He had had a tragedy, this old man. One of those grim tragedies of the ca.s.sock which English people rarely understand. And his tragedy sat beside him on the cane chair, stout and eminently worldly, while he had journeyed on the road of life with all his illusions, all his half-fledged aspirations, untouched by the cold finger of reality.
He despised the woman now, the contempt lurked in his cynical smile, but he clung with a half-mocking, open-eyed sarcasm to his memories.
"But," he said rea.s.suringly, "Julia is a match for the Alcalde, you may rest a.s.sured of that."
Senora Barenna turned with a gesture of her plump hand indicative of bewilderment.
"I do not understand her. She laughs at the soldiers--the policemen, I mean. She laughs at me. She laughs at everything."
"Yes, it is the hollow hearts that make most noise in the world,"
said Concha, folding his handkerchief upon his knee. He was deadly poor, and had a theory that a folded handkerchief remains longer clean. His whole existence was an effort to do without those things that make life worth living.
"Why did you send for me?" he asked.
"But to advise me--to help me. I have been, all my life, cast upon the world alone. No one to help me--no one to understand. No one knows what I have suffered--my husband--"
"Was one of the best and most patient of mortals, and is a.s.suredly in heaven, where I hope there are a few mansions reserved for men only."
Senora Barenna fetched one of her deepest sighs. She had a few lurking in the depth of her capacious being, reserved for such occasions as this. It was, it seemed, no more than her life had led her to expect.
"You have had," went on her spiritual adviser, "a life of ease and luxury, a husband who denied you nothing. You have never lost a child by death, which I understand is--one of the greatest sorrows that G.o.d sends to women. You are an ungrateful female."
Senora Barenna, whose face would have graced one of the very earliest of the martyrs, sat with folded hands waiting until the storm should pa.s.s.
"Do you wish me to see Julia?" asked Concha abruptly.
"Yes--yes! And persuade her to conciliate the Alcalde--to tell him some story or another. It does not surely matter if it be not the strict truth. Anything to get these men out of the house. My maid Maria is so flighty. Ah--these young people! What a trial--my dear Padre, what a trial!"
"Of course," said Father Concha. "But what a dull world it would be if our neighbour knew how to manage his own affairs! Shall we go to Julia?"
The perturbed lady preferred that the priest should see her daughter alone. A military-looking individual in white trousers and a dark green tunic stood guard over the door of Julia"s apartment, seeking by his att.i.tude and the curl of his moustache to magnify his office in the eyes of a maid who happened to have an unusual amount of cleaning to do in that particular corridor.
"Ah!" said Father Concha, by no means abashed by the sentinel"s sword. "Ah, it is you, Manuel. Your wife tells me you have objections to the christening of that last boy of yours, number five, I think. Bring number five on Sunday, after vespers--eh? You understand--and a little something for the poor. It is pay day on Sat.u.r.day. And no more nonsense about religion, Manuel, eh?"
He shook his lean finger in the official"s face and walked on unchallenged.
"May I come in?" he said, tapping at the door; and Julia"s voice bade him enter.
He closed the door behind him and laid aside his hat. Then he stood upright, and slowly rubbing his hands together looked at Julia with the humorous twinkle lurking in his eye and its companion dimple twitching in his lean cheek. Then he began to feel his pockets, pa.s.sing his hands down his worn ca.s.sock.
"Let me see, I had a love letter--was it from Don Carlos? At all events, I have lost it!"
He laughed, made a perfunctory sign of the cross and gave her his blessing. Then, his face having become suddenly grave as if by machinery at the sound of the solemn Latin benediction, he sat down.
Julia looked worn and eager. Her eyes seemed to search his face for news.
"Yes, my dear child," he said. "Politics are all very well as a career. But without a distinct profit they are worth the attention of few men, and never worth the thought of a woman."
He looked at her keenly, and she turned to the window, which was open to admit the breath of violets and other flowers of the spring.
She shrugged her shoulders and gave a sharp sigh.
"See here, my child," said Padre Concha abruptly. "For reasons which concern no one, I take a great interest in your happiness.
You resemble some one whose welfare was once more important to me than my own. That was long ago, and I now consider myself first, as all wise men should. I am your friend, Julia, and much too old to be over-scrupulous. I peep and pry into my neighbours" affairs, and I am uneasy about you, my child."
He shook his head and drummed upon the table with his dirty fingers.
"Thank you," answered the girl with her defiant little laugh, "but I can manage my own affairs."
The priest nodded reflectively.
"Yes," he said. "It is natural that you should say that. One of the chief blessings of youth is self confidence. Heaven forbid that I should shake yours. But, you see, there are several people who happen to be anxious that this little affair should blow over and be forgotten. The Alcalde is a mule, we know that, and anything that serves to magnify himself and his office is likely to be prolonged.
Do not play into his hand. As I tell you, there are some who wish to forget this incident, and one of them is coming to see you this afternoon."
"Ah!" said the girl indifferently.
"General Vincente."
Julia changed colour and her eyelids flickered for a moment as she looked out of the open window.
"A good friend," continued Concha, "but--"
He finished the phrase with an eloquent little gesture of the hand.
At this moment they both heard the sound of an approaching carriage.
"He is coming now," said Concha. "He is driving, so Estella is with him."
"Estella is of course jealous."
The priest looked at her with a slow wise smile and said nothing.
"She--" began Julia, and then closed her lips--true to that esprit de s.e.xe which has ruled through all the ages. Then Julia Barenna gave a sharp sigh as her mind reverted from Estella"s affairs to her own.
Sitting thus in silence, the two occupants of the quiet room heard the approach of steps and the clink of spurs in the corridor.
"It is the reverendo who visits the senorita," they heard the voice of the sentinel explain deprecatingly.
The priest rose and went to the door, which he opened.
"Only as a friend," he said. "Come in, General."
General Vincente entered the room followed by Estella. He nodded to Concha and kissed his niece affectionately.
"Still obdurate?" he said, with a semi-playful tap on her shoulder.
"Still obdurate? My dear Julia, in peace and war the greatest quality in the strong is mercy. You have proved yourself strong-- you have worsted that unfortunate Alcalde--be merciful to him now, and let this incident finish."
He drew forward a chair, the others being seated, and laid aside his gloves. The sword which he held upright between his knees, with his two hands resting on the hilt, looked incongruously large and reached the level of his eyes. He gave a little chuckling laugh.
"I saw him last night at the Cafe Real--the poor man had the air of a funeral, and took his wine as if it were sour. Ah! these civilians, they amuse one--they take life so seriously."
He laughed and looked round at those a.s.sembled as if inviting them to join him in a gayer and easier view of existence. The Padre"s furrowed face answered the summons in a sudden smile, but it was with grave eyes that he looked searchingly at the most powerful man in Andalusia; for General Vincente"s word was law south of the Tagus.