A WISE IGNORAMUS
‘God help me! I know nothing—can but pray.’
IT was Father Concha’s custom to attend, at his church between the hours
of nine and ten in the morning, to such wants spiritual or temporal as
individual members of his flock chose to bring to him.
Thus it usually happened that the faithful found the old priest at nine
o’clock sunning himself at the front door of the sacred edifice, smoking
a reflective cigarette and exchanging the time of day with passers-by or
such as had leisure to pause a moment.
‘Whether it is body or soul that is in trouble—come to me,’ he would say.
‘For the body I can do a little—a very little. I have twenty pounds a
year, and it is not always paid to me, but I sometimes have a trifle for
charity. For the soul I can do a little more.’ After a storm of wind
and rain, such as come in the winter-time, it was no uncommon sight to
see the priest sweeping the leaves and dust from the church steps and
using the strongest language at the bootmaker over the way whose business
this was supposed to be.
‘See!’ he would cry to some passer-by. ‘See!—it is thus that our
sacristan does his work. It is for this that the Holy Church pays him
fifteen—or is it twenty?—pesetas each year.’
And the bootmaker would growl and shake his head over his last; for, like
most who have to do with leather, he was a man of small humour.
Here, too, mothers would bring their children—little girls cowering under
their bright handkerchiefs, the mantilla of the poor, and speak with the
Padre of the Confirmation and first Communion which had lately begun to
hang like a cloud over the child’s life. Father Concha would take the
child upon his knee as he sat on the low wall at the side of the steps,
and when the mother had left them, would talk quietly with the lines of
his face wonderfully softened, so that before long the little girl would
run home quite happy in mind and no longer afraid of the great unknown.
Here, in the spring time, came the young men with thoughts appropriate to
the season, and sheepish exceedingly; for they knew that Father Concha
knew all about them, and would take an unfair advantage of his
opportunities, refusing probably to perform the ceremony until he was
satisfied as to the ways and means and prudence of the contracting
parties—which of course he had no right to do. Here came the halt, the
lame, the blind, the poor, and also the rich. Here came the unhappy.
They came naturally and often. Here, so the bootmaker tells, came one
morning a ruined man, who after speaking a few words to the Padre,
produced a revolver and tried to shoot himself. And the Padre fell on
him like a wild beast. And they fought, and fell, and rolled down the
steps together into the road, where they still fought till they were
white like millers with dust. Then at last the Padre got the strong man
under him and took the revolver away and threw it into the ditch. Then
he fell to belabouring the would-be suicide with his fists, until the big
man cried for mercy and received it not.
‘You saved his life,’ the people said.
‘It was his soul that I was caring for,’ replied the Padre with his grim
smile.
Concha was not a clever man, but he was wise. Of learning he had but
little. It is easy, however, to be wise without being learned. It is
easier still to be learned without being wise. The world is full of such
persons to-day when education is too cheap. Concha steered his flock as
best he could through the stormy paths of insurrection and civil war. He
ruled with a rod of iron whom he could, and such as were beyond his reach
he influenced by ridicule and a patient tolerance. True to his cloth, he
was the enemy of all progress and distrusted every innovation.
‘The Padre,’ said the barber, who was a talker and a radical, ‘would have
the world stand still.’
‘The Padre,’ replied Concha, tenderly drying his chin with a towel,
‘would have all barbers attend to their razors. Many are so busy
shouting “Advance!” that they have no breath to ask whither they are
going.’
On the whole, perhaps, his autocratic rule was a beneficent one, and
contributed to the happiness of the little northern suburb of Ronda over
which it extended. At all events, he was a watchful guardian of his
flock, and knew every face in his parish.
It thus happened one morning that a strange woman, who had come quietly
into church to pray, attracted his attention as he passed out after
matins. She was a mere peasant and ill clad. The child seated on a
chair by her side and staring with wondering eyes at the simple altar and
stained-glass window had a hungry look.
Concha sat down on the low wall without the doors and awaited the exit of
this devotee who was not of his flock. For though, as he often said, the
good God had intended him for a soldier, his own strong will and simple
faith had in time produced a very passable priest who, with a grim face,
went about doing good.
The woman presently lifted the heavy leathern curtain and let out into
the sunlight a breath of cool, incense-laden air.
She curtsied and paused as if expecting recognition. Concha threw away
his cigarette and raised his hand to his hat. He had not lifted it
except to ladies of the highest quality for some years, out of regard to
symptoms of senile decay which had manifested themselves at the junction
of the brim and the crown.
‘Have I not seen your face before, my child?’ he said.
‘Yes, reverendo. I am of Ronda but have been living in Xeres.’
‘Ah! then your husband is no doubt a malcontent?’
The woman burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and leaning
against the wall in an attitude that was still girlish. She had probably
been married at fifteen.
‘No, reverendo! He is a thief.’
Concha merely nodded his head. He never had been a man to betray much
pious horror when he heard of ill-doing.
‘The two are almost identical,’ he said quietly. ‘One does what the
other fears to do. And is your husband in prison? Is that why you have
come back? Ah! you women—in foolishness you almost equal the men!’
‘No, reverendo. I am come back because he has left me. Sebastian has
run away, and has stolen all his master’s property. It was the Colonel
Monreal of Xeres—a good man, reverendo, but a politician.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, and he was murdered, as your reverence has no doubt seen in the
newspapers. A week ago it was—the day that the Englishman came with a
letter.’
‘What Englishman was that?’ inquired Father Concha, brushing some grains
of snuff from his sleeve. ‘What Englishman was that, my child?’
‘Oh, I do not know! His name is unknown to me, but I could tell he was
English from his manner of speaking. The Colonel had an English friend
who spoke so—one engaged in the sherry in Xeres.’
‘Ah yes! And this Englishman, what was he like?’
‘He was very tall and straight, like a soldier, and had a moustache quite
light in colour, like straw.’
‘Ah yes. The English are so. And he left a letter?’
‘Yes, reverendo.’
‘A rose-coloured letter—?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, looking at him with surprise.
‘And tell me what happened afterwards. I may perhaps be able to help
you, my child, if you tell me all you know.’
‘And then, reverendo, the police brought back the Colonel who had been
murdered in the streets—and I who had his Excellency’s dinner on the
table waiting for him!’
‘And—’
‘And Sebastian ate the dinner, reverendo.’
‘Your husband appears to be a man of action,’ said Concha with a queer
smile. ‘And then—’
‘Sebastian sent me on a message to the town, and when I came back he was
gone and all his Excellency’s possessions were gone—his papers and
valuables.’
‘Including the letter which the Englishman had left for the Colonel?’
‘Yes, reverendo. Sebastian knew that in these times the papers of a
politician may perhaps be sold for money.’
Concha nodded his head reflectively and took a pinch of snuff with
infinite deliberation and enjoyment.
‘Yes—assuredly, Sebastian is one of those men who get on in the world—up
to a certain point—and at that point they get hanged. There is in the
universe a particular spot for each man—where we all think we should like
to go if we had the money. For me it is Rome. Doubtless Sebastian had
some such spot, of which he spoke when he was intoxicated. Where is
Sebastian’s earthly paradise, think you, my child?’
‘He always spoke of Madrid, reverendo.’
‘Yes—yes, I can imagine he would.’
‘And I have no money to follow him,’ sobbed the woman, breaking into
tears again. ‘So I came to Ronda, where I am known, to seek it.’
‘Ah, foolish woman!’ exclaimed the priest severely, and shaking his
finger at her. ‘Foolish woman to think of following such a person. More
foolish still is it to weep for a worthless husband, especially in
public, thus, on the church steps, where all may see. All the other
women will be so pleased. It is their greatest happiness to think that
their neighbour’s husband is worse than their own. Failure is the royal
road to popularity. Dry your tears, foolish one, before you make too
many friends.’
The woman obeyed him mechanically with a sort of dumb hopelessness.
At this moment a horseman clattered past, coming from Ronda and hastening
in the direction of Bobadilla or perhaps to the Casa Barenna. He wore
his flat-brimmed hat well forward over the eyes, and kept his gaze fixed
upon the road in front. There was a faint suggestion of assumed
absorption in his attitude, as if he knew that the priest was usually at
the church door at this hour, and had no desire to meet his eye. It was
Larralde.
A few minutes later Julia Barenna, who was sitting at her window watching
and waiting—her attitude in life—suddenly rose with eyes that gleamed and
trembling hands. She stood and gazed down into the valley below, her
attention fixed on the form of a horseman slowly making his way through
the olive groves. Then breathlessly she turned to her mirror.
‘At last!’ she whispered, her fingers busy with her hair and mantilla, a
thousand thoughts flying through her brain, her heart throbbing in her
breast. In a moment the aspect of the whole world had changed—in a
moment Julia herself was another woman. Ten years seemed to have rolled
away from her heart, leaving her young and girlish and hopeful again.
She gave one last look at herself and hurried to the door.
It was yet early in the day, and the air beneath the gnarled and ancient
olive trees was cool and fresh as Julia passed under them to meet her
lover. He threw himself out of the saddle when he saw her, and, leaving
his horse loose, ran to meet her. He took her hands and raised her
fingers to his lips with a certain fervour which was sincere enough. For
Larralde loved Julia according to his lights, though he had another
mistress, Ambition, who was with him always and filled his thoughts,
sleeping or waking. Julia, her face all flushed, her eyes aglow,
received his gallant greeting with a sort of breathless eagerness. She
knew she had not Larralde’s whole heart, and, woman-like, was not content
with half.
‘I have not seen you for nearly a fortnight,’ she said.
‘Ah!’ answered Larralde, who had apparently not kept so strict an account
of the days. ‘Ah! yes—I know. But, dearest, I have been burning the
high-roads. I have been almost to Madrid. Ah! Julia, why did you make
such a mistake?’
‘What mistake?’ she asked with a sudden light of coquetry in her eyes.
She thought he was about to ask her why she loved him. In former days he
had had a pretty turn for such questions.
‘In giving the letter to that scoundrel Conyngham—he has betrayed us, and
Spain is no longer safe for me.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ asked Julia, alert. Had she possessed Larralde’s
whole heart she would have been happy enough to take part in his
pursuits.
Larralde gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Heaven only knows where the letter is now,’ he answered. Julia unfolded
a note and handed it to him. She had received it three weeks earlier
from Concepçion Vara, and it was from Conyngham, saying that he had left
her note at the house of the Colonel.
‘The Colonel was dead before Conyngham arrived at Xeres,’ said Larralde
shortly. ‘And I do not believe he ever left the letter. I suspected
that he had kept it as a little recommendation to the Christinos under
whom he takes service. It would have been the most natural thing to do.
But I have satisfied myself that the letter is not in his possession.’
‘How?’ asked Julia with a sudden fear that blanched her face.
Larralde smiled in rather a sickly way and made no answer. He turned and
looked down the avenue.
‘I see Father Concha approaching,’ he said; ‘let us go towards the
house.’