THE SLEEPER AWAKENED

Manvers returned whistling from his bath, at peace with all the world of Spain, in a large mood of benevolence and charitable judgment. His mind dwelt pleasantly on Manuela, but pity mixed with his thought; and he added some prudence on his own account. “That child she’s no more I must do something for her. Not a bad ’un, I’ll swear, not fundamentally bad. I don’t doubt her as I doubt the male: he’s too glib by half... She’s distractingly pretty what nectarine colour! The mouth of a child that droop at the corners and as soft as a child’s too.” He shook his head. “No more kissing or I shall be in a mess.”

When he reached his tree and his luncheon, to find his companions gone, he was a little taken aback. His genial proposals were suddenly chilled. “Queer couple I had a notion that they knew something of each other. So they’ve made a match of it.”

Then he saw a brass crucifix lying in the middle of his plate. “Hulloa!” He stooped to pick it up. It was still warm. He smiled and felt a glow come back. “Now that’s charming of her. That’s a pretty touch from a pretty girl. She’s no baggage, depend upon it.” The string had plainly hung the thing round her neck, the warmth was that of her bosom. He held it tenderly while he turned it about. “I’ll warrant now, that was all she had upon her. Not a maravedi beside. I know it’s the last thing to leave ’em. I’m repaid, more than repaid. I’ll wear you for a bit, my friend, if you won’t scorch a heretic.” Here he slipped the string over his head, and dropped the cross within his collar. “I’ll treat you to a chain in Valladolid,” was his final thought before he consigned Manuela to his cabinet of memories.

He poured and drank, hacked at his ham-bone and ate. “By the Lord,” he went on commenting, “they’ve not had bite or sup. Too busy with their match-making? Too delicate to feast without invitation? Which?” He pondered the puzzle. He had invited Manuela, he was sure: had he included her swain? If not, the thing was clear. She wouldn’t eat without him, and he couldn’t eat without his host. It was the best thing he knew of Esteban.

He finished his meal, filled and lit a pipe, smoked half of it drowsily, then lay and slept. Nothing disturbed his three hours’ rest, not even the gathering cloud of flies, whose droning over a neighbouring thicket must have kept awake a lighter sleeper. But Manvers was so fast that he did not hear footsteps in the wood, nor the sound of picking in the peaty ground.

It was four o’clock and more when he awoke, sat up and looked at his watch. Yawning and stretching at ease, he then became aware of a friar, with a brown shaven head and fine black beard, who was digging near by. This man, whose eyes had been upon him, waiting for recognition, immediately stopped his toil, struck his spade into the ground, and came towards him, bowing as he came.

“Good evening, senor caballero,” he said. “I am Fray Juan de la Cruz, at your service; from the convent of N. S. de la Pena near by. I have to be my own grave-digger; but will you be so obliging as to commit the body while I read the office?”

To this abrupt invitation Manvers could only reply by staring. Fray Juan apologised.

“I imagined that you had perceived my business,” he said, “which truly is none of yours. It will be an act of charity on your part therefore its own reward.”

“May I ask you,” said Manvers, now on his feet, “what, or whom, you are burying?”

“Come,” the friar replied. “I will show you the body.” Manvers followed him into the thicket.

“Good God, what’s this?” The staring light eyes of Esteban Vincaz had no reply for him. He had to turn away, sick at the sight.

Fray Juan de la Cruz told him what he knew. A young girl, riding an ass, had come to the church of the convent, where he happened to be, cleaning the sanctuary. The Reverend Prior was absent, the brothers were afield. She was in haste, she said, and the matter would not allow of delay. She reported that she had killed a man in the wood of La Huerca, to save the life of a gentleman who had been kind to her, who had, indeed, but recently imperilled his own for hers. “If you doubt me,” she had said, “go to the forest, to such and such a part. There you will find the gentleman asleep. He has a crucifix of mine. The dead man lies not far away, with his own knife near him, with which I killed him. Now,” she had said, “I trust you to report all I have said to that gentleman, for I must be off.”

“Good God!” said Manvers again.

“God indeed is the only good,” said Fray Juan, “and His ways past finding out. But I have no reason to doubt this girl’s story. She told me, moreover, the name of the man or his names, as you may say.”

“Had he more than one then?” Manvers asked him, but without interest. The dead was nothing to him, but the deed was much. This wild girl, who had been sleek and kissing but a few hours before, now stood robed in tragic weeds, fell purpose in her green eyes! And her child’s mouth stretched to murder! And her youth hardy enough to stab!

“The unfortunate young man,” said Fray Juan, “was the son of a more unfortunate father; but the name that he used was not that of his house. His father, it seems ” but Manvers stopped him.

“Excuse me I don’t care about his father or his names. Tell me anything more that the girl had to say.”

“I have told you everything, senor caballero,” said Fray Juan; “and I will only add that you are not to suppose that I am violating the confidences of God. Far from that. She made no confession in the true sense, though she promised me that she would not fail to do so at the earliest moment. I had it urgently from herself that I should seek you out with her tale, and rehearse it to you. In justice to her, I am now to ask you if it is true, so far as you are concerned in it?”

Manvers replied, “It’s perfectly true. I found her in bad company at Palencia; a pack of ruffians was about her, and she might have been killed. I got her out of their hands, knocked about and wounded, and brought her so far on the road to the first convent I could come at. That poor devil there overtook us about a league from the wood. She had nothing to say to him, nor he to her, but I remember noticing that she didn’t seem happy after he had joined us. He had been her lover, I suppose?”

“She gave me to understand that,” said Fray Juan gravely. Manvers here started at a memory.

“By the Lord,” he cried, “I’ll tell you something. When we got to the wood I wanted to bathe in the river, and was going to leave those two together. Well, she was in a taking about that. She wanted to come with me there was something of a scene.” He recalled her terror, and Esteban’s snarling lip. “I might have saved all this but how was I to know? I blame myself. But what puzzles me still is why the man should have wanted my life. Can you explain that?”

Fray Juan was discreet. “Robbery,” he suggested, but Manvers laughed.

“I travel light,” he said. “He must have seen that I was not his game. No, no,” he shook his head. “It couldn’t have been robbery.”

Fray Juan, I say, was discreet; and it was no business of his.... But it was certainly in his mind to say that Esteban need not have been the robber, nor Manvers’ portmanteau the booty. However, he was silent, until the Englishman muttered, “God in Heaven, what a country!” and then he took up his parable.

“All countries are very much the same, as I take it, since God made them all together, and put man up to be the master of them, and took the woman out of his side to be his blessing and curse at once. The place whence she was taken, they say, can never fully be healed until she is restored to it; and when that is done, it is not a certain cure. Such being the plan of this world, it does not become us to quarrel with its manifestations here or there. Senor caballero, if you are ready I will proceed. Assistance at the feet, a handful of earth at the proper moment are all I shall ask of you.” He slipped a surplice over his head. The office was said.

“Fray Juan,” said Manvers at the end, “will you take this trifle from me? A mass, I suppose, for that poor devil’s soul would not come amiss.”

Fray Juan took that as a sign of grace, and was glad that he had held his tongue. “Far from it,” he said, “it would be extremely proper. It shall be offered, I promise you.”

“Now,” said Manvers after a pause, “I wonder if you can tell me this. Which way did she go off?”

Fray Juan shook his head. “No lo se. She came to me in the church, and spoke, and passed like the angel of death. May she go with God!”

“I hope so,” said Manvers. Then he looked into the placid face of the brown friar. “But I must find her somehow.” Upon that addition he shut his mouth with a snap. The survey which he had to endure from Fray Juan’s patient eyes was the best answer to it.

“Oh, but I must, you know,” he said.

“Better not, my son,” said Fray Juan. “It seems to me that you have seen enough. Your motives will be misunderstood.”

Manvers laughed. “They are rather obscure to me but I can’t let her pay for my fault.”

“You may make her pay double,” said Fray Juan.

“No,” said Manvers decisively, “I won’t. It’s my turn to pay now.”

The Friar shrugged. “It is usually the woman who pays. But lo que ha de ser...!”

The everlasting phrase! “That proverb serves you well in Spain, Fray Juan,” said Manvers, who was in a staring fit.

“It is all we have that matters. Other nations have to learn it; here we know it.”

Manvers mounted his horse and stooping from the saddle, offered his hand. “Adios, Fray Juan.”

“Vaya V|d| con Dios!” said the friar, and watched him away. “Pobrecita!” he said to himself “unhappy Manuela!”