Captain from Castile (11 page)

Faithful to the prearranged program, he now returned to the Corona, waited a suitable time for the merchant from Valencia, and left the prescribed note for him with the landlord. It was a ticklish business. If for any reason the Holy Office wished to lay hands on Dorotea Romero's rich relative, Pedro might be follo\ved. But so far as he could tell, this did not happen.

Having left the tavern, he plunged into a maze of crooked streets and headed for home, keeping very much on the alert. At a dark corner, a beggar suddenly loomed up, asking for alms in the name of God and calling him companero. He stopped.

"Juan Garcia?"

"What happened?" came the whisper.

"It's all right. He took the money and promised to free your mother day after tomorrow morning." Pedro gave a brief account of the interview.

"God bless you, friend!"

"What'll you do when she's released? How'll you get her out of Jaen and keep hidden yourself?"

"I'll arrange it somehow. You forget me whatever happens. You've more than done your part." The deep voice shook with feeling. 'T'U always remember it. I'd give my life's blood for you. Hurry on now."

There was a warm handclasp in the darkness; Garcia vanished, and Pedro, with a light heart, regained his house.

XIJ

Though to Luisa de Carvajal next day time seemed to stand still, she concealed her impatience. Even so shrewd an observer as the Senora Hernandez might have gathered that she was not especially excited by the prospect of the evening. Actually, however, she tingled with anticipation, and more than once in the course of the day she managed to slip out into the garden and follow a bypath, screened by oleanders, to a point where she could gaze speculatively at the grille of the side gate. Walls of laurel, forming a bay, half-concealed it from the rest of the garden. Here she would dream for a while before turning back to the palace.

At long last, the obstinate shadows of the cypresses, which had seemed nailed to the ground, began to lengthen. The sundial, with its absurd motto about the flight of time, showed that at least time moved. And the two ladies, who had been observing it on the terrace, went indoors to dress for late afternoon supper.

At the foot of the main stairway inside, they encountered the Marquis de Carvajal with a lackey bearing his cloak and sword. He was on the point of departure for an evening gathering at the Bishop's and wore his usual somberly rich dress, which set off the magnificent cross of the Knighthood of Santiago.

He was a middle-aged man with a square, gray beard that had the proper uptilt of distinction. His prominent dark eyes were languid with authority. Long ago, perhaps, he had been an individual; but as time passed he had become simply the Marquis de Carvajal, an incarnate title which had absorbed its owner. If he loved money and display, as people said, these were hardly characteristic traits: they went with his position.

Antonia Hernandez and Luisa curtsied; they received his bow and Luisa, in addition, a kiss on the forehead.

"Good night, my daughter. I am always chagrined at not seeing you

of an evening—but there are social duties. Tomorrow night I shall ask you to attend me with your lute. Meanwhile, practise an Italian song or two, and you will not miss me."

"I cannot help missing you, my lord," she answered with perfect modulation.

"That is only natural. Be sure you pray for me. She is regular in her prayers, Doiia Antonia?"

"Extremely devout, my lord."

"Muy bien! Good night."

He dismissed them with a graceful movement of the hand and passed on. Luisa continued upstairs, hardly conscious, because so used to it, of the empty feeling that her father left with her. Besides, it would be sunset in an hour; the thought eclipsed everything else.

Dressing took a long time that evening. It did not matter that it would be night when she and Pedro de Vargas met and that the grille of the gate would separate them. She selected one gown, then changed to another, reflecting that silver brocade showed best in moonlight. She plucked a rebellious hair from the perfect arch of her eyebrow, applied a touch of rose water to her cheeks, throat, and hands: again consulted the mirror. Her mantilla looked most becoming this way, as if it had slipped by chance, revealing the fillet of gems in her hair. The approach of evening heightened the soft pallor of her face and brought out in contrast the darkness of her almond-shaped eyes.

When she had finished, the sunset notes of birds sounded from the garden. She stood awhile at the window, half listening, gazing far off at the deepened sky. Then she rejoined Antonia.

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. Usually 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.