Henry Seton Merriman

“ He watched Miss Cheyne and her lover, however, as they slowly walked the length of the garden—she, holding a fan in the Spanish fashion, to shield her face from the setting sun; the man, hat in hand, and carrying himself with a sort of respectful grandeur, characteristic of his race. At the end of the garden they paused, and Whittaker smiled cynically at the sight of the man's dark eyes as he looked at Miss Cheyne. ”

“ It was midday at the monastery of Montserrat, and a monk, walking in the garden, turned and paused in his meditative promenade to listen to an unwonted noise. The silence of this sacred height is so intense that many cannot sleep at night for the hunger of a sound. There is no running water except the fountain in the patio. There are no birds to tell of spring and morning. There are no trees for the cool night winds to stir, nothing but eternal rock and the ancient building so closely associated with the life of Ignatius de Loyola. ”

“ We have been married a year, and I am still sure that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Is it not wonderful? And she will be jealous if she hears me talking all this while with the Señorita.”
“You can tell her that the Señorita has grey hair,” said Miss Cheyne, practically.
“That may be,” said the innkeeper, looking at her with his head on one side, and a gravely critical air. “But you still have the air”—he shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his hands—“the air that takes a man's fancy. Who knows?” ”

“ You know, Señorita—when a man will not talk of a woman—well, it assuredly means something. But there was, it appears, another man—this man, I grind my teeth to tell you of it—he was a priest. One Bernaldez, whom we had both known in Cuba. He had, it appears, come over to Spain in ordinary dress; for he was too well known to travel as Bernaldez, the priest. He was a fine man—so much I will say for him. The Englishwoman was, no doubt, beautiful. Bernaldez met her. ”

“ Miss Cheyne was interested enough now. She sat, leaning one arm on the table, and her chin in the palm of her hand. She held her lip with her teeth, and watched the man's quick expressive face.
“We were there at nine o'clock,” he went on, “that Mateo, with his arm in a sling. We had passed the night at the hotel of the Libertad at Orgaña, where we both slept well enough. What will you?—when one is no longer young, the pulse is slow. The morning mist had descended the mountain side, the air was cold. There at the Puente, leaning against the wall, cloaked and quiet—was Bernaldez. ”

“ All turned at intervals, and looked in the same direction—namely, towards the west, where the daylight yet lingered in the sky. The moon, huge and yellow, was rising over the mountains, above Manacor, at the eastern end of the island. One by one the idlers dropped away, moving with leisurely steps towards the town. In very idleness Miss Cheyne followed them. She knew that they were going to the harbour in anticipation of the arrival of the Barcelona steamer. ”

“ I may kill you.' 'That is quite possible,' answered Mateo. Bernaldez threw back his cloak. He carried the little travelling clock in one hand—a gilt thing made in Paris. 'We will stand it here,' he said, 'on a rock between us.' We were in a little hollow far up the mountain side, and the mist wrapped us round like a cloak. I know these mountains, Señorita, for it was here that the fiercest of the fighting in the last Carlist War took place. There are many dead up there even now, who have never been found. I also was in that trouble—ah, no, I was not always an innkeeper! ”

“ I have lived in the Spanish colonies, however—the last few years—since the troubles began.”
Miss Cheyne nodded again without surprise. She had gone about the world, with those clear eyes of hers very wide open, and was probably aware that in those parts where, as Whittaker gracefully put it, “troubles” are, such men as this are usually to be found. For it is not the large men who make a stir in the world. These usually sit at home and love a life of ease. It is even said that they take to novel-writing and other sedentary occupations. ”

“ With quick gestures he described the whole scene, so that Miss Cheyne could see it as it had passed before his eyes.
“There is a madness, Señorita,” he went on, “which shows itself by a thirst for blood. I looked at Bernaldez. He was sane enough, but I think the man's heart was broken. 'It is well,' said Mateo; 'I am your man—at the Puente del Diabolo at nine o'clock on Thursday morning.' And mind you, Señorita, these were not Italians or Greeks—they were a Spaniard and an American—men who mean what they say, whether it be pleasant or the reverse.” ”

“ The afternoon was far spent, and already the shadows were lengthening on the mountain-side. She paid the trifling account, Antonio taking the money with such a deep bow that the smallness of the coin was quite atoned for. He brought her horse from the stable.
“The horse and the Señorita are both tired,” he said, with his pleasant laugh. And, indeed, Miss Cheyne looked suddenly weary. “It is not right that you should go by the mountain path,” he added. “It is so easy to lose the way. Besides, a lady alone—it is not done in Spain.” ”

“ Miss Cheyne laughed again without self-consciousness. Uneducated people have a way of arriving at once at those matters that interest rich and poor alike, which is rather refreshing, even to the highly educated.
“But I, who talk like a washerwoman, forget that I am an innkeeper,” said the man, with a truer tact than is often found under fine linen. ”

“ He has often begged me to come to Majorca to see the property, and now I have come. I am staying a few days at Palma.”
“Farming is good in Majorca,” said the man, shrewdly. “You should receive a large sum for your share of the harvest. I, too, shall buy land presently when I see my chance, for I have the money. Ah, yes: I was not always an innkeeper!”
He sipped his coffee pensively.
“That reminds me again of my friend,” he said, after a pause. “Why do I think of him this afternoon? It is a strange story; shall I tell it?”
“I shall be glad to hear it,” replied Miss Cheyne, in her energetic way. ”

“ The city of Palma, itself, is only a few miles away, for such as know the mountain path. Few customers come this way, and the actual trade of the Venta is small. Some day a German doctor will start a nerve-healing establishment here, with a table d'hôte at six o'clock, and every opportunity for practising the minor virtues—and the Valley of Repose will be the Valley of Repose no longer.
“Ah! It is a good omelette,” said the host of the Venta, as Miss Cheyne took up her fork. “Though I have not always been a cook, nor yet an innkeeper.” ”

“ The horseman was dark and clean-shaven—the happy possessor of one of those handsome Andalusian faces which are in themselves a passport in a world that in its old age still persists in judging by appearance. ”

“ Antonio paused, shrugged his shoulders and spread out his arms.
“The devil did the rest, Señorita. And she? Did she care for him? Ah—one never knows with women.”
“Perhaps they do not always know themselves,” suggested Miss Cheyne, without meeting her companion's eyes.
“Perhaps that is so, Señorita. At all events, Mateo went to these two, when they were together. Mateo was always quick and very calm. He faced Bernaldez, and he told the woman. Then he left them. And I found him in Barcelona, two days afterwards, living at the Hotel of the Four Nations, like one in his sleep. ”

“ She noticed his action, and showed surprise.
“It is nothing,” he said with a laugh, “only a coincidence—a mere accident. It is said by the peasants that the mind of a friend has wings. Perhaps it is so. As I looked down into the valley I was thinking of a man—a friend. Yes—name of a Saint—he was a friend of mine, although a gentleman! Educated? Yes, many languages, and Latin. And I—what am I? You see, Señorita, a peasant, who wears no coat.” ”

“ He did not know that so far as her vanity is concerned a woman does not grow older, by the passage of years, but younger—that she will often, for the sake of a little admiration, accept the careless patronage of a man, knowing well that his one good quality is the skill with which he flatters her. ”

“ The man at his side could perhaps have saved himself by a leap which might, with good fortune, have resulted in nothing more serious than a broken limb. As he had been invited by the driver to take this leap and had curtly declined, it is worth while to pause and give particulars of this passenger on the runaway diligencia. ”

“ In his simplicity he was not ashamed of dimmed eyes.
“I tell you this, Señorita,” he said with a laugh, “because you are an Englishwoman, and because this Mateo was my friend. He is an American. His name is Whittaker—Matthew S. Whittaker. And this afternoon I was reminded of him; I know not why. Perhaps it was something that I said myself, or some gesture that I made, which I had caught from him. If one thinks much about a person, one may catch his gestures or his manner: is it not so? And then you reminded me of him a second time. That was strange.”
“Yes,” said Miss Cheyne, thoughtfully ”

“ He was a slightly built man, dressed in the ordinary dark clothes and soft black felt hat of the middle class Spaniard. His face was brown and sun-dried, with deep lines drawn downwards from the nose to the lips in such a manner that cynicism and a mildly protesting tolerance were contending for mastery in an otherwise studiously inexpressive countenance.
“The Excellency does not blame me for this?” the driver jerked out, as he hauled round a corner with a sort of pride.
“No, my friend,” replied the American ”