beads thumping on the écru slopes, she flew between the hotel and the Colombaia—so much to be settled, the Writings to be appropriated and made safe for her future translation and hers alone; the relics to be collected, assessed, valued, disposed of, the first exquisite excitement of discussing plans for the new convenuto—all must be ready as soon as possible for the flock of young neophytes who, from the moment the Mass of Thanks-giving ended, had been clamouring (somewhat equivocally) for admittance at the gates of the Colombaia. “It leaves one rather—alone,” confessed Cousin Hat. “It’s like the lunatic hitting himself on the head with a hammer. When he stops, I dare say it isn’t so nice after all. I expect he misses it.”
“You have another hammer all ready to hand,” suggested Mr Cecil.
“A sledge-hammer,” said Cousin Hat, laughing: but she blushed a little, not unbecomingly, and said that no doubt it would come to that in the end. “After all, it’s time he had some reward, poor man. In all these years—heaven knows why!—he’s never even looked at another woman.”
Quite too dog-like, agreed Mr Cecil and changed the subject a trifle hastily. Mr Cecil had that afternoon been deputed to return the inferior opal, which in turn had been returned by Winsome Foley—to the Joyeria and try to get the money back. (Tomaso di Goya, happy and busy with Lorenna by his side, had nevertheless been not too much preoccupied to remember to deduct a percentage for possible loss of business while the ring had been out of his possession.)
The Grand Duke and Grand Duchess were waiting for them in yet another of the lovely palace courtyards, filagreed pink marble with blue Moorish tilings, centred as usual on a water-lily pool. Juan Lorenzo himself poured the pink champagne, this time there was only La Bellissima to hand round plates of little cakes. She wore still her narrow, rose brocade dress; and the necklace of pearls. Mr Cecil was enraptured by the pearls. “They are supposed to be matchless,” said the Grand Duke. He shrugged. “But that is said of all remarkable jewels. Nevertheless, they are famous in the world of bijouterie, the Pink Pearls of San Juan el Pirata.” He looked at them, pale as Ophelia roses against his wife’s white throat. “It must be admitted that they are lovely things,” he said.
In England this season, said Mr Cecil, everything was going to be pearls. Pearls and roses. And snuff-boxes! Restoration—everything was going to be Restoration. Fool that he had been not to see it before!—a pox upon himself in fact and all that; he had neglected his Restorationese quite dreadfully since he had been in San Juan, and all the time it had been the key to the situation. London was going Restoration and the rest of the world of haute couture after it, or his name was not Cecil Pr——… Well, Cecil. (Mr Cecil’s name is Prout but he does not advertise the fact.) And then that very morning, stap him if, kneeling there in the cathedral, he had not happened to glance at poor Winsome Foley staring up with her mouth open as a fish at that little niche above the High Altar—that little niche that would have done so well for Juanita to stand on if she had not been merely a Vision and no need to stand on anything.… And the Foley had been wearing—the mauve beads, of course, too dreary for any words, and the écru lace; but also—a jabot! A jabot! All of a sudden it had come to him, an inspiration direct from Juanita and he would never say another word against her in all his life.… Restoration! Jabots and snuff-boxes and ev
eryone saying by-your-leave and odds-fish and I-vow and so forth; and him simply miles ahead from having practised it so long in advance; only he must get into the way of it again.… “I shall design your wedding-dress, I insist,” he said to Cousin Hat. “Tremendously tailored, a green brocade coat over a pink and white dress. And the jabot of course, and lace cuffs. And instead of a bouquet you shall carry a little crystal snuff-box.” If Tomaso had any left, he added; he and Guido Bussaca were selling them like hot cakes.…
“We passed the Joyeria as we drove here,” said Cousin Hat. “You will have to appoint a new Gerente de Politio, Exaltida, if their business goes on like this.”
“I am appointing a new Chief of Police,” said the Grand Duke, a trifle grimly, “whether Guido Bussaca’s business prospers or not.”
Now, now, surely, suggested Mr Cecil, Juanita would have wished poor Guido included in her plea for mercy? So thoughtful of her, he added, to have remembered poor erring Tomaso, when there had been so much else to say. And yet one had had the impression that in her lifetime she had not been precisely notable for clemency.…? It almost seemed, didn’t it, as though she hadn’t quite realised what a lot there had been to forgive?—as if she had known all along that she would probably be heckled by Tomaso di Goya and had rehearsed a little speech of pardon in advance.… And had not been able to see over the heads of the people to what was happening down at the font, and again at the West door: had not realised that her prepared speech was a trifle out of date.… Or perhaps, having had it prepared for her, had not liked to make any changes.…?
The Grand Duke poured more champagne. “As to that, of course, I wouldn’t know. I am not in the secret of El Margherita’s counsels.” He looked up at Cousin Hat, bending over her glass, and gave her an enormous wink.
The Grand Duchess followed with her little cakes. She paused for a moment, laughing, laying a small white hand, loaded with diamonds, on her husband’s dark head. “You are a wretch and a villain,” she said to him, in French.
He protested. “Because this terrible old person elects to pay a return visit? What has that to do with me?” Not but what, he acknowledged, also laughing, it had been very accommodating of her to have put an end to all the embarrassing fuss about her being canonised. “And what’s more, my Rose of San Juan, she was very nice to you. All those pretty promises; and from now on, Daughter of France, Belovéd of the Island, etcetera, etcetera, for a change you’ll be able to do no wrong!” He took her hand in his own and kissed it, smiling. “See that it does not go to your lovely head.”
“If it does, you can send for the Senorita Lorenna,” said the Grand Duchess.
Down in the town, all the lights were a-twinkle, there was music and dancing and roses, roses, roses: roses before every picture, every shrine, rose petals scattered about the inlaid floor of the cathedral where, alone and forgotten, in its vast dimnesses, the old Arcivescovo lay, composed now into a seemly full-length, until tomorrow should come and someone have time to attend to his obsequies. Down at the quays, the fishing boats swung idle, tied by their chins to their moorings, gently backing and tugging like a line of docile goats. Up at the Colombaia, Tartine, her precious pearl tucked away into the front of her bodice, was saying good-bye to her regulars, bound for Paris the very next morning. Lollita was going with her, Isabella and Pia-Teresa were both out of work; Rosa and Carmen and Maria and even Inez were all convinced that they had religious vocations.… Winsome, a little astonished at the extraordinary number now apparent of Innocenta’s dubious daughters, and at her evident willingness to dispossess them forthwith of their home in favour of the convenuto, was, however, too much preoccupied with her rapturous plans, to trouble unduly about them. Already Tomaso di Goya was clamouring for meltable silver. “Surely, Innocenta, she must have used more than just this one particular spoon? Even sometimes? Any that she so much as touched will be of value now.” But Innocenta obstinately maintained that La Badessa’s dinner-tray had been kept for herself alone. An Abbess ate apart in the community, and that was that. Innocenta was obviously going to be rather tiresome.…
Behind the wrought-iron screen of the little courtyard there was a second courtyard with magnolias and a fountain, and chairs and a little table set out with glasses and the inevitable bottle of pink champagne. Miss Cockrill became suddenly seized with desire for an interview with Cristallo, the white cat, which, in its new collar of pearls, had curled itself up there and was watching the play of the fountain with unblinking blue eyes. Cristallo appeared unmoved by this flattering attention; and indeed, once in the courtyard, Cousin Hat seemed to quickly lose interest—she was not, in fact, on the whole very fond of cats. She produced instead a small, battered, fat old book. “I wanted to show you something,” she said to the Grand Duke who, at her request, had conducted her there and who was now busily pouring out champagne.
“And to ask me for something?” suggested El Exaltida.
“To ask you for something?”
“You have one of your three wishes left,” he reminded her. “Isn’t that why we came here?”
She considered him. “Yes: so I have. Very well, then, I’ll ask you for something. I came, really, to ask for your forgiveness—for this.” She opened the black book at a marked place and handed it to him.
The Grand Duke read over the two or three lines pointed out to him. “A remarkable forecast of the events of this morning: if not very comprehensive.” He riffled casually through the rest of the book. “So that’s what you meant when you murmured about ‘pink incense?’”
“My cousin has confessed the whole thing to me,” said Miss Cockrill. She unfolded the original thurible plot. “I tell you all this, under the seal of your promise.”
He bent over her, handing champagne, his handsome profile clear-cut against the deep night-blue of the sky. “Of course, of course. No forgiveness is necessary—I shall not count this as your ‘wish.’” He shrugged. “But when so much else has been crossed out in the book, why not just have obliterated this too?”
Miss Cockrill stared up at him in wonder. “Do you know—it never occurred to us. What fools we were! As you say—when so much is already crossed out.…”
“From the very first entry,” said the Grand Duke. He read it over in Juanese, squinting at it in the pale light of a hanging lamp, wrought in enamel and bronze. “When I was a girl, I delighted in jewels and pretty clothes.…”
“Or, ‘When I was a young fowl,’” quoted Miss Cockrill from Innocenta’s original translation, now, alas! improved by Winsome’s more orthodox hand, “‘I was happy for adorning and fine cloths; but from the time of my Arrivalment, I was no more thinking of these excitings.…’”
“Talking about ‘adorning,’” said the Grand Duke, “the Grand Duchess has a present for you.” And he took Cousin Hat’s small, bare brown hand in his own enormous hand with its glitter of rings, and said, looking down into her face: “She wants to give you her pearls.”
“Her pearls? La Bellissima’s pearls? But you don’t mean …?”
“The Pink Pearls of San Juan—yes. It is hard for people like us,” said the Grand Duke, “to give a present that costs us anything. La Bellissima wants you to have the pearls, and so do I—because we both set store by them.” And he kissed her hand with one of his tremendous gestures, and said: “Miss Cockrill—do you think she and I don’t understand that this morning you saved my life?”
“Oh, well, yes, but I didn’t mean to,” said Cousin Hat. She amended. “Well, I don’t mean that. I just mean …”
“You intended merely to save me from embarrassment?”
“Exactly,” said Miss Cockrill.
“You thought young Tomaso was challenging me—through Juanita? You thought he was demanding ‘just ordinary incense,’ that is to say, white smoke from the incense? and you knew from your cousin that it was going to be pink.”
“Oh, good gracious no, that was just an excuse,” said Cousin Hat. “I don’t think the pink incense would have m
attered a bit—the people wouldn’t have seen the point, and anyway, they’d have loved it. But I had to give some reason for marching off with the censer—or the Patriarch would have stopped me.”
He was silent for a little while, considering her. “I see. May I enquire then—why did you march off with the censer?”
It was very embarrassing. She looked at him and looked away: he was so very unpredictable, one never knew what he’d object to and what he would not. “It was just that—that I knew that you mustn’t be asked to use the thurible. I mean.… Well, you won’t mind my saying,” said Cousin Hat, not at all sure that he wouldn’t, “that the old woman was right.”
“Old woman? What old woman? Do you mean Juanita?”
“No, no—La Madre. When she said that you showed a suspiciously kindly interest in Don Isidro’s welfare. I mean,” said Cousin Hat, again, anxiously, “getting him a bicycle, smuggling it over here for him when bicycles aren’t allowed, taking steps yourself to make sure he didn’t ride it at night.…”
“El Bienquisto’s bicycle,” said the Grand Duke, “is at the bottom of the harbour.”
“Oh, the bicycle, yes,” said Miss Cockrill. “I know.”
“So what has the bicycle to do with my not using the thurible?”
Nothing, of course, said Miss Cockrill, it had nothing to do with it at all. And she thought of him, kneeling there so indomitably, heedless of the excitement and danger seething about him: kneeling there, motionless, hands clasped, chin buried in the folds of the great, black velvet cloak: looking up steadily at the vision, standing, as motionless, in her circle of light. “But you couldn’t put down the bicycle lamp,” she said.
Cristallo, the white cat, got up and stretched himself. He placed each white paw in turn before his nose and pretended to himself that the paw was stuck and he must now get as far away from it as he possibly could. He did the same with both hind paws and then turned round three times, settled back into his former position as though he had never moved, and fastened his blue gaze on the fountain again. Not until he was still as a statue once more, did the Grand Duke speak. When he did, it was to say with the deep anxiety of a small boy caught using three nibs for an impot: “You don’t mean it showed?”
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