Chapter IV: Part 4

I went with him to his carriage, not perhaps quite without a feeling of gratification to be seen on terms of friendship with the most powerful man in Spain; nor could I resist the strangely magnetic influence of his personality. I believed him to be one of the most dangerous and treacherous of men; and yet he had so wrought upon me in the course of a few minutes' conversation, that I could not resist the temptation to believe that, whatever he might be to others, to me at least he was sincere in this desire for my friendship.

Mayhew and I dined together, and, as my adventure was now common property and very generally discussed, our talk fell naturally upon Sebastian Quesada's visit.

"You'll have to be careful you don't get your head turned, Carbonnell," he said. "You'll remember he's a man who never does anything without a purpose."

"What wise chaps they were of old, to have Death's head always handy," I returned, with a laugh. "You're prettier than a Death's head, however, Silas." He was, in fact, a remarkably good-looking fellow.

"Well, a skull has one point over us, after all--it can't affect to hide its expression with any forced laughs. You can see the worst of it at any moment."

"Which means?"

"That A may not always be right, for instance, when he thinks that whatever B may be with other folk, he's sincere with him."

"You've hit it, by Jove, Silas. That's exactly what I did think."

"My dear fellow, it's exactly what everybody thinks with Quesada. I sometimes think he's a bit of a hypnotist. You know the trick. Old Madame Blavatsky, when she had a good subject in tow, could chuck a bit of cord on the floor and make him believe it was a snake. After all, it's only diplomacy a little developed."

"You think I'm a good subject, as you call it, then?"

"We're all more or less good subjects for Quesada; but I do mean that if you believe in him he'll make you see snakes--aye, and feel the sting of 'em, too."

"But I did get the girl out of a fix. Hang it, he can't have any motive in my case."

Mayhew laughed.

"Hasn't a girl ever given you a thing you didn't want at the moment, and haven't you wrapped it up very carefully and put it away somewhere, appreciating the act, and thinking it would be sure to come in handy some day? That's Quesada's policy; and I can think of plenty of things a devoted young friend on the staff of the Embassy here might be useful for."

It wasn't exactly a pleasant view to take of the incident, but I could not help seeing it might be a very true one.

"What an ass a fellow's self-conceit can make of him, Si," I exclaimed, after a pause. "But I shan't forget what you've said."

"Don't, old fellow. I know the man, and I know he's to be labelled dangerous. I don't believe there's any villainy--aye, any villainy of any kind, that he'd stick at to get his way. And he gets it to a degree that astounds those who don't know him. With all my heart, I warn you," he said, more earnestly than I had ever known him speak.

The warning took effect; it pricked the bubble of my fatuous self-conceit, and was in my thoughts all the next day as I was turning over the problem of broaching Sarita's affairs to Quesada. It must mean crossing swords with him, indeed; and the result of such an encounter must at best be doubtful.

I was fully conscious of this; but at the time I had not a thought or suspicion of the infinite hazard and trouble that lay in wait to overwhelm me, and to which I was advancing with the precocious self-confidence of conceited inexperience.

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE QUESADA VERSION*

At the Minister's house the cordiality of my reception by both brother and sister was almost embarrassing in its warmth. The Minister was effusive, elaborate, and demonstrative; the sister gentle, solicitous, and intensely earnest in her gratitude. She pressed my hands, thanked me in simple, sincere phrases, but left her gratitude to be expressed chiefly through her eloquent eyes, which were constantly upon me. She had taken a quite exaggerated view of my act, was bent upon setting me up for a hero, and appeared to be resolved to act up to her ideal view of the case.

The Minister was an excellent talker, and, taking the burden of the conversation upon himself, proved himself a most entertaining companion. The one personal touch during dinner was in regard to his previous hint at our relationship.

"Did you understand that hint I dropped yesterday about there being some connection between our families?" he asked.

"Well, yes and no," I replied. "I have had some kind of hint from my father, but I don't know exactly the details."

"It is in some respects a painful story, and one we rarely, if ever, speak of; indeed, it is known to but very few people. But this is a family conclave, and if we may not open the cupboard of the skeleton--as you English very grimly say--who may? By the way, how excellently you speak Spanish. I should not know you for any but a Spaniard."

"I was many years as a youth in Spain."

"You have a wonderful idiom; eh, Dolores?"

"I thought Senor Carbonnell was a countryman at first," she said, her eyes and face lighting as if that were a rare virtue of mine.

"No, Dolores, you were wrong there. What he did for you was English work. Had he been our countryman he would have been talking, gesticulating, and scolding the rabble. But, instead, he acted. There was one thing possible to do, and with British practicality he saw it and did it instantly. No one but an Englishman would have thought of it. A Frenchman would have rushed to the door and defied the crowd; but that wouldn't have saved you. A German might have thought of what Carbonnell did; but he'd have been only half-way round the carriage by the time Carbonnell had the door open and had whisked you out. One of these confounded Americans might have done it--but he'd have tried to dash through the crowd, in at the wrong door and out at the right--too much in a hurry to go round the carriage first. He'd have done it, however. But it was the English character to see just what to do, and how to do it most easily, and then to do it in the same moment."

"You are still resolved to make too much of it," I cried, with a laugh at his comparisons.

"Can we make too much of a cause that brings us a new friend, and, indeed, a new relative of such mettle? What think you, Dolores?"

"I think too much for mere words. Senor Carbonnell will feel, I am afraid, that I am very clumsy with my thanks."

"You were speaking about relationship?" I put in, as a diversion.

"It makes a sorry page in our family history; for in truth we committed a series of blunders. Your grandfather had three sons, Carbonnell; and the youngest of them--I fear something of a scapegrace--settled here in Madrid under the name of Castelar, fell in love with my father's youngest sister, Sarita, and married her against the wishes of all our family. You see we regarded him as an adventurer, knowing nothing of his being an Englishman and the son of an English peer. Besides, there was the religious difficulty, I was a lad at the time, about ten or twelve--it's five-and-twenty years ago now--and remember the thing only vaguely; but I know I was as indignant as the rest of us;" and he laughed, frankly and openly.

"The marriage was a very disastrous one, I have heard," said I.

"Very. Could not have been worse; and we did not learn who your uncle really was until after his wife's death. She died professing herself bitterly sorry for her disobedience to the family wishes, and was reconciled to us; but the children----" and he tossed up a hand as though the trouble were too great for words.

"I have seen Sarita Castelar," I said; and the remark brought one of those lightning gleams from his eyes which I had seen before.

"Have you seen the brother, Ramon?" he asked, changing instantly to a smile. "He should prove interesting to you, if you knew all. But they both harbour the worst opinion of me; and Ramon's opinions have taken the pointed and substantial shape of a dagger thrust uncomfortably close to my heart, and a bullet that proved him, fortunately for me, a very poor shot. But I could not endure that, and when we catch him he will have his opportunities of pistol practice cut short." He made light of the matter in his speech, but there was that in his looks which told plainly how bitterly and intensely he hated.

"Don't speak of it, Sebastian," cried Dolores, shuddering.

"I'm afraid our relationship is a little indefinite," I said. "My uncle married your aunt, and we are therefore--what?"

"Staunch friends, I hope, Carbonnell; closer friends, I trust, than many relatives are."

"With all my heart I hope that too, senor," declared Dolores, and soon after she and Senora Torella, who had scarcely said a word in Quesada's presence, left us. As soon as we were alone and had lighted our cigars, my host returned to the subject of the Castelars, and his open, unembarrassed manner of dealing with it surprised me.

"You have seen Sarita Castelar, you say, Carbonnell? She is a very beautiful girl, don't you think?" and his keen eyes were watching my face as I answered.

"Unquestionably. One of the most beautiful I have ever seen."

"It is a coincidence, too, is it not?--she is the image of her mother in looks; you are not at all unlike your uncle in looks, and you speak Spanish like a--as well as he did; you are here in Madrid. It would be a strange coincidence if the parallel was to be carried a stage farther."

"And I were to fall in love with her and marry her, you mean?" If he could bluff, so could I; and in neither my laugh nor my face was there a trace of anything but apparent enjoyment of a rich absurdity. But it required no lynx eye to see that he did not enjoy my completion of his suggested parallel. "I'm afraid she'd have a poor sort of future. We younger sons of poor peers are not as a rule millionaires. But she is a very beautiful girl."

"She is a very extraordinary one, and her brother has had far too much influence with her. I fear sometimes----" he left the sentence unfinished, pursed his lips, and shook his head dubiously.

"By the way, she and Madame Chansette--who is, I believe, your late father's sister--are hopeful that the family will restore the property which I understand belongs to Sarita's mother and should have gone to her children."

"Say rather you don't understand, Carbonnell," he cried, laughing and shaking his head. "The good and amiable Chansette has what you English call a bee in her bonnet on that subject; and unfortunately the two children share the delusion. Why, if there was such property I should surely know of it; do you think I should not positively hail the chance of providing adequately for Sarita? Not for Ramon, perhaps. That I grant you. The young dog deserves the whip and worse. My very life is not safe while he is at liberty. But Sarita--why, I like the child. I call her child, although she is four-and-twenty; but as I am seven-and-thirty, and she has always been a child in my thoughts, she seems so now. Wonderfully pretty, wilful, disobedient, resentful, always irresistibly charming, but still a child. Don't take her seriously, Carbonnell; for she is just the type of woman, when taken seriously, for whom men rush even to the gates of hell."

"Then there is no such property?" I asked, quietly.

"How like the practical, pertinacious, dogged Englishman!" he exclaimed, laughing airily. "No, there is no such property, Carbonnell; and anyone who married Sarita Castelar must be content with her beauty as her sole dower." It was impossible to resist the impression that under the words, lightly spoken and with an easy laugh, there lay a sneer and a caution for me. It was the first note of his voice that had not rung true in my ears.

"I am glad to have had that assurance, Senor Quesada," I answered, gravely. "My father charged me to see into the matter and I will report to him exactly what you say." We spoke no more then on the subject, and soon after we had joined Dolores and her duenna, her brother excused himself on the plea of State papers to read.

After an hour or so of music and chatter, in which Dolores showed herself not only a beautiful singer but a most charming little hostess, the Minister came back to us, and did everything that lay in his power to make me feel that in him I had found a sincere friend. But Mayhew's warning, my previous knowledge of Quesada's acts and character, and more than all the sentence of his which had sounded false in my ears, had completely changed my thoughts toward him, and I caught myself more than once listening for the proofs of his falseness even when he was making his loudest professions of good-will and friendship. And I went home saturated with the belief that he was, as Mayhew had declared, a most dangerous man.

As a consequence, I did not believe a word of his version of the story about the Castelars and their property, but rather that he was concealing the facts for his own purposes; and it gave me more than one twinge of uneasiness during the three or four weeks which followed that, despite my feeling toward him, I should have encouraged his persistently maintained efforts to make friend and even close associate of me.

These efforts were indeed a source of constant surprise to me. I was an obscure nobody in Madrid; and yet his overtures could not have been more cordial and earnest had I been the heir to a dukedom or a throne. He invited me constantly to his house, would send me messages to go riding or driving with him, and indeed overwhelmed me with attentions. In truth it seemed to me he was so overdoing his part, supposing it to be mere playacting, that I was almost persuaded he must have some genuine personal interest in me. Certainly he did his utmost to make the time a pleasant one for me, and if I could only have had better news of Sarita, I could not have failed to enjoy myself.

But all the time I did not once get sight of her. When I called on Madame Chansette, Sarita would never see me. She was away from Madrid often, that good lady told me, and would not even hear my name spoken.

"I thought you would be such friends," she wailed dismally more than once; "but Sarita is so wilful. I suppose you quarrelled; why, I can't imagine. I am sure you like her, and in the first day or two when you came, your praises were never out of her mouth. But I can't understand her."

"Couldn't we arrange somehow for me to meet her?" I suggested, presuming on the old lady's good nature; for my heart had warmed at the unexpected avowal.

"She would never forgive me," was her instant and timid reply.

"She need never know," said I. "I will manage that. Let me know where I am likely to see her, say at eight o'clock this evening, and I'll take the risk of walking straight to her. I will come as if with news for you, and will take my chance."

"Why are you so anxious?" she asked, sharply.

"Because I love her, Madame Chansette, and her safety is more to me than my own life. Now that we know Sebastian Quesada will give up nothing"--I had told her of my talk with him--"it is more than ever necessary for her to leave Madrid and abandon this wild business of intrigue."

"You will never persuade her."

"I can at least try;" and after a very little more persuasion she agreed and we arranged a surprise visit for that evening. I went home with pulses beating high in anticipation, and found news awaiting which would make one part of the plan genuine at least.

I should have news for Madame Chansette, and for Sarita. My father was dead. He had died suddenly, a telegram from Lascelles told me, and I was summoned home with all speed.

I rushed at once to the Embassy, obtained leave of absence, and made my preparations to leave for London that night; scribbled a note to Quesada putting off an engagement with him for the following day and set off for Madame Chansette's house, with an overwhelming desire to see Sarita before leaving Spain.

The simple device effected its purpose well. The front door was open and with a word to the servant I hurried past to the room where I thought I should find Sarita. I paused just a moment before opening the door, caught my breath hurriedly, and turned the handle and entered.

She was there and alone, reading with her back to the door, and thinking probably that it was Madame Chansette she took no notice of my entrance. Then I perpetrated a very thin trick.

"Ah, dear Madame Chansette, I come with grave news;" I got thus far when Sarita jumped to her feet and faced me with eyes flashing and cheeks a-flush.

"How dare you come here?" she cried; speaking in English to emphasise more distinctly the gulf between us.

"Sarita!" I exclaimed, as though in deep surprise; but I kept by the door intending to prevent her escape; and I feasted my hungry eyes upon her glowing beauty.

"My aunt is not here, sir. You must have seen that for yourself the instant you entered. Why then this absurd pretence?"

"Because I would ten thousand times rather see you than Madame Chansette; because I must see you; because--any reason you like. I am too delighted at having at last caught you to care for reasons. You have been avoiding me for many days. Why?" I replied in Spanish, but she kept to English, which she spoke with great fluency.

"Because I do not wish to see you, Mr. Carbonnell. You will please be good enough now to go away." She spoke in her coldest and loftiest tone. "I desire to be alone."

"No, I shall not go away without an explanation. Why have you avoided me purposely for all this time?"

"I have given you the reason. I have had no wish to see you."

"Thank you for your bluntness; but you must carry it a stage further and tell me why."

"Certainly. Because on a former occasion you rendered your presence objectionable to me," she returned in the same cold, level tone.

"I am going to be very rude and objectionable again, Sarita, and ask you not to tell half a truth and then plume yourself on having said something particularly disagreeable;" and I laughed. "I decline to accept that explanation. The truth is that you have been very angry with me, and I think your anger has lasted long enough--far too long, indeed, for relatives and such friends as you and I must be."

"Insult is scarcely the badge which friendship wears," she exclaimed, changing to Spanish in her impetuosity.

"Good. That's a distinct improvement on your cold assumption of callous indifference. Whatever may be your real feeling for me, at least I am sure it is not indifference."

"No, I have told you; you have made yourself objectionable to me," she flashed with spirit.

"Because I told you I would thwart your wrongful intention in regard to the young King. I am still of the same mind."

"I told you you were no friend of mine from that minute, and should never set eyes on me again," she cried, vehemently.

"And here I am, nevertheless, looking at you with eyes of regret that you have treated me in this way."

"I could not prevent your forcing yourself upon me. I meant never with my consent; and I presumed you would observe the common decencies of conduct sufficiently not to force yourself upon me in this way."

"I am sure you never thought that if the chance came my way of seeing and speaking to you, I should be such a traitor to my own wishes as not to use it. But I am here, and have not come to quarrel. I have come with news that may interest even you--for it is bad news for me, and of much trouble."

She glanced at me, and seemed as if to repudiate the intentional ungenerosity of my words; but said nothing, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned away; and, after a moment's pause, substituted a retort, keeping her face averted.

"Why not carry your news where you will find sympathy?"

"You mean?"

"To my enemies, but your new friends. The Quesadas, brother and sister, will surely bind up your wounds best. What _their_ friends suffer can scarcely concern me." I heard this with a tingling sense of pleasure, for it told me much more than Sarita intended.

"I have been to Sebastian Quesada largely on your business."

"You have at least had ample opportunities, and have made the most of them. I should congratulate you upon your successful knight-errantry, too." She said this with a scornful shrug of the shoulders, and a delightful curl of the lip. Was it really possible she had disliked my visits to the Quesadas because I had helped Dolores out of the crowd that day?

"At any rate, my news will have the result you have wished for, Sarita. My father is dead, and I am leaving Madrid to-night." I watched her closely as I spoke, and saw her start slightly, bite her lip, and draw herself together. It did touch her, it seemed, although she was unwilling to show it. After a moment she turned and said, with an effort to be very formal:

"I am very sorry for your personal sorrow."

"Will you shake hands now, Sarita?" I said, going towards her.

"We are not children," she returned quickly.

"I am going away"--and I held out my hand.

"Good-bye." She put hers into mine, and I captured it and held it firmly.

"I am going away--but I shall come back again." She tried to snatch her hand from mine at this, but I held it, and, looking into her face, said firmly, "I will not part in anything but good-will, Sarita. And when I come back to Madrid it must be to find you still my friend. Don't let any cloud come between us. There is no need. God knows I would rather have your good-will than that of anyone else on earth. Don't you believe this?"

"You had better not come back. It can do no good," she said. "You have taken sides against me; you set yourself to thwart me in my chiefest wishes; your closest friends are my bitterest enemies. You know this. You know the wrongs they have done me and mine, and yet you make them your friends. It is nothing to me, of course, whom you choose for your friends, but--you choose them." She looked up and tried to smile as though I had convicted myself.

"Do you really think these people, brother or sister, are anything to me? That their acquaintance or friendship, or whatever you term it, would weigh a hair's weight with me against your good-will, Sarita?"

"There are very few in Madrid who would think slightingly of the friendship of such a man as Sebastian Quesada."

"There is one man in Madrid who would give it up without a thought to secure the friendship of Sarita Castelar."

"Yes; but you make my friendship impossible; you kill it with your violent hostility to my work."

"I shall be away I don't know how long--a week, two weeks, a month may be--but I'll make a suggestion. Let us both use the time to try and think out a solution of that difficulty--how to be friends even while enemies of that kind. We are not children, as you said just now."

She shook her head, still declaring that it was impossible; but she smiled as she said it, and the hardness and anger were gone from her voice, so that when I pressed the point, as I did with all the earnestness at command, she yielded; and when Madame Chansette came into the room some minutes later, she was as intensely surprised as she was pleased to find us both shaking hands over the bargain.

The thought that a complete reconciliation was in the making sent me off on my journey with a much lighter heart than I should otherwise have carried, and I set myself diligently to work to try and think of some means of saving Sarita in spite of herself.

*CHAPTER X*

*IN LONDON*

Matters in London were pretty much of the kind customary when so gloomy an event has called together the members of a family; varied, of course, by touches of individuality.

My dear sister Mercy was quite unstrung by my father's death. She was the only one of us who had not been led to anticipate it, and the suddenness of it had roused that sense of awe which, perhaps, the sudden death of a loved one can alone produce. She was as frightened and nervously apprehensive as if she had known that Death had a second arrow fitted to launch at another of us. My arrival did something to cheer her, and Mrs. Curwen, who was with her constantly at the house, joined with her in declaring that Mercy and I must not be separated again.

It was not the melancholy side of the event which appealed to Lascelles. He was now head of the family, and the importance of that position filled his thoughts to the comparative exclusion of any mere personal grief. A peer of the realm was not as other men. The King was dead, long live the King--and the King in the hour of coming to his own had no time for vulgar indulgence in mere emotion.

Three days after the funeral, he explained his wishes in regard to myself.

"Ferdinand, I wish to go into things with you," he said, with quite gracious condescension, having carried me to the study.

"I am afraid I haven't many things worth going into at all, Lascelles," said I. "The father had prepared me for his will. There is a thousand pounds for me, three hundred a year for Mercy--her own fortune, of course--and the rest for the title. I don't complain in the least, and my worst wish is that you may make that good marriage as soon as decency permits. How go matters with Mrs. Curwen?" But this carrying the war into his own country did not accord at all with his point of view. He wished to dictate to me about my affairs, not to listen to me about his; and after fidgetting uneasily, he replied--

"You go very fast, Ferdinand, and I'm sure that in diplomacy you will not find it advantageous to do that. Things are a great deal changed since you left London."

"Alas, yes. It's a way that death has."

"I hope you don't mean that for flippancy, but it sounds like it."

"My dear Lascelles, a long face, a chronic groan, and the white of one's eyes are not essential to real grief."

"Well, it sounded flippant, and it jarred--jarred very much. I have felt very keenly the father's death, although, of course, the duties of my new position have compelled me to face the world with--with a due rigidity of demeanour."

"What was it you were going to say about change?"

"Well, in point of fact I--er--I was referring to--to a match that concerned you as much as myself. Of course I can't do more for you than--than the will provides, and I am glad you recognise that; but there is one thing I can do--and perhaps I ought to do it now--and it will be of great, indeed of the greatest consequence to you."

It was so unlike him to beat nervously about a subject in this way, that I watched him in speculative surprise.

"I think, you know, that you might--that in point of fact you ought to make a wealthy marriage; and I believe that such a thing is quite open to you." What was he driving at?

"Isn't it a bit early to talk of this?" I suggested.

"Under other circumstances, perhaps, it might be," he said, speaking without hesitation now that he was well under weigh; "but as it must affect your plans and movements a good deal, I have thought it desirable to broach the matter at once. I think you ought not to return to Madrid, but to remain here in London in pursuance of this object."

"And who is the object I am to pursue? What's her name?" I could not resist this little play on his awkward phrase.

"I wish, Ferdinand, you wouldn't catch up my words in that way and distort them. I meant project, of course. As a matter of fact, I am disposed to abandon in your favour the project I once had in regard to--Mrs. Curwen." There was a last hesitation in mentioning the name, and a little flush of colour gave further evidence of his momentary awkwardness; but having got it out, he went on rapidly and talked himself out of his embarrassment, giving me a variety of reasons for his decision, and plenty more for my adopting the suggestion.

"Have you somebody else in your eye, then, Lascelles?" I asked, quietly, when he had exhausted himself.

"I think that's a very coarse remark, Ferdinand--quite vulgar; and I am surprised at it." Perhaps he was right to be shocked, but he reddened so nervously that I could see I had hit the target; and for the life of me I couldn't help smiling.

"I can't say that Madrid has improved you," he cried, angrily, seeing the smile. "I am inspired by no feeling but a sincere desire for the welfare of one of the family; but you must do as you please."

"It's all right, Lascelles, and no doubt you mean well. But I'm not going to marry Mrs. Curwen or any one else for her money; and I am going back to Madrid. Is there anything more?" and I got up to show I had had enough.

"No, there's nothing more, as you put it. But, of course, if you place yourself at once in opposition to my wishes, you can't expect me to----"

"Don't bother to finish the sentence. When I turn beggar I won't hold out my cap to you. Don't let us quarrel. I went to Madrid to please you and help your plans, and I'm going back to please myself. And you'll be interested to know that the most powerful Minister in Spain at this moment wishes to be a close friend of mine, and his house always stands open to me. I mean Sebastian Quesada."

"I'm unfeignedly glad to hear it, Ferdinand," cried my brother, instantly appeased. "And if I can do anything to push your fortunes over there, of course my influence is at your command."

"It's very good of you, and I'm sure of it," said I, laughing in my sleeve at the notion of a man like Quesada being influenced by my fussy, pompous, little brother.

When Mercy heard of my resolve to return to Spain she was loud with her protests; and I found that she knew of Lascelles' abandonment of his matrimonial project--and knew the reason too. He had proposed three times to Mrs. Curwen in the short interval of my absence and had been refused; the last time finally, and with a distinct assurance that nothing would induce Mrs. Curwen to marry him.

When Mrs. Curwen herself heard of my return, she met it very differently.

"I am so glad, Mr. Ferdinand. It would have been so tiresome if you hadn't been returning. I don't believe I could possibly have ventured out there alone, and you can be of such use to me. And, of course, now that poor Lord Glisfoyle is dead, Mercy can go with me."

"You are really going to venture out there?" I asked, not over pleased by the news.

"Venture? Of course I am. I'm going on business, you know. My lawyer has put before me a most tempting speculation--a Spanish silver mine; and I'm going out to look into it myself. A poor lone widow must have something to occupy her, you see. Now, you will be nice, won't you, and give me all the help you can?"

"I really think you'd better not go," said I; and I meant it very heartily.

"You know, that's real sweet of you. It's the first nice thing you've said since you came back. It shows you take sufficient interest in me to wish me to keep out of danger."

"If you persist in going I can help you a good deal, I think," I said, gravely.

"Of course we're going."

"Then I can introduce to you just the best fellow in the world--my old friend, Silas Mayhew, and he'll do everything you want."

"I do think you're horrid, and that's a fact," she cried, turning away with a pout of annoyance. But nothing would stop her going, and such was her resolution that she did not rest content until she had arranged to make the journey with Mercy under my escort.

I fixed a date about a fortnight ahead, as I wished certain business matters arising out of my father's death to be settled before I left; but I had a note from Mayhew a week before then with news which I regarded as very serious; and it caused a change in my plans. After giving me some Embassy gossip, he wrote--

"I am writing this mainly because I think you will care to know that some very disquieting rumours are afloat about Sarita Castelar. The Carlists have been unpleasantly active in certain districts, and I hear the Government--Quesada, that is--is meditating a number of arrests. Amongst those listed for this is, I have every reason to believe, the Senorita Castelar.

"By the way, a letter came for you to the Embassy to-day, and I forward it with one or two more I found waiting at your rooms."

The letter filled me with apprehension on Sarita's account, and fired me with eagerness to be back in Madrid. I sat chewing gloomily the thought of her danger; I knew how urgent it might be if Quesada once decided to strike, and I resolved to return to Madrid at once. Then I glanced hurriedly at the enclosed letters. Two or three were small bills, but one bore the Saragossa post mark, and the writing, a man's hand, was unknown to me. But a glimpse of its contents showed me its importance.

It was from Vidal de Pelayo, and spoke of the plot which he himself had mentioned, and showed me that all was now ripe.

"I have obeyed your injunctions to the letter. I have never breathed a word to a soul of what passed when, on the greatest day of my life, I saw and spoke with you and held your hand. I have also done everything _since_ that you have directed, and until this minute all was as I reported. But at the last moment those I trusted have failed me. The little guest must not come this way. Someone has betrayed us. You have never told me how to communicate with you under the altered circumstances; and I take this desperate step of writing to the British Embassy to you. If I am wrong, forgive and punish me; but I know not what to do. Only, if the little guest comes here on the 17th, all will be lost."

I knew only too well much of what it meant, and could easily guess the remainder. The Carlists had been pushing forward their mad scheme of kidnapping the young King, and now everything was in readiness. Sarita's absences from Madrid were explained--she had taken alarm at my declared intention to thwart the scheme, and had herself been hurrying things on in the necessary quarters. It was clear that she or someone had communicated with Vidal de Pelayo, and had given him some fresh instructions in the name of Ferdinand Carbonnell--this was how I read his phrase: "I have done everything since that you have directed," and "You have never told me how to communicate with you under the altered circumstances." He had pushed his preparations to the verge of completion, and then had come some hitch; and being at his wit's end, and not knowing how to communicate with anyone, he had taken the step of writing to the Embassy, feeling sure, no doubt, that the authorities would not tamper with a letter addressed there.

The date named was the 17th--the day on which I had fixed to start with Mrs. Curwen and Mercy. I had, indeed, been living in a fool's paradise, but there was, happily, ample time yet for me to interfere and do something. By starting that night I could be in Madrid by the 14th; and I went at once in search of Mercy to tell her of my change of plan.

Mrs. Curwen was with her, as it chanced, and I told them both I was sorry, but that I was compelled, by news from Madrid, to hurry out at once, and must start that night. The widow was a practical little body, and having satisfied herself by a sharp scrutiny of my face that there really had been news which had upset me, she said--

"I thought you were spoofing, you know, but I can see by your face there _is_ something up. Can't you put it off till to-morrow?"

"No, I cannot waste a minute."

"Waste," she cried, with a shrug. "If this thing's bad enough to shake you out of your manners, it must be bad. But I don't think you need be quite so frank in calling it _waste_ of time to wait for us."

"I beg your pardon; I didn't mean that. I mustn't delay."

"That's better; and we won't delay you. But, say, I'll make a bargain with you. It'll be just an awful rush for me to catch any train to-night, and if you'll give me till to-morrow morning, we'll go by the day boat and travel special right through from Paris to Madrid. When a lone widow woman's going silver mine hunting, I suppose it will run to a special train anyhow. And I just love the fuss it makes."

I demurred on the ground of the expense, the trouble, and the possible difficulties of making the arrangements; but she laughed them airily away.

"My dear Mr. Ferdinand, I can fix it up in an hour. One thing I did learn from poor A.B.C., and that was the power of dollars. You can have anything on a railway if you'll only pay for it; and a member of the Madrid Embassy travelling hot-foot to Madrid with his sister and her friend could have twenty specials in twenty minutes, for a due consideration. It's a bargain then? I must be off, Mercy, dearest. Whoop, but we'll scoop some fun in--I beg your pardon, I forgot. But it'll do you good to get out of this gloomy old house, dear, and there is no sin in a laugh or two. And if we don't enjoy our jaunt, may I never have another. Look here, to-morrow ten o'clock at Charing Cross, special to Dover. Good-bye," and she was gone.

"You'll have to marry her, Nand," said Mercy. "And she really is a dear, honest-hearted thing; as good as she is indefatigable and energetic."

"I can do better than marry her, I can find her a husband who can give her what she wants--some love in return." And I was thinking of Silas Mayhew. But the other matters were clamouring for my thoughts just then. Sarita, and the troubles and dangers she was coiling round herself; the plot against the young King; the part I meant to play in it all; and in the background the grim, stern, menacing face of Sebastian Quesada--the thoughtful face of the master at the chess board, moving each piece with deliberate intent, working steadily with set plan as he lured his opponents forward till the moment came to show his hand and strike.

The idea took such possession of me that in the short hours of tossing slumber that night I dreamed of it; and in the dream came a revelation which clung to me even when I woke--that in some way, at present inscrutable, unguessable, Quesada knew all that these Carlists were planning, that it was a part of some infinitely subtle scheme which had emanated by devious, untraceable, and secret ways from his own wily brain, and was duly calculated for the furtherance of his limitless, daring ambition.

I was full of the thought when we reached the station at the time appointed and found the indefatigable widow before us. She had made all the arrangements, and was lording it over the officials and impressing upon everyone the critical affairs of State business which impelled the important member of the Madrid Embassy to travel in such hot haste to the Spanish capital.

I was a little abashed at my reception by them, and disposed to rebuke her excess of zeal; but she only laughed and said:--

"You ought to thank me for my moderation, indeed, for I was sorely tempted to say you were the Ambassador himself. But we shall get through all right as it is."

*CHAPTER XI*

*"THE WAYS OF THE CARLISTS WILL BE HARD."*

There is no necessity to dwell upon the incidents of that memorable journey to Madrid. As Mrs. Curwen had said, "we got through all right." We were, indeed, treated with as much consideration during the whole journey as if we had been personages of the most illustrious distinction, and I found that her agents had contrived in some way to have telegrams despatched to all points, advising the officials everywhere on the route to pay particular heed to our special, and to forward it by all available means.

That we were a very distinguished party no one doubted, and Mercy was so excited by the results at different places and so exhilarated by the change of scene and by her friend's vivacity and high spirits, that the roses began to come back to her pale cheeks, her nerves toughened with every mile, and before we left Paris she was laughing with something of her usual lightheartedness.

During the journey, Mrs. Curwen declared that as she was going out on business and I was going to help her, we had better discuss the matter fully. As I had looked upon the story of the silver mine as an ingenious fable, designed only to be a cover for her visit to Madrid, I was surprised when she put into my hands a quantity of papers having reference to the subject, and begged me to study them.

"Shall we leave them until you think seriously of the thing?" I asked, with a smile, having, in truth, little taste for the business.

"Seriously? Why, I was never more serious in my life. If what I'm told is true, there's a big fortune in it. What do you think I'm going there for?"

"To see Madrid and give Mercy a treat."

Mercy laughed and glanced at her friend, who coloured very slightly.

"Partly that, and partly, too, to be there when there's someone I know there--and that's you. But I am also in earnest about this."

"Then I'll read the papers with pleasure," said I, and without more ado I plunged into them, and almost at the outset made a discovery which caused deep surprise and excited my keenest interest. The land on which the silver mine was said to exist was being offered by Sebastian Quesada, and it formed a part of the property which had belonged to Sarita Quesada--my Sarita's mother. In other words it belonged by right to Sarita and Ramon Castelar, and formed a portion of the estate the very existence of which Quesada had denied to me.

I need not say how earnestly I studied the papers until I had mastered every detail of the case. I was, in fact, so absorbed in the work, and gave so many hours to it, that Mrs. Curwen at length protested her regret at having handed me the documents at all.

I assured her, however, that it was fortunate I had read them as I was able of my own private knowledge to say there was a flaw in the title, but that I might be able to make arrangements when we reached Madrid by which matters could be put right. My idea was that the work of developing the mine might after all be done by means of her money, but that the advantage should be reaped, not by Quesada, but by Sarita and her brother; and I resolved to tackle the Minister as soon as practicable after my arrival in Madrid.

As we drew nearer to our destination, the possible embarrassments of Mrs. Curwen's and Mercy's presence in Madrid began to bulk more largely in my thoughts. The first few days after my return were sure to find me deeply engrossed by the work I had to do, and I did not care to explain this to either of them. As soon as I knew for certain the time of our arrival, therefore, I wired to Mayhew to meet us. I was glad to find him on the platform when our special drew up, and we all went off together to the hotel, where rooms had been reserved by Mrs. Curwen. A few words explained the situation to Mayhew, who was glad enough to take charge of my companions.

"If anyone knows his Madrid, it's Mayhew," said I. "And he's a first-class pilot. My duties to the Embassy will be rather heavy for a few days, so you won't see much of me."

I was glad that Mrs. Curwen was very favourably impressed by my friend, and as he was keen for London news, and she and Mercy were eager for Madrid gossip, the evening passed very brightly.

As Mayhew and I walked to my rooms later, he was rather enthusiastic in the widow's praises.

"She's a good sort, Silas, a real good sort--bright, cheery, and chippy," I said, "But keep off spoons; or, at least, don't show 'em. She's beastly rich, and, like all rich folks, thinks everybody's after the dollars. Treat her like any other unimportant woman, show her a bit of a cold shoulder now and then, contradict her, and make her go your way and not her own, put her in the wrong occasionally and make her feel it, don't keep all the appointments you make, and pay more attention to Mercy sometimes than you do to her--in fact, be natural and don't make yourself cheap, and--well, you'll save me a lot of trouble and be always sure of a welcome from her."

"You seem to know a lot about her," he said, drily.

"She's my sister's chum, Si, and I don't want to be on duty for some days at any rate;" and I plumed myself on having given him some excellent advice and started a pretty little scheme for the mutual advantage of them both.

Then I turned to matters that had much more importance for me, and questioned him as to the rumour he had sent me about Sarita's possible arrest. It was no more than a rumour, and he had had it from a man pretty high up at the Embassy, who in turn had heard it whispered by a member of the Government.

"The most I can make of it, Ferdinand, is that there is some kind of _coup_ projected by the Carlists--I believe they are organising one or two simultaneous risings--and the Government are alarmed and will strike, and strike hard. In fact, at the Embassy we are looking for lively times, and I thought you'd like to know it. By the way, there was a queer-looking provincial came asking for you at the Embassy yesterday, and I found he'd been to your rooms."

"He left no name or word?"

"No name, but said he had written you, and that his business was perfectly private and personal, but important."

I jumped to the conclusion at once that it was Vidal de Pelayo, and that, having had no reply to his letter, he had risked another visit to me; and I had no sooner reached my rooms, late though the hour was, than he arrived. He was looking haggard, weary, and anxious.

"Senor, I have been waiting and watching for you three days here in Madrid. When no reply came to my letter and your further instructions reached me four days ago, I knew something must be wrong, and in my desperation I came here."

"What further instructions do you mean? Give them me."

"Confirming the arrangements, giving me the time for the little guest's arrival at Huesca, and directing me to receive him. What was I to do, Senor? I saw ruin to us all and to everything in this false step; I could communicate with no one--what could I do but come here to you?" He spoke wildly, and with patent signs of distress and agitation.

"I have your letter, and have made the necessary arrangements. The little guest will not go to Huesca. Have no further care. You might have known I should not blunder in this way." I spoke with studied sharpness.

"The blessed Virgin be thanked for this," he cried, fervently. "The fear has weighed on me like a blessed martyr's curse."

"You need fear no more," I said, and was dismissing him when the possibility occurred to me that I might still make some use of him in the last resort. "You will go back to Saragossa, and on the 17th you will proceed to Huesca. I may be there and have need of you. Meanwhile, silence like that of the grave;" and with some more words of earnest caution I sent him away. If the worst came to the worst and the young King was carried to Huesca on the 17th, I could yet use this man to get possession of His majesty.

I had still to learn how the actual abduction was to take place, and I had two days only in which to find this out. It was already the 14th; and cast about in my thoughts as I would, I could see no way of discovering a secret which meant life or death to those who knew it and would be guarded with sacred jealousy and closeness.

To me it seemed that any attempt of the kind must certainly fail. The young King was protected and watched with the utmost vigilance; his movements were not even premeditated and were scarcely ever known long in advance even to those in the immediate circle of the Palace; he was never left alone; and the whole arrangements for his safe keeping might have been framed with an eye to the prevention of just such an attempt as was now planned.

Yet here were these Carlists fixing a day well ahead for the enterprise, making all calculations and arrangements, and taking it for certain that they would have the opportunity which to an onlooker seemed an absolute impossibility. It baffled me completely that night.

In the course of the next morning I sent a note to Sebastian Quesada announcing my return and saying I wished to see him; and a note came back by my messenger asking me to call on him at once at his office.

His greeting could not have been warmer and more cordial had I been his oldest friend returned after a long absence. At the moment of my arrival he was engaged, but by his express orders I was shown instantly to him; he dismissed the officials closeted with him with the remark that even that business must wait upon his welcome of me; and had I not discouraged him I am sure he would have kissed me after the Spanish demonstrative style.