THE TOREADOR APPEARS
Slowly, with a gesture almost subconscious, Benton slipped an unopened
envelope from his breast pocket; turned it over; looked at it and
slipped it back, still unopened. Then, leaning heavily on his elbow, he
gazed off, frowning, over the rail of the yacht's forward deck.
The waters that lap the quays and wharves of Old Cadiz, green as jade
and quiet as farm-yard pools, were darkening into inkiness toward shore.
White walls that had been like ivory were turning into ashy gray behind
the _Bateria San Carlos_ and the pillars of the _Entrada_. The molten
sun was sinking into a rich orange sky beyond the Moorish dome and
Christian towers of the cathedral.
Shafts of red and green wavered and quaked in the black dock waters.
Between the hulks of cork- and salt-freighters, the steam yacht _Isis_
slipped with as graceful a motion as that of the gulls. Then when the
anchor chains ran gratingly out, Benton turned on his heel and went to
his cabin.
Behind a bolted door he dropped into a chair and sat motionless. Finally
the right hand wandered mechanically to his breast pocket and brought
out the envelope. He read for the thousandth time the endorsement in the
corner.
"Not to be opened until the evening of March 5th," and under that, "I
love you."
There was another envelope; an outer one much rubbed from the pocket. It
was directed in her hand and the blurred postmark bore a date in
February. He could have described every mark upon the enclosing cover
with the precision of a careful detective. When his impatient fingers
had first torn off the end, only to be confronted by the order: "Not to
be opened until the evening of March 5th," he had fallen back on
studying outward marks and indications. In the first place, it had been
posted from Puntal, and instead of the familiar violet stamp of
Maritzburg, with which her other letters had been franked during the two
months past, this stamp was pink, and its medallion bore the profile of
Karyl.
That she had left Maritzburg, and that she had written him a message to
be sealed for a month, meant that the date of March 5th had
significance. That she was in Galavia meant that the significance
was--he winced.
On the calendar of a bronze desk-set, the first four days of March were
already cancelled. Now, taking up a blue pencil, he crossed off the
number five. After that he looked at his watch. It wanted one minute of
six. He held the timepiece before him while the second-hand ticked its
way once around its circle, then with feverish impatience he tore the
end from the envelope.
Benton's face paled a little as he drew out the many pages covered with
a woman's handwriting, but there was no one to see that or to notice the
tremor of his fingers.
For a moment he held the pages off, seeing only the "Dearest" at the
top, and the wild way the pen had raced, forming almost shapeless
characters.
"Dearest," she said in part, "I write now because I must turn to
someone--because my heart must speak or break. All day I must smile as
befits royalty, and act as befits one whose part is written for her.
Unless there be an outlet, there must be madness. I have enclosed this
envelope in another and enjoined you not to read it until March 5th.
Then it will be too late for you to come to me. If you came to-night,
you would find me hurrying out to meet you and to surrender. Duty would
so gladly lay down its arms to Love, dear, and desert the fight.
"To-night I have slipped away from the uniforms, the tawdry mockery of a
puppet court, to find the pitiful comfort of rehearsing my heart-ache
to you, who own my heart. In my life here every hour is mapped, and I
seem to move from cell to cell. So many obsequious jailers who call
themselves courtiers stand about and seem to watch me, that I feel as if
I had to ask permission to draw my breath. Out in the narrow streets of
this little picture town, I see dark-skinned, bare-footed girls. Some of
them carry skins of wine on their heads. All of them are poor. They also
are gloriously free. As they pass the palace, they look up enviously,
and I, from the inside, look out enviously. I know how Richard of the
Lion Heart felt when he was a prisoner in France, only I have not the
comfort of a Lion Heart, and it is not written in the book of things
that you shall pass outside and hear my harp--and rescue me.... One
little taste of liberty I give myself. It caused a terrible battle at
first, but I was stubborn and told them that if I was going to be Queen
I was going to do just what I wanted, and that if they didn't like it,
they could get some other girl to be Queen, so of course they let me....
There is an old half-forgotten roadway walled in on both sides that runs
through the town from this horrible palace to the woods upon the
mountain. There is some sort of foolish legend that in the old days the
Kings used to go by this protected road to a high point called Look-out
Rock, and stand there where they could see pretty much all of this
miserable little Kingdom and a great deal of the Mediterranean besides.
No one uses it now except me; but I do as often as I can steal away. I
dress in old clothes and take the little Inca god with me and no one
knows us. We slip off among the bowlders and pine trees where the view
is wonderful, and as his godship presides on a moss-covered rock and I
sit on the carpet of pine needles, he gives me advice. Somewhere in
these woods crowds of children live. They are very shy, and for a long
time looked at me wonderingly from big liquid eyes, but now I have made
friends with them and they come and sit around me in a circle and make
me tell them fairy stories....
"Once, dear, I was strong enough to say 'no' to you. Twice I could not
be."
The reader paused and scowled at the wall with set jaws.
"But when you read this, almost three thousand miles away, there will be
only a few days between me and (it is hard to say it) the marriage and
the coronation. He is to be crowned on the same day that we are married.
Then I suppose I can't even write what is in my heart."
Benton rose and paced the narrow confines of the cabin. Suddenly he
halted. "Even under sealed orders," he mused slowly, "one may dispose of
three thousand miles. They, at least, are behind." A countenance
somewhat drawn schooled its features into normal expressionlessness, as
a few moments afterward he rose to open the door in response to a
rapping outside.
As the door swung in a smile came to Benton's face: the first it had
worn since that night when he had taken leave of Hope.
"You, Blanco!" he exclaimed. "Why, _hombre_, the anchor is scarce down.
You are prompt!"
The physically superb man who stood at the threshold smiled. The gleam
of perfect teeth accentuated the swarthy olive of his face and the crisp
jet of his hair. His brown eyes twinkled good-humoredly. Jaw, neck and
broad shoulders declared strength, while the slenderness of waist and
thigh hinted of grace--a hint that every movement vindicated. It was the
grace of the bull-fighter, to whom awkwardness would mean death.
"I had your letter. It was correctly directed--Manuel Blanco, _Calle
Isaac Peral_." The Spaniard smiled delightedly. "When one is once more
to see an old friend, one does not delay. How am I? Ah, it is good of
the _Señor_ to ask. I do well. I have retired from the _Plaza de Toros_.
I busy myself with guiding parties of _touristos_ here and abroad--and
in the collection and sale of antiques. But this time, what is your
enterprise or pleasure, _Señor_? What do you in Spain?"
"My business in Spain," replied Benton slowly, "is to get out of Spain.
After that I don't know. Will you go and take chances of anything that
might befall? I sent for you to ask you whether you have leisure to
accompany me on an enterprise which may involve danger. It's only fair
to warn you."
Blanco laughed. "Who reads _mañana_?" he demanded, seating himself on
the edge of the table, and busying his fingers with the deft rolling of
a cigarette. "The _toreador_ does not question the Prophets. I am at
your disposition. But the streets of Cadiz await us. Let us talk of it
all over the _table d'hôte_."
An hour later found the two in the _Calle Duke de Tetuan_, blazing with
lights like a jeweler's show-case.
The narrow fissure between its walls was aflow with the evening current
of promenaders, crowding its scant breadth, and sending up a medley of
laughter and musical sibilants. Grandees strolled stiffly erect with
long capes thrown back across their left shoulders to show the brave
color of velvet linings. Young dandies of army and navy, conscious of
their multi-colored uniforms, sifted along through the press, toying
with rigidly-waxed mustaches and regarding the warm beauty of their
countrywomen through keen, appreciative eyes, not untinged with
sensuousness. Here and there a common _hombre_ in short jacket, wide,
low-crowned _sombrero_ and red sash, zig-zagged through the
pleasure-seekers to cut into a darker side street whence drifted pungent
whiffs of garlic, black olives and peppers from the stalls of the street
salad-venders. Occasionally a Moor in fez and wide-bagging trousers,
passed silently through the volatile chatter, looking on with jet eyes
and lips drawn down in an impervious dignity.
They found a table in one of the more prominent cafés from which they
could view through the plate-glass front the parade in the street, as
well as the groups of coffee-sippers within.
"Yonder," prompted Blanco, indicating with his eyes a near-by group, "he
with the green-lined cape, is the Duke de Tavira, one of the richest men
in Spain--it is on his estate that they breed the bulls for the rings of
Cadiz and Seville. Yonder, quarreling over politics, are newspaper men
and Republicans. Yonder, artists." He catalogued and assorted for the
American the personalities about the place, presuming the curiosity
which should be the tourist's attribute-in-chief.
"And at the large table--yonder under the potted palms, and
half-screened by the plants--who are they?" questioned Benton
perfunctorily. "They appear singularly engrossed in their talk."
"Assume to look the other way, _Señor_, so they will not suspect that
we speak of them," cautioned the Andalusian. "I dare say that if one
could overhear what they say, he could sell his news at his own price.
Who knows but they may plan new colors for the map of Southern Europe?"
Benton's gaze wandered over to the table in question, then came
uninquisitively back to Blanco's impassive face. It took more than
European politics to distract him.
"International intrigue?" he inquired.
The eyes of the other were idly contemplating the street windows, and as
he talked he did not turn them toward the men whom he described.
Occasionally he looked at Benton and then vacantly back to the street
parade, or the red end of his own cigarette.
"There is a small, and, in itself, an unimportant Kingdom with
Mediterranean sea-front, called Galavia," said Blanco. Benton's start
was slight, and his features if they gave a telltale wince at the word
became instantly casual again in expression. But his interest was no
longer forced by courtesy. It hung from that moment fixed on the
narrative.
"Ah, I see the _Señor_ knows of it," interpolated Blanco. "The tall man
with the extremely pale face and the singularly piercing eye who sits
facing us,"--Blanco paused,--"is the Duke Louis Delgado. He is the
nephew of the late King of Galavia, and if--" the Spaniard gave an
expressive shrug, and watched the smoke ring he had blown widen as it
floated up toward the ceiling--"if by any chance, or mischance, Prince
Karyl, who is to be crowned at Puntal three days hence, should be called
to his reward in heaven, the gentleman who sits there would be crowned
King of Galavia in his stead."