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 señorita; 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 José. 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, señor, 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, señor, 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, señorita,——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.