HOW LOPEZ GOES TO SEE THE PRIEST ABOUT HIS MARRIAGE.
After leaving Katie, Lopez decided to give notice to the priest about the
nature of the ceremony that was to be performed, and also to appoint the
time for its performance on the following morning.
As he entered the room Talbot saw in his face the sign of some important
purpose. At once she divined it. She had already made up her mind as to
what that service would be that Lopez expected of her, and what her own
action should be. Brooke also, in spite of his plausible arguments, was
afraid that she was only too near the truth, and such terrors gathered
around the prospect that he could not think of it. But now all suspense
was at an end. The truth was about to be made known, and, whatever it
was, they would have to face it.
"Senor," said Lopez, addressing himself to Brooke, yet courteously
including Talbot in his glance, "I have now come to tell you why I have
required thus far the company of your friend the priest, and you may
explain to him what I have to say. It is for a very simple and pleasing
ceremony--namely, a marriage."
"A marriage!" repeated Brooke, in a low voice.
That word, sometimes so full of joyous meaning and so surrounded with
associations of mirth and festivity, now rang in Brooke's ears with a
sound as harsh and terrible as that of a death-knell. It was the word
which he dreaded more than all others to hear from the lips of Lopez. His
heart sank within him, and he knew not what to think, or where to turn
for hope. That Talbot would refuse to perform this ceremony he felt
convinced, but what would be the consequences of such a refusal under
such circumstances?
"The priest," continued Lopez, who had not noticed any difference in
Brooke's manner, and was not at all aware of the intense agitation which
now pervaded all his frame--"the priest will be ready to perform the
ceremony at an early hour to-morrow morning."
"To-morrow morning!" repeated Brooke, mechanically.
Worse and worse! This man was hurrying matters so that he did not leave
any time for thought, much less for action. To-morrow morning, at an
early hour! Oh, terrible haste! Oh, fearful flight of time! "Was there,
then, so short a time until this new ordeal, with its new dangers? Brooke
shuddered.
A sudden thought now came to him, at which he grasped eagerly. It was
utterly useless, and he knew it, but it was all that he had to offer
against this man's resolution.
"Can the priest officiate without the government license?"
"Government license!" repeated Lopez. "Of course. The Church does not ask
permission of the State to perform the solemn sacraments. What has the
State to do with the acts of a priest of the Church?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Brooke, dejectedly; "it's different in other
countries."
"Spain," said Lopez, severely--"Spain is a Christian country."
"True--true; I forgot," said Brooke.
"In an infidel country," continued Lopez, "like England or America, the
State regulates marriage, of course; but it is different in Spain--very
different."
Brooke scarcely heard this. He was groping about mentally in search of an
idea. Another one came--a hopeless one, like the last--but he caught at
it, since there was nothing else to do.
"This priest," said he, "is an Englishman."
"Well!" said Lopez, with a slight expression of surprise.
"I didn't know but that it might make some difference," said Brooke,
meekly.
"Difference! How?"
"Not--not knowing your language, you know."
"My language!" said Lopez; "what does that matter? He has the language of
the Church, and that language every priest uses in the formulas and
services of the Church, whether he is a Spaniard, or an Englishman, or an
African negro. He celebrates the sacraments in the words laid down by the
Church, and the languages of the various nations have nothing to do with
these holy rites. I fear, senor, you are raising objections which will
seem as strange and unreasonable to your friend, this good priest, as
they do to me."
At this Brooke was struck dumb. He had nothing more to say.
"You will tell your friend," said Lopez, "to be ready at an early hour
to-morrow morning. I also will do myself the honor, senor, to invite you
to give us the pleasure of your company on this occasion."
Brooke bowed, and murmured something about the consciousness which he had
of the honor that Lopez had done him; and in the midst of these
commonplaces Lopez retired.
After his departure Brooke remained silent for a long time. Talbot feared
the worst, and as she had divined already the meaning of this visit, she
understood perfectly the feelings of Brooke. So she said not a word, but
patiently waited until he chose to speak. At length he told her all.
"I thought so," said Talbot.
"What will you do?" asked Brooke, in a low voice.
"Nothing," said Talbot, simply.
"Nothing?" repeated Brooke. "What can I do?"
"Can you not do what he requests?" asked Brooke, in a trembling voice.
"What! and marry them?"
"Why not?"
"It is impossible!" said Talbot, firmly.
"Oh heavens!" moaned Brooke, in a tone of despair.
"Oh, Brooke, do not talk like that!" said Talbot, entreatingly. "Have I
not already said all that can be said?"
"Well," said Brooke, "listen to reason for a moment. Only think what
marriage is. It is a union of two loving hearts. In Scotland people marry
themselves. Why cannot you do in Spain what you might safely do in
Scotland?"
"Yes," said Talbot, "and in Turkey a man may marry a hundred wives. Why
may not you do in Spain what you may safely do in Turkey? Oh, Brooke!
Brooke! Are you altogether candid now, and true to your better self? Do
not tempt me, Brooke. Do not try to shake me. My mind is clear on this
point. I cannot do wrong, not even to please yon, Brooke."
As Talbot said this she looked at Brooke with a glance that penetrated to
his soul. Her eyes showed unfathomable tenderness and devotion, yet her
face and her voice told of a resolve that was immutable.
Then Brooke tried another tone.
"Confound these Spaniards!" he cried. "Talbot! Talbot! Come, why not
marry this couple of cursed fools and have done with it?"
Of these words Talbot took no notice whatever. She was silent for a time
and thoughtful. Then she went on to speak:
"I know. I begin, I think, to understand all about it. The girl he means
to marry is this English girl, the daughter of Mrs. Russell. Captain
Lopez loved her, as we were told. He has followed her here, and effected
her deliverance from her Carlist captors, and now, as a matter of course,
she feels grateful to him and is willing to marry him. But how can I do
anything? I cannot. It is horrible sacrilege. It is frightful sin. No; I
will tell him the whole truth."
Brooke looked at her with a face of anguish.
"Oh, Talbot," said he, "if you do, what will become of you?"
"What?" said Talbot, in a firm voice.
"He will kill you--and worse than that," said Brooke.
"Why should he kill me?" said Talbot. "It will do him no good. What cause
will he have to kill me?"
"I have thought it all over," said Brooke, "all over, a thousand times. I
have speculated as to the possible result of a frank disclosure, and I've
come to the conclusion that it is better to run every risk in this
disguise, and go even to the verge of death, rather than divulge your
secret now."
"Divulge my secret!" said Talbot, in surprise. "And why not? What is
there to divulge? I have only to say that I am not a priest--I am an
English lady, who have assumed this disguise as a safeguard."
Brooke sighed.
"It's too late, too late! Oh, fool that I was--cursed, cursed fool! But I
was afraid to trust those Republicans; I feared that they might harm you
if they knew you to be a woman. It was for your sake that I kept your
secret, and now it has turned out to be the very worst thing that I could
have done."
"I deny that it was the worst," said Talbot, calmly. "Thus far it has
protected me most effectively. As for the future, we have yet to choose
our plans."
"Too late!" said Brooke.
"I do not think so," said Talbot. "You do not give any reasons. At any
rate, I will try--"
"Do not! do not!" said Brooke, earnestly. "It is too late. I will tell
you. You see, this deception has gone on so long, and his trust in you is
so profound, that the shock would be more than he could bear. As a priest
you have won his confidence, even his reverence. If you now tell him that
it was all a cheat, his wrath would burst forth beyond all bounds. He
would consider it an outrage on his holiest and most generous feelings.
He would believe that you had wantonly trifled with all that is most
sacred and most sensitive in the heart. Then there is more than this. For
some reason he is bent on marrying this girl. If you refuse now, and tell
him the truth, it will only intensify his resentment against you, and
turn it into a vengeful fury. There is no pain that he will not inflict.
There will be nothing too horrible for his revenge. He will say that you
deceived and cheated him unnecessarily and persistently; that even if
there was a necessity for it in the first place, you might at least have
confided in him after he had shown himself so merciful to me. He will say
that you must have found him out to be a chivalrous gentleman, in whose
protection you would have been safe, and this maintenance of your
disguise all this time and up to the last moment was a mockery and a
sham. And therefore," concluded Brooke, "every other resource ought
first to be tried, and this should not be made use of till all others
have failed. It will be useless at any time, but if it is made use of at
all, it ought to be last of all."
"Well, I don't know," said Talbot, doubtfully. "I will do as you say,
Brooke; but to go on in this way, and keep up this disguise till the
last, seems to me to involve certain destruction. I suppose he cannot be
persuaded to postpone the marriage."
Brooke shook his head despondingly.
"No," said he, "that is impossible. There is some strong reason for this
haste. He has, perhaps, extorted some promise from the girl. Perhaps she
does not love him. Perhaps he is afraid if he gives her time that she
will back out of it, and is determined to marry her while he has the
chance."
"If that is the case," said Talbot, "it only makes it worse for me. If
she does not love him, and all this is as you say, there is another and a
stronger reason for my refusal to have anything to do with such sacrilege
and sin."
"Oh, Talbot!" said Brooke. He turned his face toward her. It was a face
of agony; there was despair in his look. "Oh, Talbot! I could bear this
trial, any trial, for myself; but for you--for you, Talbot," he
continued, in thrilling tones, "for you I cannot bear it. Think! Can you
not do something?"
Talbot trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. For a time she stood thus
with quivering lips and trembling hands, struggling with her emotion, and
without much success. When she was able at last to speak it was in
tremulous, broken tones.
"Oh, Brooke!" she said, "for your sake I would do anything, anything; but
I cannot, even for your sake, do wrong to others. For you--if it were
myself alone that were concerned--I might be tempted to do an act of
sacrilege--or sin. Ask me to suffer for you, Brooke, and I will suffer:
oh, how gladly! Yes, Brooke," she continued, in a voice that sent a
thrill through all his being--"yes, Brooke, ask me to die for you, or let
the chance arise in which I may die to save you, and I will die. But
do not look at me so, Brooke! do not look at me so! Your face is full of
despair; your look is the look of one whose heart is breaking; and this,
Brooke, this seems worse than death! Be yourself, Brooke! rouse yourself!
Cannot you take refuge in some other thoughts? The very worst of your
songs might rouse you now. Sing, Brooke--sing anything. Talk nonsense,
and save your heart and mine from breaking!"
Brooke turned away, and walked up and down for a few minutes, while he
struggled to regain his composure. The struggle was a severe one, but he
succeeded in assuming an outward calm. He at length returned, and,
placing himself before Talbot, gave that short laugh of his, and said,
with some of his old rattle,
"Well, Talbot lad, you're more than half right. And, as I've always said,
there's nothing like a good song--and I've lots of good songs; but as you
suggest a bad song--in fact, the worst of all my songs--why, I dare say
it wouldn't be a bad idea to sing it. By-the-bye, Talbot, you ought to
learn to sing--at least, to hum tunes. I'll teach you how to whistle, if
you like. I wonder if this Spanish cur likes music. I'll sing you a song,
if you like, and I'll bet ten cents you never heard it before."
And Brooke sang, to a most extraordinary tune, these most extraordinary
words:
"Oh, a raggedy gang to the piper danced,
Of tatterdemalions all,
Till the corpulent butler drove them off
Beyond the manor wall.
The raggedy piper shook his fist:
'A minstrel's curse on thee,
Thou lubberly, duck-legg'd son of a gun,
For settin' dorgs on we!'"
"Brooke," said Talbot, with her usual calm, sad face, "I'm glad that you
are singing, though your song is certainly slightly vulgar."
"Oh, I know it," said Brooke; "but then vulgarity is sometimes a very good
thing. It don't do for people to be too fastidious. The fact is, this age
is over-refined, and I'm bound to reform it, or perish."