about the Castelars and their property, but rather that he was
concealing the facts for his own purposes; and it gave me more than one
twinge of uneasiness during the three or four weeks which followed that,
despite my feeling toward him, I should have encouraged his persistently
maintained efforts to make friend and even close associate of me.
These efforts were indeed a source of constant surprise to me. I was an
obscure nobody in Madrid; and yet his overtures could not have been more
cordial and earnest had I been the heir to a dukedom or a throne. He
invited me constantly to his house, would send me messages to go riding
or driving with him, and indeed overwhelmed me with attentions. In
truth it seemed to me he was so overdoing his part, supposing it to be
mere playacting, that I was almost persuaded he must have some genuine
personal interest in me. Certainly he did his utmost to make the time a
pleasant one for me, and if I could only have had better news of Sarita,
I could not have failed to enjoy myself.
But all the time I did not once get sight of her. When I called on
Madame Chansette, Sarita would never see me. She was away from Madrid
often, that good lady told me, and would not even hear my name spoken.
"I thought you would be such friends," she wailed dismally more than
once; "but Sarita is so wilful. I suppose you quarrelled; why, I can't
imagine. I am sure you like her, and in the first day or two when you
came, your praises were never out of her mouth. But I can't understand
her."
"Couldn't we arrange somehow for me to meet her?" I suggested, presuming
on the old lady's good nature; for my heart had warmed at the unexpected
avowal.
"She would never forgive me," was her instant and timid reply.
"She need never know," said I. "I will manage that. Let me know where
I am likely to see her, say at eight o'clock this evening, and I'll take
the risk of walking straight to her. I will come as if with news for
you, and will take my chance."
"Why are you so anxious?" she asked, sharply.
"Because I love her, Madame Chansette, and her safety is more to me than
my own life. Now that we know Sebastian Quesada will give up
nothing"--I had told her of my talk with him--"it is more than ever
necessary for her to leave Madrid and abandon this wild business of
intrigue."
"You will never persuade her."
"I can at least try;" and after a very little more persuasion she agreed
and we arranged a surprise visit for that evening. I went home with
pulses beating high in anticipation, and found news awaiting which would
make one part of the plan genuine at least.
I should have news for Madame Chansette, and for Sarita. My father was
dead. He had died suddenly, a telegram from Lascelles told me, and I
was summoned home with all speed.
I rushed at once to the Embassy, obtained leave of absence, and made my
preparations to leave for London that night; scribbled a note to Quesada
putting off an engagement with him for the following day and set off for
Madame Chansette's house, with an overwhelming desire to see Sarita
before leaving Spain.
The simple device effected its purpose well. The front door was open
and with a word to the servant I hurried past to the room where I
thought I should find Sarita. I paused just a moment before opening the
door, caught my breath hurriedly, and turned the handle and entered.
She was there and alone, reading with her back to the door, and thinking
probably that it was Madame Chansette she took no notice of my entrance.
Then I perpetrated a very thin trick.
"Ah, dear Madame Chansette, I come with grave news;" I got thus far when
Sarita jumped to her feet and faced me with eyes flashing and cheeks
a-flush.
"How dare you come here?" she cried; speaking in English to emphasise
more distinctly the gulf between us.
"Sarita!" I exclaimed, as though in deep surprise; but I kept by the
door intending to prevent her escape; and I feasted my hungry eyes upon
her glowing beauty.
"My aunt is not here, sir. You must have seen that for yourself the
instant you entered. Why then this absurd pretence?"
"Because I would ten thousand times rather see you than Madame
Chansette; because I must see you; because--any reason you like. I am
too delighted at having at last caught you to care for reasons. You
have been avoiding me for many days. Why?" I replied in Spanish, but
she kept to English, which she spoke with great fluency.
"Because I do not wish to see you, Mr. Carbonnell. You will please be
good enough now to go away." She spoke in her coldest and loftiest
tone. "I desire to be alone."
"No, I shall not go away without an explanation. Why have you avoided me
purposely for all this time?"
"I have given you the reason. I have had no wish to see you."
"Thank you for your bluntness; but you must carry it a stage further and
tell me why."
"Certainly. Because on a former occasion you rendered your presence
objectionable to me," she returned in the same cold, level tone.
"I am going to be very rude and objectionable again, Sarita, and ask you
not to tell half a truth and then plume yourself on having said
something particularly disagreeable;" and I laughed. "I decline to
accept that explanation. The truth is that you have been very angry
with me, and I think your anger has lasted long enough--far too long,
indeed, for relatives and such friends as you and I must be."
"Insult is scarcely the badge which friendship wears," she exclaimed,
changing to Spanish in her impetuosity.
"Good. That's a distinct improvement on your cold assumption of callous
indifference. Whatever may be your real feeling for me, at least I am
sure it is not indifference."
"No, I have told you; you have made yourself objectionable to me," she
flashed with spirit.
"Because I told you I would thwart your wrongful intention in regard to
the young King. I am still of the same mind."
"I told you you were no friend of mine from that minute, and should
never set eyes on me again," she cried, vehemently.
"And here I am, nevertheless, looking at you with eyes of regret that
you have treated me in this way."
"I could not prevent your forcing yourself upon me. I meant never with
my consent; and I presumed you would observe the common decencies of
conduct sufficiently not to force yourself upon me in this way."
"I am sure you never thought that if the chance came my way of seeing
and speaking to you, I should be such a traitor to my own wishes as not
to use it. But I am here, and have not come to quarrel. I have come
with news that may interest even you--for it is bad news for me, and of
much trouble."
She glanced at me, and seemed as if to repudiate the intentional
ungenerosity of my words; but said nothing, and, shrugging her
shoulders, turned away; and, after a moment's pause, substituted a
retort, keeping her face averted.
"Why not carry your news where you will find sympathy?"
"You mean?"
"To my enemies, but your new friends. The Quesadas, brother and sister,
will surely bind up your wounds best. What _their_ friends suffer can
scarcely concern me." I heard this with a tingling sense of pleasure,
for it told me much more than Sarita intended.
"I have been to Sebastian Quesada largely on your business."
"You have at least had ample opportunities, and have made the most of
them. I should congratulate you upon your successful knight-errantry,
too." She said this with a scornful shrug of the shoulders, and a
delightful curl of the lip. Was it really possible she had disliked my
visits to the Quesadas because I had helped Dolores out of the crowd
that day?
"At any rate, my news will have the result you have wished for, Sarita.
My father is dead, and I am leaving Madrid to-night." I watched her
closely as I spoke, and saw her start slightly, bite her lip, and draw
herself together. It did touch her, it seemed, although she was
unwilling to show it. After a moment she turned and said, with an
effort to be very formal:
"I am very sorry for your personal sorrow."
"Will you shake hands now, Sarita?" I said, going towards her.
"We are not children," she returned quickly.
"I am going away"--and I held out my hand.
"Good-bye." She put hers into mine, and I captured it and held it
firmly.
"I am going away--but I shall come back again." She tried to snatch her
hand from mine at this, but I held it, and, looking into her face, said
firmly, "I will not part in anything but good-will, Sarita. And when I
come back to Madrid it must be to find you still my friend. Don't let
any cloud come between us. There is no need. God knows I would rather
have your good-will than that of anyone else on earth. Don't you
believe this?"
"You had better not come back. It can do no good," she said. "You have
taken sides against me; you set yourself to thwart me in my chiefest
wishes; your closest friends are my bitterest enemies. You know this.
You know the wrongs they have done me and mine, and yet you make them
your friends. It is nothing to me, of course, whom you choose for your
friends, but--you choose them." She looked up and tried to smile as
though I had convicted myself.
"Do you really think these people, brother or sister, are anything to
me? That their acquaintance or friendship, or whatever you term it,
would weigh a hair's weight with me against your good-will, Sarita?"
"There are very few in Madrid who would think slightingly of the
friendship of such a man as Sebastian Quesada."
"There is one man in Madrid who would give it up without a thought to
secure the friendship of Sarita Castelar."
"Yes; but you make my friendship impossible; you kill it with your
violent hostility to my work."
"I shall be away I don't know how long--a week, two weeks, a month may
be--but I'll make a suggestion. Let us both use the time to try and
think out a solution of that difficulty--how to be friends even while
enemies of that kind. We are not children, as you said just now."
She shook her head, still declaring that it was impossible; but she
smiled as she said it, and the hardness and anger were gone from her
voice, so that when I pressed the point, as I did with all the
earnestness at command, she yielded; and when Madame Chansette came into
the room some minutes later, she was as intensely surprised as she was
pleased to find us both shaking hands over the bargain.
The thought that a complete reconciliation was in the making sent me off
on my journey with a much lighter heart than I should otherwise have
carried, and I set myself diligently to work to try and think of some
means of saving Sarita in spite of herself.
*CHAPTER X*
*IN LONDON*
Matters in London were pretty much of the kind customary when so gloomy
an event has called together the members of a family; varied, of course,
by touches of individuality.
My dear sister Mercy was quite unstrung by my father's death. She was
the only one of us who had not been led to anticipate it, and the
suddenness of it had roused that sense of awe which, perhaps, the sudden
death of a loved one can alone produce. She was as frightened and
nervously apprehensive as if she had known that Death had a second arrow
fitted to launch at another of us. My arrival did something to cheer
her, and Mrs. Curwen, who was with her constantly at the house, joined
with her in declaring that Mercy and I must not be separated again.
It was not the melancholy side of the event which appealed to Lascelles.
He was now head of the family, and the importance of that position
filled his thoughts to the comparative exclusion of any mere personal
grief. A peer of the realm was not as other men. The King was dead,
long live the King--and the King in the hour of coming to his own had no
time for vulgar indulgence in mere emotion.
Three days after the funeral, he explained his wishes in regard to
myself.
"Ferdinand, I wish to go into things with you," he said, with quite
gracious condescension, having carried me to the study.
"I am afraid I haven't many things worth going into at all, Lascelles,"
said I. "The father had prepared me for his will. There is a thousand
pounds for me, three hundred a year for Mercy--her own fortune, of
course--and the rest for the title. I don't complain in the least, and
my worst wish is that you may make that good marriage as soon as decency
permits. How go matters with Mrs. Curwen?" But this carrying the war
into his own country did not accord at all with his point of view. He
wished to dictate to me about my affairs, not to listen to me about his;
and after fidgetting uneasily, he replied--
"You go very fast, Ferdinand, and I'm sure that in diplomacy you will
not find it advantageous to do that. Things are a great deal changed
since you left London."
"Alas, yes. It's a way that death has."
"I hope you don't mean that for flippancy, but it sounds like it."
"My dear Lascelles, a long face, a chronic groan, and the white of one's
eyes are not essential to real grief."
"Well, it sounded flippant, and it jarred--jarred very much. I have
felt very keenly the father's death, although, of course, the duties of
my new position have compelled me to face the world with--with a due
rigidity of demeanour."
"What was it you were going to say about change?"
"Well, in point of fact I--er--I was referring to--to a match that
concerned you as much as myself. Of course I can't do more for you
than--than the will provides, and I am glad you recognise that; but
there is one thing I can do--and perhaps I ought to do it now--and it
will be of great, indeed of the greatest consequence to you."
It was so unlike him to beat nervously about a subject in this way, that
I watched him in speculative surprise.
"I think, you know, that you might--that in point of fact you ought to
make a wealthy marriage; and I believe that such a thing is quite open
to you." What was he driving at?
"Isn't it a bit early to talk of this?" I suggested.
"Under other circumstances, perhaps, it might be," he said, speaking
without hesitation now that he was well under weigh; "but as it must
affect your plans and movements a good deal, I have thought it desirable
to broach the matter at once. I think you ought not to return to
Madrid, but to remain here in London in pursuance of this object."
"And who is the object I am to pursue? What's her name?" I could not
resist this little play on his awkward phrase.
"I wish, Ferdinand, you wouldn't catch up my words in that way and
distort them. I meant project, of course. As a matter of fact, I am
disposed to abandon in your favour the project I once had in regard
to--Mrs. Curwen." There was a last hesitation in mentioning the name,
and a little flush of colour gave further evidence of his momentary
awkwardness; but having got it out, he went on rapidly and talked
himself out of his embarrassment, giving me a variety of reasons for his
decision, and plenty more for my adopting the suggestion.
"Have you somebody else in your eye, then, Lascelles?" I asked, quietly,
when he had exhausted himself.
"I think that's a very coarse remark, Ferdinand--quite vulgar; and I am
surprised at it." Perhaps he was right to be shocked, but he reddened
so nervously that I could see I had hit the target; and for the life of
me I couldn't help smiling.
"I can't say that Madrid has improved you," he cried, angrily, seeing
the smile. "I am inspired by no feeling but a sincere desire for the
welfare of one of the family; but you must do as you please."
"It's all right, Lascelles, and no doubt you mean well. But I'm not
going to marry Mrs. Curwen or any one else for her money; and I am going
back to Madrid. Is there anything more?" and I got up to show I had had
enough.
"No, there's nothing more, as you put it. But, of course, if you place
yourself at once in opposition to my wishes, you can't expect me to----"
"Don't bother to finish the sentence. When I turn beggar I won't hold
out my cap to you. Don't let us quarrel. I went to Madrid to please
you and help your plans, and I'm going back to please myself. And
you'll be interested to know that the most powerful Minister in Spain at
this moment wishes to be a close friend of mine, and his house always
stands open to me. I mean Sebastian Quesada."
"I'm unfeignedly glad to hear it, Ferdinand," cried my brother,
instantly appeased. "And if I can do anything to push your fortunes
over there, of course my influence is at your command."
"It's very good of you, and I'm sure of it," said I, laughing in my
sleeve at the notion of a man like Quesada being influenced by my fussy,
pompous, little brother.
When Mercy heard of my resolve to return to Spain she was loud with her
protests; and I found that she knew of Lascelles' abandonment of his
matrimonial project--and knew the reason too. He had proposed three
times to Mrs. Curwen in the short interval of my absence and had been
refused; the last time finally, and with a distinct assurance that
nothing would induce Mrs. Curwen to marry him.
When Mrs. Curwen herself heard of my return, she met it very
differently.
"I am so glad, Mr. Ferdinand. It would have been so tiresome if you
hadn't been returning. I don't believe I could possibly have ventured
out there alone, and you can be of such use to me. And, of course, now
that poor Lord Glisfoyle is dead, Mercy can go with me."
"You are really going to venture out there?" I asked, not over pleased
by the news.
"Venture? Of course I am. I'm going on business, you know. My lawyer
has put before me a most tempting speculation--a Spanish silver mine;
and I'm going out to look into it myself. A poor lone widow must have
something to occupy her, you see. Now, you will be nice, won't you, and
give me all the help you can?"
"I really think you'd better not go," said I; and I meant it very
heartily.
"You know, that's real sweet of you. It's the first nice thing you've
said since you came back. It shows you take sufficient interest in me
to wish me to keep out of danger."
"If you persist in going I can help you a good deal, I think," I said,
gravely.
"Of course we're going."
"Then I can introduce to you just the best fellow in the world--my old
friend, Silas Mayhew, and he'll do everything you want."
"I do think you're horrid, and that's a fact," she cried, turning away
with a pout of annoyance. But nothing would stop her going, and such
was her resolution that she did not rest content until she had arranged
to make the journey with Mercy under my escort.
I fixed a date about a fortnight ahead, as I wished certain business
matters arising out of my father's death to be settled before I left;
but I had a note from Mayhew a week before then with news which I
regarded as very serious; and it caused a change in my plans. After
giving me some Embassy gossip, he wrote--
"I am writing this mainly because I think you will care to know that
some very disquieting rumours are afloat about Sarita Castelar. The
Carlists have been unpleasantly active in certain districts, and I hear
the Government--Quesada, that is--is meditating a number of arrests.
Amongst those listed for this is, I have every reason to believe, the
Senorita Castelar.
"By the way, a letter came for you to the Embassy to-day, and I forward
it with one or two more I found waiting at your rooms."
The letter filled me with apprehension on Sarita's account, and fired me
with eagerness to be back in Madrid. I sat chewing gloomily the thought
of her danger; I knew how urgent it might be if Quesada once decided to
strike, and I resolved to return to Madrid at once. Then I glanced
hurriedly at the enclosed letters. Two or three were small bills, but
one bore the Saragossa post mark, and the writing, a man's hand, was
unknown to me. But a glimpse of its contents showed me its importance.
It was from Vidal de Pelayo, and spoke of the plot which he himself had
mentioned, and showed me that all was now ripe.
"I have obeyed your injunctions to the letter. I have never breathed a
word to a soul of what passed when, on the greatest day of my life, I
saw and spoke with you and held your hand. I have also done everything
_since_ that you have directed, and until this minute all was as I
reported. But at the last moment those I trusted have failed me. The
little guest must not come this way. Someone has betrayed us. You have
never told me how to communicate with you under the altered
circumstances; and I take this desperate step of writing to the British
Embassy to you. If I am wrong, forgive and punish me; but I know not
what to do. Only, if the little guest comes here on the 17th, all will
be lost."
I knew only too well much of what it meant, and could easily guess the
remainder. The Carlists had been pushing forward their mad scheme of
kidnapping the young King, and now everything was in readiness. Sarita's
absences from Madrid were explained--she had taken alarm at my declared
intention to thwart the scheme, and had herself been hurrying things on
in the necessary quarters. It was clear that she or someone had
communicated with Vidal de Pelayo, and had given him some fresh
instructions in the name of Ferdinand Carbonnell--this was how I read
his phrase: "I have done everything since that you have directed," and
"You have never told me how to communicate with you under the altered
circumstances." He had pushed his preparations to the verge of
completion, and then had come some hitch; and being at his wit's end,
and not knowing how to communicate with anyone, he had taken the step of
writing to the Embassy, feeling sure, no doubt, that the authorities
would not tamper with a letter addressed there.
The date named was the 17th--the day on which I had fixed to start with
Mrs. Curwen and Mercy. I had, indeed, been living in a fool's paradise,
but there was, happily, ample time yet for me to interfere and do
something. By starting that night I could be in Madrid by the 14th; and
I went at once in search of Mercy to tell her of my change of plan.
Mrs. Curwen was with her, as it chanced, and I told them both I was
sorry, but that I was compelled, by news from Madrid, to hurry out at
once, and must start that night. The widow was a practical little body,
and having satisfied herself by a sharp scrutiny of my face that there
really had been news which had upset me, she said--
"I thought you were spoofing, you know, but I can see by your face there
_is_ something up. Can't you put it off till to-morrow?"
"No, I cannot waste a minute."
"Waste," she cried, with a shrug. "If this thing's bad enough to shake
you out of your manners, it must be bad. But I don't think you need be
quite so frank in calling it _waste_ of time to wait for us."
"I beg your pardon; I didn't mean that. I mustn't delay."
"That's better; and we won't delay you. But, say, I'll make a bargain
with you. It'll be just an awful rush for me to catch any train
to-night, and if you'll give me till to-morrow morning, we'll go by the
day boat and travel special right through from Paris to Madrid. When a
lone widow woman's going silver mine hunting, I suppose it will run to a
special train anyhow. And I just love the fuss it makes."
I demurred on the ground of the expense, the trouble, and the possible
difficulties of making the arrangements; but she laughed them airily
away.
"My dear Mr. Ferdinand, I can fix it up in an hour. One thing I did
learn from poor A.B.C., and that was the power of dollars. You can have
anything on a railway if you'll only pay for it; and a member of the
Madrid Embassy travelling hot-foot to Madrid with his sister and her
friend could have twenty specials in twenty minutes, for a due
consideration. It's a bargain then? I must be off, Mercy, dearest.
Whoop, but we'll scoop some fun in--I beg your pardon, I forgot. But
it'll do you good to get out of this gloomy old house, dear, and there
is no sin in a laugh or two. And if we don't enjoy our jaunt, may I
never have another. Look here, to-morrow ten o'clock at Charing Cross,
special to Dover. Good-bye," and she was gone.
"You'll have to marry her, Nand," said Mercy. "And she really is a dear,
honest-hearted thing; as good as she is indefatigable and energetic."
"I can do better than marry her, I can find her a husband who can give
her what she wants--some love in return." And I was thinking of Silas
Mayhew. But the other matters were clamouring for my thoughts just
then. Sarita, and the troubles and dangers she was coiling round
herself; the plot against the young King; the part I meant to play in it
all; and in the background the grim, stern, menacing face of Sebastian
Quesada--the thoughtful face of the master at the chess board, moving
each piece with deliberate intent, working steadily with set plan as he
lured his opponents forward till the moment came to show his hand and
strike.
The idea took such possession of me that in the short hours of tossing
slumber that night I dreamed of it; and in the dream came a revelation
which clung to me even when I woke--that in some way, at present
inscrutable, unguessable, Quesada knew all that these Carlists were
planning, that it was a part of some infinitely subtle scheme which had
emanated by devious, untraceable, and secret ways from his own wily
brain, and was duly calculated for the furtherance of his limitless,
daring ambition.
I was full of the thought when we reached the station at the time
appointed and found the indefatigable widow before us. She had made all
the arrangements, and was lording it over the officials and impressing
upon everyone the critical affairs of State business which impelled the
important member of the Madrid Embassy to travel in such hot haste to
the Spanish capital.
I was a little abashed at my reception by them, and disposed to rebuke
her excess of zeal; but she only laughed and said:--
"You ought to thank me for my moderation, indeed, for I was sorely
tempted to say you were the Ambassador himself. But we shall get
through all right as it is."
*CHAPTER XI*
*"THE WAYS OF THE CARLISTS WILL BE HARD."*
There is no necessity to dwell upon the incidents of that memorable
journey to Madrid. As Mrs. Curwen had said, "we got through all right."
We were, indeed, treated with as much consideration during the whole
journey as if we had been personages of the most illustrious
distinction, and I found that her agents had contrived in some way to
have telegrams despatched to all points, advising the officials
everywhere on the route to pay particular heed to our special, and to
forward it by all available means.
That we were a very distinguished party no one doubted, and Mercy was so
excited by the results at different places and so exhilarated by the
change of scene and by her friend's vivacity and high spirits, that the
roses began to come back to her pale cheeks, her nerves toughened with
every mile, and before we left Paris she was laughing with something of
her usual lightheartedness.
During the journey, Mrs. Curwen declared that as she was going out on
business and I was going to help her, we had better discuss the matter
fully. As I had looked upon the story of the silver mine as an
ingenious fable, designed only to be a cover for her visit to Madrid, I
was surprised when she put into my hands a quantity of papers having
reference to the subject, and begged me to study them.
"Shall we leave them until you think seriously of the thing?" I asked,
with a smile, having, in truth, little taste for the business.
"Seriously? Why, I was never more serious in my life. If what I'm told
is true, there's a big fortune in it. What do you think I'm going there
for?"
"To see Madrid and give Mercy a treat."
Mercy laughed and glanced at her friend, who coloured very slightly.
"Partly that, and partly, too, to be there when there's someone I know
there--and that's you. But I am also in earnest about this."
"Then I'll read the papers with pleasure," said I, and without more ado
I plunged into them, and almost at the outset made a discovery which
caused deep surprise and excited my keenest interest. The land on which
the silver mine was said to exist was being offered by Sebastian
Quesada, and it formed a part of the property which had belonged to
Sarita Quesada--my Sarita's mother. In other words it belonged by right
to Sarita and Ramon Castelar, and formed a portion of the estate the
very existence of which Quesada had denied to me.
I need not say how earnestly I studied the papers until I had mastered
every detail of the case. I was, in fact, so absorbed in the work, and
gave so many hours to it, that Mrs. Curwen at length protested her
regret at having handed me the documents at all.
I assured her, however, that it was fortunate I had read them as I was
able of my own private knowledge to say there was a flaw in the title,
but that I might be able to make arrangements when we reached Madrid by
which matters could be put right. My idea was that the work of
developing the mine might after all be done by means of her money, but
that the advantage should be reaped, not by Quesada, but by Sarita and
her brother; and I resolved to tackle the Minister as soon as
practicable after my arrival in Madrid.
As we drew nearer to our destination, the possible embarrassments of
Mrs. Curwen's and Mercy's presence in Madrid began to bulk more largely
in my thoughts. The first few days after my return were sure to find me
deeply engrossed by the work I had to do, and I did not care to explain
this to either of them. As soon as I knew for certain the time of our
arrival, therefore, I wired to Mayhew to meet us. I was glad to find
him on the platform when our special drew up, and we all went off
together to the hotel, where rooms had been reserved by Mrs. Curwen. A
few words explained the situation to Mayhew, who was glad enough to take
charge of my companions.
"If anyone knows his Madrid, it's Mayhew," said I. "And he's a
first-class pilot. My duties to the Embassy will be rather heavy for a
few days, so you won't see much of me."
I was glad that Mrs. Curwen was very favourably impressed by my friend,
and as he was keen for London news, and she and Mercy were eager for
Madrid gossip, the evening passed very brightly.
As Mayhew and I walked to my rooms later, he was rather enthusiastic in
the widow's praises.
"She's a good sort, Silas, a real good sort--bright, cheery, and
chippy," I said, "But keep off spoons; or, at least, don't show 'em.
She's beastly rich, and, like all rich folks, thinks everybody's after
the dollars. Treat her like any other unimportant woman, show her a bit
of a cold shoulder now and then, contradict her, and make her go your
way and not her own, put her in the wrong occasionally and make her feel
it, don't keep all the appointments you make, and pay more attention to
Mercy sometimes than you do to her--in fact, be natural and don't make
yourself cheap, and--well, you'll save me a lot of trouble and be always
sure of a welcome from her."
"You seem to know a lot about her," he said, drily.
"She's my sister's chum, Si, and I don't want to be on duty for some
days at any rate;" and I plumed myself on having given him some
excellent advice and started a pretty little scheme for the mutual
advantage of them both.
Then I turned to matters that had much more importance for me, and
questioned him as to the rumour he had sent me about Sarita's possible
arrest. It was no more than a rumour, and he had had it from a man
pretty high up at the Embassy, who in turn had heard it whispered by a
member of the Government.
"The most I can make of it, Ferdinand, is that there is some kind of
_coup_ projected by the Carlists--I believe they are organising one or
two simultaneous risings--and the Government are alarmed and will
strike, and strike hard. In fact, at the Embassy we are looking for
lively times, and I thought you'd like to know it. By the way, there
was a queer-looking provincial came asking for you at the Embassy
yesterday, and I found he'd been to your rooms."
"He left no name or word?"
"No name, but said he had written you, and that his business was
perfectly private and personal, but important."
I jumped to the conclusion at once that it was Vidal de Pelayo, and
that, having had no reply to his letter, he had risked another visit to
me; and I had no sooner reached my rooms, late though the hour was, than
he arrived. He was looking haggard, weary, and anxious.
"Senor, I have been waiting and watching for you three days here in
Madrid. When no reply came to my letter and your further instructions
reached me four days ago, I knew something must be wrong, and in my
desperation I came here."
"What further instructions do you mean? Give them me."
"Confirming the arrangements, giving me the time for the little guest's
arrival at Huesca, and directing me to receive him. What was I to do,
Senor? I saw ruin to us all and to everything in this false step; I
could communicate with no one--what could I do but come here to you?"
He spoke wildly, and with patent signs of distress and agitation.
"I have your letter, and have made the necessary arrangements. The
little guest will not go to Huesca. Have no further care. You might
have known I should not blunder in this way." I spoke with studied
sharpness.
"The blessed Virgin be thanked for this," he cried, fervently. "The
fear has weighed on me like a blessed martyr's curse."
"You need fear no more," I said, and was dismissing him when the
possibility occurred to me that I might still make some use of him in
the last resort. "You will go back to Saragossa, and on the 17th you
will proceed to Huesca. I may be there and have need of you.
Meanwhile, silence like that of the grave;" and with some more words of
earnest caution I sent him away. If the worst came to the worst and the
young King was carried to Huesca on the 17th, I could yet use this man
to get possession of His majesty.
I had still to learn how the actual abduction was to take place, and I
had two days only in which to find this out. It was already the 14th;
and cast about in my thoughts as I would, I could see no way of
discovering a secret which meant life or death to those who knew it and
would be guarded with sacred jealousy and closeness.
To me it seemed that any attempt of the kind must certainly fail. The
young King was protected and watched with the utmost vigilance; his
movements were not even premeditated and were scarcely ever known long
in advance even to those in the immediate circle of the Palace; he was
never left alone; and the whole arrangements for his safe keeping might
have been framed with an eye to the prevention of just such an attempt
as was now planned.
Yet here were these Carlists fixing a day well ahead for the enterprise,
making all calculations and arrangements, and taking it for certain that
they would have the opportunity which to an onlooker seemed an absolute
impossibility. It baffled me completely that night.
In the course of the next morning I sent a note to Sebastian Quesada
announcing my return and saying I wished to see him; and a note came
back by my messenger asking me to call on him at once at his office.
His greeting could not have been warmer and more cordial had I been his
oldest friend returned after a long absence. At the moment of my
arrival he was engaged, but by his express orders I was shown instantly
to him; he dismissed the officials closeted with him with the remark
that even that business must wait upon his welcome of me; and had I not
discouraged him I am sure he would have kissed me after the Spanish
demonstrative style.
"I have missed you, Ferdinand," he said, using my Christian name for the
first time, and speaking with the effusiveness of a girl. "I have
missed you more than I could have believed possible. Our little chats,
our rides and drives together, have become necessary to me--that is a
selfish view to take of a friend, is it not?--but they have been
delightful breaks in my too strenuous life. When I got your little note
an hour ago I felt almost like a schoolboy whose chief companion has
just come back to school. I was grieved to hear of Lord Glisfoyle's
death."
We chatted some time and then he surprised me.
"I suppose you know the world's opinion of me, Ferdinand--a hard,
scheming, ambitious, grasping, avaricious item of human machinery, all
my movements controlled by judgment, and conceived and regulated to
advance only along the path of my own self-interest. What a liar the
world can be--and I am going to show you this. I have been thinking it
out while you have been away. You remember in the first hours of our
friendship you spoke of the Castelars and their property, and you seemed
surprised at my declaration that they had none. Well, I resolved for
the sake of this new thing in my life, our friendship, to have the
matter more closely looked into. I have done this, and I find I have
been wrong all these years. Certain property that I have looked upon as
mine, is theirs, and I am getting ready to make them full restitution.
It will mean great riches to them; for amongst it is a district, at
present barren and profitless, which I believe has most valuable
deposits of silver. I shall restore it to them as soon as the
formalities can be concluded; and you, my dear friend, shall, if you
desire, be the bearer of the news to them; for it is to you, to our
friendship, that in fact they will owe it."
"I am unfeignedly glad to hear this," I exclaimed. I was in truth lost
in sheer amazement alike at the intention and at the motive to which he
ascribed it. But so deep was my distrust of him that I could not stifle
the doubts of his candour, even while he was speaking, and my thoughts
went flying hither and thither in search of his real motive. Could he
in any way have guessed that the facts were in my possession? Did he
know that his agents in London had put the matter to Mrs. Curwen, and
that she had travelled with me to Madrid?
"It has been a genuine pleasure to me to think of this little act of
justice as the outcome of our friendship, Ferdinand--sincere, genuine
pleasure. And now let us speak of another matter. Have you ever heard
of your name having been used here in Spain?" The question came with
such sharp suddenness that I was unprepared with a fencing reply.
"Yes, I have heard something of it," I answered, meeting the keen glance
he bent on me.
"It is a curious business. Don't tell me what you have heard; I should
not be surprised if I know it already. But if you have played with this
thing at all, I beg you be cautious. If I were to tell you the nature
of some of the reports my agents bring me, you would be intensely
surprised. Happily our friendship enables me to distinguish accurately
between my dear friend Ferdinand Carbonnell, and--the other. All do not
hold the key to the mystery, however, and--well, perhaps it is fortunate
in many ways that I do possess it. I tell you this now, because, while
you have been absent from Madrid, strange things have occurred, and we
are in the midst of much danger. Even as I sit here talking to you, it
is scarcely an exaggeration to say the very existence of the Government,
aye, and of the Monarchy itself may be trembling in the balance."
"You mean this?" I cried.
"My dear Ferdinand, on some things I never make mistakes. You know I
have opposed this clamour for war with all my power, putting all I have
of value to the hazard in that opposition. I have done that because I
see as plainly as if the events had already occurred how hopeless would
be a war for Spain. We can scarcely hold Cuba as it is, and Manila is
but another name for menace. Can we dream then of winning when all the
wealth and power of America is thrown into the scale against us? Alas,
my poor, infatuated country!"
He leant back in his chair, lost for a moment in deep meditation.
"They prate to me, these fools, of European intervention and help. Who
can intervene? Or if intervening, can do aught but dash themselves
fruitlessly against the naval might of your country? If only England
would speak the word! Then we might hope indeed; and then in all truth
I would cry for war. But as it is, what else do we resemble so much as
the swine of the Gadarenes inspired by the devils of our empty pride to
rush down the precipice of war to sure and certain ruin? Ah, Ferdinand,
my friend, pray to God--or whatever you hold for a God, that it may
never be your lot to sit in the high places of your people and watch
them rushing to ruin; seeing the ruin clearly and yet powerless to avert
it. It is a cursed heritage!" he cried bitterly.
"The war could still be averted," I said.
He smiled and shook his head.
"At what cost? Good God, at what cost? At the cost of a revolution,
the overthrow of the monarchy, the outbreak of Civil War! And to do
what--to overset one feeble family, and prop up another. Was ever a
country cleft by such a sharp and cruel sword?"
That he should have spoken to me in this strain surprised me; for though
we had frequently discussed Spanish politics, he had never spoken with
such freedom--and he seemed to read the thought in my face.
"You wonder why I speak so frankly. I have reasons. The hour is
striking when all men will know the truth as I see it now. Then it is a
relief to speak: I believe even the highest mountains and tallest trees
grow weary at times of their solitude. And lastly, we are on the eve of
stirring events, and I must warn you to be doubly circumspect in regard
to this coincidence of your name. In the hour of her agony, Spain may
prove as unjust as in the days of the Inquisition. Therefore, be
careful. I know you English can keep secrets."
"Will you tell me one thing? Is Sarita Castelar in danger and likely to
be arrested?"
"She has been foolish, wild and reckless even in her Carlism. And if
the outbreak comes and any rising, the 'ways of the Carlists will be
hard.' But of this be sure--she may always reckon now that I will try
to save her; although any hour may see my power broken. If war comes,
Ferdinand, it will be largely to divert the dangers of Carlism. And
then, no man can say what will follow." He spoke with apparently deep
earnestness of manner; and as he finished, a clerk came with a paper
which caused him to end the interview and send me away, urging me to see
him again shortly.
I had scarcely been more impressed by any event in my life than by that
interview, and for all he had said in explanation, the reason for his
conduct was a mystery; and a mystery which after events were to render
infinitely deeper, until the hour when the clue came into my hands. I
could not shake off the disturbing thought that throughout all he was
misleading me and using me for some presently unfathomable purpose.
But one result was clear--he had given me good news to carry to Sarita;
and when the time came for me to go to Madame Chansette's house, the
thought of Sarita's pleasure at my news, and the hope that I might use
it to induce her to leave this atmosphere of intrigue and danger, found
my heart beating high.
Friendship ripens as fast as fruit in that sunny land; would she be as
glad to see me again as I to see her? Had she been counting the minutes
to the time of our meeting as eagerly as I? I asked myself the
questions as I stood on the doorstep waiting impatiently to be shown to
her.
*CHAPTER XII*
*SARITA'S WELCOME*
If brightening eyes, rising colour in the cheek, radiant looks, smiling
lips and the cordial clasp of outstretched, eager hands spell pleasure,
then assuredly was Sarita glad to see me.
"We got your message and I have been so impatient," she said, holding
both my hands in hers. "And yet so anxious."
It was good to look on her again; to feel the subtle sweetness of her
presence; to listen to her voice; to watch the play of feelings as each
left its mark on her expressive features; to touch her hand and have it
left all trustfully in mine; to have the sunlight of her smiling eyes
warming my heart; to revel in the thousand essences of delight which
spread around her. Ah me. Life is good, and youth and beauty are good,
also; but love is best of all. And my heart told me as I gazed at her
how intensely and deeply I loved her, and what a charm there was in the
mere loving. But these thoughts do not help the tongue to frame
common-places.
"It is good to be with you again, Sarita;" was all I said for some
moments; and we just laughed and made believe that this was as good as
the most sparkling and brilliant conversation that ever wisdom conceived
and wit clothed in phrase.
And for all our silence I believe we understood one another better than
ever before. To me I know that the moments of inarticulate nothingism
were more eloquent in meaning than any words; for somehow by that subtle
instinct or affinity, that strange other sense that has no physical
attribute and is all alert and powerful at times in the best as in the
worst of us, I felt I did not love in vain, but that this woman,
peerless to me among women, who held my hands and smiled to me with all
the witchery of loveliness, was swayed by some of the same weird,
delightful, thrilling, tantalising emotions which bewildered me.
What stayed me I know not; but the swift, sudden, rushing temptation
seized me to draw her to my heart and whisper some of the love thoughts
that were whirling with mad ecstacy in my brain; and when I paused as
though greatly daring and yet not daring enough, I think my heart must
have spoken straight to hers, for with a vivid blush, she shrank, cried
"No, no," tore her hands from mine and, breaking away, ran swiftly to
the end of the room, and stood, her flashing pride laid by, palpitating,
trembling and glancing at me like a timid child.
A long hush fell upon us, and when it had passed, I had retaken control
of my emotions and was myself again. But in that instant I know that
our hearts spoke and were laid bare each to the other.
"I bring you some very strange news, Sarita. Perhaps the last you would
expect."
"From England?"
"No, it was waiting here in Madrid, though I brought out from London
something that might have influenced it."
"That is very clear," she laughed.
"Sebastian Quesada has decided to make restitution of your fortune," I
said looking for some sign of surprise. But she gave none, and after
reflecting an instant said:
"You have seen him before coming here?"
"I went to him to try and force the act of restitution on the strength
of some news I had learned, and he forestalled me by announcing his
intention to make it."
"He is very shrewd; but how did he know that you had this news?"
"That occurred to me; but I don't see how he could have known it."
"You are no match for him, Ferdinand. But there is no merit in his act
even if sincere. He did not say the matter was already completed and
the papers executed, did he?"
"It will be made as soon as the formalities can be complied with."
She laughed again and shook her head sceptically.
"It is a safe promise--for he knows."
"Knows what?"
"What will happen--before the formalities will be complied with." Her
tone was thoughtful, and very serious; and she sighed.
"I think I know what you mean, and I am glad to be in time." She was
leaning her face on her hand, and lifted it to look up in surprise. "I
want to warn you, too, Sarita--I know you are in danger--and to urge you
to abandon this."
"You think I am in danger? Ah, Ferdinand, you do not know the
under-currents. What do you think my real danger is?"
"I know you are in danger of arrest; and I urge you to come to England
and be free."
"Would that be serving my country and my cause?"
"It would be serving your family." She laughed, and the music of her
laughter was indescribably sweet.
"Family," she repeated, half-mischievously, half-earnestly. "I believe
you are very much in earnest, Ferdinand, and I forgive you. I am not
quite sure you are not foolish. But if anyone else said that, do you
think I could hear another syllable from them? It is a counsel of
treachery; and such counsel comes ill from the lips of a friend."
"You allow now that I am a friend then?"
"How solemn you English are, when--when you are solemn!" she cried,
smiling again. "Do I think you are a friend? Yes, I do, in all truth.
I know it. We shall not quarrel again. I believe you are so much my
friend that, if I would let you, you would ruin yourself for me. That
is how you would read friendship and how I read you. But I will not let
my family do that."
"And how may I read you?" I said, quickly.
"How _do_ you read me?" she retorted, with unwonted eagerness.
"How would you have me read you?"
"How would I have you read me?" She paused, glanced away, and then,
looking me straight in the eyes, answered seriously and meaningly. "As
what I am, not as what I might have been. You of all the world must not
make the mistake of confusing the two."
"I do not mistake. What you might have been is what you shall be,
Sarita," I said, earnestly--so earnestly that the expression in her eyes
changed slightly, and she turned them away and started, and I thought
she trembled. She knew my meaning; and after a moment or two, in which
she had forced under the feelings that seemed to have surprised herself,
she said calmly and almost formally--
"I will tell you what I think you do not know. I am in no real danger,
for I am all but pledged to marry--Sebastian Quesada!" Her firmness
scarcely lasted to the end of the sentence, and she uttered the last
words as if looking for some expostulation from me; but I made none.
Instead, I laughed and shook my head. I would not take it seriously.
"There is much virtue in that 'all but.'" She seemed surprised and in a
sense disappointed at my reception of the news.
"It is true. I have three days left to give my answer. He gave me a
week."
"He might as well have given you an hour--or a year. It's all the same.
It will never be more than 'all but.' There are those who will never
allow it."
"Allow?" she cried with a start, the glance of surprise ending in a
smile.
"For one thing your family would bring pressure upon you," I answered,
gravely.
"Family, again," and the smile deepened, and then died away, as she
added, "But do you know what the marriage would mean to me?"
"I know what it would mean to Quesada. He would never live to lead you
to the altar, Sarita."
"You would not do anything so mad?"
"I am not the only man in Madrid who would stop such a marriage. You
have sown passion, the harvest may be death." For a moment she looked
troubled, then her face cleared and grew very serious.
"You mean Juan Livenza. Yes, he is dangerous; but he is only a man; and
after all Sebastian Quesada's man."
"Is Quesada more than a man, and proof against revenge?"
"I cannot tell you all there is in this; nor all that the marriage would
mean to me." This perplexed me. Her face was almost stern as she spoke,
and after a moment's pause, she exclaimed with a gesture of impatience
and irresolution: "Don't question me. It must be."
"You have seen Quesada while I have been away." It was really a
question, but I said it as though stating a fact.
"I told you he had given me a week for my reply."
"And you would marry him--loving another?" The colour that rushed to
her cheeks was as much a flush of pain as of surprise. For an instant
her burning eyes met mine in indignant protest and repudiation, but they
fell before my steady gaze. I think she read the resolve that ruled me
now, and feared it.
"You have no right to speak like this to me," she said; but there was
neither life nor force in her words, and her voice faltered.
"On the contrary, I have the best of all rights. And you know this."
She made an effort to assert herself then. Drawing herself up, she met
my gaze steadily, and said in a tone she sought to make indignant:
"What right do you mean?"
For the space of a dozen quickened heart-beats we faced each other thus,
and then I said, in a tone that thrilled with the passion in me:
"I love you, and I am the man you love, Sarita, and by the God that made
us both, I swear no other man shall call you wife."
The masterfulness of my love conquered her, and with a low cry she broke
away, sank into a seat near, and sat trembling, her face hidden in her
hands. Love's instinct prompted me then to act, while my passion
mastered her. I placed my arms about her, lifted her to her feet, took
her hands from her face and kissed her.
"Do you think I will lose you, Sarita, in the very moment our love has
spoken." At the touch of my lips she trembled violently, and with a cry
of love, she wound her arms round my neck. As her head found love's
shelter on my shoulder, my passion burst all control and found
expression in a lava of words, hot, burning, incoherent, tumultuous and
vehement, poured forth in the delirious madness of the moment of love's
triumph.
We were standing there, still passion-locked, when a most unwelcome
interruption came. The door was opened, and Colonel Juan Livenza was
shown into the room.
He stopped on the threshold, his face livid with the rage that blazed up
in his eyes at what he saw, and struggling for an instant to regain
sufficient self-control to trust himself to speak, he said in a voice
husky and hoarse with rage:
"Your pardon; my arrival is inopportune;" and with a bow and a look of
deadly hate and menace at me, he went out and closed the door behind
him.
Sarita, who had drawn herself hurriedly from my arms, turned pale and
gazed at the shut door, trembling with agitation and distress.
"I have sown passion, and the harvest will be death," she murmured,
repeating my words. "Heaven have mercy upon us."
"Or upon him," I answered. "But we need not take it quite so seriously.
Come, sweetheart," and I held out my arms to her.
"No, no, no. It can never be, Ferdinand. I was mad," she cried
distractedly.
"It was a very sweet madness, and shall last our lifetime," I answered,
but she would not let me place my arm round her again. "As you will," I
said, gently. "The knowledge of your love is all in all to me. The rest
I can trustfully leave to time."
"You must go, Ferdinand. I forgot that he was coming this afternoon.
You have made me forget everything. Oh, I am mad. Now, all may be
lost." The words jarred.
"Lost," I cried; and then a sudden divination of her meaning and of
Livenza's visit flashed into my mind. "He was coming, of course, for
this business of the day after to-morrow--but you will abandon that now,
Sarita?"
"How did you know? Is it guess or knowledge?" and her startled eyes and
parted lips told of her surprise.
"I was with Quesada this morning," I answered, the words coming in
obedience to an impulse that I could neither account for nor resist.
"I am afraid of you, Ferdinand. How do you learn these things? How
much do you know?"
"My dear one, you are playing with weapons of death, and with men who
will but use and then fool you. Your one chance of safety and of
happiness lies in trusting me. Leave all this seething maelstrom of
intrigue, and come with me away from it all." I pleaded with all the
force at command and with all the power of love to back the appeal.
But my note was a wrong one. Sarita, my love, would have yielded, but
Sarita, the Carlist, was still the stronger; and my appeal fell on ears
deadened by the calls of her patriotism and the cause she loved so
fanatically. She grew less and less in sympathy as I pleaded.
"You must not tempt me to treachery, Ferdinand, and I cannot, I dare
not, I will not listen. I should despise myself. Remember what I told
you when first we met. You came too late."
"I will not hear that. I will not let you be sacrificed. You are mine,
Sarita, bound to me by the bonds of our love! and, come what may, I will
save you from this, despite yourself."
"Do you think I heed myself in such a cause? Then you little know me.
What you ask is impossible--the one thing in all the world you should
ever ask of me in vain, Ferdinand. But this I cannot grant."
"I will not take that answer. I know you to be in far deeper peril than
you dream. If this scheme for abducting the King were to succeed, how
would you profit? Can't you see the master-craft that is directing all:
the wires that make you all no more than the puppets of the man who does
nothing without a purpose, and everything for the one purpose of his own
good. If Spain were kingless to-morrow, who would gain? You Carlists?
To the winds with such a dream. When has Quesada lent himself to a
cause which was not for his own advantage? Have you asked yourself
this? How would he stand to gain by any such change? What were his words
to me to-day? By heaven, I begin to see his master-stroke now. You are
his dupe, Sarita, nothing but his dupe. You told me once you knew his
heart--aye, but you have not yet measured the height of his ambition?
To 'overset one feeble family in order to set up another'--that was his
phrase. Where, then, is his profit in this? He lets you think you have
won him over through his love for you; that you know his heart; that he
will help you for this coup if you in return will be his wife. Sarita,
are you blind? What think you is the meaning of the careful network of
preparations to strike at all you Carlists? What are those copious lists
of names already in the hands of his agents? To help you Carlists, or
to crush you? By God," I cried, passionately, as a great light burst in
on me--"I see the object. He would have the young King out of his path;
and yours are the hands by which it shall be done. And when you have
done it, do you dream that he will help to set up another King? What
would be his chance? Picture it. Once the young King were away, who
would be supreme in this Spain of yours? Who is the most powerful man
to-day? To whom would the eyes of the people turn in the hour of
kingless crisis? To him or to Don Carlos? No, no, I tell you his power
in that moment would be all but supreme, and he would use it to crush
relentlessly you very Carlists whom he had used to clear the way for
him. Surely, surely, you can see now that you would be the dupe and
naught else, and that he aims at securing power that shall be nothing
less than supreme."
Sarita listened to my rapid, excited speech with gradually paling cheek,
and when I finished, her breath was coming fast and her eyes shining
brightly.
"If I thought that, I'd---- But no, Ferdinand, he dare not, he dare
not," she exclaimed, in quick, bated tones.
"Dare not--Sebastian Quesada?" I cried, incredulously.
"Dare not. A hundred daggers would flash at his heart."
"Aye, but the hundred hands that could thrust them would be rotting in
his prisons."
"It is impossible, impossible, impossible. I won't believe it; but I
must have time to think. You madden me. I am fevered and frozen in
turns by the thoughts you kindle, I must have time."
"Let me make a last appeal, Sarita. Marry me and come away. Leave
all----"
"No, no," she broke in, passionately. "I cannot. I cannot. This is no
problem that a coward's flight can solve."
"Well then, postpone this attempt on the young King until you have had
time to inquire and search and think."
"I cannot think now. I will see you to-morrow--or better, will think
over all and write you."
"No, I will come to-morrow," I said. "Promise you will see me."
"If I am in Madrid, I promise," she said; and with that, seeing how
deeply she was agitated, I thought it best to leave.
"One word, not from counsellor this, but from your lover, Sarita. The
knowledge we have gained of each other to-day, is knowledge for all our
time. My love can never change; neither will yours, that I know.
To-morrow, it will be the lover who will come to you, sweetheart. I
shall have all in readiness for our departure. Till to-morrow,
good-bye." I took her hand and tried to kiss her, but she would not
suffer me, and when I looked in her eyes, I saw, to my consternation,
they were full of tears. Knowing how intensely she must be excited and
agitated to shed tears, and that it would distress her still more for me
to remain and see her weakness, I turned away and went out.
I was scarcely less excited than Sarita, and, driving at once to my
rooms, sent a messenger with a note to Silas Mayhew, asking him to come
to me without fail in two hours' time, and sat down to try and clear the
tangle of my thoughts. I had guessed much of the desperate intrigue
that lay behind the abduction plot, and felt that I had guessed rightly
the part which Sebastian Quesada was playing. But there was more that I
did not know, and I had to learn it if the project was yet to be
thwarted and his scheme exposed.
More instantly pressing than all, too, was the grave question of Juan
Livenza's intentions. The look he had cast at me had murder in it, and
I must find him and let him do what he would at once. It was for this I
needed my friend Mayhew's help. I dined in my rooms, and sat pondering
the puzzle and piecing together the ends until I began to see the
meaning of it all.
While I was thus engaged, a note came from Quesada, couched in the usual
informal, friendly terms, and pressing me, in his and his sister's name,
to go and see them that evening, and adding that he had something
particular to tell me. I scribbled a reply that I had an engagement,
and had just despatched it when Mayhew arrived.
He came in, smiling and whistling, with a light question on his lips;
but, seeing the look on my face, he stopped abruptly, and his face grew
serious as mine.
"What's the matter? What has happened?"
"I can't tell you everything, Silas, but I'm in the thick of a quarrel,
I fancy, and may want you to see me through with it. The man is that
Colonel Juan Livenza I have spoken to you about, and I want you to come
with me this evening when I put myself in his way to see what follows."
"I'll come, of course; but I hope it's not really serious."
"I don't know how serious; but I shall know within an hour or two. He
goes a good deal to the Cafe de l'Europe, and I am going there now in
the hope of meeting him."
I was too sensible of the gravity of the matter in hand to have any mind
for mere commonplace conversation, and Mayhew, seeing this, fell in with
my mood. We walked in silence most of the way to the Cafe de l'Europe,
but when the place came in sight I took my friend's arm, and began to
chat much in my usual manner. It occurred to me that Livenza might see
us, and I was unwilling to let anything in my conduct display a marked
difference from my usual demeanour.
We pushed up the broad steps and into the magnificent room that all
Madrid knows and admires, but there was no sign of Livenza; and, having
assured ourselves of that, we went on into the smaller saloon used by
certain of the constant frequenters of the place. He was there, sitting
at a table with a couple of friends, away to the right of the door.
I did not appear to notice him, but led Mayhew to a table at some
distance from him, and called a waiter. It was not my cue to force any
quarrel. I designed merely to give Livenza an opportunity of doing so
if he wished. Acting on a hint from me, Mayhew placed his chair so that
he could keep the three at the other table under observation, and,
having given an order, we lighted our cigars and began to chat quietly.
"He has seen you," said Mayhew, after a minute or two, "and is speaking
of us to the men with him. They are getting up, and, I think, are coming
over to us. His face is livid, Ferdinand, and his eyes are burning like
those of a man with a fever. What's he going to do? Yes, they are
moving this way."
I pulled myself together, continued to smoke calmly, and, leaning
forward, went on chatting unconcernedly as I waited for the approach of
the man whose heart, I knew, was a very furnace of rage and jealous hate
of me. And I will confess it was a tense, exciting moment.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE FIGHT*
The Red Saloon at the Cafe de l'Europe, as the room they were in was
termed, was a well-frequented resort, and at that hour in the evening
was generally full of visitors. But that night there were more empty
tables than usual, and at one of these, quite close to us, Livenza and
his two companions stopped and sat down. They were well within earshot,
and Mayhew, after a warning glance to me, began to speak on indifferent
subjects.
I did not for a moment understand Livenza's intention, but it was soon
made unmistakably clear. When the three had ordered some fresh drinks,
they began to speak on the topic which was in all Spaniards' thoughts at
the moment--the strain with the United States and the probable action of
England. The conversation began quietly, and Livenza himself took no
part in it for some minutes. The references to England grew gradually
more bitter, however, until Mayhew was getting restive.
"There'll be a row if we stop here," he leant forward and whispered.
"And you know how urgent the chief is about not getting into a mess."
"Wait," I whispered back. "This is only a blind."
"Well, they're talking at us right enough, and I don't like it."
"I don't want to drag you into it. If there's anyone here you know, go
and chat with him for ten minutes; but don't leave the room."
"Hullo, there's Pezzia," he exclaimed aloud a moment later. "I haven't
seen him for an age. Excuse me, Carbonnell;" and he got up and went to a
table at a distance.
I heard one of the three snigger, and mutter something about discretion
and that kind of courage which saves the skin by prudent flight. But
fortunately Mayhew heard nothing, and I took no notice. There was a
paper lying near, and I picked it up and began to read.
Without any conscious intention, I turned to the paragraph of Court
gossip for any news of the young King's movements, and my attention was
instantly caught and held by the following:--
"We have reason to state that His Majesty and the Queen Regent have been
much touched and gratified by the evidences of devoted and affectionate
loyalty displayed by the Madrid populace during the recent unattended
drives in the streets and suburbs of the capital. These drives are
taken with no more ostentation than those of any private citizen, and
their unceremonious character affords eloquent proof of the mutual trust
and affection which exist between the Royal Family and the people. They
are quite unceremonious. The route is frequently decided only at the
last moment, and the statement of a contemporary that, although
seemingly no precautions are taken, the whole route is under close
police supervision, has no foundation. Yesterday, for instance, the
route as first planned was changed almost at the instant of starting,
and thus no such precautions could have been taken even had they been
necessary. But the Royal Family rely upon the loyalty of their
subjects, and, thank God, do not rely in vain. Wherever the young King
is seen, the populace hail him with delight, cheer him from the heart,
and would protect him with their lives. Every day sees his hold upon
the affections of his subjects strengthen, and nothing could more
clearly prove this than the spontaneous evidence of Madrid's loyalty
which these unceremonious incidents evoke. It is well known, too, that
the trust in the people thus displayed had its origin in the suggestion
of a powerful minister who, better than any of our countrymen, can gauge
the stalwart, gallant loyalty of the Spain of to-day to the Monarchy,
even in the midst of a national crisis such as the present."
I was so engrossed by this, and by the thoughts it stirred--for I saw
intuitively what it might mean to the scheme for the young King's
abduction, and I read between the lines the cunning work of
Quesada--that for the moment I lost touch with the proceedings of
Livenza and his companions; but a remark from him brought me back in a
trice.
"Ugh, they make me sick, these English, with their lying hypocrisy and
their insolent cant about God and their everlasting bibles. I can stand
an American--he is at least an honest man and an open enemy; but your
Englishman is all frothy godliness on the top, and rottenness, lies, and
cowardice beneath."