Читать книгу Her Reputation - Talbot Mundy - Страница 9

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There were hours, especially during the first few days after her return, when it seemed to Jacqueline that in the convent she had Desmio for her very own even more than when she was under his roof and able to see him constantly. For in the convent there was no Donna Isabella to make acrid comments and to interrupt her day-dreams with bitter fault-finding.

From the Sister Superior down to the darky gardener, they all knew Desmio and loved him. He had left his imprint on the place—windows for instance, in the chapel, and the big bronze bell. And he had promised to come to see her, so there was always that to look forward to, which took the drag out of routine.

Not that the life was irksome; far from it. Don Andres being her guardian and sponsor, Jacqueline received no definitely better treatment than the other girls, except that she was one of the few who had a single bedroom; but there was always an indefinite, and very pleasant suggestion that much was expected of her.

There was no loneliness; almost never a moment's solitude. No girls were allowed to wander alone, or even in pairs, among the trees and well shrubbed acres within the wall, there was always a sister in attendance on every group, whose presence grew to seem as natural as did the absence of anything really reprehensible.

No definitely better treatment; but indefinitely—yes. For it was well understood that Jacqueline was destined for high places, and young girls are at least as shrewd as their elders. There was keen competition to make friends with her, with an eye to the future. The flattery might have turned her head, if she had not been reared by a man who understood and scorned ever subterfuge of that stuff. She undoubtedly lorded it a little.

And she was good to see, in the neat blue convent dress, that could not hide a line of her young figure, or a graceful movement. Dancing was a part of the convent regimen, and there were private lessons by a visiting professional for those whose talent was worth cultivating. At Don Andres' request, Jacqueline had learned old Spanish dances, and since she would rather please him than anything else she could conceive of, she had thrown her heart into it, with the result that she walked as rhythmically as the poets sing; and the rest was sweetness, happiness, health and day-dreams.

For in a convent such as that one, what life may turn out to be after leaving is a dream not quite distinguishable from a pictured heaven. One could make magnificent conjectures, fairy prince or prancing horse included, with the saints to draw from and the stories of the saints to pattern human conduct by.

Jacqueline was not so afraid of Jack Calhoun from within the convent walls. And she did not think of Donna Isabella, lest suggestions of a tail and cloven hoofs should cause embarrassment and lead to irksome penances. The subject of Jack Calhoun leaked out in a recreation hour and rather thrilled her. There were girls who had witnessed the scene in church on Easter Sunday, and of all the rapturously fascinating, irrepressible and newsy themes in a convent, none can hold a candle to a love-affair.

Handsome Jack Calhoun! Young—wealthy, or so reputed—lord of a great plantation, with estates in Cuba, too, good family— horseman—with a reputation for gaiety that had reached young ears well filtered—

"Jacqueline, do tell—what did he say when he gave you the flowers?"

"Jacqueline, dear—does he—does he write to you?"

"Tell us all about it. We're simply crazy to hear!"

But Desmio had taught the art of self-command, and Donna Isabella's jealousy had bitten the teaching home. Jacqueline was not to be surprised into embarrassing admissions. And then Sister Michaela, wanting to know what the talk was all about, approached the group under the trees without seeming to cloak vigilance.

"What is the joke, Jacqueline?"

"I'll tell you if you like."

It was Sister Michaela's business to be told things. Except when she was ringing the convent bell, the chief excuse for her existence was that gift of hers for winning confidence.

She drew Jacqueline aside, and had the whole story of Jack Calhoun in two minutes, asking only three deft questions in a voice that would have coaxed out serpents from the sea, it was so bell-like and sympathetic.

"Have you spoken to him alone?"

"No, Sister Michaela, I don't know why, but he frightens me. I'm not afraid of any of the other men I meet."

"Have you talked about him to any one?"

"Only to Consuelo."

"Does Don Andres know anything of this?"

"No—or I don't think so. Donna Isabella and Consuelo said I mustn't tell him because of his ill-health. I wish I might tell him. Desmio always knows just what to do about everything."

Sister Michaela diagnosed much deeper than the surface, and her words went promptly to the very roots of what she saw:

"Don't take it seriously, Jacqueline. Don't believe too much. Remember this: Other people are not all as tender-hearted, and credulous as you are. They don't always say what they mean or always believe what they pretend to believe. As long as you know your own mind, and are good, you can afford to laugh at any one's unwelcome attentions."

"Consuelo told me to look daggers at him!" laughed Jacqueline.

"You?"

Sister Michaela smiled, and Jacqueline's frown appeared. She rather resented the suggestion that she could not look ferocious if she tried. From under her white bandeau,* Sister Michaela watched the frown as if it were plain writing by a moving finger in a language that she understood.

[* bandeau (French)—a narrow band for the hair.]

"Put not your trust in princes, Jacqueline," she said at last. "Some of them are frauds, and some are weak. Always trust your own intuition. That's the Blessed Virgin's voice that warns you."

Good advice, but not quite comforting. There was something ominous about it, as if Sister Michaela had foreseen dark events. She went off to toll the bell, leaving Jacqueline feeling rather depressed; but perhaps that was intended, since advice that leaves no sting is all the easier forgotten.

"Does she mean Desmio is the prince I should not trust?" Jacqueline wondered, and the frown vanished, as she threw that thought away, dismissed it, scorned it too utterly to waste displeasure on it. But she remembered Sister Michaela's words, and pondered them all through the French lesson, so that she had to be reprimanded for inattention; and if it had not been that a dancing lesson followed that she might have pondered them all day. But there was nothing ponderous or ominous about dancing, and it banished every consideration except high spirits and an appetite. When Sister Michaela tolled the bell for dinner there was nothing in Jacqueline's mood but laughter and a yearning for beef and vegetables; the future, insofar as it existed in her thoughts, was foreshortened to one day ahead, when she would have been back a week and Desmio would probably drive over in the limousine with his usual offering of candy for herself and flowers for the chapel altar.

Desmio! What on earth did she care for princes, as long as he came once a week! But the next day it was Consuelo, and not Desmio, who came. Consuelo was ushered into the great quiet drawing-room, where all guests were received, and was kept waiting there until she could interview the Sister Superior before Jacqueline was sent for. The request in itself was surprising, for Consuelo was well known at the convent and usually Jacqueline was brought straight to her and allowed to talk with her alone for half an hour. Consuelo strutted down the corridor fuming, bobbed her curtsey at the threshold, collapsed into becoming humility, was smiled at and addressed by name, bobbed her curtsey again and laid a sealed envelope on the desk.

"A letter for Miss Jacqueline, please."

A sweet wise smile by way of answer—a little nod of acknowledgment and a glance at the address on the envelope. Nothing incorrect, or even unusual. Letters intended for young ladies in the convent never reach them until after they have been opened and read, but Consuelo might have handed it to any of the sisters; nevertheless, it was very right and proper of Consuelo to take such full precaution. Anything else? Certainly she might see Miss Jacqueline. Another smile from under a snow-white bandeau; then the face disappeared as the head bent forward, and a hand such as Tintoretto painted went on writing, writing with a golden pen. Consuelo bobbed her way out backward, all the steam gone out of her.

Then Jacqueline in the drawing-room in the plain blue dress that Consuelo hated, and with her hair mismanaged scandalously, and Consuelo unaccountably wet-eyed, which led, of course, to instant urgent questions about Desmio. But Desmio had sent kind messages, along with the flowers and a veritable load of chocolates, and was feeling so much better that he hoped to be able to come neat week.

"Then why are you crying, Consuelo?"

"Honey, dear, I don't know—I've done my best for you, that's all. Oh, honey, and you so innocent! And them so bent on—Listen, be still a while and listen!"

Consuelo looked up through the tears at Jacqueline, who was standing beside her with her arm on the chair-back, wondering. The young heart was beating almost as violently as the old one. Every imaginable fear was in the air—the worse—the most unspeakable—that Consuelo might have fallen foul at last of Donna Isabella and have been dismissed.

"Conchita, don't admit a thing! Don't let them trick you into a confession that you've given that Calhoun boy as much as a glimpse of a smile!"

"But I have smiled, Consuelo."

"Don't admit it! There's a trap laid, child. They're going to catch you in it, if you're not careful, and marry you off to that jackanapes—and they'll make Don Andres agree to it by pretending to him that you've been giving Calhoun encouragement on the sly."

"But I haven't, Consuelo. You know that."

"Lord knows I know it, honey."

"Who are 'they,' Consuelo?"

"Him and her—the jackanapes and Donna Isabella."

"How I do wish Desmio knew!"

"He does, honey. I told him."

Instant electric change in the whole world atmosphere, and Jacqueline herself again! She laughed aloud—kissed Consuelo—petted her —had Consuelo smiling in a minute—praised her—danced, to the scandal of the image of Saint Pierre in the niche above the mantelpiece—(or perhaps he was a saint who knew a good thing when he saw it, for there are such)—made such a merry noise of steps and laughter that Sister Helena came in to discover what on earth was happening, and laughed too.

"Showing her the new dance, Jacqueline? Do you think you ought to do that in here, dear? Things should be kept in their proper places."

"Isn't everywhere a proper place to dance when you feel happy?" Jacqueline answered. She would have danced with Sister Helena and devil take the consequences, if that had not been a place where they understand the management of buoyant young humans. Sister Helena forestalled indignity by meeting Jacqueline midway and, with an arm on her shoulder, switched attention firmly on Consuelo.

"How nice that she should be so glad to see you. You must come again."

Which was hint sufficient. Under Donna Isabella's regime one learned to read hints swiftly, and Consuelo hurried her departure as if she were almost guilty of sacrilege in having stayed so long. Jacqueline was led back to the study hall, both arms full of chocolate, and turned loose to distribute them. She was kept back that day after the lesson and was made to do six sums on the blackboard; but not even that subdued her thoroughly, and her eyes were full of laughter even when she was summoned to the Sister Superior's office before supper.

But you could feel subdued in the Sister Superior's presence. You could not feel otherwise. It needed no sense of guilt—no evil conscience to make you stand silent before the desk and wait until the veined patrician hand laid down the golden pen, the bandeau was slowly raised, and the face framed in white looked at you searchingly.

"How many letters, since you have been in the convent, have you received from Mr. Calverly-Calhoun, Jacqueline?"

"None, Sister Theresa."

The answer was prompt, and qualified by nothing except surprise. Jacqueline's frown appeared, aggravatingly mischievous, but the Sister Superior was not to be easily deceived by surface indications.

"Are you quite sure, Jacqueline?"

"Quite sure, Sister."

"A letter has come addressed to you from Mr. Calverly-Calhoun, and I have been told that he saw you to the convent gate on your return from the Easter Congé. Does Don Andres know of his attentions to you?"

"Yes, Sister."

That answer was triumphant—not a doubt of it.

"Does he approve?"

"I—I don't know—I haven't spoken to him."

The frown again, followed by the first shade of doubt in the Sister Superior's eyes.

"You were always such a good girl, Jacqueline. We have been so proud of you."

Silence—the frown dancing on her forehead, making pretense of all the comical emotions which Jacqueline did not feel.

"In his letter, Mr. Calhoun mentions previous notes that he has written to you."

Jacqueline shook her head.

"Have you received none? You are sure?"

Again the head-shake.

"None at home during the Congé?"

"None at any time, Sister."

Long silence. Eyes, hidden by the white bandeau, studying something which a book on the desk concealed from Jacqueline.

"Then why should Mr. Calverly-Calhoun distinctly assert that he has written to you repeatedly, and upbraid you for not answering?"

Rebellion—high chin and flashing eyes—Jacqueline at her very loveliest, indignant.

"I don't know, Sister Theresa. I know nothing of his letters, I don't know why he should write or pretend to have written."

Triumph again—a short, angry little nod. Desmio knew, and that settled it.

"How do you account for it that Mr. Calverly-Calhoun should write you a letter couched in most ardent terms, and make pointed reference to previous letters, if you have given him no encouragement, Jacqueline?"

"May I see the letter, Sister?"

"No. I will send it to Don Andres."

"No—no! Oh, please don't. Desmio is ill and a shock might— "

The last word froze on frightened lips. She could not force herself to speak of the horror of Desmio's possible death on her account. But fear is all too easily misinterpreted, and those little furrows over her eyes suggested panic without explaining it.

"You should have thought of that before you let yourself be led into this. Now go to your own room, Jacqueline, and search your heart and consider whether you have told me the whole truth."

Fiat lex!* There was no appeal from the Sister Superior's decision, nor any argument permitted once the order had gone forth. Jacqueline went to her room. The Sister Superior sat reconsidering a letter in a man's handwriting —almost able to discern the handsome, impetuous, bold graceless features of the man who wrote, in the sentences that all began carefully and all ended in a hurry, in disorder, with a dash in place of full stop.

[* Fiat lex! (Latin)—Let the law be applied! The full expression is: fiat justicia et pereat mundus, "Let justice be done, though the world perish!" See the Wikipedia article Latin Proverbs. ]

Dearest, most delightful Jacqueline!

You know you are mine—you know it! Why be cruel to me? Why first encourage me with those smiles that set my heart on fire, and then treat me coldly?—Again and again I have written to you—am I never to receive an answer?

Are you afraid of me? Then why? Would I not rather die than do you injury or see you harmed? Jacqueline! Love such as mine can not be refused! It is all- conquering! You are mine—you are mine—for I love you!

Loveliest torturer! Be generous! Unwelcome business drags me away to Cuba, where I must attend to my estates—estates that you shall some day turn into heaven for me. Must I eat my heart out all these miles away, wondering what your silence means? Jacqueline, I must go in two days. Write to me! Or at the least send me word by Consuelo that I may hope—that you are not cold toward me—that, if only a little, you reciprocate my love!

Forever and forever yours with all my heart,

Jack Calverly-Calhoun.

The Sister Superior returned the letter to its envelope and placed that into a larger one along with a two-page letter in her own fine Italian hand addressed to Don Andres. Five minutes later the sister on duty carried it out and locked it into the mail bag with the rest—a hundred or more letters (all censored) to a hundred homes, and a score or so of business communications, all looking just as harmless on the outside.

And in her room up two flights of polished stairs Jacqueline lay on her bed torn between triumph, indignation and anxiety. Search her heart? She had nothing to search it for! She did not know whether the letter from Jack Calhoun had come through the post or whether Consuelo had brought it, but she suspected Consuelo naturally—else why the tears? Was that what Consuelo meant by saying she had done her best? It was rather bewildering. She felt confused, and inclined to cry, the whole thing was so underhanded and contemptible.

But emotions came in waves, and presently were mixed in a maelstrom of perplexity. Why had the Sister Superior doubted her? What did she mean by suspecting her of not having told the whole truth? Excepting only Donna Isabella, nobody before in all her life had dared so much as to hint she was a liar. The thought made her furious. It made her even more furious that a shock of any kind should come to Desmio through her.

She did not doubt Desmio loved her more than anything else in the world, since he had said so more than once, and he never said what was not absolutely true. It was cruel—unjust—wicked! How dared Jack Calhoun insert himself into her life?

What did that Jack Calhoun mean by daring to say she had received other letters from him? What did he intend by it? He must have known the letter would be intercepted. Not even Consuelo would have dared to bring her a letter without the Mother Superior's knowledge. Was it a trick then? Was that what Consuelo meant by saying a trap was laid for her?

Then came the thought of running away. If the Sister Superior thought her a liar, she would not stay under the roof another minute! She would escape —run all the way on foot back home to Desmio. She would make sheets into a rope, the way they did in story-books, and let herself down from the window and run—perhaps not go straight to Desmio, but hide somewhere and send for him. But she knew all the while she could never escape from the convent, however hard she might try. The impossibility of escaping made her feel angrier than ever.

Sleep. Even an ocean wearies in the end. Calm follows a typhoon. Deep dreamless sleep from which—all powers be praised!—no misery can keep any of us too long.

So—bringing supper on a tray—Sister Michaela found her with one arm under head, her hair disheveled, and her body looking as if waves had tossed it on the beach of time. Even with the electric light turned on, she did not wake for several minutes, and Sister Michaela stood watching her, telling beads by habit rather than intention. She had reached the thirteenth bead before Jacqueline awoke.

"Are you feeling better, Jacqueline?"

She sat up, recognized a friend and answered—as Sister Michaela noted—without the least trace of a desire to hide her thoughts.

"I don't know, I'm all different, I feel as if something had happened. It's—"

A long pause, only broken by the regularly measured click-click-click of beads, like the sound of water dripping.

"Sister Michaela—what did you mean by telling me not to put my trust in princes?"

"You'll find out. Only remember, dear. And don't forget the rest of it —always to trust your intuition. That is the Voice within. Now eat your supper, and I'll come for the tray by and by."

Sister Michaela went straight to the Sister Superior and talked to her without emphasis, but with assurance.

"She is perfectly innocent. But she's romantic, and she has a capacity for building mountains out of molehills. Her geese are all swans. She will magnify evil in the same way unless taught not to."

"Even the best ones sometimes have to learn that in a hard school," said the Sister Superior, nodding comprehension.