A WEIGHT OF EVIDENCE
‘The woman who loves you is at once your detective and accomplice.’
THE old priest was walking leisurely up the avenue towards the Casa
Barenna when the branches of a dwarf ilex were pushed aside, and there
came to him from their leafy concealment, not indeed a wood-nymph, but
Señora Barenna, with her finger at her lips.
‘Hush!’ she said; ‘he is here.’
And from the anxious and excited expression of her face it became
apparent that madame’s nerves were astir.
‘Who is here?’
‘Why, Esteban Larralde, of course.’
‘Ah!’ said Concha patiently. ‘But need we for that hide behind the
bushes and walk on the flower borders? Life would be much simpler,
señora, if people would only keep to the footpath. Less picturesque, I
allow you, but simpler. Shall I climb up a tree?’
The lady cast her eyes up to heaven and heaved an exaggerated sigh.
‘Ah—what a tragedy life is!’ she whispered, apparently to the angels, but
loud enough for her companion to hear.
‘Or a farce,’ said Concha, ‘according to our reading of the part. Where
is Señor Larralde?’
‘Oh, he has gone to the fruit garden with Julia—there is a high wall all
round, and one cannot see. She may be murdered by this time. I knew he
was coming from the manner in which she ran downstairs. She walks at
other times.’
Concha smiled rather grimly.
‘She is not the first to do that,’ he said, ‘and many have stumbled on
the stairs in their haste.’
‘Ah! You are a hard man—a terrible man with no heart. And I have no one
to sympathise with me. No one knows what I suffer. I never sleep at
night—not a wink—but lie and think of my troubles. Julia will not obey
me. I have warned her not to rouse me to anger—and she laughs at me.
She persists in seeing this terrible Esteban Larralde—a Carlist, if you
please.’
‘We are all as God made us,’ said Concha—’with embellishments added by
the Evil One,’ he added, in a lower tone.
‘And now I am going to see General Vincente. I shall tell him to send
soldiers. This man’s presence is intolerable—I am not obeyed in my own
house,’ cried the lady. ‘I have ordered the carriage to meet me at the
lower gate. I dare not drive away from my own door. Ah! what a
tragedy!’
‘I will go with you, since you are determined to go,’ said Concha.
‘What! And leave Julia here with that terrible man?’
‘Yes,’ answered the priest. ‘Happiness is a dangerous thing to meddle
with. There is so little of it in the world, and it lasts so short a
time.’
Señora Barenna indicated by a sigh and her attitude that she had had no
experience in the matter. As a simple fact, she had been enabled all
through her life to satisfy her own desires—the subtlest form of
misfortune.
‘Then you would have Julia marry this terrible man,’ said the lady,
shielding her face from the sun with the black fan which she always
carried.
‘I am too old and too stupid to take any active part in my neighbours’
affairs. It is only the young and inexperienced who are competent to do
that,’ answered the priest.
‘But you say you are fond of Julia.’
‘Yes,’ said the priest quietly.
‘I wonder why.’
‘So do I,’ he said in a tone that Señora Barenna never understood.
‘You are always kinder to her than you are to me,’ went on the lady in
her most martyred manner. ‘Her penances are always lighter than mine.
You are patient with her and not with me. And I am sure I have never
done you any injury—’
The old Padre smiled. Perhaps he was thinking of those illusions which
she had during the years pulled down one by one—for the greater peace of
his soul.
‘There is the carriage,’ he said. ‘Let us hasten to General Vincente—if
you wish to see him.’
In a few minutes they were rattling along the road, while Esteban
Larralde and Julia sat side by side in the shade of the great wall that
surrounded the fruit garden. And one at least of them was gathering that
quick harvest of love which is like the grass of the field, inasmuch as
to-day it is, and to-morrow is not.
General Vincente was at home. He was one of those men who are happy in
finding themselves where they are wanted. So many have, on the contrary,
the misfortune to be always absent when they are required, and the world
soon learns to progress without them.
‘That man—that Larralde is in Ronda,’ said Señora Barenna, bursting in on
the General’s solitude. Vincente smiled, and nevertheless exchanged a
quick glance with Concha, who confirmed the news by a movement of his
shaggy eyebrows.
‘Ah, these young people!’ exclaimed the General with a gay little sigh.
‘What it is to be young and in love! But be seated, Iñez—be seated.
Padre—a chair.’
‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Señora Barenna breathlessly, for she
was stout and agitated and had hurried up the steps.
‘When, my dear Iñez—when?’
‘But now—with this man in Ronda. You know quite well he is dangerous.
He is a Carlist. It was only the other day that you received an
anonymous letter saying that your life was in danger. Of course it was
from the Carlists, and Larralde has something to do with it; or that
Englishman—that Señor Conyngham with the blue eyes. A man with blue
eyes—bah! Of course he is not to be trusted.’
The receiver of the anonymous warning seemed to be amused.
‘A little sweeping, your statements, my dear Iñez. Is it not so? Now, a
lemonade! the afternoon is warm.’
He rose and rang the bell.
‘My nerves,’ whispered the Señora to Concha. ‘My nerves—they are so
easily upset.’
‘The liqueurs,’ said the General to the servant with perfect gravity.
‘You must take steps at once,’ urged Señora Barenna when they were alone
again. She was endowed with a magnificent imagination without much
wisdom to hold it in check, and at times persuaded herself that she was
in the midst, and perhaps the leader, of a dangerous whirl of political
events.
‘I will, my dear Iñez; I will. And we will take a little maraschino, to
collect ourselves, eh?’
And his manner quite indicated that it was he and not Madame Barenna who
was upset. The lady consented, and proceeded to what she took to be a
consultation, which in reality was a monologue. During this she imparted
a vast deal of information, and received none in return, which is the
habit of voluble people, and renders them exceedingly dangerous to
themselves and useful to others.
Presently the two men conducted her to her carriage, with many
reassurances.
‘Never fear, Iñez; never fear. He will be gone before you return,’ said
the General, with a wave of the hand. He had consented to invite Julia
to accompany Estella and himself to Madrid, where she would be out of
harm’s way.
The two men then returned to the General’s study, and sat down in that
silence which only grows to perfection on the deep soil of a
long-standing friendship. Vincente was the first to speak.
‘I have had a letter from Madrid,’ he said, looking gravely at his
companion. ‘My correspondent tells me that Conyngham has not yet
presented his letter of introduction, and, so far as is ascertainable,
has not arrived in the capital. He should have been there six weeks
ago.’
The Padre took a pinch of snuff, and held the box out towards his
companion, who waved it aside. The General was too dainty a man to
indulge in such a habit.
‘He possessed no money, so he cannot have fallen a victim to thieves,’
said Concha.
‘He was accompanied by a good guide, and an honest enough scoundrel, so
he cannot have lost his way,’ observed the General, with a queer
expression of optimistic distress on his face.
‘His movements were not always above suspicion—’ the priest closed his
snuff-box and laboriously replaced it in the pocket of his cassock.
‘That letter—it was a queer business!’ and the General laughed.
‘Most suspicious.’
There was a silence, during which Concha sneezed twice with enjoyment and
more noise than is usually considered necessary.
‘And your letter,’ he said, carefully folding his handkerchief into
squares; ‘that anonymous letter of warning that your life is
threatened—is that true? It is the talk of Ronda.’
‘Ah, that!’ laughed Vincente. ‘Yes, it is true enough. It is not the
first time—a mere incident, that is all.’
‘That which the Señora Barenna said just now,’ observed the priest
slowly, ‘about our English friend—may be true. Sometimes thoughtless
people arrive at a conclusion which eludes more careful minds.’
‘Yes—my dear Padre—yes.’
The two grey-headed men looked at each other for a moment in silence.
‘And yet you trust him,’ said Concha.
‘Despite myself, despite my better judgment, my dear friend.’
The priest rose and went to the window which overlooked the garden.
‘Estella is in the garden?’ he asked, and received no answer.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ said the General. ‘You are thinking that
we should do well to tell Estella of these distressing suspicions.’
‘For you it does not matter,’ replied the priest. ‘It is a mere
incident, as you say. Your life has been attempted before, and you
killed both the men with your own hand, if I recollect aright.’
Vincente shrugged his shoulders and looked rather embarrassed.
‘But a woman,’ went on Concha, ‘cannot afford to trust a man against her
better judgment.’
By way of reply the General rose and rang the bell, requesting the
servant when he answered the summons to ask the señorita to spare a few
moments of her time.
They exchanged no further words until Estella came hurrying into the room
with a sudden flush on her cheeks and something in her dark eyes that
made her father say at once—
‘It is not bad news that we have, my child.’
Estella glanced at Concha and said nothing. His wise old eyes rested for
a moment on her face with a little frown of anxiety.
‘We have had a visit from the Señora Barenna,’ went on the General, ‘and
she is anxious that we should invite Julia to go to Madrid with us. It
appears that Esteban Larralde is still attempting to force his attentions
on Julia, and is at present in Ronda. You will not object to her coming
with us?’
‘Oh no,’ said Estella without much interest.
‘We have also heard rather disquieting news about our pleasant friend,
Mr. Conyngham,’ said the General, examining the tassel of his sword.
‘And I think it is only right to tell you that I fear we have been
deceived in him.’
There was silence for a few moments, and then Vincente spoke again.
‘In these times, one is almost compelled to suspect one’s nearest
friends. Much harm may be done by being over-trustful, and appearances
are so consistently against Mr. Conyngham that it would be folly to
ignore them.’
The General waited for Estella to make some comment, and after a pause
continued:
‘He arrived in Ronda under singularly unfortunate circumstances, and I
was compelled to have his travelling companion shot. Then occurred that
affair of the letter, which he gave to Julia—an affair which has never
been explained. Conyngham would have to show me that letter before I
should be quite satisfied. I obtained for him an introduction to General
Espartero in Madrid. That was six or seven weeks ago. The introduction
has not been presented, nor has Conyngham been seen in Madrid. In
England, on his own confession, he was rather a scamp; why not the same
in Spain?’
The General spread out his hands in his favourite gesture of deprecation.
He had not made the world, and while deeply deploring that such things
could be, he tacitly admitted that the human race had not been,
creatively speaking, a complete success.
Father Concha was brushing invisible grains of snuff from his cassock
sleeve and watching Estella with anxious eyes.
‘I only tell you, my dear,’ continued the General, ‘so that we may know
how to treat Mr. Conyngham should we meet him in Madrid. I liked him. I
like a roving man—and many Englishmen are thus wanderers—but appearances
are very much against him.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Estella quietly. ‘Yes.’
She moved towards the door, and there turning looked at Concha.
‘Does the Padre stay to dinner?’ she asked.
‘No, my child, thank you. No; I have affairs at home.’
Estella went out of the room, leaving a queer silence behind her.
Presently Concha rose.
‘I, too, am going to Madrid,’ he said. ‘It is an opportunity to press my
claim for the payment of my princely stipend, now two years overdue.’
He walked home on the shady side of the street, exchanging many
salutations, pausing now and then to speak to a friend. Indeed, nearly
every passer-by counted himself as such. In his bare room, where the
merest necessities of life scarce had place, he sat down thoughtfully.
The furniture, the few books, his own apparel, bespoke the direst
poverty. This was one who in his simplicity read his Master’s words
quite literally, and went about his work with neither purse nor scrip.
The priest presently rose and took from a shelf an old wooden box
quaintly carved and studded with iron nails. A search in the drawer of
the table resulted in the finding of a key and the final discovery of a
small parcel at the bottom of the box which contained letters and other
papers.
‘The rainy day—it comes at last,’ said the Padre Concha, counting out his
little stock of silver with the care that only comes from the knowledge
that each coin represents a self-denial.