his cassock. He made a strange, lean figure of a man, with his knee-breeches and dingy purple stockings, his grey flannel shirt, and the moonlight shining on his tonsured head. He fought without skill and heedless of danger, swinging a great sword that he had picked up from the hand of a fallen trooper, and each blow that he got home killed its man. The mettle of the man had suddenly shown itself after years of suppression. This, as Vincente had laughingly said, was no priest, but a soldier. Concepcion, in the thick of it, using the knife now with a deadly skill, looked over his shoulder and laughed. Suddenly the crowd swayed. The faint sound of a distant bugle came to the ears of all. "It is nothing," shouted Concha in English-"it is nothing! It is I who sent the bugler round." And his great sword whistled into a man's brain. In a moment the square was empty, for the politicians who came to murder a woman had had enough steel. The sound of the bugle, intimating, as they supposed, the ar rival of troops, completed the work of demoralization which the recognition of General Vincente had begun. The little party, the few defenders of the Casa del Ayuntamiento, were left in some confusion in the plaza, and Estella saw, with a sudden cold fear, that Conyngham and Concha were on their knees in the midst of a little group of hesitating men. It was Concha who first rose and held up his hand to the watchers on the balcony, bidding them stay where they Then Conyngham rose to his feet, slowly, as one bearing a burden. Estella looked down in a sort of dream and saw her lover carrying her father toward the house, her mind only half comprehending, in the semi-dreamlike reception of sudden calamity, which is one of Heaven's deepest mercies. were. It was Concepcion who came into the room first, his white shirt dyed with blood in great patches, like the color on a piebald horse. A cut in his cheek was slowly dripping. He went straight to a sofa covered in gorgeous yellow satin and set the cushions in order. "Señorita," he said, and spread out his hands. The tears were in his eyes. "Half of Spain," he added, "would rather that it had been the queen, and the world is poorer." A minute later Concha came into the room dragging on his cassock. "My child, we are in God's hands," he said, with a break in his gruff voice. And then came the heavy step of one carrying sorrow. Conyngham laid his burden on the sofa. General Vincente was holding his handkerchief to his side, and his eyes, which had a thoughtful look, saw only Estella's face. "I have sent for a doctor," said Conyngham; "your father is wounded." "Yes," added Vincente immediately, "but I am in no pain, my dear child. There is no reason, surely, for us to distress ourselves." He looked round and smiled. "And this good Conyngham," added, "carried me like a child." he Julia was on her knees at the foot of the sofa, her face hidden in her hands. "My dear Julia," he said, "why this distress?" "Because all of this is my doing," she answered, lifting her drawn and terror-stricken face. "No, no," said Vincente, with a characteristic pleasantry; "you take too much upon yourself. All these things are written down for us beforehand. We only add the punctuation, delaying a little or hurrying a little." They looked at him silently, and assuredly none could mistake the shadows that were gathering on his face. Estella, who was holding his hand, knelt on the floor by his side, quiet and strong, offering silently that sympathy which is woman's greatest gift. Concepcion, who perhaps knew more of this matter than any present, looked at Concha and shook his head. The priest was buttoning his cassock, and began to seek something in hls pocket. whispered Con "Your breviary?" cepcion; "I saw it lying out there among the dead." "It is a comfort to have one's duty clearly defined," said the general suddenly in a clear voice-he was evidently addressing Conyngham-"one of the advantages of a military life. We have done our best, and this time we have succeeded. But-it is only deferred. It will come at length, and Spain will be a republic. It is a failing cause, because at the head of it-is a bad woman." Conyngham nodded, but no one spoke. No one seemed capable of following his thoughts. Already he seemed to look at them as from a distance, as if he had started on a journey and was looking back. During this silence there came a great clatter in the streets, and a sharp voice cried, "Halt!" The general turned his eyes toward the window. "The cavalry," said "from Madrid." Conyngham, CHAPTER XXX. THE DAWN OF PEACE. "Quien no ama, no vive." The fall of Morella had proved to be, as many anticipated, the knell of the Carlist cause. Cabrera, that great general and consummate leader, followed Don Carlos, who had, months earlier, fled to France. General Espartero, a man made and strengthened by circumstances, was now at the height of his fame, and for the moment peace seemed to be assured to Spain. It was now a struggle between Espartero and Queen Christina, but with these matters the people of Spain had little to do. Such warfare of the council chamber and the boudoir is carried on quietly, and the sound of it rarely reaches the ear and never the heart of the masses. Politics, indeed, had been the daily fare of the Spaniards for so long that their palates were now prepared to accept any sop, so long as it was flavored with peace. Aragon was devastated, and the northern provinces had neither seed nor laborers for the coming autumn. The peasants, who, having lost faith in Don Carlos, rallied round Cabrera, now saw themselves abandoned by their worshipped leader, and turned hopelessly enough homeward. Thus gradually the country re Then Concha, getting down on to his lapsed into quiet, and empty farms knees, began reciting from memory made many lay aside the bayonet and the office, which, alas! he knew too take up the spade, who, having tasted well. When it was finished and the gruff voice died away Vincente opened his eyes. the thrill of battle, had no longer any taste for the ways of peace. Frederick Conyngham was brought into sudden prominence by the part he "Every man to his trade," he said, played in the disturbance at Toledo, with a little laugh. which disturbance proved, as history tells, to be a forerunner of the great revolution a year later in Madrid. Promotion was at this time rapid, and the Englishman made many strides in a few months. Jealousy was so rife among the Spanish leaders, Christinos distrusted so thoroughly the reformed Carlists, that one who was outside these petty considerations received from both sides many honors upon the sole recommendation of his neutrality. "And besides," said Father Concha, sitting in the sunlight on his church steps at Ronda, reading to the barber and the shoemaker and other of his parishioners the latest newspaper"and besides he is clever." He paused, slowly taking a pinch of snuff. "Where the river is deepest it makes least noise," he added. The barber wagged his head, after the manner of one who will never adImit that he does not understand an allusion. And before any could speak the clatter of horses in the narrow street diverted attention. Concha rose to his feet. "Ah!" he said, and went forward to meet Conyngham, who was riding with Concepcion at his side. "So you have come, my son," he said, shaking hands. He looked up into the Englishman's face, which was burnt brown by service under a merciless sun. Conyngham looked lean and strong, but his eyes had no rest in them. This was not a man who had all he wanted. "Are you come to Ronda, or are you passing through?" asked the priest. "To Ronda. As I passed the Casa Barenna I made inquiries. The ladies are in the town, it appears." "Yes; they are with Estella in the house, you know, unless you have forgotten it." "No," answered Conyngham, getting out of the saddle "no, padre, I have forgotten nothing." Without further comment he extracted from inside his smart tunic a letter, the famous letter in a pink envelope, which he handed to Concha. it "Yes," said the priest, turning over; "you and I first saw this in the Hotel de la Marina, at Algeciras, when we were fools not to throw it into the nearest brazier. We should have saved a good man's life, my friend." He handed the letter back, and thoughtfully dusted his cassock where it was worn and shiny with constant dusting, so that the snuff had naught to cling to. "And you have got it at last. Holy saints, these Englishmen! Do you always get what you want, my son?" "Not always," replied Conyngham, with an uneasy laugh; "but I should be a fool not to try." After a pause it was Concha who again broke the silence; Conyngham seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. "And Larralde?" said the priest. "I come from him, from Barcelona," answered Conyngham, "where he is in Concepcion came forward and led safety. Catalonia is full of such as the horse away. "I will walk to the Casa Vincente. Have you the time to accompany me?" said Conyngham. "I have always time for my neighbor's business," replied Concha, and they set off together. he. Sir John Pleydell before leaving Spain bought this letter for two hundred pounds, a few months ago, when I was a poor man and could not offer a price for it. But Larralde disappeared when the plot failed, and I have only found him lately in Barce "You walk stiffly," said Concha. lona." "Have you ridden far?" "From Osuna, forty miles since daybreak." "You are in a hurry." "Yes, I am in a hurry." LIVING AGE. VOL. XV. 750 "In Barcelona?" echoed Concha. "Yes; where he can take a passage to Cuba, and where he awaits Julia Barenna." "Ah! said Concha, "so he also is faithful. Because life is not long, my son. That is the only reason. How wise was the great God when he made a human life short." "I have a letter," continued Conyngham, "from Larralde to the Señorita Barenna." "So you parted friends in Barcelona, after all, when his knife has been between your shoulders." "Yes." "God bless you, my son!" said the priest in Latin, with his careless, hurried gesture of the cross. fountain. She was asleep in a rocking-chair, with a newspaper on her lap. She preferred the patio to the garden, which was too quiet for one of her temperament. In the patio she found herself better placed to exchange a word with those engaged in the business of the house-to learn, in fact, from the servants the latest gossip, to ask futile questions of them, and to sit in that idleness which will not allow others to be employed. In a word, this was the Señora Barenna, and Concha, seeing her, stood for a After they had walked a few paces moment in hesitation. he spoke again. "I shall go to Barcelona with her," he said, "and marry her to this man. When one has no affairs of one's own there always remain, for old women and priests, the affairs of one's neighbor. Tell me,"-he paused and looked fiercely at him under shaggy brows"tell me why you came to Spain?" "You want to know who and what I am before we reach the Calle Major," said Conyngham. "I know what you are, amigo mio, better than yourself perhaps." As they walked through the narrow streets Conyngham told his simple history, dwelling more particularly on the circumstances preceding his departure from England, and Concha listened with no further sign of interest than a grimace or a dry smile here and there. "The mill gains by going, and not by standing still," he said, and added after a pause, "but it is always a mistake to grind another's wheat for nothing." They were now approaching the old house in the Calle Major, and Conyngham lapsed into a silence which his companion respected. They passed under the great doorway into the patio, which was quiet and shady at this afternoon hour. The servants, of whom there are a multitude in all great Spanish houses, had apparently retired to the seclusion of their own quarters. One person alone was discernible amid the orange-trees and in the neighborhood of the murmuring his Then, with a signal to Conyngham, he crept noiselessly across the tessellated pavement to the shadow of the staircase. They passed up the broad steps without sound, and without awaking the sleeping lady. In the gallery above the priest paused and looked down into the courtyard, grim face twisted into a queer smile, then at the woman sitting there, at life and all its illusions, perhaps. He shrugged his shoulders and passed on. In the drawing-room they found Julia, who leapt to her feet and hurried across the floor when she saw Conyngham. She stood looking at him breathlessly, her whole history written in her eyes. "Yes," she whispered, as if he had called her "yes; what is it? Have you come to tell me something?" "I have come to give you a letter, señorita," he answered, handing her Larralde's missive. She held out her hand and never took her eyes from his face. Concha walked to the window, the window from whence the alcalde of Ronda had seen Conyngham hand Julia Barenna another letter. The old priest stood looking down into the garden, where, amid the feathery foliage of the pepper-trees and the bamboos, he could perceive the shadow of a black dress. Conyngham also turned away, and thus the two men, who held this woman's happiness in the hollow of their hands, stood listening to the crisp rattle of the paper as she tore the envelope and unfolded her lover's letter. A great happiness and a great sorrow are alike impossible of realization. We only perceive their extent when their importance has begun to wane. Their attitude toward each other was one of mutual respect, which feeling should surely be the basis of love. "Señorita," he said, "I have brought you the letter." He held it out and she took it, turning over the worn envelope absentmindedly. Julia Barenna read the letter through to the end, and it is possible (for women are blind in such matters) failed to perceive the selfishness in every line of it. Then, with the message of happiness in her hand, she returned to the chair she had just quitted, with a vague wonder in her mind, and the very human doubt that accompanies all possessions, as to whether the price paid had not been their lives and the happiness of those too high. Concha was the first to move. He turned and crossed the room toward Conyngham. "I see," he said, "Estella in the garden." And they passed out of the room together, leaving Julia Barenna alone with her thoughts. On the broad stone balcony Concha paused. "I will stay here," he said. He looked over the balustrade-Señora Barenna was still asleep. "Do not awake her," he whispered. "Let all sleeping things-sleep." Conyngham passed down the stairs noiselessly, and through the doorway into the garden. is "And at the end the Gloria chanted," said Concha, watching him go. The scent of the violets greeted Conyngham as he went forward beneath the trees planted there in the Moslem's day. The running water murmured sleepily, as it hurried in its narrow channel toward the outlet through the grey wall, from whence it leapt four hundred feet into the Tajo below. Estella was seated in the shade of a gnarled fig-tree, where tables and chairs indicated the Spanish habit of an out-of-door existence. She rose as he came toward her, and met his eyes gravely. A gleam of sun glancing through the leaves fell on her golden hair, half hidden by the mantilla, and showed that she was pale with some fear or desire. "I have not read it myself, and am permitted to give it to you on one condition, namely, that you destroy it as soon as you have read it." She looked at it again. "It contains the lives of many men, connected with them," said Conyngham. "That is what you hold in your hand, señorita, as well as my life and happiness." She raised her dark eyes to his for a moment, and then their tenderness was not of earth or of this world at all. Then she tore the envelope and its contents slowly into a hundred pieces, and dropped the fluttering papers into the stream pacing in its marble bed toward the Tajo and the oblivion of the sea. "There, I have destroyed the letter," she said, with a thoughtful little smile; then looking up, she met his eyes. "I did not want it. I am glad you gave it to me. It will make a difference to our lives, though-I never wanted it." Then she came slowly toward him. |