We pass; the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds.
The priest was the first to speak.
"You are his friend, I also; but we are of different nations."
He paused, drawing the sheet up over the dead man's face.
"He was not of my Church. You have your ways; will you make the
arrangements?"
"Yes," replied Fitz simply, "if you like."
"It is better so, my son"--the padre took a pinch of
snuff--"because--he was not of my Church. You will stay here, you and
your friend. She, the Senorita Eve, cannot be left alone, with her
grief."
He spoke Spanish, knowing that the Englishman understood it.
They drew down the blinds and passed out on to the terrace, where they
walked slowly backwards and forwards, talking over the future of Eve
and of the Casa d'Erraha.
In Spain, as in other southern lands, they speed the parting guest. Two
days later Edward Challoner was laid beside his father and grandfather
in the little churchyard in the valley below the Casa d'Erraha. And
who are we that we should say that his chance of reaching heaven was
diminished by the fact that part of the Roman Catholic burial service
was read over him by a Spanish priest?
Fitz had telegraphed to Eve's only living relative, Captain Bontnor,
and Fitz it was who stayed on at the Casa d'Erraha until that mariner
should arrive; for the doctor was compelled to return to his ship at
Port Mahon, and the priest never slept in another but his own little
vicarage house.
And in the Casa d'Erraha was enacted at this time one of those strange
little comedies that will force themselves upon a tragic stage. Fitz
deemed it correct that he should avoid Eve as much as possible, and
Eve, on the other hand, feeling lonely and miserable, wanted the
society of the simple-minded young sailor.
"Why do you always avoid me?" she asked suddenly on the evening after
the funeral. He had gone out on to the terrace, and thither she
followed him in innocent anger, without afterthought. She stood before
him with her slim white hands clasped together, resting against her
black dress, a sombre, slight young figure in the moonlight, looking at
him with reproachful eyes.
He hesitated a second before answering her. She was only nineteen; she
had been born and brought up in the Valley of Repose amidst the simple
islanders. She knew nothing of the world and its ways. And Fitz, with
the burden of the unique situation suddenly thrust upon him, was, in
his chivalrous youthfulness, intensely anxious to avoid giving her
anything to look back to in after years when she should be a woman. He
was tenderly solicitous for the feelings which would come later, though
they were absent now.
"Because," he answered, "I am not good at saying things. I don't know
how to tell you how sorry I am for you."
She turned away and looked across to the hills at the other side of the
valley, a rugged outline against the sky.
"But I know all that," she said softly, "without being told."
A queer smile passed over his sunburnt face, as if she had
unintentionally and innocently made things more difficult for him.
"And," she continued, "it is--oh, so lonely."
She made an almost imperceptible little movement towards him. Like the
child that she was, she was yearning for sympathy and comfort. "I
know--I know," he said.
Outward circumstance was rather against Fitz. A clear, odorous Spanish
night, the young moon rising behind the pines, a thousand dreamy tropic
scents filling the air. And Eve, half tearful, wholly lovable,
standing before him, innocently treading on dangerous ground,
guilelessly asking him to love her.
She, having grown almost to womanhood, pure as the flowers of the
field, ignorant, a child, knew nothing of what she was doing. She
merely gave way to the instinct that was growing within her--the
instinct that made her turn to this man, claiming his strength, his
tenderness, his capability, as given to him for her use and for her
happiness.
"You must not avoid me," she said. "Why do you do it? Have I done
anything you dislike? I have no one to speak to, no one who
understands, but you. There is the padre, of course--and nurse; but
they do not understand. They are--so OLD! Let me stay here with you
until it is time to go to bed, will you?"
"Of course," he answered quietly. "If you care to. To-morrow I should
think we shall hear from your uncle. He may come by the boat sailing
from Barcelona to-morrow night. It will be a good thing if he does;
you see, I must get back to my ship."
"You said she would not be ready for sea till next month."
"No, but there is discipline to be thought of."
He looked past her, up to the stars, with a scrutinising maritime eye,
recognising them and naming them to himself. He did not meet her
eyes--dangerous, tear-laden.
"There is something the matter with you," she said. "You are
different. Yes, you want my uncle to come the day after to-morrow--you
want to go away to Mahon as soon as you can. I-- Oh, Fitz, I don't
want to be a coward!"
She stood in front of him, clenching her little fists, forcing back the
tears that gleamed in the moonlight. He did not dare to cease his
astronomical observations.
"I WON'T be a coward--if you will only speak. If you will tell me what
it is."
Then Fitz told his first deliberate lie.
"I have had bad news," he said, "about my brother Luke. I am awfully
anxious about him."
He did it very well; for his motive was good. And we may take it that
such a lie as this is not writ very large in the Book.
The girl paused for a little, and then deliberately wiped the tears
from her eyes.
"How horribly selfish I have been!" she said. "Why did you not tell me
sooner? I have only been thinking of my own troubles ever since--ever
since poor papa-- I am a selfish wretch! I hate myself! Tell me about
your brother."
And so they walked slowly up and down the moss-grown terrace--alone in
this wonderful tropic night--while he told her the little tragedy of
his life. He told the story simply, with characteristic gaps in the
sequence, which she was left to fill up from her imagination.
"I shall not like Mrs. Harrington," said Eve, when the story was told.
"I am glad that she cannot come much into my life. My father wanted me
to go and stay with her last summer, but I would not leave him alone,
and for some reason he would not accept the invitation for himself. Do
you know, Fitz, I sometimes think there is a past--some mysterious
past--which contained my father and Mrs. Harrington and a man--the
Count de Lloseta."
"I have seen him," put in Fitz, "at Mrs. Harrington's often."
The girl nodded her head with a quaint little assumption of shrewdness
and deep suspicion.
"My father admired him--I do not know why. And pitied him intensely--I
do not know why."
"He was always very nice to me," answered Fitz, "but I never understood
him."
Talking thus they forgot the flight of time. It sometimes happens thus
in youth. And the huge clock in the stable yard striking ten aroused
Eve suddenly to the lateness of the hour.
"I must go," she said. "I am glad you told me about--Luke. I feel as
if I knew you better and understood--a little more. Good-night."
She left him on the terrace, and walked sorrowfully away to the house
which could never be the same again.
Fitz watched her slight young form disappear through an open doorway,
and then he became lost in the contemplation of the distant sea, lying
still and glass-like in the moonlight. He was looking to the north,
and it happened that from that same point of the compass there was
coming towards him the good steamer Bellver, on whose deck stood a
little shock-headed man--Captain Bontnor.
There is a regular service of steamers to and from the Island of
Majorca to the mainland, and, in addition, steamers make voyages when
pressure of traffic may demand. The Bellver was making one of these
supplemental journeys, and her arrival was not looked for at Palma.
Eve and Fitz were having breakfast alone in the gloomy room
overshadowed by the trailing wings of the Angel of Death, when the
servant announced a gentleman to see the senorita. The senorita
requested that the gentleman might approach, and presently there stood
in the doorway the quaintest little figure imaginable.
Captain Bontnor, with a certain sense of the fitness of things, had put
on his best clothes for this occasion, and it happened that the most
superior garment in his wardrobe was a thick pilot-jacket, which stood
out from his square person with solid angularity. He had brushed his
hair very carefully, applying water to compass a smoothness which had
been his life-long and hitherto unattained aim. His shock hair--red
turning to grey--stood up four inches from his honest, wrinkled face.
It was unfortunate that his best garments should have been purchased
for the amenities of a northern climate. His trousers were as stiff as
his jacket, and he wore a decorous black silk tie as large as a
counterpane.
He stood quaintly bowing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes veiled
with shyness and a pathetic dumb self-consciousness.
"Please come in," said Eve in Spanish, quite at a loss as to who this
might be.
Then Fitz had an inspiration. Something of the sea seemed to be wafted
from the older to the younger sailor.
"Are you Captain Bontnor?" he asked, rising from the table.
"Yes, sir, yes! That's my name!"
He stood nervously in the doorway, mistrusting the parquet-floor,
mistrusting himself, mistrusting everything.
Fitz went towards him holding out his hand, which the captain took
after a manfully repressed desire to wipe his own broad palm on the
seam of his trousers.
"Then you are my uncle?" said Eve, coming forward.
"Yes, miss, I'm afraid--that is--yes, I'm your uncle. You see--I'm
only a rough sort of fellow."
He came a little nearer and held his arms apart, looking down at his
own person in humble deprecation.
Eve was holding out her hand. He took it with a vague, deep-rooted
chivalry, and she, stooping, very deliberately kissed him.
This seemed rather to bewilder the captain, for he shook hands again
with Fitz.
"I--" he began, nodding into Fitz's face. "You are--eh? I didn't
expect--to see--I didn't know--"
At that moment Eve saw. It came to her in a flash, as most things do
come to women. She even had time to doubt the story about Luke.
"This," she said, with crimson cheeks, "is Mr. FitzHenry of the
Kittiwake. He kindly came to us in our trouble. You will have to
thank him afterwards--uncle."
"And in the meantime I expect you want breakfast?" put in Fitz,
carefully avoiding Eve.
"Yes," added the girl, "of course. Sit down. No, here!"
"Thankye--thankye, miss--my dear, I mean. Oh, anything'll do for me.
A bit of bread and a cup o' tea. I had a bit and a sup on board before
she sheered alongside the quay."
He looked round rather helplessly, wondering where he should put his
hat--a solid, flat-crowned British affair. Eve took it from him and
laid it aside.
Captain Bontnor sat very stiffly down. His square form did not seem to
lose any of its height by the change of position, and with a stiff back
he looked admiringly round the room, waiting like a child at a school
treat.
As the meal progressed he grew more at ease, telling them of the little
difficulties of his journey, avoiding with a tact not always found
inside a better coat all mention of the sad event which had caused him
to take this long journey after his travelling days were done.
That which set him at ease more than all else was the fact, at length
fully grasped, that Fitz was, like himself, a sailor. Here at least
was a topic upon which he could converse with any man. General subjects
only were discussed, as if by tacit consent. No mention was made of
the future until this was somewhat rudely brought before their notice
by the announcement that a second visitor desired to see the senorita.
With a more assured manner than that of his predecessor, a small, dark
man came into the room, throwing off his cloak and handing it to the
servant. He bowed ceremoniously and with true Spanish grace to Eve,
with less ceremony and more dignity to the two men.
"I beg that your excellency will accept the sympathy of my deepest
heart," he said. "I regret to trouble you so soon after the great loss
sustained by your excellency, indeed, by the whole island of Majorca.
But it is a matter of business. Such things cannot be delayed. Have I
your excellency's permission to proceed?"
"Certainly, senor."
The man's clean-shaven face was like a mask. The expressions seemed to
come and go as if worked by machinery. Sympathy was turned off, and in
its place Polite-Attention-to-Business appeared. From under his arm he
drew a leather portfolio, which he placed upon the table.
"The affairs of the late Cavalier Challoner were perhaps known to your
excellency?"
"No; I knew nothing of my father's affairs."
Sympathy seemed to be struggling behind "Polite-Attention-to-Business,"
while for a moment a real look of distress flitted over the parchment
face. He paused for an instant, reflecting while he assorted his
papers.
"I am," he said, "the lawyer of his excellency the Count de Lloseta."
Eve and Fitz exchanged a glance, and as silence was kept the lawyer
went on.
"Three generations ago," he said, "a Count de Lloseta, the grandfather
of this present excellency, made over on 'rotas' the estate and house
known as the Val d'Erraha to the grandfather of the late Cavalier
Challoner--a Captain Challoner, one of Admiral Byng's men."
Again he paused, arranging his papers.
"The Majorcan system 'rotas' is known to your excellency?"
"No, senor."
"On this system an estate is made over for one or two or three
generations by the proprietor to the lessee who farms or sublets the
land, and in lieu of rent hands over to the proprietor a certain
proportion of the crops. Does your excellency follow me?"
Eve did not answer at once. Then the lawyer's meaning seemed to dawn
upon her.
"Then," she said, "the Casa d'Erraha never belonged to my father?"
"Never"--with a grave bow.
"And I have nothing--nothing at all! I am penniless?"
The lawyer looked from her to Fitz, who was standing beside her
listening to the conversation, but not offering to take part in it.
"Unless your excellency has private means--in England, perhaps."
"I do not know--I know nothing. And we must leave the Casa d'Erraha.
When, senor? Tell me when."
The lawyer avoided her distressed eyes.
"Well," he said slowly, "the law is rather summary. I--your excellency
understands I only do my duty. I am not the principal. I have no
authority whatever--except the law."
"You mean that I must go at once?"
The lawyer's parchment face was generously expressive of grief now.
"Excellency, the lease terminated at the death of the late Caballero
Challoner."
Eve stood for a moment, breathing hard. Fate seemed suddenly to have
turned against her at every point. At this moment Captain Bontnor made
bold--one could see him doing it--to take her hand.
"My dear," he said, "I don't quite understand what this foreign
gentleman and you are talkin' about. But if it's trouble, dear, if
it's trouble--just let me try."