‘the woman who loves you is at once your detective and accomplice.’
the old priest was walking leisurely up the avenue towards the casa barenna when the branches of a dwarf ilex were pushed aside, and there came to him from their leafy concealment, not indeed a wood-nymph, but se?ora barenna, with her finger at her lips.
‘hush!’ she said; ‘he is here.’
and from the anxious and excited expression of her face it became apparent that madame’s nerves were astir.
‘who is here?’
‘why, esteban larralde, of course.’
‘ah!’ said concha patiently. ‘but need we for that hide behind the bushes and walk on the flower borders? life would be much simpler, se?ora, if people would only keep to the footpath. less picturesque, i allow you, but simpler. shall i climb up a tree?’
the lady cast her eyes up to heaven and heaved an exaggerated sigh.
‘ah—what a tragedy life is!’ she whispered, apparently to the angels, but loud enough for her companion to hear.
‘or a farce,’ said concha, ‘according to our reading of the part. where is se?or larralde?’
‘oh, he has gone to the fruit garden with julia—there is a high wall all round, and one cannot see. she may be murdered by this time. i knew he was coming from the manner in which she ran downstairs. she walks at other times.’
concha smiled rather grimly.
‘she is not the first to do that,’ he said, ‘and many have stumbled on the stairs in their haste.’
‘ah! you are a hard man—a terrible man with no heart. and i have no one to sympathise with me. no one knows what i suffer. i never sleep at night—not a wink—but lie and think of my troubles. julia will not obey me. i have warned her not to rouse me to anger—and she laughs at me. she persists in seeing this terrible esteban larralde—a carlist, if you please.’
‘we are all as god made us,’ said concha—’with embellishments added by the evil one,’ he added, in a lower tone.
‘and now i am going to see general vincente. i shall tell him to send soldiers. this man’s presence is intolerable—i am not obeyed in my own house,’ cried the lady. ‘i have ordered the carriage to meet me at the lower gate. i dare not drive away from my own door. ah! what a tragedy!’
‘i will go with you, since you are determined to go,’ said concha.
‘what! and leave julia here with that terrible man?’
‘yes,’ answered the priest. ‘happiness is a dangerous thing to meddle with. there is so little of it in the world, and it lasts so short a time.’
se?ora barenna indicated by a sigh and her attitude that she had had no experience in the matter. as a simple fact, she had been enabled all through her life to satisfy her own desires—the subtlest form of misfortune.
‘then you would have julia marry this terrible man,’ said the lady, shielding her face from the sun with the black fan which she always carried.
‘i am too old and too stupid to take any active part in my neighbours’ affairs. it is only the young and inexperienced who are competent to do that,’ answered the priest.
‘but you say you are fond of julia.’
‘yes,’ said the priest quietly.
‘i wonder why.’
‘so do i,’ he said in a tone that se?ora barenna never understood.
‘you are always kinder to her than you are to me,’ went on the lady in her most martyred manner. ‘her penances are always lighter than mine. you are patient with her and not with me. and i am sure i have never done you any injury—’
the old padre smiled. perhaps he was thinking of those illusions which she had during the years pulled down one by one—for the greater peace of his soul.
‘there is the carriage,’ he said. ‘let us hasten to general vincente—if you wish to see him.’
in a few minutes they were rattling along the road, while esteban larralde and julia sat side by side in the shade of the great wall that surrounded the fruit garden. and one at least of them was gathering that quick harvest of love which is like the grass of the field, inasmuch as to-day it is, and to-morrow is not.
general vincente was at home. he was one of those men who are happy in finding themselves where they are wanted. so many have, on the contrary, the misfortune to be always absent when they are required, and the world soon learns to progress without them.
‘that man—that larralde is in ronda,’ said se?ora barenna, bursting in on the general’s solitude. vincente smiled, and nevertheless exchanged a quick glance with concha, who confirmed the news by a movement of his shaggy eyebrows.
‘ah, these young people!’ exclaimed the general with a gay little sigh. ‘what it is to be young and in love! but be seated, i?ez—be seated. padre—a chair.’
‘what do you propose to do?’ asked se?ora barenna breathlessly, for she was stout and agitated and had hurried up the steps.
‘when, my dear i?ez—when?’
‘but now—with this man in ronda. you know quite well he is dangerous. he is a carlist. it was only the other day that you received an anonymous letter saying that your life was in danger. of course it was from the carlists, and larralde has something to do with it; or that englishman—that se?or conyngham with the blue eyes. a man with blue eyes—bah! of course he is not to be trusted.’
the receiver of the anonymous warning seemed to be amused.
‘a little sweeping, your statements, my dear i?ez. is it not so? now, a lemonade! the afternoon is warm.’
he rose and rang the bell.
‘my nerves,’ whispered the se?ora to concha. ‘my nerves—they are so easily upset.’
‘the liqueurs,’ said the general to the servant with perfect gravity.
‘you must take steps at once,’ urged se?ora barenna when they were alone again. she was endowed with a magnificent imagination without much wisdom to hold it in check, and at times persuaded herself that she was in the midst, and perhaps the leader, of a dangerous whirl of political events.
‘i will, my dear i?ez; i will. and we will take a little maraschino, to collect ourselves, eh?’
and his manner quite indicated that it was he and not madame barenna who was upset. the lady consented, and proceeded to what she took to be a consultation, which in reality was a monologue. during this she imparted a vast deal of information, and received none in return, which is the habit of voluble people, and renders them exceedingly dangerous to themselves and useful to others.
presently the two men conducted her to her carriage, with many reassurances.
‘never fear, i?ez; never fear. he will be gone before you return,’ said the general, with a wave of the hand. he had consented to invite julia to accompany estella and himself to madrid, where she would be out of harm’s way.
the two men then returned to the general’s study, and sat down in that silence which only grows to perfection on the deep soil of a long-standing friendship. vincente was the first to speak.
‘i have had a letter from madrid,’ he said, looking gravely at his companion. ‘my correspondent tells me that conyngham has not yet presented his letter of introduction, and, so far as is ascertainable, has not arrived in the capital. he should have been there six weeks ago.’
the padre took a pinch of snuff, and held the box out towards his companion, who waved it aside. the general was too dainty a man to indulge in such a habit.
‘he possessed no money, so he cannot have fallen a victim to thieves,’ said concha.
‘he was accompanied by a good guide, and an honest enough scoundrel, so he cannot have lost his way,’ observed the general, with a queer expression of optimistic distress on his face.
‘his movements were not always above suspicion—’ the priest closed his snuff-box and laboriously replaced it in the pocket of his cassock.
‘that letter—it was a queer business!’ and the general laughed.
‘most suspicious.’
there was a silence, during which concha sneezed twice with enjoyment and more noise than is usually considered necessary.
‘and your letter,’ he said, carefully folding his handkerchief into squares; ‘that anonymous letter of warning that your life is threatened—is that true? it is the talk of ronda.’
‘ah, that!’ laughed vincente. ‘yes, it is true enough. it is not the first time—a mere incident, that is all.’
‘that which the se?ora barenna said just now,’ observed the priest slowly, ‘about our english friend—may be true. sometimes thoughtless people arrive at a conclusion which eludes more careful minds.’
‘yes—my dear padre—yes.’
the two grey-headed men looked at each other for a moment in silence.
‘and yet you trust him,’ said concha.
‘despite myself, despite my better judgment, my dear friend.’
the priest rose and went to the window which overlooked the garden.
‘estella is in the garden?’ he asked, and received no answer.
‘i know what you are thinking,’ said the general. ‘you are thinking that we should do well to tell estella of these distressing suspicions.’
‘for you it does not matter,’ replied the priest. ‘it is a mere incident, as you say. your life has been attempted before, and you killed both the men with your own hand, if i recollect aright.’
vincente shrugged his shoulders and looked rather embarrassed.
‘but a woman,’ went on concha, ‘cannot afford to trust a man against her better judgment.’
by way of reply the general rose and rang the bell, requesting the servant when he answered the summons to ask the se?orita to spare a few moments of her time.
they exchanged no further words until estella came hurrying into the room with a sudden flush on her cheeks and something in her dark eyes that made her father say at once—
‘it is not bad news that we have, my child.’
estella glanced at concha and said nothing. his wise old eyes rested for a moment on her face with a little frown of anxiety.
‘we have had a visit from the se?ora barenna,’ went on the general, ‘and she is anxious that we should invite julia to go to madrid with us. it appears that esteban larralde is still attempting to force his attentions on julia, and is at present in ronda. you will not object to her coming with us?’
‘oh no,’ said estella without much interest.
‘we have also heard rather disquieting news about our pleasant friend, mr. conyngham,’ said the general, examining the tassel of his sword. ‘and i think it is only right to tell you that i fear we have been deceived in him.’
there was silence for a few moments, and then vincente spoke again.
‘in these times, one is almost compelled to suspect one’s nearest friends. much harm may be done by being over-trustful, and appearances are so consistently against mr. conyngham that it would be folly to ignore them.’
the general waited for estella to make some comment, and after a pause continued:
‘he arrived in ronda under singularly unfortunate circumstances, and i was compelled to have his travelling companion shot. then occurred that affair of the letter, which he gave to julia—an affair which has never been explained. conyngham would have to show me that letter before i should be quite satisfied. i obtained for him an introduction to general espartero in madrid. that was six or seven weeks ago. the introduction has not been presented, nor has conyngham been seen in madrid. in england, on his own confession, he was rather a scamp; why not the same in spain?’
the general spread out his hands in his favourite gesture of deprecation. he had not made the world, and while deeply deploring that such things could be, he tacitly admitted that the human race had not been, creatively speaking, a complete success.
father concha was brushing invisible grains of snuff from his cassock sleeve and watching estella with anxious eyes.
‘i only tell you, my dear,’ continued the general, ‘so that we may know how to treat mr. conyngham should we meet him in madrid. i liked him. i like a roving man—and many englishmen are thus wanderers—but appearances are very much against him.’
‘yes,’ admitted estella quietly. ‘yes.’
she moved towards the door, and there turning looked at concha.
‘does the padre stay to dinner?’ she asked.
‘no, my child, thank you. no; i have affairs at home.’
estella went out of the room, leaving a queer silence behind her.
presently concha rose.
‘i, too, am going to madrid,’ he said. ‘it is an opportunity to press my claim for the payment of my princely stipend, now two years overdue.’
he walked home on the shady side of the street, exchanging many salutations, pausing now and then to speak to a friend. indeed, nearly every passer-by counted himself as such. in his bare room, where the merest necessities of life scarce had place, he sat down thoughtfully. the furniture, the few books, his own apparel, bespoke the direst poverty. this was one who in his simplicity read his master’s words quite literally, and went about his work with neither purse nor scrip. the priest presently rose and took from a shelf an old wooden box quaintly carved and studded with iron nails. a search in the drawer of the table resulted in the finding of a key and the final discovery of a small parcel at the bottom of the box which contained letters and other papers.
‘the rainy day—it comes at last,’ said the padre concha, counting out his little stock of silver with the care that only comes from the knowledge that each coin represents a self-denial.
