IN HONOUR
‘He makes no friend who never made a foe.’
CONYNGHAM remembered the name of Pleydell well enough, and glanced
sharply at Estella, recollecting that the General received the ‘Times’
from London. Before he had time to make an answer, and indeed he had
none ready, the General came into the room.
‘Ah!’ said Vincente in his sociable manner, ‘I see you know each other
already—so an introduction is superfluous. And now we will have Sir
John’s story. Be seated, my dear sir. But first—a little refreshment.
It is a dusty day—a lemonade?’
Sir John declined, his manner strikingly cold and reserved beside the
genial _empressement_ of General Vincente. In truth the two men seemed
to belong to opposite poles—the one of cold and the other of heat. Sir
John had the chill air of one who had mixed among his fellow men only to
see their evil side; for the world is a cold place to those that look on
it with a chilling glance. General Vincente, on the other hand, whose
life had been passed in strife and warfare, seemed ready to welcome all
comers as friends and to hold out the hand of good-fellowship to rich and
poor alike.
Conyngham shrugged his shoulders with a queer smile. Here was a quandary
requiring a quicker brain than his. He did not even attempt to seek a
solution to his difficulties, and the only thought in his mind was a
characteristic determination to face them courageously. He drew forward
a chair for Sir John Pleydell, his heart stirred with that sense of
exhilaration which comes to some in moments of peril.
‘I will not detain you long,’ began the new-comer, with an air slightly
suggestive of the law court, ‘but there are certain details which I am
afraid I must inflict upon you, in order that you may fully understand my
actions.’
The remark was addressed to General Vincente, although the speaker
appeared to be demanding Conyngham’s attention in the first instance.
The learned gentlemen of the Bar thus often address the jury through the
ears of the judge.
General Vincente had seated himself at the table and was drawing his
scented pocket-handkerchief across his moustache reflectively. He was
not, it was obvious, keenly interested, although desirous of showing
every politeness to the stranger. In truth, such Englishmen as brought
their affairs to Spain at this time were not as a rule highly desirable
persons or a credit to their country. Estella was sitting near the
window, rather behind her father, and Conyngham stood by the fireplace,
facing them all.
‘You perhaps know something of our English politics,’ continued Sir John
Pleydell, and the General making a little gesture indicative of a limited
but sufficient knowledge, went on to say—‘of the Chartists more
particularly?’
The General bowed. Estella glanced at Conyngham, who was smiling.
‘One cannot call them a party, as I have heard them designated in Spain,’
said Sir John parenthetically. ‘They are quite unworthy of so
distinguished a name. These Chartists consist of the most ignorant
people in the land—the rabble, in fact, headed by a few scheming
malcontents: professional agitators who are not above picking the pockets
of the poor. Many capitalists and landowners have suffered wrong and
loss at the hands of these disturbers of the peace, none—’ He paused and
gave a sharp sigh which seemed to catch him unawares, and almost
suggested that the man had, after all, or had at one time possessed, a
heart. ‘None more severely than myself,’ he concluded.
The General’s face instantly expressed the utmost concern.
‘My dear sir,’ he murmured.
‘For many years,’ continued Sir John hurriedly, as if resenting anything
like sympathy, as all good Britons do, ‘the authorities acted in an
irresolute and foolish manner, not daring to put down the disturbances
with a firm hand. At length, however, a riot of a more serious character
at a town in Wales necessitated the interference of the military. The
ringleaders were arrested, and for some time the authorities were in
considerable doubt as to what to do to them. I interested myself
strongly in the matter—having practised the law in my younger days—and
was finally enabled to see my object carried out. These men were
arraigned, not as mere brawlers and rioters, but under a charge of high
treason—a much more serious affair for them.’
He broke off with a harsh laugh, which was only a matter of the voice,
for his marble face remained unchanged, and probably had not at any time
the power of expressing mirth.
‘The ringleaders of the Newport riots were sentenced to long terms of
imprisonment, which served my purpose excellently.’
Sir John Pleydell spoke with that cynical frankness which seems often to
follow upon a few years devoted to practice at the Common Law Bar, where
men in truth spend their days in dissecting the mental diseases of their
fellow creatures, and learn to conclude that a pure and healthy mind is
possessed by none. He moved slightly in his chair, and seemed to
indicate that he had made his first point.
‘I hope,’ he said, addressing Conyngham directly, ‘that I am not
fatiguing you?’
‘Not at all,’ returned the younger Englishman coolly; ‘I am much
interested.’
The General was studying the texture of his pocket-handkerchief.
Estella’s face had grown cold and set. Her eyes from time to time turned
towards Conyngham. Sir John Pleydell was not creating a good impression.
‘I will now come to the more personal part of my story,’ went on that
gifted speaker, ‘and proceed to explain my reason for inflicting it upon
you.’
He still spoke directly to Conyngham, who bowed his head in silence, with
the queer smile still hovering on his lips. Estella saw it and drew a
sharp breath. In the course of her short life, which had almost been
spent in the midst of warfare, she had seen men in danger more than once,
and perhaps recognised that smile.
‘I particularly beg your attention,’ explained Sir John to Conyngham,
‘because I understand from General Vincente that you are in reality
attached to the staff of General Espartero, and it is to him that I look
for help.’
Sir John paused again. He had established another point. One almost
expected to see him raise his hand to his shoulder to throw back the
silken gown.
‘Some months ago,’ he went on, ‘these Chartists attacked my house in the
North of England, and killed my son.’
There was a short silence, and the General muttered a curt and polite
Spanish oath under his breath. But somehow the speaker had failed to
make that point, and he hurried on.
‘It was not, technically speaking, a murder; my boy, who had a fine
spirit, attacked the rioters, and a clever counsel might have got a
verdict for the scoundrel who actually struck the blow. I knew this, and
awaited events. I did not even take steps against the man who killed my
son—an only son and child. It was not, from a legal point of view, worth
while.’
He laughed his unpleasant laugh again and presently went on.
‘Fortune, however, favoured me. The trouble grew worse, and the Newport
riots at last aroused the Government. The sentence upon the ringleaders
gave me my opportunity. It was worth while to hunt down the murderer of
my son when I could ensure him sixteen or twenty years’ penal servitude.’
‘Quite,’ said the General; ‘quite.’ And he smiled. He seemed to fail to
realise that Sir John Pleydell was in deadly earnest, and really
harboured the implacable spirit of revenge with which he cynically
credited himself.
‘I traced my man to Gibraltar, and thence he appears to have come north,’
continued Sir John Pleydell. ‘He has probably taken service under
Espartero—many of our English outlaws wear the Spanish Queen’s uniform.
He is, of course, bearing an assumed name; but surely it would be
possible to trace him?’
‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham, ‘I think you will be able to find him.’
Sir John’s eyes had for a moment a gleam of life in them.
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I am glad to hear you say that. For that is my object in
coming to this country; and although I have during the course of my life
had many objects of ambition or desire, none of them has so entirely
absorbed my attention as this one. Half a dozen men have gone to penal
servitude in order that I might succeed in my purpose.’
There was a cold deliberation in this statement which was more cruel than
cynicism, for it was sincere. Conyngham looked at Estella. Her face had
lost all colour, her eyes were burning—not with the dull light of fear,
for the blood that ran in her veins had no taint of that in it—but with
anger. She knew who it was that Sir John Pleydell sought. She looked at
Conyngham, and his smile of cool intrepidity made her heart leap within
her breast. This lover of hers was at all events a brave man—and that
which through all the ages reaches the human heart most surely is
courage. The coward has no friends.
Sir John Pleydell had paused, and was seeking something in his pocket.
General Vincente preserved his attitude of slightly bored attention.
‘I have here,’ went on the baronet, ‘a list of the English officers
serving in the army of General Espartero at the time of my quitting
England. Perhaps you will, at your leisure, be kind enough to cast your
eye over it, and make a note of such men as are personally unknown to
you, and may therefore be bearing assumed names.’
Conyngham took the paper, and, holding it in his hand, spoke without
moving from the mantelpiece against which he leant.
‘You have not yet made quite clear your object in coming to Spain,’ he
said. ‘There exists between Spain and England no extradition treaty; and
even if such were to come in force I believe that persons guilty of
political offences would be exempt from its action. You propose to
arraign this man for high treason—a political offence according to the
law of many countries.’
‘You speak like a lawyer,’ said Sir John, with a laugh.
‘You have just informed us,’ retorted Conyngham, ‘that all the English in
the Spanish service are miscreants. None know the law so intimately as
those who have broken it.’
‘Ah!’ laughed Sir John again, with a face of stone. ‘There are
exceptions to all rules—and you, young sir, are an exception to that
which I laid down as regards our countrymen in Spain, unless my
experience of faces and knowledge of men play me very false. But your
contention is a just one. I am not in a position to seek the aid of the
Spanish authorities in this matter. I am fully aware of the fact. You
surely did not expect me to come to Spain with such a weak case as that?’
‘No,’ answered Conyngham slowly, ‘I did not.’
Sir John Pleydell raised his eyes and looked at his fellow countryman
with a dawning interest. The General also looked up, from one face to
the other. The atmosphere of the room seemed to have undergone a sudden
change, and to be dominated by the personality of these two Englishmen.
The one will, strong on the surface, accustomed to assert itself and
dominate, seemed suddenly to have found itself faced by another as strong
and yet hidden behind an easy smile and indolent manner.
‘You are quite right,’ he went on in his cold voice. ‘I have a better
case than that, and one eminently suited to a country such as Spain,
where a long war has reduced law and order to a somewhat low ebb. I at
first thought of coming here to await my chance of shooting this man—his
name, by the way, is Frederick Conyngham; but circumstances placed a
better vengeance within my grasp—one that will last longer.’
He paused for a moment to reflect upon this long-drawn-out expiation.
‘I propose to get my man home to England, and let him there stand his
trial. The idea is not my own; it has, in fact, been carried out
successfully before now. Once in England I shall make it my business to
see that he gets twenty years’ penal servitude.’
‘And how do you propose to get him to England?’ asked Conyngham.
‘Oh! that is simple enough. Only a matter of paying a couple of such
scoundrels as I understand abound in Spain at this moment—a little
bribing of officials, a heavy fee to some English ship-captain. I
propose, in short, to kidnap Frederick Conyngham. But I do not ask you
to help me in that. I only ask you to put me on his track—to help me to
find him, in fact. Will you do it?’
‘Certainly,’ said Conyngham, coming forward with a card in his hand.
‘You could not have come to a better man.’
Sir John Pleydell read the card, and had himself in such control that his
face hardly changed. His teeth closed over his lower lip for a second;
then he rose. The perspiration stood out on his face—the grey of his
eyes seemed to have faded to the colour of ashes. He looked hard at
Conyngham, and then, taking up his hat, went to the door with curious,
uneven steps. On the threshold he turned.
‘Your insolence,’ he said breathlessly, ‘is only exceeded by
your—daring.’
As the door closed behind him there came, from that part of the room
where General Vincente sat, a muffled click of steel, as if a sword half
out of its scabbard had been sent softly home again.