THE SECOND MEETING
It may be thought that while I was employed thus I had forgotten the
object of my coming to Spain, namely to avenge my mother’s murder on
the person of Juan de Garcia. But this was not so. So soon as I was
settled in the house of Andres de Fonseca I set myself to make
inquiries as to de Garcia’s whereabouts with all possible diligence,
but without result.
Indeed, when I came to consider the matter coolly it seemed that I had
but a slender chance of finding him in this city. He had, indeed, given
it out in Yarmouth that he was bound for Seville, but no ship bearing
the same name as his had put in at Cadiz or sailed up the Guadalquivir,
nor was it likely, having committed murder in England, that he would
speak the truth as to his destination. Still I searched on. The house
where my mother and grandmother had lived was burned down, and as their
mode of life had been retired, after more than twenty years of change
few even remembered their existence. Indeed I only discovered one, an
old woman whom I found living in extreme poverty, and who once had been
my grandmother’s servant and knew my mother well, although she was not
in the house at the time of her flight to England. From this woman I
gathered some information, though, needless to say, I did not tell her
that I was the grandson of her old mistress.
It seemed that after my mother fled to England with my father, de
Garcia persecuted my grandmother and his aunt with lawsuits and by
other means, till at last she was reduced to beggary, in which
condition the villain left her to die. So poor was she indeed, that she
was buried in a public grave. After that the old woman, my informant,
said she had heard that de Garcia had committed some crime and been
forced to flee the country. What the crime was she could not remember,
but it had happened about fifteen years ago.
All this I learned when I had been about three months in Seville, and
though it was of interest it did not advance me in my search.
Some four or five nights afterwards, as I entered my employer’s house I
met a young woman coming out of the doorway of the _patio;_ she was
thickly veiled and my notice was drawn to her by her tall and beautiful
figure and because she was weeping so violently that her body shook
with her sobs. I was already well accustomed to such sights, for many
of those who sought my master’s counsel had good cause to weep, and I
passed her without remark. But when I was come into the room where he
received his patients, I mentioned that I had met such a person and
asked if it was any one whom I knew.
“Ah! nephew,” said Fonseca, who always called me thus by now, and
indeed began to treat me with as much affection as though I were really
of his blood, “a sad case, but you do not know her and she is no paying
patient. A poor girl of noble birth who had entered religion and taken
her vows, when a gallant appears, meets her secretly in the convent
garden, promises to marry her if she will fly with him, indeed does go
through some mummery of marriage with her—so she says—and the rest of
it. Now he has deserted her and she is in trouble, and what is more,
should the priests catch her, likely to learn what it feels like to die
by inches in a convent wall. She came to me for counsel and brought
some silver ornaments as the fee. Here they are.”
“You took them!”
“Yes, I took them—I always take a fee, but I gave her back their weight
in gold. What is more, I told her where she might hide from the priests
till the hunt is done with. What I did not like to tell her is that her
lover is the greatest villain who ever trod the streets of Seville.
What was the good? She will see little more of him. Hist! here comes
the duchess—an astrological case this. Where are the horoscope and the
wand, yes, and the crystal ball? There, shade the lamps, give me the
book, and vanish.”
I obeyed, and presently met the great lady, a stout woman attended by a
duenna, gliding fearfully through the darkened archways to learn the
answer of the stars and pay many good pesos for it, and the sight of
her made me laugh so much that I forgot quickly about the other lady
and her woes.
And now I must tell how I met my cousin and my enemy de Garcia for the
second time. Two days after my meeting with the veiled lady it chanced
that I was wandering towards midnight through a lonely part of the old
city little frequented by passers-by. It was scarcely safe to be thus
alone in such a place and hour, but the business with which I had been
charged by my master was one that must be carried out unattended. Also
I had no enemies whom I knew of, and was armed with the very sword that
I had taken from de Garcia in the lane at Ditchingham, the sword that
had slain my mother, and which I bore in the hope that it might serve
to avenge her. In the use of this weapon I had grown expert enough by
now, for every morning I took lessons in the art of fence.
My business being done I was walking slowly homeward, and as I went I
fell to thinking of the strangeness of my present life and of how far
it differed from my boyhood in the valley of the Waveney, and of many
other things. And then I thought of Lily and wondered how her days
passed, and if my brother Geoffrey persecuted her to marry him, and
whether or no she would resist his importunities and her father’s. And
so as I walked musing I came to a water-gate that opened on to the
Guadalquivir, and leaning upon the coping of a low wall I rested there
idly to consider the beauty of the night. In truth it was a lovely
night, for across all these years I remember it. Let those who have
seen it say if they know any prospect more beautiful than the sight of
the August moon shining on the broad waters of the Guadalquivir and the
clustering habitations of the ancient city.
Now as I leaned upon the wall and looked, I saw a man pass up the steps
beside me and go on into the shadow of the street. I took no note of
him till presently I heard a murmur of distant voices, and turning my
head I discovered that the man was in conversation with a woman whom he
had met at the head of the path that ran down to the water-gate.
Doubtless it was a lovers’ meeting, and since such sights are of
interest to all, and more especially to the young, I watched the pair.
Soon I learned that there was little of tenderness in this tryst, at
least on the part of the gallant, who drew continually backwards toward
me as though he would seek the boat by which doubtless he had come, and
I marvelled at this, for the moonlight shone upon the woman’s face, and
even at that distance I could see that it was very fair. The man’s face
I could not see however, since his back was towards me for the most
part, moreover he wore a large _sombrero_ that shaded it. Now they came
nearer to me, the man always drawing backward and the woman always
following, till at length they were within earshot. The woman was
pleading with the man.
“Surely you will not desert me,” she said, “after marrying me and all
that you have sworn; you will not have the heart to desert me. I
abandoned everything for you. I am in great danger. I—” and here her
voice fell so that I could not catch her words.
Then he spoke. “Fairest, now as always I adore you. But we must part
awhile. You owe me much, Isabella. I have rescued you from the grave, I
have taught you what it is to live and love. Doubtless with your
advantages and charms, your great charms, you will profit by the
lesson. Money I cannot give you, for I have none to spare, but I have
endowed you with experience that is more valuable by far. This is our
farewell for awhile and I am brokenhearted. Yet
‘’Neath fairer skies
Shine other eyes,’
and I—” and again he spoke so low that I could not catch his words.
As he talked on, all my body began to tremble. The scene was moving
indeed, but it was not that which stirred me so deeply, it was the
man’s voice and bearing that reminded me—no, it could scarcely be!
“Oh! you will not be so cruel,” said the lady, “to leave me, your wife,
thus alone and in such sore trouble and danger. Take me with you, Juan,
I beseech you!” and she caught him by the arm and clung to him.
He shook her from him somewhat roughly, and as he did so his wide hat
fell to the ground so that the moonlight shone upon his face. By
Heaven! it was he—Juan de Garcia and no other! I could not be mistaken.
There was the deeply carved, cruel face, the high forehead with the
scar on it, the thin sneering mouth, the peaked beard and curling hair.
Chance had given him into my hand, and I would kill him or he should
kill me.
I took three paces and stood before him, drawing my sword as I came.
“What, my dove, have you a bully at hand?” he said stepping back
astonished. “Your business, señor? Are you here to champion beauty in
distress?”
“I am here, Juan de Garcia, to avenge a murdered woman. Do you remember
a certain river bank away in England, where you chanced to meet a lady
you had known, and to leave her dead? Or if you have forgotten, perhaps
at least you will remember this, which I carry that it may kill you,”
and I flashed the sword that had been his before his eyes.
“Mother of God! It is the English boy who—” and he stopped.
“It is Thomas Wingfield who beat and bound you, and who now purposes to
finish what he began yonder as he has sworn. Draw, or, Juan de Garcia,
I will stab you where you stand.”
De Garcia heard this speech, that to-day seems to me to smack of the
theatre, though it was spoken in grimmest earnest, and his face grew
like the face of a trapped wolf. Yet I saw that he had no mind to
fight, not because of cowardice, for to do him justice he was no
coward, but because of superstition. He feared to fight with me since,
as I learned afterwards, he believed that he would meet his end at my
hand, and it was for this reason chiefly that he strove to kill me when
first we met.
“The duello has its laws, señor,” he said courteously. “It is not usual
to fight thus unseconded and in the presence of a woman. If you believe
that you have any grievance against me—though I know not of what you
rave, or the name by which you call me—I will meet you where and when
you will.” And all the while he looked over his shoulder seeking some
way of escape.
“You will meet me now,” I answered. “Draw or I strike!”
Then he drew, and we fell to it desperately enough, till the sparks
flew, indeed, and the rattle of steel upon steel rang down the quiet
street. At first he had somewhat the better of me, for my hate made me
wild in my play, but soon I settled to the work and grew cooler. I
meant to kill him—more, I knew that I should kill him if none came
between us. He was still a better swordsman than I, who, till I fought
with him in the lane at Ditchingham, had never even seen one of these
Spanish rapiers, but I had the youth and the right on my side, as also
I had an eye like a hawk’s and a wrist of steel.
Slowly I pressed him back, and ever my play grew closer and better and
his became wilder. Now I had touched him twice, once in the face, and I
held him with his back against the wall of the way that led down to the
water-gate, and it had come to this, that he scarcely strove to thrust
at me at all, but stood on his defence waiting till I should tire.
Then, when victory was in my hand disaster overtook me, for the woman,
who had been watching bewildered, saw that her faithless lover was in
danger of death and straightway seized me from behind, at the same time
sending up shriek after shriek for help. I shook her from me quickly
enough, but not before de Garcia, seeing his advantage, had dealt me a
coward’s thrust that took me in the right shoulder and half crippled
me, so that in my turn I must stand on my defence if I would keep my
life in me. Meanwhile the shrieks had been heard, and of a sudden the
watch came running round the corner whistling for help. De Garcia saw
them, and disengaging suddenly, turned and ran for the water-gate, the
lady also vanishing, whither I do not know.
Now the watch was on me, and their leader came at me to seize me,
holding a lantern in his hand. I struck it with the handle of the
sword, so that it fell upon the roadway, where it blazed up like a
bonfire. Then I turned also and fled, for I did not wish to be dragged
before the magistrates of the city as a brawler, and in my desire to
escape I forgot that de Garcia was escaping also. Away I went and three
of the watch after me, but they were stout and scant of breath, and by
the time that I had run three furlongs I distanced them. I halted to
get my breath and remembered that I had lost de Garcia and did not know
when I should find him again. At first I was minded to return and seek
him, but reflection told me that by now it would be useless, also that
the end of it might be that I should fall into the hands of the watch,
who would know me by my wound, which began to pain me. So I went
homeward cursing my fortune, and the woman who had clasped me from
behind just as I was about to send the death-thrust home, and also my
lack of skill which had delayed that thrust so long. Twice I might have
made it and twice I had waited, being overcautious and over-anxious to
be sure, and now I had lost my chance, and might bide many a day before
it came again.
How should I find him in this great city? Doubtless, though I had not
thought of it, de Garcia passed under some feigned name as he had done
at Yarmouth. It was bitter indeed to have been so near to vengeance and
to have missed it.
By now I was at home and bethought me that I should do well to go to
Fonseca, my master, and ask his help. Hitherto I had said nothing of
this matter to him, for I have always loved to keep my own counsel, and
as yet I had not spoken of my past even to him. Going to the room where
he was accustomed to receive patients, I found he had retired to rest,
leaving orders that I was not to awake him this night as he was weary.
So I bound up my hurt after a fashion and sought my bed also, very
ill-satisfied with my fortune.
On the morrow I went to my master’s chamber where he still lay abed,
having been seized by a sudden weakness that was the beginning of the
illness which ended in his death. As I mixed a draught for him he
noticed that my shoulder was hurt and asked me what had happened. This
gave me my opportunity, which I was not slow to take.
“Have you patience to listen to a story?” I said, “for I would seek
your help.”
“Ah!” he answered, “it is the old case, the physician cannot heal
himself. Speak on, nephew.”
Then I sat down by the bed and told him all, keeping nothing back. I
told him the history of my mother and my father’s courtship, of my own
childhood, of the murder of my mother by de Garcia, and of the oath
that I had sworn to be avenged upon him. Lastly I told him of what had
happened upon the previous night and how my enemy had evaded me. All
the while that I was speaking Fonseca, wrapped in a rich Moorish robe,
sat up in the bed holding his knees beneath his chin, and watching my
face with his keen eyes. But he spoke no word and made no sign till I
had finished the tale.
“You are strangely foolish, nephew,” he said at length. “For the most
part youth fails through rashness, but you err by over-caution. By
over-caution in your fence you lost your chance last night, and so by
over-caution in hiding this tale from me you have lost a far greater
opportunity. What, have you not seen me give counsel in many such
matters, and have you ever known me to betray the confidence even of
the veriest stranger? Why then did you fear for yours?”
“I do not know,” I answered, “but I thought that first I would search
for myself.”
“Pride goeth before a fall, nephew. Now listen: had I known this
history a month ago, by now de Garcia had perished miserably, and not
by your hand, but by that of the law. I have been acquainted with the
man from his childhood, and know enough to hang him twice over did I
choose to speak. More, I knew your mother, boy, and now I see that it
was the likeness in your face to hers that haunted me, for from the
first it was familiar. It was I also who bribed the keepers of the Holy
Office to let your father loose, though, as it chanced, I never saw
him, and arranged his flight. Since then, I have had de Garcia through
my hands some four or five times, now under this name and now under
that. Once even he came to me as a client, but the villainy that he
would have worked was too black for me to touch. This man is the
wickedest whom I have known in Seville, and that is saying much, also
he is the cleverest and the most revengeful. He lives by vice for vice,
and there are many deaths upon his hands. But he has never prospered in
his evil-doing, and to-day he is but an adventurer without a name, who
lives by blackmail, and by ruining women that he may rob them at his
leisure. Give me those books from the strong box yonder, and I will
tell you of this de Garcia.”
I did as he bade me, bringing the heavy parchment volumes, each bound
in vellum and written in cipher.
“These are my records,” he said, “though none can read them except
myself. Now for the index. Ah! here it is. Give me volume three, and
open it at page two hundred and one.”
I obeyed, laying the book on the bed before him, and he began to read
the crabbed marks as easily as though they were good black-letter.
“De Garcia—Juan. Height, appearance, family, false names, and so on.
This is it—history. Now listen.”
Then came some two pages of closely written matter, expressed in secret
signs that Fonseca translated as he read. It was brief enough, but such
a record as it contained I have never heard before nor since. Here, set
out against this one man’s name, was well nigh every wickedness of
which a human being could be capable, carried through by him to gratify
his appetites and revengeful hate, and to provide himself with gold.
In that black list were two murders: one of a rival by the knife, and
one of a mistress by poison. And there were other things even worse,
too shameful, indeed, to be written.
“Doubtless there is more that has not come beneath my notice,” said
Fonseca coolly, “but these things I know for truth, and one of the
murders could be proved against him were he captured. Stay, give me
ink, I must add to the record.”
And he wrote in his cipher: “In May, 1517, the said de Garcia sailed to
England on a trading voyage, and there, in the parish of Ditchingham,
in the county of Norfolk, he murdered Luisa Wingfield, spoken of above
as Luisa de Garcia, his cousin, to whom he was once betrothed. In
September of the same year, or previously, under cover of a false
marriage, he decoyed and deserted one Donna Isabella of the noble
family of Siguenza, a nun in a religious house in this city.”
“What!” I exclaimed, “is the girl who came to seek your help two nights
since the same that de Garcia deserted?”
“The very same, nephew. It was she whom you heard pleading with him
last night. Had I known two days ago what I know to-day, by now this
villain had been safe in prison. But perhaps it is not yet too late. I
am ill, but I will rise and see to it. Leave it to me, nephew. Go,
nurse yourself, and leave it to me; if anything may be done I can do
it. Stay, bid a messenger be ready. This evening I shall know whatever
there is to be known.”
That night Fonseca sent for me again.
“I have made inquiries,” he said. “I have even warned the officers of
justice for the first time for many years, and they are hunting de
Garcia as bloodhounds hunt a slave. But nothing can be heard of him. He
has vanished and left no trace. To-night I write to Cadiz, for he may
have fled there down the river. One thing I have discovered, however.
The Señora Isabella was caught by the watch, and being recognised as
having escaped from a convent, she was handed over to the executories
of the Holy Office, that her case may be investigated, or in other
words, should her fault be proved, to death.”
“Can she be rescued?”
“Impossible. Had she followed my counsel she would never have been
taken.”
“Can she be communicated with?”
“No. Twenty years ago it might have been managed, now the Office is
stricter and purer. Gold has no power there. We shall never see or hear
of her again, unless, indeed, it is at the hour of her death, when,
should she choose to speak with me, the indulgence may possibly be
granted to her, though I doubt it. But it is not likely that she will
wish to do so. Should she succeed in hiding her disgrace, she may
escape; but it is not probable. Do not look so sad, nephew, religion
must have its sacrifices. Perchance it is better for her to die thus
than to live for many years dead in life. She can die but once. May her
blood lie heavy on de Garcia’s head!”
“Amen!” I answered.