A CROSS-EXAMINATION
‘Wherein I am false I am honest—not true to be true.’
‘I WILL sing you a contrabandista song,’ said Concepçion, as the party
rode towards Toledo in the moonlight. ‘The song we—they sing when the
venture has been successful. You may hear it any dark night in the
streets of Gaucin.’
‘Sing,’ said the older soldier, ‘if it is in your lungs. For us—we
prefer to travel silent.’
Conyngham, mounted on the horse from which the Carlist rider had been
dragged unceremoniously enough, rode a few paces in front. The carriage
had been left behind at the venta, where no questions were asked, and the
injured men revived readily enough.
‘It is well,’ answered Concepçion, in no way abashed. ‘I will sing. In
Andalusia we can all sing. The pigs sing better there than the men of
Castile.’
It was after midnight when the party rode past the Church of the Cristo
de la Vega, and faced the long hill that leads to the gate Del Cambron.
Above them towered the city of Toledo—silent and dreamlike. Concepçion
had ceased singing now, and the hard breathing of the horses alone broke
the silence. The Tagus, emerging here from rocky fastness, flowed
noiselessly away to the west—a gleaming ribbon laid across the breast of
the night. In the summer it is no uncommon thing for travellers to take
the road by night in Spain, and although many doubtless heard the clatter
of horses’ feet on the polished cobble stones of the city, none rose from
bed to watch the horsemen pass.
At that time Toledo possessed, and indeed to the present day can boast
of, but one good inn—a picturesque old house in the Plaza de Zocodover,
overhung by the mighty Alcazar. Here Cervantes must have eaten and
Lazarillo de Tormes no doubt caroused. Here those melancholy men and
mighty humorists must have delighted the idler by their talk. Concepçion
soon aroused the sleeping porter, and the great doors being thrown open,
the party passed into the courtyard without quitting the saddle.
‘It is,’ said Concepçion, ‘an English Excellency and his suite.’
‘We have another such in the house,’ answered the sleepy doorkeeper,
‘though he travels with but one servant.’
‘We know that, my friend, which is the reason why we patronise your
dog-hole of an inn. See that the two Excellencies breakfast together at
a table apart in the morning.’
‘You will have matters to speak about with the Señor Pleydell in the
morning,’ said Concepçion, as he unpacked Conyngham’s luggage a few
minutes later.
‘Yes, I should like to speak to Señor Pleydell.’
‘And I,’ said Concepçion, turning round with a brush in his hand, ‘should
like a moment’s conversation with Señor Larralde.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, Excellency, he is in this matter too. But the Señor Larralde is so
modest—so modest! He always remains in the background.’
In the tents of Kedar men sleep as sound as those who lie on soft
pillows, and Conyngham was late astir the next morning. Sir John
Pleydell was, it transpired, already at his breakfast, and had ordered
his carriage for an early hour to take the road to Talavera. It was thus
evident that Sir John knew nothing of the arrival of his
fellow-countryman at midnight.
The cold face of the great lawyer wore a look of satisfaction as he sat
at a small table in the patio of the hotel and drank his coffee.
Conyngham watched him for a moment from the balcony of the courtyard,
himself unseen, while Concepçion stood within his master’s bedroom, and
rubbed his brown hands together in anticipation of a dramatic moment.
Conyngham passed down the stone steps and crossed the patio with a gay
smile. Sir John recognised him as he emerged from the darkness of the
stairway, but his face betrayed neither surprise nor fear. There was a
look in the grey eyes, however, that seemed to betoken doubt. Such a
look a man might wear who had long travelled with assurance upon a road
which he took to be the right one, and then at a turning found himself in
a strange country with no landmark to guide him.
Sir John Pleydell had always outwitted his fellows. He had, in fact,
been what is called a successful man—a little cleverer, a little more
cunning than those around him.
He looked up now at Conyngham, who was drawing forward a chair to the
neighbouring table, and the cold eye, which had been the dread of many a
criminal, wavered.
‘The waiter has set my breakfast near to yours,’ said Conyngham,
unconcernedly seating himself.
And Concepçion in the balcony above cursed the English for a cold-blooded
race. This was not the sort of meeting he had anticipated. He could
throw a knife very prettily, and gave a short sigh of regret as he turned
to his peaceful duties.
Conyngham examined the simple fare provided for him, and then looked
towards his companion with that cheerfulness which is too rare in this
world; for it is born of a great courage, and outward circumstances
cannot affect it. Sir John Pleydell had lost all interest in his meal,
and was looking keenly at Conyngham—dissecting, as it were, his face,
probing his mind, searching through the outward manner of the man, and
running helplessly against a motive which he failed to understand.
‘I have in my long experience found that all men may be divided into two
classes,’ he said acidly.
‘Fools and knaves?’ suggested Conyngham.
‘You have practised at the Bar,’ parenthetically.
Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.
‘Unsuccessfully—anybody can do that.’
‘Which are you—a fool or a knave?’ asked Sir John.
And suddenly Conyngham pitied him. For no man is proof against the quick
sense of pathos aroused by the sight of man, or dumb animal, baffled. At
the end of his life Sir John had engaged upon the greatest quest of it—an
unworthy quest, no doubt, but his heart was in it—and he was an old man,
though be bore his years well enough.
‘Perhaps that is the mistake you have always made,’ said Conyngham
gravely. ‘Perhaps men are not to be divided into two classes. There may
be some who only make mistakes, Sir John.’
Unconsciously he had lapsed into the advocate, as those who have once
played the part are apt to do. This was not his own cause, but Geoffrey
Horner’s. And he served his friend so thoroughly that for the moment he
really was the man whose part he had elected to play. Sir John Pleydell
was no mean foe. Geoffrey Horner had succeeded in turning aside the
public suspicion, and in the eternal march of events, of which the sound
is louder as the world grows older and hollower, the murder of Alfred
Pleydell had been forgotten by all save his father. Conyngham saw the
danger, and never thought to avoid it. What had been undertaken half in
jest would be carried out in deadly earnest.
‘Mistakes,’ said Sir John sceptically. In dealing with the seamy side of
life men come to believe that it is all stitches.
‘Which they may pass the rest of their lives in regretting.’
Sir John looked sharply at his companion, with suspicion dawning in his
eyes again. It was Conyngham’s tendency to overplay his part. Later,
when he became a soldier, and found that path in life for which he was
best fitted, his superior officers and the cooler tacticians complained
that he was over-eager, and in battle outpaced the men he led.
‘Then you see now that it was a mistake?’ suggested Sir John. In
cross-examinations the suggestions of Sir John Pleydell are remembered in
certain courts of justice to this day.
‘Of course.’
‘To have mixed yourself in such an affair at all?’
‘Yes.’
Sir John seemed to be softening, and Conyngham began to see a way out of
this difficulty which had never suggested itself to him before.
‘Such mistakes have to be paid for—and the law assesses the price.’
Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.
‘It is easy enough to say you are sorry—the law can make no allowance for
regret.’
Conyngham turned his attention to his breakfast, deeming it useless to
continue the topic.
‘It was a mistake to attend the meeting at Durham—you admit that?’
continued Sir John.
‘Yes—I admit that, if it is any satisfaction to you.’
‘Then it was worse than a mistake to actually lead the men out to my
house for the purpose of breaking the windows. It was almost a crime. I
would suggest to you, as a soldier for the moment, to lead a charge up a
steep hill against a body of farm labourers and others entrenched behind
a railing.’
‘That is a mere matter of opinion.’
‘And yet you did that,’ said Sir John. ‘If you are going to break the
law you should insure success before embarking on your undertaking.’
Conyngham made no answer.
‘It was also a stupid error, if I may say so, to make your way back to
Durham by Ravensworth, where you were seen and recognised. You see I
have a good case against you, Mr. Conyngham.’
‘Yes, I admit you have a good case against me, but you have not caught me
yet.’
Sir John Pleydell looked at him coldly.
‘You do not even take the trouble to deny the facts I have named.’
‘Why should I, when they are true?’ asked Conyngham carelessly.
Sir John Pleydell leant back in his chair.
‘I have classified you,’ he said with a queer laugh.
‘Ah!’ answered Conyngham, suddenly uneasy.
‘Yes—as a fool.’
He leant forward with a deprecating gesture of his thin white hand.
‘Do not be offended,’ he said, ‘and do not reproach yourself for having
given your case away. You never had a case, Mr. Conyngham. Chartists
are not made of your material at all. As soon as you gave me your card
in Madrid, I had a slight suspicion. I thought you were travelling under
a false name. It was plain to the merest onlooker that you were not the
man I sought. You are too easy-going, too much of a gentleman to be a
Chartist. You are screening somebody else. You have played the part
well, and with an admirable courage and fidelity. I wish my boy Alfred
had had a few such friends as you. But you are a fool, Mr. Conyngham.
No man on earth is worth the sacrifice that you have made.’
Conyngham slowly stirred his coffee. He was meditating.
‘You have pieced together a very pretty tale,’ he said at length. ‘Some
new scheme to get me within the reach of the English law, no doubt.’
‘It is a pretty tale—too pretty for practical life. And if you want
proofs I will mention the fact that the Chartist meeting was at
Chester-le-Street, not Durham; that my house stands in a hollow and not
on a hill; that you could not possibly go to Durham _viâ_ Ravensworth,
for they lie in opposite directions. No, Mr. Conyngham, you are not the
man I seek. And, strange to say, I took a liking to you when I first saw
you. I am no believer in instinct, or mutual sympathy, or any such
sentimental nonsense. I do not believe in much, Mr. Conyngham, and not
in human nature at all. I know too much about it for that. But there
must have been something in that liking for you at first sight. I wish
you no harm, Mr. Conyngham. I am like Balaam—I came to curse, and now
stay to bless. Or, perhaps, I am more like Balaam’s companion and
adviser—I bray too much.’
He sat back again with a queer smile.
‘You may go home to England to-morrow if you care to,’ he added, after a
pause, ‘and if that affair is ever raked up against you I will be your
counsel, if you will have me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You do not want to go home to England?’ suggested Sir John, whose ear
was as quick as his eye.
‘No, I have affairs in Spain.’
‘Or—perhaps a castle here. Beware of such—I once had one.’
And the cold grey face softened for an instant. It seemed at times as if
there were after all a man behind that marble casing.
‘A man who can secure such a friendship as yours has proved itself to
be,’ said Sir John after a short silence, ‘can scarcely be wholly bad.
He may, as you say, have made a mistake. I promise nothing; but perhaps
I will make no further attempts to find him.’
Conyngham was silent. To speak would have been to admit.
‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Sir John, rising, ‘you are safe in this
or any country. But I warn you—you have a dangerous enemy in Spain.’
‘I know,’ answered Conyngham, with a laugh, ‘Mr. Esteban Larralde. I
once undertook to deliver a letter for him. It was not what he
represented it to be, and after I had delivered it he began to suspect me
of having read it. He is kind enough to consider me of some importance
in the politics of this country owing to the information I am supposed to
possess. I know nothing of the contents of the letter, but I want to
regain it—if only for a few moments. That is the whole story, and that
is how matters stand between Larralde and myself.’