by Talbot Mundy
He overlooked the last part of her speech. The Calverly-Calhouns for generations had been his equals.
“Have you had speech with him with reference to this?” he asked after a moment’s pause.
So Consuelo told him all that Jack Calhoun had said, and of the bribe to Zeke, and of her own unspoken promise to meet Jack Calhoun in the patio next day and take a letter from him. She stammered over the last part, for she had not been in that household fourteen years without knowing the master’s method with servants who consented to intrigue. His deep frown frightened her — it was only a matter of moments now.
“Stand up, Consuelo,” he said at last, and she struggled to her feet, biting her lip, awaiting her dismissal.
“Did he offer you money?” he asked.
“I don’t think he dared, Don Andres.”
“You agreed to smuggle his letter into the convent?”
“Don Andres — what else could I dot? — I haven’t the power to manage him otherwise — I’m an old woman, and he laughs at me — unless he thinks he can use me he’ll go to — to some one else — and they’ll make a scandal between them to — to—”
The nod again — cryptic — dry. The dark eyes deadly serious. A too long pause, as if he were unmercifully framing words. The thin lips tightly set.
“You were always a good servant, Consuelo.”
Were! So the end had come. Her heart sank, for the awaited is not less terrible when it arrives. She bowed her head, remembering she would go in silence.
“I am not ungrateful for good service, or unconscious of my obligation to reward it. You may leave that part to me. But I will tolerate no insubordination in my house. You understand me?”
She did not. She looked hurt now — amazed. She had never been insubordinate. A little of the meekness left her: She would not go in silence after all. She would tell him to his face what a faithful servant suffered constantly at Donna Isabella’s lips — how much had to be endured for his sake — she would seize an old woman’s privilege of speech and pour out all she knew! But he spoke again before she could begin and even in that moment of indignation she could not force herself to interrupt him.
“You must continue as if this interview with me had never taken place. You understand?”
Slowly his meaning dawned on her.
“Am I not dismissed?” she asked, her face reddening.
He ignored the question. “There must be no impudence or disobedience. No dark looks, Consuelo. No suggestion of an understanding with me behind another’s back. No Spying. No tales to me. No indignities to — any one.”
Consuelo bobbed her old-fashioned curtsey. Words would have been empty in the presence of that magnificent consistency. For his pride’s sake she would let Donna Isabella drive nails into her — poison her — malign her — and she would say nothing! Followed emotion, making the stout bosom nearly burst the black satin bodice. Tears. Smothered, sobs into a handkerchief.
“There — that will do.” He loathed anything undignified. “I will ask Donna Isabella to excuse you from duty until tomorrow morning.”
Consuelo went without another word. Don Andres did not pick up the book again but sat staring into vacancy — alone — dismally lonely, and too proud to admit it even to himself. The house, and his whole life, were empty without Jacqueline. She was all the brightness he had ever known and to send her to school at the convent was his master-sacrifice. He broke into a smile as he thought of her, and the smile died away into a swordsman’s frown, teeth showing through the parted lips, as he remembered stage by stage the fight he had waged for her — a memory that Consuelo’s news had only sharpened. So an affair with Jack Calhoun was to be the next difficulty! He wondered how deeply Isabella was already mixed in it.
Well he understood his sister Isabella. She had opposed his determination to accept the child’s guardianship; and that failing, she had tried to wean Jacqueline away from him and make her a dried-up image of herself — even as she had succeeded in doing with his own only child. But his own child had been a Miro. He did not disguise from himself that the Miro blood was dying — the direct Miro line near its end. Isabella had succeeded with that daughter of his; the weak twig of an ancient tree had come easily under her sway, had wilted under it, and died. But nothing in Jacqueline’s nature had provided Isabella any thing to work on. Rather she responded to his own lavished affection and Consuelo’s mothering; and that had given Isabella deeper offense than the original crime of introducing the child into the household.
He had made up for Isabella’s bitterness, by giving Jacqueline every advantage and every privilege within his means. And the means of the Miros in Louisiana are beyond the scope of most men’s dreams.
So the house was lonely now Jacqueline was at the convent — felt like a tomb, for all its decorous luxury. Don Andres Miro, possibly the best loved, certainly the richest and most respected among the old Louisiana Settlers, felt like a man with no occupation left. He was much too proud to feel sorry for himself; he would have smiled if run through with a rapier. But pride heals no heart-ache — fills no empty nest.
And Calverly-Calhoun? He knew that breed! No scion of that stock for Jacqueline! He had intimately known two generations of Calhouns, and could guess the hourly anguish of the women they had married. Good women don’t reform bad men, they only irritate them; he knew that. He would rather, if necessary, see Jacqueline married to some young fellow without family, but of decent means and good repute, who would know enough to appreciate her and treat her with respect. But there was fortunately no hurry about that, and only need for vigilance. Meanwhile —
He would have one more try — if necessary he would call in the United States Attorney-General himself — to find some flaw in the Miro trust deed. If, subject to provision for his sister Isabella, he might leave by will the whole of his estates to Jacqueline, then —
Again the proud smile. That would be a true gift given from the heart — the reply complete to Isabella — and, by no means the least amusing part of it, a full expression of contempt for John Miro, his distant cousin, now heir legal and presumptive, whose Lynn shoe-factory was a disgrace and scandal to the Miro name. If by any legal means it might be possible, he would bequeath to Jacqueline every last acre and investment of the Miro fortune.
To that end he must preserve his health. It was important that he should have his wits about him and the strength to see possible law-suits to a conclusion; for it was no part of his determination to leave a mere document behind him, over which and his dead body Jacqueline should have to fight the gum shoe-maker. She would have no chance unless, he, Andres Miro, should do the fighting for her. He would do that, bitter though he knew the fight might be.
The difficult days, he recognized, were coming. All that lay behind was child’s-play compared to the road ahead. Obstruct Calhoun and there would be other suitors to be fenced with. When a rumor should creep abroad, as it inevitably must, that the estates might fall to Jacqueline, every needy adventurer on the countryside would add his importunities to the confusion. Then more than ever Jacqueline would need his comradeship and guidance. He must throw the weight of years aside, and attend to it that his company should be a pleasure to her and not a burden. To that end, he must resume his youth and be more spirited and companionable than any of the young bloods she should meet. Well — he considered that not impossible. Only he must get well. A man needs health before he can be young again; and doctors — he did not know how much faith to place in even his family physician; the man never seemed to know his own mind — but then, the Miros were ever a long-lived breed. Why theorize about disease, when long life was hereditary fact?
His reverie was interrupted by Father Doutreleau who came and went in that house pretty much as his own pleasure dictated. He was as close to Andres on the one hand as Jacqueline was on the other, so that apart altogether from his office of confessor, François Doutreleau was intimate in Miro’s councils, knew his secrets, and was one of the th
ree men who discussed them with him.
“Forgive me if I remain seated, François. It’s your own medicine! Ring the bell, won’t you, and we’ll have some wine brought in.”
There was wine enough in the Miro cellar to last another generation, and it was normal routine to have sherry and biscuits served in the library on afternoons when Miro was home. As a rule Doutreleau looked forward to it; his well filled figure and declining years responded gratefully to Old-World hospitality, and he knew good wine. But on this occasion he showed less than his usual satisfaction, and a hesitation that was rare with him. When Andres had filled two glasses, Doutreleau merely raised his glass and set it down untasted.
“What is new, François? Have you seen the papers?”
“Andres, I have distressing news for you. Be a brave man, and prepare yourself.”
Doutreleau swallowed his wine at a gulp then. He had crossed the Rubicon.
“I trust it is not distressing to yourself, François. If it concerns me alone I shall find a way to bear it.”
“It concerns us all. Andres — Doctor Beal has been to see me.”
“I can well imagine your distress! The man has bored me with his platitudes for thirty years! Has he said you are too fat? I disagree with him. Take courage, François, and be comfortable. I am lean, and I assure you it has disadvantages.”
“Andres, he has told me what he had not the courage to tell you.”
“Pusillanimity! However — I myself have often confessed to you, François, sins that I would detest to have to tell the world.”
“He spoke of you, Andres.”
“And that distressed you, François! Take some more sherry. Choose a livelier subject for discussion next time!”
He understood there was genuinely bad news coming, and he prepared to meet it as he would meet death, or any other evil, proudly — conceding it no right to disturb his outer dignity.
“Andres, he has told me you have not long to live.”
Not a flinch. Not a tremor of the steady eyelids. Not a moment’s relaxation of the smile; rather it increased, and grew kindlier.
“So you were distressed to hear that of me, my friend? I am grateful for the compliment. Did Beal in his omniscience set the date of termination of my mortal activities?”
“He gives you a few months, Andres. Possibly a year.”
“I hope he doesn’t think I suspect him of malpractice! Assure him, I am convinced he has done his best!”
“Andres, I admire your courage. But to Jacqueline — to your household and dependents — to the parish — to myself — this is disaster. Won’t you promise me to do all in your power to remain with us as long as possible? Won’t you obey Beal? Won’t you let him call in specialists? I want your promise, Andres, as friend to friend.”
For a full minute Miro did not answer. When he spoke at last his voice was normal, suggesting no echo of battles going on within him.
“I would prefer to exact a promise from you first, François.”
“Name it, my friend. If it is anything permissible—”
“Oh, none of the deadly sins! Promise to keep this news a secret, and to impress on Beal the same obligation.”
“For myself, of course, I promise. But Beal will want to call in the specialists, and—”
“Let Beal be answerable for their silence. Impress that on him.”
“Then you will see the specialists?”
“On that condition, yes. But not in this house, or there would be talk about it. Let Beal arrange for me to visit them.”
François Doutreleau rose, turning his back to Miro, and then, still keeping his face averted, went behind Miro’s chair, where he laid his hand on the iron-gray head that he had blessed so often, but never before so fervently.
“Brother — my friend—” he began, but his voice choked and he could not trust himself to speak.
Miro reached upward for the fat hand and drew it down to the chair-arm.
“I am proud of our friendship, François, although I am unworthy of it,” he said in a steady voice; but he did not look up at the priest. “We shall be making an indecorous exhibition of ourselves unless we’re careful. Would you care to leave me for a while to think this out alone? Suppose you take dinner with us? After dinner we can talk again.”
Doutreleau walked to the door, saying a prayer under his breath, and Miro watched him, still smiling, — until the priest turned at the door.
“You will dine with us tonight then, François?”
Doutreleau nodded, for he could not trust himself to speak, and left the room.
Then, with no witnesses, Don Andres Miro sat at bay, looking death and its full consequences in the eyes. Little by little it dawned on him what his death would mean to Jacqueline. He had given so much thought to caring for her that his mind refused at first to readjust itself, and for a while he still thought of her as his ward, his heart’s darling, whose destiny was in his keeping.
So this was the end of his plans! It might need years to engage the best legal talent in the land and force through the courts a new trust deed that should settle the estates on Jacqueline! If Beal was right, in a year at most the gum shoe-maker would be in possession, and Jacqueline at the mercy of the world and Isabella, with a few paltry thousands in cash to make her an even choicer prey for wolves.
He had raised her in exquisite luxury, and his death now would plunge her helpless and unprotected into the world he had prevented her from understanding!
What had he taught her, except gentleness and goodness? Nothing — unless pride, that would make her suffer in silence. He supposed that Consuelo perhaps might have told her things that a mother usually tells a young girl, but he rather doubted it, he had said nothing to Consuelo about that, and she was not given to taking liberties.
Haggard and worn — older than he had ever seemed — he leaned back in the chair and faced the facts — then suddenly grew resolute again. He was a Miro. He had months to live! The fire returned into his eye — the Miro heritage — the stubbornly resourceful Miro spirit that had never confessed defeat, nor ever yielded to a lesser force than Providence. Had he wronged Jacqueline? Then he had will to set the matter right, and time in which to think.
He thanked God that he saw the wrong before it was altogether too late. He was ready to flinch from nothing. Somehow, by some means, Jacqueline should not be loser by his guardianship; he, Andrew Miro, would attend to that, and then die cheerfully.
But how? Isabella could be absolutely counted on to thwart whatever plans he might make; he could not take Isabella into confidence. He could provide a moderate sum of money out of cash in hand, and deliver it to a trustee, to be paid to Jacqueline after his death; but the income from it would be no more than a pittance, and Jacqueline would be almost as unprotected as before. Nevertheless; that was something nothing like enough, but he would do that first.
He could make good provision for Consuelo, on condition that she keep watch over Jacqueline. But Consuelo’s influence would wane as Jacqueline grew older, and, besides, he could hardly expect a spirited girl to submit forever to the dictates of an old nurse. To an extent, too, that would imply indignity to Jacqueline.
She was worthy of dignity — fitted by breeding and character to be heiress of the Miro fortune and estates. Yet he could not make her that, unless — unless —
There came another, new light in his eyes. He sat bolt-upright — smiled. The invisible, long rapier again. He hardly resembled a sick man, but a great adventurer, when the library door opened and Donna Isabella looked in, even more sourly than her wont. He rose with his usual courtesy to greet her.
“No wonder this house lacks discipline and the servants give themselves airs!” she grumbled.
“Surely nothing has displeased you, Isabella!”
“Something seems to have pleased you!” she retorted. “It will be dinner time in ten minutes, Andres, and you sit there grinning to yourself like a lunatic. How can you expect a well ordered hous
ehold, when the master is late for his meals? Is it fair to me!”
Don Andres smiled without a visible trace of sarcasm, and bowed to her cavalierly as he left the room.
Donna Isabella nodded after him, thin lipped and exasperated. She would have liked him much better if he had turned on her and shown ill-temper.
CHAPTER 4.
“Come now. Listen to me, Consuelo.”
“No disobedience! No insubordination! No indignities to any one!”
Consuelo went about her duties with those all too definite limitations humming in her head. All morning long Donna Isabella invented aggravating tasks, as if with the deliberate intention to force rebellion. All her efforts were unsatisfying; weariness was dubbed unwillingness; silent endurance was the sulks; a breathless answer was impertinence.
And it neared noon. Jack Calhoun was coming. Consuelo had made up her mind to get that letter from Jack Calhoun and to take it straight in to Don Andres. There would be no insubordination about that. Don Andres thereafter could take any course he pleased about it, and surely not even Donna Isabella could accuse her of remissness or intrigue.
But the worst of it was that Donna Isabella had a chair set in the patio, not far from the front hall, whence she could oversee everything, and Consuelo could think of no excuse for getting between her and the front door.
At last in desperation she suggested putting fresh flowers in the drawing- room.
“Always some excuse for being lazy!” snorted Donna Isabella. “Go and change the curtains on the bedroom windows.”
No disobedience! No insubordination! But what were the Blessed Virgin and the saints all doing? Consuelo, with aching thighs, mounted the stairs to the balcony, and from one of the bedroom windows watched Jack Calhoun come cavaliering in to pay his compliments. She was not surprised that Donna Isabella should receive him courteously; Zeke had already disgorged his several versions of the scene at the convent gate, and Donna Isabella was no fool, to begin by snubbing a man who might help her to be rid of Jacqueline; she invited young Calhoun to sit beside her. Consuelo saw him glance repeatedly to right and left, and knew what he was looking for, but she could not make him see her at the bedroom window, though she prayed to at least a dozen saints to make him look upward, instead of around.