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.”