Chapter XXI Sarita’s Flight
Mrs. Curwen, Mercy and Mayhew, were almost as keenly interested as Sarita herself in the question she had asked with such vehemence, and thus my hesitation in answering was the more noticeable. Their motives were, of course, very different from hers, and I could have put them off with some light evasion; but with Sarita that would probably be both useless and dangerous; and her suspicion deepened with every second of my hesitation.
It was all but impossible for me to tell her the truth—that I had thwarted the long cherished plot and saved the young King. I could only tell her that when I was in a position to convince her that Quesada’s policy was, as I had described it, to use the Carlist plot and then crush the plotters.
Moreover, the position, so far as I myself was concerned, had been completely changed by the death of my brother. Up till that moment I had been a soldier of fortune with my way to make; and the rescue of the King had offered just the chance of chances which a man with such an aim might most desire. I had meant to make Spain my home and to build a career on the foundation of my contest with Quesada. There was danger in it, of course; but I was not scared by that; and when I gained my knowledge of his double treachery, the means to success were I felt, practically within my reach.
The fact that Quesada feared me sufficiently to resort to the extreme step of clapping into gaol a member of the Embassy staff on a charge he knew to be false, and one which he could not substantiate, and the extraordinary admission he had made to his sister, that by demanding my release she was ruining them, had given powerful confirmation to my confidence; and this attempted arrest in despite of Dolores’ intervention, and probably without her knowledge, was still further corroboration of my view that he feared me.
But the fact that I was now the head of the family had altered everything. From the instant I had known that, my purpose changed, and my object was to save Sarita, and with her get out of Spain at the earliest moment. I had no thought or intention of declaring my identity to the King unless in actual need of His Majesty’s protection, and in view of the difficulty of explaining that act of mine to Sarita, I had meant the whole thing to remain a mystery.
And yet here I was faced at the most critical and inopportune moment with the necessity of explaining.
“The question seems strangely difficult to answer,” said Sarita, when I did not reply.
“I don’t know that I need say that. There seems to be a good deal of misapprehension about me everywhere. Probably I can better answer the question when I have been to the Palace—if I go at all, that is. But I am not particularly anxious for His Majesty’s goodwill, and prefer to leave Madrid.”
“I shall not leave Madrid now,” cried Sarita, instantly. “And I shall go at once to my home.” At this Mercy and Mrs. Curwen broke into earnest protests, to which Sarita listened unmoved.
“You are one of us now, Sarita, you must not act in this desperate way, your very life may be in danger,” said Mercy, earnestly.
“You do not understand,” was the firm, steady reply. “I am in no real danger; and if I were I should care nothing. For what I have done, I am prepared to answer. I have plotted for my rightful King, Don Carlos, and I am not afraid to own it. I had built everything upon this stroke to-day, and it has failed. Why? Your brother knows probably better than any one else; and until that mystery is cleared up, I cannot accept your brother’s or your help. I thank you for your offer—from my heart I thank you—but I cannot accept it.”
“This is madness, Sarita,” I cried warmly, going to her. I spoke in Spanish, and Mrs. Curwen and Mercy left us and with Mayhew went to the other end of the room.
“The name of it does not matter; it is the thing itself I care for. I consented to leave not because of my own risk in remaining. I am not a coward to run away because I have failed. I have always had the possibility, nay, the probability, of failure in my thoughts, and have always been prepared to face the consequences. If I could contemplate the necessity of marrying Sebastian Quesada, do you think I should fear a prison? I consented now, because of the danger to you; but you stand safe under the golden light of His Majesty’s favour; how gained you know and I fear; but being gained, my motive for flight is gone. I shall stay in Madrid and shall return to my home.”
I knew her too well to entertain much hope that she would change her mind, and what to do I knew not.
“You judge me very quickly,” I said.
“Can you explain the King’s sudden favour?”
“Is it not clear that this raiding of to-night had nothing to do with the success or failure of the attempt on the King?”
“Can you explain the King’s sudden favour?” I paused, and then took the plunge.
“Yes. I took His Majesty this afternoon from the hands of the men who were carrying him off.”
“It is enough. I will go, if you please,” she said, quietly.
“You will step straight into danger,” I cried.
“I would rather be in danger where you are not, than safe where you are, Lord Glisfoyle.” The cold, cutting words struck me to the heart.
“That is very hard to hear, Sarita.”
“It is harder to say, but it is no less than the truth.”
“Yet, I will not believe it. Your heart will not say it. You know how I love you. You know I have not a thought or care but for your good, your safety, your happiness. You have confessed you love me; I know you do. I know that it was your love for me that prompted you just now to think of my danger and consent to leave Madrid. Even now I can read it in your eyes, for all the coldness you would try to force into them. You shall not go like this. I swear to God you shall not. If you speak of truth and mean that we must part, there must be at least some sign from you of that other truth—the heart truth—that you love me, Sarita. I will not let you go else.”
She was moved by my passion, although she would not let her own respond to it. But the struggle kept her silent a moment. Then she lifted her head and looked me calmly and still even coldly in the eyes.
“Do you think I would let my love weigh against treachery to the cause of my country that is more to me than life itself? Am I so poor a thing as that? If you wish to give me pain you are causing it. I love you; I know, as you know. I was not ashamed of it; even if I now feel shame that I loved one who could deal Spain this blow. But I shall live it down—I will. But you and I must not meet again.” Her firmness began to give out then, and breaking slightly, she said in a quicker tone of agitation, “Let me go now. Nay, I will go.”
“You are as hard as steel, Sarita, but before you break both our lives in this wild, impulsive way, you must have time to think. Remember what I have told you, how all that has occurred to-night has long been planned, and that it would have occurred just the same if I had not saved the King. Indeed, it was actually being done while Quesada still believed the attempt on the King had been successful.”
“There is no proof of this,” she interposed.
“That is the first ray of hope you have given me. If I prove it, will you recall the wild words you have spoken to-night? Give our love at least this one chance, Sarita,” I pleaded.
“You cannot prove it,” she said wavering.
“When I have proved it, I will put that question again. And now as to to-night. You cannot go out into the streets in the midst of uproar, and no power on God’s earth shall make me let you do it. Stay here to-night, promise to see me to-morrow—I will take no refusal; and I have some claim on you, if for nothing else, for the warning I carried to-night to the Calle Valencia. Promise that, and I will see Madame Chansette and relieve her anxiety. She herself is leaving Madrid, broken down by all this trouble, and when we meet to-morrow, you can make your decision. You will do this?” At first she would not promise, but my determination prevailed, and she agreed to stay at the hotel until the morning; but would not promise to see me then.
I accepted the compromise, however, and having hurriedly explained the matter to Mrs. Curwen and Mercy, I left with Mayhew, to go and relieve Madame Chansette’s anxiety.
“Did I hear you say you saved the young King?” he asked me as we passed down the stairs.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately! Why, when it’s known, you’ll be the most popular hero in all Spain.”
“And to-night, I am about the most wretched. I could wish His Majesty had gone to the devil before I interfered in the matter;” and feeling half-distracted by my gloomy thoughts, I pushed on through the now clearing streets in the direction of Madame Chansette’s house.
We found her waiting up in great distress at Sarita’s prolonged absence, and dreading to hear she had been arrested. The news we brought relieved her anxiety, and having stayed with her a short time we left.
“Where are you going now?” asked Mayhew. “Hadn’t you better come and turn in with me?”
“No, I think I’ll take the risk of going to my own rooms. I don’t fancy the police or Quesada will think for a moment that I shall return there. And in fact I don’t care if they do.”
“Rubbish, man. You come with me. You’re hipped now, and want an hour or two’s sleep. I’ll go to your rooms first thing in the morning;” and not caring, I agreed. I was as tired as a dog after a hard day’s hunting, and within a few minutes of reaching Mayhew’s rooms I fell into a heavy sleep and did not wake until late in the morning, to find my friend by my bed shaking me vigorously.
I was vastly refreshed, and had my bath and some breakfast while he went over to my rooms.
“Everything seems all right there,” he reported. “And I brought over the first things I could find. But I think you may venture there to get something decent to wear for the interview at the Palace.”
“My dear fellow, I wouldn’t put my head inside my rooms for a pension, till I’ve been to the hotel.”
“But last night you wanted to go and sleep there.”
“Last night was last night, Silas, and I felt done; but I’m myself again this morning. Now look here, there are things to do. In the first place, I’ve written out a wire for the lawyers about matters in London. Poor Lascelles’ funeral must wait a day or two if need be. Then you’ve got to see about the special train for Mrs. Curwen and Mercy to leave, with Sarita, if she’ll go. But the others must go, and probably poor old Madame Chansette with them. If Sarita goes, I go; if she stops on, I stop on. I was a fool to leave the hotel at all last night, and my brain must have been addled or in my boots for me to do it.”
“Why not go to London and clear the business there out of the way; let things simmer down here, and leave me in charge of them; and then come back and do what has to be done?”
“Have you ever cared for a woman, Silas?”
He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders as he said—
“Too busy and too poor for luxuries of the kind.”
“Ah, well, everything comes to those who wait. If you haven’t, you don’t know how I felt in this; if you ever do, you’ll understand me. I’m ready now, and feel fit. I’m off to the hotel.”
“You’d better see the chief and tell him. He can do more than you.”
“He can’t save Sarita from Quesada, and I can, and will. Of course, there’s the chance that these agents of his will lay me by the heels, and we must reckon with that. I don’t know what’s going to happen; but I do know this, that where Sarita goes, I follow; and so long as I’m outside a gaol I’ll try and communicate with you twice a day. If a day passes and you don’t hear from me, then tell the chief what’s wrong; and if he can’t get me out of any bother, then let the people at the Palace know. So much for emergencies. As for the rest, I’ll cut the knots as I find them.”
“You’ll come out on top, Ferdinand, I’m sure of that. I wish to Heaven I had your energy.”
With that we parted for the time, and a good deal was to happen before we shook hands again.
As I drove to the Hotel de l’Opera I saw the city was as full of soldiery as if it had been under siege; but no one interfered with me, and at the hotel the marks of increased respect with which I was received evidenced the influence of the previous night’s message from the King.
Everything else was wrong, however.
Mrs. Curwen and Mercy were waiting for me in a condition of nervous excitement, and Madame Chansette was with them. But as I had more than half dreaded, Sarita was gone. She had slept with Mercy and had got up early, dressed, and written a note for me before Mercy had awoke.
“She was just leaving, and her kiss woke me,” said Mercy, who was in sore trouble. “I did my utmost to persuade her to stay, at all events until you came, but I could do nothing against her resolve. I asked her where she was going, but she would not say. ‘I am going to my friends, who are in trouble and have need of me. I have work to do, and under no circumstances could I stay with you. Give your brother a note I have written,’ was all she would answer. I am so sorry, Ferdinand.”
“It is not your fault, Mercy; I more than half feared it, and blame myself for not having stayed here in the hotel. Do you know anything of her movements, Madame Chansette?”
“She did not come home. I sent here the first thing in the morning for news of her, and when word came that she was no longer here, I hurried to the hotel myself. I meant to tell her I will not stay any longer in Madrid. I cannot. I am miserable. It will kill me, this incessant danger,” and she wrung her hands.
“She will be sure to let you hear from her,” I said, quietly, wishing to calm her anxiety.
“How can she if she is in one of those horrible prisons?”
“She is not there, and I shall find her, be assured,” I answered, with much more confidence than I felt. “Do you know where Ramon is?”
“I never know where he is,” was the helplessly spoken reply. “But I believe some days ago he was somewhere near Saragossa, or Daroca, or some such place. But I don’t know. I know nothing.”
“Do you know what name he is using?”
“No—yes—I think so. I believe it is Solano.”
“Good. I will find him, at any rate. Now I will see what she says to me;” and I opened the letter.
“I have thought over everything, and have decided not to see you again. Do not seek me: it will be useless. To stay here longer would be treachery to those who have been ruined by your act; and for us to meet would cause only pain to both. You cannot prove what you said, for I know the facts. One last request I make you—go to England and forget we ever met. Good-bye. Sarita Castelar.”
“Does she tell you anything?” asked Madame Chansette, eagerly, for I had read the letter twice with long pauses of thought.
“Not a word as to where she is going. She tells me only that she does not wish to stay and see me.” I spoke calmly, and tried to hide every sign of the feelings of dismay, pain, and anxiety that were gnawing at my heart; and, putting the letter in my pocket, I added: “And now as to your plans. I should like you to return to London, Mercy, with Mrs. Curwen.”
“Do you think I am going away under such circumstances?” burst in Mrs. Curwen, in a tone of indignation, “and leave you in this pickle of a mess? If I can’t help you find the senorita—and I don’t suppose I can do much good in that—I can at least be at hand to help you when you’ve found her. And here I stop.”
“Mr. Mayhew is arranging for a special train,” I said.
“Then Mr. Mayhew can travel in it, and take this dear old lady and Mercy. I stop in Madrid, and nothing shall move me—unless you want me to be somewhere else in this detestable country.”
“And I can’t go without Mrs. Curwen, Nand, can I?” cried Mercy.
“I call it just real mean of her to have gone off in this way; but I will say she is a brick to stick to her friends in a mess. And if ever she wants a friend, I am on call; and that’s all about it. Don’t you think Madame Chansette had better stay with us until the senorita’s found?”
“You are a true friend, and I shall never forget this,” I answered; and, indeed, I was much moved by her spirited declaration, and more by her praise of Sarita. “I will not say another word about it. But I must get to work.”
I wrote a letter to the young King, apologising for not being able to go to the Palace, and pleading urgent and most embarrassing business; and, having despatched it, promised Mrs. Curwen and Mercy to let them know how things went, if I could, and said that in any case they would hear of me through Mayhew.
With that I hurried away to commence my search.