"You got all this information from perfectly reliable sources, Rossett?"
The question was asked by the Honourable Percy Stonehenge, His Majesty's
Ambassador to the Spanish Court, as the two men sat together in the
Ambassador's private room.
"Perfectly reliable, sir. I have given you in strict confidence the
names of my informants. They are not the sort of men who make
mistakes."
Mr Stonehenge, true type of the urbane and courteous diplomatist, a man
of old family, knitted his brow, and pondered a little before he spoke
again.
"I had a private letter from Greatorex about this matter. There is no
doubt great activity everywhere, but especially in this country. Well,
the information you have collected is most valuable. It will be given
to the King and his advisers, and they must take the best measures they
can."
Stonehenge shook his head sadly, after a prolonged pause. "Revolution,
my dear fellow, is in the air all over Europe. Even in our commonsense
and law-abiding country, there are ominous growlings and mutterings.
Everywhere, the proletariat is getting out of hand. Sometimes I feel
grateful that I am an old man, that what I dread is coming will not come
in my time."
Rossett assented gravely. He was taking himself quite seriously now.
His deep love for Isobel Clandon had purified him of light fancies. His
promotion to this post at Madrid had suggested to him that he might bid
adieu to frivolous pursuits, and do a man's work in the world, prove
himself a worthy citizen of that vast British Empire of which he was
justly proud.
Personally, he would have preferred Paris or Rome, or even Vienna. But,
at the same time, he was greatly attracted by Spain.
A small nation now, it had once been a great one, attaining its zenith
under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. It had produced great
geniuses in the immortal domain of the arts--Cervantes, Lopez de Vega,
Murillo.
Once it had lain prostrate under the iron heel of the Conqueror.
Napoleon, who had overrun all Europe, had subjugated the once invincible
Spain, crushing her and governing her through the puppet King, his
brother, Joseph Bonaparte.
Then had come the time of liberation, and the thunder of the British
guns, under the leadership of Wellington, had freed her from the foreign
yoke.
Rossett was very delighted with his chief, one of those sane men of
affairs, a perfect aristocrat with just sufficient business instinct,
who can safely be appointed to an important post. A man who thought
clearly, saw far ahead, and made few mistakes, a man at once calm,
temperate, and equable.
This Ambassador, on his side, had welcomed him warmly. With the natural
prejudice of his class, he always preferred his colleagues to come from
the old governing families; they thought his thoughts, they spoke his
language. If sometimes they lacked a little in brains and initiative,
they had a large balance on the right side in deportment and integrity,
two very important assets, especially in a monarchical country.
Besides, he was an old friend of Lord Saxham. They had been colleagues
together in their youth. Lord Saxham was of a too violent and volcanic
temperament to rise high in the diplomatic or any other profession. Had
he possessed a little more balance, he might have sat in many cabinets.
But no Prime Minister who knew his business could run the risk of
including him. But, none the less, he exercised a certain outside
influence.
Rossett wrote every day to his beloved Isobel; if he had time, long
letters; if diplomatic affairs were pressing, short ones, assuring her
of his unalterable affection. Isobel wrote every day also, most
voluminous epistles, covering six or eight sheets of the flimsy
notepaper.
He wrote once a week to his dear sister, Mary, only second in his heart
to Isobel. And Mary also replied at great length, but she was not quite
so voluminous as Isobel. Her letters were generally taken up with
reviewing, with her kind, gentle humour, the tantrums of her father, who
appeared to be growing more explosive than ever.
Rossett had exchanged one letter with his father, to which he got a
reply. Lord Saxham was not a great letter-writer, he kept to the point,
and used as few words as possible.
"Glad to hear you are getting on with Stonehenge--a very good fellow!
Stick to it, my dear boy, and I will work for you at this end with
Greatorex. We shall see you an Ambassador yet."
Guy smiled when he got this brief reply. He knew as well as Mary that
his father did not care twopence as to whether he got on in his
profession or not. He was only glad his son was out in Spain, because
his sojourn in that country separated him from Isobel Clandon. How
frightfully obstinate he was!
He often longed for his sweetheart, but still the days were very
pleasant. He speedily found himself popular in the society of Madrid.
He had been received graciously by the King, who knew England well,
equally graciously by the Queen, in her maidenhood a Princess of our own
British stock.
One man in particular had sought to attach himself to him, a man a few
years older than himself, a certain Duke del Pineda.
Pineda was a handsome-looking fellow who bore himself well, dressed
immaculately, and was received at Court and by the best society.
Unquestionably, so far as birth and antecedents were concerned, he was a
Spanish Grandee of the first water. And his manners were charming.
But, all the same, there were certain whispers about him. To begin
with, it was well-known that he was impecunious. And a Spanish duke,
like an English one, is always looked at askance when he is suspected of
impecuniosity. A Duke has no reason to be short of ready money.
Stonehenge, who had watched the growing intimacy between the two men,
spoke to Rossett one day about it.
"You seem very great friends with Pineda, I observe, Guy." The
Ambassador had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian
name.
Rossett looked at his chief squarely. "Yes, sir, we go about a good
deal together. Of course, you have a reason in putting the question."
"He is not on the list of `suspects' you gave me."