THE AMBIGUOUS THIRD
"God save your grace," said Esteban; for it was he who, sitting well
back upon his donkey's rump, with exceedingly bright eyes and a
cheerful grin, now forged level with Manvers and his burdened steed.
Manvers gave him a curt "Good-day," and thought him an impudent
fellow--which was not justified by anything Esteban had done. He had
been discretion itself; and, indeed, to his eyes there had been nothing
of necessity remarkable in the pair on the horse. If a lady--Duchess
or baggage--happened to be sharing the gentleman's saddle, an
arrangement must be presumed, which could not possibly concern himself.
That is the reasonable standpoint of a people who mind their own
business and credit their neighbours with the same preoccupation.
But Manvers was an Englishman, and could not for the life of him
consider Esteban as anything but a puppy for seeing him in a
compromising situation. So much was he annoyed that he did not remark
any longer that Manuela was another person, sitting stiffly, strained
against his arm, every muscle on the stretch, as taut as a ship's cable
in the tideway, her face in rigid profile to the newcomer.
Esteban was in no way put out. "Many good days light upon your grace!"
he cheerfully repeated--so cheerfully that Manvers was appeased.
"Good-day, good-day to you," he said. "You ride light and I ride
heavy, otherwise you had not overtaken us."
Esteban showed his fine teeth, and waved his hand towards the hazy
distance; from the tail of his eye he watched Manuela in profile. "Who
knows that, sir? _Lo que ha de ser_--as we say. Ah, who knows that?"
Manuela strained her face forward.
"Well," said Manvers, "I do, for example. I have proved my horse.
He's a Galician, and a good goer. It would want a brave _borico_ to
outpace him."
Esteban slipped into the axiomatic, as all Spaniards will. "There's a
providence of the road, sir, and a saint in charge of travellers. And
we know, sir, _a cada puerco viene su San Martin_." Manuela stooped
her body forward, and peered ahead, as one strains to see in the dark.
"Your proverb is oddly chosen, it seems to me," said Manvers.
Esteban gave a little chuckle from his throat.
"A proverb is a stone flung into a pack of starlings. It may scare the
most, but may hit one. By mine I referred to the ways of providence,
under a figure. Destiny is always at work."
"No doubt," said Manvers, slightly bored.
"It might have been your destiny to have outpaced me: the odds were
with you. On the other hand, as you have not, it must have been mine
to have overtaken you."
"You are a philosopher?" asked Manvers, fatigue deliberately in his
voice. Esteban's eyes shone intensely; he had marked the changed
inflection.
"I studied the Humanities at Salamanca," he said carelessly. "That was
when I was an innocent. Since then I have learned in a harder school.
I am learning still--every day I learn something new. I am a gentleman
born, as your grace has perceived: why not a philosopher?"
Manvers was rather ashamed of himself. "Of course, of course! Why not
indeed? I am very glad to see you, while our ways coincide."
Esteban raised his battered straw. "I kiss the feet of your grace, and
hope your grace's lady"--Manuela quivered--"is not disturbed by my
company; for to tell you the truth, sir, I propose to enjoy your own as
long as you and she are agreeable. I am used to companionship." He
shot a keen glance at Manuela, who never moved.
"She will speak for herself, no doubt," said Manvers; but she did not.
The gleam in Esteban's light eyes gave point to his next speech.
"I have a notion that the senora is not of your mind, sir," he said,
"and am sorry. I can hardly remain as an unwelcome third in a journey.
It would be a satisfaction to me if the senora would assure me that I
am wrong." Manuela now turned her head with an effort and looked down
upon the grinning youth.
"Why should I care whether you stay or go?" she said. Her eyelids
flickered over her eyes as though he were dust in their light.
He showed his teeth.
"Why indeed, senora? God knows I have no reputation to bring you,
though the company of a gentleman, the son of a gentleman, never comes
amiss, they say. But two is company, and three is a fair. I have
found it so, and so doubtless has your ladyship."
She made him no answer, and had turned away her face long before he had
finished. After that the conversation was mainly of his making; for
Manuela would say nothing, and Manvers had nothing to say. The cork
wood was plain in front of him now; he thanked God for the prospect of
food and rest. In fifteen minutes, thought he, he should be swimming
in the Pisuerga.
The forest began tentatively, with heath, sparse trees and mounds of
cistus and bramble. Manvers followed the road, which ran through a
portion of it, until he saw the welcome thickets on either hand, deep
tunnels of dark and shadowy places where the sun could not stab; then
he turned aside over the broken ground, and Esteban's donkey picked a
dainty way behind him. When he had reached what seemed to him
perfection, he pulled up.
"Now, young lady," he said; "I will give you food and drink, and then
you shall go to sleep, and so will I. Afterwards we will consider what
had best be done with you."
"Yes, sir," she replied in a whisper. Manvers dismounted and held out
his hand to her. There was no more coquetting with the saddle. She
scarcely touched his hand, and did not once lift her eyes to him--but
he was busy with his haversack and had no thoughts for her.
Esteban meantime sat the donkey, looking gravely at his company,
blinking his eyes, smiling quietly, recurring now and then to the
winding minor air which had been in his head all day. He was perfectly
unhampered by any doubts of his welcome, and watched with serious
attention the preparations for a meal in the open which Manvers was
making with the ease and despatch of one versed in camps.
Ham and sausage, rolls of bread, a lettuce, oranges, cheese, dates, a
bottle of wine, another of water, salt, olives, a knife and fork, a
plate, a corkscrew; every article was in its own paper, some were
marked in pencil what they were. All were spread out upon a
horse-blanket; in good enough order for a field-inspection. Nothing
was wanting, and Esteban was as keen as a wolf. Even Manvers rubbed
his hands. He looked shrewdly at his neighbour.
"Good _alforjas_, eh?"
"Excellent indeed, sir," said Esteban hoarsely. It was hard to see
this food, and know that he could not eat of it. Manuela was sitting
under a tree, her face in her hands.
"How far away," said Manvers, "is the water, do you suppose?"
The water? Esteban collected himself with a start. The water? He
jerked his head towards the display on the blanket. "It is under your
hand, caballero. That bottle, I take it, holds water."
Manvers laughed. "Yes, yes. I mean the river. I am going to swim in
the river. Don't wait for me." He turned to the girl. "Take some
food, my friend. I'll be back before long."
Her swift transitions bewildered him. She showed him now a face of
extreme terror. She was on her feet in a moment, rigid, and her eyes
were so pale that her face looked empty of eyes, like a mask. What on
earth was the matter with her? He understood her to be saying, "I must
go where you go. I must never leave you----" words like that; but they
came from her mouthed rather than voiced, as the babbling of a mad
woman. All that was clear was that she was beside herself with fright.
Looking to Esteban for an explanation, he surprised a triumphant gleam
in that youth's light eyes, and saw him grinning--as a dog grins, with
the lip curled back.
But Esteban spoke. "I think the lady is right, sir. Affection is a
beautiful thing." He added politely, "The loss will be mine."
Manvers looked from one to the other of these curious persons, so
clearly conscious of each other, yet so strict to avoid recognition.
His eyes rested on Manuela. "What's the matter, my child?" She met
his glance furtively, as if afraid that he was angry; plainly she was
ashamed of her panic. Her eyes were now collected, her brow cleared,
and the tension of her arms relaxed.
"Nothing is the matter," she said in a low voice. "I will stay here."
She was shaking still; she held herself with both her hands, and shook
the more.
"I think that you are knocked over by the heat and all the rest of your
troubles," said Manvers, "and I don't wonder. Repose yourself
here--eat--drink. Don't spare the victuals, I beg. And as for you, my
brother, I invite you too to eat what you please. And I place this
young lady in your charge. Don't forget that. She's had a fright, and
good reason for it; she's been hurt. I leave her in your care with
every confidence that you will protect her."
Every word spoken was absorbed by Esteban with immense relish. The
words pleased him, to begin with, by their Spanish ring. Manvers had
been pleased himself. It was the longest speech he had yet made in
Castilian; but he had no notion, of course, how exquisitely apposite to
the situation they were.
Esteban became superb. He rose to the height of the argument, and to
that of his inches, took off his old hat and held it out the length of
his arm. "Let the lady fear nothing, senor caballero of my soul. I
engage the honour of a gentleman that she shall have every
consideration at my hands which her virtues merit. No more"--he looked
at the sullen beauty between him and the Englishman--"No more, for that
would be idolatrous; and no less, for that would be injustice. _Vaya,
senor caballero, vaya V|d| con Dios_." Manvers nodded and strolled
away.