A WAR OF WIT
‘La discrétion est l’art du mensonge.’
THE Alcalde blew out his cheeks and looked at General Vincente. Señora
Barenna would with small encouragement have thrown herself into
Conyngham’s arms; but she received none whatever, and instead frowned at
Julia. Estella was looking haughtily at her father, and would not meet
Conyngham’s glance.
‘I feel sure,’ said General Vincente in his most conciliating manner,
‘that my dear Julia will see the necessity of satisfying the good Alcalde
by showing him the letter—with, of course, the consent of my friend
Conyngham.’
He laughed, and slipped his hand within Conyngham’s arm.
‘You see, my dear friend,’ he said in English, ‘these local magnates are
a trifle inflated; local magnitude is a little inclined to inflate, eh?
Ha! ha! And it is so easy to conciliate them. I always try to do so
myself. Peace at any price—that is my motto.’
And he turned aside to arrange his sword, which dragged on the ground.
‘Tell her, my dear Conyngham, to let the old gentleman read the letter.’
‘But it is nothing to do with me, General.’
‘I know that, my friend, as well as you do,’ said Vincente with a sudden
change of manner, which gave the Englishman an uncomfortable desire to
know what he meant. But General Vincente, in pursuit of that peace which
had earned him such a terrible reputation in war, turned to Señora
Barenna with his most reassuring smile.
‘It is nothing, my dear Iñez,’ he said. ‘In these times of trouble the
officials are so suspicious, and our dear Alcalde knows too much. He
remembers dear Julia’s little affair with Esteban Larralde, now long
since lived down and forgotten. Larralde is, it appears, a malcontent,
and on the wrong side of the wall. You need have no uneasiness. Ah!
your nerves—yes, I know! A great sufferer—yes, I remember. Patience,
dear Iñez, patience!’
And he patted her stout white hand affectionately.
The Alcalde was taking snuff with a stubborn air of disbelief, glancing
the while suspiciously at Conyngham, who had eyes for none but Estella.
‘Alcalde,’ said General Vincente, ‘the incident is past, as we say in the
diplomatic service; a lemonade now?’
‘No, General, the incident is not past, and I will not have a lemonade.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed General Vincente in gentle horror.
‘Yes, this young lady must give me the letter, or I call in my men.’
‘But your men could not touch a lady, my dear Alcalde.’
‘You may be the Alcalde of Ronda,’ said Conyngham cheerfully, in
continuation of the General’s argument; ‘but if you offer such an insult
to Señorita Barenna, I throw you into the fountain, in the deepest part,
where it is wettest, just there by the marble dolphin.’
And Conyngham indicated the exact spot with his riding-whip.
‘Who is this gentleman?’ asked the Alcalde. The question was in the
first place addressed to space and the gods—after a moment the speaker
turned to General Vincente.
‘A prospective aide-de-camp of General Espartero.’
At the mention of the great name the Mayor of Ronda became beautifully
less and half bowed to Conyngham.
‘I must do my duty,’ he said with the stubbornness of a small mind.
‘And what do you conceive that to be, my dear Alcalde?’ inquired the
General.
‘To place the Señorita Barenna under arrest unless she will hand to me
the letter she has in her possession.’ Julia looked at him with a smile.
She was a brave woman, playing a dangerous game with consummate courage,
and never glanced at Conyngham, who with an effort kept his hand away
from the pocket where the letter lay concealed. The manner in which she
trusted him unreservedly and entirely was in itself cunning enough, for
it appealed to that sense of chivalry which is not yet dead in men.
‘Place me under arrest, Señor Alcalde,’ she said indifferently, ‘and when
you have satisfied me that you have a right to inspect a lady’s private
correspondence I will submit to be searched—but not before.’
She made a little signal to Conyngham not to interfere.
Señora Barenna took this opportunity of asserting herself and her nerves.
She sat heavily down on a stone seat and wept. She could hardly have
done better, for she was a countess in her own right, and the sight of
high-born tears distinctly unnerved the Alcalde.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘the señorita has made her own choice. In these times’
(he glanced nervously at the weeping lady) ‘one must do one’s duty.’
‘My dear Julia,’ protested the General, ‘you who are so sensible—’
Julia shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She not only trusted Conyngham
but relied upon his intelligence. It is as a rule safer to confide in
the honesty of one’s neighbour than in his wit; better still, trust in
neither. Conyngham, who was quick enough when the moment required it,
knew that she was fostering the belief that the letter at that moment in
his pocket was in her possession. He suspected also that he and Julia
Barenna were playing with life and death. Further, he recognised her and
her voice. This was the woman who had showed discrimination and calmness
in face of a great danger on the Garonne. Had this Englishman, owning as
he did to a strain of Irish blood, turned his back on her and danger at
such a moment he would assuredly have proved himself untrue to the annals
of that race which has made a mark upon the world that will never be
wiped out. He looked at the Alcalde and smiled, whereupon that official
turned and made a signal with his hand to a man who, dressed in a quiet
uniform, had appeared in the doorway of the house.
‘What the deuce we are all trying to do I don’t know,’ reflected
Conyngham, who indeed was sufficiently at sea to awake the most dormant
suspicions.
The Alcalde, now thoroughly aroused, protested his inability to neglect a
particle of his duty at this troubled period of Spain’s history, and
announced his intention of placing Julia Barenna under surveillance until
she handed him the letter she had received from Conyngham.
‘I am quite prepared,’ he added, ‘to give this caballero the benefit of
the doubt, and assume that he has been in this matter the tool of
unscrupulous persons. Seeing that he is a friend of General Vincente’s,
and has an introduction to his Excellency the Duke of Vittoria, he is
without the pale of my jurisdiction.’
The Alcalde made Conyngham a profound bow and proceeded to conduct Julia
and her indignant mother to their carriage.
‘There goes,’ said General Vincente with his most optimistic little
chuckle, ‘a young woman whose head will always be endangered by her
heart.’ And he nodded towards Julia’s retreating form.
Estella turned and walked away by herself.
‘Come,’ said the General to Conyngham, ‘let us sit down. I have news for
you. But what a susceptible heart—my dear young friend—what a
susceptible heart! Julia is, I admit, a very pretty girl—_la beauté du
diable_, eh! But on so short an acquaintance—rather rapid, rather
rapid!’
As he spoke he was searching among some letters which he had produced
from his pocket, and at length found an official envelope that had
already been opened.
‘I have here,’ he said, ‘a letter from Madrid. You have only to proceed
to the capital, and there I hope a post awaits you. Your duties will at
present be of a semi-military character, but later I hope we can show you
some fighting. This pestilential Cabrera is not yet quelled, and Morella
still holds out. Yes, there will be fighting.’
He closed the letter and looked at Conyngham. ‘If that is what you
want,’ he added.
‘Yes, that is what I want.’
The General nodded and rose, pausing to brush a few grains of dust from
his dapper riding-breeches.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have seen a horse which will suit you at the cavalry
quarters in the Calle de Bobadilla. Shall we go and look at him?’
Conyngham expressed his readiness to do as the General proposed.
‘When shall I start for Madrid?’ he asked.
‘Oh, to-morrow morning will be time enough,’ was the reply, uttered in an
easy-going, indolent tone, ‘if you are early astir. You see, it is now
nearly five o’clock, and you could scarcely be in saddle before sunset.’
‘No,’ laughed Conyngham, ‘scarcely, considering that I have not yet
bought the saddle or the horse.’
The General led the way into the house, and Conyngham thought of the
letter in his pocket. He had not yet read the address. Julia relied
upon him to deliver it, and her conduct towards the Alcalde had the
evident object of gaining time for him to do so. She had unhesitatingly
thrust herself into a position of danger to screen him and further her
own indomitable purpose. He thought of her—still as from a distance at
which Estella had placed him—and knew that she not only had a disquieting
beauty, but cleverness and courage, which are qualities that outlast
beauty and make a woman powerful for ever.
When he and his companion emerged from the great doorway of the house
into the sunlight of the Calle Mayor, a man came forward from the shade
of a neighbouring porch. It was Concepçion Vara, leisurely and
dignified, twirling a cigarette between his brown fingers. He saluted
the General with one finger to the brim of his shabby felt hat as one
great man might salute another. He nodded to Conyngham.
‘When does his Excellency take the road again?’ he said. ‘I am ready.
The Guardia Civil was mistaken this time—the judge said there was no
stain on my name.’
He shrugged his shoulders and waved away the slight with the magnanimity
of one who can forgive and forget.
‘I take the road to-morrow; but our contract ceased at Ronda. I had no
intention of taking you on.’
‘You are not satisfied with me?’ inquired Concepçion, offering his
interlocutor the cigarette he had just made.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Buen! We take the road together.’
‘Then there is nothing more to be said?’ inquired Conyngham with a
good-natured laugh.
‘Nothing, except the hour at which your Excellency starts.’
‘Six o’clock,’ put in General Vincente quietly. ‘Let me see, your name
is Concepçion Vara.’
‘Yes, Excellency—of Algeciras.’
‘It is well. Then serve this gentleman well, or else—’ The General
paused, and laughed in his most deprecating manner.
Concepçion seemed to understand, for he took off his hat and turned
gravely away. The General and Conyngham walked rapidly through the
streets of Ronda, than which there are none cleaner in the whole world,
and duly bought a great black horse at a price which seemed moderate
enough to the Englishman, though the vendor explained that the long war
had made horseflesh rise in value. Conyngham, at no time a keen
bargainer, hurried the matter to an end, and scarce examined the saddle.
He was anxious to get back to the garden of the great house in the Calle
Mayor before the cool of evening came to drive Estella indoors.
‘You will doubtless wish to pack your portmanteau,’ said the General
rather breathlessly, as he hurried along with small steps beside
Conyngham.
‘Yes,’ answered the Englishman ingenuously, ‘yes, of course.’
‘Then I will not detain you,’ said General Vincente. ‘I have affairs at
headquarters. We meet at dinner, of course.’
He waved a little salutation with his whip and took a side turning.
The sun had not set when Conyngham with a beating heart made his way
through the house into the garden. He had never been so serious about
anything in his life. Indeed, his life seemed only to have begun in that
garden. Estella was there. He saw her black dress and mantilla through
the trees, and the gleam of her golden hair made his eyes almost fierce
for the moment.
‘I am going to-morrow morning,’ he said bluntly when he reached her where
she sat in the shade of a mimosa.
She raised her eyes for a moment—deep velvet eyes with something in them
that made his heart leap within his breast.
‘And I love you, Estella,’ he added. ‘You may be offended—you may
despise me—you may distrust me. But nothing can alter me. I love
you—now and ever.’
She drew a deep breath and sat motionless.
‘How many women does an Englishman love at once?’ she asked coldly at
length.
‘Only one, señorita.’
He stood looking at her for a moment. Then she rose and walked past him
into the house.