"He spoke of himself," she resumed. "Sometimes it is not easy to tell
whether he is acting or whether he is serious. It was easy to-night.
He was serious."
"What did he say?"
"That up till to-night all had been work with him.... That to-night
had set the crown upon his work.... That now for the first time he
could let other hopes, other thoughts, have play...."
"Yes, I see," I replied slowly. "Having done his work, he wants his
prize. He would."
Ballester had toiled untiringly for thirteen years in both open and
devious ways, and, as the consequence of his toil, he had lifted his
Republic into an importance which it had never possessed before. He
had succeeded because what he wanted, he wanted very much. It
certainly looked as if there were considerable trouble in front of
Olivia and Harry Vandeleur--especially Harry Vandeleur.
"So he wants you to marry him," I said; and Olivia gave me one swift
look and turned her head away.
"No," she answered in a whisper. "He wants his revenge, too."
"Revenge?" I exclaimed.
Olivia nodded her head.
"He told me that I must go up to Benandalla"; and the remark took my
breath away. Benandalla was the name of a farm which Ballester owned,
up in the hills two hours away from Santa Paula; and the less said
about it the better. Ballester was accustomed to retreat thither after
any spell of unusually arduous work; and the great feastings which
went on, the babel of laughter, the noise of music and castanets and
the bright lights blazing upon the quiet night till dawn had made the
farm notorious. Even at this moment, I knew, it was not nearly
uninhabited.
"At Benandalla ... you?" I cried; and, indeed, it seemed to me that
the mere presence of Olivia must have brought discomfort into those
coarse orgies, so set apart was she by her distinction. "And he tells
you to go," I continued, "as if you were his maidservant!"
Olivia clenched her small hands together and leaned upon the railings.
Her eyes travelled along the river below and sought a brightness in
the distant sky--the loom of the lights of Las Cuevas. For a little
while, she was strengthened by thoughts of escape, and then once more
she drooped.
"I am frightened," she said, and coming from her, the whispered and
childish cry filled me with consternation. It was her manner and what
she left unsaid rather than her words, which alarmed me. Where I
should have expected pride and a flame of high anger, I found sheer
terror, and the reason of that terror she had not yet given me.
"He spoke of Harry," she resumed. "He said that Harry must not
interfere.... He used threats."
Yes, I thought, Juan Ballester would do that. It was not the usual way
of conducting a courtship; but Juan Ballester's way was not the usual
way of governing a country.
"What kind of threats?"
"Prisons," she answered with a break in her voice.
"What?" I exclaimed.
"Yes," she said. "Prisons--especially in the Northern Republics
of South America.... He explained that, though you have more liberty
here than anywhere else so long as you are free, you are more
completely--destroyed--here than anywhere else if you once get into
prison." From her hesitation I could guess that "destroyed" was a
milder word than Juan Ballester had used.
"He described them to me," she went on. "Hovels where you sleep in the
mud at night, and whence you are leased out by day to work in the
fields without a hat--until, in a month or so, the sun puts an end to
your misery."
I knew there was truth in that description. But it was not possible
that Ballester could put his threat into force. It was anger now, not
consternation, which filled me.
"Senorita, reflect!" I cried. "In whose garden are you standing now?
The British Minister's--and Harry Vandeleur is an Englishman. It was
no more than a brutal piece of bullying by Ballester. See! I am his
secretary"--and she suddenly turned round towards me with a gleam in
her eyes.
"Yes," she interrupted. "You are his secretary and Harry's friend.
Will you help us, I wonder?"
"Show me how!" said I.
"It is not Harry whom he threatens, but my father"; and she lowered
her eyes from mine and was silent.
"My father"; and her answer made my protestations mere vapourings and
foolishness.
The danger was real. The British Minister could hold no shield in
front of Santiago Calavera, even if there were no guilt upon him for
which he could be properly imprisoned. But Olivia's extremity of
terror and my knowledge of Santiago warned me that this condition was
little likely to exist. I took Olivia's hands. They clung to mine in a
desperate appeal for help.
"Come, Senorita," I said gravely. "If I am to help you, I must have
the truth. What grounds had Ballester for his threat?"
She raised her head suddenly with a spurt of her old pride.
"My father is a good man," she said, challenging me to deny it. "What
he did, he thought right to do. I am not ashamed of him. No!"--and
then she would have stopped. But I would not let her. I dared not let
her.
"Go on, please!" I insisted, and the pride died out of her face, and
she turned in a second to pleading.
"But perhaps he was indiscreet--in what he wrote. He thought, perhaps,
too much of his country, too little of those who governed it."
I dropped her hands. I had enough of the truth now. Rumour had always
spoken of Santiago Calavera as an intriguer. His daughter was now
telling me he was a traitor, too.
"We must find your father," I cried. "He brought you to the ball."
"Yes," said she. "He will be waiting to take me home."
We hurried back to the house and searched the rooms. Calavera was
nowhere to be found.
"He cannot have gone!" cried Olivia, wringing her hands. In both of
our minds the same question was urgent.
"Has he been taken away?"
I questioned the servants, and the door-keeper replied. A messenger
had come for Don Santiago early in the evening. I found the British
Minister at Olivia's side when I returned, and a smile of relief upon
her face.
"My father made his excuses and went home," she said. "Important
business came. He has sent the carriage back."
"May I take you home?" I asked.
"Thank you," said she.
It was getting near to dawn when we drove away. The streets were
empty, the houses dark. Olivia kept her face close to the window, and
never stirred until we turned the corner into the Calle Madrid. Then
she drew back with a low cry of joy. The windows of the great house
were ablaze with light. I helped her out of the carriage and rang the
bell. We stood in front of the door talking while the coachman drove
away to his stables.
"Say nothing to my father," Olivia pleaded. "Promise me, Senor."