GLAD TIDINGS.
It was with an expression of amusement and surprise on his heavy
features that Mr. Passmore read a note inviting him to pass an evening
at the house of Don Alcala de Aguilera, some little time after the
events related in the preceding chapters. Peter Passmore turned the
paper over with his thick, short fingers, and laughed aloud.
"I shall take care to fortify myself by a good dinner beforehand--ho!
ho! ho!--lest the entertainment prove as unsubstantial as the
Barmecide's feast!" said the manufacturer to himself. "But there is
something extraordinary after all in this Spanish clerk or caballero.
If he's mad, 'there's method in his madness,' as Walter Scott would
have said. It was frantic folly to stand the onslaught of a bull to
please some silly senorita; scarcely better to get thrown into prison
for the sake of reading a book. I thought Aguilera insane when he
went forward to meet a mob that looked ready to dash out the brains of
any man who stood in their way; but somehow or other this Quixote has
contrived to get through all his adventures with credit, if not always
with success. He subdued all those blood-thirsty ruffians with a few
sentences uttered in his sonorous Spanish, better than a squad of
their alguazils could have done with bludgeons and pikes. And
certainly the dwelling of this Aguilera looks more fit to lodge a
grandee of Spain than a clerk of the firm of Passmore and Perkins. A
man has not time to look about him as he would at an exhibition when a
set of howling ragamuffins are battering the door, and he expects soon
to have his throat cut with their horrid long knives, but it seemed to
me as if the place in which I stood was a palace. It might not answer
our notions of English comfort, for we Islanders like to have a roof
over our sitting-rooms, and don't care for gardens in the middle of
'em; and I confess to preferring a well-stuffed arm-chair to the
finest seat carved in marble. But it gave an idea of grandeur. Well,
well, I should like to see more of this Spanish palace, and I will
certainly accept the invitation of Don Alcala de Aguilera, even at the
risk of coming in for another adventure."
So, on the appointed evening, Mr. Passmore, dressed more carefully
than usual, but wearing with indifferent grace his gay neck-tie and
tight-fitting gloves, made his appearance in the patio of the house in
the Calle de San Jose. Aguilera received his guest with the refined
courtesy natural to Spanish gentlemen, and introduced him to Donna
Inez.
The patio was lighted up for the occasion, if not with the brilliancy
which Teresa desired, yet sufficiently well to display the beauty of
the delicate Moorish architecture, the graceful columns and horse-shoe
arches, the exquisite carving, and the rich hues of flowers clustering
around the fountain, no longer silent, nor bearing the marks of decay.
Passmore looked around him with admiration, but with something of the
feeling of the boor in the story who found that the stranger to whom
he had shown scant courtesy was a prince in disguise. Aguilera making
up accounts at the desk, and Aguilera doing the honours of his noble
mansion, seemed to the manufacturer to be two different beings. Peter
Passmore was not at his ease, and all the less so because of his
imperfect knowledge of the language of his entertainers. His Spanish
was seldom correct and never fluent, and the manufacturer was not
devoid of that shyness which belongs to our national character, and
which makes the Briton fear to compromise himself by committing some
breach of etiquette in a foreign land, with whose customs he is but
imperfectly acquainted. Passmore greatly missed his usual interpreter
Lucius.
"I thought that I should have met Lepine here," Mr. Passmore observed
to his host.
"I cannot imagine what detains my friend," said Alcala; "I have
expected him here this last hour. Lepine never fails to keep an
appointment."
"I never knew him late but once," observed Passmore, attempting to
keep up conversation in his broken and most ungrammatical Spanish. "It
was on the evening before you killed--I mean to say, when you were
killed--no, that's not exactly the thing--I beg your pardon, senor,
for bringing up so awkward a subject," stammered forth the clumsy
Briton, seeing the cloud that for an instant passed over the bright
happy face of Alcala's sister.
Diego now appeared with a tray covered with the fruits of Andalusia,
and other elegant but inexpensive dainties. But Teresa would suffer no
hands but her own to have the honour of bearing the goblet of gold,
filled with the wine of Xeres. Proud as if she carried a monarch's orb
and sceptre, the old retainer of the Aguileras brought in the family
heirloom. Teresa was almost satisfied by the manufacturer's look of
surprise, as, after taking a draught of the wine, he retained the
goblet for some seconds in his hold, to examine before he returned it.
Peter Passmore was more puzzled than ever by the late conduct of the
possessor of such a magnificent piece of plate.
"Is that pure gold?" inquired Passmore, curiosity getting the better
of politeness.
Alcala, by a slight movement of the head, gave an affirmative reply.
Teresa was offended by the doubt implied by the question, and muttered
to herself, "Does the Inglesito take it for a bit of his own worthless
iron?"
"I suppose, Don Alcala de Aguilera," observed Passmore after a pause,
"that you will scarcely care to take service again?" The question
would, we may hope, have been more delicately put, but for the
speaker's difficulty in expressing himself in Spanish.
This was too much for the endurance of Teresa; her indignation and
disgust overcame even her sense of decorum.
"Take service!" she repeated, every wrinkle in her face appearing to
quiver with passion; "is such a word spoken to the illustrious
caballero, Don Alcala de Aguilera?"
Alcala quieted his retainer by a gesture of the hand; and then,
turning to his late employer, thus calmly replied to his question,--
"I am assuredly going to take service, senor, but of a different kind
from that to which you refer. I am preparing myself, with my friend's
kind aid, for work in a sphere where I shall deem it an honour to hold
the lowest place. I hope, ere long, to become a teacher where I have
so lately become a learner, and to give myself to the ministry of the
gospel in my native Andalusia."
Passmore but half understood the reply of the Spaniard, but he asked
for no explanation of what might have been almost equally
incomprehensible to the worldly man had it been spoken in English.
Lucius Lepine, breathless with the speed at which he had come, at this
instant burst into the patio. The eagerness of his manner, the
animation of his look, showed him to be the bearer of tidings, and at
once riveted on the young Englishman the attention of all.
"Pardon me, senorita,----and you, Alcala," gasped forth the guest who
had so unceremoniously rushed into the court; "I have earned
forgiveness for my delay for the sake of the news which I bring. Prim
is in Spain--"
Diego could not suppress a triumphant viva.
"He has met with the evangelist Cabrera at the town of Algeciras----"
With intense interest Alcala bent forward to listen, while the
breathless narrator went on.
"Cabrera had an interview with the chief who is now the foremost man
in the State--"
"What said the general?" asked Alcala, with mingled anxiety and hope.
"Prim said to Cabrera, 'Are you of those who were prosecuted by the
late Government as being bad religionists?'--'We are,' replied our
noble evangelist.--'Then I have to tell you,' said the chief, '_that
you may enter Spain with your Bible under your arm_.'"[24]
There was a louder _viva_ from Diego. But Alcala did not speak; he had
sunk on his knees, and was breathing forth from the depths of his soul
a thanksgiving for the glorious sun of life and light that was rising
upon his beloved Spain.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] "Daybreak in Spain."