“It is very kind of Leon to exercise his mind
on my account,” said Juanita steadily.
“But I can manage my own affairs.”
“Those are my own words,” answered Mon
soothingly. “I said to him: ’Juanita
is no longer a child; Marcos is honest, he will not
have deceived her; he must have told her that such
a marriage is a mere question of politics; that there
is no thought of love.’”
He glanced sharply at her. It was almost prophetic;
for Marcos had used the very words. It is not
difficult to be prophetic if one can sink self sufficiently
to cloak one’s thoughts with the mind of another
and thus divine the workings of his brain. Juanita
remembered that Marcos had told her that this was
a matter of politics. Mon was only guessing; but
he guessed right. The greatest men the world
has produced only guessed after all; but they did
not guess wrong.
“Such a fortune as yours,” he said, with
an easy laugh, “would make or mar any cause
you see. Your fortune is perhaps your misfortune—who
knows?”
Juanita laughed also, as at a pleasant conceit.
The wit that had baffled Father Muro was ready for
Evasio Mon. A woman will take her stand before
her own heart and defy the world. Juanita’s
eyes flashed across the man’s gentle face.
“But,” she said, “if the fortune
is my own; if I prefer that Marcos should have it—to
the church?”
Evasio Mon smiled gently.
“Of course,” he murmured. “That
is what I said to Leon, and to Sor Teresa also, who
naturally is troubled about you. Though there
are other alternatives. Neither Marcos nor the
Church need have it. You could have it yourself
as your father, my old and dear friend, intended it.”
“How could I have it myself?” asked Juanita,
whose curiosity was aroused.
Mon shrugged his shoulders.
“The Pope could annul such a marriage as yours
by a stroke of the pen if he wished.” He
paused, looking at her beneath his light lashes.
“And I am told he does wish it. What the
Pope wishes—well, one must try to be a
good Catholic if one can.”
Juanita smiled. She did not perhaps consider
herself called upon to admit the infallibility of
his Holiness in matters of the heart. She knew
better than the Pope. Mon saw that he had struck
a false note.
“I am a sentimentalist myself,” he said,
with a frank laugh. “I should like every
girl to marry for love. I should like love to
be treated as something sacred—not as a
joke. But I am getting to be an old man, Juanita.
I am behind the times. Do I hear Sarrion in the
passage?”
He rose as he spoke and went towards the door.
Sarrion came in at that moment. The Spanish sense
of hospitality is strongly Arabic. Mon had ridden
many miles. Sarrion greeted him almost eagerly.
