THE AMBIGUOUS THIRD

“God save your grace,” said Esteban; for it was he who, sitting well back upon his donkey’s rump, with exceedingly bright eyes and a cheerful grin, now forged level with Manvers and his burdened steed.

Manvers gave him a curt “Good-day,” and thought him an impudent fellow which was not justified by anything Esteban had done. He had been discretion itself; and, indeed, to his eyes there had been nothing of necessity remarkable in the pair on the horse. If a lady Duchess or baggage happened to be sharing the gentleman’s saddle, an arrangement must be presumed, which could not possibly concern himself. That is the reasonable standpoint of a people who mind their own business and credit their neighbours with the same preoccupation.

But Manvers was an Englishman, and could not for the life of him consider Esteban as anything but a puppy for seeing him in a compromising situation. So much was he annoyed that he did not remark any longer that Manuela was another person, sitting stiffly, strained against his arm, every muscle on the stretch, as taut as a ship’s cable in the tideway, her face in rigid profile to the newcomer.

Esteban was in no way put out. “Many good days light upon your grace!” he cheerfully repeated so cheerfully that Manvers was appeased.

“Good-day, good-day to you,” he said. “You ride light and I ride heavy, otherwise you had not overtaken us.”

Esteban showed his fine teeth, and waved his hand towards the hazy distance; from the tail of his eye he watched Manuela in profile. “Who knows that, sir? Lo que ha de ser as we say. Ah, who knows that?” Manuela strained her face forward.

“Well,” said Manvers, “I do, for example. I have proved my horse. He’s a Galician, and a good goer. It would want a brave bórico to outpace him.”

Esteban slipped into the axiomatic, as all Spaniards will. “There’s a providence of the road, sir, and a saint in charge of travellers. And we know, sir, a cada puerco viene su San Martin.” Manuela stooped her body forward, and peered ahead, as one strains to see in the dark.

“Your proverb is oddly chosen, it seems to me,” said Manvers.

Esteban gave a little chuckle from his throat.

“A proverb is a stone flung into a pack of starlings. It may scare the most, but may hit one. By mine I referred to the ways of providence, under a figure. Destiny is always at work.”

“No doubt,” said Manvers, slightly bored.

“It might have been your destiny to have outpaced me: the odds were with you. On the other hand, as you have not, it must have been mine to have overtaken you.”

“You are a philosopher?” asked Manvers, fatigue deliberately in his voice. Esteban’s eyes shone intensely; he had marked the changed inflection.

“I studied the Humanities at Salamanca,” he said carelessly. “That was when I was an innocent. Since then I have learned in a harder school. I am learning still every day I learn something new. I am a gentleman born, as your grace has perceived: why not a philosopher?”

Manvers was rather ashamed of himself. “Of course, of course! Why not indeed? I am very glad to see you, while our ways coincide.”

Esteban raised his battered straw. “I kiss the feet of your grace, and hope your grace’s lady” Manuela quivered “is not disturbed by my company; for to tell you the truth, sir, I propose to enjoy your own as long as you and she are agreeable. I am used to companionship.” He shot a keen glance at Manuela, who never moved.

“She will speak for herself, no doubt,” said Manvers; but she did not. The gleam in Esteban’s light eyes gave point to his next speech.

“I have a notion that the senora is not of your mind, sir,” he said, “and am sorry. I can hardly remain as an unwelcome third in a journey. It would be a satisfaction to me if the senora would assure me that I am wrong.” Manuela now turned her head with an effort and looked down upon the grinning youth.

“Why should I care whether you stay or go?” she said. Her eyelids flickered over her eyes as though he were dust in their light. He showed his teeth.

“Why indeed, senora? God knows I have no reputation to bring you, though the company of a gentleman, the son of a gentleman, never comes amiss, they say. But two is company, and three is a fair. I have found it so, and so doubtless has your ladyship.”

She made him no answer, and had turned away her face long before he had finished. After that the conversation was mainly of his making; for Manuela would say nothing, and Manvers had nothing to say. The cork wood was plain in front of him now; he thanked God for the prospect of food and rest. In fifteen minutes, thought he, he should be swimming in the Pisuerga.

The forest began tentatively, with heath, sparse trees and mounds of cistus and bramble. Manvers followed the road, which ran through a portion of it, until he saw the welcome thickets on either hand, deep tunnels of dark and shadowy places where the sun could not stab; then he turned aside over the broken ground, and Esteban’s donkey picked a dainty way behind him. When he had reached what seemed to him perfection, he pulled up.

“Now, young lady,” he said; “I will give you food and drink, and then you shall go to sleep, and so will I. Afterwards we will consider what had best be done with you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied in a whisper. Manvers dismounted and held out his hand to her. There was no more coquetting with the saddle. She scarcely touched his hand, and did not once lift her eyes to him but he was busy with his haversack and had no thoughts for her.

Esteban meantime sat the donkey, looking gravely at his company, blinking his eyes, smiling quietly, recurring now and then to the winding minor air which had been in his head all day. He was perfectly unhampered by any doubts of his welcome, and watched with serious attention the preparations for a meal in the open which Manvers was making with the ease and despatch of one versed in camps.

Ham and sausage, rolls of bread, a lettuce, oranges, cheese, dates, a bottle of wine, another of water, salt, olives, a knife and fork, a plate, a corkscrew; every article was in its own paper, some were marked in pencil what they were. All were spread out upon a horse-blanket; in good enough order for a field-inspection. Nothing was wanting, and Esteban was as keen as a wolf. Even Manvers rubbed his hands. He looked shrewdly at his neighbour.

“Good alforjas, eh?”

“Excellent indeed, sir,” said Esteban hoarsely. It was hard to see this food, and know that he could not eat of it. Manuela was sitting under a tree, her face in her hands.

“How far away,” said Manvers, “is the water, do you suppose?”

The water? Esteban collected himself with a start. The water? He jerked his head towards the display on the blanket. “It is under your hand, caballero. That bottle, I take it, holds water.”

Manvers laughed. “Yes, yes. I mean the river. I am going to swim in the river. Don’t wait for me.” He turned to the girl. “Take some food, my friend. I’ll be back before long.”

Her swift transitions bewildered him. She showed him now a face of extreme terror. She was on her feet in a moment, rigid, and her eyes were so pale that her face looked empty of eyes, like a mask. What on earth was the matter with her? He understood her to be saying, “I must go where you go. I must never leave you ” words like that; but they came from her mouthed rather than voiced, as the babbling of a mad woman. All that was clear was that she was beside herself with fright. Looking to Esteban for an explanation, he surprised a triumphant gleam in that youth’s light eyes, and saw him grinning as a dog grins, with the lip curled back.

But Esteban spoke. “I think the lady is right, sir. Affection is a beautiful thing.” He added politely, “The loss will be mine.”

Manvers looked from one to the other of these curious persons, so clearly conscious of each other, yet so strict to avoid recognition. His eyes rested on Manuela. “What’s the matter, my child?” She met his glance furtively, as if afraid that he was angry; plainly she was ashamed of her panic. Her eyes were now collected, her brow cleared, and the tension of her arms relaxed.

“Nothing is the matter,” she said in a low voice. “I will stay here.” She was shaking still; she held herself with both her hands, and shook the more.

“I think that you are knocked over by the heat and all the rest of your troubles,” said Manvers, “and I don’t wonder. Repose yourself here eat drink. Don’t spare the victuals, I beg. And as for you, my brother, I invite you too to eat what you please. And I place this young lady in your charge. Don’t forget that. She’s had a fright, and good reason for it; she’s been hurt. I leave her in your care with every confidence that you will protect her.”

Every word spoken was absorbed by Esteban with immense relish. The words pleased him, to begin with, by their Spanish ring. Manvers had been pleased himself. It was the longest speech he had yet made in Castilian; but he had no notion, of course, how exquisitely apposite to the situation they were.

Esteban became superb. He rose to the height of the argument, and to that of his inches, took off his old hat and held it out the length of his arm. “Let the lady fear nothing, senor caballero of my soul. I engage the honour of a gentleman that she shall have every consideration at my hands which her virtues merit. No more” he looked at the sullen beauty between him and the Englishman “No more, for that would be idolatrous; and no less, for that would be injustice. Vaya, senor caballero, vaya V|d| con Dios.” Manvers nodded and strolled away.