Chapter XXIX Quesada Again
“I must apologise for your brother’s taste, senorita, in compelling me to allow you to find me in such a—palace,” I said, with a wave of the hand about the filthy cell. “This is the hospitality he considers is my due.”
The disgusting stench of the place turned her sick and faint, and anger flashed from her eyes. I was not at all sorry for her to see for herself the hole in which I had been caged.
“You must leave it at once, senor. It is horrible,” she cried.
“I am but one of hundreds honoured with the same treatment, and the courtesy of my host is so pressing as to render it difficult for me to leave.”
“I have brought the order for your release, senor. It is abominable—abominable! I wish to speak to Senor Carbonnell; take us to some place where we can breathe,” she said to the warder.
“I told the prisoner to come before, but he refused, senorita,” said the man in a surly tone; and then we followed him along the corridor to a square, bare room near the entrance to the gaol.
“I am ashamed at what you have suffered, Senor Carbonnell. My brother has deceived me, and broken his pledged word.”
“I shall ever remember your former efforts for me, senorita, but you will see that the subject of Senor Quesada’s conduct is one I can scarcely discuss with his sister,” I answered.
“But it is just that which I want to discuss. I have obtained your release——”
“Pardon me,” I broke in, “but I cannot accept my release on any conditions whatever. I am profoundly indebted to you for this act of yours, deeply impressed by the motives which underlie it, and can never cease to think kindly of you for it; but, though you found me a prisoner in such vile surroundings, I am not without great influence even here in Madrid—far greater than your brother deems—and my liberation was at most but a matter of hours. I can therefore make no conditions even with one so gracious and so friendly as yourself.”
“You have maddened Sebastian against you by threatening him, but you will not think of such things.”
“I would do much to please you, I am sure you know that; but you ask me what is impossible,” I answered, firmly.
“There is no man in the world for whom I would have done this,” she cried, impetuously. “And I had to strain to the utmost my influence with Sebastian to do it. The very fact that he ordered your arrest in defiance of his pledge to me shows how bitterly he feels. I was at the station this evening by the merest chance when you were brought there, and I could scarcely believe my own eyes when I saw you were under arrest. I went at once to Sebastian——”
“Pray forgive me if I interrupt you, but I cannot discuss his conduct with you. If you saw the arrest, however, you will have seen that I was not alone in being arrested; and if you wish to do me a kindness you will use this great influence of yours to secure the liberation of Senorita Castelar.”
But at the mention of Sarita she drew herself up, and both anger and surprise, but chiefly anger, were in the look she gave me.
“You ask me that?” she cried, and then as suddenly changed. “You do not think she is in any danger, surely?” she added.
“I know that she was arrested, and you yourself saw the place where I was imprisoned, and can judge of the fitness of such a hole for a girl.”
“And you don’t know? She has never told you?” she cried, scornfully.
“I am not sure I understand you,” I replied.
“She is to be my brother’s wife, senor. Do you think he would suffer her to be treated as—as you have been?”
“Senorita, there is a great misunderstanding somewhere; but if anything is certain, it is that she will never be his wife.”
“Will you come and see Sebastian?” she asked, suddenly. “I am so anxious to have peace between you.”
“It could do no good.”
“I ask you to come. If you value what I have done here, you will consent.”
“It can do no good; but if you ask it I will go;” and the instant I had consented she led the way to her carriage, which was waiting outside the gate.
“Where is Senorita Castelar?” I asked, as we drove rapidly along.
“I don’t know, but she is sure to be well cared for,” she answered, as though the subject was no concern of hers; and no more was said until we were close to the house. Then, with some hesitation, she said: “I know nearly everything of my brother’s plans, and shall be present at the interview. There must be a full understanding.”
I made no reply, for I did not quite know what she meant; but I was certain that if there was to be anything like a full understanding the interview promised to be interesting; and I began to feel glad I had come.
Quesada was at home, and in the room where I had had my last conversation with him and my introduction to Rubio, and I found him looking much more concerned and anxious than I had ever seen him.
“What is the meaning of this visit?” was his blunt greeting.
“I have brought Senor Carbonnell,” said Dolores, “that these things may be explained and talked over. I wished it, Sebastian.”
“Very well; what does he want to explain?”
“You told me to-night, for the second time, that he could and would ruin you if he was set at liberty. I wish to have peace between you. I told you so, when I insisted on his being liberated; and I have told him so, too. Now that you are face to face, say plainly what this means, and how it is to be avoided.”
“When women interfere in matters they don’t understand, they always do something foolish. This is mere foolishness. Senor Carbonnell—or, to give him his proper title, Lord Glisfoyle—is bent upon doing his utmost to ruin me, and you have given him the opportunity. Why, then, seek to delay him in his purpose? Let him go and begin his task.” He spoke quite firmly, and with great deliberateness.
“This is hopeless, Sebastian,” cried his sister, wringing her hands.
“What would you have me do, Dolores? Assume a fear of him which I do not feel? Throw myself at his feet and beg his mercy, when I stand in no need of it? Play at theatricals? You are a woman, we are men; and you don’t understand us or our methods. Lord Glisfoyle and I have been engaged in a duel to the death. I had him at my advantage when you interfered—for the second time. You have given him the advantage now, and the cue is with him. He holds, or thinks he holds, weapons which he can use to secure my ruin; and you seem to think you can induce him not to use them by bringing him here to talk over, as you call it, the position. I am sure he did not come willingly, and am surprised he came at all; but here or anywhere else—except, of course, in safe keeping—it is all one to me. We shall continue the duel under the circumstances which you have changed in this way to my disadvantage.”
“I was leaving Spain when your men stopped me and brought me to Madrid,” I said.
“But not alone,” he rapped out, sharply.
“No, with the lady who is to be my wife,” I retorted.
For a second his hands clenched involuntarily, and he winced, but instantly recovered himself, and spoke calmly.
“That remains to be seen. But why this interview?”
“I have not sought it,” I answered curtly, and got up to leave.
“You must not go,” cried Dolores.
“My dear Dolores, do not meddle any more.”
“Yes, Sebastian, I will. I must speak. Senor Carbonnell—Lord Glisfoyle, I mean—knows your secret plotting in regard to the King; he holds, as you told me, documents which must compromise you, and may ruin you if he can prove they are genuine. These are what you call his weapons. There must be some inducement that can prevail upon him not to use them. Is that not so, Lord Glisfoyle?” she cried, turning to me in deep distress.
“You are forgetting yourself, Dolores. We are not children or women,” said the Minister, sternly. “I will have no more of this child’s play. You should not have brought Lord Glisfoyle here. Every word you utter but makes your blunder worse; and God knows you have done enough mischief already to satisfy even a woman.”
“I asked you a question, Lord Glisfoyle,” said Dolores, paying no regard to his protests.
“A question I find most difficult, I may say impossible, to answer. Your brother knows how he has treated me, and knows also how he would act were our positions reversed. I can say no more.”
“But do you mean to use these letters?” she persisted.
“Since obtaining them I have obtained others, and much information. I know the part you have played throughout this business, Senor Quesada,”—I felt it easier to speak to him—“and I shall not rest until I have done my utmost to bring this home to you. In one thing you have wronged your sister. I should not have remained in what you term safe keeping more than a few hours at the utmost; for already there are forces at work for my liberation which even you would find it hopeless to resist. What you term your sister’s blunder, therefore—procuring my liberation from the prison—is no more than an anticipation by those few hours of what must have followed.”
“That may be. At any rate, you are free, and you owe it to her.” This reminder of my obligation to Dolores was the first slight rift in his firmness.
“If it were possible, it would influence my attitude. But nothing can do that—nothing, at least, that you can do.”
“I knew there was something. What is it? Tell us that, Lord Glisfoyle. I beg and pray of you, say what it is,” cried Dolores, in a tone of fervent entreaty.
“It is useless even to name it. It is nothing less than the undoing of all this wilful and unholy persecution of the Carlists—wilful and unholy because undertaken for the sake of furthering, not the welfare of Spain, but your brother’s ambition.”
“It is not impossible. I am sure it is not,” she exclaimed. “You can do anything, Sebastian; while your influence is what it is, you can do anything. Say that this shall be done, and Lord Glisfoyle will leave Spain—I know he will—and give up these documents you fear so much.”
They were the mere wild, idle words of a distracted woman, the cry of a true heart torn asunder by the vehemence of emotion.
To my surprise, her brother did not instantly repudiate them, however, but sat with pent, frowning brows in deep thought for a moment.
“Would you go alone?” he asked then, without relaxing the stern, set expression of face.
“Do you mean would anything ever make me consent to see Sarita Castelar your wife?”
“Would you go alone?” he repeated, in the same tone.
“Nothing would make me consent to that,” I replied, answering my own question. “And nothing will ever induce me not to hold you responsible for her safety.”
He heard me without a sign, and again buried himself in his thoughts. Then he pushed his chair back, rose, and went to the door.
“Leave us a few minutes, Dolores,” he said, still in the same set, even tone. “It is possible that we may yet arrive at an understanding.”
She looked at him in fear, then at me, doubtingly, and again back at him.
“No, I cannot leave you. I—I dare not.”
“Leave us, Dolores. I shall not murder Lord Glisfoyle.”
She still hesitated and lingered, but at length yielded, saying as she passed me—
“I shall see you again?”
I bowed, but said nothing; I was too full of surprise at the turn things were taking, and too thoughtful, wondering what was to come next.
Quesada held the door while his sister passed out, and closed and locked it after her, and turned back to his table.
“We are now quite alone, Lord Glisfoyle, and can speak plainly. You love Sarita Castelar, and hope to make her your wife?”
“I decline to discuss her with you, Senor Quesada.”
“Well, then, I tell you she is pledged to marry me, and I will suffer no man on earth to take her from me.”
“You did not speak so to your tool, Colonel Juan Livenza. I am aware of the infamous bargain you made with him.”
“I will not allow anyone to take her from me,” he said again, between his teeth, the increased tenseness of the tone being his only notice of my words. “You are an English nobleman, and presumably a man of courage. When you were here last time in my house, you struck me. You are now bent on ruining me, and have set everything on that venture. Owing to my sister’s interference, you are free; and because she loves you, she is mad enough to stay my hands in dealing with you, knowing, what you also know, things that must be kept secret. And as a crowning stroke you threaten to rob me of the woman I love. Under those circumstances, what think you is the fitting course for two men—two enemies, if you will—placed as you and I are, to pursue?”
“If I understand you, I decline to discuss such a proposal.”
“If you are a gentleman and a man of honour, and not a coward, you will find only one answer to my question,” he said, his rage deepening in its quiet intensity with every sentence, till each word he uttered was a deliberate insult—an added knot on the lash of his bitter tongue. But I had my temper too well in hand to take fire.
“There are matters you forget. You set your bully, Livenza, upon me first; you used your power as Minister to destroy me; you ordered your police spies to dog me; and you had me gaoled in one of your filthy prisons. In this way you exhausted every means in your power to deal with me officially; and having schemed and tricked and bullied thus in vain, you find yourself at bay, and as a last resource you remember your honour with suspicious tardiness, and think of the means which the gentleman and the man of honour you speak of would have thought of first. I will not fight with you, Senor Quesada.”
“You are a coward, then.”
“I don’t accept your standards in that matter.”
“I will make you fight me,” he cried; and, his rage breaking beyond all control, he rushed at me, and raised his arm to strike me with the back of the hand across the mouth; but I caught his arm, and thrust him staggering back against his chair, over which he nearly fell. Thinking he might have firearms, and that in his mad fury he would use them, I unlocked the door, and was leaving the room when he called to me; but I paid no heed, and went out.
Dolores was in waiting, and came when she heard me leaving. She was paler even than before, like one distraught with fear and anxiety. I pitied her from the bottom of my heart, and her brother’s blunt statement that she loved me, and had been led by that love to insist on my freedom even at the cost of ruin to him, touched me very closely.
“Is there any hope of an arrangement, senor?” she asked, searching my face with haggard eyes.
“None whatever,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Can nothing bring you two together again?”
“It is absolutely impossible, senorita.”
I spoke as gently as I could, but it was useless to flinch from the truth.
“Can I do nothing to prevail with you? I have tried so hard to serve you,” she said, in a tone of despairing wistfulness.
“For you, personally, I would do anything in my power. I am not unmindful of what it must have cost you, and you shall not find me ungrateful.”
“I do not ask for thanks; I do not want them. I should have done the same had the ruin been mine instead of Sebastian’s,” and she smiled. “I am glad to have done it;” but the smile ended in a sigh at the thought of the price to be paid.
I took her hands and pressed them.
“I am very troubled for you,” I murmured.
She returned the pressure, her own hands trembling very much.
“If it had not been for Sarita Castelar, you two would never have quarrelled, and—and all would have been so different.” Her lips quivered as she spoke, and her eyes were full of sadness. Her look pained me inexpressibly. I said nothing, and after a pause she added:
“You do not think he will let you take her from him? You know him too well for that; although you do not know him yet. What was it he would not let me hear?”
“I would rather you heard it from him. And I must go.” She had roused my fears for Sarita.
“I thought he meditated some act of violence against you, and he is headstrong enough to do anything—even against her.”
“You can surely prevent that,” I cried, quickly, in alarm. “You were strong to save me.”
The look with which she answered me lives in my memory to this hour. Then she drew her hands from mine, and said coldly—
“I can do nothing. You have made him desperate.” And with a change of tone, after a slight pause, as though excusing her own hardness of thought and resolve, she added: “Besides, I do not know where she is; so I can do nothing, even if I would.”
With that I left her, and hurried from the house a prey to innumerable harassing fears, the stings and darts of which sent me plunging headlong through the streets to go I did not think where, and to do I did not know what.
Sarita was in imminent peril from that reckless, desperate man, and I alone had to save her. More than once I halted undecided whether to return and take up the challenge he had thrown down, and trust to my own strength and skill to render him powerless to harm her. And in this bewildered state of mind I found myself at the door of my old dwelling, half crazed by the thought that hours at least must elapse before I could use hand or tongue for her protection, and that for all those hours she would be absolutely at his mercy.