After the great storm came a calm almost as startling. It seemed indeed as if Nature stood abashed1 and silent before the results of her sudden rage. Day after day the sun glared down from a cloudless sky, and all Castile was burnt brown as a desert. In the streets of Madrid there arose a hot dust and the subtle odour of warm earth that rarely meets the nostrils2 in England. It savoured of India and other sun-steeped lands where water is too precious to throw upon the roads.
Those who could, remained indoors or in their shady patios3 until the heat of the day was past; and such as worked in the open lay unchallenged in the shade from midday till three o’clock. During those days military operations were almost suspended, although the heads of departments were busy enough in their offices. The confusion of war, it seemed, was past, and the sore-needed peace was immediately turned to good account. The army of the Queen Regent was indeed in an almost wrecked4 condition, and among the field officers jealousy5 and backbiting6, which had smouldered through the war-time, broke out openly. General Vincente was rarely at home, and Estella passed this time in quiet seclusion7. Coming as she did from Andalusia, she was accustomed to an even greater heat, and knew how to avoid the discomfort8 of it.
She was sitting one afternoon, with open windows and closed jalousies, during the time of the siesta9, when the servant announced Father Concha.
The old priest came into the room wiping his brow with simple ill manners.
‘You have been hurrying and have no regard for the sun,’ said Estella.
‘You need not find shelter for an old ox,’ replied Concha, seating himself. ‘It is the young ones that expose themselves unnecessarily.’
Estella glanced at him sharply but said nothing. He sat, handkerchief in hand, and stared at a shaft10 of sunlight that lay across the floor from a gap in the jalousies. From the street under the windows came the distant sounds of traffic and the cries of the vendors11 of water, fruit, and newspapers.
Father Concha looked puzzled, and seemed to be seeking his way out of a difficulty. Estella sat back in her chair, half hidden by her slow-waving, black fan. There is no pride so difficult as that which is unconscious of its own existence, no heart so hard to touch as that which has thrown its stake and asks neither sympathy nor admiration12 from the outside world. Concha glanced at Estella and wondered if he had been mistaken. There was in the old man’s heart, as indeed there is in nearly all human hearts, a thwarted13 instinct. How many are there with maternal14 instincts who have no children; how many a poet has been lost by the crying need of hungry mouths! It was a thwarted instinct that made the old priest busy himself with the affairs of other people, and always of young people.
‘I came hoping to see your father,’ he said at length, blandly15 untruthful. ‘I have just seen Conyngham, in whom we are all interested, I think. His lack of caution is singular. I have been trying to persuade him not to do something most rash and imprudent. You remember the incident in your garden at Ronda—a letter which he gave to Julia?’
‘Yes,’ answered Estella quietly, ‘I remember.’
‘For some reason which he did not explain I understand that he is desirous of regaining16 possession of that letter, and now Julia, writing from Toledo, tells him that she will give it to him if he will go there and fetch it. The Toledo road, as you will remember, is hardly to be recommended to Mr. Conyngham.’
‘But Julia wishes him no harm,’ said Estella.
‘My child, rarely trust a political man and never a political woman. If Julia wished him to have the letter she could have sent it to him by post. But Conyngham, who is all eagerness, must needs refuse to listen to any argument, and starts this afternoon for Toledo—alone. He has not even his servant Concep?ion Vara, who has suddenly disappeared, and a woman who claims to be the scoundrel’s wife from Algeciras has been making inquiries17 at Conyngham’s lodging18. A hen’s eyes are where her eggs lie. I offered to go to Toledo with Conyngham, but he laughed at me for a useless old priest, and said that the saddle would gall19 me.’
He paused, looking at her beneath his shaggy brows, knowing, as he had always known, that this was a woman beyond his reach—cleverer, braver, of a higher mind than her sisters—one to whom he might perchance tender some small assistance, but nothing better. For women are wiser in their generation than men, and usually know better what is for their own happiness. Estella returned his glance with steady eyes.
‘He has gone,’ said Concha. ‘I have not been sent to tell you that he is going.’
‘I did not think that you had,’ she answered.
‘Conyngham has enemies in this country,’ continued the priest, ‘and despises them—a mistake to which his countrymen are singularly liable. He has gone off on this foolish quest without preparation or precaution. Toledo is, as you know, a hotbed of intrigue20 and dissatisfaction. All the malcontents in Spain congregate21 there, and Conyngham would do well to avoid their company. Who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas22.’
He paused, tapping his snuffbox, and at that moment the door opened to admit General Vincente.
‘Oh! the Padre!’ cried the cheerful soldier. ‘But what a sun, eh? It is cool here, however, and Estella’s room is always a quiet one.’
He touched her cheek affectionately, and drew forward a low chair wherein he sat, carefully disposing of the sword that always seemed too large for him.
‘Bad,’ growled24 Concha, and then told his tale over again in a briefer, blunter manner. ‘It all arises,’ he concluded, ‘from my pestilential habit of interfering25 in the affairs of other people.’
‘No,’ said General Vincente; ‘it arises from Conyngham’s pestilential habit of acquiring friends wherever he goes.’
The door was opened again, and a servant entered.
‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘a man called Concep?ion Vara, who desires a moment.’
‘What did I tell you?’ said the General to Concha. ‘Another of Conyngham’s friends. Spain is full of them. Let Concep?ion Vara come to this room.’
The servant looked slightly surprised, and retired26. If, however, this manner of reception was unusual, Concep?ion was too finished a man of the world to betray either surprise or embarrassment27. By good fortune he happened to be wearing a coat. His flowing unstarched shirt was as usual spotless, he wore a flower in the ribbon of the hat carried jauntily28 in his hand, and about his person in the form of handkerchief and faja were those touches of bright colour by means of which he so irresistibly29 attracted the eye of the fair.
‘Excellency,’ he murmured, bowing on the threshold; ‘Reverendo,’ with one step forward and a respectful semi-religious inclination30 of the head towards Concha; ‘Se?orita!’ The ceremony here concluded with a profound obeisance31 to Estella full of gallantry and grave admiration. Then he stood upright, and indicated by a pleasant smile that no one need feel embarrassed, that in fact this meeting was most opportune32.
‘A matter of urgency, Excellency,’ he said confidentially33 to Vincente. ‘I have reason to suspect that one of my friends—in fact, the Se?or Conyngham, with whom I am at the moment in service—happens to be in danger.’
‘Ah! what makes you suspect that, my friend?’
Concep?ion waved his hand lightly, as if indicating that the news had been brought to him by the birds of the air.
‘When one goes into the café,’ he said, ‘one is not always so particular—one associates with those who happen to be there—muleteers, diligencia-drivers, bull-fighters, all and sundry34, even contrabandistas.’
He made this last admission with a face full of pious35 toleration, and Father Concha laughed grimly.
‘That is true, my friend,’ said the General, hastening to cover the priest’s little lapse36 of good manners, ‘and from these gentlemen—honest enough in their way, no doubt—you have learnt—?’
‘That the Se?or Conyngham has enemies in Spain.’
‘So I understand; but he has also friends?’
‘He has one,’ said Vara, taking up a fine, picturesque37 attitude, with his right hand at his waist where the deadly knife was concealed38 in the rolls of his faja.
‘Then he is fortunate,’ said the General, with his most winning smile; ‘why do you come to me, my friend.’
‘I require two men,’ answered Concep?ion airily, ‘that is all.’
‘Ah! What sort of men. Guardias Civiles?’
‘The Holy Saints forbid! Honest soldiers, if it please your Excellency. The Guardia Civil! See you, Excellency.’
He paused, shaking his outspread hand from side to side, palm downwards39, fingers apart, as if describing a low level of humanity.
‘A brutal40 set of men,’ he continued; ‘with the finger ever on the trigger and the rifle ever loaded. Pam! and a life is taken—many of my friends—at least, many persons I have met—in the café!’
‘It is better to give him his two men,’ put in Father Concha, in his atrocious English, speaking to the General. ‘The man is honest in his love of Conyngham, if in nothing else.’
‘And if I accord you these two men, my friend,’ said the General, from whose face Estella’s eyes had never moved, ‘will you undertake that Mr. Conyngham comes to no harm?’
‘I will arrange it,’ replied Concep?ion, with an easy shrug41 of the shoulders. ‘I will arrange it, never fear.’
‘You shall have two men,’ said General Vincente, drawing a writing-case towards himself and proceeding42 to write the necessary order. ‘Men who are known to me personally. You can rely upon them at all times.’
‘Since they are friends of his Excellency’s,’ interrupted Concep?ion with much condescension43, ‘that suffices.’
‘He will require money,’ said Estella in English—her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. For she came of a fighting race, and her repose44 of manner, the dignity which sat rather strangely on her slim young shoulders, were only signs of that self-control which had been handed down to her through the ages.
The General nodded as he wrote.
‘Take that to headquarters,’ he said, handing the papers to Concep?ion, ‘and in less than half an hour your men will be ready. Mr. Conyngham is a friend of mine, as you know, and any expenses incurred45 on his behalf will be defrayed by myself—’
Concep?ion held up his hand.
‘It is unnecessary, Excellency,’ he said. ‘At present Mr. Conyngham has funds. Only yesterday he gave me money. He liquidated46 my little account. It has always been a jest between us—that little account.’
He laughed pleasantly, and moved towards the door.
‘Vara,’ said Father Concha.
‘Yes, reverendo.’
‘If I meet your wife in Madrid, what shall I say to her?’
Concep?ion turned and looked into the smiling face of the old priest.
‘In Madrid, reverendo? How can you think of such a thing? My wife lives in Algeciras, and at times, see you—’ he stopped, casting his eyes up to the ceiling and fetching an exaggerated sigh, ‘at times my heart aches. But now I must get to the saddle. What a thing is Duty, reverendo! Duty! God be with your Excellencies.’
And he hurried out of the room.
‘If you would make a thief honest, trust him,’ said Concha, when the door was closed.
In less than an hour Concep?ion was on the road accompanied by two troopers, who were ready enough to travel in company with a man of his reputation. For in Spain, if one cannot be a bull-fighter it is good to be a smuggler47. At sunset the great heat culminated48 in a thunderstorm, which drew a veil of heavy cloud across the sky, and night fell before its time.
The horsemen had covered two-thirds of their journey when he whom they followed came in sight of the lights of Toledo, set upon a rock like the jewels in a lady’s ring, and almost surrounded by the swift Tagus. Conyngham’s horse was tired, and stumbled more than once on the hill by which the traveller descends49 to the great bridge and the gate that Wamba built thirteen hundred years ago.
Through this gate he passed into the city, which was a city of the dead, with its hundred ruined churches, its empty palaces and silent streets. Ichabod is written large over all these tokens of a bygone glory; where the Jews flying from Jerusalem first set foot; where the Moor50 reigned51 unmolested for nearly four hundred years; where the Goth and the Roman and the great Spaniard of the middle ages have trod on each other’s heels. Truly these worn stones have seen the greatness of the greatest nations of the world.
A single lamp hung slowly swinging in the arch of Wamba’s Gate, and the streets were but ill lighted with an oil lantern at an occasional corner. Conyngham had been in Toledo before, and knew his way to the inn under the shadow of the great Alcazar, now burnt and ruined. Here he left his horse; for the streets of Toledo are so narrow and tortuous52, so ill-paved and steep, that wheel traffic is almost unknown, while a horse can with difficulty keep his feet on the rounded cobble stones. In this city men go about their business on foot, which makes the streets as silent as the deserted53 houses.
Julia had selected a spot which was easy enough to find, and Conyngham, having supped, made his way thither54 without asking for directions.
‘It is at all events worth trying,’ he said to himself, ‘and she can scarcely have forgotten that I saved her life on the Garonne as well as at Ronda.’
But there is often in a woman’s life one man who can make her forget all. The streets were deserted, for it was a cold night, and the cafés were carefully closed against the damp air. No one stirred in the Calle Pedro Martir, and Conyngham peered into the shadow of the high wall of the Church of San Tome in vain. Then he heard the soft tread of muffled55 feet, and turning on his heel realised Julia’s treachery in a flash of thought. He charged to meet the charge of his assailants. Two of them went down like felled trees, but there were others—four others—who fell on him silently like hounds upon a fox, and in a few moments all was quiet again in the Calle Pedro Martir.
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1
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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3
patios
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| n.露台，平台( patio的名词复数 ) | |
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4
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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backbiting
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| 背后诽谤 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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8
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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12
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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13
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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16
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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17
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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18
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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19
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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20
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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21
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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22
fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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23
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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24
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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25
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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26
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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27
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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28
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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29
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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30
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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31
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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32
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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33
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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34
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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35
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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36
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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37
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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38
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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39
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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40
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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41
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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42
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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43
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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44
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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45
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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46
liquidated
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| v.清算( liquidate的过去式和过去分词 )；清除（某人）；清偿；变卖 | |
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47
smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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48
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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50
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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51
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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52
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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53
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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54
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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55
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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