He raised his hand to the horse's bridle.

'You are most certainly going in the wrong direction,' he said; 'I will lead you right.'

It was said and done so quietly that Conyngham had found no word to say before his horse was moving in the opposite direction.

'This is surely one of General Vincente's horses,' said the priest; 'we have few such barbs in Ronda. He always rides a good horse, that Miguel Vincente.'

'Yes, it is one of his horses. Then you know the General?'

'We were boys together,' answered the Padre; 'and there were some who said that he should have been the priest and I the soldier.'

The old man gave a little laugh.

'He has prospered, however, if I have not. A great man, my dear Miguel, and they say that his pay is duly handed to him. My own--my princely twenty pounds a year--is overdue. I am happy enough, however, and have a good house. You noticed it, perhaps, as you pa.s.sed through the village, a branch of palm against the rail of the balcony--my sign, you understand. The innkeeper next door displays a branch of pine, which, I notice, is more attractive. Every man his day. One does not catch rabbits with a dead ferret. That is the church--will you see it? No? Well, some other day. I will guide you through the village. The walk will give me appet.i.te, which I sometimes require, for my cook is one whose husband has left her.'

CHAPTER VIII. THE LOVE LETTER.

'I must mix myself with action lest I wither by despair.'

'No one,' Conyngham heard a voice exclaiming as he went into the garden on returning from his fruitless ride, 'no one knows what I have suffered.'

He paused in the dark doorway, not wishing to intrude upon Estella and her visitors; for he perceived the forms of three ladies seated within a miniature jungle of bamboo, which grew in feathery luxuriance around a fountain. It was not difficult to identify the voice as that of the eldest lady, who was stout, and spoke in deep, almost manly tones. So far as he was able to judge, the suffering mentioned had left but small record on its victim's outward appearance.

'Old lady seems to have stood it well,' commented the Englishman in his mind.

'Never again, my dear Estella, do I leave Ronda, except indeed for Toledo, where, of course, we shall go in the summer if this terrible Don Carlos is really driven from the country. Ah! but what suffering! My mind is never at ease. I expect to wake up at night and hear that Julia is being murdered in her bed. For me it does not matter; my life is not so gay that it will cost me much to part from it. No one would molest an old woman, you think? Well, that may be so; but I know all the anxiety, for I was once beautiful--ah!

more beautiful than you or Julia; and my hands and feet--have you ever noticed my foot, Estella?--even now--!'

And a sonorous sigh completed the sentence. Conyngham stepped out of the doorway, the clank of his spurred heel on the marble pavement causing the sigh to break off in a little scream. He had caught the name of Julia, and hastily concluded that these ladies must be no other than Madame Barenna and her daughter. In the little bamboo grove he found the elder lady lying back in her chair, which creaked ominously, and asking in a faint voice whether he were Don Carlos.

'No,' answered Estella, with a momentary twinkle in her grave, dark eyes; 'this is Mr. Conyngham--my aunt, Senora Barenna, and my cousin Julia.'

The ladies bowed.

'You must excuse me,' said Madame Barenna volubly, 'but your approach was so sudden. I am a great sufferer--my nerves, you know.

But young people do not understand.'

And she sighed heavily, with a side glance at her daughter, who did not even appear to be trying to do so. Julia Barenna was darker than her cousin, quicker in manner, with an air of worldly capability which Estella lacked. Her eyes were quick and restless, her face less beautiful, but expressive of a great intelligence, which, if brought to bear upon men in the form of coquetry, was likely to be infinitely dangerous.

'It is always best to approach my mother with caution,' she said with a restless movement of her hands. This was not a woman at her ease in the world or at peace with it. She laughed as she spoke, but her eyes were grave, even while her lips smiled, and watched the Englishman's face with an air almost of anxiety. There are some faces that seem to be watching and waiting. Julia Barenna's had such a look.

'Conyngham,' said Madame Barenna reflectively. 'Surely I have heard that name before. You are not the Englishman with whom Father Concha is so angry--who sells forbidden books--the Bible, it is said?'

'No, senora,' answered Conyngham with perfect gravity; 'I have nothing to sell.'

He laughed suddenly, and looked at the elder lady with that air of good humour which won for him more friends than he ever wanted; for this Irishman had a ray of sunshine in his heart which shone upon his path through life, and made that uneven way easier for his feet.

He glanced at Julia, and saw in her eyes the look of expectancy which was, in reality, always there. The thought flashed through his mind that by some means, or perhaps feminine intuition beyond his comprehension, she knew that he possessed the letter addressed to her, and was eagerly awaiting it. This letter seemed to have been gaining in importance the longer he carried it, and this opportunity of giving it to her came at the right moment. He remembered Larralde's words concerning the person to whom the missive was addressed, and the high-flown sentiments of that somewhat theatrical gentleman became in some degree justified.

Julia Barenna was a woman who might well awaken a pa.s.sionate love.

Conyngham realised this, as from a distance, while Julia's mother spoke of some trivial matter of the moment to unheeding ears. That distance seemed now to exist between him and all women. It had come suddenly, and one glance of Estella's eyes had called it into existence.

'Yes,' Senora Barenna was saying, 'Father Concha is very angry with the English. What a terrible man! You do not know him, Senor Conyngham?'

'I think I have met him, senora.'

'Ah, but you have never seen him angry. You have never confessed to him! A little, little sin--no larger than the eye of a fly--a little bite of a calf's sweetbread on Friday in mere forgetfulness, and Sancta Maria! what a penance is required! What suffering! It is a purgatory to have such a confessor.'

'Surely madame can have no sins,' said Conyngham pleasantly.

'Not now,' said Senora Barenna with a deep sigh. 'When I was young it was different.'

And the memory of her sinful days almost moved her to tears. She glanced at Conyngham with a tragic air of mutual understanding, as if drawing a veil over that blissful past in the presence of Julia and Estella. 'Ask me another time,' that glance seemed to say.

'Yes,' the lady continued, 'Father Concha is very angry with the English. Firstly, because of these bibles. Blessed Heaven! what does it matter? No one can read them except the priests, and they do not want to do so. Secondly, because the English have helped to overthrow Don Carlos--'

'You will have a penance,' interrupted Miss Julia Barenna quietly, 'from Father Concha for talking politics.'

'But how will he know?' asked Senora Barenna sharply; and the two young ladies laughed.

Senora Barenna looked from one to the other, and shrugged her shoulders. Like many women she was a strange mixture of foolishness and worldly wisdom. She adjusted her mantilla and mutely appealed to Heaven with a glance of her upturned eyes. Conyngham, who was no diplomatist, nor possessed any skill in concealing his thoughts, looked with some interest at Julia Barenna, and Estella watched him.

'Julia is right,' Senora Barenna was saying, though n.o.body heeded her; 'one must not talk nor even think politics in this country.

You are no politician, I trust, Senor Conyngham--Senor Conyngham, I ask you, you are no politician?'

'No, senora,' replied Conyngham hastily; 'no; and if I were, I should never understand Spanish politics.'

'Father Concha says that Spanish politics are the same as those of any other country--each man for himself,' said Julia with a bitter laugh.

'And he is, no doubt, right.'

'Do you really think so?' asked Julia Barenna, with more earnestness than the question would seem to require; 'are there not true patriots who sacrifice all--not only their friends, but themselves-- to the cause of their country?'

'Without the hope of reward?'

'Yes.'

'There may be, senorita--a few,' answered Conyngham with a laugh, 'but not in my country. They must all be in Spain.'

She smiled and shook her head in doubt. But it was a worn smile.

The Englishman turned away and looked through the trees. He was wondering how he could get speech with Julia alone for a moment.

'You are admiring the garden,' said that young lady; and this time he knew that there had in reality been that meaning in her eyes which he had imagined to be there.

'Yes, senorita, I think it must be the most beautiful garden in the world.'