THE CRYING OF A YOUNG CHILD
"And now, gentlemen," said Monsieur Etienne grandly, "where is the young
gentleman who traduced in my hearing the fair fame of Dona Concha
Cabezos? _Ma foi_, I will transfer my cartel to him!"
Then, with great dignity, uprose the ancient valiant man of the octroi
of Sarria, for he felt that some one must vindicate the municipality.
"Cavalier," he said, with a sweeping bow which did honour at once to
himself and to the place in which they were assembled, "there may be
those amongst us who have spoken too freely, and on their behalf and my
own I convey to you an apology if we have unwittingly offended. In a
venta--I beg my nephew's pardon--in a _cafe_, like the Cafe de Madrid,
men's tongues wag fast without harm being intended to any man, much less
to any honourable lady. So it was in this case, and in the name of the
loyal town of Sarria, I express my regret. If these words be sufficient,
here is my hand. The Cafe de Madrid, sir, begs your acceptance of a
bottle of the best within its cellars. But if your lordship be still
offended, there are twenty men here who are ready to meet you on the
field of honour. For I would have you know, gentlemen, that we are also
_Caballeros_. But it must be with the weapons in the use of which we
have some skill--the cloak wrapped about the left arm, the Manchegan
knife in the right hand. Or, if our Aragonese custom please not your
honours, I make myself personally responsible for any words that may
have been spoken; aye, and will be proud to stand out upon the hillside
and exchange shots with you till you are fully satisfied--standing up,
man to man, at one hundred yards. This I do because the offence was
given in my nephew's _cafe_, and because for forty years I have been
called the Valiant Man of Sarria!"
The ancient Gaspar stood before them, alternately patting the stock of
his blunderbuss and pulling the ragged ends of his long white
moustachios, till Rollo, who could recognise true courage when he saw
it, stepped up to him, and making a low bow held out a hand, which the
other immediately grasped amid plaudits from the assembled company.
"You are a brave man, a valiant man, indeed, Senor----" he was
beginning.
"Gaspar Perico, at your service--of the wars of the Independence!"
interrupted the old man, proudly.
"You have not forgotten the use of your weapons, _Senor Valiente_!" said
the young Scot. "Take off your hat, Etienne," he added in French, "and
accept the old fellow's apology as graciously as you can. I am your
second, and have arranged the matter for you already!"
With a little grumbling Etienne complied, and was graciously pleased to
allow himself to be appeased. Rollo felt for him, for he himself knew
well what it is to itch to fight somebody and yet have to put up one's
sword with the point untried. But a new feeling had come into his soul.
A steadying-rein was thrown over his shoulder--the best that can be set
to diminish the ardours of a firebrand like this hot-headed Scot. This
was responsibility. He was upon a mission of vast importance, and though
he cared about the rights and wrongs of the affair not at all, and would
just as soon have taken service with the red and yellow of the nationals
as with the white _boinas_ of Don Carlos, once committed to the
adventure he resolved that no follies that he could prevent should
damage a successful issue.
So, having settled the quarrel, and partaken of the excellent smuggled
vermuth de Torino, in which, by his uncle's order, Esteban the host and
his guests washed away all traces of ill-feeling, the three sat down to
enjoy the _puchero_, which all this while had been quietly simmering in
the kitchen of the inn. At their request the repast was shared by Gaspar
Perico, while the nephew, in obedience to a sign from his uncle, waited
at table. It was not difficult to perceive that Senor Gaspar was the
true patron of the Cafe de Madrid in the village of Sarria.
* * * * *
So soon as he knew that the cause for which he had stabbed his wife's
cousin had been one that in no wise concerned little Dolores the
disguised Ramon Garcia went out to seek his wife, a great pity and a
great remorse tearing like hungry Murcian vultures at his heart. He was
not worthy even to speak to that pure creature. His hasty jealousy had
ruined their lives. He it was who had squandered his chances, lost his
patrimony, broken up their little home behind the whispering reeds of
the Cerde. Yes, he had done all that, but--_he loved her_. So he went
forth to seek her, and the night closed about him, grey and solemn with
a touch of chill in the air. It was not hot and stifling like that other
when he had come home to meet his doom and crept up through a kind of
blood-red haze to strike that one blow by the latticed _reja_ of his
house.
Ramon did not hide and skulk now. He walked down the street with his
long locks shorn, his beard clean shaven, his Gallegan dress and plumed
hat, secure that none of his fellow townsmen would recognise him. And,
at least in the semi-darkness, he was entirely safe.
There he could see the little white shed on the roof where Dolores used
to feed her pigeons, and he smiled as he remembered how before he
married he had been wont to keep various breeds, such as Valencia
tumblers, pouters, and fast-flying carriers upon which he used to wager
a few reals with his friends.
But that was in his bachelor days. He smiled again as he thought that
when Dolores came it was a different story. Never was such a little
house-wife. She was all for the pot. She would have him part with his
fine sorts, save and except one or two tumblers that she used to feed
from her balcony. She loved to see them from her window circling,
wheeling, and as it were, play-acting in the air. For the rest, the
commonest kinds that laid the most eggs, brought up the largest broods,
and took on the plumpest breasts when fed with ground maize and Indian
corn, green from the patch which he grew on purpose for her behind the
willows--these were his wife's especial delight.
Ramon opened the little wicket to which she had so often run to meet
him, under the three great fig trees. The gate creaked on unaccustomed
hinges. The white square of a placard on the post caught his eye. It
was too dark to see clearly, or else El Sarria would have seen that it
was a bill of sale of the house and effects of a certain Ramon Garcia,
outlaw. As he stepped within his foot slipped among the rotten figs
which lay almost ankle-deep on the path he had once kept so clean. A
buzz of angry wasps arose. They were drunken, however, with the
fermenting fruit, and blundered this way and that like men tipsy with
new wine.
The path before him was tangled across and across with bindweed and
runners of untended vine. The neglected artichokes had shot, and their
glary seed-balls rose as high as his chin like gigantic thistles.
The house that had been so full of light and loving welcome lay all dark
before him, blank and unlovely as a funeral vault.
Yet for all these signs of desolation Ramon only reproached himself the
more.
"The little Dolores," he thought, "she has felt herself forsaken. Like a
wounded doe she shrinks from sight. Doubtless she comes and goes by the
back of the house. The sweet little Dolores----" And he smiled. It did
not occur to him that she would ever be turned out of the house that was
his and hers. She would go on living there and waiting for him. And now
how surprised she would be. But he would tell her all, and she would
forgive him. And it is typical of the man and of his nation that he
never for a moment dreamed that his being "El Sarria," a penniless
outlaw with a price on his head, would make one whit of difference to
Dolores.
After all what was it to be outlawed? If he did this service for the
Abbot and Don Carlos--a hard one, surely--he would be received into the
army of Navarra, and he might at once become an officer. Or he might
escape across the seas and make a home for Dolores in a new country.
Meantime he would see her once more, for that night at least hold her
safe in his arms.
But by this time he had gone round the gable by the little narrow path
over which the reeds continually rustled. He passed the window with the
broken _reja_, and he smiled when he thought of the ignominious flight
of Don Rafael down the village street. With a quickened step and his
heart thudding in his ears he went about the little reed-built hut in
which he had kept Concha's firewood, and stood at the back-door.
It was closed and impervious. No ray of light penetrated. "Perhaps
Concha has gone out, and the little one, being afraid, is sitting alone
in the dark, or has drawn the clothes over her head in bed."
He had always loved the delightful terrors with which Dolores was wont
to cling to him, or flee to throw herself on his bosom from some
imaginary peril--a centipede that scuttled out of the shutter-crack or a
he-goat that had stamped his foot at her down on the rocks by the river.
And like a healing balm the thought came to him. For all that talk in
the venta--of Concha this and Concha that, of lovers and aspirants, no
single word had been uttered of his Dolores.
"What a fool, Ramon! What an inconceivable fool!" he murmured to
himself. "_You_ doubted her, but the common village voice, so insolently
free-spoken, never did so for a moment!"
He knocked and called, his old love name for her, "Lola--dear
Lola--open! It is I--Ramon!"
He called softly, for after all he was the outlaw, and the Migueletes
might be waiting for him in case he should return to his first home.
But, call he loud or call he soft, there was no answer from the little
house where he had been so happy with Dolores. He struck a light with
his tinder-box and lit the dark lantern he carried.
There was another bill on the back-door, and now with the lantern in his
hand he read it from top to bottom. It was dated some months previously
and was under the authority of the _alcalde_ of Sarria and by order of
General Nogueras, the Cristino officer commanding the district.
"This house, belonging to the well-known rebel, outlaw and murderer,
Ramon Garcia, called El Sarria, is to be sold for the benefit of the
government of the Queen-Regent with all its contents----" And here
followed a list, among which his heart stood still to recognise the
great chair he had bought at Lerida for Dolores to rest in when she was
delicate, the bed they twain had slept in, the very work-table at which
she had sewn the household linen, and sat gossiping with Concha over
their embroidery.
But there was no doubt about the matter. Dolores was gone, and the eye
of El Sarria fell upon a notice rudely printed with a pen and inserted
in a corner of the little square trap-door by which it was possible to
survey a visitor without opening the door.
"Any who have letters, packages, or other communications for
persons lately residing in this house, are honourably requested
to give themselves the trouble of carrying them to the Mill of
Sarria, where they will receive the sincere thanks and
gratitude of the undersigned
"LUIS FERNANDEZ."
Ramon saw it all. He knew now why his friend had arranged for his death
at the mouth of the secret hiding-place. He understood why there was no
talk about Dolores at the inn. She was under the protection of the most
powerful man in the village, save the alcalde alone. Not that Ramon
doubted little Dolores. He would not make that mistake a second time.
But they would work upon her, he knew well how, tell her that he was
dead, that Luis Fernandez has been his only friend. He recollected, with
a hot feeling of shame and anger, certain speeches of his own in which
he had spoken to her of the traitor as his "twin brother," the "friend
of his heart," and how even on one occasion he had commended Dolores to
the good offices of Luis when he was to be for some weeks absent from
Sarria upon business.
He turned the lamp once more on the little announcement so rudely traced
upon the blue paper. A spider had spun its web across it. Many flies had
left their wings there. So, though undated, Ramon judged that it was by
no means recent.
"Ah, yes, Don Luis," he thought grimly, "here is one who has a message
to leave at the mill-house of Sarria."
But before setting out Ramon Garcia went into the little fagot-house,
and sitting down upon a pile of kindling-wood which he himself had cut,
he drew the charges of his pistols and reloaded them with quite
extraordinary care.
Then he blew out his lantern and stepped forth into the night.
* * * * *
At the venta the three adventurers supped by themselves. Their Gallegan
retainer did not put in an appearance, to the sorrow of Mons. Etienne
who wished to employ him in finding out the abiding-place of the
faithless but indubitably charming Dona Concha.
However, the Gallegan did not return all night. He had, in fact, gone to
deliver a message at the house of his sometime friend Don Luis
Fernandez.
When he arrived at the bottom of the valley through which the waters of
the Cerde had almost ceased to flow, being so drained for irrigation and
bled for village fountains that there remained hardly enough of them to
be blued by the washerwomen at their clothes, or for the drink of the
brown goats pattering down to the stray pools, their hard little hoofs
clicking like castanets on the hot and slippery stones of the river-bed.
Meanwhile El Sarria thought several things.
First, that Luis Fernandez had recovered from his wound and was so sure
of his own security that he could afford to take over his friend's wife
and all her responsibilities. Ramon gritted his teeth, as he stole like
a shadow down the dry river-bed. He had learned many a lesson during
these months, and the kite's shadow flitted not more silently over the
un-peopled moor than did El Sarria the outlaw down to the old
mill-house. He knew the place, too, stone by stone, pool by pool, for in
old days Luis and he had often played there from dawn to dark.
The mill-house of Sarria was in particularly sharp contrast to the abode
he had left. Luis had always been a rich man, especially since his
uncle died; he, Ramon, never more than well-to-do. But here were
magazines and granaries, barns and drying-lofts. Besides, in the
pleasant angle where the windows looked down on the river, there was a
dwelling-house with green window-shutters and white curtains, the like
of which for whiteness and greenness were not to be seen even within the
magnificent courtyard of Senor de Flores, the rich alcalde of Sarria.
This was illuminated as Ramon came near, and, from the darkness of the
river gully, he looked up at its lighted windows from behind one of the
great boulders, which are the teeth of the Cerde when the floods come
down from the mountains. How they rolled and growled and groaned and
crunched upon each other! Ramon, in all the turmoil of his thoughts,
remembered one night when to see Dolores and to stand all dripping
beneath her window, he had dared even that peril of great waters.
But all was now clear and bright and still. The stars shone above and in
nearly every window of the mill-house there burned a larger, a mellower
star. It might have been a _festa_ night, save that the windows were
curtained and the lights shone through a white drapery of lace, subdued
and tender.
He crept nearer to the house. He heard a noise of voices within. An
equipage drove up rapidly to the front. What could bring a carriage to
the house of Luis Fernandez?
A wild idea sprang into Ramon's brain. He had been so long in solitude
that he drew conclusions rapidly. So he followed the train of thought
upon which he had fallen, even as the flame runs along a train of
gunpowder laid on the floor.
They had been long persuading her--all these months he had been on the
mountain, and now they had married her to his false friend, to Luis
Fernandez. It was the eve of the wedding-feast, and the guests were
arriving. His knife had deceived him a second time. He had not struck
true. Where was his old skill? There--surely his eyesight did not
deceive him--was Luis Fernandez walking to and fro within his own house,
arm in arm with a friend. They had lied to Dolores and told her he was
dead, even as the Migueletes would certainly do to claim the reward.
There upon the balcony was a stranger dressed in black; he and Luis came
to an open window, leaned out, and talked confidentially together. The
stranger was peeling an orange, and he flung the peel almost upon the
head of El Sarria.
Ramon, fingering his pistol butt, wondered if he should shoot now or
wait. The two men went in again, and solved the difficulty for that
time. Moreover, the outlaw did not yet know for certain that his wife
was within the mill-house.
He would reconnoitre and find out. So he hid his gun carefully in a dry
place under a stone, and stole up to the house through the garden,
finding his way by instinct, for all the lighted windows were now on the
other side.
Yet El Sarria never halted, never stumbled, was never at a loss. Now he
stepped over the little stream which ran in an artificial channel to
reinforce the undershot wheel from above, when the Cerde was low.
Another pace forward and he turned sharply to the left, parted a tangle
of oleanders, and looked out upon the broad space in front of the house.
It was a doctor's carriage all the way from La Bisbal that stood there.
It was not a wedding then; some one was ill, very ill, or the
_Sangrador_ would not have come from so far, nor at such an expense to
Don Luis, who in all things was a careful man. Moreover, to Ramon's
simple Spanish mind the _Sangrador_ and the undertaker arrived in one
coach. Could he have struck some one else instead of Don Luis that night
at the chasm? Surely no!
And then a great keen pain ran through his soul. He heard Dolores call
his name! High, keen, clear--as it were out of an eternity of pain, it
came to him. "_Ramon, Ramon--help me, Ramon!_"
He stood a moment clutching at his breast. The cry was not repeated. But
all the same, there could be no mistake. It was her voice or that of an
angel from heaven. She had summoned him, and alive or dead he would find
her. He drew his knife and with a spring was in the road. Along the wall
he sped towards the door of the dwelling-place: it stood open and the
wide hall stretched before him empty, vague, and dark.
Ramon listened, his upper lip lifted and his white teeth showing a
little. He held his knife, yet clean and razor-sharp in his hand. There
was a babel of confused sounds above; he could distinguish the tones of
Luis Fernandez. But the voice of his Dolores he did not hear again. No
matter, he had heard it once and he would go--yes, into the midst of his
foes. Escape or capture, Carlist or Cristino did not matter now. She was
innocent; she loved him; she had called his name. Neither God nor devil
should stop him now. He was already on the staircase. He went
noiselessly, for he was bare of foot, having stripped in the river-bed,
and left his brown cordovans beside his gun. But before his bare sole
touched the hollow of the second step, the one sound in the universe
which could have stopped him reached his ear--and that foot was never
set down.
_El Sarria heard the first cry of a new-born child._