Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  And, as Consuelo had admitted to herself, young Jack Calhoun had brains.

  He was a man of his word, of course, but he had not promised to say nothing to Donna Isabella. He and Donna Isabella sat considering each other while he made polite inquiries about Miro’s health; and he made a much better guess at her character than he had done at Consuelo’s. In turn Donna Isabella summed him up perfectly. He was the necessary man headstrong, handsome, with a fortune not yet squandered.

  “Don Andres is not well enough to see you. Have you any particular message for him?” she asked; and something in her bright eyes suggested expectation. He did not hesitate.

  “Is he too ill for me to talk to him about Miss Jacqueline?”

  “You may talk to me.”

  He proved a fluent talker, without convincing Donna Isabella in the least. But jealousy will hesitate no more than passion does, to gain its end.

  “What chance have I?” he asked her finally.

  “None, if you go to Don Andres and ask him.”

  “I am asking you.”

  “That is different. You say that she reciprocates your feelings?”

  “My God! I believe so. Donna Isabella, I can see her eyes now — innocent and pure and wonderful! I said good-by to her at the convent gate. I kissed her hand.

  And she stood watching me as I went, with her eyes full of love — My God! Donna Isabella, I would go through fire for Jacqueline! Her eyes haunt me!”

  “Consuelo, of course, permitted you to talk with her?”

  For a second his eyes met Donna Isabella’s in a flash of scrutiny as swift as pistol-fire. The Calverly-Calhouns are born quick on the trigger.

  “Aha! Yes. She’s diplomatic, Consuelo is. I’m told the nuns read love- letters, and that’s not decent — no more decent than it would be for me to employ Consuelo with out your knowledge. I have hopes of Consuelo’s stocking, however, if you’ve no absolute objection! Of course, I give you my word I wouldn’t put anything into a letter to Jacqueline that shouldn’t pass a reasonable censor — but you know what nuns are.”

  Donna Isabella smiled — a wee bit mischievously, as old ladies may who are asked to forward love-affairs.

  “What do you think Don Andres would say, if he heard I ever contemplated permitting anything of the sort?”

  “Who cares what he’d say as long as he doesn’t know?” Calhoun answered with one of his contagious laughs. “Come now, Donna Isabella, you were young once, and I’ll bet you’ve been in love! Haven’t I been frank with you? Aren’t you going to lend a pair of surreptitious wings to Cupid? Jack Calhoun’s your worshiper for ever more if you’ll help him this once!”

  “Don Andres would never forgive me.”

  “No need. He’ll never know.”

  “Have you brought the letter with you?”

  He produced it, and Consuelo, watching through the bedroom window, saw it change hands. Donna Isabella sat still for several minutes, turning it over and over in her fingers. Fascinated — unable to wrench her gaze away — Consuelo saw the library door open, and then close again, as if Don Andres had seen, or overheard, and, after deciding to interrupt, had changed his mind.

  Donna Isabella heard the movement of the door, and took the hint. The letter went into her bosom. Jack Calhoun received his congé and was shown out by the footman. Donna Isabella went to the drawing-room, which Andres never visited if he could invent excuse for staying away, and five minutes later the footman came in search of Consuelo. On her way across the patio she passed Don Andres, but he gave her no inkling whether he knew what was going on or not. Nevertheless, the sight of him encouraged her.

  Donna Isabella, seated in shadow in the drawing-room, kept Consuelo waiting with the sun in her face for several minutes before she condescended to speak at last.

  “What do you mean by permitting Mr. Calverly-Calhoun to speak to Miss Jacqueline on her way to the convent?”

  Consuelo did not answer. If she had spoken she would have rebelled; she held her tongue by a miracle.

  “You have nothing to say? What do you mean by spying through a bedroom window all the time I was talking to Mr. Calverly-Calhoun?”

  Absolute silence. No answer was possible, unless Consuelo chose to deny the fact or to be openly insolent. She would do neither. She merely hung on — clung to her faith in Don Andres and stood there, looking almost as miserable as she felt.

  “If Don Andres were not so ill, I would report you to him.” Donna Isabella paused between her sentences like an inquisitor selecting new implements of torture. “You have been careless and unfaithful. If Don Andres knew—”

  Consuelo bit her lip — on the verge of rebellion — or tears, she hardly knew which.

  “ — but he must not know, for the present. Now you needn’t look sullen at me; I am not going to discharge you.”

  Another pause — another long keen scrutiny. And then:

  “I understand that you promised Mr. Calverly-Calhoun to take a letter to Miss Jacqueline.”

  No answer, but a little jerkily defiant nod. Donna Isabella had a definite purpose behind the morning’s course of cruelty; she was demanding tears as evidence of good faith. Better for Consuelo to break down and have done with it!

  “If you were not an old and trusted servant I would deal more harshly with you. Are you not ashamed to have so abused the confidence we have always placed in you?”

  Donna Isabella was as near the end of her resources now as Consuelo was. Unless Consuelo were humbled, repentant, ashamed, she could not use her. She was growing really angry, but disguised it with an effort, forcing her voice to seem almost kind.

  “I should have though that after all these years your affection for Miss Jacqueline would have been more faithful.”

  That did it! It was anger, but it served. Poor Consuelo burst into tears of indignation — rage — contempt — rebellion; flung herself on her knees and buried her face in an armchair. And Donna Isabella, smiling to herself, put her own interpretation on it all.

  “There, there now, Consuelo. If you’re sorry, I’ll forgive you.”

  Sorry? Consuelo? She bit the chair to keep brimstone Spanish execration in.

  “Come, come, Consuelo. If you’re sorry it can possibly be mended. Sit up now and listen to me.”

  Never — not once in fourteen years — had Donna Isabella spoken half so kindly, and it enraged Consuelo all the more, for she was not an animal, to be first beaten and then tamed. But her natural Spanish shrewdness came to her rescue. Donna Isabella must need something and need it badly. So Consuelo went on sobbing.

  “Come now, Consuelo. Sit up and stop crying, and we’ll see what can be done.”

  Tears — idle tears — and rapt attention! Hands over ears, but lots of room between Consuelo’s fingers to let words filter through!

  “The harm’s done now. We must make the best of it. Above all, in his present state of health, we must keep any scandal from Don Andres.”

  Nothing new about that! So another paroxysm of sobs and moans, interpreted by Donna Isabella as signs of panicky fear of her brother. She permitted herself another of her thin rare smiles.

  “Come now, listen to me, Consuelo.” She need not have worried. Consuelo was all ears. “You have promised to take the letter. We can’t break promises, especially when they’re made to people of the standing of Mr. Calverly-Calhoun. Besides, if you don’t take the letter, I’m afraid he’ll grow impetuous and perhaps do something we would all regret.”

  An old servant is either a consummate actress, or out of work. Consuelo let herself come slowly out of the weeping spell, consenting to sit on a chair at last, but using tears and handkerchief enough to hide her real emotion. So it was as simple as all that! She could have laughed into the handkerchief! Jack Calhoun had seen the key to Jacqueline and seized it — had he? Had he? Did Donna Isabella really think she could hoodwink an old nurse?

  “We can’t expect a young girl like Jacqueline not to lose her head over her first lo
ve-affair, Consuelo. You may take her the letter, but you must talk to her and warn her not to do anything rash.”

  More handkerchief. So that was it! She was to take a letter to turn a poor innocent’s head, and then put thoughts of rashness into the same young head by preaching against it.

  “I am agreeing to this, as much as anything to save your face, Consuelo.”

  The face went into the handkerchief, red and confused.

  “I am going to count on you to be extremely circumspect and tactful.”

  Quite right. Depend on it! Consuelo nodded vehemently over the handkerchief, both hands holding it tightly to her face.

  “You must impress on Miss Jacqueline the absolute necessity for keeping all this from Don Andres. He would be furious, and the shock might kill him.”

  More nods. Consuelo’s black chignon bobbed to and fro like the top-knot on a mechanical mandarin.

  “You must contrive to manage this without a scandal. Of course, when Don Andres learns that Miss Jacqueline is in love with Mr. Calhoun, he will give his consent, I suppose. I don’t see how he can withhold it after all this clandestine business. So distasteful to him, Consuelo. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that before you let it go so far. However, now it’s too late to remedy that, we must consider Miss Jacqueline, and not break her heart as well as his. My own heart was broken at a very early age, Consuelo. It was the fault of my parents. They interfered, exactly as Don Andres would be likely to. I could not endure to see Jacqueline’s heart broken as mine was, and her whole life blighted.”

  More tears into the handkerchief; then at last orderly, dutiful, controlled words, cautiously emitted between sobs:

  “I will be careful and obedient, Donna Isabella!”

  Truthful Consuelo! Careful! She would fight to keep young Calverly- Calhoun away from Jacqueline as she-wolf never fought for cub! Obedient? Watch her! She would take the letter — to the convent! She was jealous of the convent sisters — Yes, she would certainly take the letter.

  “When, Donna Isabella?”

  “Next week, when Don Andres sends the usual flowers and candy will be time enough.”

  CHAPTER 5.

  “Put not your trust in princes, Jacqueline.”

  There were hours, especially during the first few days after her return, when it seemed to Jacqueline that in the convent she had Desmio for her very own even more than when she was under his roof and able to see him constantly. For in the convent there was no Donna Isabella to make acrid comments and to interrupt her day-dreams with bitter fault-finding.

  From the Sister Superior down to the darky gardener, they all knew Desmio and loved him. He had left his imprint on the place — windows for instance, in the chapel, and the big bronze bell. And he had promised to come to see her, so there was always that to look forward to, which took the drag out of routine.

  Not that the life was irksome; far from it. Don Andres being her guardian and sponsor, Jacqueline received no definitely better treatment than the other girls, except that she was one of the few who had a single bedroom; but there was always an indefinite, and very pleasant suggestion that much was expected of her.

  There was no loneliness; almost never a moment’s solitude. No girls were allowed to wander alone, or even in pairs, among the trees and well shrubbed acres within the wall, there was always a sister in attendance on every group, whose presence grew to seem as natural as did the absence of anything really reprehensible.

  No definitely better treatment; but indefinitely — yes. For it was well understood that Jacqueline was destined for high places, and young girls are at least as shrewd as their elders. There was keen competition to make friends with her, with an eye to the future. The flattery might have turned her head, if she had not been reared by a man who understood and scorned ever subterfuge of that stuff. She undoubtedly lorded it a little.

  And she was good to see, in the neat blue convent dress, that could not hide a line of her young figure, or a graceful movement. Dancing was a part of the convent regimen, and there were private lessons by a visiting professional for those whose talent was worth cultivating. At Don Andres’ request, Jacqueline had learned old Spanish dances, and since she would rather please him than anything else she could conceive of, she had thrown her heart into it, with the result that she walked as rhythmically as the poets sing; and the rest was sweetness, happiness, health and day-dreams.

  For in a convent such as that one, what life may turn out to be after leaving is a dream not quite distinguishable from a pictured heaven. One could make magnificent conjectures, fairy prince or prancing horse included, with the saints to draw from and the stories of the saints to pattern human conduct by.

  Jacqueline was not so afraid of Jack Calhoun from within the convent walls. And she did not think of Donna Isabella, lest suggestions of a tail and cloven hoofs should cause embarrassment and lead to irksome penances. The subject of Jack Calhoun leaked out in a recreation hour and rather thrilled her. There were girls who had witnessed the scene in church on Easter Sunday, and of all the rapturously fascinating, irrepressible and newsy themes in a convent, none can hold a candle to a love-affair.

  Handsome Jack Calhoun! Young — wealthy, or so reputed — lord of a great plantation, with estates in Cuba, too, good family — horseman — with a reputation for gaiety that had reached young ears well filtered —

  “Jacqueline, do tell — what did he say when he gave you the flowers?”

  “Jacqueline, dear — does he — does he write to you?”

  “Tell us all about it. We’re simply crazy to hear!”

  But Desmio had taught the art of self-command, and Donna Isabella’s jealousy had bitten the teaching home. Jacqueline was not to be surprised into embarrassing admissions. And then Sister Michaela, wanting to know what the talk was all about, approached the group under the trees without seeming to cloak vigilance.

  “What is the joke, Jacqueline?”

  “I’ll tell you if you like.”

  It was Sister Michaela’s business to be told things. Except when she was ringing the convent bell, the chief excuse for her existence was that gift of hers for winning confidence.

  She drew Jacqueline aside, and had the whole story of Jack Calhoun in two minutes, asking only three deft questions in a voice that would have coaxed out serpents from the sea, it was so bell-like and sympathetic.

  “Have you spoken to him alone?”

  “No, Sister Michaela, I don’t know why, but he frightens me. I’m not afraid of any of the other men I meet.”

  “Have you talked about him to any one?”

  “Only to Consuelo.”

  “Does Don Andres know anything of this?”

  “No — or I don’t think so. Donna Isabella and Consuelo said I mustn’t tell him because of his ill-health. I wish I might tell him. Desmio always knows just what to do about everything.”

  Sister Michaela diagnosed much deeper than the surface, and her words went promptly to the very roots of what she saw:

  “Don’t take it seriously, Jacqueline. Don’t believe too much. Remember this: Other people are not all as tender-hearted, and credulous as you are. They don’t always say what they mean or always believe what they pretend to believe. As long as you know your own mind, and are good, you can afford to laugh at any one’s unwelcome attentions.”

  “Consuelo told me to look daggers at him!” laughed Jacqueline.

  “You?”

  Sister Michaela smiled, and Jacqueline’s frown appeared. She rather resented the suggestion that she could not look ferocious if she tried. From under her white bandeau, Sister Michaela watched the frown as if it were plain writing by a moving finger in a language that she understood.

  “Put not your trust in princes, Jacqueline,” she said at last. “Some of them are frauds, and some are weak. Always trust your own intuition. That’s the Blessed Virgin’s voice that warns you.”

  Good advice, but not quite comforting. There was something ominous about
it, as if Sister Michaela had foreseen dark events. She went off to toll the bell, leaving Jacqueline feeling rather depressed; but perhaps that was intended, since advice that leaves no sting is all the easier forgotten.

  “Does she mean Desmio is the prince I should not trust?” Jacqueline wondered, and the frown vanished, as she threw that thought away, dismissed it, scorned it too utterly to waste displeasure on it. But she remembered Sister Michaela’s words, and pondered them all through the French lesson, so that she had to be reprimanded for inattention; and if it had not been that a dancing lesson followed that she might have pondered them all day. But there was nothing ponderous or ominous about dancing, and it banished every consideration except high spirits and an appetite. When Sister Michaela tolled the bell for dinner there was nothing in Jacqueline’s mood but laughter and a yearning for beef and vegetables; the future, insofar as it existed in her thoughts, was foreshortened to one day ahead, when she would have been back a week and Desmio would probably drive over in the limousine with his usual offering of candy for herself and flowers for the chapel altar.

  Desmio! What on earth did she care for princes, as long as he came once a week! But the next day it was Consuelo, and not Desmio, who came. Consuelo was ushered into the great quiet drawing-room, where all guests were received, and was kept waiting there until she could interview the Sister Superior before Jacqueline was sent for. The request in itself was surprising, for Consuelo was well known at the convent and usually Jacqueline was brought straight to her and allowed to talk with her alone for half an hour. Consuelo strutted down the corridor fuming, bobbed her curtsey at the threshold, collapsed into becoming humility, was smiled at and addressed by name, bobbed her curtsey again and laid a sealed envelope on the desk.