THE QUARRY
Sarrion called at the convent school of the Sisters of the True Faith the
next morning, and was informed through the grating that the school was in
Retreat.
"Even I, whose duty it is to speak to you, shall have to perform penance
for doing so," said the doorkeeper, in her soft voice through the bars.
"Then do an extra penance, my sister," returned Sarrion, "and answer
another question. Tell me if the Sor Teresa is within?"
"The Sor Teresa is at Pampeluna, and the Mother Superior is here in the
school herself. The Sor Teresa is only Sister Superior, you must know,
and is therefore subordinate to the Mother Superior."
Sarrion was a pleasant-spoken man, and a man of the world. He knew that
if a woman has something to tell of another she is not to be frightened
into silence by the whole Court of Cardinals and eke, the Pope of Rome
himself. So he drew his horse nearer to the forbidding wooden gate, and
did not ride away from it until he had gained some scraps of information
and saddled the lay sister with a burden of penances to last all through
the Retreat.
He learnt that his sister had been sent to Pampeluna, where the Sisters
of the True Faith conducted another school, much patronised by the poor
nobility of that priest-ridden city. He was made to understand, moreover,
that Juanita de Mogente had been given special opportunities for prayer
and meditation owing to an unchristian spirit of resentment and revenge,
which she had displayed on learning the Will of Heaven in regard to her
abandoned, and it was to be feared, heretic father.
"Which means, my sister?"
"That neither you nor any other in the world may see or speak to her--but
I must close the grille."
And the little shutter was sharply shut in Sarrion's face.
This was the beginning of a quest which, for a fortnight, continued
entirely fruitless. Evasio Mon it appeared was on a pilgrimage. Sor
Teresa had gone to Pampeluna. The inexorable gate of the convent school
remained shut to all comers.
Sarrion went to Pampeluna to see his sister, but came back without having
attained his object. Marcos took up the trail with a patient thoroughness
learnt at the best school--the school of Nature. He was without haste,
and expressed neither hope nor discouragement. But he realised more and
more clearly that Juanita was in genuine danger. By one or two moves in
this subtle warfare, Sarrion had forced his adversary to unmask his
defenses. Some of the obstructions behind which Juanita was now concealed
could scarcely have originated in chance.
Marcos had, in the course of his long antagonism against wolf or bear or
boar in the Central Pyrenees, more than once experienced that sharp shock
of astonishment and fear to which the big-game hunter can scarcely remain
indifferent when he finds himself opposed by an unmistakable sign of an
intelligence equal to his own or an instinct superior to it, subtly
meeting his subtle attack. This he experienced now, and knew that he
himself was being watched and his every action forestalled. The effect
was to make him the more dogged, the more cunning in his quest. Because
he knew that Juanita's cause was in competent hands, or for some other
reason, Sarrion withdrew from taking such an active part as heretofore.
His keen and careful eyes noted a change in Marcos. Juanita's
helplessness seemed to have aroused a steady determination to help her at
any cost. Weakness is an appeal that strength rarely resists.
It was Marcos who finally discovered an opportunity, and with
characteristic patience he sifted it, and organised a plan of action
before making anything known to his father.
"There is a service in the Cathedral of La Seo tomorrow evening," he
announced suddenly at midnight one night on his return from a long and
tiring day. "All the girls of the convent schools will be there."
"Ah!" said Sarrion, looking his son up and down with a speculative eye.
"Well?"
"My aunt... Sor Teresa... is likely to be there. She has returned to
Saragossa to-day. The Mother Superior--by the grace of God--has
indigestion. I have got a letter safely through to Sor Teresa. The
service is at seven o'clock. The Archbishop will go in procession round
the Cathedral to bless the people. The Cathedral is very dark. There will
be considerable confusion when the doors are opened and the people crowd
out. I have a few men--of the road, from the Posada de los Reyes--who
will add to the confusion under my instructions. I think if you help me
we can get Juanita separated from the rest. I will take her home and see
to it that she arrives at the school at the same time as the others. We
can arrange it, I think."
"Yes," answered Sarrion. "I have no doubt that we can arrange it."
And they sat far into the night, after the manner of conspirators,
discussing Marcos' plans, which were, like himself, quite simple and
direct.
The Cathedral of the Seo in Saragossa is one of the most ancient in
Spain, and bears in its architecture some resemblance to the Moorish
mosque that once stood on the same spot. It is a huge square building,
dimly lighted by windows set high up in the stupendous roof. The choir is
a square set down in the middle--a church within a Cathedral. There are
two principal entrances, one on the Plaza de la Seo, where the fountain
is, and where, in the sunshine, the philosophers of Saragossa sit and do
nothing from morn till eve. The other entrance is that which is known as
the grand portal, and with a wrong-headedness characteristic of the
Peninsular, it is situated in a little street where no man passes.
Marcos knew that the grand portal was used by the religious communities
and devout persons who came to church for the good motive, while those
who praised God that man might see them entered, and quitted the
Cathedral by the more public doorway on the Plaza. He knew also that the
convent schools took their station just within the great porch, which,
during the day, is the parade ground for those authorised beggars who
wear their number and licence suspended round their necks as a guarantee
of good faith.
The Cathedral was crammed to suffocation when Marcos and his father
entered by this door. At the foot of the shallow steps descending from
the porch to the floor of the Cathedral, Sor Teresa's white cap rose
above the heads of the people. Here and there a nun's cap or the blue
veil of a nursing sister showed itself amidst the black mantillas. Here
and there the white head of some old man made its mark among the sunburnt
faces. For there were as many men as women present. The majority of them
looked about them as at a show, but all were silent and respectful. All
made room readily enough for any who wished to kneel. There was no
pushing, no impatience. All were polite and forbearing.
The Archbishop's procession had already left the door of the choir, and
was moving slowly round the building. It was preceded by a chorister and
a boy, who sang in unison with a strange, uncomfortable echo in the roof.
Immediately on their heels followed a man in his usual outdoor clothes,
who accompanied them on a haut-boy with queer, snorting notes, and nodded
to his friends as he perceived their faces dimly looming in the light of
the flickering candles carried by acolytes behind him.
They stopped at intervals and sang a verse. Then the organ, far above
their heads, rolled in its solemn notes, and the whole choir broke into
song as they moved on.
The Archbishop, preceded by the Host borne aloft beneath a silken canopy,
wore a long red silk robe, of which the train was carried by two careless
acolytes, a red silk biretta and red gloves.
As the Host passed the people knelt and rose, and knelt again as the
Archbishop came--a sort of human tide, rising and kneeling and rising
again, to dust their knees and stare about them, which was not without a
symbolical meaning for those who know the history of the Church in Latin
countries.
The face of the Archbishop struck a sudden and startling note of
sincerity as he passed on with upheld hand and eyes turning from side to
side with a luminous look of love and tenderness as he silently invoked
God's blessing on these his people. He passed on, leaving in some
doubting hearts, perhaps, the knowledge that amid much that was mistaken,
and tawdry and superstitious and evil, here at all events was one good
man.
Immediately behind him, came the beadle in vestments and a long flaxen
wig ill-combed, put on all awry, making room with his staff and hitting
the people if they would not leave off praying and get out of the way.
Then followed the choir--a living study in evil countenances--
perfunctory, careless, snuff-blown and ill-shaven, with cold hard faces
like Inquisitors.
All the while the great bell was booming overhead, and the whole
atmosphere seemed to vibrate with sound and emotion. It was moving and
impressive, especially for those who think that the Almighty is better
pleased with abject abasement than a plain common-sense endeavour to do
better, and will accept a long tale of public penance before the record
of simple daily duties honestly performed.
Near the great porch on either side of the bishop's path were ranged the
seminarists, in cassocks of black with a dark blue or red
hood--depressing looking youths with flaccid faces and an unhealthy eye.
Behind them stood a group of friars in rough woolen garments of brown,
with heads clean shaven all but an inch of closely cut hair like a halo
on a saint. They seemed cheerful and were laughing and joking among
themselves while the procession passed.
Behind these, on their knees, were the girls of the convent school--and
all around them closed in the crowd. Juanita was at one end of the row
and Sor Teresa at the other. Juanita was looking about her. Her special
opportunities for prayer and reflection had perhaps had the effect that
such opportunities may be expected to have, and she was a little weary of
all this to-do about the world to come; for she was young and this
present world seemed worthy of consideration. She glanced backwards over
her shoulder as the Archbishop passed with his following of candles, and
gave a little start. Marcos was kneeling on the pavement behind her. Sor
Teresa was looking straight in front of her between the wings of her
great cap. It was hard to say whether she saw Juanita, or was aware that
a man was kneeling immediately behind herself, almost on the hem of her
flowing black robes--her own brother, Sarrion.
The procession moved away down the length of the great building and left
darkness behind it. Already there was a stir among the people, for it was
late and many had come from a distance.
The great doors, rarely used, were slowly cast open and in the darkness
the crowd surged forward. Juanita was nearest to the door. She looked
round and Sor Teresa made a motion with her head telling her to lead the
way. Marcos was at her side. A few men in cloaks, and some in
shirt-sleeves, seemed to be grouped by chance around him. He looked back
and made a little movement of the head towards his father.
Juanita felt herself pushed from behind. Before her, singularly enough,
was a clear pathway between the crowds. Behind her a thousand people
pressed forward towards the exit. She hurried out and glancing back on
the steps saw that she had become separated from the school and from the
nuns by a number of men. But Marcos' hand was already on her arm.
"Come," he said, "I want to speak to you. It is all right. My father is
beside Sor Teresa."
"What fun!" she answered in a whisper. "Let us be quick."
And a moment later they were running side by side down a narrow street,
where a single lamp swung from a gibbet at the corner and flickered in
the wind of Saragossa.
It was Juanita who stopped suddenly.
"Oh, Marcos," she cried, "I forgot; we are not to walk home. There is an
omnibus to meet us as usual at these late services."
"It will not come," replied Marcos. "The driver is waiting to tell Sor
Teresa that his horses are lame and he cannot come."
"And why have you done this?" asked Juanita, looking at him with bright
eyes beneath her mantilla flying in the wind.
"Because I want to speak to you. We can walk home to the school together.
It is all arranged. My father is with Sor Teresa."
"What, all the way?" she asked in a delighted voice.
"Yes."
"And can we go through the streets and see the shops?"
"Yes, if you like; if you keep your mantilla close."
"Marcos, you are a dear! But I have no money; you must lend me some."
"Yes, if you like. What do you want to buy?"
"Oh, chocolates," she answered. "Those brown ones, all soft inside. How
much money have you?"
And she held out her hand in the dim light of the street lamps.
"I will give you the chocolates," he answered. "As many as you like."
"How kind of you. You are a dear. I am so glad to see your solemn old
face again. I am very hard up. I don't really know where all my
pocket-money has gone to this term."
She laughed gaily, and turned to look up at him. And in a moment her
manner changed.
"Oh, Marcos," she said, "I am so miserable. And I have no one to talk to.
You know--papa is dead."
"Yes," he answered, "know."
"For three days," she went on, "I thought I should die. And then, but I
am afraid it wasn't prayer, Marcos, I began to feel--better, you know.
Was it very wicked? Of course I had never seen him. It would have been
quite different if it had been my dear, darling old Uncle Ramon--or even
you, Marcos."
"Thank you," said Marcos.
"But I had only his letters, you know, and they were so political! Then I
felt most extremely angry with Leon for being such a muff. He did nothing
to try and find out who had killed papa, and go and kill him in return. I
felt so disgusted that I was not a man. I feel so still, Marcos. This is
the shop, and those are the chocolates stuck on that sheet of white
paper. Let us buy the whole sheet. I will pay you back next term."
They entered the shop and there Marcos bought her as many chocolates as
she could hope to conceal beneath the long ends of her mantilla.
"I will bring you more," he said, "if you will tell me how to get them to
you."
She assured him that there was nothing simpler; and made him a
participant in a dead secret only known to a few, of the hole in the
convent wall, large enough to pass the hand through, down by the
frog-pond at the bottom of the garden and near the old door which was
never opened.
"If you wait there on Thursday evening between seven and eight I will
come, if I can, and will poke my hand through the hole in the wall. But
how shall I know that it is you?"
"I will kiss your hand when it comes through," answered Marcos.
"Yes," she said, rather slowly. "What a joke."
But now they were at the gate of the convent school, having come a short
way, and they stood beneath the thick trees until the school came, with
its usual accompaniment of eager talk like the running of water beneath a
low bridge and its babble round the stones.
Juanita slipped in among her schoolmates, and Sor Teresa, looking
straight in front of her, saw nothing.