Chapter XXX Suspense
The moment I entered my rooms I perceived that they had been ransacked. The trail of the police searchers lay over everything. In his eagerness to regain possession of that compromising document which he feared so acutely, Quesada had turned his agents loose in my rooms; and they had done their work so thoroughly that the condition of the place was a silent but most impressive tribute to their skill and his alarm. The rooms had been searched from wall to wall; my trunks had been broken and overhauled; drawers and cupboards had been forced, and the contents diligently scrutinised; not a thing had been left in its proper place; and I smiled with a feeling of grim pleasure that I had had the forethought to put the papers in the safe hands of my friend Mayhew.
For the action of the police I cared nothing, and I stayed in the place only long enough to get such clothes as I might need; and I threw them into a Gladstone bag, and carried them over to Mayhew’s rooms.
I had too stern a task before me in procuring Sarita’s release to give serious thought to much else. My friend was out, and I guessed I should find him at the Hotel de l’Opera; but, having changed my clothes, I sat down to think over matters before going in search of him.
Affairs were in all truth in an inextricable tangle, and very little reflection convinced me that instead of unravelling them I had made them worse by the course I had adopted with Sebastian Quesada. I had committed the fatal blunder of driving him into a corner, and rendering him desperate enough to resort to any of those violent methods which Dolores had said he would certainly adopt when once his back was to the wall.
It was easy to see now what I ought to have done. Belated wisdom is the curse of a fool, I thought bitterly, as I realised what my clumsy shortsighted tactlessness had achieved. What I ought to have done was to have convinced him of my power to ruin him; have told him even of my influence at the Palace; and have driven in upon him with irresistible force that it was in my power to thwart the ambition and ruin the career that were as the very breath of his nostrils to him. Having done that, I ought to have opened the door of escape by a pledge to do nothing if he would but give up Sarita.
Instead of this I had driven him to desperation. I had left him under the conviction that not only could I ruin him, but that I most assuredly should do so; and had thus given him no alternative but to set his vigorous energies to work to retrieve so much of his position as was possible, and to keep for himself what he prized scarcely less than his position, and what it was already in his power to secure—the woman he loved.
That he could keep Sarita from me, I could not doubt. He needed but to lift a finger to have her conveyed where I might search for her in vain; and a slight knowledge of his resourceful and implacable character was enough to convince anyone that he would act both promptly and resolutely. And I shuddered at the thought of the probable consequences to her.
There was yet another distracting reflection. It was by no means certain that, even if I could wrest her from his grip, I could obtain clemency for Sarita herself. Her actions in this infernal Carlist business had been those of vigorous, bitter, and dangerous intrigue against the King; treason as subtle as it was active. She was an acknowledged leader of the Carlists; and I might be sure that Quesada for his own purposes had accumulated more than sufficient proofs of her intrigues. Great as was the obligation of the King and the Queen Regent to me, I could scarcely dare to hope they would pardon her; and hence, if I succeeded in pulling down the strong pillars at the house of Quesada’s reputation, there was too much reason to fear that when the building fell Sarita would be crushed in the ruins.
Moreover, there was the problem of Sarita’s own sentiments. In the revulsion of feeling which had followed Livenza’s disclosures, she had been willing to leave the country; and while I was with her, and the influence of our mutual love could work upon her, that willingness might have remained. But in the solitude of her imprisonment, wherever the prison might be, she would have long hours of cold thought; and I had seen too much of her infatuated belief that her duty demanded she should stay and share the fate of those who had been misled by her ill-fated plans, not to fear that that infatuation would again assert itself.
Thus, ponder and stew and plan as I would, I could see no clear course. All things contributed to make it a personal struggle between Quesada and myself, in which, while I held the weapons that might ruin him, he had the means of making that ruin fatal to me so far as the only object I cared for, Sarita’s safety and well-being, was concerned.
As my head cleared from the whirl of mazing thoughts, the conclusion that I had blundered so badly in my interview with him became plainer and plainer, gradually hardening into the new purpose to return to him in the possible hope of retrieving the mistake. Such a reopening of matters would look like an admission of weakness; and so in truth it was; but I had only one object—Sarita’s safety; and that must override all other and lesser considerations.
Going down into the street, I drove back to his house, my distaste for the interview increasing with every yard that brought it nearer, and the difficulties of the task looming ever greater, until I am not sure that I was not rather glad when I was told he had left his house, and that the hour of his return was uncertain. I did not ask for Dolores, but, getting back into the carriage that had brought me, told the man to drive me to the Hotel de l’Opera.
My arrival there was hailed with delight. Madame Chansette and Mayhew were with Mrs. Curwen and Mercy, and, having heard of my arrest, all were deep in anxious discussion of my affairs when I entered.
I gave them a very general and brief account of my doings, and instantly a whole battery of questions was opened upon me.
“You look sadly in need of a good square meal,” said Mrs. Curwen, always practical; and she promptly ordered some supper for me. “At the present rate of running, about another week of this will finish you,” she added.
“But how did you get away?” asked Mayhew. “You were arrested, and the whole Embassy has been hard at work expostulating, protesting, protocolling, and Heaven knows what. There never was such a pother raised in Madrid before.”
“An order came for my release, and I walked out.”
“Do you mean you were actually in prison?” asked Mercy.
“And a very filthy prison, too, I assure you. But, so far as I am concerned, that danger is over.”
“Well, thank Heaven for that. Another period of suspense of the kind would about kill Mercy, and finish off the family,” cried Mrs. Curwen. “I’m off Spanish investments altogether. And what’s going to happen next? Of course it’ll be something unusual. There’s no musty conventionality about your doings just now.”
“And where is Sarita?” asked Madame Chansette.
“I wish I knew, my dear madame. She was arrested at the same time as I; and if I knew, I could do something to help her. But that’s just the pith and kernel of my trouble. As to what will come next I have not a much clearer idea than you, Mrs. Curwen. But something will probably happen to-morrow.”
“We may be sure of that,” she returned quickly. “And when can we all go away to some safe un-dynamity country?”
“I think I shall be able to answer that better to-morrow.”
“It’s all to-morrow, it seems to me. And in the meantime don’t you think you’d better go to bed somewhere? You’re about fagged out.”
“I am too anxious to sleep.”
“And when was anxiety relieved by sitting up all night and worrying with it? There, I’ve rung the bell, and you can tell the waiter to have a room got ready instantly for you. We shall all feel easier if we know you’re in the place. I’m sure you can’t do anything to-night, and by the morning you’ll have a clear head, some more plans, and enough energy for another burst of this kind of thing.”
When the waiter came I yielded, under protest, and ordered a room.
“I must have a long chat with Mayhew first,” I said.
“Not to-night, if Mercy and I have any influence with Mr. Mayhew,” she returned, and Mercy agreed. Then, to my surprise, Mayhew, in a half-shamefaced but very serious manner, said: “I think Mrs. Curwen is right, Ferdinand.”
“What, you as well, Silas?” and as I looked at him he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“No one thinks of questioning Mrs. Curwen’s commands,” he answered.
“Oh, already? Then I’d better give in, too,” and with that I went, feeling indeed the truth of what she said—that I could do nothing that night.
She was right, also, that I was in sore need of rest, and, despite my anxieties and my declaration that sleep would be impossible, my head was no sooner on the pillow than I fell into deep slumber, which lasted until a sluggard’s hour on the following morning. It was ten o’clock before I awoke.
I found Mrs. Curwen alone, and my vexation at having been allowed to lie so late must have shown in my face, for she said directly: “There’s no one to blame but me, Lord Glisfoyle. I would not allow you to be called. I don’t believe in my prescriptions being half taken.”
“I have a great deal to do,” I answered, somewhat ungraciously.
“That’s no reason why you should try to do it with half your energies sapped for want of sleep. Mr. Mayhew has been here for you and tried to get to you; but I wouldn’t let him,” she said assertively.
“He is learning obedience diligently, it seems,” I observed.
“He is a very good fellow, and I strained my influence with him, I can tell you,” she retorted, with a smile of some occult meaning.
“He is the prince of good fellows, and the staunchest of friends, and I congratulate you on having such influence to strain.”
“Oh, men are not difficult to manage, if properly handled.”
“Some of us, that is; but I hope he has been duly attentive in my absence,” I said, casually, and with a glance.
“What was the poor man to do? He couldn’t very well leave us in the lurch, I suppose? You were away, and we’d positively no one else.”
“To say nothing of his own inclinations,” I added.
“To say nothing of his own inclinations,” she repeated. “Mercy is not exactly the kind of girl to scare a man away from her, I should hope.”
“A supposition that might be extended to include——”
“What do you mean?” she asked quickly, as I stopped.
“Whom should I mean but”—looking at her pointedly—“Madame Chansette, shall I say?” She laughed.
“Yes, we’ll say Madame Chansette.”
“And yet—well, it doesn’t much matter whom we say; but at any rate he’s a thoroughly genuine fellow, and—you can fill in the rest. But, by the way, where is Mercy?”
“She is having a French or Spanish lesson, I think; I’ll tell you all about it when you’ve finished your breakfast, and not a minute before. But about Mr. Mayhew, tell me, what is he at the Embassy here? He seems to speak as though he was a kind of mill-horse. Are there no prospects for him? Has he no influence to push him on?”
“Yes, he has one, I think I may say two friends now who will see to that. I’m one of the two—and I think I’m speaking to the other,” I said, quietly. “And between us we ought to do something. But he’s as proud as Lucifer, and a mere hint that we were at the back of anything of the kind would make him kick.”
“If poor A.B.C. were alive——”
“Then, my dear Mrs. Curwen, you would never have been in Madrid, and would never have known Mayhew.” She shrugged her shapely shoulders, smiled, and then said with unusual earnestness: “And will you really let me help you in trying to get him a step or two up the ladder?”
“I mean to have him in London, and to make the people at home understand that he has a head on his shoulders fit for better things. Why, if Silas only had money to back his brains, there’s nothing he might not do or be. But there, I’ve finished my breakfast!” I exclaimed, getting up from the table, thinking I had said enough. “And now, where is Mercy?”
“Will you shake hands on that bargain, Lord Glisfoyle?” she asked, her eyes bright with the thoughts I knew I had started. We shook hands gravely, as became such a compact, and I looked straight into her eyes, as I said in as earnest a tone as hers: “The woman who marries Silas Mayhew will have a husband in a hundred thousand, true, honest-hearted, straight and good right through. And now, where is Mercy?” She returned my look, coloured slightly, and some reply sprang to her lips, but she checked it, and turning away, said: “Sebastian Quesada’s sister came here, and the two girls are closeted together, waiting for you.”
“And you have kept me here all this time!” I cried.
“I was bound to see to your health.”
“You are as anxious for my health, I believe, as I am for your happiness,” and with that I hurried away, leaving her blushing very prettily.
I found Dolores looking very white and worn, and in a mood of deep dejection. She and Mercy had been weeping together in the sympathetic exchange of such confidence and consolation as their ignorance of each other’s tongue and mutual indifferent knowledge of the French language would allow.
“She is in terrible trouble, Ferdinand, do try and relieve her. Her heart is almost broken by the fearful strain of her sorrow,” said Mercy, getting up to leave as I entered.
“You do not understand things, Mercy, but I will do what I can.”
“Your sister is an angel, Lord Glisfoyle,” said Dolores, as the door closed behind Mercy. “I am almost ashamed to come to you, but I could not keep away. She has told me what I knew, of course, how good and generous and noble you are. Cannot you do what I asked you yesterday? I heard of your second visit to us last night, and all through the night—such a night of agony for me—I have been feeding my soul with the hope that you came to make some agreement.”
“Where is your brother? I am truly pained to see you like this.”
“It does not matter about me; nothing of that kind can matter now,” she answered in a tone deadened by sorrow. “I should not come to you for such a paltry object as my own troubles. It is for Sebastian I am thinking. But you don’t seem to understand how I feel, how this fearful thing has shut upon me like the closing walls of an Inquisition prison cell, until whichever way I stretch out my hands I find ruin crushing in upon me,” and she moved her hands like one distraught with terror and trouble.
“What can I do?” I asked, gently.
“Can’t you try and see what all this has meant to me?” she asked wildly, ignoring my question. “What I suffered when I knew that Sebastian meant to ruin you, to involve you in this terrible Carlist business, to have you proclaimed as Ferdinand Carbonnell, the desperate Carlist leader, imprisoned and sent Heaven alone knew where, to suffer the fate and the punishment which such a man would rightly suffer? What could I do but step in to save you? You know his reluctance, the struggle we had, the wild words he spoke of your ruining him, and then how he broke his pledged word to me? And yet to save you meant to ruin him! Holy Mother of God, what was I to do?” and she wrung her hands. “I could not see you wronged in this way; and yet as my reward am I to see him dragged down, his reputation destroyed, his position degraded, his very name a foulness in the mouths of the populace? Is this your English sense of honour and recompense? No, no, I don’t mean that. I know you are just and honourable. I am crazed with my trouble to speak such words to you.”
“Where is your brother?”
“I do not know. You drove him to desperation last night. He left this house almost directly you had gone; and returned late, and was gone again this morning before I could get word with him. He is like a mad-man; and what he will do in his madness, who can tell?” The fears that lay beneath her wild words were the same as had been pressing so keenly on me, yet what to do to avert them was more than I could see.
“If you do not know where he is, what can we do?” I asked.
“Give me those compromising papers, and let me find him and prove that the danger he fears is at an end? He will then do anything you ask. You do not know him. He is stern, hard, implacable when opposed, but he is not dead to feelings of generosity. An act like that would touch him to the core, and he would do anything you asked—nay, let me know what it is you wish, and I would pledge myself that he would do it.” She pleaded urgently and almost imploringly, but I could not yield.
“I cannot do that. Only last night he likened this struggle between us to a duel, and you would ask me to disarm myself and throw away the only means by which I can hope to win my way. I am sorry, deeply and sincerely sorry, but this is impossible.”
“You would see him dragged into the dirt for the rabble to spit upon!” Her changing mood, as she was swayed first by thoughts for me and then by those for her brother, was painful to witness.
“He did not hesitate to have me treated as a criminal, senorita; he has set me at defiance and refused everything I asked; and I cannot put myself and others at his mercy. But I will do this. Let him set Sarita Castelar free, and stay this Carlist persecution, and I will give up the documents he fears, and say nothing of what I know. More than that I cannot offer you; and even that must depend upon the senorita being free before I am placed in a position which compels me to take action against him.”
“What does that mean? How long will you give me? I must have time to find him. I cannot do anything without time. You are iron to me in your madness for this girl.”
“Unfortunately I am not free to name any time.” I was not. I did not yet know what measures Mayhew had taken, and whether he had communicated with the Palace. My summons to the King might come at any hour, and I was compelled to hold myself free to speak all I knew with regard to Quesada in my interview there. At the same time Dolores’ acute distress of mind, and the knowledge of what she had done for me, filled me with a desire to help her; while personally, I was anxious to get Sarita from Quesada’s grip at the earliest possible moment, and to leave Spain. Under pressure of these thoughts, I added: “This I can assure you, I would far rather the matter ended as you wish, and will give you every possible moment of time.”
“I will go,” she answered promptly. “I depend on you. You have given me some hope, if not much. If I fail with Sebastian”—and she closed her eyes and sighed in the agony of the thought—“I will let you know at once.”
“And I will do nothing without first sending word to you,” I promised in reply.
We parted then, and when she left the room I found Mayhew waiting for me in the corridor.