The Marquis de Carvajal, like many Spanish noblemen of the time, had been profoundly influenced by contact with Naples, and he had laid out his garden with Italian or Sicilian models in mind. Something of Capri, something of Palermo, mingled in its general atmosphere and pattern. There was the same use of terraces, to which the hilly character of Jaen lent itself; the same billowing darkness of foliage—laurel and rhododendron, ferns and ivy—forming a screen that surrounded and isolated it. Along the center, an occasional pool reflected the guardian cypresses, and there were side paths leading to green bays, over which a moss-grown Pan or sat)T presided. The small dome of a pavilion, half-glimpsed from the palace, rose among the trees; the walls of the terraces were draped with vines, so that masonry, softened by vegetation, gave an impression of luxuriant age.
In the hour after sunset, the garden released its fragrance on the
cooler air—the haunting fragrance of orange blossoms mingling with other flowers—as if it wooed the descent of night. Color faded from the sky; dim stars became suddenly visible; and the moon, which had already risen, proclaimed itself. The lonely diapason of frogs in the remoter pools grew louder.
Senora Hernandez and Luisa lingered awhile on the terrace, leaning against the marble balustrade, then strolled down the steps, and so gradually farther on between the cypresses. It was the usual proceeding after supper. No palace servant, however inquisitive, would pay heed to them.
"Just when is nightfall?" asked Luisa, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"When it gets dark," replied Antonia, "like it is now. . . . Why?"
"We wrote him to come at nightfall."
"Yes, and I'm sure he's here already."
They were approaching the far end of the garden. Luisa stopped.
"Already? Then oughtn't we—?"
"Certainly not. You wouldn't have him think that you were counting the moments, would you? He must be kept waiting. He must begin to wonder, despair."
Antonia was more than a little thrilled herself. Gallantry was exciting; it was the one really exciting thing in life. As an expert, she enjoyed all the finesse, all the strategy of love.
"In an hour will be time enough."
"A whole hour?"
"Not a minute less." Antonia slipped her arm around the girl's waist. "I know how it is, Primacita. But trust me, nothing helps so much as to keep a man in doubt—never quite sure. Besides, we must wait for the moon if you want him to admire you. We'll go to the pavilion and you can practise your Italian songs. That'll pass the time."
"I couldn't!"
"For two reasons, you must practise them," Seiiora Hernandez added. "You'll be heard in the palace, and they'll know what you were doing if the Marquis should happen to ask. He'll remember about the songs. Then too, someone else may hear you, my rose. You sing quite well."
The lane outside the garden wandered between high walls covered with moss and overtopped by vines. It was unfrequented at this hour, and silent except for the rustle of an occasional lizard. Darkness came on more rapidly here than elsewhere, but even so it was not entirely dark when Pedro de Vargas posted himself opposite the gate.
He too was uncertain as to what had been meant by nightfall—perhaps late afternoon or dusk or night itself—and he took no chances. After the endless, languishing day, it was a relief to get to the lane as soon as possible. Now, muffled in his cloak, like a shadowy projection of the wall behind him, he stood consumed by a slow fire of expectation and impatience.
Though he did not realize it, his state of mind was partly conventional. It was the proper thing for lovers to wait and pine, to haunt the night, discreetly muffled in their cloaks. Tradition dem.anded it. But there was more to his vigil than this. Youth's vague idealism, colored by desire, had been brought for the first time to a burning focus. He might act like any one of a thousand lovelorn cavaliers; but yesterday morning's experience in the church, the ray of light, the upflaring of his heart toward the beauty and grace of Luisa de Carvajal, were personal and uncopied.
Twilight became night—so dense a blackness that even his cloak was indistinguishable. Between the walls of the lane, the air lay close and heavy with the cloying perfume of flowers. As long as he lived, the scent of orange blossoms would immediately recall that hour to liim. Once or twice people with lanterns entered the lane, and he strolled to meet them so that they would not find him opposite the Carvajal gate. Moreover, he had not entirely forgotten his father's warning or the events of yesterday. But for the most part, he stood motionless in a waking dream.
Not until the darkness faded and moonlight silvered the top branches of trees beyond the gate did he begin to have misgivings. This was certainly nightfall, and he had been waiting a long time.
The moon grew brighter until, through the ironwork of the gate, he could see the path and space of lawn surrounded by the laurels. It had the mystery and suspense of an empty stage. Perhaps the letter had only been sent in fun. Perhaps Luisa had no intention of appearing. Perhaps she was am.using herself at this very moment with the thought of him and his foolish expectation. After all, he had been guilty of too extravagant a hope that the daughter of a grandee would condescend to unworthy clay like himself.
And now the minutes crawled past, each one emptier and more disquieting. The moonlight spent itself in vain. She would not come. He was a pathetic fool.
Suddenly a distant lute broke the silence with ripples of sound, and a voice rose somewhere from beyond the trees. By contrast with the preceding quiet, it was abruptly sweet, like the tones of a nightingale. Pedro recognized the melody as an Italian air which his sister often
sang. He knew it so well that he could distinguish the words. They were by his mother's countryman, Lorenzo de' Medici.
"Quanf e hella giovinezza che si fugge tuttavia! chi vuol esser lieto, sia . . "
The recent blankness was gone. Her voice! It must be hers . . .
"Youth is sweet, a fount upwelling, Though it slips away! Let who will be gay: Of tomorrow there's no telling.
"Bacchus, Ariadne, playing,
Lip to lip and heart to heart. Make the most of time a-Maying, Never roam apart.
"Nymphs and other silvan creatures Frolic at their play. Let who will be gay: Of tomorrow there's no telling."
Silence again, but this time vibrant; the rhythm of the song continuing soundlessly after the music had stopped. He waited breathless, the refrain echoing in his mind—"of tomorrow there's no telling."
Perhaps this was all he could expect: she could find no other way to keep the tryst with him—her voice in the night, a song, a greeting. Or was it more than that—a half-promise "Of tomorrow there's no telling"? If that was her meaning, he would return here and wait tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He stood with one hand on the gate, peering into the moonlit circle beyond.
So tranced he was that Luisa de Garvajal had crossed halfway between the laurels and the gate before he was aware of her. Or rather, she seemed at first a thought picture, vague and steeped in moonlight, out of which she appeared to take form. The silver brocade of her dress and the pallor of her face against the black of the mantilla helped this effect. Then he recovered his senses only to lose them again completely.
She was here; it was not a vision.
He had prepared and rehearsed a fine opening speech, which seemed to him polished and poetic; but he could not recall a syllable of it,
Mental panic seized him. He could only stare hypnotized through tht grille of the gate.
Luisa felt equally confused. Being a girl, she could have acquitted herself well enough if he had spoken; as it was, she came to a helpless stop a few feet off. The dim figure of Antonia Hernandez in the background did not relieve matters.
At last desperately he whispered, "Buenas noches, senorita."
"Buenas noches, sefiorf'
Then nothing. She expected eloquence, romance. He knew that she expected them. What had happened to him? It wasn't the first time he had met a girl. U
sually he was as fluent as the next man.
In his embarrassment, he straightened his arm against the bar of the grillework, which he was holding, and was startled that the gate swung open. Evidently it had been left unbolted. More dashed than ever, he closed it again sharply between them and muttered an excuse.
"I didn't know it was unlocked."
"I didn't either."
In the shadow of the laurels, Seiiora Hernandez smiled. She had done what she could. If the two young dunces didn't take advantage of the gate, there was no help for them. But giving them every chance, she now recklessly moved from sight, though remaining close enough behind the shrubbery.
'T heard you sing," Pedro faltered. "It was beautiful."
She murmured something, and he cast about for the next remark. Appalling as had been last night's interview with the Inquisitor, it was easy compared to this.
"Very beautiful."
"Did you really think so?"
"Yes."
In his prepared speech, there had been references to Cupid and holy water and Luisa's letter; there were flowery compliments and passionate avowals. That was all in ruins. He couldn't piece any of it together in a way that wouldn't sound sillier than his present woodenness.
"I know the song very well. You see, Mother's a Florentine."
"Really?"
"Yes. My sister, Mercedes, sings it."
Why, in God's name, was he talking about his mother and sister now!
He staggered on. "But not like you—nothing like." And on the point of running down again, "Quant' e hella giovinezza!"
"Do you sing?"
"No—that is, pretty badly. A ballad sometimes."
At this point he became aware that the duenna had disappeared. Somehow it made a difference. His tenseness relaxed, his blood warmed again, and thought began flowing. But he did not want to revive the speech he had rehearsed so often that day. It did not seem to fit in now.
"You were kind to send me the letter," he said, a new ring in his voice. "I never dreamed ... It was like a miracle. After seeing you in church. I had been praying to San Pedro and the Blessed Virgin. But I never dreamed . . . Since then I've been thinking of you every minute." His hand strayed to his doublet. "I have it here," he went on, pressing the paper against his heart. "I know every word of it as well as the Pater Noster."
She drew a step nearer, her own shyness melting a little. This was what she had imagined it would be—not quite, indeed, because Cousin Antonia had said that he would talk poetically, and his words were very simple, but she had never heard any like them.
"San Pedro and the Blessed Virgin, senor?"
"Yes."
Forgetting himself, intent only that she should feel what it had meant to him, he told her about the ray of sunlight. She listened with parted lips.
"And then I knew. I knew, whether you cared for me or not, that I would always be your cavalier. It was the will of heaven for me; it meant heaven for me. I shall always serve you, always adore you, seek honor in your name. And perhaps sometime I might be worthy . . . No, not that, but still you might care for me—sometime."
Yes, now it was everything that she had imagined it would be, and more—much more.
"Why?" she breathed. "Why do you care for me?"
Why! Blessed saints! As he looked at her, the answer to that question was inexpressible. She was incarnate moonlight; she was desire and worship and beauty, ethereal and yet warm and living.
He could only answer, "Because I love you."
The benevolent gate once more opened under the stress of his emotion, but this time he did not close it. Antonia Hernandez need not have worried: he and Luisa were learning fast without a tutor.
Amazing that a girl like her should forget decorum at such a moment. Instead of showing alarm or displeasure that the gate remained open when propriety demanded bars between them, she moved closer, so that they stood face to face.
"But you don't know me. How can you be sure?"
Approaching footsteps sounded in the lane, a murmur of voices.
"Ay Maria!" she whispered. "Quick! Come inside—they'll see you." He shut the gate softly behind him, and they stood close together within the wall, while the footsteps passed. Her nearness, the fragrance of her dress, the silence as they waited, set his pulses throbbing. Her mantilla, slipping a little, showed the sparkle of her jeweled hair net in the moonlight and the wave of her hair.
When the passers-by were gone, he kneeled suddenly and raised her hand to his lips.
On a low stone bench within the bay of lawn and to one side of the gate, she listened while he poured himself out in the high-flown style of Andalusian lovers. The words flowed of themselves, urgent, vibrant. She listened, but was conscious too of a strange fermentation in her own mind, as if a new order of life and thought were beginning. It struck her that until now she had never possessed anything of her own; that she had been like a doll in the hands of other people. But now the doll in the silver brocade and jeweled hair net was coming to life, was taking possession of herself.
He told her about France, the invitation from Bayard. He would not have her think of him as a local stay-at-home. He would make himself worthy to be her cavalier,
"When do you go?" she asked, trying to keep the droop out of her voice.
"In autumn, Madonna." He added gallantly, "With your leave."
She counted rapidly. Two months of evenings—evenings like this.
"My father says that Monseigneur de Bayard loves tournaments," he went on. "The thought of you will give me strength. If I win, the credit and prize will be yours."
"They say that French ladies are beautiful," she put in lightly, though all at once she hated the thought of them.
"Perhaps." He had become an adept in the last ten minutes. "How shall I be able to tell? You have made me blind to them."
Half-seated on the bench, he slipped again to one knee.
"Will you give me a token. Madonna, some favor to wear? It would be my saint's relic and bring me fortune. Forgive me for asking. I know that it is too much to ask."
Even Antonia Hernandez could have found nothing to improve in his manner. The hour had changed him as well as Luisa; he was not the same youth who had entered the lane.
Luisa felt caught up and swept along by a current too swift for coquetries and delays. Somehow his earnestness did not permit them.
Without hesitation, she gave him her handkerchief, a tiny scrap of cambric edged with Venetian lace. It was perfumed with rose water and had the softness of a rose, as he pressed it to his lips.
"I wish I had something better to give you, Pedro de Vargas."
Better? If he had received the Golden Fleece at the hands of the King, it would not have meant half so much. His brain reeled with happiness and pride. She had accepted him, she permitted him to call himself hers. Now there was no difficulty on earth so arduous that he could not overcome it for her; no prize so lofty that he could not win it for her. The hot blood pounded in his ears; his imagination soared like a released falcon. To express himself was impossible. When he spoke, his voice seemed strange to him.
"I will give my life for you. I would give my soul for you."
A discreet cough sounded beyond the laurels, and he regained his feet as the Seiiora Hernandez reappeared.
"Tomorrow night?" he whispered. "Every night, I'll be in the lane."
He could barely hear the answer. ''Si, cuando puedo."
He bowed to Antonia.
"Vaya!" she said archly. "Is it the custom of gentlemen to enter gates and to forget the proper distance?"
He appeared startled. "It is enchantment, senora. I did not know that I had passed the gate."
"Not bad!" she approved. "I see that you're a charming liar." And to Luisa, "We must go in, Primacita. There are lights moving in the palace. Your father must have returned."
Still dazed, still half-incredulous of his happiness, Pedro wandered back through the town, heedless of the cobblestones and turn
ings of the streets. The years stretched before him in a haze of gold, a limitless horizon. With love inspiring him, he could do everything—everything!
Not far from his house, a dark figure detached itself from a doorway, and at once he was on guard.
"Pedro de Vargas?" hissed a voice.
"Yes."
"I am Manuel Perez, Gatana's brother—he of the prison."
It took an instant's effort to remember.
"Yes?"
"You saved my sister from de Silva's men. I am not one who forgets. I have been here for an hour, hoping to head you off."
What was the fellow driving at?
"Head me off? "
"You must not go to the Casa de Vargas. It's a trap. They're waiting for you."
Clearly the man was crazy. "Who's waiting for me?"
"Those of the Holy Office. They have taken your father, mother, and sister to the Castle. With my own eyes, I saw them brought in. I heard the talk about you. Then I got away, though it would cost my head—"
"The Castle? The Holy Office?"
"Yes. Get out to the Rosario. Catana will help. You must take to the mountains. It's your only chance."
Kill
In the hot darkness, Pedro stared at the almost invisible face close to him. His mind, suddenly numb, refused to act.
After a long moment, he stammered: "I'm sorry, friend. I don't understand. What did you say about the Holy Office?"
Manuel Perez repeated the incredible news. Even on a second hearing, it filtered but slowly into Pedro's consciousness. His father, Francisco de Vargas, arrested! One of the town's leading citizens, a famous man, dragged to prison! Pedro's mother and sister taken! The family house seized and already occupied by strangers, who were waiting to lay hands on Pedro himself! At a single blast, the solid world of his entire experience seemed to be blown to fragments.
Perez gripped his shoulder. "Your Worship has no time to lose. You can get down by the east wall. Come on. Hurry! I'm due at the Castle."
Docilely, as if in a trance, Pedro suffered himself to be led on for a short distance, until at last the complete realization of what had happened struck him and he shook off the other's grasp.
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