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The Crossed Gloves
by
“She passed me,” he went on, “and the arrogance of what I used to think and say came sharp home to me like a pain. I suppose that I stared–it was an accident, of course–perhaps my face showed something of my trouble; but just as she was opposite me her fan slipped through her fingers and clattered on the floor.”
The padre was at a loss to understand Shere’s embarrassment in relating so small a matter.
“Well,” said he, “you picked up the fan and so–“
“No,” interrupted Shere. His embarrassment increased, and he stammered out awkwardly, “Just for the moment, you see, I began to wonder whether after all I had not been right before; whether after all any woman would or could baulk herself of a fraction of any man’s admiration, supposing that it would only cost a trick to extort it. And while I was wondering she herself stooped, picked up the fan, and good-humouredly dropped me a curtsey for my lack of manners. Esteban presented me to her that evening. There followed two magical months in Paris and a June in London.”
“But, Esteban?” said the padre, doubtfully. “I do not understand. I know something of Esteban Silvela. A lean man of plots and devices. My friend, do you know that Esteban has not a groat? The Silvela fortunes and estate came from the mother and went to the daughter. Esteban is the Senora Christina’s steward, and her marriage would alter his position at the least. Did he not spoil the magic of the months in Paris?”
Shere laughed aloud in assured confidence.
“No, indeed,” said he. “I did not know Esteban was dependent on his sister, but what difference would her marriage make? Esteban is my best friend. For instance, you questioned me about my uniform. It is by Esteban’s advice and help that I wear it.”
“Indeed!” said the padre, quickly. “Tell me.”
“That June, in London, two years ago–it was by the way the last time I saw the senora–we three dined at the same house. As the ladies rose from the table I said to Christina quietly, ‘I want to speak to you to-night,’ and she answered very simply and quietly, ‘With all my heart.’ She was not so quiet, however, but that Esteban overheard her. He hitched his chair up to mine; I asked him what my chances were, and whether he would second them? He was most cordial, but he thought with his Spaniard’s pride that I ought–I use my words, not his–in some way to repair my insufficiency in station and the rest; and he pointed out this way of the uniform. I could not resist his argument; I did not speak that night. I took out my papers and became a Spaniard; with Esteban’s help I secured a commission. That was two years ago. I have not seen her since, nor have I written, but I ride to her to-night with my two years’ silence and my two years’ service to prove the truth of what I say. So you see I have reason to thank Esteban.” And since they were now come to the edge of the town they parted company. Shere rode smartly down the slope of the hill, the padre stood and watched him with a feeling of melancholy.
It was not merely that he distrusted Esteban, but he knew Shere, the cadet of an impoverished family, who had come out from England to a small estate in the Ronda valley, which had belonged to his house since the days of the Duke of Wellington in Spain. He knew him for a man of tempests and extremes, and as he thought of his ardent words and tones, of his ready acceptance of Esteban’s good faith, of his description of Christina, he fell to wondering whether so sudden and violent a conversion from passionate cynic to passionate believer would not lack permanence. There was that little instructive accident of the dropped fan. Even in the moment of conversion so small a thing had almost sufficed to dissuade Shere.