On the day after my conversation with Aubrey detailed in the last chapter, in riding past this cottage alone, I perceived a crowd assembled round the entrance; I paused to inquire the cause.
“Why, your honour,” quoth a senior of the village, “I believe the tipstaves be come to take the foreigner for not paying his rent; and he does not understand our English liberty like, and has drawn his sword, and swears, in his outlandish lingo, he will not be made prisoner alive.”
I required no further inducement to make me enter the house. The crowd gave way when they saw me dismount, and suffered me to penetrate into the first apartment. There I found the gallant old Spaniard with his sword drawn, keeping at bay a couple of sturdy-looking men, who appeared to be only prevented from using violence by respect for the person or the safety of a young woman, who clung to her father’s knees and implored him not to resist where resistance was so unavailing. Let me cut short this scene; I dismissed the bailiffs, and paid the debt. I then endeavoured to explain to the Spaniard, in French, for he scarcely understood three words of our language, the cause of a rudeness towards him which he persisted in calling a great insult and inhospitality manifested to a stranger and an exile. I succeeded at length in pacifying him. I remained for more than an hour at the cottage, and I left it with a heart beating at a certain persuasion that I had established therein the claim of acquaintance and visitation.
Will the reader pardon me for having curtailed this scene? It is connected with a subject on which I shall better endure to dwell as my narrative proceeds. From that time I paid frequent visits to the cottage; the Spaniard soon grew intimate with me, and I thought the daughter began to blush when I entered, and to sigh when I departed.
One evening I was conversing with Don Diego D’Alvarez (such was the Spaniard’s name), as he sat without the threshold, inhaling the gentle air, that stole freshness from the rippling sea that spread before us, and fragrance from the earth, over which the summer now reigned in its most mellow glory. Isora (the daughter) sat at a little distance.
“How comes it,” said Don Diego, “that you have never met our friend Senor Bar—Bar—these English names are always escaping my memory. How is he called, Isora?”
“Mr.—Mr. Barnard,” said Isora (who, brought early to England, spoke its language like a native), but with evident confusion, and looking down as she spoke—“Mr. Barnard, I believe, you mean.”
“Right, my love,” rejoined the Spaniard, who was smoking a long pipe with great gravity, and did not notice his daughter’s embarrassment,—“a fine youth, but somewhat shy and over-modest in manner.”
“Youth!” thought I, and I darted a piercing look towards Isora. “How comes it, indeed,” I said aloud, “that I have not met him? Is he a friend of long standing?”
“Nay, not very,—perhaps of some six weeks earlier date than you, Senor Don Devereux. I pressed him, when he called this morning, to tarry your coming: but, poor youth, he is diffident, and not yet accustomed to mix freely with strangers, especially those of rank; our own presence a little overawes him;” and from Don Diego’s gray mustachios issued a yet fuller cloud than was ordinarily wont to emerge thence.