diff options
Diffstat (limited to '5987-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 5987-0.txt | 9282 |
1 files changed, 9282 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/5987-0.txt b/5987-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1858d1f --- /dev/null +++ b/5987-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9282 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, In Kedar's Tents, by Henry Seton Merriman + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: In Kedar's Tents + + +Author: Henry Seton Merriman + + + +Release Date: January 27, 2015 [eBook #5987] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN KEDAR'S TENTS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1909 Smith, Elder and Co. edition by Les Bowler. + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + IN + KEDAR’S TENTS + + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + BY + HENRY SETON MERRIMAN + + * * * * * + + LONDON + SMITH, ELDER, & CO. + 15 WATERLOO PLACE + 1909 + + * * * * * + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. + At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER PAGE + I. ONE SOWETH 1 + II. ANOTHER REAPETH 11 + III. LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA 23 + IV. LE PREMIER PAS 34 + V. CONTRABAND 48 + VI. AT RONDA 59 + VII. IN A MOORISH GARDEN 70 + VIII. THE LOVE LETTER 82 + IX. A WAR OF WIT 94 + X. THE CITY OF DISCONTENT 105 + XI. A TANGLED WEB 117 + XII. ON THE TOLEDO ROAD 129 + XIII. A WISE IGNORAMUS 140 + XIV. A WEIGHT OF EVIDENCE 151 + XV. AN ULTIMATUM 163 + XVI. IN HONOUR 174 + XVII. IN MADRID 185 + XVIII. IN TOLEDO 197 + XIX. CONCEPÇION TAKES THE ROAD 208 + XX. ON THE TALAVERA ROAD 220 + XXI. A CROSS-EXAMINATION 231 + XXII. REPARATION 242 + XXIII. LARRALDE’S PRICE 254 + XXIV. PRIESTCRAFT 265 + XXV. SWORDCRAFT 276 + XXVI. WOMANCRAFT 287 + XXVII. A NIGHT JOURNEY 298 + XXVIII. THE CITY OF STRIFE 309 + XXIX. MIDNIGHT AND DAWN 320 + XXX. THE DAWN OF PEACE 331 + + + + +CHAPTER I +ONE SOWETH + + + ‘If it be a duty to respect other men’s claims, so also is it a duty + to maintain our own.’ + +IT is in the staging of her comedies that fate shows herself superior to +mere human invention. While we, with careful regard to scenery, place +our conventional puppets on the stage and bid them play their old old +parts in a manner as ancient, she rings up the curtain and starts a +tragedy on a scene that has obviously been set by the carpenter for a +farce. She deals out the parts with a fine inconsistency, and the +jolly-faced little man is cast to play Romeo, while the poetic youth with +lantern jaw and an impaired digestion finds no Juliet to match his love. + +Fate, with that playfulness which some take too seriously or quite amiss, +set her queer stage as long ago as 1838 for the comedy of certain lives, +and rang up the curtain one dark evening on no fitter scene than the high +road from Gateshead to Durham. It was raining hard, and a fresh breeze +from the south-east swept a salt rime from the North Sea across a tract +of land as bare and bleak as the waters of that grim ocean. A hard, cold +land this, where the iron that has filled men’s purses has also entered +their souls. + +There had been a great meeting at Chester-le-Street of those who were at +this time beginning to be known as Chartists, and, the Act having been +lately passed that torchlight meetings were illegal, this assembly had +gathered by the light of a waning moon long since hidden by the clouds. +Amid the storm of wind and rain, orators had expounded views as wild as +the night itself, to which the hard-visaged sons of Northumbria had +listened with grunts of approval or muttered words of discontent. A +dangerous game to play—this stirring up of the people’s heart, and one +that may at any moment turn to the deepest earnest. + +Few thought at this time that the movement awakening in the working +centres of the North and Midlands was destined to spread with the strange +rapidity of popular passion—to spread and live for a decade. Few of the +Chartists expected to see the fulfilment of half of their desires. Yet, +to-day, a moiety of the People’s Charter has been granted. These voices +crying in the night demanded an extended suffrage, vote by ballot, and +freedom for rich and poor alike to sit in Parliament. Within the scope +of one reign these demands have been granted. + +The meeting at Chester-le-Street was no different from a hundred others +held in England at the same time. It was illegal, and yet the +authorities dared not to pronounce it so. It might prove dangerous to +those taking part in it. Lawyers said that the leaders laid themselves +open to the charge of high treason. In this assembly as in others there +were wirepullers—men playing their own game, and from the safety of the +rear pushing on those in front. With one of these we have to do. With +his mistake Fate raised the curtain, and on the horizon of several lives +arose a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. + +Geoffrey Horner lived before his time, insomuch as he was a +gentleman-Radical. He was clever, and the world heeded not. He was +brilliant, well educated, capable of great achievements, and the world +refused to be astonished. Here were the makings of a malcontent. A +well-born Radical is one whom the world has refused to accept at his own +valuation. A wise man is ready to strike a bargain with Fate. The +wisest are those who ask much and then take half. It is the coward who +asks too little, and the fool who imagines that he will receive without +demanding. + +Horner had thrown in his lot with the Chartists in that spirit of pique +which makes a man marry the wrong woman because the right one will have +none of him. At the Chester-le-Street meeting he had declared himself an +upholder of moral persuasion, while in his heart he pandered to those who +knew only of physical force and placed their reliance thereon. He had +come from Durham with a contingent of malcontents, and was now returning +thither on foot in company with the local leaders. These were +intelligent mechanics seeking clumsily and blindly enough what they knew +to be the good of their fellows. At their heels tramped the rank and +file of the great movement. The assembly was a subtle foreshadowing of +things to come—of Newport and the march of twenty thousand men, of +violence and bloodshed, of strife between brethren, and of justice +nonplussed and hesitating. + +The toil-worn miners were mostly silent, their dimly enlightened +intellects uneasily stirred by the words they had lately heard—their +stubborn hearts full of a great hope with a minute misgiving at the back +of it. With this dangerous material Geoffrey Horner proposed to play his +game. + +Suddenly a voice was raised. + +‘Mates,’ it cried, at the cross-roads, ‘let’s go and smash Pleydell’s +windows!’ + +And a muttered acquiescence to the proposal swept through the moving mass +like a sullen breeze through reeds. + +The desire for action rustled among these men of few words and mighty +arms. + +Horner hurriedly consulted his colleagues. Was it wise to attempt to +exert an authority which was merely nominal? The principles of Chartism +were at this time to keep within the limits of the law, and yet to hint, +when such a course was safe, that stronger measures lay behind mere +words. Their fatal habit was to strike softly. + +In peace and war, at home and abroad, there is but one humane and safe +rule: Hesitate to strike—strike hard. + +Sir John Pleydell was a member of that Parliament which had treated the +Charter with contempt. He was one of those who had voted with the +majority against the measures it embodied. + +In addition to these damnatory facts, he was a local Tory of some +renown—an ambitious man, the neighbours said, who wished to leave his son +a peerage. + +To the minds of the rabble this magnate represented the tyranny against +which their protest was raised. Geoffrey Horner looked on him as a +political opponent and a dangerous member of the winning party. The blow +was easy to strike. Horner hesitated—at the cross roads of other lives +than his own—and held his tongue. + +The suggestion of the unknown humorist in the crowd commended itself to +the more energetic of the party, who immediately turned towards the +by-road leading to Dene Hall. The others—the minority—followed as +minorities do, because they distrusted themselves. Some one struck up a +song with words lately published in the ‘Northern Liberator’ and set to a +well-known local air. + +The shooting party assembled at Dene Hall was still at the dinner table +when the malcontents entered the park, and the talk of coverts and guns +ceased suddenly at the sound of their rough voices. Sir John Pleydell, +an alert man still, despite his grey hair and drawn, careworn face, +looked up sharply. He had been sitting silently fingering the stem of +his wineglass—a habit of his when the ladies quitted the room—and, +although he had shot as well as, perhaps better than, any present, had +taken but little part in the conversation. He had, in fact, only half +listened, and when a rare smile passed across his grey face it invariably +owed its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay, +light-hearted, _débonnaire_, at the far end of the table. When Sir +John’s thoughtful eyes rested on his motherless son, a dull and +suppressed light gleamed momentarily beneath his heavy lids. Superficial +observers said that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; ‘not for +himself,’ added the few who saw deeper. + +When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke the +outer silence of the night, Sir John’s glance sought his son’s face. In +moments of alarm the glance flies to where the heart is. + +‘What is that?’ asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up. + +‘The Chartists,’ said Sir John. + +Alfred looked round. He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly dried +upon the parchment that made him one—the only soldier in the room. + +‘We are eleven here,’ he said, ‘and two men downstairs—some of you +fellows have your valets too—say fifteen in all. We cannot stand this, +you know.’ + +As he spoke the first volley of stones crashed through the windows, and +the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters. The cries of +the ladies in the drawing-room could be heard, and all the men sprang to +their feet. With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell ran to the door, but his +father was there before him. + +‘Not you,’ said the elder man, quiet but a little paler than usual; ‘I +will go and speak to them. They will not dare to touch me. They are +probably running away by this time.’ + +‘Then we’ll run after ’em,’ answered Alfred with a fine spirit, and +something in his attitude, in the ring of his voice, awoke that demon of +combativeness which lies dormant in men of the Anglo-Saxon race. + +‘Come on, you fellows!’ cried the boy with a queer glad laugh, and +without knowing that he did it Sir John stood aside, his heart warm with +a sudden pride, his blood stirred by something that had not moved it +these thirty years. The guests crowded out of the room—old men who +should have known better—laughing as they threw aside their dinner +napkins. What a strange thing is man, peaceful through long years, and +at a moment’s notice a mere fighting devil. + +‘Come on, we’ll teach them to break windows!’ repeated Alfred Pleydell, +running to the stick rack. The rain rattled on the skylight of the +square hall, and the wind roared down the open chimney. Among the men +hastily arming themselves with heavy sticks and cramming caps upon their +heads were some who had tasted of rheumatism, but they never thought of +an overcoat. + +‘We’ll know each other by our shirt fronts,’ said a quiet man who was +standing on a chair in order to reach an Indian club suspended on the +wall. + +Alfred was at the door leading through to the servants’ quarters, and his +summons brought several men from the pantry and kitchens. + +‘Come on!’ he cried, ‘take anything you can find—stick or poker—yes, and +those old guns, use ’em like a club, hit very hard and very often. We’ll +charge the devils—there’s nothing like a charge—come on!’ + +And he was already out of the door with a dozen at his heels. + +The change from the lighted rooms to the outer darkness made them pause a +moment, during which time the defenders had leisure to group themselves +around Alfred Pleydell. A hoarse shout, which indeed drowned Geoffrey +Horner’s voice, showed where the assailants stood. Horner had found his +tongue after the first volley of stones. It was the policy of the +Chartist leaders and wirepullers to suggest rather than demonstrate +physical force. Enough had been done to call attention to the +Chester-le-Street meeting, and give it the desired prominence in the eyes +of the nation. + +‘Get back, go to your homes!’ he was shouting, with upraised arms, when +the hoarse cry of his adherents and the flood of light from the opened +door made him turn hastily. In a moment he saw the meaning of this +development, but it was too late. + +With a cheer, Alfred Pleydell, little more than a boy, led the charge, +and seeing Horner in front, ran at him with upraised stick. Horner half +warded the blow, which came whistling down his own stick and paralysed +his thumb. He returned the stroke with a sudden fury, striking Pleydell +full on the head. Then, because he had a young wife and child at home, +he pushed his way through the struggling crowd, and ran away in the +darkness. As he ran he could hear his late adherents dispersing in all +directions, like sheep before a dog. He heard a voice calling: + +‘Alfred! Alfred!’ + +And Horner, who an hour—nay, ten minutes—earlier had had no thought of +violence, ran his fastest along the road by which he had lately come. +His heart was as water within his breast, and his staring eyes played +their part mechanically. He did not fall, but he noted nothing, and had +no knowledge whither he was running. + +Alfred Pleydell lay quite still on the lawn in front of his father’s +house. + + + + +CHAPTER II +ANOTHER REAPETH + + + ‘Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt.’ + +DURING the course of a harum-scarum youth in the city of Dublin certain +persons had been known to predict that Mr. Frederick Conyngham had a +future before him. Mostly pleasant-spoken Irish persons these, who had +the racial habit of saying that which is likely to be welcome. Many of +them added, ‘the young divil,’ under their breath, in a pious hope of +thereby cleansing their souls from guilt. + +‘I suppose I’m idle, and what is worse, I know I’m a fool,’ said +Conyngham himself to his tutor when that gentleman, with a toleration +which was undeserved, took him severely to task before sending him up for +the Bar examination. The tutor said nothing, but he suspected that this, +his wildest pupil, was no fool. Truth to tell, Frederick Conyngham had +devoted little thought to the matter of which he spoke, namely, himself, +and was perhaps none the worse for that. A young man who thinks too +often usually falls into the error of also thinking too much, of himself. + +The examination was, however, safely passed, and in due course Frederick +was called to the Irish Bar, where a Queen’s Counsel, with an accent like +rich wine, told him that he was now a gintleman, and entitled so to call +himself. + +All these events were left behind, and Conyngham, sitting alone in his +rooms in Norfolk Street, Strand, three days after the breaking of Sir +John Pleydell’s windows, was engaged in realising that the predicted +future was still in every sense before him, and in nowise nearer than it +had been in his mother’s lifetime. + +This realisation of an unpleasant fact appeared in no way to disturb his +equanimity, for, as he knocked his pipe against the bars of the fire, he +murmured a popular air in a careless voice. The firelight showed his +face to be pleasant enough in a way that left the land of his birth +undoubted. Blue eyes, quick and kind; a square chin, closely curling +hair, and square shoulders bespoke an Irishman. Something, however, in +the cut of his lips—something close and firm—suggested an admixture of +Anglo-Saxon blood. The man looked as if he might have had an English +mother. It was perhaps this formation of the mouth that had led those +pleasant-spoken persons to name to his relatives their conviction that +Conyngham had a future before him. The best liars are those who base +their fancy upon fact. They knew that the ordinary thoroughbred Irishman +has usually a cheerful enough life before him, but not that which is +vaguely called a future. Fred Conyngham looked like a man who could hold +to his purpose, but at this moment he also had the unfortunate appearance +of not possessing one to hold to. + +He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held the hot briar bowl against +the ear of a sleeping fox terrier, which animal growled, without moving, +in a manner that suggested its possession of a sense of humour and a full +comprehension of the harmless practical joke. + +A moment later the dog sat up and listened with an interest that +gradually increased until the door opened and Geoffrey Horner came into +the room. + +‘Faith, it’s Horner!’ said Conyngham. ‘Where are you from?’ + +‘The North.’ + +‘Ah—sit down. What have you been doing up there—tub-thumping?’ + +Horner came forward and sat down in the chair indicated. He looked five +years older than when he had last been there. Conyngham glanced at his +friend, who was staring into the fire. + +‘Edith all right?’ he asked carelessly. + +‘Yes.’ + +‘And—the little chap?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +Conyngham glanced at his companion again. Horner’s eyes had the hard +look that comes from hopelessness; his lips were dry and white. He wore +the air of one whose stake in the game of life was heavy, who played that +game nervously. For this was an ambitious man with wife and child whom +he loved. Conyngham’s attitude towards Fate was in strong contrast. He +held his head up and faced the world without encumbrance, without a +settled ambition, without any sense of responsibility at all. The +sharp-eyed dog on the hearthrug looked from one to the other. A moment +before, the atmosphere of the room had been one of ease and comfortable +assurance—an atmosphere that some men, without any warrant or the +justification of personal success or distinction, seem to carry with them +through life. Since Horner had crossed the threshold the ceaseless hum +of the streets seemed to be nearer, the sound of it louder in the room; +the restlessness of that great strife stirred the air. The fox terrier +laid himself on the hearthrug again, but instead of sleeping watched his +two human companions. + +Conyngham filled his pipe. He turned to the table where the matchbox +stood at his elbow, took it up, rattled it, and laid it down. He pressed +the tobacco hard with his thumb, and, turning to Horner, said sharply: + +‘What is it?’ + +‘I don’t know yet; ruin, I think.’ + +‘Nonsense, man!’ said Conyngham cheerily. ‘There is no such thing in +this world. At least, the jolliest fellows I know are bankrupts, or no +better. Look at me: never a brief; literary contributions returned with +thanks; balance at the bank, seventeen pounds ten shillings; balance in +hand, none; debts, the Lord only knows! Look at me! I’m happy enough.’ + +‘Yes, you’re a lonely devil.’ + +Conyngham looked at his friend with inquiry in his gay eyes. + +‘Ah! perhaps so. I live alone, if that is what you mean. But as for +being lonely—no, hang it! I have plenty of friends, especially at +dividend time.’ + +‘You have nobody depending on you,’ said Horner with the irritability of +sorrow. + +‘Because nobody is such a fool. On the other hand, I have nobody to care +a twopenny curse what becomes of me. Same thing, you see, in the end. +Come, man, cheer up. Tell me what is wrong. Seventeen pounds ten +shillings is not exactly wealth, but if you want it you know it is there, +eh?’ + +‘I do not want it, thanks,’ replied the other. ‘Seventeen hundred would +be no good to me.’ + +He paused, biting his under lip and staring with hard eyes into the fire. + +‘Read that,’ he said at length, and handed Conyngham a cutting from a +daily newspaper. + +The younger man read, without apparent interest, an account of the +Chester-le-Street meeting, and the subsequent attack on Sir John +Pleydell’s house. + +‘Yes,’ he commented, ‘the usual thing. Brave words followed by a +cowardly deed. What in the name of fortune you were doing in that +_galère_ you yourself know best. If these are politics, Horner, I say +drop them. Politics are a stick, clean enough at the top, but you’ve got +hold of the wrong end. Young Pleydell was hurt, I see—“seriously, it is +feared.”’ + +‘Yes,’ said Horner significantly; and his companion, after a quick look +of surprise, read the slip of paper carefully a second time. Then he +looked up and met Horner’s eyes. + +‘Gad!’ he exclaimed in a whisper. + +Horner said nothing. The dog moved restlessly, and for a moment the +whole world—that sleepless world of the streets—seemed to hold its +breath. + +‘And if he dies,’ said Conyngham at length. + +‘Exactly so,’ answered the other with a laugh—of scaffold mirth. + +Conyngham turned in his chair and sat with his elbows on his knees, his +face resting on his closed fists, staring at the worn old hearthrug. +Thus they remained for some minutes. + +‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Horner at length. + +‘Nothing—got nothing to think with. You know that, Geoffrey. Wish I +had—never wanted it as I do at this moment. I’m no good, you know that. +You must go to some one with brains—some clever devil.’ + +As he spoke he turned and took up the paper again, reading the paragraph +slowly and carefully. Horner looked at him with a breathless hunger in +his eyes. At some moments it is a crime to think, for we never know but +that thought may be transmitted without so much as a whisper. + +‘“The miners were accompanied by a gentleman from London,”’ Conyngham +read aloud, ‘“a barrister, it is supposed, whose speech was a feature of +the Chester le-Street meeting. This gentleman’s name is quite unknown, +nor has his whereabouts yet been discovered. His sudden disappearance +lends likelihood to the report that this unknown agitator actually struck +the blow which injured Mr. Alfred Pleydell. Every exertion is being put +forth by the authorities to trace the man who is possibly a felon and +certainly a coward.”’ + +Conyngham laid aside the paper and again looked at Horner, who did not +meet his glance nor ask now of what he was thinking. Horner, indeed, had +his own thoughts, perhaps of the fireside—modest enough, but happy as +love and health could make it—upon which his own ambition had brought +down the ruins of a hundred castles in the air—thoughts he scarce could +face, no doubt, and yet had no power to drive away, of the young wife +whose world was that same fireside; of the child, perhaps, whose coming +had opened for a time the door of Paradise. + +Conyngham broke in upon these meditations with a laugh. + +‘I have it!’ he cried. ‘It’s as simple as the alphabet. This paper says +it was a barrister—a man from London—a malcontent, a felon, a coward. +Dammy, Geoff—that’s me!’ + +He leapt to his feet. ‘Get out of the way, Tim!’ he cried to the dog, +pushing the animal aside and standing on the hearthrug. + +‘Listen to this,’ he went on. ‘This thing, like the others, will blow +over. It will be forgotten in a week. Another meeting will be held—say +in South Wales, more windows will be broken, another young man’s head +cracked, and Chester-le-Street (God-forsaken place, never heard of it!) +will be forgotten.’ + +Horner sat looking with hollow eyes at the young Irishman, his lips +twitching, his fingers interlocked—there is nothing makes so complete a +coward of a man as a woman’s love. Conyngham laughed as the notion +unfolded itself in his mind. He might, as he himself had said, be of no +great brain power, but he was at all events a man and a brave one. He +stood a full six foot, and looked down at his companion, who sat +whitefaced and shrinking. + +‘It is quite easy,’ he said, ‘for me to disappear in such a manner as to +arouse suspicion. I have nothing to keep me here; my briefs—well, the +Solicitor-General can have ’em! I have no ties—nothing to keep me in any +part of the world. When young Pleydell is on his feet again, and a few +more windows have been broken, and nine days have elapsed, the wonder +will give place to another, and I can return to my—practice.’ + +‘I couldn’t let you do it.’ + +‘Oh yes, you could,’ said Conyngham with the quickness of his race to spy +out his neighbour’s vulnerable point. ‘For the sake of Edith and the +little devil.’ + +Horner sat silent, and after a moment Conyngham went on. + +‘All we want to do is to divert suspicion from you now—to put them on a +false scent, for they must have one of some sort. When they find that +they cannot catch me they will forget all about it.’ + +Horner shuffled in his seat. This was nothing but detection of the +thoughts that had passed through his own mind. + +‘It is easily enough done,’ went on the Irishman. ‘A paragraph here and +there in some of the newspapers; a few incriminating papers left in these +rooms, which are certain to be searched. I have a bad name—an Irish dog +goes about the world with a rope round his neck. If I am caught it will +not be for some time, and then I can get out of it somehow—an alibi or +something. I’ll get a brief at all events. By that time the scent will +be lost, and it will be all right. Come, Geoff, cheer up! A man of your +sort ought not to be thrown by a mischance like this.’ + +He stood with his legs apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a +gay laugh on his lips, and much discernment in his eyes. + +‘Oh, d—n Edith!’ he added after a pause, seeing that his efforts met with +no response. ‘D—n that child! You used to have some pluck, Horner.’ +Horner shook his head and made no answer, but his very silence was a +point gained. He no longer protested nor raised any objection to his +companion’s hare-brained scheme. The thing was feasible, and he knew it. + +Conyngham went on to set forth his plans, which with characteristic +rapidity of thought he evolved as he spoke. + +‘Above all,’ he said, ‘we must be prompt. I must disappear to-night, the +paragraphs must be in to-morrow’s papers. I think I’ll go to Spain. The +Carlists seem to be making things lively there. You know, Horner, I was +never meant for a wig and gown—there’s no doubt about that. I shall have +a splendid time of it out there—’ + +He stopped, meeting a queer look in Horner’s eyes, who sat leaning +forward and searching his face with jealous glance. + +‘I was wondering,’ said the other, with a pale smile, ‘if you were ever +in love with Edith.’ + +‘No, my good soul, I was not,’ answered Conyngham, with perfect +carelessness, ‘though I knew her long before you did.’ + +He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some men are +seen at their worst in adversity. He was ready enough to find excuses +for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their friendship, often +bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved. + +He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their +perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the +constable. + +While they were still talking a mutual friend came in—a quick-spoken man +already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability. They talked on +indifferent topics for some time. Then the new-comer said jerkily: + +‘Heard the news?’ + +‘No,’ answered Conyngham. + +‘Alfred Pleydell—young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters at +Durham—died yesterday morning.’ Frederick Conyngham had placed himself +in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low chair by the fire. +He found Horner’s toe with his heel. + +‘Is that so?’ he said gravely. ‘Then I’m off.’ + +‘What do you mean?’ asked the journalist with a quick look—the man had +the manner of a ferret. + +‘Nothing, only I’m off, that’s all, old man. And I cannot ask you to +stay this evening, you understand, because I have to pack.’ + +He turned slowly on Horner, who had recovered himself, but still had his +hand over his face. + +‘Got any money, Geoff?’ he asked. + +‘Yes, I have twenty pounds if you want it,’ answered the other in a +hoarse voice. + +‘I do want it—badly.’ + +The journalist had taken up his hat and stick. He moved slowly towards +the door, and, there pausing, saw Horner pass the bank-notes to +Conyngham. + +‘You had better go too,’ said the Irishman. ‘You two are going in the +same direction, I know.’ + +Horner rose, and, half laughing, Conyngham pushed him towards the door. + +‘See him home, Blake,’ he said. ‘Horner has the blues to-night.’ + + + + +CHAPTER III +LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA + + + ‘No one can be more wise than destiny.’ + +‘WHAT are we waiting for? why, two more passengers—grand ladies as they +tell me—and the captain has gone ashore to fetch them,’ the first mate of +the ‘Granville’ barque, of London, made answer to Frederick Conyngham, +and he breathed on his fingers as he spoke, for the north-west wind was +blowing across the plains of the Medoc, and the sun had just set behind +the smoke of Bordeaux. + +The ‘Granville’ was lying at anchor in the middle of the Garonne river, +having safely discharged her deck cargo of empty claret casks and landed +a certain number of passengers. There are few colder spots on the +Continent than the sunny town of Bordeaux when the west wind blows from +Atlantic wastes in winter time. A fine powder of snow scudded across the +flat land, which presented a bleak brown face, patched here and there +with white. There were two more passengers on board the ‘Granville,’ +crouching in the cabin—two French gentlemen who had taken passage from +London to Algeciras in Spain, on their way to Algiers. + +Conyngham, with characteristic good-nature, had made himself so entirely +at home on board the Mediterranean trader that his presence was equally +welcomed in the forecastle and the captain’s cabin. Even the first mate, +his present interlocutor, a grim man given to muttered abuse of his +calling and a pious pessimism in respect to human nature, gradually +thawed under the influence of so cheerful an acceptance of heavy weather +and a clumsy deck cargo. + +‘The ladies will be less trouble than the empty casks, at all events,’ +said Conyngham, ‘because they will keep below.’ + +The sailor shook his head forebodingly and took an heroic pinch of snuff. + +‘One’s as capable of carrying mischief as the other,’ he muttered in the +bigoted voice of a married teetotaller. + +The ship was ready for sea, and this mariner’s spirit was ever uneasy and +restless till the anchor was on deck and the hawser stowed. + +‘There’s a boat leaving the quay now,’ he added. ‘Seems she’s lumbered +up forr’ard wi’ women’s hamper.’ + +And indeed the black form of a skiff so laden could be seen approaching +through the driving snow and gloom. The mate called to the steward to +come on deck, and this bearded servitor of dames emerged from the galley +with uprolled sleeves and a fine contempt for cold winds. A boy went +forward with a coil of rope on his arm, for the tide was running hard and +the Garonne is no ladies’ pleasure stream. It is not an easy matter to +board a ship in mid-current when tide and wind are at variance, and the +fingers so cold that a rope slips through them like a log-line. The +‘Granville,’ having still on board her cargo of coals for Algeciras, lay +low in the water with both her anchors out and the tide singing round her +old-fashioned hempen hawsers. + +‘Now see ye throw a clear rope,’ shouted the mate to the boy who had gone +forward. The proximity of the land and the approach of women—a _bête +noire_ no less dreaded—seemed to flurry the brined spirit of the +Granville’s’ mate. + +Perhaps the knowledge that the end of a rope, not judged clear, would +inevitably be applied to his own person, shook the nerve of the boy on +the forecastle—perhaps his hands were cold and his faculties benumbed. +He cast a line which seemed to promise well at first. Two coils of it +unfolded themselves gracefully against the grey sky, and then Confusion +took the others for herself. A British oath from the deck of the ship +went out to meet a fine French explosion of profanity from the boat, both +forestalling the splash of the tangled rope into the water under the bows +of the ship, and a full ten yards out of the reach of the man who stood, +boathook in hand, ready to catch it. There were two ladies in the stern +of the boat, muffled up to the eyes, and betokening by their attitude the +hopeless despair and misery which seize the southern fair the moment they +embark in so much as a ferry boat. The fore part of the heavy craft was +piled up with trunks and other impedimenta of a feminine incongruity. A +single boatman had rowed the boat from the shore, guiding it into +mid-stream, and there describing a circle calculated to insure a gentle +approach on the lee side. This man, having laid aside his oars, now +stood, boathook in hand, awaiting the inevitable crash. The offending +boy in the bows was making frantic efforts to haul in his misguided rope, +but the possibility of making a second cast was unworthy of +consideration. The mate muttered such a string of foreboding expletives +as augured ill for the delinquent. The boatman was preparing to hold on +and fend off at the same moment—a sudden gust of wind gave the boat a +sharp buffet just as the man grappled the mizzen-chains—he overbalanced +himself, fell, and recovered himself, but only to be jerked backwards +into the water by the boathook, which struck him in the chest. + +‘_À moi_!’ cried the man, and disappeared in the muddy water. He rose to +the surface under the ship’s quarter, and the mate, quick as lightning, +dumped the whole coil of the slack of the main sheet on to the top of +him. In a moment he was at the level of the rail, the mate and the +steward hauling steadily on the rope, to which he clung with the tenacity +and somewhat the attitude of a monkey. At the same instant a splash made +the rescuers turn in time to see Conyngham, whose coat lay thrown on the +deck behind them, rise to the surface ten yards astern of the ‘Granville’ +and strike out towards the boat, now almost disappearing in the gloom of +night. + +The water, which had flowed through the sunniest of the sunny plains of +France, was surprisingly warm, and Conyngham, soon recovering from the +shock of his dive, settled into a quick side-stroke. The boat was close +in front of him, and in the semi-darkness he could see one of the women +rise from her seat and make her way forward, while her companion crouched +lower and gave voice to her dismay in a series of wails and groans. The +more intrepid lady was engaged in lifting one of the heavy oars, when +Conyngham called out in French: + +‘Courage, mesdames! I will be with you in a moment.’ + +Both turned, and the pallor of their faces shone whitely through the +gloom. Neither spoke, and in a few strokes Conyngham came alongside. He +clutched the gunwale with his right hand, and drew himself breast high. + +‘If these ladies,’ he said, ‘will kindly go to the opposite side of the +boat, I shall be able to climb in without danger of upsetting.’ + +‘If mama inclines that way I think it will be sufficient,’ answered the +muffled form which had made its way forward. The voice was clear and +low, remarkably self-possessed, and not without a suggestion that its +possessor bore a grudge against some person present. + +‘Perhaps mademoiselle is right,’ said Conyngham with becoming gravity, +and the lady in the stern obeyed her daughter’s suggestion, with the +result anticipated. Indeed, the boat heeled over with so much goodwill +that Conyngham was lifted right out of the water. He clambered on board +and immediately began shivering, for the wind cut like a knife. + +The younger lady made her way cautiously back to the seat which she had +recently quitted, and began at once to speak very severely to her mother. +This stout and emotional person was swaying backwards and forwards, and, +in the intervals of wailing and groaning, called in Spanish upon several +selected saints to assist her. At times, and apparently by way of a +change, she appealed to yet higher powers to receive her soul. + +‘My mother,’ said the young lady to Conyngham, who had already got the +oars out, ‘has the heart of a rabbit, but—yes—of a very young rabbit.’ + +‘Madame may rest assured that there is no danger,’ said Conyngham. + +‘Monsieur is an Englishman—’ + +‘Yes, and a very cold one at the moment. If madame could restrain her +religious enthusiasm so much as to sit still, we should make better +progress.’ + +He spoke rather curtly, as if refusing to admit the advisability of +manning the boat with a crew of black-letter saints. The manner in which +the craft leapt forward under each stroke of the oars testified to the +strength of his arms, and madame presently subsided into whispers of +thankfulness, having reason, it would seem, to be content with mere +earthly aid in lieu of that heavenly intervention which ladies of her +species summon at every turn of life. + +‘I wish I could help you,’ said the younger woman presently, in a voice +and manner suggestive of an energy unusual to her countrywomen. She +spoke in French, but with an accent somewhat round and full, like an +English accent, and Conyngham divined that she was Spanish. He thought +also that under their outer wraps the ladies wore the mantilla, and had +that graceful carriage of the head which is only seen in the Peninsula. + +‘Thank you, mademoiselle, but I am making good progress now. Can you see +the ship?’ + +She rose and stood peering into the darkness ahead—a graceful, swaying +figure. A faint scent as of some flower was wafted on the keen wind to +Conyngham, who had already decided with characteristic haste that this +young person was as beautiful as she was intrepid. + +‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘it is quite close. They are also showing lights to +guide us.’ + +She stood looking apparently over his head towards the ‘Granville,’ but +when she spoke it would seem that her thoughts had not been fixed on that +vessel. + +‘Is monsieur a sailor?’ + +‘No, but I fortunately have a little knowledge of such matters—fortunate, +since I have been able to turn it to the use of these ladies.’ + +‘But you are travelling in the “Granville.”’ + +‘Yes; I am travelling in the “Granville.”’ + +Over his oars Conyngham looked hard at his interlocutrice, but could +discern nothing of her features. Her voice interested him, however, and +he wondered whether there were ever calms on the coast of Spain at this +time of the year. + +‘Our sailors,’ said the young lady, ‘in Spain are brave, but they are +very cautious. I think none of them would have done such a thing as you +have just done for us. We were in danger. I knew it. Was it not so?’ + +‘The boat might have drifted against some ship at anchor and been upset. +You might also have been driven out to sea. They had no boat on board +the “Granville” ready to put out and follow you.’ + +‘Yes; and you saved us. But you English are of a great courage. And my +mother, instead of thanking you, is offering her gratitude to James and +John the sons of Zebedee, as if they had done it.’ + +‘I am no relation to Zebedee,’ said Conyngham with a gay laugh. ‘Madame +may rest assured of that.’ + +‘Julia,’ said the elder lady severely, and in a voice that seemed to +emanate from a chest as deep and hollow as an octave cask, ‘I shall tell +Father Concha, who will assuredly reprove you. The saints upon whom I +called were fishermen, and therefore the more capable of understanding +our great danger. As for monsieur, he knows that he shall always be in +my prayers.’ + +‘Thank you, madame,’ said Conyngham gravely. + +‘And at a fitter time I hope to be able to tender him my thanks.’ + +At this moment a voice from the ‘Granville’ hailed the boat, asking +whether all was well and Mr. Conyngham on board. Being reassured on this +point, the mate apparently attended to another matter requiring his +attention, the mingled cries and expostulations of the cabin boy +sufficiently indicating its nature. + +The boat, under Conyngham’s strong and steady strokes, now came slowly +and without mishap alongside the great black hull of the vessel, and it +soon became manifest that, although all danger was past, there yet +remained difficulty ahead; for when the boat was made fast and the ladder +lowered, the elder of the two ladies firmly and emphatically denied her +ability to make the ascent. The French boatman, shivering in a borrowed +great coat, and with a vociferation which flavoured the air with cognac, +added his entreaties to those of the mate and steward. In the small boat +Conyngham, in French, and the lady’s daughter, in Spanish, represented +that at least half of the heavenly host, having intervened to save her +from so great a peril as that safely passed through, could surely +accomplish this smaller feat with ease. But the lady still hesitated, +and the mate, having clambered down into the boat, grabbed Conyngham’s +arm with a large and not unkindly hand, and pushed him forcibly towards +the ladder. + +‘You hadn’t got no business, Mr. Conyngham,’ he said gruffly, ‘to leave +the ship like that, and like as not you’ve got your death of cold. Just +you get aboard and leave these women to me. You get to your bunk, +mister, and stooard’ll bring you something hot.’ + +There was nought but obedience in the matter, and Conyngham was soon +between the blankets, alternately shivering and burning in the first +stages of a severe chill. + +The captain having come on board, the ‘Granville’ presently weighed +anchor, and on the bosom of an ebbing tide turned her blunt prow towards +the winter sea. The waves out there beat high, and before the lights of +Pauillac, then a mere cluster of fishers’ huts, had passed away astern, +the good ship was lifting her bow with a sense of anticipation, while her +great wooden beams and knees began to strain and creak. + +During the following days, while the sense of spring and warmth slowly +gave life to those who could breathe the air on deck, Conyngham lay in +his little cabin and heeded nothing; for when the fever left him he was +only conscious of a great lassitude, and scarce could raise himself to +take such nourishment as the steward, with a rough but kindly skill, +prepared for him. + +‘Why the deuce I ever came—why the deuce I ever went overboard after a +couple of señoras—I don’t know,’ he repeated to himself during the hours +of that long watch below. + +Why, indeed? except that youth must needs go forth into the world and +play the only stake it owns there. Nor is Frederick Conyngham the first +who, having no knowledge of the game of life, throws all upon the board +to wait upon the hazard of a die. + + + + +CHAPTER IV +LE PREMIER PAS + + + ‘Be as one that knoweth and yet holdeth his tongue.’ + +THE little town of Algeciras lies, as many know, within sight of +Gibraltar, and separated from that stronghold by a broad bay. It is on +the mainland of Spain, and in direct communication by road with the great +port of Cadiz. Another road, little better than a bridle-path, runs +northward to Ximena and through the corkwood forests of that plain +towards the mountain ranges that rise between Ronda and the sea. + +By this bridle-path, it is whispered, a vast smuggled commerce has ever +found passage to the mainland, and scarce a boatman or passenger lands at +Algeciras from Gibraltar but carries somewhere on his person as much +tobacco as he may hope to conceal with safety. Algeciras, with its fair +white houses, its prim church, and sleepy quay, where the blue waters lap +and sparkle in innocent sunlight, is, it is to be feared, a town of small +virtue and the habitation of scoundrels. For this is the stronghold of +those contrabandistas whom song and legend have praised as the boldest, +the merriest, and most romantic of law-breakers. Indeed, in this country +the man who can boast of a smuggling ancestry holds high his head and +looks down on honest folk. + +The ‘Granville’ having dropped anchor to the north of the rough stone +pier, was soon disburdened of her passengers—the ladies going ashore with +undisguised delight, and leaving behind them many gracious messages of +thanks to the gentleman whose gallantry had resulted so disastrously; for +Conyngham was still in bed, though now nearly recovered. Truth to tell, +he did not hurry to make his appearance in the general cabin, and came on +deck a few hours after the departure of the ladies, whose gratitude he +desired to avoid. + +Two days of the peerless sunshine of these southern waters completely +restored him to health, and he prepared to go ashore. It was afternoon +when his boat touched the beach, and the idlers, without whom no +Mediterranean seaboard is complete, having passed the heat of the day in +a philosophic apathy amounting in many cases to a siesta, now roused +themselves sufficiently to take a dignified and indifferent interest in +the new arrival. A number of boys, an old soldier, several artillerymen +from the pretty and absolutely useless fort, a priest and a female vendor +of oranges put themselves out so much as to congregate in a little knot +at the spot where Conyngham landed. + +‘Body of Bacchus!’ said the priest, with a pinch of snuff poised before +his long nose, ‘an Englishman—see his gold watch chain.’ + +This remark called forth several monosyllabic sounds, and the onlookers +watched the safe discharge of Conyngham’s personal effects with a +characteristic placidity of demeanour which was at once tolerant and +gently surprised. That any one should have the energy to come ashore +when he was comfortable on board, or leave the shore when amply provided +there with sunshine, elbowroom, and other necessaries of life, presented +itself to them as a fact worthy of note but not of emulation. The +happiest man is he who has reduced the necessities of life to a minimum. + +No one offered to assist Conyngham. In Spain the onlooker keeps his +hands in his pockets. + +‘The English, see you, travel for pleasure,’ said the old soldier, +nodding his head in the direction of Gibraltar, pink and shimmering +across the bay. + +The priest brushed some stray grains of snuff from the front of his faded +cassock—once black, but now of a greeny brown. He was a singularly tall +man, gaunt and grey, with deep lines drawn downwards from eye to chin. +His mouth was large and tender, with a humorous corner ever awaiting a +jest. His eyes were sombre and deeply shaded by grey brows, but one of +them had a twinkle lurking and waiting, as in the corner of his mouth. + +‘Everyone stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet,’ he +said, and, turning, he courteously raised his hat to Conyngham, who +passed at that moment on his way to the hotel. The little knot of +onlookers broke up, and the boys wandered towards the fort, before the +gate of which a game at bowls was in progress. + +‘The Padre has a hungry look,’ reflected Conyngham. ‘Think I’ll invite +him to dinner.’ + +For Geoffrey Horner had succeeded in conveying more money to the man who +had taken his sins upon himself, and while Conyngham possessed money he +usually had the desire to spend it. + +Conyngham went to the Fonda de la Marina, which stands to-day—a house of +small comfort and no great outward cleanliness; but, as in most Spanish +inns, the performance was better than the promise, and the bedroom +offered to the traveller was nothing worse than bare and ill furnished. +With what Spanish he at this time possessed the Englishman made known his +wants, and inquired of the means of prosecuting his journey to Ronda. + +‘You know the Captain-General Vincente of Ronda?’ he asked. + +‘But . . . yes—by reputation. Who does not in Andalusia?’ replied the +host, a stout man, who had once cooked for a military mess at Gibraltar, +and professed himself acquainted with the requirements of English +gentlemen. + +‘I have a letter to General Vincente, and must go to Ronda as soon as +possible. These are stirring times in Spain.’ + +The man’s bland face suddenly assumed an air of cunning, and he glanced +over his shoulder to see that none overheard. + +‘Your Excellency is right,’ he answered. ‘But for such as myself one +side is as good as another—is it not so? Carlist or Christino—the money +is the same.’ + +‘But here in the South there are no Carlists.’ + +‘Who knows?’ said the innkeeper with outspread hands. ‘Anything that his +Excellency requires shall be forthcoming,’ he added grandiosely. ‘This +is the dining-room, and here at the side a little saloon where the ladies +sit. But at present we have only gentlemen in the hotel—it being the +winter time.’ + +‘Then you have other guests?’ inquired Conyngham. + +‘But . . . yes—always. In Algeciras there are always travellers. +Noblemen—like his Excellency—for pleasure. Others—for commerce, the +Government—the politics.’ + +‘No flies enter a shut mouth, my friend,’ said a voice at the door, and +both turned to see standing in the doorway the priest who had witnessed +Conyngham’s arrival. + +‘Pardon, señor,’ said the old man, coming forward with his shabby hat in +his hand. ‘Pardon my interruption. I came at an opportune moment, for I +heard the word politics.’ + +He turned and shook a lean finger at the innkeeper, who was backing +towards the door with many bows. + +‘Ah, bad Miguel,’ he said, ‘will you make it impossible for gentlemen to +put up at your execrable inn? The man’s cooking is superior to his +discretion, señor. I, too, am a traveller, and for the moment a guest +here. I have the honour. My name is Concha—the Padre Concha—a priest, +as you see.’ + +Conyngham nodded, and laughed frankly. + +‘Glad to meet you,’ he said. ‘I saw you as I came along. My name is +Conyngham, and I am an Englishman, as you hear. I know very little +Spanish.’ + +‘That will come—that will come,’ said the priest, moving towards the +window. ‘Perhaps too soon, if you are going to stay any length of time +in this country. Let me advise you—do not learn our language too +quickly.’ + +He shook his head and moved towards the open window. + +‘See to your girths before you mount, eh? Here is the verandah, where it +is pleasant in the afternoon. Shall we be seated? That chair has but +three legs—allow me! this one is better.’ + +He spoke with the grave courtesy of his countrymen. For every Spaniard, +even the lowest muleteer, esteems himself a gentleman, and knows how to +act as such. The Padre Concha had a pleasant voice, and a habit of +gesticulating slowly with one large and not too clean hand, that +suggested the pulpit. He had led the way to a spacious verandah, where +there were small tables and chairs, and at the outer corners orange trees +in square green boxes. + +‘We will have a bottle of wine—is it not so?—yes,’ he said, and gravely +clapped his hands together to summon the waiter—an Oriental custom still +in use in the Peninsula. + +The wine was brought and duly uncorked, during which ceremony the priest +waited and watched with the preoccupied air of a host careful for the +entertainment of his guest. He tasted the wine critically. + +‘It might be worse,’ he said. ‘I beg you to excuse it not being better.’ + +There was something simple in the old man’s manner that won Conyngham’s +regard. + +‘The wine is excellent,’ he said. ‘It is my welcome to Spain.’ + +‘Ah! Then this is your first visit to this country,’ the priest said +indifferently, his eyes wandering to the open sea, where a few feluccas +lay becalmed. + +‘Yes.’ + +Conyngham turned and looked towards the sea also. It was late in the +afternoon, and a certain drowsiness of the atmosphere made conversation, +even between comparative strangers, a slower, easier matter than with us +in the brisk North. After a moment the Englishman turned with, perhaps, +the intention of studying his companion’s face, only to find the deep +grey eyes fixed on his own. + +‘Spain,’ said the Padre, ‘is a wonderful country, rich, beautiful, with a +climate like none in Europe; but God and the devil come to closer +quarters here than elsewhere. Still for a traveller, for pleasure, I +think this country is second to none.’ + +‘I am not exactly a traveller for pleasure, my father.’ + +‘Ah!’ and Concha drummed idly on the table with his fingers. + +‘I left England in haste,’ added Conyngham lightly. + +‘Ah!’ + +‘And it will be inexpedient for me to return for some months to come. I +thought of taking service in the army, and have a letter to General +Vincente, who lives at Ronda, as I understand, sixty miles from here +across the mountains.’ + +‘Yes,’ said the priest thoughtfully, ‘Ronda is sixty miles from +here—across the mountains.’ + +He was watching a boat which approached the shore from the direction of +Gibraltar. The wind having dropped, the boatmen had lowered the sail and +were now rowing, giving voice to a song which floated across the smooth +sea sleepily. It was an ordinary Algeciras wherry built to carry a +little cargo, and perhaps a dozen passengers, a fishing boat that smelt +strongly of tobacco. The shore was soon reached, and the passengers, +numbering half a dozen, stepped over the gunwale on to a small landing +stage. One of them was better dressed than his companions, a smart man +with a bright flower in the buttonhole of his jacket, carrying the +flowing cloak brightly lined with coloured velvet without which no +Spaniard goes abroad at sunset. He looked towards the hotel, and was +evidently speaking of it with a boatman whose attitude was full of +promise and assurance. + +The priest rose and emptied his glass. + +‘I must ask you to excuse me. Vespers wait for no man, and I hear the +bell,’ he said with a grave bow, and went indoors. + +Left to himself, Conyngham lapsed into the easy reflections of a man +whose habit it is to live for the present, leaving the future and the +past to take care of themselves. Perhaps he thought, as some do, that +the past dies—which is a mistake. The past only sleeps, and we carry it +with us through life, slumbering. Those are wise who bear it gently so +that it may never be aroused. + +The sun had set, and Gibraltar, a huge couchant lion across the bay, was +fading into the twilight of the East when a footstep in the dining-room +made Conyngham turn his head, half expecting the return of Father Concha. +But in the doorway, and with the evident intention of coming towards +himself, Conyngham perceived a handsome dark-faced man of medium height, +with a smart moustache brushed upward, clever eyes, and the carriage of a +soldier. This stranger unfolded his cloak, for in Spain it is considered +ill-mannered to address a stranger and remain cloaked. + +‘Señor,’ he said, with a gesture of the hat, courteous and yet manly +enough to savour more of the camp than the court, ‘señor, I understand +you are journeying to Ronda.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘I, too, intended to go across the mountains, and hoped to arrive here in +time to accompany friends who I learn have already started on their +journey. But I have received letters which necessitate my return to +Malaga. You have already divined that I come to ask a favour.’ + +He brought forward a chair and sat down, drawing from his pocket a silver +cigarette case, which he offered to the Englishman. There was a certain +picturesqueness in the man’s attitude and manner. His face and movements +possessed a suggestion of energy which seemed out of place here in the +sleepy South, and stamped him as a native not of dreamy Andalusia, but of +La Mancha perhaps, where the wit of Spain is concentrated, or of fiery +Catalonia, where discontent and unrest are in the very atmosphere of the +brown hills. This was a Spanish gentleman in the best sense of the word, +as scrupulous in personal cleanliness as any Englishman, polished, +accomplished, bright and fascinating, and yet carrying with him a subtle +air of melancholy and romance which lingers still among the men and women +of aristocratic Spain. + +‘’Tis but to carry a letter,’ he explained, ‘and to deliver it into the +hand of the person to whom it is addressed. Ah, I would give five years +of life to touch that hand with my lips.’ + +He sighed, gave a little laugh which was full of meaning, and yet quite +free from self-consciousness, and lighted a fresh cigarette. Then, after +a little pause, he produced the letter from an inner pocket and laid it +on the table in front of Conyngham. It was addressed, ‘To the Señorita +J. B.,’ and had a subtle scent of mignonette. The envelope was of a +delicate pink. + +‘A love letter,’ said Conyngham bluntly. + +The Spaniard looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Ah! you do not understand,’ he said, ‘in that cold country of the North. +If you stay in Spain, perhaps some dark-eyed one will teach you. But,’ +and his manner changed with theatrical rapidity, as he laid his slim hand +on the letter, ‘if, when you see her you love her, I will kill you.’ + +Conyngham laughed and held out his hand for the letter. + +‘It is insufficiently addressed,’ he said practically. ‘How shall I find +the lady?’ + +‘Her name is Barenna, the Señorita Barenna; that is sufficient in Ronda.’ + +Conyngham took up the letter and examined it. ‘It is of importance?’ he +said. + +‘Of the utmost.’ + +‘And of value?’ + +‘Of the greatest value in the world to me.’ + +The Spaniard rose and took up his cloak, which he had thrown over the +back of the nearest chair, not forgetting to display a picturesque corner +of its bright lining. + +‘You swear you will deliver it, only with your own hand, only to the hand +of the Señorita Barenna? And—you will observe the strictest secrecy?’ + +‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham carelessly, ‘if you like.’ + +The Spaniard turned, and, leaning one hand on the table, looked almost +fiercely into his companion’s face. ‘You are an Englishman,’ he said, +‘and an Englishman’s word—is it not known all the world over? In the +North, in my country, where Wellington fought, the peasants still say +“word of an Englishman” instead of an oath.’ + +He threw his cloak over his shoulder, and stood looking down at his +companion with a little smile as if he were proud of him. + +‘There!’ he said. ‘Adios. My name is Larralde, but that is of no +consequence. Adios!’ + +With a courteous bow he took his leave, and Conyngham presently saw him +walking down to the landing stage. It seemed that this strange visitor +was about to depart as abruptly as he had come. Conyngham rose and +walked to the edge of the verandah, where he stood watching the departure +of the boat in which his new friend had taken passage. + +While he was standing there, the old priest came quietly out of the open +window of the dining room. He saw the letter lying on the table where +Conyngham had left it. He approached, his shabby old shoes making no +sound on the wooden flooring, and read the address written on the pink +and scented envelope. When the Englishman at length turned, he was alone +on the verandah, with the wine bottle, the empty glasses, and the letter. + + + + +CHAPTER V +CONTRABAND + + + ‘What rights are his that dares not strike for them?’ + +AN hour before sunrise two horses stood shuffling their feet and chewing +their bits before the hotel of the Marina at Algeciras, while their +owner, a short and thick-set man of an exaggeratedly villanous +appearance, attended to such straps and buckles as he suspected of latent +flaws. The horses were lean and loose of ear, with a melancholy +thoughtfulness of demeanour that seemed to suggest the deepest misgivings +as to the future. Their saddles and other accoutrements were frankly +theatrical, and would have been at once the delight of an artist and the +despair of a saddler. Fringes and tassels of bright-coloured worsted +depended from points where fringes and tassels were distinctly out of +place. Where the various straps should have been strong they looked +weak, and scarce a buckle could boast an innocence of knotted string. +The saddles were of wood, and calculated to inflict serious internal +injuries to the rider in case of a fall. They stood at least a foot +above the horse’s backbone, raised on a thick cushion upon the ribs of +the animal, and leaving a space in the middle for the secretion of +tobacco and other contraband merchandise. + +‘I’ll take the smallest cut-throat of the crew,’ Conyngham had said on +the occasion of an informal parade of guides the previous evening. And +the host of the Fonda, in whose kitchen the function had taken place, +explained to Concepçion Vara that the English Excellency had selected him +on his—the host’s—assurance that Algeciras contained no other so honest. + +‘Tell him,’ answered Concepçion with a cigarette between his lips and a +pardonable pride in his eyes, ‘that my grandfather was a smuggler and my +father was shot by the Guardia Civil near Algatocin.’ + +Concepçion, having repaired one girth and shaken his head dubiously over +another, lighted a fresh cigarette and gave a little shiver, for the +morning air was keen. He discreetly coughed. He had seen Conyngham +breakfasting by the light of a dim oil lamp of a shape and make unaltered +since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, and, without appearing impatient, +wished to convey to one gentleman the fact that another awaited him. + +Before long Conyngham appeared, having paid an iniquitous bill with the +recklessness that is only thoroughly understood by the poor. He appeared +as usual to be at peace with all men, and returned his guide’s grave +salutation with an easy nod. + +‘These the horses?’ he inquired. + +Concepçion Vara spread out his hands. ‘They have no equal in Andalusia,’ +he said. + +‘Then I am sorry for Andalusia,’ answered Conyngham with a pleasant +laugh. + +They mounted and rode away in the dim cool light of the morning. The sea +was of a deep blue, and rippled all over as in a picture. Gibraltar, +five miles away, loomed up like a grey cloud against the pink of sunrise. +The whole world wore a cleanly look as if the night had been passed over +its face like a sponge, wiping away all that was unsightly or evil. The +air was light and exhilarating, and scented by the breath of aromatic +weeds growing at the roadside. + +Concepçion sang a song as he rode—a song almost as old as his +trade—declaring that he was a smuggler bold. And he looked it, every +inch. The road to Ronda lies through the cork woods of Ximena, leaving +St. Roque on the right hand—such at least was the path selected by +Conyngham’s guide; for there are many ways over the mountains, and none +of them to be recommended. Beguiling the journey with cigarette and +song, calling at every venta on the road, exchanging chaff with every +woman and a quick word with all men, Concepçion faithfully fulfilled his +contract, and, as the moon rose over the distant snow-clad peaks of the +Sierra Nevada, pointed forward to the lights of Gaucin, a mountain +village with an evil reputation. + +The dawn of the next day saw the travellers in the saddle again, and the +road was worse than ever. A sharp ascent led them up from Gaucin to +regions where foliage grew scarcer at every step, and cultivation was +unknown. At one spot they turned to look back, and saw Gibraltar like a +tooth protruding from the sea. The straits had the appearance of a +river, and the high land behind Ceuta formed the farther bank of it. + +‘There is Africa,’ said Concepçion gravely, and after a moment turned his +horse’s head uphill again. The people of these mountain regions were as +wild in appearance as their country. Once or twice the travellers passed +a shepherd herding sheep or goats on the mountain side, himself clad in +goatskin, with a great brown cloak floating from his shoulders—a living +picture of Ishmael or those sons of his who dwelt in the tents of Kedar. +A few muleteers drew aside to let the horses pass, and exchanged some +words in an undertone with Conyngham’s guide. Fine-looking brigands were +these, with an armoury of knives peeping from their bright-coloured +waistbands. The Andalusian peasant is for six days in the week +calculated to inspire awe by his clothing and general appearance. Of a +dark skin and hair, he usually submits his chin to the barber’s office +but once a week, and the timid traveller would do well to take the road +on Sundays only. Towards the end of the week, and notably on a Saturday, +every passer-by is an unshorn brigand capable of the darkest deeds of +villany, while twenty-four hours later the land will be found to be +peopled by as clean and honest and smart, and withal as handsome, a race +of men as any on earth. + +Before long all habitations were left behind, and the horses climbed from +rock to rock like cats. There was no suggestion of pathway or landmark, +and Concepçion paused once or twice to take his bearings. It was about +two in the afternoon when, after descending the bed of a stream long +since dried up, Concepçion called a halt, and proposed to rest the horses +while he dined. As on the previous day, the guide’s manner was that of a +gentleman, conferring a high honour with becoming modesty when he sat +down beside Conyngham and untied his small sack of provisions. These +consisted of dried figs and bread, which he offered to his companion +before beginning to eat. Conyngham shared his own stock of food with his +guide, and subsequently smoked a cigarette which that gentleman offered +him. They were thus pleasantly engaged when a man appeared on the rocks +above them in a manner and with a haste that spoke but ill of his +honesty. The guide looked up knife in hand, and made answer to a gesture +of the arm with his own hand upraised. + +‘Who is this?’ said Conyngham. ‘Some friend of yours? Tell him to keep +his distance, for I don’t care for his appearance.’ + +‘He is no friend of mine, Excellency. But the man is, I dare say, honest +enough. In these mountains it is only of the Guardia Civil that one must +beware. They have ever the finger on the trigger and shoot without +warning.’ + +‘Nevertheless,’ said the Englishman, now thoroughly on the alert, ‘let +him state his business at a respectable distance. Ah! he has a comrade +and two mules.’ + +And indeed a second man of equally unprepossessing exterior now appeared +from behind a great rock leading a couple of heavily laden mules. + +Concepçion and the first traveller, who was now within a dozen yards, +were already exchanging words in a patois not unlike the Limousin +dialect, of which Conyngham understood nothing. + +‘Stop where you are,’ shouted the Englishman in Spanish, ‘or else I shoot +you! If there is anything wrong, Señor Vara,’ he added to the guide, ‘I +shoot you first, understand that.’ + +‘He says,’ answered Concepçion with dignity, ‘that they are honest +traders on the road to Ronda, and would be glad of our company. His +Excellency is at liberty to shoot if he is so disposed.’ + +Conyngham laughed. + +‘No,’ he answered, ‘I am not anxious to kill any man, but each must take +care of himself in these times.’ + +‘Not against an honest smuggler.’ + +‘Are these smugglers?’ + +‘They speak as such. I know them no more than does his Excellency.’ + +The second new-comer was now within hail, and began at once to speak in +Spanish. The tale he told was similar in every way to that translated by +Concepçion from the Limousin dialect. + +‘Why should we not travel together to Ronda?’ he said, coming forward +with an easy air of confidence, which was of better effect than any +protestation of honesty. He had a quiet eye, and the demeanour of one +educated to loftier things than smuggling tobacco across the Sierra, +though indeed, he was no better clad than his companion. The two guides +instinctively took the road together, Concepçion leading his horse, for +the way was such that none could ride over it. Conyngham did the same, +and his companion led the mule by a rope, as is the custom in Andalusia. + +The full glare of the day shone down on them, the bare rock giving back a +puff of heat that dried the throat. Conyngham was tired and not too +trustful of his companion, who, indeed, seemed to be fully occupied with +his own thoughts. They had thus progressed a full half-hour when a shout +from the rocks above caused them to halt suddenly. The white linen head +coverings of the Guardia Civil and the glint of the sun on their +accoutrements showed at a glance that this was not a summons to be +disregarded. + +In an instant Concepçion’s companion was leaping from rock to rock with +an agility only to be acquired in the hot fear of death. A report rang +out and echoed among the hills. A bullet went ‘splat’ against a rock +near at hand, making a frayed blue mark upon the grey stone. The man +dodged from side to side in the panic-stricken irresponsibility of a +rabbit seeking covert where none exists. There was not so much as to +hide his head. Conyngham looked up towards the foe in time to see a puff +of white smoke thrown up against the steely sky. A second report, and +the fugitive seemed to trip over a stone. He recovered himself, stood +upright for a moment, gave a queer spluttering cough, and sat slowly down +against a boulder. + +‘He is killed!’ said Concepçion, throwing down his cigarette. ‘Mother of +God! these Guardias Civiles!’ + +The two guards came clambering down the face of the rock. Concepçion +glanced at his late companion writhing in the sharpness of death. + +‘Here or at Ronda, to-day, or to-morrow, what matters it?’ muttered the +quiet-eyed man at Conyngham’s side. The Englishman turned and looked at +him. + +‘They will shoot me too, but not now.’ + +Concepçion sullenly awaited the arrival of the guards. These men ever +hunt in couples of a widely different age, for the law has found that an +old head and a young arm form the strongest combination. The elder of +the two had the face of an old grey wolf. He muttered some order to his +companion, and went towards the mule. He cut away the outer covering of +the burden suspended from the saddle, and nodded his head wisely. These +were boxes of cartridges to carry one thousand each. The grey old man +turned and looked at him who lay on the ground. + +‘A la longa,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘In the long run, Antonio.’ + +The man gave a sickly grin and opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw +dropped instead, and he passed across that frontier which is watched by +no earthly sentinel. + +‘This gentleman,’ said the quiet-eyed man, whose guide had thus paid for +his little mistake in refusing to halt at the word of command, ‘is a +stranger to me—an Englishman, I think.’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Conyngham. + +The old soldier looked from one to the other. + +‘That may be,’ he said, ‘but he sleeps in Ronda prison to-night. +To-morrow the Captain-General will see to it.’ + +‘I have a letter to the Captain-General,’ said Conyngham, who drew from +his pocket a packet of papers. Among these was the pink scented envelope +given to him by the man called Larralde at Algeciras. He had forgotten +its existence, and put it back in his pocket with a smile. Having found +that for which he sought, he gave it to the soldier, who read the address +in silence and returned the letter. + +‘You I know,’ he said, turning to the man at Conyngham’s side, who merely +shrugged his shoulders. ‘And Concepçion Vara, we all know him.’ + +Concepçion had lighted a cigarette, and was murmuring a popular air with +the indifferent patience and the wandering eye of perfect innocence. The +old soldier turned and spoke in an undertone to his comrade, who went +towards the dead man and quietly covered his face with the folds of his +own faja or waistcloth. This he weighted at the corners with stones, +carrying out this simple office to the dead with a suggestive +indifference. To this day the Guardias Civiles have plenary power to +shoot whomsoever they think fit—flight and resistance being equally +fatal. + +No more heeding the dead body of the man whom he had shot than he would +have heeded the carcase of a rat, the elder of the two soldiers now gave +the order to march, commanding Concepçion to lead the way. + +‘It will not be worth your while to risk a bullet by running away,’ he +said. ‘This time it is probably a matter of a few pounds of tobacco +only.’ + +The evening had fallen ere the silent party caught sight of the town of +Ronda, perched, as the Moorish strongholds usually are, on a height. +Ronda, as history tells, was the last possession of the brave and gifted +Moslems in Spain. The people are half Moorish still, and from the barred +windows look out deep almond eyes and patient faces that have no European +feature. The narrow streets were empty as the travellers entered the +town, and the clatter of the mules slipping and stumbling on the cobble +stones brought but few to the doors of the low-built houses. To enter +Ronda from the south the traveller must traverse the Moorish town, which +is divided from the Spanish quarter by a cleft in the great rock that +renders the town impregnable to all attack. Having crossed the bridge +spanning the great gorge into which the sun never penetrates even at +midday, the party emerged into the broader streets of the more modern +town, and, turning to the right through a high gateway, found themselves +in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles. + + + + +CHAPTER VI +AT RONDA + + + ‘Le plus grand art d’un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son + habileté.’ + +WHEN Conyngham awoke after a night conscientiously spent in that profound +slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and a careless heart, he +found the prison attendant at his bedside. A less easy-going mind would +perhaps have leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight of this +fierce-visaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing more deadly in his +hand than a card. + +‘It is the Captain-General,’ said he, ‘who calls at this early hour. His +Excellency’s letter has been delivered, and the Captain-General scarce +waited to swallow his morning chocolate.’ + +‘Very much to the Captain-General’s credit,’ returned Conyngham rising. +‘Cold water,’ he went on, ‘soap, a towel, and my luggage—and then the +Captain-General.’ + +The attendant, with an odd smile, procured the necessary articles, and +when the Englishman was ready led the way downstairs. He was a solemn +man from Galicia, this, where they do not smile. + +In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted into a +barrack for the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years or more +stood smoking a cigarette. On perceiving Conyngham he came forward with +outstretched hand and a smile which can only be described as angelic. It +was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling his dark eyes +between lashes almost closed, parting moustached lips to disclose a row +of pearly teeth. + +‘My dear sir,’ said General Vincente in very tolerable English, ‘I am at +your feet. That such a mistake should have been made in respect to the +bearer of a letter of introduction from my old friend General +Watterson—we fought together in Wellington’s day—that such a mistake +should have occurred overwhelms me with shame.’ + +He pressed Conyngham’s hand in both of his, which were small and +white—looked up into his face, stepped back and broke into a soft laugh. +Indeed his voice was admirably suited to a lady’s drawing-room, and +suggested nought of the camp or battle field. From the handkerchief +which he drew from his sleeve and passed across his white moustache a +faint scent floated on the morning air. + +‘Are you General Vincente?’ asked Conyngham. + +‘Yes—why not?’ And in truth the tone of the Englishman’s voice had +betrayed a scepticism which warranted the question. + +‘It is very kind of you to come so early. I have been quite comfortable, +and they gave me a good supper last night,’ said Conyngham. ‘Moreover, +the Guardias Civiles are in no way to blame for my arrest. I was in bad +company, it seems.’ + +‘Yes; your companions were engaged in conveying ammunition to the +Carlists; we have wanted to lay our hands upon them for some weeks. They +have carried former journeys to a successful termination.’ + +He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + +‘The guide, Antonio something-or-other, died, as I understand.’ + +‘Well, yes; if you choose to put it that way,’ admitted Conyngham. + +The General raised his eyebrows in a gentle grimace expressive of +deprecation, with, as it were, a small solution of sympathy, indicated by +a moisture of the eye, for the family of Antonio something-or-other in +their bereavement. + +‘And the other man? Seemed a nice enough fellow . . .’ inquired +Conyngham. + +The General raised one gloved hand as if to fend off some approaching +calamity. + +‘He died this morning—at six o’clock.’ + +Conyngham looked down at this gentle soldier with a dawning light of +comprehension. This might after all be the General Vincente whom he had +been led to look upon as the fiercest of the Spanish Queen’s adherents. + +‘Of the same complaint?’ + +‘Of the same complaint,’ answered the General softly. He slipped his +hand within Conyngham’s arm, and thus affectionately led him across the +patio towards the doorway where sentinels stood at attention. He +acknowledged the attitude of his subordinates by a friendly nod; indeed, +this rosy-faced warrior seemed to brim over with the milk of human +kindness. + +‘The English,’ he said, pressing his companion’s arm, ‘have been too +useful to us for me to allow one of them to remain a moment longer in +confinement. You say you were comfortable. I hope they gave you a clean +towel and all that.’ + +‘Yes, thanks,’ answered Conyngham, suppressing a desire to laugh. + +‘That is well. Ronda is a pleasant place, as you will find. Most +interesting—Moorish remains, you understand. I will send my servant for +your baggage, and of course my poor house is at your disposal. You will +stay with me until we can find some work for you to do. You wish to take +service with us, of course?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Conynghamn. ‘Rather thought of it—if you will have me.’ + +The General glanced up at his stalwart companion with a measuring eye. + +‘My house,’ he said, in a conversational way, as if only desirous of +making matters as pleasant as possible in a life which nature had +intended to be peaceful and sunny, and perhaps trifling, but which the +wickedness of men had rendered otherwise, ‘my house is, as you would +divine, only an official residence, but pleasant enough—pleasant enough. +The garden is distinctly tolerable; there are orange trees now in +bloom—so sweet of scent.’ + +The street into which they had now emerged was no less martial in +appearance than the barrack yard, and while he spoke the General never +ceased to dispense his kindly little nod on one side or the other in +response to military salutations. + +‘We have quite a number of soldiers in Ronda at present,’ he said, with +an affectionate little pressure of Conyngham’s arm, as if to indicate his +appreciation of such protection amid these rough men. ‘There is a great +talk of some rising in the South—in Andalusia—to support Señor Cabrera, +who continually threatens Madrid. A great soldier, they tell me, this +Cabrera, but not—well, not perhaps quite, eh?—a caballero, a gentleman. +A pity, is it not?’ + +‘A great pity,’ answered Conyngham, taking the opportunity at last +afforded him of getting a word in. + +‘One must be prepared,’ went on the General with a good-natured little +sigh, ‘for such measures. There are so many mistaken enthusiasts—is it +not so? Such men as your countryman, Señor Flinter. There are so many +who are stronger Carlists than Don Carlos himself, eh?’ + +The secret of conversational success is to defer to one’s listener. A +clever man imparts information by asking questions, and obtains it +without doing so. + +‘This is my poor house,’ continued the soldier, and as he spoke he beamed +on the sentries at the door. ‘I am a widower, but God has given me a +daughter who is now of an age to rule my household. Estella will +endeavour to make you comfortable, and an Englishman—a soldier—will +surely overlook some small defects.’ + +He finished with a good-natured laugh. There was no resisting the sunny +good-humour of this little officer, or the gladness of his face. His +attitude towards the world was one of constant endeavour to make things +pleasant, and acquit himself to his best in circumstances far beyond his +merits or capabilities. He was one who had had good fortune all his +days. Those who have greatness thrust upon them are never much impressed +by their burden. And General Vincente had the air of constantly assuring +his subordinates that they need not mind him. + +The house to which he conducted Conyngham stood on the broad main street, +immediately opposite a cluster of shops where leather bottles were +manufactured and sold. It was a large gloomy house with a patio devoid +of fountain and even of the usual orange trees in green boxes. + +‘Through there is the garden—most pleasant and shady,’ said the General, +indicating a doorway with the riding-whip he carried. + +A troop of servants awaited them at the foot of the broad Moorish +staircase open on one side to the patio and heavily carved in balustrade +and cornice. These gentlemen bowed gravely—indeed, they were so numerous +that the majority of them must have had nothing to do but cultivate this +dignified salutation. + +‘The señorita?’ inquired the General. + +‘The señorita is in the garden, Excellency,’ answered one with the air of +a courtier. + +‘Then let us go there at once,’ said General Vincente, turning to +Conyngham, and gripping his arm affectionately. + +They passed through a doorway whither two men had hurried to open the +heavy doors, and the scent of violets and mignonette, of orange in bloom, +and of a hundred opening buds swept across their faces. The brilliant +sunlight almost dazzled eyes that had grown accustomed to the cool shade +of the patio, for Ronda is one of the sunniest spots on earth, and here +the warmth is rarely oppressive. The garden was Moorish, and running +water in aqueducts of marble, yellow with stupendous age, murmured in the +shade of tropical plants. A fountain plashed and chattered softly, like +the whispering of children. The pathways were paved with a fine white +gravel of broken marble. There was no weed amid the flowers. It seemed +a paradise to Conyngham, fresh from the grey and mournful northern +winter, and no part of this weary, busy world. For here were rest and +silence, and that sense of eternity which is only conveyed by the +continuous voice of running or falling water. It was hard to believe +that this was real and earthly. Conyngham rubbed his eyes and +instinctively turned to look at his companion, who was as unreal as his +surroundings—a round-faced, chubby little man, with a tender mouth and +moist dark eyes looking kindly out upon the world, who called himself +General Vincente; and the name was synonymous in all Spain with +bloodthirstiness and cruelty, with daring and an unsparing generalship. + +‘Come,’ said he, ‘let us look for Estella.’ + +He led the way along a path winding among almond and peach trees in full +bloom, in the shadow of the weird eucalyptus and the feathery pepper +tree. Then with a little word of pleasure he hurried forward. Conyngham +caught sight of a black dress and a black mantilla, of fair golden hair, +and a fan upraised against the rays of the sun. + +‘Estella, here is a guest: Mr. Conyngham, one of the brave Englishmen who +remember Spain in her time of trouble.’ + +Conyngham bowed with a greater ceremony than we observe to-day, and stood +upright to look upon that which was for him from that moment the fairest +face in the world. As, to some men, success or failure seems to come +early and in one bound, so, for some, Love lies long in ambush, to shoot +at length a single and certain shaft. Conyngham looked at Estella +Vincente, his gay blue eyes meeting her dark glance with a frankness +which was characteristic, and knew from that instant that his world held +no other woman. It came to him as a flash of lightning that left his +former life grey and neutral, and yet he was conscious of no surprise, +but rather of a feeling of having found something which he had long +sought. + +The girl acknowledged his salutation with a little inclination of the +head and a smile which was only of the lips, for her eyes remained grave +and deep. She had all the dignity of carriage famous in Castilian women, +though her figure was youthful still, and slight. Her face was a +clean-cut oval, with lips that were still and proud, and a delicately +aquiline nose. + +‘My daughter speaks English better than I do,’ went on the General in the +garrulous voice of an exceedingly domesticated man. ‘She has been at +school in England—at the suggestion of my dear friend Watterson—with his +daughters, in fact.’ + +‘And must have found it dull and grey enough compared with Spain,’ said +Conyngham. + +‘Ah! Then you like Spain?’ said the General eagerly. ‘It is so with all +the English. We have something in common, despite the Armada, eh? +Something in manner and in appearance, too; is it not so?’ + +He left Conyngham, and walked slowly on with one hand at his daughter’s +waist. + +‘I was very happy in England,’ said Estella to Conyngham, who walked at +her other side; ‘but happier still to get home to Spain.’ + +Her voice was rather low, and Conyngham had an odd sensation of having +heard it before. + +‘Why did you leave your home?’ she continued in a leisurely +conversational way which seemed natural to the environments. + +The question rather startled the Englishman, for the only answer seemed +to be that he had quitted England in order to come to Ronda and to her, +following the path in life that fate had assigned to him. + +‘We have troubles in England also—political troubles,’ he said, after a +pause. + +‘The Chartists,’ said the General cheerfully. ‘We know all about them, +for we have the English newspapers. I procure them in order to have +reliable news of Spain.’ + +He broke off with a little laugh, and looked towards his daughter. + +‘In the evening Estella reads them to me. And it was on account of the +Chartists that you left England?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Ah, you are a Chartist, Mr. Conyngham.’ + +‘Yes,’ admitted the Englishman after a pause, and he glanced at Estella. + + + + +CHAPTER VII +IN A MOORISH GARDEN + + + ‘When love is not a blasphemy, it is a religion.’ + +THERE is perhaps a subtle significance in the fact that the greatest, the +cruellest, the most barbarous civil war of modern days, if not of all +time, owed its outbreak and its long continuance to the influence of a +woman. When Ferdinand VII. of Spain died, in 1833, after a reign broken +and disturbed by the passage of that human cyclone, Napoleon the Great, +he bequeathed his kingdom, in defiance of the Salic law, to his daughter +Isabella. Ferdinand’s brother Charles, however, claimed the throne under +the very just contention that the Salic law, by which women were excluded +from the heritage of the crown, had never been legally abrogated. + +This was the spark that kindled in many minds ambition, cruelty, +bloodthirstiness, self-seeking and jealousy—producing the _morale_, in a +word, of the Spain of sixty years ago. Some sided with the Queen Regent +Christina, and rallied round the child-queen because they saw that that +way lay glory and promotion. Others flocked to the standard of Don +Carlos because they were poor and of no influence at Court. The Church +as a whole raised its whispering voice for the Pretender. For the rest, +patriotism was nowhere, and ambition on every side. ‘For five years we +have fought the Carlists, hunger, privation, and the politicians at +Madrid! And the holy saints only know which has been the worst enemy,’ +said General Vincente to Conyngham when explaining the above related +details. + +And indeed the story of this war reads like a romance, for there came +from neutral countries foreign legions as in the olden days. From +England an army of ten thousand mercenaries landed in Spain, prepared to +fight for the cause of Queen Christina, and very modestly estimating the +worth of their services at the sum of thirteenpence per diem. After all, +the value of a man’s life is but the price of his daily hire. + +‘We did not pay them much,’ said General Vincente with a deprecating +little smile, ‘but they did not fight much. Their pay was generally in +arrear, and they were usually in the rear as well. What will you, my +dear Conyngham? You are a commercial people—you keep good soldiers in +the shop window, and when a buyer comes you serve him with second-class +goods from behind the counter.’ + +He beamed on Conyngham with a pleasant air of benign connivance in a very +legitimate commercial transaction. + +This is no time or place to go into the history of the English Legion in +Spain, which, indeed, had quitted that country before Conyngham landed +there, horrified by the barbarities of a cruel war where prisoners +received no quarter and the soldiers on either side were left without pay +or rations. In a half-hearted manner England went to the assistance of +the Queen Regent of Spain, and one error in statesmanship led to many. +It is always a mistake to strike gently. + +‘This country,’ said General Vincente in his suavest manner, ‘owes much +to yours, my dear Conyngham; but it would have been better for us both +had we owed you a little more.’ + +During the five years prior to Conyngham’s arrival at Ronda the war had +raged with unabated fury, swaying from the west to the east coast as +fortune smiled or frowned on the Carlist cause. At one time it almost +appeared certain that the Christino forces were unable to stem the rising +tide which bade fair to spread over all Spain—so unfortunate were their +generals, so futile the best endeavours of the bravest and most patient +soldiers. General Vincente was not alone in his conviction that had the +gallant Carlist leader Zumalacarreguy lived he might have carried all +before him. But this great leader at the height of his fame—beloved of +all his soldiers, worshipped by his subordinate officers—died suddenly, +by poison, as it was whispered, the victim of jealousy and ambition. +Almost at once there arose in the East of Spain one, obscure in birth and +unknown to fame, who flashed suddenly to the zenith of military glory—the +ruthless, the wonderful Cabrera. The name is to this day a household +word in Catalonia, while the eyes of a few old men still living, who +fought with or against him, flash in the light of other days at the mere +mention of it. + +Among the many leaders who had attempted in vain to overcome by skill and +patriotism the thousand difficulties placed in their way by successive +unstable, insincere Ministers of War, General Vincente occupied an +honoured place. This mild-mannered tactician enjoyed the enviable +reputation of being alike unconquerable and incorruptible. His smiling +presence on the battlefield was in itself worth half a dozen battalions, +while at Madrid the dishonest politicians, who through those years of +Spain’s great trial systematically bartered their honour for immediate +gain, dreaded and respected him. + +During the days that followed his arrival at Ronda and release from the +prison there, Frederick Conyngham learnt much from his host and little of +the man himself, for General Vincente had that in him with which no great +leader in any walk of life can well dispense—an unsoundable depth. + +Conyngham learnt also that the human heart is capable of rising at one +bound above differences of race or custom, creed and spoken language. He +walked with Estella in that quiet garden between high walls on the trim +Moorish paths, and often the murmur of the running water which ever +graced the Moslem palaces was the only sound that broke the silence. For +this thing had come into the Englishman’s life suddenly, leaving him +dazed and uncertain. Estella, on the other hand, had a quiet +_savoir-faire_ that sat strangely on her young face. She was only +nineteen, and yet had a certain air of authority, handed down to her from +two great races of noble men and women. + +‘Do all your countrymen take life thus gaily?’ she asked Conyngham one +day; ‘surely it is a more serious affair than you think it.’ + +‘I have never found it very serious, señorita,’ he answered. ‘There is +usually a smile in human affairs if one takes the trouble to look for +it.’ + +‘Have you always found it so?’ + +He did not answer at once, pausing to lift the branch of a mimosa tree +that hung in yellow profusion across the pathway. + +‘Yes, señorita, I think so,’ he answered at length, slowly. There was a +sense of eternal restfulness in this old Moorish garden which acted as a +brake on the thoughts, and made conversation halt and drag in an Oriental +way that Europeans rarely understand. + +‘And yet you say you remember your father’s death?’ + +‘He made a joke to the doctor, señorita, and was not afraid.’ + +Estella smiled in a queer way, and then looked grave again. + +‘And you have always been poor, you say, sometimes almost starving?’ + +‘Yes—always poor, deadly poor, señorita,’ answered Conyngham with a gay +laugh; ‘and since I have been on my own resources frequently—well, very +hungry. The appetite has been large and the resources have been small. +But when I get into the Spanish army they will no doubt make me a +general, and all will be well.’ + +He laughed again, and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. + +‘See here,’ he said, ‘your father’s recommendation to General Espartero +in a confidential letter.’ + +But the envelope he produced was that pink one which the man called +Larralde had given him at Algeciras. + +‘No—it is not that,’ he said, searching in another pocket. ‘Ah! here it +is—addressed to General Espartero, Duke of Vittoria.’ + +He showed her the superscription, which she read with a little +inclination of the head, as if in salutation of the great name written +there. The greatest names are those that men have made for themselves. +Conyngham replaced the two letters in his pocket and almost immediately +asked: + +‘Do you know anyone called Barenna in Ronda, señorita?’ thereby proving +that General Espartero would do ill to give him an appointment requiring +even the earliest rudiments of diplomacy. + +‘Julia Barenna is my cousin. Her mother was my mother’s sister. Do you +know them, Señor Conyngham?’ + +‘Oh no,’ answered Conyngham, truthfully enough. ‘I met a man who knows +them. Do they live in Ronda?’ + +‘No; their house is on the Cordova road, about half a league from the +Customs station.’ + +Estella was not by nature curious, and asked no questions. Some who knew +the Barennas would have been glad to claim acquaintance with General +Vincente and his daughter, but could not do so. For the Captain-General +moved in a circle not far removed from the Queen Regent herself, and +mixed but little in the society of Ronda, where, for the time being, he +held a command. + +Conyngham required no further information, and in a few moments dismissed +the letter from his mind. Events seemed for him to have moved rapidly +within the last few days, and the world of roadside inns and casual +acquaintance into which he had stepped on his arrival in Spain was quite +another from that in which Estella moved at Ronda. + +‘I must set out for Madrid in a few days at the latest,’ he said a few +moments afterwards; ‘but I shall go against my will, because you tell me +that you and your father will not be coming North until the spring.’ + +Estella shook her head with a little laugh. This man was different from +the punctilious aides-de-camp and others who had hitherto begged most +respectfully to notify their admiration. + +‘And three days ago you did not know of our existence,’ she said. + +‘In three days a man may be dead of an illness of which he ignored the +existence, señorita. In three days a man’s life may be made miserable or +happy—perhaps in three minutes.’ + +And she looked straight in front of her in order to avoid his eyes. + +‘Yours will always be happy, I think,’ she said, ‘because you never seem +to go below the surface, and on the surface life is happy enough.’ + +He made some light answer, and they walked on beneath the orange trees, +talking of these and other matters—indulging in those dangerous +generalities which sound so safe, and in reality narrow down to a little +world of two. + +They were thus engaged when the servant came to announce that the horse +which the General had placed at Conyngham’s disposal was at the door in +accordance with the Englishman’s own order. He went away sorrowfully +enough, only half consoled by the information that Estella was about to +attend a service at the Church of Santa Maria, and could not have stayed +longer in the garden. + +The hour of the siesta was scarce over, and as Conyngham rode through the +cleanly streets of the ancient town more than one idler roused himself +from the shadow of a doorway to see him pass. There are few older towns +in Andalusia than Ronda, and scarce anywhere the habits of the Moors are +so closely followed. The streets are clean, the houses whitewashed +within and without. The trappings of the mules and much of the costume +of the people are Oriental in texture and brilliancy. + +Conyngham asked a passer-by to indicate the way to the Cordova road, and +the polite Spaniard turned and walked by his stirrup until a mistake was +no longer possible. + +‘It is not the most beautiful approach to Ronda,’ said this garrulous +person, ‘but well enough in the summer, when the flowers are in bloom and +the vineyards green. The road is straight and dusty until one arrives at +the possession of the Señora Barenna—a narrow road to the right leading +up into the mountain. One can perceive the house—oh, yes—upon the +hillside, once beautiful, but now old and decayed. Mistake is now +impossible. It is a straight way. I wish you a good journey.’ + +Conyngham rode on, vaguely turning over in his mind a half-matured plan +of effecting a seemingly accidental entry to the house of Señora Barenna, +in the hope of meeting that lady’s daughter in the garden or grounds. +Once outside the walls of the town he found the country open and bare, +consisting of brown hills, of which the lower slopes were dotted with +evergreen oaks. The road soon traversed a village which seemed to be +half deserted, for men and women alike were working in the fields. On +the balcony of the best house a branch of palm bound against the ironwork +balustrade indicated the dwelling of the priest, and the form of that +village despot was dimly discernible in the darkened room behind. Beyond +the village Conyngham turned his horse’s head towards the mountain, his +mind preoccupied with a Macchiavellian scheme of losing his way in this +neighbourhood. Through the evergreen oak and olive groves he could +perceive the roof of an old grey house which had once been a mere +hacienda or semi-fortified farm. + +Conyngham did not propose to go direct to Señora Barenna’s house, but +described a semicircle, mounting from terrace to terrace on his +sure-footed horse. + +When at length he came in sight of the high gateway where the ten-foot +oaken gates still swung, he perceived someone approaching the exit. On +closer inspection he saw that this was a priest, and on nearing him +recognised the Padre Concha, whose acquaintance he had made at the Hotel +of the Marina at Algeciras. + +The recognition was mutual, for the priest raised his shabby old hat with +a tender care for the insecurity of its brim. + +‘A lucky meeting, Señor Englishman,’ he said; ‘who would have expected to +see you here?’ + +‘I have lost my way.’ + +‘Ah!’ And the grim face relaxed into a smile. ‘Lost your way?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Then it is lucky that I have met you. It is so easy to lose one’s +way—when one is young.’ + +He raised his hand to the horse’s bridle. + +‘You are most certainly going in the wrong direction,’ he said; ‘I will +lead you right.’ + +It was said and done so quietly that Conyngham had found no word to say +before his horse was moving in the opposite direction. + +‘This is surely one of General Vincente’s horses,’ said the priest; ‘we +have few such barbs in Ronda. He always rides a good horse, that Miguel +Vincente.’ + +‘Yes, it is one of his horses. Then you know the General?’ + +‘We were boys together,’ answered the Padre; ‘and there were some who +said that he should have been the priest and I the soldier.’ + +The old man gave a little laugh. + +‘He has prospered, however, if I have not. A great man, my dear Miguel, +and they say that his pay is duly handed to him. My own—my princely +twenty pounds a year—is overdue. I am happy enough, however, and have a +good house. You noticed it, perhaps, as you passed through the village, +a branch of palm against the rail of the balcony—my sign, you understand. +The innkeeper next door displays a branch of pine, which, I notice, is +more attractive. Every man his day. One does not catch rabbits with a +dead ferret. That is the church—will you see it? No? Well, some other +day. I will guide you through the village. The walk will give me +appetite, which I sometimes require, for my cook is one whose husband has +left her.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +THE LOVE LETTER + + + ‘I must mix myself with action lest I wither by despair.’ + +‘NO one,’ Conyngham heard a voice exclaiming as he went into the garden +on returning from his fruitless ride, ‘no one knows what I have +suffered.’ + +He paused in the dark doorway, not wishing to intrude upon Estella and +her visitors; for he perceived the forms of three ladies seated within a +miniature jungle of bamboo, which grew in feathery luxuriance around a +fountain. It was not difficult to identify the voice as that of the +eldest lady, who was stout, and spoke in deep, almost manly tones. So +far as he was able to judge, the suffering mentioned had left but small +record on its victim’s outward appearance. + +‘Old lady seems to have stood it well,’ commented the Englishman in his +mind. + +‘Never again, my dear Estella, do I leave Ronda, except indeed for +Toledo, where, of course, we shall go in the summer if this terrible Don +Carlos is really driven from the country. Ah! but what suffering! My +mind is never at ease. I expect to wake up at night and hear that Julia +is being murdered in her bed. For me it does not matter; my life is not +so gay that it will cost me much to part from it. No one would molest an +old woman, you think? Well, that may be so; but I know all the anxiety, +for I was once beautiful—ah! more beautiful than you or Julia; and my +hands and feet—have you ever noticed my foot, Estella?—even now—!’ + +And a sonorous sigh completed the sentence. Conyngham stepped out of the +doorway, the clank of his spurred heel on the marble pavement causing the +sigh to break off in a little scream. He had caught the name of Julia, +and hastily concluded that these ladies must be no other than Madame +Barenna and her daughter. In the little bamboo grove he found the elder +lady lying back in her chair, which creaked ominously, and asking in a +faint voice whether he were Don Carlos. + +‘No,’ answered Estella, with a momentary twinkle in her grave, dark eyes; +‘this is Mr. Conyngham—my aunt, Señora Barenna, and my cousin Julia.’ + +The ladies bowed. + +‘You must excuse me,’ said Madame Barenna volubly, ‘but your approach was +so sudden. I am a great sufferer—my nerves, you know. But young people +do not understand.’ + +And she sighed heavily, with a side glance at her daughter, who did not +even appear to be trying to do so. Julia Barenna was darker than her +cousin, quicker in manner, with an air of worldly capability which +Estella lacked. Her eyes were quick and restless, her face less +beautiful, but expressive of a great intelligence, which, if brought to +bear upon men in the form of coquetry, was likely to be infinitely +dangerous. + +‘It is always best to approach my mother with caution,’ she said with a +restless movement of her hands. This was not a woman at her ease in the +world or at peace with it. She laughed as she spoke, but her eyes were +grave, even while her lips smiled, and watched the Englishman’s face with +an air almost of anxiety. There are some faces that seem to be watching +and waiting. Julia Barenna’s had such a look. + +‘Conyngham,’ said Madame Barenna reflectively. ‘Surely I have heard that +name before. You are not the Englishman with whom Father Concha is so +angry—who sells forbidden books—the Bible, it is said?’ + +‘No, señora,’ answered Conyngham with perfect gravity; ‘I have nothing to +sell.’ + +He laughed suddenly, and looked at the elder lady with that air of good +humour which won for him more friends than he ever wanted; for this +Irishman had a ray of sunshine in his heart which shone upon his path +through life, and made that uneven way easier for his feet. He glanced +at Julia, and saw in her eyes the look of expectancy which was, in +reality, always there. The thought flashed through his mind that by some +means, or perhaps feminine intuition beyond his comprehension, she knew +that he possessed the letter addressed to her, and was eagerly awaiting +it. This letter seemed to have been gaining in importance the longer he +carried it, and this opportunity of giving it to her came at the right +moment. He remembered Larralde’s words concerning the person to whom the +missive was addressed, and the high-flown sentiments of that somewhat +theatrical gentleman became in some degree justified. Julia Barenna was +a woman who might well awaken a passionate love. Conyngham realised +this, as from a distance, while Julia’s mother spoke of some trivial +matter of the moment to unheeding ears. That distance seemed now to +exist between him and all women. It had come suddenly, and one glance of +Estella’s eyes had called it into existence. + +‘Yes,’ Señora Barenna was saying, ‘Father Concha is very angry with the +English. What a terrible man! You do not know him, Señor Conyngham?’ + +‘I think I have met him, señora.’ + +‘Ah, but you have never seen him angry. You have never confessed to him! +A little, little sin—no larger than the eye of a fly—a little bite of a +calf’s sweetbread on Friday in mere forgetfulness, and Sancta Maria! what +a penance is required! What suffering! It is a purgatory to have such a +confessor.’ + +‘Surely madame can have no sins,’ said Conyngham pleasantly. + +‘Not now,’ said Señora Barenna with a deep sigh. ‘When I was young it +was different.’ + +And the memory of her sinful days almost moved her to tears. She glanced +at Conyngham with a tragic air of mutual understanding, as if drawing a +veil over that blissful past in the presence of Julia and Estella. ‘Ask +me another time,’ that glance seemed to say. + +‘Yes,’ the lady continued, ‘Father Concha is very angry with the English. +Firstly, because of these bibles. Blessed Heaven! what does it matter? +No one can read them except the priests, and they do not want to do so. +Secondly, because the English have helped to overthrow Don Carlos—’ + +‘You will have a penance,’ interrupted Miss Julia Barenna quietly, ‘from +Father Concha for talking politics.’ + +‘But how will he know?’ asked Señora Barenna sharply; and the two young +ladies laughed. + +Señora Barenna looked from one to the other, and shrugged her shoulders. +Like many women she was a strange mixture of foolishness and worldly +wisdom. She adjusted her mantilla and mutely appealed to Heaven with a +glance of her upturned eyes. Conyngham, who was no diplomatist, nor +possessed any skill in concealing his thoughts, looked with some interest +at Julia Barenna, and Estella watched him. ‘Julia is right,’ Señora +Barenna was saying, though nobody heeded her; ‘one must not talk nor even +think politics in this country. You are no politician, I trust, Señor +Conyngham—Señor Conyngham, I ask you, you are no politician?’ + +‘No, señora,’ replied Conyngham hastily; ‘no; and if I were, I should +never understand Spanish politics.’ + +‘Father Concha says that Spanish politics are the same as those of any +other country—each man for himself,’ said Julia with a bitter laugh. + +‘And he is, no doubt, right.’ + +‘Do you really think so?’ asked Julia Barenna, with more earnestness than +the question would seem to require; ‘are there not true patriots who +sacrifice all—not only their friends, but themselves—to the cause of +their country?’ + +‘Without the hope of reward?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘There may be, señorita—a few,’ answered Conyngham with a laugh, ‘but not +in my country. They must all be in Spain.’ + +She smiled and shook her head in doubt. But it was a worn smile. + +The Englishman turned away and looked through the trees. He was +wondering how he could get speech with Julia alone for a moment. + +‘You are admiring the garden,’ said that young lady; and this time he +knew that there had in reality been that meaning in her eyes which he had +imagined to be there. + +‘Yes, señorita, I think it must be the most beautiful garden in the +world.’ + +He turned as he spoke, and looked at Estella, who met his glance quietly. +Her repose of manner struck him afresh. Here was a woman having that air +of decision which exacts respect alike from men and women. Seen thus, +with the more vivacious Julia at her side, Estella gained suddenly in +moral strength and depth—suggesting a steady fire in contrast with a +flickering will-o’-the-wisp blown hither and thither on every zephyr. +Yet Julia Barenna would pass anywhere as a woman of will and purpose. + +Julia had risen, and was moving towards the exit of the little grove in +which they found themselves. Conyngham had never been seated. + +‘Are the violets in bloom, Estella? I must see them,’ said the visitor. +‘We have none at home, where all is dry and parched.’ + +‘So bad for the nerves—what suffering!—such a dry soil that one cannot +sleep at night,’ murmured Madame Barenna, preparing to rise from her +seat. + +Julia and Conyngham naturally led the way. The paths winding in and out +among the palms and pepper trees were of a width that allowed two to walk +abreast. + +‘Señorita, I have a letter for you.’ + +‘Not yet—wait!’ + +Señora Barenna was chattering in her deep husky tones immediately behind +them. Julia turned and looked up at the windows of the house, which +commanded a full view of the garden. The dwelling rooms were as usual +upon the first floor, and the windows were lightly barred with curiously +wrought iron. Each window was curtained within with lace and muslin. + +The paths wound in and out among the trees, but none of these were large +enough to afford a secure screen from the eye of any watcher within the +house. There was neither olive nor ilex in the garden to afford shelter +with their heavy leaves. Julia and Conyngham walked on, out-distancing +the elder lady and Estella. From these many a turn in the path hid them +from time to time, but Julia was distrustful of the windows and +hesitated, in an agony of nervousness. Conyngham saw that her face was +quite colourless, and her teeth closed convulsively over her lower lip. +He continued to talk of indifferent topics, but the answers she made were +incoherent and broken. The course of true love did not seem to run +smooth here. + +‘Shall I give you the letter? No one can see us, señorita. Besides, I +was informed that it was of no importance except to yourself. You have +doubtless had many such before, unless the Spanish gentlemen are blind.’ + +He laughed and felt in his pocket. + +‘Yes!’ she whispered. ‘Quickly—now.’ + +He gave her the letter in its romantic pink, scented envelope with a +half-suppressed smile at her eagerness. Would anybody—would Estella—ever +be thus agitated at the receipt of a letter from himself? They were at +the lower end of the inclosure, which was divided almost in two by a +broader pathway leading from the house to the centre of the garden, where +a fountain of Moorish marble formed a sort of carrefour, from which the +narrower pathways diverged in all directions. + +Descending the steps into the garden from the house were two men, one +talking violently, the other seeking to calm him. + +‘My uncle and the Alcalde—they have seen us from the windows,’ said Julia +quickly. All her nervousness of manner seemed to have vanished, leaving +her concentrated and alert. Some men are thus in warfare—nervous until +the rifle opens fire, and then cool and ready. + +‘Quick!’ whispered Julia. ‘Let us turn back.’ + +She wheeled round, and Conyngham did the same. + +‘Julia!’ they heard General Vincente call in his gentle voice. + +Julia, who was tearing the pink envelope, took no heed. Within the first +covering a second envelope appeared, bearing a longer address. ‘Give +that to the man whose address it bears, and save me from ruin,’ said the +girl, thrusting the letter into Conyngham’s hand. She kept the pink +envelope. + +When, a minute later, they came face to face with General Vincente and +his companion, a white-faced, fluttering man of sixty years, Julia +Barenna received them with a smile. There are some men who, conscious of +their own quickness of resource, are careless of danger, and run into it +from mere heedlessness, trusting to good fortune to aid them should peril +arise. Frederick Conyngham was one of these. He now suspected that this +was no love letter which the man called Larralde had given him in +Algeciras. + +‘Julia,’ said the General, ‘the Alcalde desires to speak with you.’ + +Julia bowed with that touch of hauteur which in Spain the nobles ever +observe in their manner towards the municipal authorities. + +‘Mr. Conyngham,’ continued the General, ‘this is our brave Mayor, in +whose hands rests the well-being of the people of Ronda.’ + +‘Honoured to meet you,’ said Conyngham, holding out his hand with that +frankness of manner which he accorded to great and small alike. The +Alcalde, a man of immense importance in his own estimation, hesitated +before accepting it. + +‘General,’ he said, turning and bowing very low to Señora Barenna and +Estella, who now joined them, ‘General, I leave you to explain to your +niece the painful duties of my office.’ + +The General smiled and raised a deprecating shoulder. + +‘Well, my dear,’ he said kindly to Julia, ‘it appears that our good +Alcalde has news of a letter which is at present passing from hand to +hand in Andalusia. It is a letter of some importance. Our good Mayor, +who was at the window a minute ago, saw Mr. Conyngham hand you a letter. +Between persons who only met in this garden five minutes ago such a +transaction had a strange air. Our good friend, who is all zeal for +Spain and the people of Ronda, merely asks you if his eyes deceived him. +It is a matter at which we shall all laugh presently over a lemonade—is +it not so? A trifle, eh?’ He passed his handkerchief across his +moustache, and looked affectionately at his niece. + +‘A letter!’ exclaimed Julia. ‘Surely the Alcalde presumes. He takes too +much upon himself.’ The official stepped forward. + +‘Señorita,’ he said, ‘I must be allowed to take that risk. Did this +gentleman give you a letter three minutes ago?’ + +Julia laughed and shrugged her shoulders. + +‘Yes.’ + +‘May I ask the nature of the letter?’ + +‘It was a love letter.’ + +Conyngham bit his lip and looked at Estella. + +The Alcalde looked doubtful, with the cunning lips of a cheap country +lawyer. + +‘A love letter from a gentleman you have never seen before?’ he said with +a forced laugh. + +‘Pardon me, Señor Alcalde, this gentleman travelled in the same ship with +my mother and myself from Bordeaux to Algeciras, and he saved my life.’ + +She cast a momentary glance at Conyngham; which would have sealed his +fate had the fiery Mr. Larralde been there to see it. The Prefect +paused, somewhat taken aback. There was a momentary silence, and every +moment gave Julia and Conyngham time to think. Then the Alcalde turned +to Conyngham. + +‘It will give me the greatest pleasure,’ he said, ‘to learn that I have +been mistaken. I have only to ask this gentleman’s confirmation of what +the señorita has said. It is true, señor, that you surreptitiously +handed to the Señorita Barenna a letter expressing your love?’ + +‘Since the señorita has done me the honour of confessing it, I must ask +you to believe it,’ answered Conyngham steadily and coldly. + + + + +CHAPTER IX +A WAR OF WIT + + + ‘La discrétion est l’art du mensonge.’ + +THE Alcalde blew out his cheeks and looked at General Vincente. Señora +Barenna would with small encouragement have thrown herself into +Conyngham’s arms; but she received none whatever, and instead frowned at +Julia. Estella was looking haughtily at her father, and would not meet +Conyngham’s glance. + +‘I feel sure,’ said General Vincente in his most conciliating manner, +‘that my dear Julia will see the necessity of satisfying the good Alcalde +by showing him the letter—with, of course, the consent of my friend +Conyngham.’ + +He laughed, and slipped his hand within Conyngham’s arm. + +‘You see, my dear friend,’ he said in English, ‘these local magnates are +a trifle inflated; local magnitude is a little inclined to inflate, eh? +Ha! ha! And it is so easy to conciliate them. I always try to do so +myself. Peace at any price—that is my motto.’ + +And he turned aside to arrange his sword, which dragged on the ground. + +‘Tell her, my dear Conyngham, to let the old gentleman read the letter.’ + +‘But it is nothing to do with me, General.’ + +‘I know that, my friend, as well as you do,’ said Vincente with a sudden +change of manner, which gave the Englishman an uncomfortable desire to +know what he meant. But General Vincente, in pursuit of that peace which +had earned him such a terrible reputation in war, turned to Señora +Barenna with his most reassuring smile. + +‘It is nothing, my dear Iñez,’ he said. ‘In these times of trouble the +officials are so suspicious, and our dear Alcalde knows too much. He +remembers dear Julia’s little affair with Esteban Larralde, now long +since lived down and forgotten. Larralde is, it appears, a malcontent, +and on the wrong side of the wall. You need have no uneasiness. Ah! +your nerves—yes, I know! A great sufferer—yes, I remember. Patience, +dear Iñez, patience!’ + +And he patted her stout white hand affectionately. + +The Alcalde was taking snuff with a stubborn air of disbelief, glancing +the while suspiciously at Conyngham, who had eyes for none but Estella. + +‘Alcalde,’ said General Vincente, ‘the incident is past, as we say in the +diplomatic service; a lemonade now?’ + +‘No, General, the incident is not past, and I will not have a lemonade.’ + +‘Oh!’ exclaimed General Vincente in gentle horror. + +‘Yes, this young lady must give me the letter, or I call in my men.’ + +‘But your men could not touch a lady, my dear Alcalde.’ + +‘You may be the Alcalde of Ronda,’ said Conyngham cheerfully, in +continuation of the General’s argument; ‘but if you offer such an insult +to Señorita Barenna, I throw you into the fountain, in the deepest part, +where it is wettest, just there by the marble dolphin.’ + +And Conyngham indicated the exact spot with his riding-whip. + +‘Who is this gentleman?’ asked the Alcalde. The question was in the +first place addressed to space and the gods—after a moment the speaker +turned to General Vincente. + +‘A prospective aide-de-camp of General Espartero.’ + +At the mention of the great name the Mayor of Ronda became beautifully +less and half bowed to Conyngham. + +‘I must do my duty,’ he said with the stubbornness of a small mind. + +‘And what do you conceive that to be, my dear Alcalde?’ inquired the +General. + +‘To place the Señorita Barenna under arrest unless she will hand to me +the letter she has in her possession.’ Julia looked at him with a smile. +She was a brave woman, playing a dangerous game with consummate courage, +and never glanced at Conyngham, who with an effort kept his hand away +from the pocket where the letter lay concealed. The manner in which she +trusted him unreservedly and entirely was in itself cunning enough, for +it appealed to that sense of chivalry which is not yet dead in men. + +‘Place me under arrest, Señor Alcalde,’ she said indifferently, ‘and when +you have satisfied me that you have a right to inspect a lady’s private +correspondence I will submit to be searched—but not before.’ + +She made a little signal to Conyngham not to interfere. + +Señora Barenna took this opportunity of asserting herself and her nerves. +She sat heavily down on a stone seat and wept. She could hardly have +done better, for she was a countess in her own right, and the sight of +high-born tears distinctly unnerved the Alcalde. + +‘Well,’ he said, ‘the señorita has made her own choice. In these times’ +(he glanced nervously at the weeping lady) ‘one must do one’s duty.’ + +‘My dear Julia,’ protested the General, ‘you who are so sensible—’ + +Julia shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She not only trusted Conyngham +but relied upon his intelligence. It is as a rule safer to confide in +the honesty of one’s neighbour than in his wit; better still, trust in +neither. Conyngham, who was quick enough when the moment required it, +knew that she was fostering the belief that the letter at that moment in +his pocket was in her possession. He suspected also that he and Julia +Barenna were playing with life and death. Further, he recognised her and +her voice. This was the woman who had showed discrimination and calmness +in face of a great danger on the Garonne. Had this Englishman, owning as +he did to a strain of Irish blood, turned his back on her and danger at +such a moment he would assuredly have proved himself untrue to the annals +of that race which has made a mark upon the world that will never be +wiped out. He looked at the Alcalde and smiled, whereupon that official +turned and made a signal with his hand to a man who, dressed in a quiet +uniform, had appeared in the doorway of the house. + +‘What the deuce we are all trying to do I don’t know,’ reflected +Conyngham, who indeed was sufficiently at sea to awake the most dormant +suspicions. + +The Alcalde, now thoroughly aroused, protested his inability to neglect a +particle of his duty at this troubled period of Spain’s history, and +announced his intention of placing Julia Barenna under surveillance until +she handed him the letter she had received from Conyngham. + +‘I am quite prepared,’ he added, ‘to give this caballero the benefit of +the doubt, and assume that he has been in this matter the tool of +unscrupulous persons. Seeing that he is a friend of General Vincente’s, +and has an introduction to his Excellency the Duke of Vittoria, he is +without the pale of my jurisdiction.’ + +The Alcalde made Conyngham a profound bow and proceeded to conduct Julia +and her indignant mother to their carriage. + +‘There goes,’ said General Vincente with his most optimistic little +chuckle, ‘a young woman whose head will always be endangered by her +heart.’ And he nodded towards Julia’s retreating form. + +Estella turned and walked away by herself. + +‘Come,’ said the General to Conyngham, ‘let us sit down. I have news for +you. But what a susceptible heart—my dear young friend—what a +susceptible heart! Julia is, I admit, a very pretty girl—_la beauté du +diable_, eh! But on so short an acquaintance—rather rapid, rather +rapid!’ + +As he spoke he was searching among some letters which he had produced +from his pocket, and at length found an official envelope that had +already been opened. + +‘I have here,’ he said, ‘a letter from Madrid. You have only to proceed +to the capital, and there I hope a post awaits you. Your duties will at +present be of a semi-military character, but later I hope we can show you +some fighting. This pestilential Cabrera is not yet quelled, and Morella +still holds out. Yes, there will be fighting.’ + +He closed the letter and looked at Conyngham. ‘If that is what you +want,’ he added. + +‘Yes, that is what I want.’ + +The General nodded and rose, pausing to brush a few grains of dust from +his dapper riding-breeches. + +‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have seen a horse which will suit you at the cavalry +quarters in the Calle de Bobadilla. Shall we go and look at him?’ + +Conyngham expressed his readiness to do as the General proposed. + +‘When shall I start for Madrid?’ he asked. + +‘Oh, to-morrow morning will be time enough,’ was the reply, uttered in an +easy-going, indolent tone, ‘if you are early astir. You see, it is now +nearly five o’clock, and you could scarcely be in saddle before sunset.’ + +‘No,’ laughed Conyngham, ‘scarcely, considering that I have not yet +bought the saddle or the horse.’ + +The General led the way into the house, and Conyngham thought of the +letter in his pocket. He had not yet read the address. Julia relied +upon him to deliver it, and her conduct towards the Alcalde had the +evident object of gaining time for him to do so. She had unhesitatingly +thrust herself into a position of danger to screen him and further her +own indomitable purpose. He thought of her—still as from a distance at +which Estella had placed him—and knew that she not only had a disquieting +beauty, but cleverness and courage, which are qualities that outlast +beauty and make a woman powerful for ever. + +When he and his companion emerged from the great doorway of the house +into the sunlight of the Calle Mayor, a man came forward from the shade +of a neighbouring porch. It was Concepçion Vara, leisurely and +dignified, twirling a cigarette between his brown fingers. He saluted +the General with one finger to the brim of his shabby felt hat as one +great man might salute another. He nodded to Conyngham. + +‘When does his Excellency take the road again?’ he said. ‘I am ready. +The Guardia Civil was mistaken this time—the judge said there was no +stain on my name.’ + +He shrugged his shoulders and waved away the slight with the magnanimity +of one who can forgive and forget. + +‘I take the road to-morrow; but our contract ceased at Ronda. I had no +intention of taking you on.’ + +‘You are not satisfied with me?’ inquired Concepçion, offering his +interlocutor the cigarette he had just made. + +‘Oh, yes.’ + +‘Buen! We take the road together.’ + +‘Then there is nothing more to be said?’ inquired Conyngham with a +good-natured laugh. + +‘Nothing, except the hour at which your Excellency starts.’ + +‘Six o’clock,’ put in General Vincente quietly. ‘Let me see, your name +is Concepçion Vara.’ + +‘Yes, Excellency—of Algeciras.’ + +‘It is well. Then serve this gentleman well, or else—’ The General +paused, and laughed in his most deprecating manner. + +Concepçion seemed to understand, for he took off his hat and turned +gravely away. The General and Conyngham walked rapidly through the +streets of Ronda, than which there are none cleaner in the whole world, +and duly bought a great black horse at a price which seemed moderate +enough to the Englishman, though the vendor explained that the long war +had made horseflesh rise in value. Conyngham, at no time a keen +bargainer, hurried the matter to an end, and scarce examined the saddle. +He was anxious to get back to the garden of the great house in the Calle +Mayor before the cool of evening came to drive Estella indoors. + +‘You will doubtless wish to pack your portmanteau,’ said the General +rather breathlessly, as he hurried along with small steps beside +Conyngham. + +‘Yes,’ answered the Englishman ingenuously, ‘yes, of course.’ + +‘Then I will not detain you,’ said General Vincente. ‘I have affairs at +headquarters. We meet at dinner, of course.’ + +He waved a little salutation with his whip and took a side turning. + +The sun had not set when Conyngham with a beating heart made his way +through the house into the garden. He had never been so serious about +anything in his life. Indeed, his life seemed only to have begun in that +garden. Estella was there. He saw her black dress and mantilla through +the trees, and the gleam of her golden hair made his eyes almost fierce +for the moment. + +‘I am going to-morrow morning,’ he said bluntly when he reached her where +she sat in the shade of a mimosa. + +She raised her eyes for a moment—deep velvet eyes with something in them +that made his heart leap within his breast. + +‘And I love you, Estella,’ he added. ‘You may be offended—you may +despise me—you may distrust me. But nothing can alter me. I love +you—now and ever.’ + +She drew a deep breath and sat motionless. + +‘How many women does an Englishman love at once?’ she asked coldly at +length. + +‘Only one, señorita.’ + +He stood looking at her for a moment. Then she rose and walked past him +into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER X +THE CITY OF DISCONTENT + + + ‘En paroles ou en actions, être discret, c’est s’abstenir.’ + +‘THERE is,’ observed Frederick Conyngham to himself as he climbed into +the saddle in the grey dawn of the following morning, ‘there is a certain +picturesqueness about these proceedings which pleases me.’ + +Concepçion Vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic atmosphere, +for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista fashion, with a +bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head underneath his black +hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt, and a flower in the ribbon +of his hat. + +He was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing as +he threw his leg across his horse. A dark-eyed maiden had come to the +corner of the Calle Vieja, and stood there watching him with mournful +eyes. He waved her a salutation as he passed. + +‘It is the waiting-maid at the venta where I stay in Ronda—what will +you?’ he explained to Conyngham with a modest air as he cocked his hat +farther on one side. + +The sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open +country that borders the road to Bobadilla. A pastoral country this, +where the land needs little care to make it give more than man requires +for his daily food. The evergreen oak studded over the whole plain +supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the herdsmen may dream +away the sunny days. The rich soil would yield two or even three crops +in the year, were the necessary seed and labour forthcoming. +Underground, the mineral wealth outvies the richness of the surface, but +national indolence leaves it unexplored. + +‘Before General Vincente one could not explain oneself,’ said Concepçion, +urging his horse to keep pace with the trot of Conyngham’s huge mount. + +‘Ah!’ + +‘No,’ pursued Concepçion. ‘And yet it is simple. In Algeciras I have a +wife. It is well that a man should travel at times. So,’ he paused and +bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension, +‘so—we take the road together.’ + +‘As long as you are pleased, Señor Vara,’ said Conyngham, ‘I am sure I +can but feel honoured. You know I have no money.’ + +The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. + +‘What matter?’ he said. ‘What matter? We can keep an account—a mere +piece of paper—so: “Concepçion Vara, of Algeciras, in account current +with F. Conyngham; Englishman. One month’s wages at one hundred +pesetas.” It is simple.’ + +‘Very,’ acquiesced Conyngham. ‘It is only when pay-day comes that things +will get complicated.’ + +Concepçion laughed. + +‘You are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said. ‘We shall enjoy +ourselves in Madrid. I see that.’ + +Conyngham did not answer. He had remembered the letter and Julia +Barenna’s danger. He rose in his stirrups and looked behind him. Ronda +was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of the roadway +was unbroken by the form of any other traveller. + +‘We are not going to Madrid yet,’ said Conyngham. ‘We are going to +Xeres, where I have business. Do you know the road to Xeres?’ + +‘As well that as any other, Excellency.’ + +‘What do you mean?’ + +‘I know no roads north of Ronda. I am of Andalusia, I,’ replied +Concepçion easily, and he looked round about him with an air of interest +which was more to the credit of his intelligence as a traveller than his +reliability as a guide. + +‘But you engaged to guide me to Madrid.’ + +‘Yes, Excellency—by asking the way,’ replied Concepçion with a light +laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his horse to light a +fresh cigarette. + +Thus with an easy heart Frederick Conyngham set out on his journey, +having for companion one as irresponsible as himself. He had determined +to go to Xeres, though that town of ill repute lay far to the westward of +his road towards the capital. It would have been simple enough to +destroy the letter entrusted to him by Julia Barenna, a stranger whom he +was likely never to see again—simple enough and infinitely safer as he +suspected, for the billet-doux of Mr. Larralde smelt of grimmer things +than love. But Julia Barenna wittingly, or in all innocence, appealed to +that sense of chivalry which is essentially the quality of lonely men who +have never had sisters, and Conyngham was ready to help Julia where he +would have refused his assistance to a man, however hard pressed. + +‘Cannot leave the girl in a hole,’ he said to himself, and proceeded to +act upon this resolution with a steadiness of purpose for which some may +blame him. + +It was evening when the two travellers reached Xeres after some weary +hours of monotonous progress through the vine-clad plains of this +country. + +‘It is no wonder,’ said Concepçion, ‘that the men of Xeres are +malcontents, when they live in a country as flat as the palm of my hand.’ + +It happened to be a fête day, which in Spain, as in other countries +farther North, is synonymous with mischief. The men of Xeres had taken +advantage of this holiday to demonstrate their desire for more. They had +marched through the streets with banner and song, arrayed in their best +clothes, fostering their worst thoughts. They had consumed marvellous +quantities of that small Amontillado which is as it were a thin fire to +the blood, heating and degenerating at once. They had talked much +nonsense and listened to more. Carlist or Christino—it was all the same +to them, so long as they had a change of some sort. In the meantime they +had a desire to break something, if only to assert their liberty. + +A few minutes before Conyngham and his guide rode into the market-place, +which in Xeres is as long as a street, some of the free sons of Spain had +thought fit to shout insulting remarks to a passer-by. With a fire too +bright for his years this old gentleman, with fierce white moustache and +imperial, had turned on them, calling them good-for-nothings and sons of +pigs. + +Conyngham rode up just in time to see the ruffians rise as one man and +rush at the victim of their humour. The old man with his back to the +wall repelled his assailants with a sort of fierce joy in his attitude +which betokened the soldier. + +‘Come on, Concepçion!’ cried Conyngham, with a dig of the spurs that made +his tired horse leap into the air. He charged down upon the gathering +crowd, which scattered right and left before the wild onslaught. But he +saw the flash of steel, and knew that it was too late. The old man, with +an oath and a gasp of pain, sank against the wall with the blood +trickling through the fingers clasped against his breast. Conyngham +would have reined in, but Concepçion on his heels gave the charger a cut +with his heavy whip that made him bound forward and would have unseated a +short-stirruped rider. + +‘Go on,’ cried the Spaniard; ‘it is no business of ours. The police are +behind.’ + +And Conyngham, remembering the letter in his pocket, rode on without +looking back. In the day of which the present narrative treats, the +streets of Xeres were but ill paved, and the dust lay on them to the +depth of many inches, serving to deaden the sound of footsteps and +facilitate the commission of such deeds of violence as were at this time +of daily occurrence in Spain. Riding on at random, Conyngham and his +companion soon lost their way in the narrow streets, and were able to +satisfy themselves that none had followed them. Here in a quiet alley +Conyngham read again the address of the letter of which he earnestly +desired to rid himself without more ado. + +It was addressed to Colonel Monreal at No. 84 Plaza de Cadiz. + +‘Let his Excellency stay here and drink a glass of wine at this venta,’ +said Concepçion. ‘Alone, I shall be able to get information without +attracting attention. And then, in the name of the saints, let us shake +the dust of Xeres off our feet. The first thing we see is steel, and I +do not like it. I have a wife in Algeciras to whom I am much attached, +and I am afraid—yes, afraid. A gentleman need never hesitate to say so.’ + +He shook his head forebodingly as he loosened his girths and called for +water for the horses. + +‘I could eat a cocida,’ he went on, sniffing the odours of a neighbouring +kitchen, ‘with plenty of onions and the mutton as becomes the +springtime—young and tender. Dios! this quick travelling and an empty +stomach, it kills one.’ + +‘When I have delivered my letter,’ replied Conyngham, ‘we shall eat with +a lighter heart.’ + +Concepçion went away in a pessimistic humour. He was one of those men +who are brave enough on good wine and victuals, but lack the stamina to +fight when hungry. He returned presently with the required information. +The Plaza de Cadiz was, it appeared, quite close. Indeed, the town of +Xeres is not large, though the intricacies of its narrow streets may well +puzzle a new-comer. No. 84 was the house of the barber, and on his first +floor lived Colonel Monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the +English against Napoleon’s armies. + +During his servant’s absence, Conyngham had written a short note in +French, conveying, in terms which she would understand, the news that +Julia Barenna doubtless awaited with impatience; namely, that her letter +had been delivered to him whose address it bore. + +‘I have ordered your cocida and some good wine,’ he said to Concepçion. +‘Your horse is feeding. Make good use of your time, for when I return I +shall want you to take the road again at once. You must make ten miles +before you sleep to-night, and then an early start in the morning.’ + +‘For where, señor?’ + +‘For Ronda.’ + +Concepçion shrugged his shoulders. His life had been spent upon the +road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained in a saddle-bag, +and Spaniards, above all people, have the curse of Ishmael. They are a +homeless race, and lay them down to sleep, when fatigue overtakes them, +under a tree or in the shade of a stone wall. It often happens that a +worker in the fields will content himself with the lee side of a haystack +for his resting-place when his home is only a few hundred yards up the +mountain side. + +‘And his Excellency?’ inquired Concepçion. + +‘I shall sleep here to-night and proceed to Madrid to-morrow, by way of +Cordova, where I will wait for you. I have a letter here which you must +deliver to the Señorita Barenna at Ronda without the knowledge of anyone. +It will be well that neither General Vincente nor any other who knows you +should catch sight of you in the streets of Ronda.’ + +Concepçion nodded his head with much philosophy. + +‘Ah! these women,’ he said, turning to the steaming dish of mutton and +vegetables which is almost universal in the South, ‘these women, what +shoe leather they cost us!’ + +Leaving his servant thus profitably employed, Conyngham set out to find +the barber’s shop in the Plaza de Cadiz. This he did without difficulty, +but on presenting himself at the door of Colonel Monreal’s apartment +learnt that that gentleman was out. + +‘But,’ added the servant, ‘the Colonel is a man of regular habits. He +will return within the next fifteen minutes, for he dines at five.’ + +Conyngham paused. He had no desire to make Colonel Monreal’s +acquaintance, indeed preferred to remain without it, for he rightly +judged that Señor Larralde was engaged in affairs best left alone. + +‘I have a letter for the Colonel,’ he said to the servant, a man of +stupid countenance. ‘I will place it here upon his table, and can no +doubt trust you to see that he gets it.’ + +‘That you can, Excellency,’ replied the man, with a palm already half +extended to receive a gratuity. + +‘If the Colonel fails to receive the letter I shall certainly know of +it,’ said Conyngham, stumbling down the dark staircase, and well pleased +to have accomplished his mission. + +He returned with all speed to the inn in the quiet alley where he had +elected to pass the night, and found Concepçion still at table. + +‘In half an hour I take the road,’ said the Spaniard. ‘The time for a +cup of coffee, and I am ready to ride all night.’ + +Having eaten, Concepçion was in a better frame of mind, and now +cheerfully undertook to carry out his master’s instructions. In little +more than half an hour he was in the saddle again, and waved an airy +adieu to Conyngham as he passed under the swinging oil lamp that hung at +the corner of the street. + +It was yet early in the evening, and Conyngham, having dined, set out to +explore the streets of Xeres, which were quiet enough now, as the cafes +were gayer and safer than the gloomy thoroughfares where a foe might lurk +in every doorway. In the market-place, between rows of booths and tents, +a dense crowd walked backwards and forwards with that steady sense of +promenading which the Spaniard understands above all other men. The +dealers in coloured handkerchiefs from Barcelona or mantillas from +Seville were driving a great trade, and the majority of them had long +since shouted themselves hoarse. A few quack dentists were operating +upon their victims under the friendly covert of a big drum and a bassoon. +Dealers in wonderful drugs and herbs were haranguing the crowd, easily +gaining the attention of the simple peasants by handling a live snake or +a crocodile which they allowed to crawl upon their shoulders. + +Conyngham lingered in the crowd, which was orderly enough, and amused +himself by noting the credulity of the country folk, until his attention +was attracted by a solemn procession passing up the market-place behind +the tents. He inquired of a bystander what this might be. + +‘It is the police carrying to his apartment the body of Colonel Monreal, +who was murdered this afternoon in the Plaza Mayor,’ was the answer. + +Conyngham made his way between two tents to the deserted side of the +market-place, and, running past the procession, reached the barber’s shop +before it. In answer to his summons a girl came to the door of the +Colonel’s apartment. She was weeping and moaning in great mental +distress. + +Without explanation Conyngham pushed past her into the room where he had +deposited the letter. The room was in disorder, and no letter lay upon +the table. + +‘It is,’ sobbed the girl, ‘my husband, who, having heard that the good +Colonel had been murdered, stole all his valuables and papers and has run +away from me.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XI +A TANGLED WEB + + + ‘Wherein I am false, I am honest—not true to be true.’ + +‘AND—would you believe it?—there are soldiers in the house, at the very +door of Julia’s apartments.’ Señora Barenna, who made this remark, +heaved a sigh and sat back in her canework chair with that jerkiness of +action which in elderly ladies usually betokens impatience with the ways +of young people. + +‘Policemen—policemen, not soldiers,’ corrected Father Concha patiently, +as if it did not matter much. They were sitting in the broad vine-clad +verandah of the Casa Barenna, that grim old house on the Bobadilla road, +two miles from Ronda. The priest had walked thither, as the dust on his +square-toed shoes and black stockings would testify. He had laid aside +his mournful old hat, long since brown and discoloured, and was wiping +his forehead with a cheap pocket-handkerchief of colour and pattern +rather loud for his station in life. + +‘Well, they have swords,’ persisted the lady. + +‘Policemen,’ said Father Concha, in a stern and final voice, which caused +Señora Barenna to cast her eyes upwards with an air of resigned +martyrdom. + +‘Ah, that Alcalde!’ she whispered between her teeth. + +‘A little dog, when it is afraid, growls,’ said Concha philosophically. +‘The Alcalde is a very small dog, and he is at his wit’s end. Such a +thing has not occurred in Ronda before, and the Alcalde’s world is Ronda. +He does not know whether his office permits him to inspect young ladies’ +love letters or not.’ + +‘Love letters!’ ejaculated Señora Barenna. She evidently had a keen +sense of the romantic, and hoped for something more tragic than a mere +flirtation begotten of idleness at sea. + +‘Yes,’ said Concha, crossing his legs and looking at his companion with a +queer cynicism. ‘Young people mostly pass that way.’ + +He had had a tragedy, this old man. One of those grim tragedies of the +cassock which English people rarely understand. And his tragedy sat +beside him on the cane chair, stout and eminently worldly, while he had +journeyed on the road of life with all his illusions, all his +half-fledged aspirations, untouched by the cold finger of reality. He +despised the woman now, the contempt lurked in his cynical smile, but he +clung with a half-mocking, open-eyed sarcasm to his memories. + +‘But,’ he said reassuringly, ‘Julia is a match for the Alcalde, you may +rest assured of that.’ + +Señora Barenna turned with a gesture of her plump hand indicative of +bewilderment. + +‘I do not understand her. She laughs at the soldiers—the policemen, I +mean. She laughs at me. She laughs at everything.’ + +‘Yes, it is the hollow hearts that make most noise in the world,’ said +Concha, folding his handkerchief upon his knee. He was deadly poor, and +had a theory that a folded handkerchief remains longer clean. His whole +existence was an effort to do without those things that make life worth +living. + +‘Why did you send for me?’ he asked. + +‘But to advise me—to help me. I have been, all my life, cast upon the +world alone. No one to help me—no one to understand. No one knows what +I have suffered—my husband—’ + +‘Was one of the best and most patient of mortals, and is assuredly in +heaven, where I hope there are a few mansions reserved for men only.’ + +Señora Barenna fetched one of her deepest sighs. She had a few lurking +in the depth of her capacious being, reserved for such occasions as this. +It was, it seemed, no more than her life had led her to expect. + +‘You have had,’ went on her spiritual adviser, ‘a life of ease and +luxury, a husband who denied you nothing. You have never lost a child by +death, which I understand is—one of the greatest sorrows that God sends +to women. You are an ungrateful female.’ + +Señora Barenna, whose face would have graced one of the very earliest of +the martyrs, sat with folded hands waiting until the storm should pass. + +‘Do you wish me to see Julia?’ asked Concha abruptly. + +‘Yes—yes! And persuade her to conciliate the Alcalde—to tell him some +story or another. It does not surely matter if it be not the strict +truth. Anything to get these men out of the house. My maid Maria is so +flighty. Ah—these young people! What a trial—my dear Padre, what a +trial!’ + +‘Of course,’ said Father Concha. ‘But what a dull world it would be if +our neighbour knew how to manage his own affairs! Shall we go to Julia?’ + +The perturbed lady preferred that the priest should see her daughter +alone. A military-looking individual in white trousers and a dark green +tunic stood guard over the door of Julia’s apartment, seeking by his +attitude and the curl of his moustache to magnify his office in the eyes +of a maid who happened to have an unusual amount of cleaning to do in +that particular corridor. + +‘Ah!’ said Father Concha, by no means abashed by the sentinel’s sword. +‘Ah, it is you, Manuel. Your wife tells me you have objections to the +christening of that last boy of yours, number five, I think. Bring +number five on Sunday, after vespers—eh? You understand—and a little +something for the poor. It is pay day on Saturday. And no more nonsense +about religion, Manuel, eh?’ + +He shook his lean finger in the official’s face and walked on +unchallenged. + +‘May I come in?’ he said, tapping at the door; and Julia’s voice bade him +enter. + +He closed the door behind him and laid aside his hat. Then he stood +upright, and slowly rubbing his hands together looked at Julia with the +humorous twinkle lurking in his eye and its companion dimple twitching in +his lean cheek. Then he began to feel his pockets, passing his hands +down his worn cassock. + +‘Let me see, I had a love letter—was it from Don Carlos? At all events, +I have lost it!’ + +He laughed, made a perfunctory sign of the cross and gave her his +blessing. Then, his face having become suddenly grave as if by machinery +at the sound of the solemn Latin benediction, he sat down. + +Julia looked worn and eager. Her eyes seemed to search his face for +news. + +‘Yes, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Politics are all very well as a career. +But without a distinct profit they are worth the attention of few men, +and never worth the thought of a woman.’ + +He looked at her keenly, and she turned to the window, which was open to +admit the breath of violets and other flowers of the spring. She +shrugged her shoulders and gave a sharp sigh. + +‘See here, my child,’ said Padre Concha abruptly. ‘For reasons which +concern no one, I take a great interest in your happiness. You resemble +some one whose welfare was once more important to me than my own. That +was long ago, and I now consider myself first, as all wise men should. I +am your friend, Julia, and much too old to be over-scrupulous. I peep +and pry into my neighbours’ affairs, and I am uneasy about you, my +child.’ + +He shook his head and drummed upon the table with his dirty fingers. + +‘Thank you,’ answered the girl with her defiant little laugh, ‘but I can +manage my own affairs.’ + +The priest nodded reflectively. + +‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is natural that you should say that. One of the +chief blessings of youth is self confidence. Heaven forbid that I should +shake yours. But, you see, there are several people who happen to be +anxious that this little affair should blow over and be forgotten. The +Alcalde is a mule, we know that, and anything that serves to magnify +himself and his office is likely to be prolonged. Do not play into his +hand. As I tell you, there are some who wish to forget this incident, +and one of them is coming to see you this afternoon.’ + +‘Ah!’ said the girl indifferently. + +‘General Vincente.’ + +Julia changed colour and her eyelids flickered for a moment as she looked +out of the open window. + +‘A good friend,’ continued Concha, ‘but—’ + +He finished the phrase with an eloquent little gesture of the hand. At +this moment they both heard the sound of an approaching carriage. + +‘He is coming now,’ said Concha. ‘He is driving, so Estella is with +him.’ + +‘Estella is of course jealous.’ + +The priest looked at her with a slow wise smile and said nothing. + +‘She—’ began Julia, and then closed her lips—true to that _esprit de +sexe_ which has ruled through all the ages. Then Julia Barenna gave a +sharp sigh as her mind reverted from Estella’s affairs to her own. + +Sitting thus in silence, the two occupants of the quiet room heard the +approach of steps and the clink of spurs in the corridor. + +‘It is the reverendo who visits the señorita,’ they heard the voice of +the sentinel explain deprecatingly. + +The priest rose and went to the door, which he opened. + +‘Only as a friend,’ he said. ‘Come in, General.’ + +General Vincente entered the room followed by Estella. He nodded to +Concha and kissed his niece affectionately. + +‘Still obdurate?’ he said, with a semi-playful tap on her shoulder. +‘Still obdurate? My dear Julia, in peace and war the greatest quality in +the strong is mercy. You have proved yourself strong—you have worsted +that unfortunate Alcalde—be merciful to him now, and let this incident +finish.’ + +He drew forward a chair, the others being seated, and laid aside his +gloves. The sword which he held upright between his knees, with his two +hands resting on the hilt, looked incongruously large and reached the +level of his eyes. He gave a little chuckling laugh. + +‘I saw him last night at the Café Real—the poor man had the air of a +funeral, and took his wine as if it were sour. Ah! these civilians, they +amuse one—they take life so seriously.’ + +He laughed and looked round at those assembled as if inviting them to +join him in a gayer and easier view of existence. The Padre’s furrowed +face answered the summons in a sudden smile, but it was with grave eyes +that he looked searchingly at the most powerful man in Andalusia; for +General Vincente’s word was law south of the Tagus. + +The two men sat side by side in strong contrast. Fate indeed seems to +shake men together in a bag, and cast them out upon the world heedless +where they may fall; for here was a soldier in the priest’s habit, and +one carrying a sword who had the keen heart and sure sympathy for joy or +sorrow that should ever be found within a black coat if the Master’s work +is to be well done. + +General Vincente smiled at Estella with _sang-froid_ and an unruffled +good nature, while the Padre Concha, whose place it surely was to take +the lead in such woman’s work as this, slowly rubbed his bony hands +together, at a loss and incompetent to meet the urgency of the moment. + +‘Our guest left us yesterday morning,’ said the General, ‘and of course +the Alcalde placed no hindrance on his departure.’ + +He did not look at Julia, who drew a deep breath and glanced at Estella. + +‘I do not know if Señor Conyngham left any message for you with +Estella—to me he said nothing,’ continued Estella’s father; and that +young lady shook her head. + +‘No,’ she put in composedly. + +‘Then it remains for us to close this foolish incident, my dear Julia; +and for me to remind you, seeing that you are fatherless, that there are +in Spain many adventurers who come here seeking the sport of love or war, +who will ride away when they have had their fill of either.’ + +He ceased speaking with a tolerant laugh, as one who, being a soldier +himself, would beg indulgence for the failings of his comrades, examined +the hilt of his sword, and then looked blandly round on three faces which +resolutely refused to class the absent Englishman in this category. + +‘It remains, my dear niece, to satisfy the Alcalde—a mere glance at the +letter—sufficient to satisfy him as to the nature of its contents.’ + +‘I have no letter,’ said Julia quietly, with her level red lips set hard. + +‘Not in your possession, but perhaps concealed in some place near at +hand—unless it is destroyed.’ + +‘I have destroyed no letter, I have concealed no letter, and I have no +letter,’ said the girl quietly. Estella moved uneasily in the chair. +Her face was colourless and her eyes shone. She watched her cousin’s +face intently, and beneath his shaggy brows the old priest’s eyes went +from one fair countenance to the other. + +‘Then,’ cried the General, rising to his feet with an air of relief, ‘you +have but to assure the Alcalde of this, and the whole incident is +terminated. Blown over, my dear Concha—blown over!’ + +He tapped the priest on the shoulder with great good nature. Indeed, the +world seemed sunny enough and free from cares when General Vincente had +to deal with it. + +‘Yes—yes,’ said the Padre, snuff-box in hand. ‘Blown over—of course.’ + +‘Then I may send the Alcalde to you, Julia—and you will tell him what you +have told us? He cannot but take the word of a lady.’ + +‘Yes—if you like,’ answered Julia. + +The General’s joy knew no bounds. + +‘That is well,’ he cried, ‘I knew we could safely rely upon your good +sense. Kiss me, Julia—that is well! Come, Estella—we must not keep the +horses waiting.’ + +With a laugh and a nod he went towards the door. ‘Blown over, my dear +Concha,’ he said over his shoulder. + +A few minutes later the priest walked down the avenue of walnut trees +alone. The bell was ringing for vespers, but the Padre was an autocratic +shepherd and did not hurry towards his flock. The sun had set, and in +the hollows of the distant mountains the shades of night already lay like +a blue veil. + +The priest walked on and presently reached the high road. A single +figure was upon it—the figure of a man sitting in the shadow of an ilex +tree half a mile up the road towards Bobadilla. The man crouched low +against a heap of stones and had the air of a wanderer. His face was +concealed in the folds of his cloak. + +‘Blown over,’ muttered the Padre as he turned his back upon Bobadilla and +went on towards his church. ‘Blown over, of course; but what is +Concepçion Vara doing in the neighbourhood of Ronda to-night?’ + + + + +CHAPTER XII +ON THE TOLEDO ROAD + + + ‘Une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.’ + +CONYNGHAM made his way without difficulty or incident from Xeres to +Cordova, riding for the most part in front of the clumsy diligencia +wherein he had bestowed his luggage. The road was wearisome enough, and +the last stages, through the fertile plains bordering the Guadalquivir, +dusty and monotonous. + +At Cordova the traveller found comfortable quarters in an old inn +overlooking the river. The ancient city was then, as it is now, a great +military centre, and the headquarters of the picturesque corps of +horse-tamers, the ‘Remonta,’ who are responsible for the mounting of the +cavalry and the artillery of Spain. Conyngham had, at the suggestion of +General Vincente, made such small changes in his costume as would serve +to allay curiosity and prevent that gossip of the stable and kitchen +which may follow a traveller to his hurt from one side of a continent to +the other. + +‘Wherever you may go learn your way in and out of every town, and you +will thus store up knowledge most useful to a soldier,’ the General had +said in his easy way. + +‘See you,’ Concepçion had observed, wagging his head over a cigarette; +‘to go about the world with the eyes open is to conquer the world.’ + +From his guide, moreover, whose methods were those that Nature teaches to +men who live their daily lives in her company, Conyngham learnt much of +that road craft which had raised Concepçion Vara to such a proud eminence +among the rascals of Andalusia. Cordova was a good object upon which to +practise, for Roman and Goth, Moor and Christian, have combined to make +its tortuous streets well-nigh incomprehensible to the traveller’s mind. + +Here Conyngham wandered, or else he sat somnolently on a seat in the +Paseo del Gran Capitan in the shade of the orange trees, awaiting the +arrival of Concepçion Vara. He made a few acquaintances, as every +traveller who is not a bear must needs do in a country where politeness +and hospitality and a grave good fellowship are the natural habit of high +and low alike. A bullfighter or two, who beguiled the long winter +months, when the rings are closed, by a little innocent horse dealing, +joined him quietly in the streets and offered him a horse—as between +gentlemen of undoubted honour—at a price much below the current value. +Or it was perhaps a beggar who came to him on the old yellow marble seat +under the orange trees, and chatted affably about his business as being +bad in these times of war. Once, indeed, it was a white-haired +gentleman, who spoke in English, and asked some very natural questions as +to the affairs that brought an Englishman to the town of Cordova. This +sweet-spoken old man explained that strangers would do well to avoid all +questions of politics and religion, which he classed together in one +dangerous whole. Nevertheless, Conyngham thought that he perceived his +ancient friend the same evening hurrying up the steps of the Jesuit +College of La Campania. + +Two days elapsed and Concepçion Vara made neither appearance nor sign. +On the second evening Conyngham decided to go on alone, prosecuting his +journey through the sparsely populated valley of the Alcadia to Ciudad +Real, Toledo, and Madrid. + +‘You will ride,’ the innkeeper told him, ‘from the Guadalquivir to the +Guadiana, and if there is rain you may be a month upon the road.’ + +Conyngham set out in the early morning, and as he threw his leg across +the saddle the sun rose over the far misty hills of Ronda, and Concepçion +Vara awoke from his night’s rest under the wall of an olive terrace above +the Bobadilla road, to begin another day of patient waiting and watching +to get speech with the maid or the mistress; for he had already +inaugurated what he lightly called ‘an affair’ with Julia’s flighty +attendant. The sun rose also over the plains of Xeres, and lighted up +the picturesque form of Esteban Larralde, in the saddle this hour and +more, having learnt that Colonel Monreal’s death took place an hour +before Conyngham’s arrival in the town of Xeres de la Frontera. The +letter, therefore, had not been delivered to Colonel Monreal, and was +still in Conyngham’s possession. + +Larralde bestrode a shocking steed, and had but an indifferent seat in +the saddle. Nevertheless, the dust rose beneath his horse’s feet, and +his spurs flashed in the sunlight as this man of many parts hurried on +towards Utrera and Cordova. + +In the old Moorish palace in Ronda, General Vincente, summoned to a great +council of war at Madrid, was making curt military preparations for his +journey and the conveyance of his household to the capital. Señora +Barenna was for the moment forgetful of her nerves in the excitement of +despatching servants in advance to Toledo, where she owned a summer +residence. Julia was nervously anxious to be on the road again, and +showed by every word and action that restlessness of spirit which is the +inheritance of hungry hearts. Estella, quiet and self-contained, +attended to the details of moving a vast and formal household with a +certain eagerness which in no way resembled Julia’s feverish haste. +Estella seemed to be one of those happy people who know what they want. + +Thus Frederick Conyngham, riding northward alone, seemed to be a pilot to +all these persons into whose lives he had suddenly stepped as from a side +issue, for they were one and all making ready to follow him to the colder +plains of Castile, where existence was full of strife and ambition, of +war and those inner wheels that ever jar and grind where politicians +contend together for the mastery of a moment. + +As he rode on, Conyngham left a message from time to time for his +self-appointed servant. At the offices of the diligencias in various +towns on the great road from Cordova to Madrid he left word for +Concepçion Vara to follow, should the spirit of travel be still upon him, +knowing that at these places where travellers were ever passing, the +tittle-tattle of the road was on the tongue of every ostler and stable +help. And truly enough there followed one who made careful inquiries as +to the movements of the Englishman, and heard his messages with a grim +smile. But this was not Concepçion Vara. + +It was late one evening when Conyngham, who had quitted Toledo in the +morning, began to hunger for the sight of the towers and steeples of +Madrid. He had ridden all day through the bare country of Cervantes, +where to this day Spain rears her wittiest men and plainest women. The +sun had just set behind the distant hills of Old Castile, and from the +east, over Aranjuez, where the great river cuts Spain in two parts from +its centre to the sea, a grey cloud—a very shade of night—was slowly +rising. The aspect of the brown plains was dismal enough, and on the +horizon the rolling unbroken land seemed to melt away into eternity and +infinite space. + +Conyngham reined in and looked around him. So far as eye could reach, no +house arose to testify to the presence of man. No labourer toiled home +to his lonely hut. For, in this country of many wars and interminable +strife, it has, since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, been the custom of the +people to congregate in villages and small townships, where a common +danger secured some protection against a lawless foe. The road rose and +fell in a straight line across the table-land without tree or hedge, and +Madrid seemed to belong to another world, for the horizon, which was +distant enough, bore no sign of cathedral spire or castle height. + +Conyngham turned in his saddle to look back, and there, not a mile away, +the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of the dusty road. +There was something weird and disturbing in this figure, a suggestion of +pursuit in every line. For this was not Concepçion Vara. Conyngham +would have known him at once. This was one wearing a better coat; indeed +Concepçion preferred to face life and the chances of the world in shirt +sleeves. + +Conyngham sat in his saddle awaiting the new-comer. To meet on such a +road in Spain without pausing to exchange a salutation would be a +gratuitous insult, to ride in solitude within hail of another traveller +were to excite or betray the deepest distrust. It was characteristic of +Conyngham that he already waved his hand in salutation, and was prepared +to hail the new-comer as the jolliest companion in the world. + +Esteban Larralde, seeing the salutation, gave a short laugh, and jerked +the reins of his tired horse. He himself wore a weary look, as if the +fight he had in hand were an uphill one. He had long recognised +Conyngham; indeed the chase had been one of little excitement, but rather +an exercise of patience and dogged perseverance. He raised his hat to +indicate that the Englishman’s gay salutations were perceived, and pulled +the wide brim well forward again. + +‘He will change his attitude when it becomes apparent who I am,’ he +muttered. + +But Conyngham’s first word would appear to suggest that Esteban Larralde +was a much less impressive person than he considered himself. + +‘Why, it’s the devout lover!’ he cried. ‘Señor Larralde, you remember +me, Algeciras, and your pink love letter—deuced fishy love letter, that; +nearly got me into a devil of a row, I can tell you. How are you, eh?’ + +And the Englishman rode forward with a jolly laugh and his hand held out. +Larralde took it without enthusiasm. It was rather difficult to pick a +picturesque quarrel with such a person as this. Moreover, the true +conspirator never believes in another man’s honesty. + +‘Who would have expected to meet you here?’ went on Conyngham jovially. + +‘It is not so surprising as you think.’ + +‘Oh!’ + +There was no mistaking Larralde’s manner, and the Englishman’s gay blue +eyes hardened suddenly and rather surprisingly. + +‘No, I have followed you. I want that letter.’ + +‘Well, as it happens, Señor Larralde, I have not got your letter, and if +I had I am not quite sure that I would give it to you. Your conduct in +the matter has not been over-nice, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t +think much of a man who gets strangers and women to do his dirty work for +him.’ + +Larralde stroked his moustache with a half-furtive air of contempt. + +‘I should have given the confounded letter to the Alcalde of Ronda if it +had not been that a lady would have suffered for it, and let you take +your chance, Señor Larralde.’ + +Larralde shrugged his shoulders. + +‘You would not have given it to the Alcalde of Ronda,’ he said in a +sneering voice, ‘because you want it yourself. You require it in order +to make your peace with Estella Vincente.’ + +‘We are not going to talk of Señorita Vincente,’ said Conyngham quietly. +‘You say you followed me because you wanted that letter. It is not in my +possession. I left it in the house of Colonel Monreal at Xeres. If you +are going on to Madrid, I think I will sit down here and have a +cigarette. If, on the other hand, you propose resting here, I shall +proceed, as it is getting late.’ + +Conyngham looked at his companion with a nod and a smile which was not in +the least friendly and at the same time quite cheerful. He seemed to +recognise the necessity of quarrelling, but proposed to do so as +light-heartedly as possible. They were both on horseback in the middle +of the road, Larralde a few paces in the direction of Madrid. + +Conyngham indicated the road with an inviting wave of the hand. + +‘Will you go on?’ he asked. + +Larralde sat looking at him with glittering eyes, and said nothing. + +‘Then I will continue my journey,’ said the Englishman, touching his +horse lightly with the spur. The horse moved on and passed within a yard +of the other. At this moment Larralde rose in his stirrups and flung +himself on one side. + +Conyngham gave a sharp cry of pain and threw back his head. Larralde had +stabbed him in the back. The Englishman swayed in the saddle as if +trying to balance himself, his legs bent back from the knee in the +sharpness of a biting pain. The heavy stirrups swung free. Then, +slowly, Conyngham toppled forward and rolled out of the saddle, falling +to the road with a thud. + +Larralde watched him with a white face and staring eyes. Then he looked +quickly round over the darkening landscape. There was no one in sight. +This was one of the waste places of the world. Larralde seemed to +remember the Eye that seeth even there, and crossed himself as he slipped +from the saddle to the ground. He was shaking all over. His face was +ashen, for it is a terrible thing to kill a man and be left alone with +him. + +Conyngham’s eyes were closed. There was blood on his lips. With hands +that shook like leaves Esteban Larralde searched the Englishman, found +nothing, and cursed his ill fortune. Then he stood upright, and in the +dim light his face shone as if he had dipped it in water. He crept into +the saddle and rode on towards Madrid. + +It was quite dark when Conyngham recovered consciousness. In turning him +over to search his pockets Larralde had perhaps, unwittingly, saved his +life by placing him in a position that checked the internal hæmorrhage. +What served to bring back the Englishman’s wandering senses was the +rumbling of heavy wheels and the crack of a great whip as a cart laden +with hay and drawn by six mules approached him from the direction of +Toledo. + +The driver of the team was an old soldier, as indeed were most of the +Castilians at this time, and knew how to handle wounded men. With great +care and a multitude of oaths he lifted Conyngham on to his cart and +proceeded with him to Madrid. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +A WISE IGNORAMUS + + + ‘God help me! I know nothing—can but pray.’ + +IT was Father Concha’s custom to attend, at his church between the hours +of nine and ten in the morning, to such wants spiritual or temporal as +individual members of his flock chose to bring to him. + +Thus it usually happened that the faithful found the old priest at nine +o’clock sunning himself at the front door of the sacred edifice, smoking +a reflective cigarette and exchanging the time of day with passers-by or +such as had leisure to pause a moment. + +‘Whether it is body or soul that is in trouble—come to me,’ he would say. +‘For the body I can do a little—a very little. I have twenty pounds a +year, and it is not always paid to me, but I sometimes have a trifle for +charity. For the soul I can do a little more.’ After a storm of wind +and rain, such as come in the winter-time, it was no uncommon sight to +see the priest sweeping the leaves and dust from the church steps and +using the strongest language at the bootmaker over the way whose business +this was supposed to be. + +‘See!’ he would cry to some passer-by. ‘See!—it is thus that our +sacristan does his work. It is for this that the Holy Church pays him +fifteen—or is it twenty?—pesetas each year.’ + +And the bootmaker would growl and shake his head over his last; for, like +most who have to do with leather, he was a man of small humour. + +Here, too, mothers would bring their children—little girls cowering under +their bright handkerchiefs, the mantilla of the poor, and speak with the +Padre of the Confirmation and first Communion which had lately begun to +hang like a cloud over the child’s life. Father Concha would take the +child upon his knee as he sat on the low wall at the side of the steps, +and when the mother had left them, would talk quietly with the lines of +his face wonderfully softened, so that before long the little girl would +run home quite happy in mind and no longer afraid of the great unknown. +Here, in the spring time, came the young men with thoughts appropriate to +the season, and sheepish exceedingly; for they knew that Father Concha +knew all about them, and would take an unfair advantage of his +opportunities, refusing probably to perform the ceremony until he was +satisfied as to the ways and means and prudence of the contracting +parties—which of course he had no right to do. Here came the halt, the +lame, the blind, the poor, and also the rich. Here came the unhappy. +They came naturally and often. Here, so the bootmaker tells, came one +morning a ruined man, who after speaking a few words to the Padre, +produced a revolver and tried to shoot himself. And the Padre fell on +him like a wild beast. And they fought, and fell, and rolled down the +steps together into the road, where they still fought till they were +white like millers with dust. Then at last the Padre got the strong man +under him and took the revolver away and threw it into the ditch. Then +he fell to belabouring the would-be suicide with his fists, until the big +man cried for mercy and received it not. + +‘You saved his life,’ the people said. + +‘It was his soul that I was caring for,’ replied the Padre with his grim +smile. + +Concha was not a clever man, but he was wise. Of learning he had but +little. It is easy, however, to be wise without being learned. It is +easier still to be learned without being wise. The world is full of such +persons to-day when education is too cheap. Concha steered his flock as +best he could through the stormy paths of insurrection and civil war. He +ruled with a rod of iron whom he could, and such as were beyond his reach +he influenced by ridicule and a patient tolerance. True to his cloth, he +was the enemy of all progress and distrusted every innovation. + +‘The Padre,’ said the barber, who was a talker and a radical, ‘would have +the world stand still.’ + +‘The Padre,’ replied Concha, tenderly drying his chin with a towel, +‘would have all barbers attend to their razors. Many are so busy +shouting “Advance!” that they have no breath to ask whither they are +going.’ + +On the whole, perhaps, his autocratic rule was a beneficent one, and +contributed to the happiness of the little northern suburb of Ronda over +which it extended. At all events, he was a watchful guardian of his +flock, and knew every face in his parish. + +It thus happened one morning that a strange woman, who had come quietly +into church to pray, attracted his attention as he passed out after +matins. She was a mere peasant and ill clad. The child seated on a +chair by her side and staring with wondering eyes at the simple altar and +stained-glass window had a hungry look. + +Concha sat down on the low wall without the doors and awaited the exit of +this devotee who was not of his flock. For though, as he often said, the +good God had intended him for a soldier, his own strong will and simple +faith had in time produced a very passable priest who, with a grim face, +went about doing good. + +The woman presently lifted the heavy leathern curtain and let out into +the sunlight a breath of cool, incense-laden air. + +She curtsied and paused as if expecting recognition. Concha threw away +his cigarette and raised his hand to his hat. He had not lifted it +except to ladies of the highest quality for some years, out of regard to +symptoms of senile decay which had manifested themselves at the junction +of the brim and the crown. + +‘Have I not seen your face before, my child?’ he said. + +‘Yes, reverendo. I am of Ronda but have been living in Xeres.’ + +‘Ah! then your husband is no doubt a malcontent?’ + +The woman burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and leaning +against the wall in an attitude that was still girlish. She had probably +been married at fifteen. + +‘No, reverendo! He is a thief.’ + +Concha merely nodded his head. He never had been a man to betray much +pious horror when he heard of ill-doing. + +‘The two are almost identical,’ he said quietly. ‘One does what the +other fears to do. And is your husband in prison? Is that why you have +come back? Ah! you women—in foolishness you almost equal the men!’ + +‘No, reverendo. I am come back because he has left me. Sebastian has +run away, and has stolen all his master’s property. It was the Colonel +Monreal of Xeres—a good man, reverendo, but a politician.’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘Yes, and he was murdered, as your reverence has no doubt seen in the +newspapers. A week ago it was—the day that the Englishman came with a +letter.’ + +‘What Englishman was that?’ inquired Father Concha, brushing some grains +of snuff from his sleeve. ‘What Englishman was that, my child?’ + +‘Oh, I do not know! His name is unknown to me, but I could tell he was +English from his manner of speaking. The Colonel had an English friend +who spoke so—one engaged in the sherry in Xeres.’ + +‘Ah yes! And this Englishman, what was he like?’ + +‘He was very tall and straight, like a soldier, and had a moustache quite +light in colour, like straw.’ + +‘Ah yes. The English are so. And he left a letter?’ + +‘Yes, reverendo.’ + +‘A rose-coloured letter—?’ + +‘Yes,’ said the woman, looking at him with surprise. + +‘And tell me what happened afterwards. I may perhaps be able to help +you, my child, if you tell me all you know.’ + +‘And then, reverendo, the police brought back the Colonel who had been +murdered in the streets—and I who had his Excellency’s dinner on the +table waiting for him!’ + +‘And—’ + +‘And Sebastian ate the dinner, reverendo.’ + +‘Your husband appears to be a man of action,’ said Concha with a queer +smile. ‘And then—’ + +‘Sebastian sent me on a message to the town, and when I came back he was +gone and all his Excellency’s possessions were gone—his papers and +valuables.’ + +‘Including the letter which the Englishman had left for the Colonel?’ + +‘Yes, reverendo. Sebastian knew that in these times the papers of a +politician may perhaps be sold for money.’ + +Concha nodded his head reflectively and took a pinch of snuff with +infinite deliberation and enjoyment. + +‘Yes—assuredly, Sebastian is one of those men who get on in the world—up +to a certain point—and at that point they get hanged. There is in the +universe a particular spot for each man—where we all think we should like +to go if we had the money. For me it is Rome. Doubtless Sebastian had +some such spot, of which he spoke when he was intoxicated. Where is +Sebastian’s earthly paradise, think you, my child?’ + +‘He always spoke of Madrid, reverendo.’ + +‘Yes—yes, I can imagine he would.’ + +‘And I have no money to follow him,’ sobbed the woman, breaking into +tears again. ‘So I came to Ronda, where I am known, to seek it.’ + +‘Ah, foolish woman!’ exclaimed the priest severely, and shaking his +finger at her. ‘Foolish woman to think of following such a person. More +foolish still is it to weep for a worthless husband, especially in +public, thus, on the church steps, where all may see. All the other +women will be so pleased. It is their greatest happiness to think that +their neighbour’s husband is worse than their own. Failure is the royal +road to popularity. Dry your tears, foolish one, before you make too +many friends.’ + +The woman obeyed him mechanically with a sort of dumb hopelessness. + +At this moment a horseman clattered past, coming from Ronda and hastening +in the direction of Bobadilla or perhaps to the Casa Barenna. He wore +his flat-brimmed hat well forward over the eyes, and kept his gaze fixed +upon the road in front. There was a faint suggestion of assumed +absorption in his attitude, as if he knew that the priest was usually at +the church door at this hour, and had no desire to meet his eye. It was +Larralde. + +A few minutes later Julia Barenna, who was sitting at her window watching +and waiting—her attitude in life—suddenly rose with eyes that gleamed and +trembling hands. She stood and gazed down into the valley below, her +attention fixed on the form of a horseman slowly making his way through +the olive groves. Then breathlessly she turned to her mirror. + +‘At last!’ she whispered, her fingers busy with her hair and mantilla, a +thousand thoughts flying through her brain, her heart throbbing in her +breast. In a moment the aspect of the whole world had changed—in a +moment Julia herself was another woman. Ten years seemed to have rolled +away from her heart, leaving her young and girlish and hopeful again. +She gave one last look at herself and hurried to the door. + +It was yet early in the day, and the air beneath the gnarled and ancient +olive trees was cool and fresh as Julia passed under them to meet her +lover. He threw himself out of the saddle when he saw her, and, leaving +his horse loose, ran to meet her. He took her hands and raised her +fingers to his lips with a certain fervour which was sincere enough. For +Larralde loved Julia according to his lights, though he had another +mistress, Ambition, who was with him always and filled his thoughts, +sleeping or waking. Julia, her face all flushed, her eyes aglow, +received his gallant greeting with a sort of breathless eagerness. She +knew she had not Larralde’s whole heart, and, woman-like, was not content +with half. + +‘I have not seen you for nearly a fortnight,’ she said. + +‘Ah!’ answered Larralde, who had apparently not kept so strict an account +of the days. ‘Ah! yes—I know. But, dearest, I have been burning the +high-roads. I have been almost to Madrid. Ah! Julia, why did you make +such a mistake?’ + +‘What mistake?’ she asked with a sudden light of coquetry in her eyes. +She thought he was about to ask her why she loved him. In former days he +had had a pretty turn for such questions. + +‘In giving the letter to that scoundrel Conyngham—he has betrayed us, and +Spain is no longer safe for me.’ + +‘Are you sure of this?’ asked Julia, alert. Had she possessed Larralde’s +whole heart she would have been happy enough to take part in his +pursuits. + +Larralde gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Heaven only knows where the letter is now,’ he answered. Julia unfolded +a note and handed it to him. She had received it three weeks earlier +from Concepçion Vara, and it was from Conyngham, saying that he had left +her note at the house of the Colonel. + +‘The Colonel was dead before Conyngham arrived at Xeres,’ said Larralde +shortly. ‘And I do not believe he ever left the letter. I suspected +that he had kept it as a little recommendation to the Christinos under +whom he takes service. It would have been the most natural thing to do. +But I have satisfied myself that the letter is not in his possession.’ + +‘How?’ asked Julia with a sudden fear that blanched her face. + +Larralde smiled in rather a sickly way and made no answer. He turned and +looked down the avenue. + +‘I see Father Concha approaching,’ he said; ‘let us go towards the +house.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +A WEIGHT OF EVIDENCE + + + ‘The woman who loves you is at once your detective and accomplice.’ + +THE old priest was walking leisurely up the avenue towards the Casa +Barenna when the branches of a dwarf ilex were pushed aside, and there +came to him from their leafy concealment, not indeed a wood-nymph, but +Señora Barenna, with her finger at her lips. + +‘Hush!’ she said; ‘he is here.’ + +And from the anxious and excited expression of her face it became +apparent that madame’s nerves were astir. + +‘Who is here?’ + +‘Why, Esteban Larralde, of course.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Concha patiently. ‘But need we for that hide behind the +bushes and walk on the flower borders? Life would be much simpler, +señora, if people would only keep to the footpath. Less picturesque, I +allow you, but simpler. Shall I climb up a tree?’ + +The lady cast her eyes up to heaven and heaved an exaggerated sigh. + +‘Ah—what a tragedy life is!’ she whispered, apparently to the angels, but +loud enough for her companion to hear. + +‘Or a farce,’ said Concha, ‘according to our reading of the part. Where +is Señor Larralde?’ + +‘Oh, he has gone to the fruit garden with Julia—there is a high wall all +round, and one cannot see. She may be murdered by this time. I knew he +was coming from the manner in which she ran downstairs. She walks at +other times.’ + +Concha smiled rather grimly. + +‘She is not the first to do that,’ he said, ‘and many have stumbled on +the stairs in their haste.’ + +‘Ah! You are a hard man—a terrible man with no heart. And I have no one +to sympathise with me. No one knows what I suffer. I never sleep at +night—not a wink—but lie and think of my troubles. Julia will not obey +me. I have warned her not to rouse me to anger—and she laughs at me. +She persists in seeing this terrible Esteban Larralde—a Carlist, if you +please.’ + +‘We are all as God made us,’ said Concha—’with embellishments added by +the Evil One,’ he added, in a lower tone. + +‘And now I am going to see General Vincente. I shall tell him to send +soldiers. This man’s presence is intolerable—I am not obeyed in my own +house,’ cried the lady. ‘I have ordered the carriage to meet me at the +lower gate. I dare not drive away from my own door. Ah! what a +tragedy!’ + +‘I will go with you, since you are determined to go,’ said Concha. + +‘What! And leave Julia here with that terrible man?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered the priest. ‘Happiness is a dangerous thing to meddle +with. There is so little of it in the world, and it lasts so short a +time.’ + +Señora Barenna indicated by a sigh and her attitude that she had had no +experience in the matter. As a simple fact, she had been enabled all +through her life to satisfy her own desires—the subtlest form of +misfortune. + +‘Then you would have Julia marry this terrible man,’ said the lady, +shielding her face from the sun with the black fan which she always +carried. + +‘I am too old and too stupid to take any active part in my neighbours’ +affairs. It is only the young and inexperienced who are competent to do +that,’ answered the priest. + +‘But you say you are fond of Julia.’ + +‘Yes,’ said the priest quietly. + +‘I wonder why.’ + +‘So do I,’ he said in a tone that Señora Barenna never understood. + +‘You are always kinder to her than you are to me,’ went on the lady in +her most martyred manner. ‘Her penances are always lighter than mine. +You are patient with her and not with me. And I am sure I have never +done you any injury—’ + +The old Padre smiled. Perhaps he was thinking of those illusions which +she had during the years pulled down one by one—for the greater peace of +his soul. + +‘There is the carriage,’ he said. ‘Let us hasten to General Vincente—if +you wish to see him.’ + +In a few minutes they were rattling along the road, while Esteban +Larralde and Julia sat side by side in the shade of the great wall that +surrounded the fruit garden. And one at least of them was gathering that +quick harvest of love which is like the grass of the field, inasmuch as +to-day it is, and to-morrow is not. + +General Vincente was at home. He was one of those men who are happy in +finding themselves where they are wanted. So many have, on the contrary, +the misfortune to be always absent when they are required, and the world +soon learns to progress without them. + +‘That man—that Larralde is in Ronda,’ said Señora Barenna, bursting in on +the General’s solitude. Vincente smiled, and nevertheless exchanged a +quick glance with Concha, who confirmed the news by a movement of his +shaggy eyebrows. + +‘Ah, these young people!’ exclaimed the General with a gay little sigh. +‘What it is to be young and in love! But be seated, Iñez—be seated. +Padre—a chair.’ + +‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Señora Barenna breathlessly, for she +was stout and agitated and had hurried up the steps. + +‘When, my dear Iñez—when?’ + +‘But now—with this man in Ronda. You know quite well he is dangerous. +He is a Carlist. It was only the other day that you received an +anonymous letter saying that your life was in danger. Of course it was +from the Carlists, and Larralde has something to do with it; or that +Englishman—that Señor Conyngham with the blue eyes. A man with blue +eyes—bah! Of course he is not to be trusted.’ + +The receiver of the anonymous warning seemed to be amused. + +‘A little sweeping, your statements, my dear Iñez. Is it not so? Now, a +lemonade! the afternoon is warm.’ + +He rose and rang the bell. + +‘My nerves,’ whispered the Señora to Concha. ‘My nerves—they are so +easily upset.’ + +‘The liqueurs,’ said the General to the servant with perfect gravity. + +‘You must take steps at once,’ urged Señora Barenna when they were alone +again. She was endowed with a magnificent imagination without much +wisdom to hold it in check, and at times persuaded herself that she was +in the midst, and perhaps the leader, of a dangerous whirl of political +events. + +‘I will, my dear Iñez; I will. And we will take a little maraschino, to +collect ourselves, eh?’ + +And his manner quite indicated that it was he and not Madame Barenna who +was upset. The lady consented, and proceeded to what she took to be a +consultation, which in reality was a monologue. During this she imparted +a vast deal of information, and received none in return, which is the +habit of voluble people, and renders them exceedingly dangerous to +themselves and useful to others. + +Presently the two men conducted her to her carriage, with many +reassurances. + +‘Never fear, Iñez; never fear. He will be gone before you return,’ said +the General, with a wave of the hand. He had consented to invite Julia +to accompany Estella and himself to Madrid, where she would be out of +harm’s way. + +The two men then returned to the General’s study, and sat down in that +silence which only grows to perfection on the deep soil of a +long-standing friendship. Vincente was the first to speak. + +‘I have had a letter from Madrid,’ he said, looking gravely at his +companion. ‘My correspondent tells me that Conyngham has not yet +presented his letter of introduction, and, so far as is ascertainable, +has not arrived in the capital. He should have been there six weeks +ago.’ + +The Padre took a pinch of snuff, and held the box out towards his +companion, who waved it aside. The General was too dainty a man to +indulge in such a habit. + +‘He possessed no money, so he cannot have fallen a victim to thieves,’ +said Concha. + +‘He was accompanied by a good guide, and an honest enough scoundrel, so +he cannot have lost his way,’ observed the General, with a queer +expression of optimistic distress on his face. + +‘His movements were not always above suspicion—’ the priest closed his +snuff-box and laboriously replaced it in the pocket of his cassock. + +‘That letter—it was a queer business!’ and the General laughed. + +‘Most suspicious.’ + +There was a silence, during which Concha sneezed twice with enjoyment and +more noise than is usually considered necessary. + +‘And your letter,’ he said, carefully folding his handkerchief into +squares; ‘that anonymous letter of warning that your life is +threatened—is that true? It is the talk of Ronda.’ + +‘Ah, that!’ laughed Vincente. ‘Yes, it is true enough. It is not the +first time—a mere incident, that is all.’ + +‘That which the Señora Barenna said just now,’ observed the priest +slowly, ‘about our English friend—may be true. Sometimes thoughtless +people arrive at a conclusion which eludes more careful minds.’ + +‘Yes—my dear Padre—yes.’ + +The two grey-headed men looked at each other for a moment in silence. + +‘And yet you trust him,’ said Concha. + +‘Despite myself, despite my better judgment, my dear friend.’ + +The priest rose and went to the window which overlooked the garden. + +‘Estella is in the garden?’ he asked, and received no answer. + +‘I know what you are thinking,’ said the General. ‘You are thinking that +we should do well to tell Estella of these distressing suspicions.’ + +‘For you it does not matter,’ replied the priest. ‘It is a mere +incident, as you say. Your life has been attempted before, and you +killed both the men with your own hand, if I recollect aright.’ + +Vincente shrugged his shoulders and looked rather embarrassed. + +‘But a woman,’ went on Concha, ‘cannot afford to trust a man against her +better judgment.’ + +By way of reply the General rose and rang the bell, requesting the +servant when he answered the summons to ask the señorita to spare a few +moments of her time. + +They exchanged no further words until Estella came hurrying into the room +with a sudden flush on her cheeks and something in her dark eyes that +made her father say at once— + +‘It is not bad news that we have, my child.’ + +Estella glanced at Concha and said nothing. His wise old eyes rested for +a moment on her face with a little frown of anxiety. + +‘We have had a visit from the Señora Barenna,’ went on the General, ‘and +she is anxious that we should invite Julia to go to Madrid with us. It +appears that Esteban Larralde is still attempting to force his attentions +on Julia, and is at present in Ronda. You will not object to her coming +with us?’ + +‘Oh no,’ said Estella without much interest. + +‘We have also heard rather disquieting news about our pleasant friend, +Mr. Conyngham,’ said the General, examining the tassel of his sword. +‘And I think it is only right to tell you that I fear we have been +deceived in him.’ + +There was silence for a few moments, and then Vincente spoke again. + +‘In these times, one is almost compelled to suspect one’s nearest +friends. Much harm may be done by being over-trustful, and appearances +are so consistently against Mr. Conyngham that it would be folly to +ignore them.’ + +The General waited for Estella to make some comment, and after a pause +continued: + +‘He arrived in Ronda under singularly unfortunate circumstances, and I +was compelled to have his travelling companion shot. Then occurred that +affair of the letter, which he gave to Julia—an affair which has never +been explained. Conyngham would have to show me that letter before I +should be quite satisfied. I obtained for him an introduction to General +Espartero in Madrid. That was six or seven weeks ago. The introduction +has not been presented, nor has Conyngham been seen in Madrid. In +England, on his own confession, he was rather a scamp; why not the same +in Spain?’ + +The General spread out his hands in his favourite gesture of deprecation. +He had not made the world, and while deeply deploring that such things +could be, he tacitly admitted that the human race had not been, +creatively speaking, a complete success. + +Father Concha was brushing invisible grains of snuff from his cassock +sleeve and watching Estella with anxious eyes. + +‘I only tell you, my dear,’ continued the General, ‘so that we may know +how to treat Mr. Conyngham should we meet him in Madrid. I liked him. I +like a roving man—and many Englishmen are thus wanderers—but appearances +are very much against him.’ + +‘Yes,’ admitted Estella quietly. ‘Yes.’ + +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.’ + +NEITHER Estella nor her father had a great liking for the city of Madrid, +which indeed is at no time desirable. In the winter it is cold, in the +summer exceedingly hot, and during the changes of the seasons of a +treacherous weather difficult to surpass. The social atmosphere was no +more genial at the period with which we deal. For it blew hot and cold, +and treachery marked every change. + +Although the Queen Regent seemed to be nearing at last a successful issue +to her long and eventful struggle against Don Carlos, she had enemies +nearer home whose movements were equally dangerous to the throne of the +child queen. + +‘I cannot afford to have an honest soldier so far removed from the +capital,’ said Christina, who never laid aside the woman while playing +the Queen, as Vincente kissed her hand on presenting himself at Court. +The General smiled and shrugged his shoulders. + +‘What did she say? What did she say?’ the intriguers whispered eagerly +as the great soldier made his way towards the door, with the haste of one +who was no courtier. But they received no answer. + +The General had taken a suite of rooms in one of the hotels on the Puerta +del Sol, and hurried thither, well pleased do have escaped so easily from +a palace where self-seeking—the grim spirit that haunts the abodes of +royalty—had long reigned supreme. There was, the servants told him, a +visitor in the salon—one who had asked for the General, and on learning +of his absence had insisted on being received by the señorita. + +‘That sounds like Conyngham,’ muttered the General, unbuckling his +sword—for he had but one weapon, and wore it in the presence of the Queen +and her enemies alike. + +It was indeed Conyngham, whose gay laugh Vincente heard before he crossed +the threshold of Estella’s drawing-room. The Englishman was in uniform, +and stood with his back turned towards the door by which the General +entered. + +‘It is Señor Conyngham,’ said Estella at once, in a quiet voice, ‘who has +been wounded and six weeks in the hospital.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Conyngham. ‘But I am well again now! And I got my +appointment while I was still in the Sisters’ care.’ + +He laughed, though his face was pale and thin, and approached the General +with extended hand. The General had come to Madrid with the intention of +refusing to take that hand, and those who knew him said that this soldier +never swerved from his purpose. He looked for a moment into Conyngham’s +eyes, and then shook hands with him. He did not disguise the hesitation, +which was apparent to both Estella and the Englishman. + +‘How were you wounded?’ he asked. + +‘I was stabbed in the back on the Toledo road, ten miles from here.’ + +‘Not by a robber—not for your money?’ + +‘No one ever hated me or cared for me on that account,’ laughed +Conyngham. + +‘Then who did it?’ asked General Vincente, unbuttoning his gloves. + +Conyngham hesitated. + +‘A man with whom I quarrelled on the road,’ he made reply; but it was no +answer at all, as hearers and speaker alike recognised in a flash of +thought. + +‘He left me for dead on the road, but a carter picked me up and brought +me to Madrid, to the hospital of the Hermanas, where I have been ever +since.’ + +There were flowers on the table, and the General stooped over them with a +delicate appreciation of their scent. He was a great lover of flowers, +and indeed had a sense of the beautiful quite out of keeping with the +colour of his coat. + +‘You must beware,’ he said, ‘now that you wear the Queen’s uniform. +There is treachery abroad, I fear. Even I have had an anonymous letter +of warning.’ + +‘I should like to know who wrote it,’ exclaimed Conyngham, with a sudden +flash of anger in his eyes. The General laughed pleasantly. + +‘So should I,’ he said. ‘Merely as a matter of curiosity.’ + +And he turned towards the door, which was opened at this moment by a +servant. + +‘A gentleman wishing to see me—an Englishman, as it would appear,’ he +continued, looking at the card. + +‘By the way,’ said Conyngham, as the General moved away, ‘I am instructed +to inform you that I am attached to your staff as extra aide-de-camp +during your stay in Madrid.’ + +The General nodded and left Estella and Conyngham alone in the +drawing-room. Conyngham turned on Estella. + +‘So that I have a right to be near you,’ he said, ‘which is all that I +want.’ + +He spoke lightly enough, as was his habit; but Estella, who was wise in +those matters that women know, preferred not to meet his eyes, which were +grave and deep. + +‘Such things are quickly said,’ Estella retorted. + +‘Yes—and it takes a long time to prove them.’ + +The General had left his gloves on the table. Estella took them up and +appeared to be interested in them. ‘Perhaps a lifetime,’ she suggested. + +‘I ask no less, señorita.’ + +‘Then you ask much.’ + +‘And I give all—though that is little enough.’ + +They spoke slowly—not bandying words but exchanging thoughts. Estella +was grave. Conyngham’s attitude was that which he ever displayed to the +world—namely, one of cheerful optimism, as behoved a strong man who had +not yet known fear. + +‘Is it too little, señorita?’ he asked. + +She was sitting at the table and would not look up—neither would she +answer his question. He was standing quite close to her—upright in his +bright uniform, his hand on his sword—and all her attention was fixed on +the flowers which had called forth the General’s unspoken admiration. +She touched them with fingers hardly lighter than his. + +‘Now that I think of it,’ said Conyngham after a pause, ‘what I give is +nothing.’ + +Estella’s face wore a queer little smile, as of a deeper knowledge. + +‘Nothing at all,’ continued the Englishman. ‘For I have nothing to give, +and you know nothing of me.’ + +‘Three months ago,’ answered Estella, ‘we had never heard of you—and you +had never seen me,’ she added, with a little laugh. + +‘I have seen nothing else since,’ Conyngham replied deliberately; ‘for I +have gone about the world a blind man.’ + +‘In three months one cannot decide matters that affect a whole lifetime,’ +said the girl. + +‘This matter decided itself in three minutes, so far as I am concerned, +señorita, in the old palace at Ronda. It is a matter that time is +powerless to affect one way or the other.’ + +‘With some people; but you are hasty and impetuous. My father said it of +you—and he is never mistaken.’ + +‘Then you do not trust me, señorita?’ + +Estella had turned away her face so that he could only see her mantilla +and the folds of her golden hair gleaming through the black lace. She +shrugged her shoulders. + +‘It is not due to yourself, nor to all who know you in Spain, if I do,’ +she said. + +‘All who know me?’ + +‘Yes,’ she continued; ‘Father Concha, Señora Barenna, my father, and +others at Ronda.’ + +‘Ah! And what leads them to mistrust me?’ + +‘Your own actions,’ replied Estella. + +And Conyngham was too simple-minded, too inexperienced in such matters, +to understand the ring of anxiety in her voice. + +‘I do not much mind what the rest of the world thinks of me,’ he said; ‘I +have never owed anything to the world nor asked anything from it. They +are welcome to think what they like. But with you it is different. Is +it possible, señorita, to make you trust me?’ + +Estella did not answer at once. After a pause she gave an indifferent +jerk of the head. + +‘Perhaps,’ she said. + +‘If it is possible, I will do it.’ + +‘It is quite easy,’ she answered, raising her head and looking out of the +window with an air that seemed to indicate that her interests lay without +and not in this room at all. + +‘How can I do it?’ + +She gave a short, hard laugh, which to experienced ears would have +betrayed her instantly. + +‘By showing me the letter you wrote to Julia Barenna,’ she said. + +‘I cannot do that.’ + +‘No,’ she said significantly. A woman fighting for her own happiness is +no sparing adversary. + +‘Will nothing else than the sight of that letter satisfy you, señorita?’ + +Her profile was turned towards him—delicate and proud, with the perfect +chiselling of outline that only comes with a long descent, and bespeaks +the blood of gentle ancestors. For Estella Vincente had in her veins +blood that was counted noble in Spain—the land of a bygone glory. + +‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘Though the question of my being satisfied is +hardly of importance. You asked me to trust you, and you make it +difficult by your actions. In return I ask a proof, that is all.’ + +‘Do you want to trust me?’ + +He had come a little closer to her, and was grave enough now. + +‘Why do you ask that?’ she inquired in a low voice. + +‘Do you want to trust me?’ he asked, and it is to be supposed that he was +able to detect an infinitesimal acquiescent movement of her head. + +‘Then, if that letter is in existence, you shall have it,’ he said. ‘You +say that my actions have borne evidence against me. I shall trust to +action and not to words to refute that evidence. But you must give me +time—will you do that?’ + +‘You always ask something.’ + +‘Yes, señorita, from you; but from no one else in the world.’ + +He gave a sudden laugh and walked to the window, where he stood looking +at her. + +‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘I shall be asking all my life from you. Perhaps +that is why we were created, señorita—I to ask, you to give. Perhaps +that is happiness, Estella.’ + +She raised her eyes but did not meet his, looking past him through the +open window. The hotel was situated at the lower end of the Puerta del +Sol—the quiet end, and farthest removed from the hum of the market and +the busy sounds of traffic. These only came in the form of a distant +hum, like the continuous roar of surf upon an unseen shore. Below the +windows a passing waterseller plied his trade, and his monotonous cry of +‘Agua-a-a! Agua-a-a!’ rose like a wail—like the voice of one crying in +that human wilderness where solitude reigns as surely as in the desert. + +For a moment Estella glanced at Conyngham gravely, and his eyes were no +less serious. They were not the first, but only two out of many +millions, to wonder what happiness is and where it hides in this busy +world. + +They had not spoken or moved when the door was again opened by a servant, +who bowed towards Conyngham and then stood aside to allow ingress to one +who followed on his heels. This was a tall man, white-haired, and white +of face. Indeed, his cheeks had the dead pallor of paper, and seemed to +be drawn over the cheekbones at such tension as gave to the skin a polish +like that of fine marble. One sees many such faces in London streets, +and they usually indicate suffering, either mental or physical. + +The stranger came forward with a perfect lack of embarrassment, which +proved him to be a man of the world. His bow to Estella clearly +indicated that his business lay with Conyngham. He was the incarnation +of the Continental ideal of the polished cold Englishman, and had the air +of a diplomate such as this country sends to foreign Courts to praise or +blame, to declare friendship or war with the same calm suavity and +imperturbable politeness. + +‘I come from General Vincente,’ he said to Conyngham, ‘who will follow in +a moment, when he has despatched some business which detains him. I have +a letter to the General, and am, in fact, in need of his assistance.’ + +He broke off, turning to Estella, who was moving towards the door. + +‘I was especially instructed,’ he said quickly to her, ‘to ask you not to +leave us. You were, I believe, at school with my nieces in England, and +when my business, which is of the briefest, is concluded, I have messages +to deliver to you from Mary and Amy Mainwaring.’ + +Estella smiled a little and resumed her seat. Then the stranger turned +to Conyngham. + +‘The General told me,’ he went on in his cold voice, without a gleam of +geniality or even of life in his eyes, ‘that if I followed the servant to +the drawing-room I should find here an English aide-de-camp who is fully +in his confidence, and upon whose good-nature and assistance I could +rely.’ + +‘I am for the time General Vincente’s aide-de-camp, and I am an +Englishman,’ answered Conyngham. + +The stranger bowed. + +‘I did not explain my business to General Vincente,’ said he, ‘who asked +me to wait until he came, and then tell the story to you both at one +time. In the meantime I was to introduce myself to you.’ + +Conyngham waited in silence. + +‘My name is Sir John Pleydell,’ said the stranger quietly. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +IN HONOUR + + + ‘He makes no friend who never made a foe.’ + +CONYNGHAM remembered the name of Pleydell well enough, and glanced +sharply at Estella, recollecting that the General received the ‘Times’ +from London. Before he had time to make an answer, and indeed he had +none ready, the General came into the room. + +‘Ah!’ said Vincente in his sociable manner, ‘I see you know each other +already—so an introduction is superfluous. And now we will have Sir +John’s story. Be seated, my dear sir. But first—a little refreshment. +It is a dusty day—a lemonade?’ + +Sir John declined, his manner strikingly cold and reserved beside the +genial _empressement_ of General Vincente. In truth the two men seemed +to belong to opposite poles—the one of cold and the other of heat. Sir +John had the chill air of one who had mixed among his fellow men only to +see their evil side; for the world is a cold place to those that look on +it with a chilling glance. General Vincente, on the other hand, whose +life had been passed in strife and warfare, seemed ready to welcome all +comers as friends and to hold out the hand of good-fellowship to rich and +poor alike. + +Conyngham shrugged his shoulders with a queer smile. Here was a quandary +requiring a quicker brain than his. He did not even attempt to seek a +solution to his difficulties, and the only thought in his mind was a +characteristic determination to face them courageously. He drew forward +a chair for Sir John Pleydell, his heart stirred with that sense of +exhilaration which comes to some in moments of peril. + +‘I will not detain you long,’ began the new-comer, with an air slightly +suggestive of the law court, ‘but there are certain details which I am +afraid I must inflict upon you, in order that you may fully understand my +actions.’ + +The remark was addressed to General Vincente, although the speaker +appeared to be demanding Conyngham’s attention in the first instance. +The learned gentlemen of the Bar thus often address the jury through the +ears of the judge. + +General Vincente had seated himself at the table and was drawing his +scented pocket-handkerchief across his moustache reflectively. He was +not, it was obvious, keenly interested, although desirous of showing +every politeness to the stranger. In truth, such Englishmen as brought +their affairs to Spain at this time were not as a rule highly desirable +persons or a credit to their country. Estella was sitting near the +window, rather behind her father, and Conyngham stood by the fireplace, +facing them all. + +‘You perhaps know something of our English politics,’ continued Sir John +Pleydell, and the General making a little gesture indicative of a limited +but sufficient knowledge, went on to say—‘of the Chartists more +particularly?’ + +The General bowed. Estella glanced at Conyngham, who was smiling. + +‘One cannot call them a party, as I have heard them designated in Spain,’ +said Sir John parenthetically. ‘They are quite unworthy of so +distinguished a name. These Chartists consist of the most ignorant +people in the land—the rabble, in fact, headed by a few scheming +malcontents: professional agitators who are not above picking the pockets +of the poor. Many capitalists and landowners have suffered wrong and +loss at the hands of these disturbers of the peace, none—’ He paused and +gave a sharp sigh which seemed to catch him unawares, and almost +suggested that the man had, after all, or had at one time possessed, a +heart. ‘None more severely than myself,’ he concluded. + +The General’s face instantly expressed the utmost concern. + +‘My dear sir,’ he murmured. + +‘For many years,’ continued Sir John hurriedly, as if resenting anything +like sympathy, as all good Britons do, ‘the authorities acted in an +irresolute and foolish manner, not daring to put down the disturbances +with a firm hand. At length, however, a riot of a more serious character +at a town in Wales necessitated the interference of the military. The +ringleaders were arrested, and for some time the authorities were in +considerable doubt as to what to do to them. I interested myself +strongly in the matter—having practised the law in my younger days—and +was finally enabled to see my object carried out. These men were +arraigned, not as mere brawlers and rioters, but under a charge of high +treason—a much more serious affair for them.’ + +He broke off with a harsh laugh, which was only a matter of the voice, +for his marble face remained unchanged, and probably had not at any time +the power of expressing mirth. + +‘The ringleaders of the Newport riots were sentenced to long terms of +imprisonment, which served my purpose excellently.’ + +Sir John Pleydell spoke with that cynical frankness which seems often to +follow upon a few years devoted to practice at the Common Law Bar, where +men in truth spend their days in dissecting the mental diseases of their +fellow creatures, and learn to conclude that a pure and healthy mind is +possessed by none. He moved slightly in his chair, and seemed to +indicate that he had made his first point. + +‘I hope,’ he said, addressing Conyngham directly, ‘that I am not +fatiguing you?’ + +‘Not at all,’ returned the younger Englishman coolly; ‘I am much +interested.’ + +The General was studying the texture of his pocket-handkerchief. +Estella’s face had grown cold and set. Her eyes from time to time turned +towards Conyngham. Sir John Pleydell was not creating a good impression. + +‘I will now come to the more personal part of my story,’ went on that +gifted speaker, ‘and proceed to explain my reason for inflicting it upon +you.’ + +He still spoke directly to Conyngham, who bowed his head in silence, with +the queer smile still hovering on his lips. Estella saw it and drew a +sharp breath. In the course of her short life, which had almost been +spent in the midst of warfare, she had seen men in danger more than once, +and perhaps recognised that smile. + +‘I particularly beg your attention,’ explained Sir John to Conyngham, +‘because I understand from General Vincente that you are in reality +attached to the staff of General Espartero, and it is to him that I look +for help.’ + +Sir John paused again. He had established another point. One almost +expected to see him raise his hand to his shoulder to throw back the +silken gown. + +‘Some months ago,’ he went on, ‘these Chartists attacked my house in the +North of England, and killed my son.’ + +There was a short silence, and the General muttered a curt and polite +Spanish oath under his breath. But somehow the speaker had failed to +make that point, and he hurried on. + +‘It was not, technically speaking, a murder; my boy, who had a fine +spirit, attacked the rioters, and a clever counsel might have got a +verdict for the scoundrel who actually struck the blow. I knew this, and +awaited events. I did not even take steps against the man who killed my +son—an only son and child. It was not, from a legal point of view, worth +while.’ + +He laughed his unpleasant laugh again and presently went on. + +‘Fortune, however, favoured me. The trouble grew worse, and the Newport +riots at last aroused the Government. The sentence upon the ringleaders +gave me my opportunity. It was worth while to hunt down the murderer of +my son when I could ensure him sixteen or twenty years’ penal servitude.’ + +‘Quite,’ said the General; ‘quite.’ And he smiled. He seemed to fail to +realise that Sir John Pleydell was in deadly earnest, and really +harboured the implacable spirit of revenge with which he cynically +credited himself. + +‘I traced my man to Gibraltar, and thence he appears to have come north,’ +continued Sir John Pleydell. ‘He has probably taken service under +Espartero—many of our English outlaws wear the Spanish Queen’s uniform. +He is, of course, bearing an assumed name; but surely it would be +possible to trace him?’ + +‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham, ‘I think you will be able to find him.’ + +Sir John’s eyes had for a moment a gleam of life in them. + +‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I am glad to hear you say that. For that is my object in +coming to this country; and although I have during the course of my life +had many objects of ambition or desire, none of them has so entirely +absorbed my attention as this one. Half a dozen men have gone to penal +servitude in order that I might succeed in my purpose.’ + +There was a cold deliberation in this statement which was more cruel than +cynicism, for it was sincere. Conyngham looked at Estella. Her face had +lost all colour, her eyes were burning—not with the dull light of fear, +for the blood that ran in her veins had no taint of that in it—but with +anger. She knew who it was that Sir John Pleydell sought. She looked at +Conyngham, and his smile of cool intrepidity made her heart leap within +her breast. This lover of hers was at all events a brave man—and that +which through all the ages reaches the human heart most surely is +courage. The coward has no friends. + +Sir John Pleydell had paused, and was seeking something in his pocket. +General Vincente preserved his attitude of slightly bored attention. + +‘I have here,’ went on the baronet, ‘a list of the English officers +serving in the army of General Espartero at the time of my quitting +England. Perhaps you will, at your leisure, be kind enough to cast your +eye over it, and make a note of such men as are personally unknown to +you, and may therefore be bearing assumed names.’ + +Conyngham took the paper, and, holding it in his hand, spoke without +moving from the mantelpiece against which he leant. + +‘You have not yet made quite clear your object in coming to Spain,’ he +said. ‘There exists between Spain and England no extradition treaty; and +even if such were to come in force I believe that persons guilty of +political offences would be exempt from its action. You propose to +arraign this man for high treason—a political offence according to the +law of many countries.’ + +‘You speak like a lawyer,’ said Sir John, with a laugh. + +‘You have just informed us,’ retorted Conyngham, ‘that all the English in +the Spanish service are miscreants. None know the law so intimately as +those who have broken it.’ + +‘Ah!’ laughed Sir John again, with a face of stone. ‘There are +exceptions to all rules—and you, young sir, are an exception to that +which I laid down as regards our countrymen in Spain, unless my +experience of faces and knowledge of men play me very false. But your +contention is a just one. I am not in a position to seek the aid of the +Spanish authorities in this matter. I am fully aware of the fact. You +surely did not expect me to come to Spain with such a weak case as that?’ + +‘No,’ answered Conyngham slowly, ‘I did not.’ + +Sir John Pleydell raised his eyes and looked at his fellow countryman +with a dawning interest. The General also looked up, from one face to +the other. The atmosphere of the room seemed to have undergone a sudden +change, and to be dominated by the personality of these two Englishmen. +The one will, strong on the surface, accustomed to assert itself and +dominate, seemed suddenly to have found itself faced by another as strong +and yet hidden behind an easy smile and indolent manner. + +‘You are quite right,’ he went on in his cold voice. ‘I have a better +case than that, and one eminently suited to a country such as Spain, +where a long war has reduced law and order to a somewhat low ebb. I at +first thought of coming here to await my chance of shooting this man—his +name, by the way, is Frederick Conyngham; but circumstances placed a +better vengeance within my grasp—one that will last longer.’ + +He paused for a moment to reflect upon this long-drawn-out expiation. + +‘I propose to get my man home to England, and let him there stand his +trial. The idea is not my own; it has, in fact, been carried out +successfully before now. Once in England I shall make it my business to +see that he gets twenty years’ penal servitude.’ + +‘And how do you propose to get him to England?’ asked Conyngham. + +‘Oh! that is simple enough. Only a matter of paying a couple of such +scoundrels as I understand abound in Spain at this moment—a little +bribing of officials, a heavy fee to some English ship-captain. I +propose, in short, to kidnap Frederick Conyngham. But I do not ask you +to help me in that. I only ask you to put me on his track—to help me to +find him, in fact. Will you do it?’ + +‘Certainly,’ said Conyngham, coming forward with a card in his hand. +‘You could not have come to a better man.’ + +Sir John Pleydell read the card, and had himself in such control that his +face hardly changed. His teeth closed over his lower lip for a second; +then he rose. The perspiration stood out on his face—the grey of his +eyes seemed to have faded to the colour of ashes. He looked hard at +Conyngham, and then, taking up his hat, went to the door with curious, +uneven steps. On the threshold he turned. + +‘Your insolence,’ he said breathlessly, ‘is only exceeded by +your—daring.’ + +As the door closed behind him there came, from that part of the room +where General Vincente sat, a muffled click of steel, as if a sword half +out of its scabbard had been sent softly home again. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +IN MADRID + + + ‘Some keepeth silence knowing his time.’ + +‘WHO travels slowly may arrive too late,’ said the Padre Concha, with a +pessimistic shake of the head, as the carrier’s cart in which he had come +from Toledo drew up in the Plazuela de la Cebada at Madrid. The careful +penury of many years had not, indeed, enabled the old priest to travel by +the quick diligences, which had often passed him on the road with a cloud +of dust and the rattle of six horses. The great journey had been +accomplished in the humbler vehicles plying from town to town, that ran +as often as not by night in order to save the horses. + +The priest, like his fellow-travellers, was white with dust. Dust +covered his cloak so that its original hue of rusty black was quite lost. +Dust coated his face and nestled in the deep wrinkles of it. His +eyebrows were lost to sight, and his lashes were like those of a miller. + +As he stood in the street the dust arose in whirling columns and +enveloped all who were abroad; for a gale was howling across the +tableland, which the Moors of old had named ‘Majerit’—a draught of wind. +The conductor, who, like a good and jovial conductor, had never refused +an offer of refreshment on the road, was now muddled with drink and the +heat of the sun. He was, in fact, engaged in a warm controversy with a +passenger. So the Padre found his own humble portmanteau, a thing of +cardboard and canvas, and trudged up the Calle de Toledo, bearing the bag +in one hand and his cloak in the other—a lean figure in the sunlight. + +Father Concha had been in Madrid before, though he rarely boasted of it, +or indeed of any of his travels. + +‘The wise man does not hang his knowledge on a hook,’ he was in the habit +of saying. + +That this knowledge was of that useful description which is usually +designated as knowing one’s way about, soon became apparent; for the +dusty traveller passed with unerring steps through the narrower streets +that lie between the Calle de Toledo and the street of Segovia. Here +dwell the humbler citizens of Madrid, persons engaged in the small +commerce of the market-place, for in the Plazuela de la Cebada a hundred +yards away is held the corn market, which, indeed, renders the dust in +this quarter particularly trying to the eyes. Once or twice the priest +was forced to stop at the corner of two streets and there do battle with +the wind. + +‘But it is a hurricane,’ he muttered; ‘a hurricane.’ + +With one hand he held his hat, with the other clung to his cloak and +portmanteau. + +‘But it will blow the dust from my poor old capa,’ he added, giving the +cloak an additional shake. + +He presently found himself in a street which, if narrower than its +neighbours, smelt less pestiferous. The open drain that ran down the +middle of it pursued its varied course with a quite respectable speed. +In the middle of the street Father Concha paused and looked up, nodding +as if to an old friend at the sight of a dingy piece of palm bound to the +ironwork of a balcony on the second floor. + +‘The time to wash off the dust,’ he muttered as he climbed the narrow +stairs, ‘and then to work.’ + +An hour later he was afoot again in a quarter of the city which was less +known to him—namely, in the Calle Preciados, where he sought a venta more +or less suspected by the police. The wind had risen, and was now blowing +with the force of a hurricane. It came from the north-west with a chill +whistle which bespoke its birthplace among the peaks of the Gaudarramas. +The streets were deserted; the oil lamps swung on their chains at the +street corners, casting weird shadows that swept over the face of the +houses with uncanny irregularity. It was an evening for evil deeds, +except that when Nature is in an ill-humour human nature is mostly cowed, +and those who have bad consciences cannot rid their minds of thoughts of +the hereafter. + +The priest found the house he sought, despite the darkness of the street +and the absence of any from whom to elicit information. The venta was on +the ground-floor, and above it towered storey after storey, built with +the quaint fantasy of the middle ages, and surmounted by a deep, +overhanging gabled roof. The house seemed to have two staircases of +stone and two doors—one on each side of the venta. There is a Spanish +proverb which says that the rat which has only one hole is soon caught. +Perhaps the architect remembered this, and had built his house to suit +his tenants. It was on the fifth floor of this tenement that Father +Concha, instructed by Heaven knows what priestly source of information, +looked to meet with Sebastian, the whilom bodyservant of the late Colonel +Monreal of Xeres. + +It was known among a certain section of the Royalists that this man had +papers and perchance some information of value to dispose of, and more +than one respectable, black-clad elbow had brushed the greasy walls of +this staircase. Sebastian, it was said, passed his time in drinking and +smoking. The boasted gaieties of Madrid had, it would appear, diminished +to this sordid level of dissipation. + +The man was, indeed, thus occupied when the old priest opened the door of +his room. + +‘Yes,’ he answered in a thick voice, ‘I am Sebastian of Xeres, and no +other; the man who knows more of the Carlist plots than any other in +Madrid.’ + +‘Can you read?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Then you know nothing,’ said the Padre. ‘You have, however, a letter in +a pink envelope which a friend of mine desires to possess. It is a +letter of no importance, of no political value—a love letter, in fact.’ + +‘Ah, yes! Ah, yes! That may be, reverendo. But there are others who +want it—your love letter.’ + +‘I offer you, on the part of my friend, a hundred pesetas for this +letter.’ + +The priest’s wrinkled face wore a grim smile. It was so little—a hundred +pesetas, the price of a dinner for two persons at one of the great +restaurants on the Puerta del Sol. But to Father Concha the sum +represented five hundred cups of black coffee denied to himself in the +evening at the café—five hundred packets of cigarettes, so-called of +Havana, unsmoked—two new cassocks in the course of twenty years—a hundred +little gastronomic delights sternly resisted season after season. + +‘Not enough, your hundred pesetas, reverendo, not enough,’ laughed the +man. And Concha, who could drive as keen a bargain as any market-woman +of Ronda, knew by the manner of saying it that Sebastian only spoke the +truth when he said that he had other offers. + +‘See, reverendo,’ the man went on, leaning across the table and banging a +dirty fist upon it, ‘come to-night at ten o’clock. There are others +coming at the same hour to buy my letter in the pink envelope. We will +have an auction, a little auction, and the letter goes to the highest +bidder. But what does your reverence want with a love letter, eh?’ + +‘I will come,’ said the Padre, and, turning, he went home to count his +money once more. + +There are many living still who remember the great gale of wind which was +now raging, and through which Father Concha struggled back to the Calle +Preciados as the city clocks struck ten. Old men and women still tell +how the theatres were deserted that night and the great cafés wrapt in +darkness. For none dare venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion. +Concha, however, with that lean strength that comes from a life of +abstemiousness and low-living, crept along in the shadow of the houses +and reached his destination unhurt. The tall house in the alley leading +from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa Maria was dark, as indeed +were most of the streets of Madrid this night. A small moon struggled, +however, through the riven clouds at times, and cast streaks of light +down the narrow streets. Concha caught sight of the form of a man in the +alley before him. The priest carried no weapon, but he did not pause. +At this moment a gleam of light aided him. + +‘Señor Conyngham!’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’ + +And the Englishman turned sharply on his heel. + +‘Is that you—Father Concha, of Ronda?’ he asked. + +‘No other, my son.’ + +Standing in the doorway Conyngham held out his hand with that air of +good-fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal Spaniards. + +‘Hardly the night for respectable elderly gentlemen of your cloth to be +in the streets,’ he said; whereat Concha, who had a keen appreciation of +such small pleasantries, laughed grimly. + +‘And I have not even the excuse of my cloth. I am abroad on worldly +business, and not even my own. I will be honest with you, Señor +Conyngham. I am here to buy that malediction of a letter in a pink +envelope. You remember—in the garden at Ronda, eh?’ + +‘Yes, I remember; and why do you want that letter?’ + +‘For the sake of Julia Barenna.’ + +‘Ah! I want it for the sake of Estella Vincente.’ + +Concha laughed shortly. + +‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is only up to the age of twenty-five that men +imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world. But we need not bid +against each other, my son. Perhaps a sight of the letter before I +destroy it would satisfy the señorita.’ + +‘No, we need not bid against each other,’ began Conyngham; but the priest +dragged him back into the doorway with a quick whisper of ‘Silence!’ + +Someone was coming down the other stairway of the tall house, with slow +and cautious steps. Conyngham and his companion drew back to the foot of +the stairs and waited. It became evident that he who descended the steps +did so without a light. At the door he seemed to stop, probably making +sure that the narrow alley was deserted. A moment later he hurried past +the door where the two men stood. The moon was almost clear, and by its +light both the watchers recognised Larralde in a flash of thought. The +next instant Esteban Larralde was running for his life with Frederick +Conyngham on his heels. + +The lamp at the corner of the Calle Preciados had been shattered against +the wall by a gust of wind, and both men clattered through a slough of +broken glass. Down the whole length of the Preciados but one lamp was +left alight, and the narrow street was littered with tiles and fallen +bricks, for many chimneys had been blown down, and more than one shutter +lay in the roadway, torn from its hinges by the hurricane. It was at the +risk of life that any ventured abroad at this hour and amid the whirl of +falling masonry. Larralde and Conyngham had the Calle Preciados to +themselves—and Larralde cursed his spurs, which rang out at each +footfall, and betrayed his whereabouts. + +A dozen times the Spaniard fell, but before his pursuer could reach him, +the same obstacle threw Conyngham to the ground. A dozen times some +falling object crashed to earth on the Spaniard’s heels, and the +Englishman leapt aside to escape the rebound. Larralde was fleet of foot +despite his meagre limbs, and leapt over such obstacles as he could +perceive, with the agility of a monkey. He darted into the lighted +doorway—the entrance to the palatial mansion of an upstart politician. +The large doors were thrown open, and the hall-porter stood in full +livery awaiting the master’s carriage. Larralde was already in the +patio, and Conyngham ran through the marble-paved entrance hall, before +the porter realised what was taking place. There was no second exit as +the fugitive had hoped—so it was round the patio and out again into the +dark street, leaving the hall-porter dumfoundered. + +Larralde turned sharply to the right as soon as he gained the Calle +Preciados. It was a mere alley running the whole way round a church—and +here again was solitude, but not silence, for the wind roared among the +chimneys overhead as it roars through a ship’s rigging at sea. The Calle +Preciados again! and a momentary confusion among the tables of a café +that stood upon the pavement, amid upturned chairs and a fallen, flapping +awning. The pace was less killing now, but Larralde still held his +own—one hand clutched over the precious letter regained at last—and +Conyngham was conscious of a sharp pain where the Spaniard’s knife had +touched his lung. + +Larralde ran mechanically with open mouth and staring eyes. He never +doubted that death was at his heels, should he fail to distance the +pursuer. For he had recognised Conyngham in the patio of the great +house, and as he ran the vague wonder filled his mind whether the +Englishman carried a knife. What manner of death would it be if that +long arm reached him? Esteban Larralde was afraid. His own life—Julia’s +life—the lives of a whole Carlist section were at stake. The history of +Spain, perhaps of Europe, depended on the swiftness of his foot. + +The little crescent moon was shining clearly now between the long-drawn +rifts of the rushing clouds. Larralde turned to the right again, up a +narrow street which seemed to promise a friendly darkness. The ascent +was steep, and the Spaniard gasped for breath as he ran—his legs were +becoming numb. He had never been in this street before, and knew not +whither it led. But it was at all events dark and deserted. Suddenly he +fell upon a heap of bricks and rubbish, a whole stack of chimneys. He +could smell the soot. Conyngham was upon him, touched him, but failed to +get a grip. Larralde was afoot in an instant, and fell heavily down the +far side of the barricade. He gained a few yards again, and, before +Conyngham’s eyes, was suddenly swallowed up in a black mass of falling +masonry. It was more than a chimney this time; nothing less than a whole +house carried bodily to the ground by the fall of the steeple of the +church of Santa Maria del Monte. Conyngham stopped dead, and threw his +arms over his head. The crash was terrific, deafening—and for a few +moments the Englishman was stunned. He opened his eyes and closed them +again, for the dust and powdered mortar whirled round him like smoke. +Almost blinded, he crept back by the way he had come, and the street was +already full of people. In the Calle Preciados he sat down on a +door-step, and there waited until he had gained mastery over his limbs, +which shook still. Presently he made his way back to the house where he +had left Concha. + +The man Sebastian had, a week earlier, seen and recognised Conyngham as +the bearer of the letter addressed to Colonel Monreal, and left at that +officer’s lodging in Xeres at the moment of his death in the streets. +Sebastian approached Conyngham, and informed him that he had in his +possession sundry papers belonging to the late Colonel Monreal, which +might be of value to a Royalist. This was, therefore, not the first time +that Conyngham had climbed the narrow stairs of the tall house with two +doors. + +He found Concha busying himself by the bedside, where Sebastian lay in +the unconsciousness of deep drink. + +‘He has probably been drugged,’ said the priest. ‘Or, he may be dying. +What is more important to us is, that the letter is not here. I have +searched. Larralde escaped you?’ + +‘Yes; and of course has the letter.’ + +‘Of course, amigo.’ + +The priest looked at the prostrate man with a face of profound contempt, +and, shrugging his shoulders, went towards the door. + +‘Come,’ he said, ‘I must return to Toledo and Julia. It is thither that +this Larralde always returns, and she, poor woman, believes in him. Ah, +my friend’—he paused and shook his long finger at Conyngham. ‘When a +woman believes in a man she makes him or mars him; there is no medium.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +IN TOLEDO + + + ‘Meddle not with many matters; for if thou meddle much thou shalt not + be innocent.’ + +THE Café of the Ambassadeurs in the Calle de la Montera was at this time +the fashionable resort of visitors to the city of Madrid. Its tone was +neither political nor urban, but savoured rather of the cosmopolitan. +The waiters at the first-class hotels recommended the Café of the +Ambassadeurs, and stepped round to the manager’s office at the time of +the New Year to mention the fact. + +Sir John Pleydell had been rather nonplussed by his encounter with +Conyngham, and, being a man of the world as well as a lawyer, sat down, +as it were, to think. He had come to Spain in the first heat of a great +revenge, and such men as he take, like the greater volcanoes, a long time +to cool down. He had been prepossessed in the favour of the man who +subsequently owned to being Frederick Conyngham. And the very manner in +which this admission was made redounded in some degree to the honour of +the young Englishman. Here, at least, was one who had no fear, and +fearlessness appeals to the heart of every Briton from the peer to the +navvy. + +Sir John took a certain cold interest in his surroundings, and in due +course was recommended to spend an evening at the Café des Ambassadeurs, +as it styled itself, for the habit of preferring French to Spanish +designations for places of refreshment had come in since the great +revolution. Sir John went, therefore, to the café, and with +characteristic scorn of elemental disturbance chose to resort thither on +the evening of the great gale. The few other occupants of the gorgeous +room eyed his half-bottle of claret with a grave and decorous wonder, but +made no attempt to converse with this chill-looking Englishman. At +length, about ten o’clock or a few minutes later, entered one who bowed +to Sir John with an air full of affable promise. This was Larralde, who +called a waiter and bade him fetch a coat-brush. + +‘Would you believe it, sir?’ he said, addressing Sir John in broken +English, ‘but I have just escaped a terrible death.’ + +He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands, and laughed +good-humouredly, after the manner of one who has no foes. + +‘The fall of a chimney—so—within a metre of my shoulder.’ He threw back +his cloak with a graceful swing of the arm and handed it to the waiter. +Then he drew forward a chair to the table occupied by Sir John, who +sipped his claret and bowed coldly. + +‘You must not think that Madrid is always like this,’ said Larralde. +‘But perhaps you know the city—’ + +‘No—this is my first visit.’ + +Larralde turned aside to give his order to the waiter. His movements +were always picturesque, and in the presence of Englishmen he had a habit +of accentuating those characteristics of speech and manner which are held +by our countrymen to be native to the Peninsula. There is nothing so +disarming as conventionality—and nothing less suspicious. Larralde +seemed ever to be a typical Spaniard—indolently polite, gravely +indifferent—a cigarette-smoking nonentity. + +They talked of topics of the day, and chiefly of that great event, the +hurricane, which was still raging. Larralde, whose habit it was to turn +his neighbour to account—a seed of greatness this!—had almost concluded +that the Englishman was useless when the conversation turned, as it was +almost bound to turn between these two, upon Conyngham. + +‘There are but few of your countrymen in Madrid at the moment,’ Larralde +had said. + +‘I know but one,’ was the guarded reply. + +‘And I also,’ said Larralde, flicking the ash from his cigarette. ‘A +young fellow who has made himself somewhat notorious in the Royalist +cause—a cause in which I admit I have no sympathy. His name is +Conyngham.’ + +Then a silence fell upon the two men, and over raised glasses they +glanced surreptitiously at each other. + +‘I know him,’ said Sir John at length, and the tone of his voice made +Larralde glance up with a sudden gleam in his eyes. There thus sprang +into existence between them the closest of all bonds—a common foe. + +‘The man has done me more than one ill-turn,’ said Larralde after a +pause, and he drummed on the table with his cigarette-stained fingers. + +Sir John, looking at him, coldly gauged the Spaniard with the deadly +skill of his calling. He noted that Larralde was poor and +ambitious—qualities that often raise the devil in a human heart when fate +brings them there together. He was not deceived by the picturesque +manner of Julia’s lover, but knew exactly how much was assumed of that +air of simple vanity to which Larralde usually treated strangers. He +probably gauged at one glance the depth of the man’s power for good or +ill, his sincerity, his possible usefulness. In the hands of Sir John +Pleydell, Larralde was the merest tool. + +They sat until long after midnight, and before they parted Sir John +Pleydell handed to his companion a roll of notes, which he counted +carefully and Larralde accepted with a grand air of condescension and +indifference. + +‘You know my address,’ said Sir John, with a slight suggestion of +masterfulness which had not been noticeable before the money changed +hands. ‘I shall remain at the same hotel.’ + +Larralde nodded his head. + +‘I shall remember it,’ he said. ‘And now I go to take a few hours’ rest. +I have had a hard day, and am as tired as a shepherd’s dog.’ + +And indeed the day had been busy enough. Señor Larralde hummed an air +between his teeth as he struggled against the fierce wind. + +Before dawn the gale subsided, and daylight broke with a clear, calm +freshness over the city, where sleep had been almost unknown during the +night. The sun had not yet risen when Larralde took the road on his +poor, thin black horse. He rode through the streets, still littered with +the _débris_ of fallen chimneys, slates, and shutters, with his head up +and his mind so full of the great schemes which gave him no rest, that he +never saw Concepçion Vara going to market with a basket on his arm and a +cigarette, unlighted, between his lips. Concepçion turned and watched +the horseman, shrugged his shoulders, and quietly followed until the +streets were left behind and there could no longer be any doubt that +Larralde was bound for Toledo. + +Thither, indeed, he journeyed throughout the day with a leisureliness +begotten of the desire to enter the ancient city after nightfall only. +Toledo was at this time the smouldering hotbed of those political +intrigues which some years later burst into flame, and resulted finally +in the expulsion of the Bourbons from the throne of Spain. Larralde was +sufficiently dangerous to require watching, and, like many of his kind, +considered himself of a greater importance than his enemies were pleased +to attach to him. The city of Toledo is, as many know, almost surrounded +by the rapid Tagus, and entrance to its narrow confine is only to be +gained by two gates. To pass either of these barriers in open day would +be to court a publicity singularly undesirable at this time, for Esteban +Larralde was slipping down the social slope, which gradual progress is +the hardest to arrest. If one is mounting there are plenty to help +him—those from above seeking to make unto themselves friends of the +mammon of unrighteousness; those from below hoping to tread in the +footsteps he may leave. Each step, however, of the upward progress has +to be gained at the expense of another. But on the descent there are +none to stay and many to push behind, while those in front make room +readily enough. Larralde had for the first time accepted a direct +monetary reward for his services. That this had been offered and +accepted in a polite Spanish manner as an advance of expenses to be +incurred was, of course, only natural under the circumstances, but the +fact remained that Esteban Larralde was no longer a picturesque +conspirator, serving a failing cause with that devotion which can only be +repaid later by high honours, and a post carrying with it emoluments of +proportionate value. He had, in fact, been paid in advance; which is the +surest sign of distrust upon one side or the other. + +The Barennas had been established at their house in Toledo some weeks, +and, for Julia, life had been dull enough. She had hastened northward, +knowing well that her lover’s intrigues must necessarily bring him to the +neighbourhood of the capital—perhaps to Toledo itself. Larralde had, +however, hitherto failed to come near her, and the news of the day +reported an increasing depression in the ranks of the Carlists. Indeed, +that cause seemed now at such a low ebb that the franker mercenaries were +daily drifting away to more promising scenes of warfare, while some +cynically accepted commissions in the army of Espartero. + +‘I always said that Don Carlos would fail if he employed such +men—as—well, as he does,’ Madame Barenna took more than one opportunity +of observing at this time, and her emphatic fan rapped the personal +application home. + +She had just made this remark for perhaps the sixth time one evening when +the door of the patio where she and Julia sat was thrown open, and +Larralde—the person indirectly referred to—came towards the ladies. He +was not afraid of Madame Barenna, and his tired face lightened visibly at +the sight of Julia. Concha was right. According to his lights Larralde +loved Julia. She, who knew every expression, noted the look in his face, +and her heart leapt within her breast. She had long secretly rejoiced +over the failure of the Carlist cause. Such, messieurs, is the ambition +of a woman for the man she really loves. + +Señora Barenna rose and held out her hand with a beaming smile. She was +rather bored that evening, and it was pleasant to imagine herself in the +midst of great political intrigues. + +‘We were wondering if you would come,’ she said. + +‘I am here—there—everywhere—but I always come back to the Casa Barenna,’ +he said gallantly. + +‘You look tired,’ said Julia quietly. ‘Where are you from?’ + +‘At the moment I am from Madrid. The city has been wrecked by a +tornado—I myself almost perished.’ + +He paused, shrugged his shoulders. + +‘What will you?’ he added carelessly. ‘What is life—a single life—in +Spain to-day?’ + +Julia winced. It is marvellous how an intelligent woman may blind +herself into absolute belief in one man. Señora Barenna shuddered. + +‘Blessed Heaven!’ she whispered. ‘Why does not someone do something?’ + +‘One does one’s best,’ answered Larralde, with his hand at his moustache. + +‘But yes!’ said Madame eagerly. She had a shrewd common sense, as many +apparently foolish women have, and probably put the right value on Señor +Larralde’s endeavours. Father Concha and the General were, however, far +away, and all women are time-servers. + +Larralde spoke of general news, and when he at length proposed to Julia +that they should take a ‘paseo’ in the garden the elder lady made no +objection. For some moments Julia was quite happy. She had schooled +herself into a sort of contentment in the hope that her turn would come +when ambition failed. Perhaps this moment had arrived. At all events, +Larralde acquitted himself well, and seemed sincere enough in his joy at +seeing her again. + +‘Do you love me?’ he asked suddenly. + +Julia gave a little laugh. Heaven has been opened by such a laugh ere +now, and men have seen for a moment the brightness of it. + +‘Enough to leave Spain for ever and live in another country?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Enough to risk something now for my sake?’ + +‘Enough to risk everything,’ she answered. + +‘I have tried to gain a great position for you,’ went on Larralde, ‘and +fortune has been against me. I have failed. The Carlist cause is dead, +Julia. Our chief has failed us—that is the truth of it. We set him up +as a king, but unless we hold him upright he falls. He is a man of +straw. We are making one last effort, as you know, but it is a dangerous +one, and we have had misfortunes. This pestilential Englishman! No one +may say how much he knows. He has had the letter too long in his +possession for our safety. But I have outwitted him this time.’ + +Larralde paused, and drew from his pocket the letter in the pink +envelope—somewhat soiled by its passage through the hands of Colonel +Monreal’s servant. + +‘It requires two more signatures and will then be complete,’ said the +upholder of Don Carlos. ‘We shall then make our “coup,” but we cannot +move while Conyngham remains in Spain. It would never do for me to—well, +to get shot at this moment.’ + +Julia breathed hard. + +‘And that is what Mr. Conyngham is endeavouring to bring about. In the +first place he wants this letter to show to Estella Vincente—some foolish +romance. In the second place he hates me, and seeks promotion in the +Royalist ranks. These Englishmen are unscrupulous. He tried to take my +life—only last night. I bear him no ill-feeling. _A la guerre comme à +la guerre_. My only intention is to get him quietly out of Spain. It +can be managed easily enough. Will you help me—to save my own life?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Julia. + +‘I want you to write a letter to Conyngham saying that you are tired of +political intrigue.’ + +‘Heaven knows that would be true enough,’ put in Julia. + +‘And that you will give him the letter he desires on the condition that +he promises to show it to no one but Estella Vincente and return it to +you. That you will also swear that it is the identical letter that he +handed to you in the General’s garden at Ronda. If Conyngham agrees, he +must meet you at the back of the Church of Santo Tome in the Calle Pedro +Martir here, in Toledo, next Monday evening at seven o’clock. Will you +write this letter, Julia?’ + +‘And Estella Vincente?’ inquired Julia. + +‘She will forget him in a week,’ laughed Larralde. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +CONCEPÇION TAKES THE ROAD + + + ‘Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.’ + +AFTER the great storm came a calm almost as startling. It seemed indeed +as if Nature stood abashed and silent before the results of her sudden +rage. Day after day the sun glared down from a cloudless sky, and all +Castile was burnt brown as a desert. In the streets of Madrid there +arose a hot dust and the subtle odour of warm earth that rarely meets the +nostrils in England. It savoured of India and other sun-steeped lands +where water is too precious to throw upon the roads. + +Those who could, remained indoors or in their shady patios until the heat +of the day was past; and such as worked in the open lay unchallenged in +the shade from midday till three o’clock. During those days military +operations were almost suspended, although the heads of departments were +busy enough in their offices. The confusion of war, it seemed, was past, +and the sore-needed peace was immediately turned to good account. The +army of the Queen Regent was indeed in an almost wrecked condition, and +among the field officers jealousy and backbiting, which had smouldered +through the war-time, broke out openly. General Vincente was rarely at +home, and Estella passed this time in quiet seclusion. Coming as she did +from Andalusia, she was accustomed to an even greater heat, and knew how +to avoid the discomfort of it. + +She was sitting one afternoon, with open windows and closed jalousies, +during the time of the siesta, when the servant announced Father Concha. + +The old priest came into the room wiping his brow with simple ill +manners. + +‘You have been hurrying and have no regard for the sun,’ said Estella. + +‘You need not find shelter for an old ox,’ replied Concha, seating +himself. ‘It is the young ones that expose themselves unnecessarily.’ + +Estella glanced at him sharply but said nothing. He sat, handkerchief in +hand, and stared at a shaft of sunlight that lay across the floor from a +gap in the jalousies. From the street under the windows came the distant +sounds of traffic and the cries of the vendors of water, fruit, and +newspapers. + +Father Concha looked puzzled, and seemed to be seeking his way out of a +difficulty. Estella sat back in her chair, half hidden by her +slow-waving, black fan. There is no pride so difficult as that which is +unconscious of its own existence, no heart so hard to touch as that which +has thrown its stake and asks neither sympathy nor admiration from the +outside world. Concha glanced at Estella and wondered if he had been +mistaken. There was in the old man’s heart, as indeed there is in nearly +all human hearts, a thwarted instinct. How many are there with maternal +instincts who have no children; how many a poet has been lost by the +crying need of hungry mouths! It was a thwarted instinct that made the +old priest busy himself with the affairs of other people, and always of +young people. + +‘I came hoping to see your father,’ he said at length, blandly +untruthful. ‘I have just seen Conyngham, in whom we are all interested, +I think. His lack of caution is singular. I have been trying to +persuade him not to do something most rash and imprudent. You remember +the incident in your garden at Ronda—a letter which he gave to Julia?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Estella quietly, ‘I remember.’ + +‘For some reason which he did not explain I understand that he is +desirous of regaining possession of that letter, and now Julia, writing +from Toledo, tells him that she will give it to him if he will go there +and fetch it. The Toledo road, as you will remember, is hardly to be +recommended to Mr. Conyngham.’ + +‘But Julia wishes him no harm,’ said Estella. + +‘My child, rarely trust a political man and never a political woman. If +Julia wished him to have the letter she could have sent it to him by +post. But Conyngham, who is all eagerness, must needs refuse to listen +to any argument, and starts this afternoon for Toledo—alone. He has not +even his servant Concepçion Vara, who has suddenly disappeared, and a +woman who claims to be the scoundrel’s wife from Algeciras has been +making inquiries at Conyngham’s lodging. A hen’s eyes are where her eggs +lie. I offered to go to Toledo with Conyngham, but he laughed at me for +a useless old priest, and said that the saddle would gall me.’ + +He paused, looking at her beneath his shaggy brows, knowing, as he had +always known, that this was a woman beyond his reach—cleverer, braver, of +a higher mind than her sisters—one to whom he might perchance tender some +small assistance, but nothing better. For women are wiser in their +generation than men, and usually know better what is for their own +happiness. Estella returned his glance with steady eyes. + +‘He has gone,’ said Concha. ‘I have not been sent to tell you that he is +going.’ + +‘I did not think that you had,’ she answered. + +‘Conyngham has enemies in this country,’ continued the priest, ‘and +despises them—a mistake to which his countrymen are singularly liable. +He has gone off on this foolish quest without preparation or precaution. +Toledo is, as you know, a hotbed of intrigue and dissatisfaction. All +the malcontents in Spain congregate there, and Conyngham would do well to +avoid their company. Who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas.’ + +He paused, tapping his snuffbox, and at that moment the door opened to +admit General Vincente. + +‘Oh! the Padre!’ cried the cheerful soldier. ‘But what a sun, eh? It is +cool here, however, and Estella’s room is always a quiet one.’ + +He touched her cheek affectionately, and drew forward a low chair wherein +he sat, carefully disposing of the sword that always seemed too large for +him. + +‘And what news has the Padre?’ he asked, daintily touching his brow with +his pocket-handkerchief. + +‘Bad,’ growled Concha, and then told his tale over again in a briefer, +blunter manner. ‘It all arises,’ he concluded, ‘from my pestilential +habit of interfering in the affairs of other people.’ + +‘No,’ said General Vincente; ‘it arises from Conyngham’s pestilential +habit of acquiring friends wherever he goes.’ + +The door was opened again, and a servant entered. + +‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘a man called Concepçion Vara, who desires a +moment.’ + +‘What did I tell you?’ said the General to Concha. ‘Another of +Conyngham’s friends. Spain is full of them. Let Concepçion Vara come to +this room.’ + +The servant looked slightly surprised, and retired. If, however, this +manner of reception was unusual, Concepçion was too finished a man of the +world to betray either surprise or embarrassment. By good fortune he +happened to be wearing a coat. His flowing unstarched shirt was as usual +spotless, he wore a flower in the ribbon of the hat carried jauntily in +his hand, and about his person in the form of handkerchief and faja were +those touches of bright colour by means of which he so irresistibly +attracted the eye of the fair. + +‘Excellency,’ he murmured, bowing on the threshold; ‘Reverendo,’ with one +step forward and a respectful semi-religious inclination of the head +towards Concha; ‘Señorita!’ The ceremony here concluded with a profound +obeisance to Estella full of gallantry and grave admiration. Then he +stood upright, and indicated by a pleasant smile that no one need feel +embarrassed, that in fact this meeting was most opportune. + +‘A matter of urgency, Excellency,’ he said confidentially to Vincente. +‘I have reason to suspect that one of my friends—in fact, the Señor +Conyngham, with whom I am at the moment in service—happens to be in +danger.’ + +‘Ah! what makes you suspect that, my friend?’ + +Concepçion waved his hand lightly, as if indicating that the news had +been brought to him by the birds of the air. + +‘When one goes into the café,’ he said, ‘one is not always so +particular—one associates with those who happen to be there—muleteers, +diligencia-drivers, bull-fighters, all and sundry, even contrabandistas.’ + +He made this last admission with a face full of pious toleration, and +Father Concha laughed grimly. + +‘That is true, my friend,’ said the General, hastening to cover the +priest’s little lapse of good manners, ‘and from these gentlemen—honest +enough in their way, no doubt—you have learnt—?’ + +‘That the Señor Conyngham has enemies in Spain.’ + +‘So I understand; but he has also friends?’ + +‘He has one,’ said Vara, taking up a fine, picturesque attitude, with his +right hand at his waist where the deadly knife was concealed in the rolls +of his faja. + +‘Then he is fortunate,’ said the General, with his most winning smile; +‘why do you come to me, my friend.’ + +‘I require two men,’ answered Concepçion airily, ‘that is all.’ + +‘Ah! What sort of men. Guardias Civiles?’ + +‘The Holy Saints forbid! Honest soldiers, if it please your Excellency. +The Guardia Civil! See you, Excellency.’ + +He paused, shaking his outspread hand from side to side, palm downwards, +fingers apart, as if describing a low level of humanity. + +‘A brutal set of men,’ he continued; ‘with the finger ever on the trigger +and the rifle ever loaded. Pam! and a life is taken—many of my +friends—at least, many persons I have met—in the café!’ + +‘It is better to give him his two men,’ put in Father Concha, in his +atrocious English, speaking to the General. ‘The man is honest in his +love of Conyngham, if in nothing else.’ + +‘And if I accord you these two men, my friend,’ said the General, from +whose face Estella’s eyes had never moved, ‘will you undertake that Mr. +Conyngham comes to no harm?’ + +‘I will arrange it,’ replied Concepçion, with an easy shrug of the +shoulders. ‘I will arrange it, never fear.’ + +‘You shall have two men,’ said General Vincente, drawing a writing-case +towards himself and proceeding to write the necessary order. ‘Men who +are known to me personally. You can rely upon them at all times.’ + +‘Since they are friends of his Excellency’s,’ interrupted Concepçion with +much condescension, ‘that suffices.’ + +‘He will require money,’ said Estella in English—her eyes bright and her +cheeks flushed. For she came of a fighting race, and her repose of +manner, the dignity which sat rather strangely on her slim young +shoulders, were only signs of that self-control which had been handed +down to her through the ages. + +The General nodded as he wrote. + +‘Take that to headquarters,’ he said, handing the papers to Concepçion, +‘and in less than half an hour your men will be ready. Mr. Conyngham is +a friend of mine, as you know, and any expenses incurred on his behalf +will be defrayed by myself—’ + +Concepçion held up his hand. + +‘It is unnecessary, Excellency,’ he said. ‘At present Mr. Conyngham has +funds. Only yesterday he gave me money. He liquidated my little +account. It has always been a jest between us—that little account.’ + +He laughed pleasantly, and moved towards the door. + +‘Vara,’ said Father Concha. + +‘Yes, reverendo.’ + +‘If I meet your wife in Madrid, what shall I say to her?’ + +Concepçion turned and looked into the smiling face of the old priest. + +‘In Madrid, reverendo? How can you think of such a thing? My wife lives +in Algeciras, and at times, see you—’ he stopped, casting his eyes up to +the ceiling and fetching an exaggerated sigh, ‘at times my heart aches. +But now I must get to the saddle. What a thing is Duty, reverendo! +Duty! God be with your Excellencies.’ + +And he hurried out of the room. + +‘If you would make a thief honest, trust him,’ said Concha, when the door +was closed. + +In less than an hour Concepçion was on the road accompanied by two +troopers, who were ready enough to travel in company with a man of his +reputation. For in Spain, if one cannot be a bull-fighter it is good to +be a smuggler. At sunset the great heat culminated in a thunderstorm, +which drew a veil of heavy cloud across the sky, and night fell before +its time. + +The horsemen had covered two-thirds of their journey when he whom they +followed came in sight of the lights of Toledo, set upon a rock like the +jewels in a lady’s ring, and almost surrounded by the swift Tagus. +Conyngham’s horse was tired, and stumbled more than once on the hill by +which the traveller descends to the great bridge and the gate that Wamba +built thirteen hundred years ago. + +Through this gate he passed into the city, which was a city of the dead, +with its hundred ruined churches, its empty palaces and silent streets. +Ichabod is written large over all these tokens of a bygone glory; where +the Jews flying from Jerusalem first set foot; where the Moor reigned +unmolested for nearly four hundred years; where the Goth and the Roman +and the great Spaniard of the middle ages have trod on each other’s +heels. Truly these worn stones have seen the greatness of the greatest +nations of the world. + +A single lamp hung slowly swinging in the arch of Wamba’s Gate, and the +streets were but ill lighted with an oil lantern at an occasional corner. +Conyngham had been in Toledo before, and knew his way to the inn under +the shadow of the great Alcazar, now burnt and ruined. Here he left his +horse; for the streets of Toledo are so narrow and tortuous, so ill-paved +and steep, that wheel traffic is almost unknown, while a horse can with +difficulty keep his feet on the rounded cobble stones. In this city men +go about their business on foot, which makes the streets as silent as the +deserted houses. + +Julia had selected a spot which was easy enough to find, and Conyngham, +having supped, made his way thither without asking for directions. + +‘It is at all events worth trying,’ he said to himself, ‘and she can +scarcely have forgotten that I saved her life on the Garonne as well as +at Ronda.’ + +But there is often in a woman’s life one man who can make her forget all. +The streets were deserted, for it was a cold night, and the cafés were +carefully closed against the damp air. No one stirred in the Calle Pedro +Martir, and Conyngham peered into the shadow of the high wall of the +Church of San Tome in vain. Then he heard the soft tread of muffled +feet, and turning on his heel realised Julia’s treachery in a flash of +thought. He charged to meet the charge of his assailants. Two of them +went down like felled trees, but there were others—four others—who fell +on him silently like hounds upon a fox, and in a few moments all was +quiet again in the Calle Pedro Martir. + + + + +CHAPTER XX +ON THE TALAVERA ROAD + + + ‘Les barrières servent à indiquer où il faut passer.’ + +AN hour’s ride to the west of Toledo, on the road to Torrijos and +Talavera, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the village of Galvez, +two men sat in the shadow of a great rock, and played cards. They played +quietly and without vociferation, illustrating the advantages of a minute +coinage. They had gambled with varying fortune since the hour of the +siesta, and a sprinkling of cigarette ends on the bare rocks around them +testified to the indulgence in a kindred vice. + +The elder of the two men glanced from time to time over his shoulder, and +down towards the dusty high road which lay across the arid plain beneath +them like a tape. The country here is barren and stone-ridden, but to +the west, where Torrijos gleamed whitely on the plain, the earth was +green with lush corn and heavy blades of maize, now springing into ear. +Where the two soldiers sat the herbage was scant and of an aromatic +scent, as it mostly is in hot countries and in rocky places. That these +men belonged to a mounted branch of the service was evident from their +equipment, and notably from the great rusty spurs at their heels. They +were clad in cotton—dusky white breeches, dusky blue tunics—a sort of +undress, tempered by the vicissitudes of a long war and the laxity of +discipline engendered by political trouble at home. + +They had left their horses in the stable of a venta, hidden among ilex +trees by the roadside, and had clambered to this point of vantage above +the highway, to pass the afternoon after the manner of their race. For +the Spaniard will be found playing cards amid the wreck of the world and +in the intervals between the stupendous events of the last day. + +‘He comes,’ said the elder man at length, as he leisurely shuffled the +greasy cards. ‘I hear his horse’s hoofs.’ + +And, indeed, the great silence which seems to brood over the uplands of +Spain—the silence, as it were, of an historic past and a dead present—was +broken by the distant regular beat of hoofs. + +The trooper who had spoken was a bullet-headed Castilian, with square jaw +and close-set eyes. His companion, a younger man, merely nodded his +head, and studied the cards which had just been dealt to him. The game +progressed, and Concepçion Vara, on the Toledo road, approached at a +steady trot. This man showed to greater advantage on horseback and +beneath God’s open sky than in the streets of a city. Here, in the open +and among the mountains, he held his head erect and faced the world, +ready to hold his own against it. In the streets he wore a furtive air, +and glanced from left to right fearing recognition. + +He now took his tired horse to the stable of the little venta, where, +with his usual gallantry, he assisted a hideous old hag to find a place +in the stalls. While uttering a gay compliment, he deftly secured for +his mount a feed of corn which was much in excess of that usually +provided for the money. + +‘Ah!’ he said, as he tipped the measure; ‘I can always tell when a woman +has been pretty; but with you, señora, no such knowledge is required. +You will have your beauty for many years yet.’ + +Thus Vara and his horse fared ever well upon the road. He lingered at +the stable door, knowing perhaps that corn poured into the manger may yet +find its way back to the bin, and then turned his steps towards the +mountain. + +The cards were still falling with a whispering sound upon the rock +selected as a table, and, with the spirit of a true sportsman, Concepçion +waited until the hand was played out before imparting his news. + +‘It is well,’ he said at length. ‘A carriage has been ordered from a +friend of mine in Toledo to take the road to-night to Talavera—and +Talavera is on the way to Lisbon. What did I tell you?’ + +The two soldiers nodded. One was counting his gains, which amounted to +almost threepence. The loser wore a brave air of indifference, as +behoved a reckless soldier taking loss or gain in a Spartan spirit. + +‘There will be six men,’ continued Concepçion. ‘Two on horseback, two on +the box, two inside the carriage with their prisoner—my friend.’ + +‘Ah!’ said the younger soldier thoughtfully. + +Concepçion looked at him. + +‘What have you in your mind?’ he asked. + +‘I was wondering how three men could best kill six.’ + +‘Out of six,’ said the older man, ‘there is always one who runs away. I +have found it so in my experience.’ + +‘And of five there is always one who cannot use his knife,’ added +Concepçion. + +Still the younger soldier, who had medals all across his chest, shook his +head. + +‘I am afraid,’ he said. ‘I am always afraid before I fight.’ + +Concepçion looked at the man whom General Vincente had selected from a +brigade of tried soldiers, and gave a little upward jerk of the head. + +‘With me,’ he said, ‘it is afterwards—when all is over. Then my hand +shakes, and the wet trickles down my face.’ + +He laughed, and spread out his hands. + +‘And yet,’ he said gaily, ‘it is the best game of all—is it not so?’ + +The troopers shrugged their shoulders. One may have too much of even the +best game. + +‘The carriage is ordered for eight o’clock,’ continued the practical +Concepçion, rolling a cigarette, which he placed behind his ear where a +clerk would carry his pen. ‘Those who take the road when the night-birds +come abroad have something to hide. We will see what they have in their +carriage, eh? The horses are hired for the journey to Galvez, where a +relay is doubtless ordered. It will be a fine night for a journey. +There is a half moon, which is better than the full for those who use the +knife; but the Galvez horses will not be required, I think.’ + +The younger soldier, upon whose shoulder gleamed the stars of a rapid +promotion, looked up to the sky, where a few fleecy clouds were beginning +to gather above the setting sun like sheep about a gate. + +‘A half moon for the knife and a full moon for firearms,’ he said. + +‘Yes; and they will shoot quick enough if we give them the chance,’ said +Concepçion. ‘They are Carlists! There is a river between this and +Galvez—a little stream such as we have in Andalusia—so small that there +is only a ford and no bridge. The bed of the river is soft; the horses +will stop, or, at all events, must go at the walking pace. Across the +stream are a few trees’ (he paused, illustrating his description with +rapid gestures and an imaginary diagram drawn upon the rock with the +forefinger), ‘ilex, and here, to the left, some pines. The stream runs +thus from north-east to south-west. This bank is high, and over here are +low-lying meadows where pigs feed.’ + +He looked up, and the two soldiers nodded. The position lay before them +like a bird’s-eye view; and Concepçion, in whom Spain had perhaps lost a +guerilla general, had only set eyes on the spot once as he rode past it. + +‘This matter is best settled on foot; is it not so? We cross the stream, +and tie our horses to the pine trees. I will recross the water, and come +back to meet the carriage at the top of the hill—here. The horsemen will +be in advance. We will allow them to cross the stream. The horses will +come out of the water slowly, or I know nothing of horses. As they step +up the incline, you take their riders, and remember to give them the +chance of running away. In midstream I will attack the two on the box, +pulling him who is not driving into the water by his legs, and giving him +the blade in the right shoulder above the lung. He will think himself +dead, but should recover. Then you must join me. We shall be three to +three, unless the Englishman’s hands are loose; then we shall be four to +three, and need do no man any injury. The Englishman is as strong as +two, and quick with it, as big men rarely are.’ + +‘Do you take a hand?’ asked the Castilian, fingering the cards. + +‘No; I have affairs. Continue your game.’ + +So the sun went down, and the two soldiers continued their game, while +Concepçion sat beside them and slowly, lovingly sharpened his knife on a +piece of slate which he carried in his pocket for the purpose. + +After sunset there usually arises a cold breeze which blows across the +table-lands of Castile quite gently and unobtrusively. A local proverb +says of this wind that it will extinguish a man but not a candle. When +this arose, the three men descended the mountain-side and sat down to a +simple if highly-flavoured meal provided by the ancient mistress of the +venta. At half-past eight, when there remained nothing of the day but a +faint greenish light in the western sky, the little party mounted their +horses and rode away towards Galvez. + +‘’Tis better,’ said Concepçion, with a meaning and gallant bow to the +hostess. ‘’Tis for my peace of mind. I am but a man.’ + +Then he haggled over the price of the supper. + +They rode forward to the ford described by Concepçion, and there made +their preparations—carefully and coolly—as men recognising the odds +against them. The half moon was just rising as the soldiers splashed +through the water leading Concepçion’s horse, he remaining on the Toledo +side of the river. + +‘The saints protect us!’ said the nervous soldier, and his hand shook on +the bridle. His companion smiled at the recollection of former fights +passed through together. It is well, in love and war, to beware of him +who says he is afraid. + +Shortly after nine o’clock the silence of that deserted plain was broken +by a distant murmur, which presently shaped itself into the beat of +horses’ feet. To this was added soon the rumble of wheels. The elder +soldier put a whole cigarette into his mouth and chewed it. The younger +man made no movement now. They crouched low at their posts one on each +side of the ford. Concepçion was across the river, but they could not +see him. In Andalusia they say that a contrabandist can conceal himself +behind half a brick. + +The two riders were well in front of the carriage, and, as had been +foreseen, the horses lingered on the rise of the bank as if reluctant to +leave the water without having tasted it. In a moment the younger +soldier had his man out of the saddle, raising his own knee sharply as +the man fell, so that the falling head and the lifted knee came into +deadly contact. It was a trick well known to the trooper, who let the +insensible form roll to the ground, and immediately darted down the bank +to the stream. The other soldier was chasing his opponent up the hill, +shelling him, as he rode away, with oaths and stones. + +In mid-stream the clumsy travelling carriage had come to a standstill. +The driver on the box, having cast down his reins, was engaged in +imploring the assistance of a black-letter saint, upon which assistance +he did not hesitate to put a price, in candles. There was a scurrying in +the water, which was about two feet deep, where Concepçion was settling +accounts with the man who had been seated by the driver’s side. A +half-choked scream of pain appeared to indicate that Concepçion had found +the spot he sought, above the right lung, and that amiable smuggler now +rose dripping from the flood and hurried to the carriage. + +‘Conyngham!’ he shouted, laying aside that ceremony upon which he never +set great store. + +‘Yes,’ answered a voice from within. ‘Is that you, Concepçion?’ + +‘Of course; throw them out.’ + +‘But the door is locked,’ answered Conyngham in a muffled voice. And the +carriage began to rock and crack upon its springs, as if an earthquake +were taking place inside it. + +‘The window is good enough for such rubbish,’ said Concepçion. As he +spoke a man, violently propelled from within, came head foremost, and +most blasphemously vociferous, into Concepçion’s arms, who immediately, +and with the rapidity of a terrier, had him by the throat and forced him +under water. + +‘You have hold of my leg—you, on the other side,’ shouted Conyngham from +the turmoil within. + +‘A thousand pardons, señor!’ said the soldier, and took a new grip of +another limb. + +Concepçion, holding his man under water, heard the sharp crack of another +head upon the soldier’s kneecap, and knew that all was well. + +‘That is all?’ he inquired. + +‘That is all,’ replied the soldier, who did not seem at all nervous now. +‘And we have killed no one.’ + +‘Put a knife into that son of a mule who prays upon the box there,’ said +Concepçion judicially. ‘This is no time for prayer. Just where the neck +joins the shoulder—that is a good place.’ + +And a sudden silence reigned upon the box. + +‘Pull the carriage to the bank,’ commanded Concepçion. ‘There is no need +for the English Excellency to wet his feet. He might catch a cold.’ + +They all made their way to the bank, where, in the dim moonlight, one man +sat nursing his shoulder while another lay, at length, quite still, upon +the pebbles. + +The young soldier laid a second victim to the same deadly trick beside +him, while Concepçion patted his foe kindly on the back. + +‘It is well,’ he said, ‘you have swallowed water. You will be sick, and +then you will be well. But if you move from that spot I will let the +water out another way.’ + +And, laughing pleasantly at this delicate display of humour, he turned to +help Conyngham, who was clambering out of the carriage window. + +‘Whom have you with you?’ asked Conyngham. + +‘Two honest soldiers of General Vincente’s division. You see, señor, you +have good friends.’ + +‘Yes, I see that.’ + +‘One of them,’ said Concepçion meaningly, ‘is at Toledo at the moment, +journeying after you. + +‘Ah!’ + +‘The Señor Pleydell.’ + +‘Then we will go back to meet him.’ + +‘I thought so,’ said Concepçion. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI +A CROSS-EXAMINATION + + + ‘Wherein I am false I am honest—not true to be true.’ + +‘I WILL sing you a contrabandista song,’ said Concepçion, as the party +rode towards Toledo in the moonlight. ‘The song we—they sing when the +venture has been successful. You may hear it any dark night in the +streets of Gaucin.’ + +‘Sing,’ said the older soldier, ‘if it is in your lungs. For us—we +prefer to travel silent.’ + +Conyngham, mounted on the horse from which the Carlist rider had been +dragged unceremoniously enough, rode a few paces in front. The carriage +had been left behind at the venta, where no questions were asked, and the +injured men revived readily enough. + +‘It is well,’ answered Concepçion, in no way abashed. ‘I will sing. In +Andalusia we can all sing. The pigs sing better there than the men of +Castile.’ + +It was after midnight when the party rode past the Church of the Cristo +de la Vega, and faced the long hill that leads to the gate Del Cambron. +Above them towered the city of Toledo—silent and dreamlike. Concepçion +had ceased singing now, and the hard breathing of the horses alone broke +the silence. The Tagus, emerging here from rocky fastness, flowed +noiselessly away to the west—a gleaming ribbon laid across the breast of +the night. In the summer it is no uncommon thing for travellers to take +the road by night in Spain, and although many doubtless heard the clatter +of horses’ feet on the polished cobble stones of the city, none rose from +bed to watch the horsemen pass. + +At that time Toledo possessed, and indeed to the present day can boast +of, but one good inn—a picturesque old house in the Plaza de Zocodover, +overhung by the mighty Alcazar. Here Cervantes must have eaten and +Lazarillo de Tormes no doubt caroused. Here those melancholy men and +mighty humorists must have delighted the idler by their talk. Concepçion +soon aroused the sleeping porter, and the great doors being thrown open, +the party passed into the courtyard without quitting the saddle. + +‘It is,’ said Concepçion, ‘an English Excellency and his suite.’ + +‘We have another such in the house,’ answered the sleepy doorkeeper, +‘though he travels with but one servant.’ + +‘We know that, my friend, which is the reason why we patronise your +dog-hole of an inn. See that the two Excellencies breakfast together at +a table apart in the morning.’ + +‘You will have matters to speak about with the Señor Pleydell in the +morning,’ said Concepçion, as he unpacked Conyngham’s luggage a few +minutes later. + +‘Yes, I should like to speak to Señor Pleydell.’ + +‘And I,’ said Concepçion, turning round with a brush in his hand, ‘should +like a moment’s conversation with Señor Larralde.’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘Yes, Excellency, he is in this matter too. But the Señor Larralde is so +modest—so modest! He always remains in the background.’ + +In the tents of Kedar men sleep as sound as those who lie on soft +pillows, and Conyngham was late astir the next morning. Sir John +Pleydell was, it transpired, already at his breakfast, and had ordered +his carriage for an early hour to take the road to Talavera. It was thus +evident that Sir John knew nothing of the arrival of his +fellow-countryman at midnight. + +The cold face of the great lawyer wore a look of satisfaction as he sat +at a small table in the patio of the hotel and drank his coffee. +Conyngham watched him for a moment from the balcony of the courtyard, +himself unseen, while Concepçion stood within his master’s bedroom, and +rubbed his brown hands together in anticipation of a dramatic moment. +Conyngham passed down the stone steps and crossed the patio with a gay +smile. Sir John recognised him as he emerged from the darkness of the +stairway, but his face betrayed neither surprise nor fear. There was a +look in the grey eyes, however, that seemed to betoken doubt. Such a +look a man might wear who had long travelled with assurance upon a road +which he took to be the right one, and then at a turning found himself in +a strange country with no landmark to guide him. + +Sir John Pleydell had always outwitted his fellows. He had, in fact, +been what is called a successful man—a little cleverer, a little more +cunning than those around him. + +He looked up now at Conyngham, who was drawing forward a chair to the +neighbouring table, and the cold eye, which had been the dread of many a +criminal, wavered. + +‘The waiter has set my breakfast near to yours,’ said Conyngham, +unconcernedly seating himself. + +And Concepçion in the balcony above cursed the English for a cold-blooded +race. This was not the sort of meeting he had anticipated. He could +throw a knife very prettily, and gave a short sigh of regret as he turned +to his peaceful duties. + +Conyngham examined the simple fare provided for him, and then looked +towards his companion with that cheerfulness which is too rare in this +world; for it is born of a great courage, and outward circumstances +cannot affect it. Sir John Pleydell had lost all interest in his meal, +and was looking keenly at Conyngham—dissecting, as it were, his face, +probing his mind, searching through the outward manner of the man, and +running helplessly against a motive which he failed to understand. + +‘I have in my long experience found that all men may be divided into two +classes,’ he said acidly. + +‘Fools and knaves?’ suggested Conyngham. + +‘You have practised at the Bar,’ parenthetically. + +Conyngham shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Unsuccessfully—anybody can do that.’ + +‘Which are you—a fool or a knave?’ asked Sir John. + +And suddenly Conyngham pitied him. For no man is proof against the quick +sense of pathos aroused by the sight of man, or dumb animal, baffled. At +the end of his life Sir John had engaged upon the greatest quest of it—an +unworthy quest, no doubt, but his heart was in it—and he was an old man, +though be bore his years well enough. + +‘Perhaps that is the mistake you have always made,’ said Conyngham +gravely. ‘Perhaps men are not to be divided into two classes. There may +be some who only make mistakes, Sir John.’ + +Unconsciously he had lapsed into the advocate, as those who have once +played the part are apt to do. This was not his own cause, but Geoffrey +Horner’s. And he served his friend so thoroughly that for the moment he +really was the man whose part he had elected to play. Sir John Pleydell +was no mean foe. Geoffrey Horner had succeeded in turning aside the +public suspicion, and in the eternal march of events, of which the sound +is louder as the world grows older and hollower, the murder of Alfred +Pleydell had been forgotten by all save his father. Conyngham saw the +danger, and never thought to avoid it. What had been undertaken half in +jest would be carried out in deadly earnest. + +‘Mistakes,’ said Sir John sceptically. In dealing with the seamy side of +life men come to believe that it is all stitches. + +‘Which they may pass the rest of their lives in regretting.’ + +Sir John looked sharply at his companion, with suspicion dawning in his +eyes again. It was Conyngham’s tendency to overplay his part. Later, +when he became a soldier, and found that path in life for which he was +best fitted, his superior officers and the cooler tacticians complained +that he was over-eager, and in battle outpaced the men he led. + +‘Then you see now that it was a mistake?’ suggested Sir John. In +cross-examinations the suggestions of Sir John Pleydell are remembered in +certain courts of justice to this day. + +‘Of course.’ + +‘To have mixed yourself in such an affair at all?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +Sir John seemed to be softening, and Conyngham began to see a way out of +this difficulty which had never suggested itself to him before. + +‘Such mistakes have to be paid for—and the law assesses the price.’ + +Conyngham shrugged his shoulders. + +‘It is easy enough to say you are sorry—the law can make no allowance for +regret.’ + +Conyngham turned his attention to his breakfast, deeming it useless to +continue the topic. + +‘It was a mistake to attend the meeting at Durham—you admit that?’ +continued Sir John. + +‘Yes—I admit that, if it is any satisfaction to you.’ + +‘Then it was worse than a mistake to actually lead the men out to my +house for the purpose of breaking the windows. It was almost a crime. I +would suggest to you, as a soldier for the moment, to lead a charge up a +steep hill against a body of farm labourers and others entrenched behind +a railing.’ + +‘That is a mere matter of opinion.’ + +‘And yet you did that,’ said Sir John. ‘If you are going to break the +law you should insure success before embarking on your undertaking.’ + +Conyngham made no answer. + +‘It was also a stupid error, if I may say so, to make your way back to +Durham by Ravensworth, where you were seen and recognised. You see I +have a good case against you, Mr. Conyngham.’ + +‘Yes, I admit you have a good case against me, but you have not caught me +yet.’ + +Sir John Pleydell looked at him coldly. + +‘You do not even take the trouble to deny the facts I have named.’ + +‘Why should I, when they are true?’ asked Conyngham carelessly. + +Sir John Pleydell leant back in his chair. + +‘I have classified you,’ he said with a queer laugh. + +‘Ah!’ answered Conyngham, suddenly uneasy. + +‘Yes—as a fool.’ + +He leant forward with a deprecating gesture of his thin white hand. + +‘Do not be offended,’ he said, ‘and do not reproach yourself for having +given your case away. You never had a case, Mr. Conyngham. Chartists +are not made of your material at all. As soon as you gave me your card +in Madrid, I had a slight suspicion. I thought you were travelling under +a false name. It was plain to the merest onlooker that you were not the +man I sought. You are too easy-going, too much of a gentleman to be a +Chartist. You are screening somebody else. You have played the part +well, and with an admirable courage and fidelity. I wish my boy Alfred +had had a few such friends as you. But you are a fool, Mr. Conyngham. +No man on earth is worth the sacrifice that you have made.’ + +Conyngham slowly stirred his coffee. He was meditating. + +‘You have pieced together a very pretty tale,’ he said at length. ‘Some +new scheme to get me within the reach of the English law, no doubt.’ + +‘It is a pretty tale—too pretty for practical life. And if you want +proofs I will mention the fact that the Chartist meeting was at +Chester-le-Street, not Durham; that my house stands in a hollow and not +on a hill; that you could not possibly go to Durham _viâ_ Ravensworth, +for they lie in opposite directions. No, Mr. Conyngham, you are not the +man I seek. And, strange to say, I took a liking to you when I first saw +you. I am no believer in instinct, or mutual sympathy, or any such +sentimental nonsense. I do not believe in much, Mr. Conyngham, and not +in human nature at all. I know too much about it for that. But there +must have been something in that liking for you at first sight. I wish +you no harm, Mr. Conyngham. I am like Balaam—I came to curse, and now +stay to bless. Or, perhaps, I am more like Balaam’s companion and +adviser—I bray too much.’ + +He sat back again with a queer smile. + +‘You may go home to England to-morrow if you care to,’ he added, after a +pause, ‘and if that affair is ever raked up against you I will be your +counsel, if you will have me.’ + +‘Thank you.’ + +‘You do not want to go home to England?’ suggested Sir John, whose ear +was as quick as his eye. + +‘No, I have affairs in Spain.’ + +‘Or—perhaps a castle here. Beware of such—I once had one.’ + +And the cold grey face softened for an instant. It seemed at times as if +there were after all a man behind that marble casing. + +‘A man who can secure such a friendship as yours has proved itself to +be,’ said Sir John after a short silence, ‘can scarcely be wholly bad. +He may, as you say, have made a mistake. I promise nothing; but perhaps +I will make no further attempts to find him.’ + +Conyngham was silent. To speak would have been to admit. + +‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Sir John, rising, ‘you are safe in this +or any country. But I warn you—you have a dangerous enemy in Spain.’ + +‘I know,’ answered Conyngham, with a laugh, ‘Mr. Esteban Larralde. I +once undertook to deliver a letter for him. It was not what he +represented it to be, and after I had delivered it he began to suspect me +of having read it. He is kind enough to consider me of some importance +in the politics of this country owing to the information I am supposed to +possess. I know nothing of the contents of the letter, but I want to +regain it—if only for a few moments. That is the whole story, and that +is how matters stand between Larralde and myself.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXII +REPARATION + + + ‘Il s’en faut bien que l’innocence trouve autant de protection que le + crime.’ + +FOR those minded to leave Spain at this time, there was but one route, +namely, the south, for the northern exits were closed by the Carlists, +still in power there, though thinning fast. Indeed, Don Carlos was now +illustrating the fact, which any may learn by the study of the world’s +history, that it is not the great causes, but the great men, who have +made and destroyed nations. Nearly half of Spain was for Don Carlos. +The Church sided with him, and the best soldiers were those who, unpaid, +unfed, and half clad, fought on the southern slopes of the Pyrenees for a +man who dared not lead them. + +Sir John Pleydell had intended crossing the frontier into Portugal, +following the carriage conveying his prisoner to the seaport of Lisbon, +where he anticipated no difficulty in finding a ship captain who would be +willing to carry Conyngham to England. All this, however, had been +frustrated by so unimportant a person as Concepçion Vara, and the +carriage ordered for nine o’clock to proceed to Talavera now stood in the +courtyard of the hotel, while the Baronet in his lonely apartment sat and +wondered what he should do next. He had dealt with justice all his life, +and had ensued it not from love, but as a matter of convenience and a +means of livelihood. From the mere habit, he now desired to do justice +to Conyngham. + +‘See if you can find out for me the whereabouts of General Vincente at +the moment, and let the carriage wait,’ he said to his servant, a +valet-courier of taciturn habit. + +The man was absent about half an hour, and returned with a face that +promised little. + +‘There is a man in the hotel, sir,’ he said, ‘the servant of Mr. +Conyngham, who knows, but will not tell me. I am told, however, that a +lady living in Toledo, a Contessa Barenna, will undoubtedly have the +information. General Vincente was lately in Madrid, but his movements +are so rapid and uncertain, that he has become a by-word in Spain.’ + +‘So I understand. I will call on this Contessa this afternoon, unless +you can get the information elsewhere during the morning. I shall not +want the carriage.’ + +Sir John walked slowly to the window, deep in thought. He was interested +in Conyngham, despite himself. It is possible that he had not hitherto +met a man capable of so far forgetting his own interests as to undertake +a foolish and dangerous escapade without anything in the nature of gain +or advantage to recommend it. The windows of the hotel of the Comercio +in Toledo look out upon the market-place, and Sir John, who was an indoor +man, and mentally active enough to be intensely bored at times, +frequently used this opportunity of studying Spanish life. + +He was looking idly through the vile panes, when an old priest passed by, +and glanced up beneath shaggy brows. + +‘Seen that man before,’ said Sir John. + +‘Ah!’ muttered Father Concha, as he hurried on towards the Palazzo +Barenna. ‘So far, so good. Where the fox is, will be found the stolen +fowl.’ + +Concepçion Vara, who was saddling his horse in the stable yard of the +inn, saw the Padre pass. + +‘Ah, clever one!’ he muttered, ‘with your jokes about my wife. Now you +may make a false journey for all the help you receive from me.’ + +And a few minutes later Concepçion rode across the Bridge of Alcantara, +some paces behind Conyngham, who deemed it wise to return to his duties +at Madrid without delay. + +Despite the great heat on the plains, which, indeed, made it almost +dangerous to travel at midday, the streets of Toledo were cool and shady +enough, as Sir John Pleydell traversed them in search of the Palazzo +Barenna. The Contessa was in, and the Englishman was ushered into a vast +room, which even the taste of the day could not entirely deprive of its +mediæval grandeur. Sir John explained to the servant in halting Spanish +that his name was unknown to the Señora Barenna, but that—a stranger in +some slight difficulty—he had been recommended to seek her assistance. + +Sir John was an imposing-looking man, with that grand air which enables +some men not only to look, but to get over a wall while an insignificant +wight may not so much as approach the gate. The señora’s curiosity did +the rest. In a few minutes the rustle of silk made Sir John turn from +the contemplation of a suit of armour. + +‘Madame speaks French?’ + +‘But yes, señor.’ + +Madame Barenna glanced towards a chair, which Sir John hastened to bring +forward. He despised her already, and she admired his manner vastly. + +‘I have taken the immense liberty of intruding myself upon your notice, +Madame.’ + +‘Not to sell me a Bible?’ exclaimed Señora Barenna, with her fan upheld +in warning. + +‘A Bible! I believe I have one at home, in England, Madame, but—’ + +‘It is well,’ said Madame sinking back and fanning herself rather +faintly. ‘Excuse my fears. But there is an Englishman—what is his name? +I forget.’ + +‘Borrow.’ + +‘Yes; that is it, Borrow. And he sells Bibles; and Father Concha, my +confessor, a bear, but a holy man—a holy bear, as one might say—has +forbidden me to buy one. I am so afraid of disobeying him, by +heedlessness or forgetfulness. There are, it appears, some things in the +Bible which one ought not to read, and one naturally—’ + +She finished the sentence with a shrug, and an expressive gesture of the +fan. + +‘One naturally desires to read them,’ suggested Sir John. ‘The privilege +of all Eve’s daughters, Madame.’ + +Señora Barenna treated the flatterer to what the French call a _fin +sourire_, and wondered how long Julia would stay away. This man would +pay her a compliment in another moment. + +‘I merely called on the excuse of a common friendship, to ask if you can +tell me the whereabouts of General Vincente,’ said Sir John, stating his +business in haste and when the opportunity presented itself. + +‘Is it politics?’ asked the lady, with a hasty glance round the room. + +‘No, it is scarcely politics; but why do you ask? You are surely too +wise, Madame, to take part in such. It is a woman’s mission to +please—and when it is so easy!’ + +He waved his thin white hand in completion of a suggestion which made his +hearer bridle her stout person. + +‘No, no,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the door. ‘No; it +is my daughter. Ah! señor, you can scarce imagine what it is to live +upon a volcano!’ + +And she pointed to the oaken floor with her fan. Sir John deemed it wise +to confine his display of sympathy to a glance of the deepest concern. + +‘No,’ he said; ‘it is merely a personal matter. I have a communication +to make to my friend General Vincente or to his daughter.’ + +‘To Estella?’ + +‘To the Señorita Estella.’ + +‘Do you think her beautiful? Some do, you know. Eyes—I admit—yes, +lovely.’ + +‘I admire the señorita exceedingly.’ + +‘Ah yes, yes. You have not seen my daughter, have you, señor? Julia—she +rather resembles Estella.’ + +Señora Barenna paused and examined her fan with a careless air. + +‘Some say,’ she went on, apparently with reluctance, ‘that Julia +is—well—has some advantages over Estella. But _I_ do not, of course. I +admire Estella, excessively—oh yes, yes.’ + +And the señora’s dark eyes searched Sir John’s face. They might have +found more in sculptured marble. + +‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Sir John, almost bluntly. Like a +workman who has mistaken his material, he was laying aside his finer +conversational tools. + +‘Well, I believe they arrive in Toledo this evening. I cannot think why. +But with General Vincente one never knows. He is so pleasant, so +playful—such a smile—but you know him. Well, they say in Spain that he +is always where he is wanted. Ah!’ Madame paused and cast her eyes up to +the ceiling, ‘what it is to be wanted somewhere, señor.’ + +And she gave him the benefit of one of her deepest sighs. Sir John +mentally followed the direction of her glance, and wondered what the late +Count thought about it. + +‘Yes, I am deeply interested in Estella—as indeed is natural, for she is +my niece. She has no mother, and the General has such absurd ideas. He +thinks that a girl is capable of choosing a husband for herself. But to +you—an Englishman—such an idea is naturally not astonishing. I am told +that in your country it is the girls who actually propose marriage.’ + +‘Not in words, Madame—not more in England than elsewhere.’ + +‘Ah,’ said Madame, looking at him doubtfully, and thinking, despite +herself, of Father Concha. + +Sir John rose from the chair he had taken at the señora’s silent +invitation. + +‘Then I may expect the General to arrive at my hotel this evening,’ he +said. ‘I am staying at the Comercio, the only hotel, as I understand, in +Toledo.’ + +‘Yes, he will doubtless descend there. Do you know Frederick Conyngham, +señor?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘But everyone knows him!’ exclaimed the lady vivaciously. ‘Tell me how +it is. A most pleasant young man, I allow you—but without introductions +and quite unconnected. Yet he has friends everywhere.’ + +She paused and, closing her fan, leant forward in an attitude of intense +confidence and secrecy. + +‘And how about his little affair?’ she whispered. + +‘His little affair, Madame?’ + +‘De cœur,’ explained the lady, tapping her own breast with an eloquent +fan. + +‘Estella,’ she whispered after a pause. + +‘Ah!’ said Sir John, as if he knew too much about it to give an opinion. +And he took his leave. + +‘That is the sort of woman to break one’s heart in the witness box,’ he +said as he passed out into the deserted street, and Señora Barenna, in +the great room with the armour, reflected complacently that the English +lord had been visibly impressed. + +General Vincente and Estella arrived at the hotel in the evening, but did +not of course appear in the public rooms. The dusty old travelling +carriage was placed in a quiet corner of the courtyard of the hotel, and +the General appeared on this, as on all occasions, to court retirement +and oblivion. Unlike many of his brothers-in-arms, he had no desire to +catch the public eye. + +‘There is doubtless something astir,’ said the waiter, who, in the +intervals of a casual attendance on Sir John, spoke of these things, +cigarette in mouth. ‘There is doubtless something astir, since General +Vincente is on the road. They call him the Stormy Petrel, for when he +appears abroad there usually follows a disturbance.’ + +Sir John sent his servant to the General’s apartment about eight o’clock +in the evening asking permission to present himself. In reply, the +General himself came to Sir John’s room. + +‘My dear sir,’ he cried, taking both the Englishman’s hands in an +affectionate grasp, ‘to think that you were in the hotel and that we did +not dine together. Come, yes, come to our poor apartment, where Estella +awaits the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance.’ + +‘Then the señorita,’ said Sir John, following his companion along the +dimly-lighted passage, ‘has her father’s pleasant faculty of forgetting +any little _contretemps_ of the past?’ + +‘Ask her,’ exclaimed the General in his cheery way. ‘Ask her.’ And he +threw open the door of the dingy salon they occupied. + +Estella was standing with her back to the window, and her attitude +suggested that she had not sat down since she had heard of Sir John’s +presence in the hotel. + +‘Señorita,’ said the Englishman, with that perfect knowledge of the world +which usually has its firmest basis upon indifference to criticism, +‘señorita, I have come to avow a mistake and to make my excuses.’ + +‘It is surely unnecessary,’ said Estella, rather coldly. + +‘Say rather,’ broke in the General in his smoothest way, ‘that you have +come to take a cup of coffee with us and to tell us your news.’ + +Sir John took the chair which the General brought forward. + +‘At all events,’ he said, still addressing Estella, ‘it is probably a +matter of indifference to you, as it is merely an opinion expressed by +myself which I wish to retract. When I first had the pleasure of meeting +you, I took it upon myself to speak of a guest in your father’s house, +fortunately in the presence of that guest himself, and I now wish to tell +you that what I said does not apply to Frederick Conyngham himself, but +to another whom Conyngham is screening. He has not confessed so much to +me, but I have satisfied myself that he is not the man I seek. You, +General, who know more of the world than the señorita, and have been in +it almost as long as I have, can bear me out in the statement that the +motives of men are not so easy to discern as younger folks imagine. I do +not know what induced Conyngham to undertake this thing; probably he +entered into it in a spirit of impetuous and reckless generosity, which +would only be in keeping with his character. I only know that he has +carried it out with a thoroughness and daring worthy of all praise. If +such a tie were possible between an old man and a young, I should like to +be able to claim Mr. Conyngham as a friend. There, señorita—thank you, I +will take coffee. I made the accusation in your presence. I retract it +before you. It is, as you see, a small matter.’ + +‘But it is of small matters that life is made up,’ put in the General in +his deferential way. ‘Our friend,’ he went on after a pause, ‘is +unfortunate in misrepresenting himself. We also have a little grudge +against him—a little matter of a letter which has not been explained. I +admit that I should like to see that letter.’ + +‘And where is it?’ asked Sir John. + +‘Ah!’ replied Vincente, with a shrug of the shoulders and a gay little +laugh, ‘who can tell? Perhaps in Toledo, my dear sir—perhaps in Toledo.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII +LARRALDE’S PRICE + + + ‘It is as difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely good.’ + +TO those who say that there is no Faith, Spain is in itself a palpable +answer. No country in the world can show such cathedrals as those of +Granada, Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Burgos. In any other land any one of +these great structures would suffice. But in Spain these huge monuments +to that Faith which has held serenely through war and fashion, through +thought and thoughtlessness, are to be found in all the great cities. +And the queen of them all is Toledo. + +Father Concha, that sour-visaged philosopher, had a queer pride in his +profession and in the history of that Church which is to-day seen in its +purest form in the Peninsula, while it is so entangled with the national +story of Spain that the two are but one tale told from a different point +of view. As a private soldier may take pleasure in standing on a great +battlefield noting each spot of interest—here a valley of death, there +the scene of a cavalry charge of which the thunder will echo down through +all the ages—so Concha, a mere country priest, liked to pace the aisles +of a great cathedral, indulging the while in a half-cynical pride. He +was no great general, no leader, of no importance in the ranks. But he +was of the army, and partook in a minute degree in those victories that +belonged to the past. It was his habit thus to pay a visit to Toledo +Cathedral whensoever his journeys led him to Castile. It was, moreover, +his simple custom to attend the early mass which is here historical; and, +indeed, to walk through the church, grey and cool, with the hush that +seems to belong only to buildings of stupendous age, is in itself a +religious service. + +Concha was passing across the nave, hat in hand, a gaunt, ill-clad, and +somewhat pathetic figure, when he caught sight of Sir John Pleydell. The +Englishman paused involuntarily and looked at the Spaniard. Concha +bowed. + +‘We met,’ he said, ‘for a moment in the garden of General Vincente’s +house at Ronda.’ + +‘True,’ answered Sir John. ‘Are you leaving the Cathedral? We might +walk a little way together. One cannot talk idly—here.’ + +He paused and looked up at the great oak screen—at the towering masonry. + +‘No,’ answered Concha gravely. ‘One cannot talk idly here.’ + +Concha held back the great leathern _portière_, and the Englishman passed +out. + +‘This is a queer country, and you are a queer people,’ he said presently. +‘When I was at Ronda I met a certain number of persons—I can count them +on my fingers. General Vincente, his daughter, Señora Barenna, Señorita +Barenna, the Englishman Conyngham, yourself, Señor Concha. I arrived in +Toledo yesterday morning; in twenty-four hours I have caught sight of all +the persons mentioned, here in Toledo.’ + +‘And here, in Toledo, is another of whom you have not caught sight,’ said +Concha. + +‘Ah?’ + +‘Yes; Señor Larralde.’ + +‘Is he here?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Concha. + +They walked on in silence for some minutes. + +‘What are we all doing here, Padre?’ inquired Sir John, with his cold +laugh. + +‘What are you doing here, señor?’ + +Sir John did not answer at once. They were walking leisurely. The +streets were deserted, as indeed the streets of Toledo usually are. + +‘I am putting two and two together,’ the great lawyer answered at length. +‘I began doing so in idleness, and now I have become interested.’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘Yes. I have become interested. They say, Padre, that a pebble set in +motion at the summit of a mountain may gather other pebbles and increase +in bulk and speed until, in the form of an avalanche, it overwhelms a +city in the valley.’ + +‘Yes, señor.’ + +‘And I have conceived the strange fancy that Frederick Conyngham, when he +first came to this country, set such a pebble in motion at the summit of +a very high mountain. It has been falling and falling silently ever +since, and it is gaining in bulk. And you, and General Vincente, and +Estella Vincente, and Señorita Barenna, and Frederick Conyngham, and in a +minor degree myself, are on the slope in the track of the avalanche, and +are sliding down behind it. And the General and Estella, and yourself +and Conyngham, are trying to overtake it and stop it. And, reverendo, in +the valley below is the monarchy of Spain—the Bourbon cause.’ + +Father Concha, remembering his favourite maxim that no flies enter a shut +mouth, was silent. + +‘The pebble was a letter,’ said Sir John. + +‘And Larralde has it,’ he added after a pause. ‘And that is why you are +all in Toledo—why the air is thick with apprehension, and why all Spain +seems to pause and wait breathlessly. Will the avalanche be stopped, or +will it not? Will the Bourbons—than whom history has known no more +interesting and more unsatisfactory race, except our own Stuarts—will the +Bourbons fall, Señor Padre?’ + +‘Ah!’ said Concha, whose furrowed face and pessimistic glance betrayed +nothing. ‘Ah!’ + +‘You will not tell me, of course. You know much that you will not tell +me, and I merely ask you from curiosity. You perhaps know one thing, and +that I wish to learn from you—not out of curiosity, but because I, too, +would fain overtake the avalanche and stop it. I am no politician, +señor, though of course I have my views. When a man has reached my age, +he knows assuredly that politics merely mean self-aggrandisement, and +nothing else. No—the Bourbons may fall; Spain may follow the lead of +France and make an exhibition of herself before the world as a Republic. +I am indifferent to these events. But I wish to do Frederick Conyngham a +good turn, and I ask you to tell me where I shall find Larralde—you who +know everything, Señor Padre.’ + +Concha reflected while they walked along on the shady side of the narrow +street. It happened to be the street where the saddlers live, and the +sharp sound of their little hammers on leather and wood came from almost +every darkened doorway. The Padre had a wholesome fear of Esteban +Larralde, and an exaggerated estimation of that schemer’s ability. He +was a humble-minded old man, and ever hesitated to pit his own brain +against that of another. He knew that Sir John was a cleverer man than +Larralde, deeper versed in that side of human nature where the seams are +and the knots and the unsightly stitches; older, more experienced, and +probably no more scrupulous. + +‘Yes,’ said the priest, ‘I can tell you that. Larralde lodges in the +house of a malcontent, one Lamberto, a scribbling journalist, who is hurt +because the world takes him at its own valuation and not at his. The +house is next to the little synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, a small +stationer’s shop, where one may buy the curse of this generation—pens and +paper.’ + +‘Thank you,’ said Sir John, civilly and simply. This man has no doubt +been ill-painted, but some may have seen that with different companions +he wore a different manner. He was, as all successful men are, an +unconscious actor, and in entering into the personality of the companion +of the moment he completely sank his own. He never sought to be all +things to all men, and yet he came near to the accomplishment of that +hard task. Sir John was not a sympathetic man; he merely mistook life +for a court of justice, and arraigned all human nature in the +witness-box, with the inward conviction that this should by rights be +exchanged for the felon’s dock. + +With Concha he was as simple, as direct, and as unsophisticated as the +old priest himself, and now took his leave without attempting to disguise +the fact that he had accomplished a foreset purpose. + +Without difficulty he found the small stationer’s shop next to the +synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, and bade the stationer—a spectacled +individual with upright hair and the air of seeking something in the +world which is not usually behind a counter—take his card to Señor +Larralde. At first the stationer pretended ignorance of the name, but on +discovering that Sir John had not sufficient Spanish to conduct a +conversation of intrigue, disappeared into a back room, whence emanated a +villanous smell of cooking. + +While Sir John waited in the little shop, Father Concha walked to the +Plazuela de l’Iglesia Vieja, which small square, overhanging the Tagus +and within reach of its murmuring voice, is deserted except at midday, +when the boys play at bull-fighting and a few workmen engage in a grave +game of bowls. Concha sat, book in hand, opened honestly at the office +of the day and hour, and read no word. Instead, he stared across the +gorge at the brown bank of land which commands the city and renders it +useless as a fortress in the days of modern artillery. He sat and stared +grimly, and thought perhaps of those secret springs within the human +heart that make one man successful and unhappy, while another, possessing +brains and ability and energy, fails in life, yet is perhaps the happier +of the two. For it had happened to Father Concha, as it may happen to +writer and reader at any moment, to meet one who in individuality bears a +resemblance to that self which we never know and yet are ever conscious +of. + +Sir John Pleydell, a few hundred yards away, obeyed the shopman’s +invitation to step upstairs with something approaching alacrity. + +Larralde was seated at a table strewn with newspapers and soiled by +cigarette ash. He had the unkempt and pallid look of one who has not +seen the sun or breathed fresh air for days. For, as Concepçion had +said, this was a conspirator who preferred to lurk in friendly shelter +while others played the bolder game at the front. Larralde had, in fact, +not stirred abroad for nearly a week. + +‘Well, señor,’ he said, with a false air of bravado. ‘How fares it with +your little undertaking?’ + +‘That,’ replied Sir John, ‘is past—and paid for. And I have another +matter for your consideration. Conyngham is not, after all, the man I +seek.’ + +Sir John’s manner had changed. He spoke as one having authority. And +Larralde shrugged his shoulders, remembering a past payment. + +‘Ah!’ he said, rolling a cigarette with a fine air of indifference. + +‘On the one hand,’ continued Sir John judicially, ‘I come to make you an +offer which can only be beneficial to you; on the other hand, Señor +Larralde, I know enough to make things particularly unpleasant for you.’ + +Larralde raised his eyebrows and sought the matchbox. His thoughts +seemed to amuse him. + +‘I have reason to assume that a certain letter is now in your possession +again. I do not know the contents of this letter, and I cannot say that +I am at all interested in it. But a friend of mine is particularly +anxious to have possession of it for a short space of time. I have, +unasked, taken upon myself the office of intermediary.’ + +Larralde’s eyes flashed through the smoke. + +‘You are about to offer me money; be careful, señor,’ he said hotly, and +Sir John smiled. + +‘Be careful, that it is enough,’ he suggested. ‘Keep your grand airs for +your fellows, Señor Larralde. Yes, I am about to offer you two hundred +pounds—say three thousand pesetas—for the loan of that letter for a few +hours only. I will guarantee that it is read by one person only, and +that a lady. This lady will probably glance at the first lines, merely +to satisfy herself as to the nature of its contents. Three thousand +pesetas will enable you to escape to Cuba if your schemes fail. If you +succeed, three thousand pesetas will always be of use, even to a member +of a Republican Government.’ + +Larralde reflected. He had lately realised the fact that the Carlist +cause was doomed. There is a time in the schemes of men, and it usually +comes just before the crisis, when the stoutest heart hesitates and the +most reckless conspirator thinks of his retreat. Esteban Larralde had +begun to think of Cuba during the last few days, and the mention of that +haven for Spanish failures almost unnerved him. + +‘In a week,’ suggested Sir John again, ‘it may be—well—settled one way or +the other.’ + +Larralde glanced at him sharply. This Englishman was either +well-informed or very cunning. He seemed to have read the thought in +Larralde’s mind. + +‘No doubt,’ went on the Englishman, ‘you have divined for whom I want the +letter and who will read it. We have both mistaken our man. We both owe +Conyngham a good turn—I, in reparation, you, in gratitude; for he +undoubtedly saved the Señorita Barenna from imprisonment for life.’ + +Larralde shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Each man,’ he said, ‘must fight for himself.’ + +‘And the majority of us for a woman as well,’ amended Sir John. ‘At +least, in Spain, chivalry is not dead.’ + +Larralde laughed. He was vain, and Sir John knew it. He had a keen +sight for the breach in his opponent’s armour. + +‘You have put your case well,’ said the Spaniard patronisingly, ‘and I do +not see why, at the end of a week, I should not agree to your proposal. +It is, as you say, for the sake of a woman.’ + +‘Precisely.’ + +Larralde leant back in his chair, remembering the legendary gallantry of +his race, and wearing an appropriate expression. + +‘For a woman,’ he repeated with an eloquent gesture. + +‘Precisely.’ + +‘Then I will do it, señor. I will do it.’ + +‘For two hundred pounds?’ inquired Sir John coldly. + +‘As you will,’ answered the Spaniard, with a noble indifference to such +sordid matters. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV +PRIESTCRAFT + + + ‘No man I fear can effect great benefits for his country without some + sacrifice of the minor virtues.’ + +THE Señora Barenna was a leading social light in Toledo, insomuch as she +never refused an invitation. + +‘One has one’s duties towards society,’ she would say with a sigh. +‘Though the saints know that I take no pleasure in these affairs.’ + +Then she put on her best Seville mantilla and bustled off to some +function or another, where she talked volubly and without discretion. + +Julia had of late withdrawn more and more from that life of continued and +mild festivity of which it is to be feared the existence of many women is +composed. This afternoon she sat alone in the great gloomy house in +Toledo, waiting for Larralde. For she, like thousands of her sisters, +loved an unworthy object—_faute de mieux_—with open eyes and a queer +philosophy that bade her love Larralde rather than love none. She had +lately spent a large part of her existence in waiting for Larralde, who, +indeed, was busy enough at this time, and rarely stirred abroad while the +sun was up. + +‘Julia,’ said Señora Barenna to Concha, ‘is no longer a companion to me. +She does not even attempt to understand my sensitive organisation. She +is a mere statue, and thinks of nothing but politics.’ + +‘For her, Madame, as for all women, there would be no politics if there +were no politicians,’ the priest replied. + +This afternoon Julia was more restless than ever. Larralde had not been +to see her for many days, and had only written a hurried note from time +to time in answer to her urgent request, telling her that he was well and +in no danger. + +She now no longer knew whether he was in Toledo or not, but had +sufficient knowledge of the schemes in which he was engaged to be aware +of the fact that these were coming to a crisis. Esteban Larralde had +indeed told her more than was either necessary or discreet, and it was +his vanity that led him into this imprudence. We are all ready enough to +impart information which will show our neighbours that we are more +important than we appear. + +After a broiling day the sun was now beginning to lose a little of his +terrific power, and, in the shade of the patio upon which the windows of +Julia’s room opened, the air was quite cool and pleasant. A fountain +plashed continuously in a little basin that had been white six centuries +ago, when the Moors had brought the marble across the Gulf of Lyons to +build it. The very sound of the water was a relief to overstrained +nerves, and seemed to diminish the tension of the shimmering atmosphere. + +Julia was alone, and barely made pretence to read the book she held in +her hand. From her seat she could see the bell suspended on the opposite +wall of the courtyard, of which the deep voice at any time of day or +night had the power of stirring her heart to a sudden joy. At last the +desired sound broke the silence of the great house, and Julia stood +breathless at the window while the servant leisurely crossed the patio +and threw open the great door, large enough to admit a carriage and pair. +It was not Larralde, but Father Concha, brought hither by a note he had +received from Sir John Pleydell earlier in the afternoon. + +‘I shall have the letter in a week from now,’ the Englishman had written. + +‘Which will be too late,’ commented Concha pessimistically. + +The señora was out, they told him, but the señorita had remained at home. + +‘It is the señorita I desire to see.’ + +And Julia, at the window above, heard the remark with a sinking heart. +The air seemed to be weighted with the suggestion of calamity. Concha +had the manner of one bringing bad news. She forgot that this was his +usual mien. + +‘Ah, my child,’ he said, coming into the room a minute later and sitting +down rather wearily. + +‘What?’ she asked, her two hands at her breast. + +He glanced at her beneath his brows. The wind was in the north-east, dry +and tingling. The sun had worn a coppery hue all day. Such matters +affect women and those who are in mental distress. After such a day as +had at last worn to evening, the mind is at a great tension, the nerves +are strained. It is at such times that men fly into sudden anger and +whip out the knife. At such times women are reckless, and the stories of +human lives take sudden turns. + +Concha knew that he had this woman at a disadvantage. + +‘What?’ he echoed. ‘I wish I knew. I wish at times I was no priest.’ + +‘Why?’ + +‘Because I could help you better. Sometimes it is the man and not the +priest who is the truest friend.’ + +‘Why do you speak like this?’ she cried. ‘Is there danger? What has +happened?’ + +‘You know best, my child, if there is danger; you know what is likely to +happen.’ + +Julia stood looking at him with hard eyes—the eyes of one in mortal fear. + +‘You have always been my friend,’ she said slowly, ‘my best friend.’ + +‘Yes. A woman’s lover is never her best friend.’ + +‘Has anything happened to Esteban?’ + +The priest did not answer at once, but paused, reflecting, and dusting +his sleeve, where there was always some snuff requiring attention at such +moments. + +‘I know so little,’ he said. ‘I am no politician. What can I say? What +can I advise you when I am in the dark? And the time is slipping +by—slipping by.’ + +‘I cannot tell you,’ she answered, turning away and looking out of the +window. + +‘You cannot tell the priest—tell the man.’ + +Then, suddenly, she reached the end of her endurance. Standing with her +back towards him, she told her story, and Concha listened with a still, +breathless avidity as one who, having long sought knowledge, finds it at +last when it seemed out of reach. The little fountain plashed in the +courtyard below; a frog in the basin among the water-lilies croaked +sociably while the priest and the beautiful woman in the room above made +history. For it is not only in kings’ palaces nor yet in Parliaments +that the story of the world is shaped. + +Concha spoke no word, and Julia, having begun, left nothing unsaid, but +told him every detail in a slow mechanical voice, as if bidden thereto by +a stronger will than her own. + +‘He is all the world to me,’ she said simply, in conclusion. + +‘Yes; and the happiest women are those who live in a small world.’ + +A silence fell upon them. The old priest surreptitiously looked at his +watch. He was essentially a man of action. + +‘My child,’ he said, rising, ‘when you are an old woman with children to +harass you and make your life worth living, you will probably look back +with thankfulness to this moment. For you have done that which was your +only chance of happiness.’ + +‘Why do you always help me?’ she asked, as she had asked a hundred times. + +‘Because happiness is so rare that I hate to see it wasted,’ he answered, +going towards the door with a grim laugh. + +He passed out of the room and crossed the patio slowly. Then, when the +great door had closed behind him, he gathered up the skirts of his +cassock and hurried down the narrow street. In such thoroughfares as +were deserted he ran with the speed and endurance of a spare, hard-living +man. Woman-like, Julia had, after all, done things by half. She had +timed her confession too late. + +At the hotel they told the Padre that General Vincente was at dinner and +could not be disturbed. + +‘He sees no one,’ the servant said. + +‘You do not know who I am,’ said Concha, in an irony which, under the +circumstances, he alone could enjoy. Then he passed up the stairs and +bade the waiter begone. + +‘But I carry the General’s dessert,’ protested the man. + +‘No,’ said Concha half to himself, ‘I have that.’ + +Vincente was indeed at table with Estella. He looked up as the priest +entered, fingering a cigarette delicately. + +‘How soon can you take the road?’ asked Concha abruptly. + +‘Ten minutes—the time for a cup of coffee,’ was the answer, given with a +pleasant laugh. + +‘Then order your carriage.’ + +Vincente looked at his old friend, and the smile never left his lips, +though his eyes were grave enough. It was hard to say whether aught on +earth could disturb this man’s equanimity. Then the General rose and +went to the window which opened upon the courtyard. In the quiet corner +near the rain-tank, where a vine grows upon trellis-work, the dusty +travelling-carriage stood, and upon the step of it, eating a simple meal +of bread and dried figs, sat the man who had the reputation of being the +fastest driver in Spain. + +‘In ten minutes, my good Manuel,’ said the General. + +‘Bueno,’ grumbled the driver, with his mouth full—a man of few words. + +‘Is it to go far?’ asked the General, turning on his heel and addressing +Concha. + +‘A long journey.’ + +‘To take the road, Manuel,’ cried Vincente, leaning out. He closed the +window before resuming his seat. + +‘And now, have you any more orders?’ he asked with a gay carelessness. +‘I counted on sleeping in a bed to-night.’ + +‘You will not do that,’ replied Concha, ‘when you hear my news.’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘But first you must promise me not to make use of the information I give +you against any suspected persons—to take, in fact, only preventive +measures.’ + +‘You have only to name it, my friend. Proceed.’ + +The old priest paused and passed his hand across his brow. He was +breathless still, and looked worn. + +‘It is,’ he said, ‘a very grave matter. I have not had much experience +in such things, for my path has always lain in small parochial +affairs—dealings with children and women.’ + +Estella was already pouring some wine into a glass. With a woman’s +instinct she saw that the old man was overwrought and faint. It was a +Friday, and in his simple way there was no more austere abstinent than +Father Concha, who had probably touched little food throughout the long +hot day. + +‘Take your time, my friend; take your time,’ said the General, who never +hurried and was never too late. ‘A pinch of snuff now—it stimulates the +nerves.’ + +‘It is,’ said Concha at length—breaking a biscuit in his long bony +fingers and speaking unembarrassedly with his mouth full—’it is that I +have by the merest accident lighted upon a matter of political +importance.’ + +The General nodded, and held his wine up to the light. + +‘There are matters of much political importance,’ he said, ‘in the air +just now.’ + +‘A plot,’ continued Concha, ‘spreading over all Spain; the devil is +surely in it, and I know the Carlists are. A plot, believe me, to +assassinate and rob and kidnap.’ + +‘Yes,’ said the General with his tolerant little smile. ‘Yes, my dear +Padre. Some men are so bloodthirsty; is it not so?’ + +‘This plot is directed against the little Queen; against the Queen +Regent; against many who are notable Royalists occupying high posts in +the Government or the army.’ + +He glanced at Estella, and then looked meaningly at the General, who +could scarcely fail to comprehend. ‘Let us deal with the Queen and the +Queen Regent,’ said Vincente; ‘the others are probably able to take care +of themselves.’ + +‘None can guard himself against assassination.’ + +The General seemed for a moment inclined to dispute this statement, but +shrugged his shoulders and finally passed it by. + +‘The Queen,’ he said. ‘What of her?’ + +In response, Concha took a newspaper from his pocket and spread it out on +the table. After a brief search up and down the ill-printed columns, he +found the desired paragraph, and read aloud: + +‘The Queen is in Madrid. The Queen Regent journeys from Seville to +rejoin her daughter in the capital, prosecuting her journey by easy +stages and accompanied by a small guard. Her Majesty sleeps at Ciudad +Real to-night, and at Toledo to-morrow night.’ + +‘This,’ said Concha, folding the newspaper, ‘is a Carlist and +revolutionary rag whose readers are scarcely likely to be interested for +a good motive in the movements of the Queen Regent.’ + +‘True, my dear Padre—true,’ admitted Vincente, half reluctantly. + +‘Many kiss hands they would fain see chopped off. In the streets and on +the Plaza I have seen many reading this newspaper and talking over it +with unusual interest. Like a bad lawyer, I am giving the confirmation +of the argument before the argument itself.’ + +‘No matter—no matter.’ + +‘Ah! but we have no time to do things ill or carelessly,’ said the +priest. ‘My story is a long one, but I will tell it as quickly as I +can.’ + +‘Take your time,’ urged the General soothingly. ‘This great plot, you +say, which is to spread over all Spain—’ + +‘Is for to-morrow night, my friend.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXV +SWORDCRAFT + + + ‘Rien n’est plus courageux qu’un cœur patient, rien n’est plus sûr de + soi qu’un ésprit doux.’ + +THE General set down his glass, and a queer light came into his eyes, +usually so smiling and pleasant. + +‘Ah! Then you are right, my friend. Tell us your story as quickly as +possible.’ + +‘It appears,’ said Concha, ‘that there has been in progress for many +months a plot to assassinate the Queen Regent and to seize the person of +the little Queen, expelling her from Spain, and bringing in, not Don +Carlos, who is a spent firework, but a Republic—a more dangerous +firework, that usually bursts in the hands of those that light it. This +plot has been finally put into shape by a letter—’ + +He paused, tapped on the table with his bony fingers, and glanced at +Estella. + +‘A letter which has been going the round of all the malcontents in the +Peninsula. Each faction-leader, to show that he has read it and agrees +to obey its commands, initials the letter. It has then been returned to +an intermediary, who sends it to the next—never by post, because the post +is watched—always by hand, and usually by the hand of a person innocent +of its contents.’ + +‘Yes,’ murmured the General absently, and there was a queer little smile +on Estella’s lips. + +‘To think,’ cried Concha, with a sudden fire less surprising in Spain +than in England, ‘to think that we have all seen it—have touched it! +Name of a saint! I had it under my hand in the hotel at Algeciras, and I +left it on the table. And now it has been the round, and all the +initials are placed upon it, and it is for to-morrow night.’ + +‘Where have you learnt this?’ asked the General in a voice that made +Estella look at him. She had never seen him as his enemies had seen him, +and even they confessed that he was always visible enough in action. +Perhaps there was another man behind the personality of this deprecating, +pleasant-spoken little sybarite—a man who only appeared (oh _rara avis_!) +when he was wanted. + +‘No matter,’ replied Concha, in a voice as hard and sharp. + +‘No; after all, it is of no matter, so long as your information is +reliable.’ + +‘You may stake your life on that,’ said Concha, and remembered the words +ever after. ‘It has been decided to make this journey from Seville to +Madrid the opportunity of assassinating the Queen Regent.’ + +‘It will not be the first time they have tried,’ put in the General. + +‘No. But this time they will succeed, and it is to be here—to-morrow +night—in Toledo. After the Queen Regent’s death, and in the confusion +that will supervene, the little Queen will disappear, and then upon the +rubbish-heap will spring up the mushrooms as they did in France; and this +rubbish-heap, like the other, will foul the whole air of Europe.’ + +He shook his head pessimistically till the long, wispy grey hair waved +from side to side, and his left hand, resting on the wrist-bone on the +table, made an indescribable gesture that showed a fœtid air tainted by +darksome growths. + +There was a silence in the room broken by no outside sound but the chink +of champed bits as the horses stood in their traces below. Indeed, the +city of Toledo seemed strangely still this evening, and the very air had +a sense of waiting in it. The priest sat and looked at his lifelong +friend, his furrowed face the incarnation of cynical hopelessness. ‘What +is, is worst,’ he seemed to say. His yellow, wise old eyes watched the +quick face with the air of one who, having posed an insoluble problem, +awaits with a sarcastic humour the admission of failure. + +General Vincente, who had just finished his wine, wiped his moustache +delicately with his table-napkin. He was thinking—quickly, +systematically, as men learn to think under fire. Perhaps, indeed, he +had the thoughts half matured in his mind—as the greatest general the +world has seen confessed that he ever had—that he was never taken quite +by surprise. Vincente smiled as he thought: a habit he had acquired on +the field, where a staff, and perhaps a whole army, took its cue from his +face and read the turn of fortune there. Then he looked up straight at +Estella, who was watching him. + +‘Can you start on a journey, now—in five minutes?’ he asked. + +‘Yes,’ she answered, rising and going towards the door. + +‘Have you a white mantilla among your travelling things?’ he asked again. + +Estella turned at the doorway and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said again. + +‘Then take it with you, and a cloak, but no heavy luggage.’ + +Estella closed the door. + +‘You can come with us?’ said the General to Concha, half command, half +interrogation. + +‘If you wish it.’ + +‘You may be wanted. I have a plan—a little plan,’ and he gave a short +laugh. ‘It may succeed.’ + +He went to a side table, where some cold meats still stood, and, taking +up a small chicken daintily with a fork, he folded it in a napkin. + +‘It will be Saturday,’ he said simply, ‘before we have reached our +journey’s end, and you will be hungry. Have you a pocket?’ + +‘Has a priest a pocket?’ asked Concha, with a grim humour, and he slipped +the provisions into the folds of his cassock. He was still eating a +biscuit hurriedly. + +‘I believe you have no money?’ said the General suddenly. + +‘I have only enough,’ admitted the old man, ‘to take me back to Ronda; +whither, by the way, my duty calls me.’ + +‘I think not. Your Master can spare you for a while; my mistress cannot +do without you.’ + +At this moment Estella came back into the room ready for her journey. +The girl had changed of late. Her face had lost a little roundness and +had gained exceedingly in expression. Her eyes, too, were different. +That change had come to them which comes to all women between the ages of +twenty and thirty, quite irrespective of their state. A certain +restlessness, or a quiet content, are what one usually sees in a woman’s +face. Estella’s eyes wore that latter look, which seems to indicate a +knowledge of the meaning of life and a contentment that it should be no +different. + +Vincente was writing at the table. + +‘We shall want help,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I am sending for a +good man.’ + +And he smiled as he shook the small sand-castor over the paper. + +‘May one ask,’ said Concha, ‘where we are going?’ + +‘We are going to Ciudad Real, my dear friend, since you are so curious. +But we shall come back—we shall come back.’ + +He was writing another despatch as he spoke, and at a sign from him +Estella went to the door and clapped her hands, the only method of +summoning a servant in general use at that time in Spain. The call was +answered by an orderly, who stood at attention in the doorway for a full +five minutes while the General wrote further orders in his neat, small +calligraphy. There were half a dozen letters in all—curt military +despatches without preamble and without mercy. For this soldier +conducted military matters in a singularly domestic way, planning his +campaigns by the fireside and bringing about the downfall of an enemy +while sitting in his daughter’s drawing-room. Indeed, Estella’s +blotting-book bore the impress of more than one death warrant or an order +as good as such, written casually on her stationery and with her pen. + +‘Will you have the goodness to despatch these at once?’ was the message +taken by the orderly to the General’s aide-de-camp, and the gallopers, +who were always in readiness, smiled as they heard the modest request. + +‘It will be pleasant to travel in the cool of the evening, provided that +one guards against a chill,’ said the General, making his final +preparations. ‘I require but a moment to speak to my faithful +aide-de-camp, and then we embark.’ + +The moon was rising as the carriage rattled across the Bridge of +Alcantara, and Larralde, taking the air between Wamba’s Gate and the +little fort that guards the entrance to the city, recognised the equipage +as it passed him. He saw also the outline of Concha’s figure in the +darkest corner of the carriage, with his back to the horses, his head +bowed in meditation. Estella he saw and recognised, while two mounted +attendants clattering in the rear of the carriage testified by their +presence to the fact that the General had taken the road again. + +‘It is well,’ said Larralde to himself. ‘They are all going back to +Ronda, and Julia will be rid of their influence. Ronda will serve as +well as Toledo so far as Vincente is concerned. But I will wait to make +sure that they are not losing sight of him.’ + +So Señor Larralde, cloaked to the eyebrows, leant gracefully against the +wall, and, like many another upon the bridge after that breathless day, +drank in the cool air that rose from the river. Presently—indeed, before +the sound of the distant wheels was quite lost—two horsemen, cloaked and +provided with such light luggage as the saddle can accommodate, rode +leisurely through the gateway and up the incline that makes a short cut +to the great road running southward to Ciudad Real. Larralde gave a +little nod of self-confidence and satisfaction, as one who, having +conceived and built up a great scheme, is pleased to see each component +part of it act independently, and slip into its place. + +The General’s first thought was for Estella’s comfort, and he utilised +the long hill which they had to ascend on leaving the town to make such +arrangements as space would allow for their common ease. + +‘You must sleep, my child,’ he said. ‘We cannot hope to reach Ciudad +Real before midday to-morrow, and it is as likely as not that we shall +have but a few hours’ rest there.’ + +And Estella, who had travelled vast distances over vile roads so long as +her memory went back, who had never known what it is to live in a country +that is at peace, leant back in her corner and closed her eyes. Had she +really been disposed to sleep, however, she could scarcely have done it, +for the General’s solicitude manifested itself by a hundred little +devices for her greater repose. For her comfort he made Concha move. + +‘An old traveller like you must shift for yourself,’ he said gaily. + +‘No need to seek shelter for an old ox,’ replied Concha, moving into the +other corner, where he carefully unfolded his pocket-handkerchief and +laid it over his face, where his long nose, protruding, caused it to fall +into fantastic folds. He clasped his hands upon his hat, which lay on +his knee, and, leaning back, presently began to snore gently and +regularly—a peaceful, sleep-inducing sound, and an excellent example. +The General, whose sword seemed to take up half the carriage, still +watched Estella, and if the air made her mantilla flutter, drew up the +window with the solicitude of a lover and a maternal noiselessness. +Then, with one hand on hers, and the other grasping his sword, he leant +back, but did not close his eyes. + +Thus they travelled on through the luminous night. The roads were +neither worse nor better than they are to-day in Spain—than they were in +England in the Middle Ages—and their way lay over the hill ranges that +lie between the watersheds of the Tagus and the Guadiana. At times they +passed through well-tended valleys, where corn and olives and vines +seemed to grow on the same soil, but for the greater part of the night +they ascended and descended the upper slopes, where herds of goats, half +awakened as they slept in a ring about their guardian, looked at them +with startled eyes. The shepherds and goatherds, who, like those of old, +lay cloaked upon the ground, and tended their flocks by night, did not +trouble to raise their heads. + +Concha alone slept, for the General had a thousand thoughts that kept him +awake and bright-eyed, while Estella knew from her father’s manner and +restlessness that these were no small events that now stirred Spain, and +seemed to close men’s mouths, so that near friends distrusted one +another, and brother was divided against brother. Indeed, others were on +the road that night, and horsemen passed the heavy carriage from time to +time. + +In the early morning a change of horses was effected at a large inn near +the summit of a pass above Malagon, and here an orderly, who seemed to +recognise the General, was climbing into the saddle as the Vincentes +quitted their carriage and passed into the common room of the venta for a +hasty cup of coffee. + +‘It is the Queen’s courier,’ said the innkeeper grandly, ‘who takes the +road before her Majesty in order to secure horses.’ + +‘Ah,’ said the General, breaking his bread and dropping it into his cup. +‘Is that so? The Queen Regent, you mean?’ + +‘Queen or Queen Regent, she requires four horses this evening, +Excellency—that is all my concern.’ + +‘True, my friend; true. That is well said. And the horses will be +forthcoming, no doubt.’ + +‘They will be forthcoming,’ said the man. ‘And the Excellency’s carriage +is ready.’ + +In the early morning light they drove on, now descending towards the +great valley of the Guadiana, and at midday, as Vincente had foreseen, +gained a sight of the ancient city of Ciudad Real lying amid trees below +them. Ciudad Real is less interesting than its name, and there is little +that is royal about its dirty streets and ill-kept houses. No one gave +great heed to the travelling-carriage, for this is a great centre where +travellers journeying east or west, north or south, must needs pause for +a change of horses. At the inn there were vacant rooms, and that hasty +welcome accorded to the traveller at wayside houses where none stay +longer than they can help. + +‘No,’ said the landlord, in answer to the General’s query. ‘We are not +busy, though we expect a lady who will pass the hour of the siesta here +and then proceed northward.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI +WOMANCRAFT + + + ‘Il est rare que la tête des rois soit faite à la mesure de leur + couronne.’ + +IN the best room of the inn where Vincente and his tired companions +sought a few hours’ rest there sat alone, and in thought, a woman of +middle age. Somewhat stout, she yet had that air which arouses the +attention without being worthy of the name of beauty. This lady had +doubtless swayed men’s hearts by a word or a glance, for she still +carried herself with assurance, and a hundred little details of her dress +would have told another woman that she still desired to please. She wore +a white mantilla. + +The hour of the siesta was over, and after the great heat of the day a +cool air was swinging down on the bosom of the river to the parched +lowlands. It stirred the leaves of a climbing heliotrope which encircled +the open windows, and wafted into the ill-furnished room a scent of +stable-yard and dust. + +The lady, sitting with her chin resting in the palm of her small white +hand, seemed to have lately roused herself from sleep, and now had the +expectant air of one who awaits a carriage and is about to set out on a +long journey. Her eyes were dark and tired-looking, and their expression +was not that of a good woman. A sensual man is usually weak, but women +are different; and this face, with its faded complexion and tired eyes, +this woman of the majestic presence and beautiful hands, was both strong +and sensual. This, in a word, was a Queen who never forgot that she was +a woman. As it was said of the Princess Christina, so it has been spoken +of the Queen, that many had killed themselves for hopeless love of her. +For this was the most dangerous of the world’s creatures—a royal +coquette. Such would our own Queen Bess have been had not God, for the +good of England, given her a plain face and an ungainly form. For surely +the devil is in it when a woman can command both love and men. Queen +Christina, since the death of a husband who was years older than herself +(and, as some say, before that historic event), had played a woman’s game +with that skill which men only half recognise, and had played it with the +additional incentive that behind her insatiable vanity lay the heavier +stake of a crown. + +She was not the first to turn the strong current of man’s passion to her +own deliberate gain—nay, ninety-nine out of a hundred women do it. But +the majority only play for a suburban villa and a few hundred pounds a +year; Queen Christina of Spain handled her cards for a throne and the +continuance of an ill-starred dynasty. + +As she sat in the hotel chamber in Ciudad Real—that forlornest of royal +cities—her face wore the pettish look of one who, having passed through +great events, having tasted of great passions and moved amid the +machinery of life and death, finds the ordinary routine of existence +intolerably irksome. Many faces wear such a look in this country; every +second beautiful face in London has it. And these women—heaven help +them—find the morning hours dull, because every afternoon has not its +great event and every evening the excitement of a social function. + +The Queen was travelling incognita, and that fact alone robbed her +progress of a sense of excitement. She had to do without the shout of +the multitude—the passing admiration of the man in the street. She knew +that she was yet many hours removed from Madrid, where she had admirers, +and the next best possession—enemies. Ciudad Real was intolerably dull +and provincial. A servant knocked at the door. + +‘General Vincente, your Majesty, craves the favour of a moment.’ + +‘Ah!’ exclaimed the Queen, the light returning to her eyes, a faint +colour flushing her cheek. ‘In five minutes I will receive him.’ + +And there is no need to say how the Queen spent those minutes. + +‘Your Majesty,’ said the General, bending over her hand, which he touched +with his lips, ‘I have news of the greatest importance.’ + +The suggestion of a scornful smile flickered for a moment in the royal +eyes. It was surely news enough for any man that she was a +woman—beautiful still—possessing still that intangible and fatal gift of +pleasing. The woman slowly faded from her eyes as they rested on the +great soldier’s face, and the Queen it was who, with a gracious gesture, +bade him be seated. But the General remained standing. He alone perhaps +of all the men who had to deal with her—of all those military puppets +with whom she played her royal game—had never crossed that vague boundary +which many had overstepped to their own inevitable undoing. + +‘It concerns your Majesty’s life,’ said Vincente bluntly, and calm in the +certainty of his own theory that good blood, whether it flow in the veins +of man or woman, assuredly carries a high courage. + +‘Ah!’ said the Queen Regent, whose humour still inclined towards those +affairs which interested her before the affairs of State. ‘But with men +such as you about me, my dear General, what need I fear?’ + +‘Treachery, Madame,’ he answered, with his sudden smile and a bow. +‘Treachery.’ + +She frowned. When a Queen stoops to dalliance a subject must not be too +practical. + +‘Ah! What is it that concerns my life? Another plot?’ she inquired +shortly. + +‘Another plot, but one of greater importance than those that exist in the +republican cafés of every town in your Majesty’s kingdom. This is a +widespread conspiracy, and I fear that many powerful persons are +concerned in it; but that, your Majesty, is not my department nor +concern.’ + +‘What is your concern, General?’ she asked, looking at him over her fan. + +‘To save your Majesty’s life to-night.’ + +‘To-night!’ she echoed, her coquetry gone. + +‘To-night.’ + +‘But how and where?’ + +‘Assassination, Madame, in Toledo. You are three hours late in your +journey. But all Toledo will be astir awaiting you, though it be till +dawn.’ + +The Queen Regent closed her fan slowly. She was, as the rapid events of +her reign and regency have proved, one of those women who rise to the +occasion. + +‘Then one must act at once,’ she said. + +The General bowed. + +‘What have you done?’ she asked. + +‘I have sent to Madrid for a regiment that I know; they are as my own +children. I have killed so many of them that the remainder love me. I +have travelled from Toledo to meet your Majesty on the road, or here.’ + +‘And what means have you of preventing this thing?’ + +‘I have brought the means with me, Madame.’ + +‘Troops?’ asked the Queen doubtfully, knowing where the canker-worm lay +hidden. + +‘A woman and a priest, Madame.’ + +‘And—’ + +‘And I propose that your Majesty journey to Madrid in my carriage, +attended only by my orderlies, by way of Aranjuez. You will be safe in +Madrid, where the Queen will require her mother’s care.’ + +‘Yes. And the remainder of your plan?’ + +‘I will travel back to Toledo in your Majesty’s carriage with the woman +and the priest and your bodyguard—just as your Majesty is in the habit of +travelling. Toledo wants a fight; nothing else will satisfy them. They +shall have it—before dawn. The very best I have to offer them.’ + +And General Vincente gave a queer, cheery little laugh, as if he were +arranging a practical joke. + +‘But the fight will be round my carriage—’ + +‘Possibly. I would rather that it took place in the Calle de la Ciudad, +or around the Casa del Ayuntamiento, where your Majesty is expected to +sleep to-night.’ + +‘And these persons—this woman who risks her life to save mine—who is +she?’ + +‘My daughter,’ answered the General gravely. + +‘She is here—in the hotel now?’ + +The General bowed. + +‘I have heard that she is beautiful,’ said the Queen, with a quick glance +towards her companion. ‘How is it that you have never brought her to +Court, you who come so seldom yourself?’ + +Vincente made no reply. + +‘However, bring her to me now.’ + +‘She has travelled far, Madame, and is not prepared for presentation to +her Queen.’ + +‘This is no time for formalities. She is about to run a great risk for +my sake, a greater risk than I could ever ask her to run. Present her as +one woman to another, General.’ + +But General Vincente bowed gravely and made no reply. The colour slowly +rose to the Queen Regent’s face—a dull red. She opened her fan, closed +it again, and sat with furtive downcast eyes. Suddenly she looked up and +met his gaze. + +‘You refuse,’ she said, with an insolent air of indifference. ‘You think +that I am unworthy to—meet your daughter.’ + +‘I think only of the exigency of the moment,’ was his reply. ‘Every +minute we lose is a gain to our enemies. If our trick is discovered +Aranjuez will be no safer for your Majesty than is Toledo. You must be +safely in Madrid before it is discovered in Toledo that you have taken +the other route, and that the person they have mistaken for you is in +reality my daughter.’ + +‘But she may be killed,’ exclaimed the Queen. + +‘We may all be killed, Madame,’ he replied lightly. ‘I beg that you will +start at once in my carriage with your chaplain and the holy lady who is +doubtless travelling with you.’ + +The Queen glanced sharply at him. It was known that although her own +life was anything but exemplary, she loved to associate with women who, +under the cloak of religion and an austere virtue, intrigued with all +parties and condoned the Queen’s offences. + +‘I cannot understand you,’ she said, with that sudden lapse into +familiarity which had led to the undoing of more than one ambitious +courtier. ‘You seem to worship the crown and despise the head it rests +on.’ + +‘So long as I serve your Majesty faithfully—’ + +‘But you have no right to despise me,’ she interrupted passionately. + +‘If I despised you, should I be here now—should I be doing you this +service?’ + +‘I do not know. I tell you I do not understand you.’ + +And the Queen looked hard at the man who, for this very reason, +interested one who had all her life dealt and intrigued with men of +obvious motive and unblushing ambition. + +So strong is a ruling passion that even in sight of death (for the Queen +Regent knew that Spain was full of her enemies and rendered callous to +bloodshed by a long war) vanity was alert in this woman’s breast. Even +while General Vincente, that unrivalled strategist, detailed his plans, +she kept harking back to the question that puzzled her, and but half +listened to his instructions. + +Those desirous of travelling without attracting attention in Spain are +wise to time their arrival and departure for the afternoon. At this +time, while the sun is yet hot, all shutters are closed, and the business +of life, the haggling in the market-place, the bustle of the barrack +yard, the leisurely labour of the fields, are suspended. It was about +four o’clock—indeed, the city clocks were striking that hour—when the two +carriages in the inn yard at Ciudad Real were made ready for the road. +Father Concha, who never took an active part in passing incidents while +his old friend and comrade was near, sat in a shady corner of the patio +and smoked a cigarette. An affable ostler had in vain endeavoured to +engage him in conversation. Two small children had begged of him, and +now he was left in meditative solitude. + +‘In a short three minutes,’ said the ostler, ‘and the Excellencies can +then depart. In which direction, reverendo, if one may ask?’ + +‘One may always ask, my friend,’ replied the priest. ‘Indeed, the holy +books are of opinion that it cannot be overdone. That chin strap is too +tight.’ + +‘Ah, I see the reverendo knows a horse.’ + +‘And an ass,’ added Concha. + +At this moment the General emerged from the shadow of the staircase, +which was open and of stone. He was followed by Estella, as it would +appear, and they hurried across the sunlighted patio, the girl carrying +her fan to screen her face. + +‘Are you rested, my child?’ asked Concha at the carriage door. + +The lady lowered the fan for a moment and met his eyes. A quick look of +surprise flashed across Concha’s face and he half bowed. Then he +repeated his question in a louder voice: + +‘Are you rested, my child, after our long journey?’ + +‘Thank you, my father, yes.’ + +And the ostler watched with open-mouthed interest. + +The other carriage had been drawn up to that side of the courtyard where +the open stairway was, and here also the bustle of departure and a +hurrying female form, anxious to gain the shade of the vehicle, were +discernible. It was all done so quickly, with such a military +completeness of detail, that the carriages had passed through the great +doorway and the troopers—merely a general’s escort—had clattered after +them before the few onlookers had fully realised that these were surely +travellers of some note. + +The ostler hurried to the street to watch them go. + +‘They are going to the north,’ he said to himself, as he saw the +carriages turn in the direction of the river and the ancient Puerta de +Toledo. ‘They go to the north—and assuredly the General has come to +conduct her to Toledo.’ + +Strange to say, although it was the hour of rest, many shutters in the +narrow street were open, and more than one peeping face was turned +towards the departing carriages. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII +A NIGHT JOURNEY + + + ‘Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares.’ + +AT the cross-roads on the northern side of the river the two carriages +parted company, the dusty equipage of General Vincente taking the road to +Aranjuez that leads to the right and mounts steadily through olive +groves. The other carriage—which, despite its plain and sombre colours, +still had an air of grandeur and almost of royalty, with its great wheels +and curved springs—turned to the left and headed for Toledo. Behind it +clattered a dozen troopers, picked men, with huge swinging swords and +travel-stained clothes. The dust rose in a cloud under the horses’ feet +and hovered in the sullen air. There was no breath of wind, and the sun +shone through a faint haze which seemed only to add to the heat. + +Concha lowered the window and thrust forward his long inquiring nose. + +‘What is it?’ asked the General. + +‘Thunder—I smell it. We shall have a storm to-night.’ He looked out +mopping his brow. ‘Name of a saint! how thick the air is.’ + +‘It will be clear before the morning,’ said Vincente the optimist. + +And the carriage rattled on towards the city of strife, where Jew, Goth +and Roman, Moor and Inquisitor, have all had their day. Estella was +silent, drooping with fatigue. The General alone seemed unmoved and +heedless of the heat—a man of steel, as bright and ready as his own +sword. + +There is no civilised country in the world so bare as Spain, and no part +of the Peninsula so sparsely populated as the Castiles. The road ran for +the most part over brown and barren uplands, with here and there a valley +where wheat and olives and vineyards graced the lower slopes. The crying +need of all nature was for shade; for the ilex is a small-leaved tree +giving a thin shadow with no cool depths amid the branches. All was +brown and barren and parched. The earth seemed to lie fainting and +awaiting the rain. The horses trotted with extended necks and open +mouths, their coats wet with sweat. The driver—an Andalusian, with a +face like a Moorish pirate—kept encouraging them with word and rein, +jerking and whipping only when they seemed likely to fall from sheer +fatigue and sun-weariness. At last the sun began to set in a glow like +that of a great furnace, and the reflection lay over the land in ruddy +splendour. + +‘Ah!’ said Concha, looking out, ‘it will be a great storm—and it will +soon come.’ + +Vast columns of cloud were climbing up from the sunset into a sullen sky, +thrown up in spreading mares’ tails by a hundred contrary gusts of wind, +as if there were explosive matter in the great furnace of the west. + +‘Nature is always on my side,’ said Vincente, with his chuckling laugh. +He sat, watch in hand, noting the passage of the kilometres. + +At last the sun went down behind a distant line of hill—the watershed of +the Tagus—and immediately the air was cool. Without stopping, the driver +wrapped his cloak round him, and the troopers followed his example. A +few minutes later a cold breeze sprung up suddenly, coming from the north +and swirling the dust high in the air. + +‘It is well,’ said Vincente, who assuredly saw good in everything; ‘the +wind comes first, and therefore the storm will be short.’ + +As he spoke the thunder rolled among the hills. + +‘It is almost like guns,’ he added, with a queer look in his eyes +suggestive of some memory. + +Then, preceded by a rushing wind, the rain came, turning to hail, and +stopping suddenly in a breathless pause, only to recommence with a +renewed and splashing vigour. Concha drew up the windows, and the water +streamed down them in a continuous ripple. Estella, who had been +sleeping, roused herself. She looked fresh, and her eyes were bright +with excitement. She had brought home with her from her English school +that air of freshness and a dainty vigour which makes Englishwomen +different from all other women in the world, and an English schoolgirl +one of the brightest, purest, and sweetest of God’s creatures. + +Concha looked at her with his grim smile—amused at a youthfulness which +could enable her to fall asleep at such a time and wake up so manifestly +refreshed. + +A halt was made at a roadside venta, where the travellers partook of a +hurried meal. Darkness came on before the horses were sufficiently +rested, and by the light of an ill-smelling lamp the General had his +inevitable cup of coffee. The rain had now ceased, but the sky remained +overcast and the night was a dark one. The travellers took their places +in the carriage, and again the monotony of the road, the steady trot of +the horses, the sing-song words of encouragement of their driver, +monopolised the thoughts of sleepy minds. It seemed to Estella that life +was all journeys, and that she had been on the road for years. The swing +of the carriage, the little varieties of the road, but served to add to +her somnolence. She only half woke up when, about ten o’clock, a halt +was made to change horses, and the General quitted the carriage for a few +minutes to talk earnestly with two horsemen, who were apparently awaiting +their arrival. No time was lost here, and the carriage went forward with +an increased escort. The two new-comers rode by the carriage, one on +either side. + +When Estella woke up, the moon had risen and the carriage was making slow +progress up a long hill. She noticed that a horseman was on either side, +close by the carriage window. + +‘Who is that?’ she asked. + +‘Conyngham,’ replied the General. + +‘You sent for him?’ inquired Estella, in a hard voice. + +‘Yes.’ + +Estella was wakeful enough now, and sat upright, looking straight in +front of her. At times she glanced towards the window, which was now +open, where the head of Conyngham’s charger appeared. The horse trotted +steadily, with a queer jerk of the head and that willingness to do his +best which gains for horses a place in the hearts of all who have to do +with them. + +‘Will there be fighting?’ asked Estella suddenly. + +The General shrugged his shoulders. + +‘One cannot call it fighting. There may be a disturbance in the +streets,’ he answered. + +Concha, quiet in his corner, with his back to the horses, watched the +girl, and saw that her eyes were wide with anxiety now—quite suddenly. +She, who had never thought of fear till this moment. She moved uneasily +in her seat, fidgeting as the young ever do when troubled. It is only +with years that we learn to bear a burden quietly. + +‘Who is that?’ she asked shortly, pointing to the other window, which was +closed. + +‘Concepçion Vara—Conyngham’s servant,’ replied the General, who for some +reason was inclined to curtness in his speech. + +They were approaching Toledo, and passed through a village from time to +time, where the cafés were still lighted up, and people seemed to be +astir in the shadow of the houses. At last, in the main thoroughfare of +a larger village within a stage of Toledo, a final halt was made to +change horses. The street, dimly lighted by a couple of oil lamps +swinging from gibbets at the corners of a crossroad, seemed to be peopled +by shadows surreptitiously lurking in doorways. There was a false air of +quiet in the houses, and peeping eyes looked out from behind the bars +that covered every window, for even modern Spanish houses are barred as +if for a siege, and in the ancient villages every man’s house is indeed +his castle. + +The driver had left the box, and seemed to be having some trouble with +the ostlers and stable-helps; for his voice could be heard raised in +anger and urging them to greater haste. + +Conyngham, motionless in the saddle, touched his horse with his heel, +advancing a few paces so as to screen the window. Concepçion, on the +other side, did the same, so that the travellers in the interior of the +vehicle saw but the dark shape of the horses and the long cloaks of their +riders. They could perceive Conyngham quickly throw back his cape in +order to have a free hand. Then there came the sound of scuffling feet +and an indefinable sense of strife in the very air. + +‘But we will see—we will see who is in the carriage!’ cried a shrill +voice, and a hoarse shout from many bibulous throats confirmed the +desire. + +‘Quick!’ said Conyngham’s voice. ‘Quick—take your reins—never mind the +lamps.’ + +And the carriage swayed as the man leapt to his place. Estella made a +movement to look out of the window, but Concha had stood up against it, +opposing his broad back alike to curious glances or a knife or a bullet. +At the other window the General, better versed in such matters, held the +leather cushion upon which he had been sitting across the sash. With his +left hand he restrained Estella. + +‘Keep still,’ he said. ‘Sit back. Conyngham can take care of himself.’ + +The carriage swayed forward, and a volley of stones rattled on it like +hail. It rose jerkily on one side, and bumped over some obstacle. + +‘One who has his quietus,’ said Concha; ‘these royal carriages are +heavy.’ + +The horses were galloping now. Concha sat down rubbing his back. +Conyngham was galloping by the window, and they could see his spur +flashing in the moonlight as he used it. The reins hung loose, and both +his hands were employed elsewhere, for he had a man half across the +saddle in front of him, who held to him with one arm thrown round his +neck, while the other was raised and a gleam of steel was at the end of +it. Concepçion, from the other side, threw a knife over the roof of the +carriage—he could hit a cork at twenty paces but he missed this time. + +The General, from within, leant across Estella, sword in hand, with +gleaming eyes. But Conyngham seemed to have got the hold he desired, for +his assailant came suddenly swinging over the horse’s neck, and one of +his flying heels crashed through the window by Concha’s head, making that +ecclesiastic swear like any layman. The carriage was lifted on one side +again, and bumped heavily. + +‘Another,’ said Concha, looking for broken glass in the folds of his +cassock. ‘That is a pretty trick of Conyngham’s.’ + +‘And the man is a horseman,’ added the General, sheathing his sword—‘a +horseman. It warms the heart to see it.’ + +Then he leant out of the window and asked if any were hurt. + +‘I am afraid, Excellency, that I hurt one,’ answered Vara. ‘Where the +neck joins the shoulder. It is a pretty spot for the knife—nothing to +turn a point.’ + +He rubbed a sulphur match on the leg of his trouser, and lighted a +cigarette as he rode along. + +‘On our side no accidents,’ continued Vara, with a careless grandeur, +‘unless the reverendo received a kick in the face.’ + +‘The reverendo received a stone in the small of the back,’ growled Concha +pessimistically, ‘where there was already a corner of lumbago.’ + +Conyngham, standing in his stirrups, was looking back. A man lay +motionless on the road, and beyond, at the cross-roads, another was +riding up a hill to the right at a hand gallop. + +‘It is the road to Madrid,’ said Concepçion, noting the direction of the +Englishman’s glance. + +The General, leaning out of the carriage window, was also looking back +anxiously. + +‘They have sent a messenger to Madrid, Excellency, with the news that the +Queen is on the road to Toledo,’ said Concepçion. + +‘It is well,’ answered Vincente, with a laugh. + +As they journeyed, although it was nearly midnight, there appeared from +time to time, and for the most part in the neighbourhood of a village, +one who seemed to have been awaiting their passage, and immediately set +out on foot or horseback by one of the shorter bridle-paths that abound +in Spain. No one of these spies escaped the notice of Concepçion, whose +training amid the mountains of Andalusia had sharpened his eyesight and +added keenness to every sense. + +‘It is like a cat walking down an alley full of dogs,’ he muttered. + +At last the lights of Toledo hove in sight, and across the river came the +sound of the city clocks tolling the hour. + +‘Midnight,’ said Concha. ‘And all respectable folk are in their beds. +At night all cats are grey.’ + +No one heeded him. Estella was sitting upright, bright-eyed and wakeful. +The General looked out of the window at every moment. Across the river +they could see lights moving, and many houses that had been illuminated +were suddenly dark. + +‘See,’ said the General, leaning out of the window and speaking to +Conyngham, ‘they have heard the sound of our wheels.’ + +At the farther end of the Bridge of Alcantara, on the road which now +leads to the railway station, two horsemen were stationed, hidden in the +shadow of the trees that border the pathway. + +‘Those should be Guardias Civiles,’ said Concepçion, who had studied the +ways of those gentry all his life. ‘But they are not. They have horses +that have never been taught to stand still.’ + +As he spoke the men vanished, moving noiselessly in the thick dust which +lay on the Madrid road. + +The General saw them go—and smiled. These men carried word to their +fellows in Madrid for the seizure of the little Queen. But before they +could reach the capital the Queen Regent herself would be there—a woman +in a thousand, of inflexible nerve, of infinite resource. + +The carriage rattled over the narrow bridge which rings hollow to the +sound of wheels. It passed under the gate that Wamba built and up the +tree-girt incline to the city. The streets were deserted, and no window +showed a light. A watchman in his shelter, at the corner by the +synagogue, peered at them over the folds of his cloak, and noting the +clank of scabbard against spur, paid no further heed to a traveller who +took the road with such outward signs of authority. + +‘It is still enough—and quiet,’ said Concha, looking out. + +‘As quiet as a watching cat,’ replied Vincente. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII +THE CITY OF STRIFE + + + ‘What lot is mine + Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow + To feel it!’ + +THROUGH these quiet streets the party clattered noisily enough, for the +rain had left the rounded stones slippery, and the horses were too tired +for a sure step. There were no lights at the street corners, for all had +been extinguished at midnight, and the only glimmer of a lamp that +relieved the darkness was shining through the stained-glass windows of +the Cathedral, where the sacred oil burnt night and day. + +The Queen was evidently expected at the Casa del Ayuntamiento, for at the +approach of the carriage the great doors were thrown open and a number of +servants appeared in the patio, which was but dimly lighted. By the +General’s orders the small body-guard passed through the doors, which +were then closed, instead of continuing their way to the barracks in the +Alcazar. + +This Casa del Ayuntamiento stands, as many travellers know, in the Plaza +of the same name, and faces the Cathedral, which is without doubt the +oldest, as it assuredly is the most beautiful, church in the world. The +mansion-house of Toledo, in addition to some palatial halls which are of +historic renown, has several suites of rooms used from time to time by +great personages passing through or visiting the city. The house itself +is old, as we esteem age in England, while in comparison to the buildings +around it it is modern. Built, however, at a period when beauty of +architecture was secondary to power of resistance, the palace is strong +enough, and General Vincente smiled happily as the great doors were +closed. He was the last to look out into the streets and across the +little Plaza del Ayuntamiento, which was deserted and looked peaceful +enough in the light of a waning moon. + +The carriage door was opened by a lacquey, and Conyngham gave Estella his +hand. All the servants bowed as she passed up the stairs, her face +screened by the folds of her white mantilla. There was a queer hush in +this great house, and in the manner of the servants. The cathedral clock +rang out the half-hour. The General led the way to the room on the first +floor that overlooks the Plaza del Ayuntamiento. It is a vast apartment, +hung with tapestries and pictures such as men travel many miles to see. +The windows, which are large in proportion to the height of the room, +open upon a stone balcony, which runs the length of the house and looks +down upon the Plaza and across this to the great façade of the Cathedral. +Candles, hurriedly lighted, made the room into a very desert of shadows. +At the far end, a table was spread with cold meats and lighted by high +silver candelabra. + +‘Ah!’ said Concha, going towards the supper-table. + +Estella turned, and for the first time met Conyngham’s eyes. His face +startled her. It was so grave. + +‘Were you hurt?’ she asked sharply. + +‘Not this time, señorita.’ + +Then she turned with a sudden laugh towards her father. ‘Did I play my +part well?’ she asked. + +‘Yes, my child.’ And even he was grave. + +‘Unless I am mistaken,’ he continued, glancing at the shuttered windows, +‘we have only begun our task.’ He was reading, as he spoke, some +despatches which a servant had handed to him. + +‘There is one advantage in a soldier’s life,’ he said, smiling at +Conyngham, ‘which is not, I think, sufficiently recognised—namely, that +one’s duty is so often clearly defined. At the present moment it is a +question of keeping up the deception we have practised upon these good +people of Toledo sufficiently long to enable the Queen Regent to reach +Madrid. In order to make certain of this we must lead the people to +understand that the Queen is in this house until, at least, daylight. +Given so much advantage, I think that her Majesty can reach the capital +an hour before any messenger from Toledo. Two horsemen quitted the +Bridge of Alcantara as we crossed it, riding towards Madrid; but they +will not reach the capital—I have seen to that.’ + +He paused and walked to one of the long windows, which he opened. The +outer shutters remained closed, and he did not unbar them, but stood +listening. + +‘All is still as yet,’ he said, returning to the table, where Father +Concha was philosophically cutting up a cold chicken. ‘That is a good +idea of yours,’ he said. ‘We may all require our full forces of mind and +body before the dawn.’ + +He drew forward a chair, and Estella, obeying his gesture, sat down and +so far controlled her feelings as to eat a little. + +‘Do queens always feed on old birds such as this?’ asked Concha +discontentedly; and Vincente, spreading out his napkin, laughed with gay +good humour. + +‘Before the dawn,’ he said to Conyngham, ‘we may all be great men, and +the good Concha here on the high road to a bishopric.’ + +‘He would rather be in bed,’ muttered the priest, with his mouth full. + +It was a queer scene, such as we only act in real life. The vast room, +with its gorgeous hangings, the flickering candles, the table spread with +delicacies, and the strange party seated at it—Concha eating steadily, +the General looking round with his domesticated little smile, Estella +with a new light in her eyes and a new happiness on her face, Conyngham, +a giant among these southerners, in his dust-laden uniform—all made up a +picture that none forgot. + +‘They will probably attack this place,’ said the General, pouring out a +glass of wine; ‘but the house is a strong one. I cannot rely on the +regiments stationed at Toledo, and have sent to Madrid for cavalry. +There is nothing like cavalry—in the streets. We can stand a siege—till +the dawn.’ + +He turned, looking over his shoulder towards the door; for he had heard a +footstep unnoticed by the others. It was Concepçion Vara who came into +the room, coatless, his face grey with dust, adding a startling and +picturesque incongruity to the scene. + +‘Pardon, Excellency,’ he said, with that easy grasp of the situation +which always made an utterly unabashed smuggler of him, ‘but there is one +in the house whom I think his Excellency should speak with.’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘The Señorita Barenna.’ + +The General rose from the table. + +‘How did she get in here?’ he asked sharply. + +‘By the side door in the Calle de la Ciudad. The keeper of that door, +Excellency, is a mule. The señorita forced him to admit her. The sex +can do so much,’ he added, with a tolerant shrug of the shoulders. + +‘And the other—this Larralde?’ + +Concepçion raised his hand with outspread fingers, and shook it slowly +from side to side from the wrist, with the palm turned towards his +interlocutor—a gesture which seemed to indicate that the subject was an +unpleasant, almost an indelicate, one. + +‘Larralde, Excellency,’ he said, ‘is one of those who are never found at +the front. He will not be in Toledo to-night—that Larralde.’ + +‘Where is the Señorita Barenna?’ asked the General. + +‘She is downstairs—commanding his Excellency’s soldiers to let her pass.’ + +‘You go down, my friend, and bring her here. Then take that door +yourself.’ + +Concepçion bowed ceremoniously and withdrew. He might have been an +ambassador, and his salutation was worthy of an Imperial Court. + +A moment later Julia Barenna came into the room, her dark eyes wide with +terror, her face pale and drawn. + +‘Where is the Queen Regent?’ she asked, looking from one face to the +other, and seeing all her foes assembled as if by magic before her. + +‘Her Majesty is on the road between Aranjuez and Madrid—in safety, my +dear Julia,’ replied the General soothingly. + +‘But they think she is here. The people are in the streets. Look out of +the window. They are in the Plaza.’ + +‘I know it, my dear,’ said the General. + +‘They are armed—they are going to attack this house.’ + +‘I am aware of it.’ + +‘Their plan is to murder the Queen.’ + +‘So we understand,’ said the General gently. He had a horror of anything +approaching sensation or a scene, a feeling which Spaniards share with +Englishmen. ‘That is the Queen for the time being,’ added Vincente, +pointing to Estella. + +Julia stood looking from one to the other—a self-contained woman made +strong by love. For there is nothing in life or human experience that +raises and strengthens man or woman so much as a great and abiding love. +But Julia Barenna was driven and almost panic-stricken. She held herself +in control by an effort that was drawing lines in her face never to be +wiped out. + +‘But you will tell them? I will do it. Let me go to them. I am not +afraid.’ + +‘No one must leave this house now,’ said the General. ‘You have come to +us, my dear, you must now throw in your lot with ours.’ + +‘But Estella must not take this risk,’ exclaimed Julia. ‘Let me do it.’ + +And some woman’s instinct sent her to Estella’s side—two women alone in +that great house amid this man’s work, this strife of reckless +politicians. + +‘And you, and Señor Conyngham,’ she cried, ‘you must not run this great +risk.’ + +‘It is what we are paid for, my dear Julia,’ answered the General, +holding out his arm and indicating the gold stripes upon it. + +He walked to the window and opened the massive shutters, which swung back +heavily. Then he stepped out on to the balcony without fear or +hesitation. + +‘See,’ he said, ‘the square is full of them.’ + +He came back into the room, and Conyngham, standing beside him, looked +down into the moonlit Plaza. The square was, indeed, thronged with dark +and silent shadows, while others, stealing from the doorways and narrow +alleys with which Toledo abounds, joined the groups with stealthy steps. +No one spoke, though the sound of their whispering arose in the still +night air like the murmur of a breeze through reeds. A hundred faces +peered upwards through the darkness at the two intrepid figures on the +balcony. + +‘And these are Spaniards, my dear Conyngham,’ whispered the General. ‘A +hundred of them against one woman. Name of God! I blush for them.’ + +The throng increased every moment, and withal the silence never lifted, +but brooded breathlessly over the ancient town. Instead of living men, +these might well have been the shades of the countless and forgotten dead +who had come to a violent end in the streets of a city where Peace has +never found a home since the days of Nebuchadnezzar. Vincente came back +into the room, leaving shutter and window open. + +‘They cannot see in,’ he said, ‘the building is too high. And across the +Plaza there is nothing but the Cathedral, which has no windows accessible +without ladders.’ + +He paused, looking at his watch. + +‘They are in doubt,’ he said, speaking to Conyngham. ‘They are not sure +that the Queen is here. We will keep them in doubt for a short time. +Every minute lost by them is an inestimable gain to us. That open window +will whet their curiosity, and give them something to whisper about. It +is so easy to deceive a crowd.’ + +He sat down and began to peel a peach. Julia looked at him, wondering +wherein this man’s greatness lay, and yet perceiving dimly that, against +such as he, men like Esteban Larralde could do nothing. + +Concha, having supped satisfactorily, was now sitting back in his chair +seeking for something in the pockets of his cassock. + +‘It is to be presumed,’ he said, ‘that one may smoke—even in a palace.’ + +And under their gaze he quietly lighted a cigarette with the deliberation +of one in whom a long and solitary life had bred habits only to be broken +at last by death. + +Presently the General rose and went to the window again. + +‘They are still doubtful,’ he said, returning, ‘and I think their numbers +have decreased. We cannot allow them to disperse.’ + +He paused, thinking deeply. + +‘My child,’ he said suddenly to Estella, ‘you must show yourself on the +balcony.’ + +Estella rose at once; but Julia held her back. + +‘No,’ she said; ‘let me do it. Give me the white mantilla.’ + +There was a momentary silence while Estella freed herself from her +cousin’s grasp. Conyngham looked at the woman he loved while she stood, +little more than a child, with something youthful and inimitably graceful +in the lines of her throat and averted face. Would she accept Julia’s +offer? Conyngham bit his lip and awaited her decision. Then, as if +divining his thought, she turned and looked at him gravely. + +‘No,’ she said; ‘I will do it.’ + +She went towards the window. Her father and Conyngham had taken their +places, one on each side, as if she were the Queen indeed. She stood for +a moment on the threshold, and then passed out into the moonlight, alone. +Immediately there arose the most terrifying of all earthly sounds—the +dull, antagonistic roar of a thousand angry throats. Estella walked to +the front of the balcony and stood, with an intrepidity which was worthy +of the royal woman whose part she played, looking down on the upturned +faces. A red flash streaked the darkness of a far corner of the square, +and a bullet whistled through the open window into the woodwork of a +mirror. + +‘Come back,’ whispered General Vincente. ‘Slowly, my child—slowly.’ + +Estella stood for a moment looking down with a royal insolence, then +turned, and with measured steps approached the window. As she passed in +she met Conyngham’s eyes, and that one moment assuredly made two lives +worth living. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX +MIDNIGHT AND DAWN + + + ‘I have set my life upon a cast + And I will stand the hazard of the die.’ + +‘EXCELLENCY,’ reported a man who entered the room at this moment, ‘they +are bringing carts of fuel through the Calle de la Ciudad to set against +the door and burn it.’ + +‘To set against which door, my honest friend?’ + +‘The great door on the Plaza, Excellency; the other is an old door of +iron.’ + +‘And they cannot burn it or break it open?’ + +‘No, Excellency. And, besides, there are loopholes in the thickness of +the wall at the side.’ + +The General smiled on this man as being after his own heart. + +‘One may not shoot to-night, my friend. I have already given the order.’ + +‘But one may prick them with the sword, Excellency?’ suggested the +trooper, with a sort of suppressed enthusiasm. + +The General shrugged his shoulders, wisely tolerant. + +‘Oh yes,’ he answered, ‘I suppose one may prick them with the sword.’ + +Conyngham, who had been standing half in and half out of the open window, +listening to this conversation, now came forward. + +‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I can clear the Plaza from time to time if you +give me twenty men. We can thus gain time.’ + +‘Street-fighting,’ answered the General gravely. ‘Do you know anything +of it? It is nasty work.’ + +‘I know something of it. One has to shout very loud. I studied it—at +Dublin University.’ + +‘To be sure—I forgot.’ + +Julia and Estella watched and listened. Their lot had been cast in the +paths of war, and since childhood they had remembered naught else. But +neither had yet been so near to the work, nor had they seen and heard men +talk and plan with a certain grim humour—a curt and deliberate scorn of +haste or excitement—as these men spoke and planned now. Conyngham and +Concepçion Vara were altered by these circumstances—there was a light in +their eyes which women rarely see, but the General was the same little +man of peace and of a high domestic virtue, who seemed embarrassed by a +sword which was obviously too big for him. Yet in all their voices there +rang alike a queer note of exultation. For man is a fighting animal, and +from St. Paul down to the humblest little five-foot-one recruit, would +find life a dull affair were there no strife in it. + +‘Yes,’ said the General, after a moment’s reflection, ‘that is a good +idea, and will gain time. But let them first bring their fuel and set it +up. Every moment is a gain.’ + +At this instant some humorist in the crowd threw a stone in at the open +window. The old priest picked up the missile and examined it curiously. + +‘It is fortunate,’ he said, ‘that the stones are fixed in Toledo. In +Xeres they are loose, and are always in the air. I wonder if I can hit a +citizen.’ And he threw the stone back. + +‘Close the shutters,’ said the General. ‘Let us avoid arousing +ill-feeling.’ + +The priest drew the jalousies together, but did not quite shut them. +Vincente stood and looked out through the aperture at the moonlit square +and the dark shadows moving there. + +‘I wish they would shout,’ he said. ‘It is unnatural. They are like +children. When there is noise there is little mischief.’ + +Then he remained silent for some minutes, watching intently. All in the +room noted his every movement. At length he turned on his heel. + +‘Go, my friend,’ he said to Conyngham. ‘Form your men in the Calle de la +Ciudad, and charge round in line. Do not place yourself too much in +advance of your men, or you will be killed, and remember—the point! +Resist the temptation to cut—the point is best.’ + +He patted Conyngham on the arm affectionately, as if he were sending him +to bed with a good wish, and accompanied him to the door. + +‘I knew,’ he said, returning to the window and rubbing his hands +together, ‘that that was a good man the first moment I saw him.’ + +He glanced at Estella, and then, turning, opened another window, setting +the shutters ajar so as to make a second point of observation. + +‘My poor child,’ he whispered, as she went to the window and looked out, +‘it is an ill-fortune to have to do with men whose trade this is.’ + +Estella smiled—a little whitely—and said nothing. The moon was now +shining from an almost cloudless sky. The few fleecy remains of the +storm sailing towards the east only added brightness to the night. It +was almost possible to see the faces of the men moving in the square +below, and to read their expressions. The majority stood in a group in +the centre of the Plaza, while a daring few, reckoning on the Spanish +aversion to firearms, ran forward from time to time and set a bundle of +wood or straw against the door beneath the balcony. + +Some, who appeared to be the leaders, looked up constantly and curiously +at the windows, wondering if any resistance would be made. Had they +known that General Vincente was in that silent house they would probably +have gone home to bed, and the crowd would have dispersed like smoke. + +Suddenly there arose a roar to the right hand of the square where the +Calle de la Ciudad was situated, and Conyngham appeared for a moment +alone, running towards the group, with the moonlight flashing on his +sword. At his heels an instant later a single line of men swung round +the corner and charged across the square. + +‘Dear, dear,’ muttered the General; ‘too quick, my friend, too quick!’ + +For Conyngham was already among the crowd, which broke and surged back +towards the Cathedral. He paused for a moment to draw his sword out of a +dark form that lay upon the ground, as a cricketer draws a stump. He +had, at all events, remembered the point. The troopers swept across the +square like a broom, sending the people as dust before them, and leaving +the clean, moonlit square behind. They also left behind one or two +shadows, lying stark upon the around. One of these got upon its knees +and crawled painfully away, all one-sided, like a beetle that has been +trodden underfoot. Those watching from the windows saw with a gasp of +horror that part of him—part of an arm—had been left behind, and a sigh +of relief went up when he stopped crawling and lay quite still. + +The troopers were now retreating slowly towards the Calle de la Ciudad. + +‘Be careful, Conyngham,’ shouted the General from the balcony. ‘They +will return.’ + +And as he spoke a rattling fire was opened upon them from the far corner +of the square, where the crowd had taken refuge in the opening of the +Calle del Arco. Immediately, the people, having noted that the troopers +were few in number, charged down upon them. The men fought in line, +retreating step by step, their swords gleaming in the moonlight. +Estella, hearing footsteps in the room behind her, turned in time to see +her father disappearing through the doorway. Concepçion Vara, coatless, +as he loved to work, his white shirtsleeves fluttering as his arm swung, +had now joined the troopers, and was fighting by Conyngham’s side. + +Estella and Julia were out on the balcony now, leaning over and +forgetting all but the breathless interest of battle. Concha stood +beside them, muttering and cursing like any soldier. + +They saw Vincente appear at the corner of the Calle de la Ciudad and +throw away his scabbard as he ran. + +‘Now, my children!’ he cried in a voice that Estella had never heard +before, which rang out across the square, and was answered by a yell that +was nothing but a cry of sheer delight. The crowd swayed back as if +before a gust of wind, and the General, following it, seemed to clear a +space for himself as a reaper clears away the standing corn before him. +It was, however, only for a moment. The crowd surged back, those in +front against their will, and on to the glittering steel—those behind +shouting encouragement. + +‘Name of God!’ shouted Concha, and was gone. They saw him a minute later +appear in the square, having thrown aside his cassock. He made a strange +lean figure of a man with his knee-breeches and dingy purple stockings, +his grey flannel shirt, and the moonlight shining on his tonsured head. +He fought without skill, and heedless of danger, swinging a great sword +that he had picked up from the hand of a fallen trooper, and each blow +that he got home killed its victim. The metal of the man had suddenly +shown itself after years of suppression. This, as Vincente had +laughingly said, was no priest, but a soldier. Concepçion, in the thick +of it, using the knife now with a deadly skill, looked over his shoulder +and laughed. + +Suddenly the crowd swayed. The faint sound of a distant bugle came to +the ears of all. + +‘It is nothing,’ shouted Concha, in English. ‘It is nothing. It is I +who sent the bugler round.’ + +And his great sword whistled into a man’s brain. In another moment the +square was empty, for the politicians who came to murder a woman had had +enough steel. The sound of the bugle, intimating, as they supposed, the +arrival of troops, completed the work of demoralisation which the +recognition of General Vincente had begun. + +The little party—the few defenders of the Casa del Ayuntamiento—were left +in some confusion in the Plaza, and Estella saw with a sudden cold fear +that Conyngham and Concha were on their knees in the midst of a little +group of hesitating men. It was Concha who rose first and held up his +hand to the watchers on the balcony, bidding them stay where they were. +Then Conyngham rose to his feet slowly, as one bearing a burden. Estella +looked down in a sort of dream, and saw her lover carrying her father +towards the house, her mind only half comprehending, in that +semi-dreamlike reception of sudden calamity which is one of Heaven’s +deepest mercies. + +It was Concepçion who came into the room first, his white shirt dyed with +blood in great patches like the colour on a piebald horse. A cut in his +cheek was slowly dripping. He went straight to a sofa covered in +gorgeous yellow satin, and set the cushions in order. + +‘Señorita,’ he said, and spread out his hands. The tears were in his +eyes, ‘Half of Spain,’ he added, ‘would rather that it had been the +Queen—and the world is poorer.’ + +A moment later Concha came into the room dragging on his cassock. + +‘My child, we are in God’s hand,’ he said, with a break in his gruff +voice. + +And then came the heavy step of one carrying sorrow. + +Conyngham laid his burden on the sofa. General Vincente was holding his +handkerchief to his side, and his eyes, which had a thoughtful look, saw +only Estella’s face. + +‘I have sent for a doctor,’ said Conyngham. ‘Your father is wounded.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Vincente immediately; ‘but I am in no pain, my dear child. +There is no reason, surely, for us to distress ourselves.’ + +He looked round and smiled. + +‘And this good Conyngham,’ he added, ‘carried me like a child.’ + +Julia was on her knees at the foot of the sofa, her face hidden in her +hands. + +‘My dear Julia,’ he said, ‘why this distress?’ + +‘Because all of this is my doing,’ she answered, lifting her drawn and +terror-stricken face. + +‘No, no!’ said Vincente, with a characteristic pleasantry. ‘You take too +much upon yourself. All these things are written down for us beforehand. +We only add the punctuation—delaying a little or hurrying a little.’ + +They looked at him silently, and assuredly none could mistake the shadows +that were gathering on his face. Estella, who was holding his hand, +knelt on the floor by his side, quiet and strong, offering silently that +sympathy which is woman’s greatest gift. + +Concepçion, who perhaps knew more of this matter than any present, looked +at Concha and shook his head. The priest was buttoning his cassock, and +began to seek something in his pocket. + +‘Your breviary?’ whispered Concepçion; ‘I saw it lying out there—among +the dead.’ + +‘It is a comfort to have one’s duty clearly defined,’ said the General +suddenly, in a clear voice. He was evidently addressing Conyngham. ‘One +of the advantages of a military life. We have done our best, and this +time we have succeeded. But—it is only deferred. It will come at +length, and Spain will be a republic. It is a failing cause—because, at +the head of it, is a bad woman.’ + +Conyngham nodded, but no one spoke. No one seemed capable of following +his thoughts. Already he seemed to look at them as from a distance, as +if he had started on a journey and was looking back. During this silence +there came a great clatter in the streets, and a sharp voice cried +‘Halt!’ The General turned his eyes towards the window. + +‘The cavalry,’ said Conyngham, ‘from Madrid.’ + +‘I did not expect—them,’ said Vincente slowly, ‘before the dawn.’ + +The sound of the horses’ feet and the clatter of arms died away as the +troop passed on towards the Calle de la Ciudad, and the quiet of night +was again unbroken. + +Then Concha, getting down on to his knees, began reciting from memory the +office—which, alas! he knew too well. + +When it was finished, and the gruff voice died away, Vincente opened his +eyes. + +‘Every man to his trade,’ he said, with a little laugh. + +Then suddenly he made a grimace. + +‘A twinge of pain,’ he said deprecatingly, as if apologising for giving +them the sorrow of seeing it. ‘It will pass—before the dawn.’ + +Presently he opened his eyes again and smiled at Estella, before he moved +with a tired sigh and turned his face towards that Dawn which knows no +eventide. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX +THE DAWN OF PEACE + + + ‘Quien no ama, no vive.’ + +THE fall of Morella had proved to be, as many anticipated, the knell of +the Carlist cause. Cabrera, that great general and consummate leader, +followed Don Carlos, who had months earlier fled to France. General +Espartero—a man made and strengthened by circumstances—was now at the +height of his fame, and for the moment peace seemed to be assured to +Spain. It was now a struggle between Espartero and Queen Christina. But +with these matters the people of Spain had little to do. Such warfare of +the council-chamber and the boudoir is carried on quietly, and the sound +of it rarely reaches the ear, and never the heart, of the masses. +Politics, indeed, had been the daily fare of the Spaniards for so long +that their palates were now prepared to accept any sop so long as it was +flavoured with peace. Aragon was devastated, and the northern provinces +had neither seed nor labourers for the coming autumn. The peasants who, +having lost faith in Don Carlos, rallied round Cabrera, now saw +themselves abandoned by their worshipped leader, and turned hopelessly +enough homewards. Thus gradually the country relapsed into quiet, and +empty garners compelled many to lay aside the bayonet and take up the +spade who, having tasted the thrill of battle, had no longer any taste +for the ways of peace. + +Frederick Conyngham was brought into sudden prominence by the part he +played in the disturbance at Toledo—which disturbance proved, as history +tells, to be a forerunner of the great revolution a year later in Madrid. +Promotion was at this time rapid, and the Englishman made many strides in +a few months. Jealousy was so rife among the Spanish leaders, Christinos +distrusted so thoroughly the reformed Carlists, that one who was outside +these petty considerations received from both sides many honours on the +sole recommendation of his neutrality. + +‘And besides,’ said Father Concha, sitting in the sunlight on his church +steps at Ronda, reading to the barber, and the shoemaker, and other of +his parishioners, the latest newspaper, ‘and besides—he is clever.’ + +He paused, slowly taking a pinch of snuff. + +‘Where the river is deepest it makes least noise,’ he added. + +The barber wagged his head after the manner of one who will never admit +that he does not understand an allusion. And before any could speak the +clatter of horses in the narrow street diverted attention. Concha rose +to his feet. + +‘Ah!’ he said, and went forward to meet Conyngham, who was riding with +Concepçion at his side. + +‘So you have come, my son,’ he said, shaking hands. He looked up into +the Englishman’s face, which was burnt brown by service under a merciless +sun. Conyngham looked lean and strong, but his eyes had no rest in them. +This was not a man who had all he wanted. + +‘Are you come to Ronda, or are you passing through?’ asked the priest. + +‘To Ronda. As I passed the Casa Barenna I made inquiries. The ladies +are in the town, it appears.’ + +‘Yes; they are with Estella in the house you know—unless you have +forgotten it.’ + +‘No,’ answered Conyngham getting out of the saddle. ‘No; I have +forgotten nothing.’ + +Concepçion came forward and led the horse away. + +‘I will walk to the Casa Vincente. Have you the time to accompany me?’ +said Conyngham. + +‘I have always time—for my neighbour’s business,’ replied Concha. And +they set off together. + +‘You walk stiffly,’ said Concha. ‘Have you ridden far?’ + +‘From Osuna—forty miles since daybreak.’ + +‘You are in a hurry.’ + +‘Yes, I am in a hurry.’ + +Without further comment he extracted from inside his smart tunic a +letter—the famous letter in a pink envelope—which he handed to Concha. + +‘Yes,’ said the priest, turning it over. ‘You and I first saw this in +the Hotel de la Marina at Algeciras, when we were fools not to throw it +into the nearest brazier. We should have saved a good man’s life, my +friend.’ + +He handed the letter back, and thoughtfully dusted his cassock where it +was worn and shiny with constant dusting, so that the snuff had nought to +cling to. + +‘And you have got it—at last. Holy saints—these Englishmen! Do you +always get what you want, my son?’ + +‘Not always,’ replied Conyngham, with an uneasy laugh. ‘But I should be +a fool not to try.’ + +‘Assuredly,’ said Concha, ‘assuredly. And you have come to Ronda—to +try?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +They walked on in silence, on the shady side of the street, and presently +passed and saluted a priest—one of Concha’s colleagues in this city of +the South. + +‘There walks a tragedy,’ said Concha, in his curt way. ‘Inside every +cassock there walks a tragedy—or a villain.’ + +After a pause it was Concha who again broke the silence. Conyngham +seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. + +‘And Larralde—?’ said the priest. + +‘I come from him—from Barcelona,’ answered Conyngham, ‘where he is in +safety. Catalonia is full of such as he. Sir John Pleydell, before +leaving Spain, bought this letter for two hundred pounds—a few months +ago—when I was a poor man and could not offer a price for it. But +Larralde disappeared when the plot failed, and I have only found him +lately in Barcelona.’ + +‘In Barcelona?’ echoed Concha. + +‘Yes; where he can take a passage to Cuba, and where he awaits Julia +Barenna.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Concha, ‘so he also is faithful—because life is not long, my +son. That is the only reason. How wise was the great God when He made a +human life short! ‘ + +‘I have a letter,’ continued Conyngham, ‘from Larralde to the Señorita +Barenna.’ + +‘So you parted friends in Barcelona—after all—when his knife has been +between your shoulders?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘God bless you, my son!’ said the priest, in Latin, with his careless, +hurried gesture of the Cross. + +After they had walked a few paces he spoke again. + +‘I shall go to Barcelona with her,’ he said, ‘and marry her to this man. +When one has no affairs of one’s own there always remain—for old women +and priests—the affairs of one’s neighbour. Tell me—’ he paused and +looked fiercely at him under shaggy brows—‘tell me why you came to +Spain.’ + +‘You want to know who and what I am—before we reach the Calle Mayor?’ +said Conyngham. + +‘I know what you are, _amigo mio_, better than yourself, perhaps.’ + +As they walked through the narrow streets Conyngham told his simple +history, dwelling more particularly on the circumstances preceding his +departure from England, and Concha listened with no further sign of +interest than a grimace or a dry smile here and there. + +‘The mill gains by going, and not by standing still,’ he said, and added, +after a pause, ‘But it is always a mistake to grind another’s wheat for +nothing.’ + +They were now approaching the old house in the Calle Mayor, and Conyngham +lapsed into a silence which his companion respected. They passed under +the great doorway into the patio, which was quiet and shady at this +afternoon hour. The servants, of whom there are a multitude in all great +Spanish houses, had apparently retired to the seclusion of their own +quarters. One person alone was discernible amid the orange trees and in +the neighbourhood of the murmuring fountain. She was asleep in a +rocking-chair, with a newspaper on her lap. She preferred the patio to +the garden, which was too quiet for one of her temperament. In the patio +she found herself better placed to exchange a word with those engaged in +the business of the house, to learn, in fact, from the servants the +latest gossip, to ask futile questions of them, and to sit in that +idleness which will not allow others to be employed. In a word, this was +the Señora Barenna, and Concha, seeing her, stood for a moment in +hesitation. Then, with a signal to Conyngham, he crept noiselessly +across the tessellated pavement to the shadow of the staircase. They +passed up the broad steps without sound and without awaking the sleeping +lady. In the gallery above, the priest paused and looked down into the +courtyard, his grim face twisted in a queer smile. Then, at the woman +sitting there—at life and all its illusions, perhaps—he shrugged his +shoulders and passed on. + +In the drawing-room they found Julia, who leapt to her feet and hurried +across the floor when she saw Conyngham. She stood looking at him +breathlessly, her whole history written in her eyes. + +‘Yes,’ she whispered, as if he had called her. ‘Yes—what is it? Have +you come to tell me—something?’ + +‘I have come to give you a letter, señorita,’ he answered, handing her +Larralde’s missive. She held out her hand, and never took her eyes from +his face. + +Concha walked to the window—the window whence the Alcalde of Ronda had +seen Conyngham hand Julia Barenna another letter. The old priest stood +looking down into the garden, where, amid the feathery foliage of the +pepper trees and the bamboos, he could perceive the shadow of a black +dress. Conyngham also turned away, and thus the two men who held this +woman’s happiness in the hollow of their hands stood listening to the +crisp rattle of the paper as she tore the envelope and unfolded her +lover’s letter. A great happiness and a great sorrow are alike +impossible of realisation. We only perceive their extent when their +importance has begun to wane. + +Julia Barenna read the letter through to the end, and it is possible (for +women are blind in such matters) failed to perceive the selfishness in +every line of it. Then, with the message of happiness in her hand, she +returned to the chair she had just quitted, with a vague wonder in her +mind, and the very human doubt that accompanies all possession, as to +whether the price paid has not been too high. + +Concha was the first to move. He turned and crossed the room towards +Conyngham. + +‘I see,’ he said, ‘Estella in the garden.’ + +And they passed out of the room together, leaving Julia Barenna alone +with her thoughts. On the broad stone balcony Concha paused. + +‘I will stay here,’ he said. He looked over the balustrade. Señora +Barenna was still asleep. + +‘Do not awake her,’ he whispered. ‘Let all sleeping things sleep.’ + +Conyngham passed down the stairs noiselessly, and through the doorway +into the garden. + +‘And at the end—the Gloria is chanted,’ said Concha, watching him go. + +The scent of the violets greeted Conyngham as he went forward beneath the +trees planted there in the Moslems’ day. The running water murmured +sleepily as it hurried in its narrow channel towards the outlet through +the grey wall, whence it leapt four hundred feet into the Tajo below. + +Estella was seated in the shade of a gnarled fig tree, where tables and +chairs indicated the Spanish habit of an out-of-door existence. She rose +as he came towards her, and met his eyes gravely. A gleam of sun +glancing through the leaves fell on her golden hair, half hidden by the +mantilla, and showed that she was pale with some fear or desire. + +‘Señorita,’ he said, ‘I have brought you the letter.’ He held it out, +and she took it, turning over the worn envelope absent-mindedly. + +‘I have not read it myself, and am permitted to give it to you on one +condition—namely, that you destroy it as soon as you have read it.’ + +She looked at it again. + +‘It contains the lives of many men—their lives and the happiness of those +connected with them,’ said Conyngham. ‘That is what you hold in your +hand, señorita—as well as my life and happiness.’ + +She raised her dark eyes to his for a moment, and their tenderness was +not of earth or of this world at all. Then she tore the envelope and its +contents slowly into a hundred pieces, and dropped the fluttering papers +into the stream pacing in its marble bed towards the Tajo and the +oblivion of the sea. + +‘There—I have destroyed the letter,’ she said, with a thoughtful little +smile. Then, looking up, she met his eyes. + +‘I did not want it. I am glad you gave it to me. It will make a +difference to our lives. Though—I never wanted it.’ + +Then she came slowly towards him. + + * * * * * + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. + Edinburgh & London + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN KEDAR'S TENTS*** + + +******* This file should be named 5987-0.txt or 5987-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/9/8/5987 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive +specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this +eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook +for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, +performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given +away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks +not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the +trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country outside the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you + are located before using this ebook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The +Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the +mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its +volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous +locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt +Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to +date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and +official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + |