She moved towards the door, and there turning looked at Concha.
‘Does the Padre stay to dinner?’ she asked.
‘No, my child, thank you. No; I have affairs at home.’
Estella went out of the room, leaving a queer silence behind her.
Presently Concha rose.
‘I, too, am going to Madrid,’ he said. ‘It is an opportunity to press my claim for the payment of my princely stipend, now two years overdue.’
He walked home on the shady side of the street, exchanging many salutations, pausing now and then to speak to a friend. Indeed, nearly every passer-by counted himself as such. In his bare room, where the merest necessities of life scarce had place, he sat down thoughtfully. The furniture, the few books, his own apparel, bespoke the direst poverty. This was one who in his simplicity read his Master’s words quite literally, and went about his work with neither purse nor scrip. The priest presently rose and took from a shelf an old wooden box quaintly carved and studded with iron nails. A search in the drawer of the table resulted in the finding of a key and the final discovery of a small parcel at the bottom of the box which contained letters and other papers.
‘The rainy day—it comes at last,’ said the Padre Concha, counting out his little stock of silver with the care that only comes from the knowledge that each coin represents a self-denial.
CHAPTER XV
AN ULTIMATUM
‘I do believe yourself against yourself.’