Tomasos Fortune and Other Stories | Page 7

the tangle
of heels and harness. One of the leaders swung right out in mid-air with
flying legs, and mules and diligencia rolled over and over down the

steep in a cloud of dust and stones.
When Matthew S. Whittaker recovered consciousness, he found
himself in a richly furnished bedroom. He woke as if from sleep, with
his senses fully alert, and began at once to take an interest in a
conversation of which he had been conscious in the form of a faint
murmur for some time.
"A broken arm, my child, and nothing more, so far as I can tell at
present," were the first comprehensible words. Whittaker tried to move
his left arm, and winced.
"And the other man?" inquired a woman's voice in Spanish, but with an
accent which the listener recognised at once. This was an
Englishwoman speaking Spanish.
"Ah! the other man is dead. Poor Mogul! He was always civil and
God-fearing. He has driven the diligencia up to us for nearly twenty
years."
Whittaker turned his head, and winced again. The speaker was a
monk--fat and good-natured--one of the few now left in the great house
on Montserrat. His interlocutor was a woman not more than thirty, with
brown hair that gleamed in the sunlight, and a fresh, thoughtful face.
Her attitude was somewhat independent, her manner indicated a
self-reliant spirit. This was a woman who would probably make
mistakes in life, but these would not be the errors of omission. She was
a prototype of a sex and an age which err in advancing too quickly, and
in holding that everything which is old- fashioned must necessarily be
foolish.
Whittaker lay quite still and watched these two, while the deep- drawn
lines around his lips indicated a decided sense of amusement. He was
in pain, but that was no new condition to a man whose spirit had ever
been robuster than his body. He had, at all events, not been killed, and
his last recollection had been the effort to face death. So he lay with a
twisted smile on his lips listening to Brother Lucas, who, sad old monk
that he was, took infinite pleasure in glorifying to the young lady his
own action in causing the monastery cart to be brought out, and in
driving down the slope at a breakneck pace to place his medical
knowledge at the disposal of such as might require it. He bowed in a
portly way, and indicated with a very worldly politeness that he himself
was, in fact, at the disposal of the Senorita.

"I was not always a monk--I began life as a doctor," he explained.
And his companion looked at him with speculative, clever eyes,
scenting afar off, with the quickness of her kind, the usual little
romance--the everlasting woman.
"Ah!" she said slowly.
And Whittaker in the alcove coughed with discretion. Both turned and
hurried towards him.
"He has recovered his senses," said the girl.
The monk had, however, not laid aside all the things of this world. He
remembered the little ceremonies appertaining to the profession which
he had once practised. He waived aside the girl, and stooped over the
bed.
"You understand what I say--you see me?" he inquired in a soothing
voice.
"Most assuredly," replied Whittaker, coolly. "Most assuredly, my father.
And I do not think there is much the matter with me."
"Holy Saints, but you go too quickly," laughed the monk. "You will be
wanting next to get up and walk."
"I should not mind trying."
"Ah, that is good! Then you will soon be well. Senorita, we shall have
no trouble with this patient. This, Senor, is the Senorita Cheyne; in
whose house you find yourself, and to whom your thanks are due."
Whittaker turned in bed to thank her; but instead of speaking, he
quietly fainted. He came to his senses again, and found that it was
evening. The windows of his room were open, and he could see across
the valley the brown hills of Catalonia, faintly tinged with pink. A
nursing sister in her dark blue dress and white winged cap was seated at
the open window, gazing reflectively across the valley. There was an
odour of violets in the room. A fitful breeze stirred the lace curtains.
Whittaker perceived his own travel-worn portmanteau lying half
unpacked on a side table. It seemed that some one had opened it to seek
the few necessaries of the moment. He noted with a feeling of
helplessness that his simple travelling accessories had been neatly
arranged on the dressing-table. A clean handkerchief lay on the table at
the bedside. The wounded man became conscious of a feeling that he
had lost some of the solitary liberty which had hitherto been his. It
seemed that he had