A TANGLED WEB
‘Wherein I am false, I am honest—not true to be true.’
‘AND—would you believe it?—there are soldiers in the house, at the very
door of Julia’s apartments.’ Señora Barenna, who made this remark,
heaved a sigh and sat back in her canework chair with that jerkiness of
action which in elderly ladies usually betokens impatience with the ways
of young people.
‘Policemen—policemen, not soldiers,’ corrected Father Concha patiently,
as if it did not matter much. They were sitting in the broad vine-clad
verandah of the Casa Barenna, that grim old house on the Bobadilla road,
two miles from Ronda. The priest had walked thither, as the dust on his
square-toed shoes and black stockings would testify. He had laid aside
his mournful old hat, long since brown and discoloured, and was wiping
his forehead with a cheap pocket-handkerchief of colour and pattern
rather loud for his station in life.
‘Well, they have swords,’ persisted the lady.
‘Policemen,’ said Father Concha, in a stern and final voice, which caused
Señora Barenna to cast her eyes upwards with an air of resigned
martyrdom.
‘Ah, that Alcalde!’ she whispered between her teeth.
‘A little dog, when it is afraid, growls,’ said Concha philosophically.
‘The Alcalde is a very small dog, and he is at his wit’s end. Such a
thing has not occurred in Ronda before, and the Alcalde’s world is Ronda.
He does not know whether his office permits him to inspect young ladies’
love letters or not.’
‘Love letters!’ ejaculated Señora Barenna. She evidently had a keen
sense of the romantic, and hoped for something more tragic than a mere
flirtation begotten of idleness at sea.
‘Yes,’ said Concha, crossing his legs and looking at his companion with a
queer cynicism. ‘Young people mostly pass that way.’
He had had a tragedy, this old man. One of those grim tragedies of the
cassock 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 reassuringly, ‘Julia is a match for the Alcalde, you may
rest assured of that.’
Señora 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 assuredly in
heaven, where I hope there are a few mansions reserved for men only.’
Señora 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 God sends
to women. You are an ungrateful female.’
Señora Barenna, whose face would have graced one of the very earliest of
the martyrs, sat with folded hands waiting until the storm should pass.
‘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
attitude 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 Saturday. 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, passing his hands
down his worn cassock.
‘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
sexe_ 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 señorita,’ 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 Café 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 assembled 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.
The two men sat side by side in strong contrast. Fate indeed seems to
shake men together in a bag, and cast them out upon the world heedless
where they may fall; for here was a soldier in the priest’s habit, and
one carrying a sword who had the keen heart and sure sympathy for joy or
sorrow that should ever be found within a black coat if the Master’s work
is to be well done.
General Vincente smiled at Estella with _sang-froid_ and an unruffled
good nature, while the Padre Concha, whose place it surely was to take
the lead in such woman’s work as this, slowly rubbed his bony hands
together, at a loss and incompetent to meet the urgency of the moment.
‘Our guest left us yesterday morning,’ said the General, ‘and of course
the Alcalde placed no hindrance on his departure.’
He did not look at Julia, who drew a deep breath and glanced at Estella.
‘I do not know if Señor Conyngham left any message for you with
Estella—to me he said nothing,’ continued Estella’s father; and that
young lady shook her head.
‘No,’ she put in composedly.
‘Then it remains for us to close this foolish incident, my dear Julia;
and for me to remind you, seeing that you are fatherless, that there are
in Spain many adventurers who come here seeking the sport of love or war,
who will ride away when they have had their fill of either.’
He ceased speaking with a tolerant laugh, as one who, being a soldier
himself, would beg indulgence for the failings of his comrades, examined
the hilt of his sword, and then looked blandly round on three faces which
resolutely refused to class the absent Englishman in this category.
‘It remains, my dear niece, to satisfy the Alcalde—a mere glance at the
letter—sufficient to satisfy him as to the nature of its contents.’
‘I have no letter,’ said Julia quietly, with her level red lips set hard.
‘Not in your possession, but perhaps concealed in some place near at
hand—unless it is destroyed.’
‘I have destroyed no letter, I have concealed no letter, and I have no
letter,’ said the girl quietly. Estella moved uneasily in the chair.
Her face was colourless and her eyes shone. She watched her cousin’s
face intently, and beneath his shaggy brows the old priest’s eyes went
from one fair countenance to the other.
‘Then,’ cried the General, rising to his feet with an air of relief, ‘you
have but to assure the Alcalde of this, and the whole incident is
terminated. Blown over, my dear Concha—blown over!’
He tapped the priest on the shoulder with great good nature. Indeed, the
world seemed sunny enough and free from cares when General Vincente had
to deal with it.
‘Yes—yes,’ said the Padre, snuff-box in hand. ‘Blown over—of course.’
‘Then I may send the Alcalde to you, Julia—and you will tell him what you
have told us? He cannot but take the word of a lady.’
‘Yes—if you like,’ answered Julia.
The General’s joy knew no bounds.
‘That is well,’ he cried, ‘I knew we could safely rely upon your good
sense. Kiss me, Julia—that is well! Come, Estella—we must not keep the
horses waiting.’
With a laugh and a nod he went towards the door. ‘Blown over, my dear
Concha,’ he said over his shoulder.
A few minutes later the priest walked down the avenue of walnut trees
alone. The bell was ringing for vespers, but the Padre was an autocratic
shepherd and did not hurry towards his flock. The sun had set, and in
the hollows of the distant mountains the shades of night already lay like
a blue veil.
The priest walked on and presently reached the high road. A single
figure was upon it—the figure of a man sitting in the shadow of an ilex
tree half a mile up the road towards Bobadilla. The man crouched low
against a heap of stones and had the air of a wanderer. His face was
concealed in the folds of his cloak.
‘Blown over,’ muttered the Padre as he turned his back upon Bobadilla and
went on towards his church. ‘Blown over, of course; but what is
Concepçion Vara doing in the neighbourhood of Ronda to-night?’