Sobrenski recovered himself first and laughed.
"So you thought it was loaded?" he said. "Do you take me for a fool?Allow me to congratulate you on your—failure!"
Then changing his tone of sarcasm to command: "You must hide that pistol carefully. Put it inside your dress or somewhere safe. I suppose you would like to march down the Paséo de Gracia, carrying it in your hand, and wearing a tragic expression,—and get locked up by the first agent de police you meet! You have pluck enough, but you should avoid these exhibitions of hysteria."
He gripped her by the shoulder, swung her round, and pointed to the door, "Allez!"
"My crown is without leaves,For she sits in the dust and grieves,Now we are come to our kingdom.""Anthony and Cleopatra," KIPLING.
Once more the procession of conspirators toiled on its way up the irregular mountain path. The horses slipped and stumbled under their unskilful riders, the mules climbed steadily upwards. No one spoke.
As usual Arithelli led the way.
Vardri, who had arrived last of all, rode forward to join her, but was curtly ordered to the rear by Sobrenski.
They should see enough of each other later on,—when it was time.
Before they started on their ride he spoke to Arithelli alone, and gave her his final instructions, and saw for himself that the pistol she wore at her belt was properly charged. He never left anything to chance, especially in important undertakings such as the present one.
"There will not be a long meeting to-night," he said. "You will have an hour free to do your work. You hear?"
His eyes were fixed on hers, compelling an answer. None came, though she bowed her head in token of acquiescence, and though he could hear no word Sobrenski was satisfied. He had seen that shrinking attitude, that mechanical gesture before. In the plot to assassinate General Morales there had been a young Spanish student who had given some trouble. He had developed a conscience at the last minute, and vowed that he could not kill an old and defenceless man, that he would rather die himself.
He had died, and so had Morales, and both by the explosion of the bomb that had been launched by the hand of the former.
Sobrenski held rightly that those who meddled with politics on either side must dispense with such useless things as scruples.
The night was still and sultry, with a full moon hanging low in the sky. The weather had been unnaturally warm for the time of year, all day, down in the city.
They were all glad when they had mounted above the sea-level.
There was a little breeze met them, and the tired and patiently plodding horses raised their heads.
Arithelli drew a long breath of relief as she shifted in her saddle, and glanced back to see if they were all in sight.
Themantain which she was wrapped stifled her, and the weight of her own hair under the wig and sombrero made her head ache and throb violently.
As they rode she rehearsed her plans in her own mind, telling herself over and over again the things that she must say and do when she was alone with Vardri.
To-night would see Sobrenski's triumph, his grand coup, and when it was all over perhaps she would have peace.
How slowly they all seemed to ride, she thought. She wondered how many of the other men knew that she was chosen to act the part of murderess. Some of them had been kind to her in a rough way, especially the older ones.
But even if they did pity her a little, not one among them but would expect her to do the thing that they would consider obviously her duty.
No one would raise a voice on her behalf, whatever their private sentiments.
The majority of them would probably look upon her as a heroine, for she would have rid them of a spy, a traitor.
She could only hope that she might keep her brain clear, her courage firm till the supreme moment.
Once in the course of that awful day her nerves had given out in physical collapse, and her shaking hands had let fall the mirror of Agnès Sorél.
It lay on the floor in her bedroom, broken in three places.
Her early days in Ireland had given her a belief in the omens of good and evil, for in the "emerald gem of the Western world" superstition runs riot.
The faith in it was in her blood, though it needed no broken mirror to tell her what dread thing awaited her, towards which she must advance, urged by fate.
She had only written one letter, and that one was to Emile. Now that he was gone there was no one else who cared.
Something told her now that his last words had only been an attempt to comfort her, to ease her mind, and that she would wait in vain for his return.
Estelle would weep for a little while, and drink a great deal to drown her tears, and then forget. They were nearly at the hut now. She could see it, a grotesque shadow thrown across the silvered earth.
She slipped off and walked, leading her mule by the bridle.
Behind her were subdued curses, the rattle of slipping hoofs and falling stones, as the animals climbed the last and steepest piece of road, which ended in the plateau on which the building stood.
In front of it was a single large tree, but most of the ground close by bore nothing higher than dwarf shrubs and long grass.
When the cavalcade drew up and dismounted, Vardri was discovered to be missing.
He had been late in starting, lagged behind the others and dropped out of sight before they were scarcely clear of the town. Being the last of the file his disappearance had not at first been remarked.
Sobrenski refused to allow of time being wasted in a search.
He ordered the rest of the men up into the loft, and Arithelli to her work of unharnessing.
He himself remained standing in the shadow of the doorway, his eyes narrowed with anger, his thin lips compressed till they were merely a line.
Here was a complication that he had not foreseen. For the first time in his life his wit and cunning had been at fault.
He must have been mad not to have kept a sharper lookout on Vardri, but he had reckoned he was secure with Arithelli as decoy.
Could it be possible that she had been mad enough to warn Vardri? If so, then why was she here herself?
Either she had more courage or else she was more foolish even than he could have believed it possible for a female creature to be. Women took good care of their own skins in general!
If Vardri meant to try and escape, surely they would have gone together.
Perhaps his, Sobrenski's, detailed descriptions of the fate of others who had attempted flight had made her decide that it would be safer to remain and throw herself on the mercy of himself and his companions.
He might have miscalculated the force of her attraction for Vardri, but he felt perfectly certain that she was reduced to a state of mechanical imbecility. She could not escape now at all events, even if she suddenly changed her mind.
He would give them both five minutes, and then if Vardri did not appear—!
He began to walk up and down outside, like some prowling animal awaiting its prey.
At regular intervals his shadow crossed and recrossed the patch of light from the open door.
Meanwhile Vardri was riding leisurely up the slope, reining back his horse, and stopping at intervals to put a fair distance between himself and the others. He intended to make a chance of seeing Arithelli alone again, so he meant to wait till the whole crew, and especially Sobrenski, were safely embarked on their eternal discussions. Then he would slip in and help her with the animals, and live in Paradise again for a little space of time.
He had been to her rooms earlier in the day but she had sent down a message to beg him to excuse her. She had a headache, and was lying down, so he had been obliged to go away unsolaced, and longing for the evening.
Now that she had given him her promise to go with him to Austria, there was only to arrange the day and the hour of their departure. For once he was alive to the necessity for prompt action. There was her safety to be considered now. When he had been alone it had not mattered how anything was done or not done, but now everything was different. The world itself was another place. He had already actually written and posted a tentative letter to his father, such a letter as he could never have written if only his interests had been concerned, but he found any sacrifice an easy one now, even the sacrifice of pride.
There was no reason why they should not start to-morrow. It would be safer to get out of the place by going round by the Mediterranean and thence across by way of Italy.
Water-travelling was cheaper, too. He laughed to himself to think how practical he was becoming. How strange it would seem to live in a civilised fashion again, to not be obliged to look at every sou before it was spent, to have servants to wait upon one; enough to eat and drink, and the luxury of cleanliness.
Yet the vagabond life had had its charm, too. He had encountered kindness often, generally from those in more evil plight than his own, and there had been flowers and music and sunshine. True, he had felt horribly ill and dejected on some days, and his wretched cough was an annoyance to himself and to other people, but at times he felt ready for anything, and more energetic than any three of those lazy Spaniards.
Love and Arithelli would be a sure antidote for any misery or disease. For her he had created a House of Dreams, and now the dreams were on the verge of becoming realities. Instead of the sand and stones of that desert that men call Life, a rainbow-coloured future lay stretched out before him. Sunshine and the summertime of love, all that he had ever hoped for, were coming nearer. And joy was hovering near at hand, till he could almost touch her flying robe. Soon he would hold her in his arms, would possess her entirely.
How different Arithelli was from all other women! With her there was never caprice or fickleness. Whatever she said was his law, whatever she wished to do was the right thing.
Now he had abjured the Revolution, his father would be only too glad to have him back, to see him married to a woman of Arithelli's charm and breeding. There had never been any quarrel with his family, except when he had joined the Red Flag party, and it was only natural that they should quarrel over that. Love or the Revolution? There would never be any more doubt now as to which he would choose.
In the old days he had preferred starvation, and the freedom to act, and think as he liked. He had gloried in being an outcast, in suffering for the Cause. Life had been hard at times, but he had known men of ideals and enthusiasms and there had been a certain fascination in the excitement of being hunted. But now that was all over and a new day was dawning for them both, for himself and for Arithelli.
He spoke to his horse and stirred it into a quicker pace.
They must be well out of the way and she would think he was never coming.
Inside the stable Arithelli, tall and straight in her scarlet shirt, moved to and fro at her work, hanging up saddles and bridles, carrying pails of water, ranging on either side of the hut the horses and the mules. Tortured as she was with anxiety, she did not forget the wants of her friends the animals. It came across her mind how once when she had said to Vardri, "Let us see to the horses first," he had said half in jest, "If I were a Spaniard I should be jealous. You always think of the animals before everything else."
One by one the rest of the conspirators tramped heavily up the ladder, leaving her alone with Sobrenski, who stood with his back to the doorway, following her with his eyes as she moved to and fro in the shadows cast by the solitary lamps.
Before he mounted the ladder in his turn, he came across the hut, took her by the shoulder and spoke to her. "Be careful how you do your work, for if it is not well done others will do it for you."
She could not answer; she shuddered at his touch; her hands went up and covered her face.
Sobrenski turned and mounted the worn rungs of the narrow ladder with a lithe, active step. He was quite sure of her now. She would not fail to carry out his will.
"Il n'y a que l'amour et la mort."
For a few minutes after he had gone, Arithelli stood motionless, still with her hands pressed tightly over her eyes, trying to command her brain to work clearly. Her will and her limbs seemed paralysed. She could only wait for Vardri's approach. Once she prayed an inarticulate wordless prayer, that inspiration might be sent her to find a way out of thisimpassein which there seemed neither light nor opening.
Time was passing, and every moment was bringing her nearer the most appalling destiny that could ever be meted out to any woman. If she did Sobrenski's bidding she would be not only a murderess, but the murderess of the being she loved most in the world. Vardri, who was so different from all the other men; Vardri, who could never bear anything to be hurt, or even to be made uncomfortable. She knew that it was perfectly useless for both of them to attempt to escape. Someone was most likely posted at the window of the loft, they would get no distance on foot without being overtaken, and if she attempted to lead out any of the horses or mules, the noise would probably attract attention.
Her hands fell to her side, and her head went up as she listened intently. So he was coming, after all. In that undisturbed space and clear dry air, sound travelled quickly, and she could hear the approaching hoof-beats while he was still some way off. With the knowledge of his approach the blood flowed again warmly in her veins and courage and decision came back to her. Her senses, unnaturally acute, told her that Vardri had now dismounted and was leading his horse. She could distinguish his footsteps, and then the monotonous regular footfalls of his mount. She ran out into the patch of moonlight, casting a hurried backward glance at the side of the hut. Thank God! the window was on the other side!
Vardri was coming slowly towards her, his horse's bridle over his arm. Before she covered the distance between them she made a gesture that enjoined silence and stopped his greeting. "Don't bring your horse in," she whispered. "Tie him up out of the way over there, a good way off the hut. I'll explain presently."
In another moment Vardri was beside her in the hut and had her in his arms.
"What is it,mon petit? There must be something wrong. HasSobrenski—?"
"No, no, he has done nothing. It's just that I don't want you to be up here too long to-night. I want you to do something for me. Will you, Vardri?"
"Do you think you'll need to ask me twice to do anything for you, dear?"
He stood with his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes gazing down at her hungrily. "Did you think I was never coming? I stayed behind on purpose. I felt that Sobrenski intended to prevent our talking together." Arithelli snatched eagerly at his words. They had given her the clue she wanted.
"Yes, that's it. It's dangerous for me if we are seen often together. I've done something so mad and foolish, Vardri, you must help me to put it right,—youcan. Those letters you have written me saying all sorts of things against the Cause,—I left a piece of one about somewhere,—I don't know where,—and Sobrenski found it. He has just told me that in about half an hour's time before all the rest of them leave, he is going to send on one of the men in advance. He will get down to the town before us, go to my rooms and yours and collect all the letters that have passed between us; and use them, as then he will have what he has always wanted,—the proofs that we are what he would call traitors. And when he has these proofs, neither of us will be safe for an instant. It will mean death to both of us sooner or later. But even Sobrenski can't murder us without sufficient evidence. He will be obliged to make some formal parade of justice to put it all before the rest of the society. If he doesn't get our letters he will not have sufficient evidence."
"But if we go away together to-night, as we intended? We've got a start. We can take the best horses. That is the best plan."
Arithelli shook her head. "Listen to me, dear, and believe in a woman's wisdom for once. If we go to-night and together, we are bound to be recaptured before we are out of Barcelona. By doing what I suggest we avoid suspicion, we give ourselves breathing-space, time to arrange a disguise, to think of all sorts of things that we have overlooked. We have everything in our favour to-night, Sobrenski does not know you are here yet. If you go soon you will get away without his having seen you at all. Here is the key of my room. Go there first, and you will find all your own letters in a wooden box in my big trunk. That isn't locked. Open it and burn them all. Then go on to your own room, do the same with yours and stay there. If they raid my room, they will find nothing suspicious. You could pretend you were ill, and that's the only reason you haven't come tonight, and I am here doing my work as usual. Nothing could be less suspicious. Then when they are off their guard we can escape."
The minutes were flying. Death thrusting his lean face before the rosy face of Love. Sobrenski's phrase sounded in her ears like the tolling of a bell. "You have an hour free to do your work." An hour, only an hour! How long had they been there already? Time and all else alike seemed blurred. All her will must be concentrated upon one thing—to make Vardri leave her as quickly as possible. Yet she dare not show a sign of haste or emotion lest he should suspect something amiss and refuse to go.
"Dear, it is a wonderful plan this, of yours," Vardri was saying. "But how can I leave you here alone with these devils? It makes me cold to think of it."
"You'll leave me because I shall be safer alone. Youmustsee that,mon ami." She clung to him, putting up her face towards his. Every art of womanhood must be used to weave a spell to send him from her and to save him. "Will you not do as I ask you?"
"I'll do anything in the world for you," the boy broke out eagerly;"I'd have my hand cut off to save you a minute's pain."
"I know,mon ami. And this is such a little thing, and so much depends upon its being done quickly."
What was that? A step on the ladder? She could not control a violent start. No, it was only a creaking rung, a stamp from one of the mules.
"But you haven't broken your promise to me. You swear to come away with me soon?"
"To-morrow if you will. Once the letters are burnt we are almost safe.Only one day more. It doesn't make any difference."
"It does to me,mon petit. Every moment, every hour without you is time wasted."
"But you'll go, dear, before Sobrenski sees us together?"
"My sweet, if it is for your good, of course I will go. You're right about the letters; I ought to have known it wasn't safe to keep them. As you say, they've got no circumstantial evidence if those are destroyed, and it only means a few more hours' delay in our getting off. I'll go, darling. I'll get down the hills in no time. It's the best horse of the lot, that one outside. But before I go give me yourself for a few minutes."
Arithelli let him lead her unresisting towards the corner of the hut, and lay her gently back upon a truss of hay that he had covered with a cloak. She had not the strength to deny him their last few minutes together. Every fibre in her own nature, the lover, the mother, the child, were all crying out for him. How gentle he had been, how he had always cared for her. No one had ever touched her like this before, spoken to her in this caressing voice. Emile had been kind in his way, but he had been always rough. Her own emotions had always lain buried deeply, and now they had been called to life she longed for the natural expression of her love through the medium of physical things, by word and touch.
"Now for my reward," Vardri said. "I want to take your hair down."
Arithelli bent her head towards him without speaking and he drew the pins, and undid the braid with deft fingers, spreading it out till it covered her as with a veil.
"If only I could paint you! How beautiful you are to-night, but how still and cold! Fatalité, tell me you love me a little,mon coeur!"
She put her arms round his neck, laying her cheek against his. "Mon ami, I love you!"
He held her in his arms as one holds a child, rocking her to and fro. "Voilà chérie!" he whispered. "After to-morrow I shall have you always, I shall never let you go again. My dream is coming true."
Arithelli listened with dry eyes and an aching heart. She was past crying, and her brain felt curiously reasonable and alert. She could not send him from her at once, yet with every passing second Death drew stealthily nearer and nearer. Time swept on relentless and inflexible.
"Perhaps you will be disappointed in me one of these days, find me depressing and full of moods. I've always been so lonely, you know, till I met you.Je suis une âme detachée."
"Never again while I'm alive! I think of you and with you. When you are happy I know it, and when you are miserable I know it too. Fatalité! Fatalité! believe that I don't want anything in return. I'll wait on you, work for you, lie, starve, steal, do anything. I only want to know you're there, to have the right to serve you, to feel you don't hate me. I couldn't go on living it I lost you. Since the first day I saw you at the Hippodrome you've haunted me. I led Don Juan down to the entrance to the ring. You don't remember? How should you? I've never forgotten! You smiled and thanked me. You looked so strange beside Estelle and those other women."
He was kneeling beside her, his lips pressed against the hollow of her arm, from which the loose red sleeve had slipped back to above the elbow. Under his passionate words Arithelli sat like a being entranced, unseeing, unhearing. The inscrutable eyes set in the rigid face gave her the likeness to some carven thing.
"Fatalité! Fatalité!"
The sound of his voice came to her as from a distance. She roused herself, and tried to smile. "Mon ami, I'm a little tired to-night, a little nervous; I was thinking about the letters! I shall feel so much safer when they're burnt."
"I'll go at once—just one moment. Arithelli, you do believe that I love you, and that I want nothing? See, I'll not even touch your hand if it doesn't please you."
The soft hand was laid gently on his. "But if itdoesplease me,mon camarade—"
"Dieu! How sweet you are! But don't call me 'Camarade,'mon petit. Those wolves above call each other that!"
"I won't, if you hate it. Yes, that's really love to give all and take nothing." Arithelli spoke dreamily. "Emile made me sing to him before he went away; you remember 'L'Adieu' of Schubert? He loved it.
"La mort est une amie,Qui rend la liberté."
"C'est bien vrai ca! I used to sing it without thinking at one time.How alike all those songs are. Always Death;—Death and Liberty!"
"Don't talk of those things, dear. It's going to be Life for both of us—after to-morrow."
"I was thinking of poor Emile."
"He was always fond of you. He'll be glad when he hears you're married and safe."
"Yes, he'll be glad. Don't talk any more for a minute, dear, then just sayau revoirto me and go as quickly as you can. I want to be quiet. It's good to be loved. How gentle you are! Emile was always so rough when he touched me."
Vardri hung over her, caressing her with infinite tenderness. Of all men in the world he was surely the happiest to have known this sweet and womanly Arithelli, the Arithelli that no one else had ever seen. He kissed the heavy, closed lids and stroked back the hair from her forehead.
A faint intoxicating odour of jasmine hovered about her, for she wasEastern in her love of perfumes. The stifling, dirty hut became aParadise while she lay thus in his arms.
Once again they kissed and clung together. Though Arithelli's lips burnt, they scorched with the fires of despair rather than with those of passion.
In silence Vardri helped her to her feet, and they walked together to the door.
"You'll come to me to-morrow," Arithelli said.
"To-morrow we shall be safe. We'll be out of this hell altogether in another day or two,à la bonne heure! You're not afraid, Fatalité?"
"I shan't be—when the letters are safe. Take care of yourself,mon ami, et à bientot!"
"Mon Dieu! what pluck you have! How I love you for it! Go back and rest, dear, till those brutes come down. Give me your hand again, Fatalité,bien aimée! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous!"
She answered him steadily. "À demain.Adieu, mon ami. Ride as quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes."
"Le jeu est fait, rien ne vas plus!"
He was gone, and Arithelli was back in the hut again, and now the worst of it all was still to come. If Vardri was to have a fair start she must wait out the hour alone, realising every moment of the time what awaited her at the end of it.
A mad impulse seized her to rush up the steps to the loft, interrupt the meeting, defy them all and boast how she had schemed her lover's escape, and laugh at them and their plots, goad them into shooting her at once and finishing it all quickly. She felt that she could not endure any more suspense and strain. Anything would be better than this interminable, awful waiting in the semi-darkness and loneliness, with neither friend nor lover at hand, no single human to take her part or defend her. Emile had gone and now Vardri, and she must face everything alone. If she waited Vardri would have perhaps half an hour's grace and while they were dealing with her it would give him still another few minutes, and every minute counted.
She fought down the temptation, and began to move about, speaking to the mules and, horses, taking down saddles and bridles. She must not be too quiet, or they might suspect something, and come down sooner to see if she were still there. She must pretend to be busy, play out the play to the end.
She unhooked the lantern from its nail and placed it on the ground, and then stood still again to listen.
The smothered hum of voices grew louder overhead. It stopped suddenly, and she could only hear Sobrenski's slow, incisive tones. No doubt they were listening to him as to one inspired while he preached his gospel of destruction. Arithelli shivered, pressing her hands over her ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had bidden her outrage her sex.
She stumbled towards the bed of hay, still warm with the impress of her own figure, and flung herself upon it face downwards and lay there whispering to herself over and over again Vardri's name as one whispers a charm.
Would he forget her one of these days and marry someone else? Had it been real, anything of this that she had lived through during these months in Spain? Was she still that same "Arithelli of the Hippodrome" who had come gaily into Barcelona with her ridiculous dresses and her belief in herself and her career? She had known an hour of love and passion, and that had been worth all the rest Emile had always told her that people were not meant to be happy longici-bas. She must pay now for her hour. The gods were angry and must have a sacrifice.
After she had been out in Barcelona only a week, Emile had taken her to one of the gambling-hells of the place, where the lights and mirrors and gilding hurt her tired eyes, and the croupiers called incessantly through the strained silence, "Le jeu est fait.Rien ne vas plus!"
It was like that with her now, "Le jeu est fait." How that sentence heat in her brain! She wondered if she were becoming delirious. Then she was on her feet, and her hand went to the Browning pistol at her belt. Sobrenski's figure had appeared at the top of the ladder. He was shading his eyes with his hand, and peering forward into the gloom. Only one of them there! The girl or Vardri, which was it?
Then the whole place was in darkness, for Arithelli had overturned and extinguished the solitary lamp. The excited whinny of a horse mingled with the sound of two shots fired in rapid succession, a rustling noise among the hay, a groan, and silence. Before he set foot on the ladder Sobrenski shouted to the rest of the conspirators to bring a light. He did not wait to look at the prone figure, but made straight for the door. His business it was first to see whether his quarry were still in sight.
All the other men were hustling each other in a hasty descent. "Que diable!" one of them said. "What is it now? A spy?"
The man who had lowered Arithelli from the window of the house in the Calle de Pescadores, made his way first to where Arithelli lay and stood beside her. He could only see dimly the outline of a figure which might have been either that of a man or woman. "Bring a light here," Valdez called impatiently. "Which of them is it?" Though he was a revolutionist he was still a human being, and he had always been as sorry for her as he had dared allow himself to be, and he hoped it was not the girl. Another man came up carrying a lantern, and flashed the light on what rested motionless at their feet. Arithelli lay on her face as she had fallen. Her hair streamed over her shoulders and mingled with the dark folds of the cloak. The hand that still held the pistol was flung wide.
"It's not Vardri," the other man said. "Is it—?" Sobrenski cut across the question. "A traitor," he said. "What does it matter about the name? Get back all of you and see to the horses. There should be two of them and there's only one here. We've got to find the other one."
With a sudden brusque movement Valdez knelt down, turned the limp body over, and rested the head upon his knee. "Pardieu!" he ejaculated as he let it fall gently back. "It's Fatalité!"