HOW THE FIRST PRIEST VANISHES, AND ANOTHER PRIEST APPEARS UPON THE
SCENE.
As the priest emerged from the brushwood at the top of the path, he
suddenly found himself face to face with the lady. She had come
through the opening, and was standing outside waiting there,
breathless, her hands clasped, and her eyes set in a fixed and eager
gaze of vigilant outlook and of terrified apprehension. As she
recognized the priest, her whole expression changed; her face
flushed, her eyes grew moist with tears of joy, her lips quivered.
"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "Oh, how glad I am!"
The priest stood and looked at her in silence, although there was
certainly every occasion for saying something. Finally he held out
his hand, and she took it in hers, which were cold as ice, and
tremulous.
[Illustration: "I'm The Cure Of Santa Cruz."]
"Poor child!" said the priest, "you have been too excited. But were
you not afraid that it might be some one else?"
"Yes," said she; "so afraid that I lost all strength and could not
get back. I thought I heard something like that little short laugh of
yours that you give, but then it seemed imagination. So I waited, and
if it had been an enemy he would have caught me. But I was right,
after all," she ended, joyously. "It was your laugh--and you."
Again the priest stood in silence looking at her.
"It's worth going over there," said he at last, "to make a
fellow-creature happy by coming back."
"Oh no," she said, "not for that. Nothing can compensate for the
frightful, the terrible anxiety--nothing. But I will say no more. I
am ready now for any fatigue or peril. My worst fear is over."
"Oh, it's all very well to be glad to see me," said the priest, with
that short laugh to which the lady had referred, "but that's nothing
to the gladness you'll feel when you see what I've brought back with
me. You just wait and see--that's all!"
With these words he ascended into the tower through the gap, and
assisted the lady after him. They then went up the broken stairway,
and out into the open air to the fallen tree where they had taken
their breakfast. Upon this he seated himself, and the lady did the
same. He now opened the wallet, and distributed to her some of his
stock of provisions, pointing out to her with an air of triumph the
fact that they had enough to last them for a week. The lady said but
little and ate but little; the priest, for his part, ate less; so the
breakfast was soon despatched; after which the priest loaded his pipe
and smoked the smoke of peace.
The priest, as he smoked, occasionally threw a furtive glance at the
lady, who now sat absorbed in her own meditations.
"I propose to ask you a few questions," said the priest, "merely for
the sake of conversation, and you needn't answer unless you like. In
the first place, you haven't been long in Spain, I take it?"
"No," said the lady; "only a few days."
"And you are on your way back to England?"
"Yes."
"Have you been travelling alone?"
"At first I had a maid, but she got frightened and left me at
Bayonne. Since then I have had to travel alone."
"You mustn't think me too inquisitive," said the priest. "I merely
wished to know in a general way, and am by no means trying to pry
into your affairs."
He spoke in a careless tone. He was lolling in an easy attitude, and
appeared to be enjoying his smoke very much. After saying these words
he began to fuss with his pipe, which did not draw well, humming to
himself at the same time some absurd verses:
"My love he was a draper's clerk,
He came to see me after dark:
Around the Park we used to stray
To hear the lily-white bandsmen play.
CHORUS OF DRAPER'S CLERKS.
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My love lies buried underground!"
A faint smile came over the lady's face as she heard these
nonsensical words from one in the garb of a priest. Still, she
reflected that while it was his voice that was singing, his mind was
no doubt intent on something else.
"By-the-bye," resumed the priest, "as I'm asking questions, I should
like to ask one more. May I?"
"Most certainly," said the lady. "What is it?"
"Well, your name, you know. It's awkward to be as we are. Now, if I
were shot, and wanted you to help me, I shouldn't know what to call
you."
The lady smiled.
"My name is Talbot," said she.
"Ah--Mrs. Talbot," said the priest; "thanks."
"Not 'Mrs.'" said the lady, again smiling; "Miss Talbot. My full name
is Sydney Talbot."
"Sydney Talbot," repeated the priest. "Thanks. That's all. Everything
else is told. I may add, however, in an incidental way, that my name
is Brooke."
"Father Brooke?" said the lady, interrogatively, with a furtive smile
which was perhaps occasioned by the incongruity between the priest's
sacred garb and somewhat eccentric manner.
To this question the reply was not particularly appropriate. The
priest, or Brooke, as he may now be called, looked with a smile of
quiet drollery at Miss Talbot, and then, in a strange whining voice,
began to drone out some verses of a song:
"Old Bluebeard was a warrior bold,
He kept his wives in a great stronghold.
One--Two--Three--Four--Five--Six--Seven--
They all of them died and went to Heaven.
Old B. fell into a dismal state,
And went and married Number Eight."
"Well," he resumed, in his natural voice, "Father Brooke isn't bad;
Brother Brooke, however, would be better; but, on the whole, simple
'Brooke' is the best of all."
"Well, now, Mr. Brooke," asked the lady, anxiously, "what are our
prospects? Have you found out anything?"
"Oh yes; I've had a conversation with an amiable Carlist who was on
the point of blowing my brains out, and was only prevented by the
unparalleled 'cheek' of the unworthy being who now addresses you."
"Did you really incur such danger?" asked Miss Talbot, in unfeigned
anxiety.
"Danger? Oh, a trifle; but a miss is as good as a mile. I'm here now,
safe and sound, but for two or three seconds you ran a great risk of
making your journey alone. However, I made friends with them, and was
entertained royally. Now, as to escape. I'm sorry to say that the
country is swarming everywhere with these noble Carlists; that there
is no such thing as law; that there are no magistrates, no police, no
post-office, no telegraph, no railway trains, no newspapers, and no
taxes except of an irregular kind."
"That is very bad," said Miss Talbot, slowly, and in a low, anxious
voice.
"Oh yes," said Brooke, "but it's just as I feared.
"'There was an old man with a beard,'
"you know,
"'Who said, "It is just as I feared--
Two owls and a wren
And a cock and a hen
Have all built their nests in my beard."'
"That's me. I told you so. Still, there's no need to despair. It's
quite plain that we cannot travel by day without being discovered, so
we shall have to try it by night. This will be all the better. So you
must spend this day in meditation and prayer, and also in laying up a
stock of bodily and mental strength. To-night we set forth, and we
must move on all night long. May I ask if there is any place in
particular to which you prefer going?"
"None whatever. I must leave myself altogether to you."
"So I suppose," said Brooke.
"But is there no danger in this place, Mr. Brooke?"
"Danger? None whatever. I can't explain to you how completely this is
out of the way of every one, whether marauder or honest man. You may
be perfectly at your case on that score. Will this place satisfy
you?"
"Perfectly. But I should like very much to tell you, Mr. Brooke, how
grateful I feel for all this trouble and--"
"Ah, now, Miss Talbot!" cried Brooke, averting his face, and holding
up both hands, "don't--don't! Let's drop all that sort of thing. It's
part of the mockery of civilization. Words generally count for
nothing. Acts are all in all. What I ask of you is for you to gather
up your strength so as to be able to foot it with me and not break
down. But first of all, I must say I very much wish you had some
costume a little less marked than that of an English lady. Now, if
you could pass as a peasant-girl, or an old woman, or a goatherd's
wife, or a vender of quack medicines, or anything humble and yet
national, why--"
Miss Talbot shook her head with a mournful smile, and looked
troubled.
"I've had an idea all day," said Brooke, "which I suppose there's no
great harm in mentioning."
"What?"
"What do you say to disguising yourself as a priest?"
"A priest? How can I?"
"Well, with a dress like this of mine. It's very convenient--long,
ample, hides everything--just the thing, in fact. You can slip it on
over your present dress, and--there you are, transformed into a
priest. I hope you're not proud."
"I'm sure I should be only too glad to disguise myself, but where can
I get the dress?"
"Take this one."
"The one that you have?"
"Yes."
"But what will you do?"
"Do without."
"But that will expose you to danger."
"No it won't. It won't make the slightest difference. I'm only
wearing this for the sake of variety. The fact is, you see, I found I
was growing too volatile, and so I assumed a priest's dress, in the
hope that it would give me greater sobriety and weight of character.
I've been keeping it up for three days, and feel a little tired of
it. So you may have it--a free gift--breviary and all, especially the
breviary. Come--there's a fair offer."
"I really cannot make out," said Miss Talbot, with a laugh, "whether
you are in jest or earnest."
"Oh, then take me in earnest," said Brooke, "and accept the offer.
You see, it's your only chance of escape. You know old Billy Magee--
"'Old Billy Magee wore a flaxen wig,
And a beard did his face surround,
For the bailie came racing after he
With a bill for fifty pound.'
"So what do you say to gracefully giving way to necessity?"
"If you really think that you will be running no risk--"
"No more than I've always been running until three days ago."
"Well, I shall be very glad indeed, and only too much obliged."
"That's an uncommonly sensible decision," said Brooke. "You see,"
said he, as he unbuttoned the priest's robe, "I've merely been
wearing this over my usual dress, and you can do the same." As he
spoke he drew off the robe. "You can slip it on," he continued, "as
easy as wink, and you'll find it quite large enough every way."
And now Brooke stood divested of the priest's dress, revealing
himself clothed in a suit of brown tweed--hunting-coat,
knickerbockers, stockings, laced boots, etc. He then took from his
coat pocket a travelling-cap with a visor, which he put upon his
head.
"You can have the priest's hat too," he added, "and--But no, by Jove!
I won't--no, I won't let you have the spectacles. You might wear them
in case of need, though, for they're only plain glass. But hang it! I
can't--I can't, and you sha'n't. Only fancy putting spectacles on the
angel Gabriel!"
Meanwhile Miss Talbot had taken the priest's robe and had thrown it
over her own dress. The clerical frock was of cloth, long enough to
reach to her feet, and buttoned all the way from her chin down.
Around the neck was a cape, which descended half-way to the knees. As
she passed her arms through the sleeves she remarked that it would
fit her admirably; and then taking the hat, she retired inside the
tower, so as to adjust the outlines of her new costume in a more
satisfactory manner than was possible before a spectator. At the door
of the tower she turned.
"One thing will be against me," said she. "What shall I do about it?"
"What is that?"
"Why, my hair."
"Your hair!" repeated Brooke. "H'm--well, that is a puzzle!"
"It will interfere with anything like a real disguise, of course."
"Well, I suppose it would. In which case we can only hope not to come
near enough to the enemy to be closely inspected."
"Had I not better cut it off?" said Miss Talbot.
"What!" exclaimed Brooke, with amazement in his face.
Miss Talbot repeated her question.
"Cut off your hair--that hair!" said Brooke. "What a horrible idea!"
"Will you cut it?"
"Never!" said Brooke, fervently.
"Shall I?"
Brooke drew a long breath and looked earnestly at her.
"Oh, don't ask me," said he, at length, in a dejected tone. "I'm
floored! It's like throwing overboard a cargo of gold, and silver,
and precious stones to lighten the ship. Yea, more--it's like the
Russian woman who threw over her child to the wolves to make possible
the escape of the rest of the family. But there are some who would
prefer to be eaten by wolves rather than sacrifice the child."
"Well," said Miss Talbot, "your comparison of the child is a little
too much; but if it comes to throwing the treasure overboard to save
the ship, I shall not hesitate a moment."
Brooke made no reply, and Miss Talbot went into the tower.
Brooke then resumed his seat, and, looking thoughtfully into vacancy,
sang in a low voice all to himself:
"Oh, a princess there was in the north countree,
And her hair reached down below her knee;
And lovers they gathered by thousands there,
For love of the maid with the golden hair."