Chapter Eleven.The Head of the Family arrived next day. He was a very stolid and bucolic-looking person, a breeder of prize oxen and fat sheep. He commiserated with poor Isobel in a heavy fashion.“Strange thing going off like that,” he commented. “We are a very long-lived family. But your father was always a little bit different from the rest of us when he was a boy.”Isobel said nothing in reply. She had seen several members of her father’s family at rare intervals, and she had not been greatly impressed by them. The only one she had really liked was Mrs Farquhar, the mother of her Cousin Maurice. She was a sweet, charming woman, the favourite sister of her dead father.Mr Clandon fingered his moustache a little nervously. “I suppose you know all about his affairs, my dear? He has left you comfortably off, eh? He came into quite a tidy little bit when my father died.”Isobel smiled faintly. Mr Clandon wanted to be assured that he was not going to have a penniless niece thrust upon his hands. She knew all about her father’s affairs. Had not the dear old General spent hours in instructing her as to the careful management of her small patrimony, when anything happened to him?“Quite comfortably off, uncle, thanks to his loving care. With my simple wants, I shall be rich.”“Very relieved to hear it,” said the bucolic Mr Clandon. “And, of course, you are going to marry a rich man. Lord Saxham, I understand, is one of the wealthiest peers in England.”“Reported to be,” corrected Isobel gently. “The estates are very heavily encumbered, and there are living three dowagers, and other pensioners who draw their portions.”“God bless me,” said Mr Clandon, who was a very thrifty person. “What a frightful incubus! Then I take it your fiancé won’t get very much from that quarter?”“Very little, I expect. But he will inherit a large fortune from his great-aunt, Lady Henrietta, a very old lady, over eighty.”The Head of the Family looked relieved. He gazed with a certain respectful admiration at his good-looking niece. He had always recognised that she was a very pretty girl. At the present moment, grief had made great inroads on her good looks. But he thought somewhat sorrowfully of his own large family of girls, who were rather of the dumpling-faced order. They would have to seek their mates amongst the small squirearchy.“I suppose my poor brother made a will?” was Mr Clandon’s next question.“Oh, yes, he made his will years ago, after my mother’s death,” was Isobel’s answer. “He left her everything. When she died, he left me everything.”“Quite right and proper,” observed Mr Clandon. He was very dull, but quite an upright and just person. He was relieved to find that his brother was more business-like than he thought. “And he has appointed executors, I suppose?”“Yes, two—a very old friend, and my cousin, Maurice Farquhar.”“Ah, Maurice Farquhar, Anne’s son! Yes, of course, your father and Anne were always great comrades. Maurice is getting on very well at the bar, I hear. You have seen a lot of him, I suppose. Somehow, we seemed to lose sight of Anne. We were such a big family, you know; and big families get scattered.”Uncle Clandon had not the delicacy of Maurice or Lady Mary. He cordially accepted Isobel’s invitation to put him up. He was a very thrifty and careful person, and had no fancy to waste his money in expensive hotels, now that he knew his niece was left comfortably off.The General was buried amongst his forbears in the family vault. When the sad business was over, Lady Mary took Isobel away to Ticehurst Park.Guy Rossett had rushed over for the funeral, but he was so engrossed in diplomatic affairs that he had to leave immediately after.The lovers had little time to say anything to each other. But Isobel was very much touched with Guy’s delicate feeling.“Wasn’t he a darling to come over?” she said to Lady Mary. “I should have forgiven him if he hadn’t, but I love him ever so much more because he did.”To which somewhat incoherent declaration Mary had replied with her usual air of experience and worldly wisdom.“All men have something bad in them, and most women. But I think dear old Guy has the least bad in him that a man can have.”Lord Saxham was very kind, very gentle, very paternal to his son’s betrothed. He had only seen General Clandon once, and he could not pretend to feel any great interest in him. But that sudden death reminded him that he also was nearing the goal. The remembrance of that fact softened, at least temporarily, his asperities, curbed his explosive temper.The two girls were sitting in Mary’s cosy little boudoir. It was a very charming room, reflecting in every detail the delicate and discriminating taste of the youngchatelaine.“Mary, I can never go back to Eastbourne. I loved that little home so much while he was there. But now it would be torture. I should see him in every room, and I should want to cry out to him and he could not speak to me. Oh, I don’t think you can guess what we were to each other.”“Have you thought of anything, dear?” asked Mary in her kind, gentle voice. She knew the girl was half hysterical with her sorrow.“I should so love to go to Spain to be near Guy. Did I tell you dear father wanted to take me himself, only a few days before he died, and the doctor forbade him. Oh, Mary, if you could only come too?”“I would love to,” said Mary slowly. “But you know as well as I do that my duty lies here. My father is old, I dare not leave him, and, in spite of his little faults of temper, he has been a dear, kind parent.”“I understand perfectly,” was Isobel’s answer. “But, you see, nothing now ties me to England. All the world meant to me only two people, my father and Guy. Now, only Guy is left. I would love to be near him, even if he did not know.” Mary pondered a little. “I wonder if that nice cousin of yours could help in the matter?”Isobel caught at the suggestion at once. “Yes, he is very clever. I will go up and see him to-morrow.”“No need for that, dear. I will send him a wire at once, asking him to come down to-morrow to see you.”“But he is always so frightfully busy,” cried Isobel.“Bah!” said the more practical Lady Mary. “I know he is going to do wonderful things in the future, but he has plenty of time. When I send him that wire, he will come.”Lady Mary sent off the telegram. It was quite a little excitement in her usually placid life. Farquhar came down as quickly as he could. He had handed over his briefs to a friend.Lord Saxham greeted him kindly, being apprised by his daughter of his arrival. The poor old Earl was very subdued by now; he was quite prepared to make any amount of new acquaintances. His daughter had affairs well in hand.Lady Mary plunged into matters at once.“Isobel doesn’t want to go back to Eastbourne—that is quite natural. She is eager to go to Spain, to be near Guy. Of course nothing binds her to this country now.”Mr Farquhar was not to be hurried. His judicial mind, if it worked a little slowly, also worked very surely.“I should not say that, at the present moment, Spain was a very desirable country for anybody, still less so for a young and unprotected woman.” He looked rather disapprovingly at Isobel for having harboured such daring thoughts.“I shall take a maid, one of the servants we had at Eastbourne,” said Isobel, in a rather quaking voice. She had sense enough to see that, at the best, it was a wild venture.Lady Mary shot at him an appealing glance. “Don’t you think you had better let Isobel have her way? And I expect she will have it whether you approve or not.”There was also a little something more in that glance than Mary was quite conscious of. And the little something was this: Why was Maurice Farquhar so foolishly in love with Isobel, while Isobel was so devoted to Guy Rossett?Farquhar looked from the younger to the elder girl. Lady Mary was very comely, she had behind her a long line of illustrious ancestry. She had been very sweet and gracious to him.“Do you approve this rather daring scheme, Lady Mary?”“On the whole, I think I do. Of course, I recognise the objections to it. But Isobel cannot go back to Eastbourne. If she stays in England she will be eating her heart out.”Farquhar was, perhaps unconsciously, swayed by Lady Mary. He made up his mind to regard the suggestion with some degree of favour.“I will do all I can to help. Unfortunately, I know next to nothing of Spain. But I have a friend who knows it from A to Z. I will write to him and see how I can get her planted there.”Of course, Lady Mary knew that Moreno was the friend. Isobel thanked him warmly.“How sweet and dear of you,” she said. “Of course you understand, now my dear father is gone, there is nothing left but Guy.”Farquhar understood. His cousin had spoken with the unconscious cruelty of the self-centred lover. She had not considered Maurice’s feelings at all.Farquhar rose. “I will write the letter at once, if you will permit me.” He turned to Lady Mary, who led him to a small morning-room, and spread paper and envelopes before him.“You are very fond of Isobel?” he asked, before he began his letter, a rather long one, to Moreno.“I love her like a younger sister, Mr Farquhar,” replied Mary enthusiastically. “And, of course, she very soon will be my sister. And, moreover, being a woman, I love all true lovers. She and Guy are so absorbed in each other.”“Ah!” said the youthful barrister shortly. “And you love your brother too?”“Dear old Guy! I simply adore him. He is one of the most lovable of men.”Farquhar looked at her a little quizzically. “You have, I should say, a most beautiful nature; you see good in everything and everybody, don’t you?” Lady Mary shook her head. “No. I am more discriminating than you think. I fancy I can always tell the false from the true.”“I wonder how you would reckon me up?”“I will tell you, if you really wish,” was Mary’s candid answer.“Yes, I do wish, honestly.”“You are frightfully, painfully just. You are terribly cautious. And—” She paused, and a faint blush spread over her cheek.“Don’t spoil it, please. Finish what you were going to say. I can see you are a very discerning critic.”Mary was a long time before she would answer. Then she turned away, and her blush deepened.“I should say loyalty and honesty were your greatest characteristics. That you would be a sincere friend and a very generous enemy.”She was leaving the room, but Farquhar darted up and detained her.“I say, you know, that is the very greatest compliment I have ever had paid me,” he said, roused from his usual impassivity. “Will you think I am taking a liberty if I suggest that we shake hands on it?”“Oh, not at all,” said Mary, in a rather fluttering way, as she put her hand in his.She left the room, and he set about to write his letter to Moreno. But the disturbing vision of Lady Mary, with that faint flush on her cheek, appeared several times between the sentences of the rather lengthy epistle. That letter went out by the evening post.About the same time that these events were happening at the Park, Ferdinand Contraras was taking farewell of his family. He explained to them that he was going to Spain, he could not say how long he would be away. It might be a few days, it might be weeks. He had left plenty of money in the bank for their needs.His wife and daughter watched him out of the house without any signs of emotion. To these two, who should have been his nearest and dearest, he had long appeared as a man out of touch with realities.When the car rolled out of sight, Madame Contraras turned to her daughter.“I have a presentiment, Inez, he will never come back. He is going to give his life as well as his fortune to this insane cause.”Inez, who was rather callous, shrugged her shapely shoulders. “Why did you marry him, mother? He must have been mad then.”“The madness of strong, impetuous youth, my child. I never thought it would last through middle and old age.”
The Head of the Family arrived next day. He was a very stolid and bucolic-looking person, a breeder of prize oxen and fat sheep. He commiserated with poor Isobel in a heavy fashion.
“Strange thing going off like that,” he commented. “We are a very long-lived family. But your father was always a little bit different from the rest of us when he was a boy.”
Isobel said nothing in reply. She had seen several members of her father’s family at rare intervals, and she had not been greatly impressed by them. The only one she had really liked was Mrs Farquhar, the mother of her Cousin Maurice. She was a sweet, charming woman, the favourite sister of her dead father.
Mr Clandon fingered his moustache a little nervously. “I suppose you know all about his affairs, my dear? He has left you comfortably off, eh? He came into quite a tidy little bit when my father died.”
Isobel smiled faintly. Mr Clandon wanted to be assured that he was not going to have a penniless niece thrust upon his hands. She knew all about her father’s affairs. Had not the dear old General spent hours in instructing her as to the careful management of her small patrimony, when anything happened to him?
“Quite comfortably off, uncle, thanks to his loving care. With my simple wants, I shall be rich.”
“Very relieved to hear it,” said the bucolic Mr Clandon. “And, of course, you are going to marry a rich man. Lord Saxham, I understand, is one of the wealthiest peers in England.”
“Reported to be,” corrected Isobel gently. “The estates are very heavily encumbered, and there are living three dowagers, and other pensioners who draw their portions.”
“God bless me,” said Mr Clandon, who was a very thrifty person. “What a frightful incubus! Then I take it your fiancé won’t get very much from that quarter?”
“Very little, I expect. But he will inherit a large fortune from his great-aunt, Lady Henrietta, a very old lady, over eighty.”
The Head of the Family looked relieved. He gazed with a certain respectful admiration at his good-looking niece. He had always recognised that she was a very pretty girl. At the present moment, grief had made great inroads on her good looks. But he thought somewhat sorrowfully of his own large family of girls, who were rather of the dumpling-faced order. They would have to seek their mates amongst the small squirearchy.
“I suppose my poor brother made a will?” was Mr Clandon’s next question.
“Oh, yes, he made his will years ago, after my mother’s death,” was Isobel’s answer. “He left her everything. When she died, he left me everything.”
“Quite right and proper,” observed Mr Clandon. He was very dull, but quite an upright and just person. He was relieved to find that his brother was more business-like than he thought. “And he has appointed executors, I suppose?”
“Yes, two—a very old friend, and my cousin, Maurice Farquhar.”
“Ah, Maurice Farquhar, Anne’s son! Yes, of course, your father and Anne were always great comrades. Maurice is getting on very well at the bar, I hear. You have seen a lot of him, I suppose. Somehow, we seemed to lose sight of Anne. We were such a big family, you know; and big families get scattered.”
Uncle Clandon had not the delicacy of Maurice or Lady Mary. He cordially accepted Isobel’s invitation to put him up. He was a very thrifty and careful person, and had no fancy to waste his money in expensive hotels, now that he knew his niece was left comfortably off.
The General was buried amongst his forbears in the family vault. When the sad business was over, Lady Mary took Isobel away to Ticehurst Park.
Guy Rossett had rushed over for the funeral, but he was so engrossed in diplomatic affairs that he had to leave immediately after.
The lovers had little time to say anything to each other. But Isobel was very much touched with Guy’s delicate feeling.
“Wasn’t he a darling to come over?” she said to Lady Mary. “I should have forgiven him if he hadn’t, but I love him ever so much more because he did.”
To which somewhat incoherent declaration Mary had replied with her usual air of experience and worldly wisdom.
“All men have something bad in them, and most women. But I think dear old Guy has the least bad in him that a man can have.”
Lord Saxham was very kind, very gentle, very paternal to his son’s betrothed. He had only seen General Clandon once, and he could not pretend to feel any great interest in him. But that sudden death reminded him that he also was nearing the goal. The remembrance of that fact softened, at least temporarily, his asperities, curbed his explosive temper.
The two girls were sitting in Mary’s cosy little boudoir. It was a very charming room, reflecting in every detail the delicate and discriminating taste of the youngchatelaine.
“Mary, I can never go back to Eastbourne. I loved that little home so much while he was there. But now it would be torture. I should see him in every room, and I should want to cry out to him and he could not speak to me. Oh, I don’t think you can guess what we were to each other.”
“Have you thought of anything, dear?” asked Mary in her kind, gentle voice. She knew the girl was half hysterical with her sorrow.
“I should so love to go to Spain to be near Guy. Did I tell you dear father wanted to take me himself, only a few days before he died, and the doctor forbade him. Oh, Mary, if you could only come too?”
“I would love to,” said Mary slowly. “But you know as well as I do that my duty lies here. My father is old, I dare not leave him, and, in spite of his little faults of temper, he has been a dear, kind parent.”
“I understand perfectly,” was Isobel’s answer. “But, you see, nothing now ties me to England. All the world meant to me only two people, my father and Guy. Now, only Guy is left. I would love to be near him, even if he did not know.” Mary pondered a little. “I wonder if that nice cousin of yours could help in the matter?”
Isobel caught at the suggestion at once. “Yes, he is very clever. I will go up and see him to-morrow.”
“No need for that, dear. I will send him a wire at once, asking him to come down to-morrow to see you.”
“But he is always so frightfully busy,” cried Isobel.
“Bah!” said the more practical Lady Mary. “I know he is going to do wonderful things in the future, but he has plenty of time. When I send him that wire, he will come.”
Lady Mary sent off the telegram. It was quite a little excitement in her usually placid life. Farquhar came down as quickly as he could. He had handed over his briefs to a friend.
Lord Saxham greeted him kindly, being apprised by his daughter of his arrival. The poor old Earl was very subdued by now; he was quite prepared to make any amount of new acquaintances. His daughter had affairs well in hand.
Lady Mary plunged into matters at once.
“Isobel doesn’t want to go back to Eastbourne—that is quite natural. She is eager to go to Spain, to be near Guy. Of course nothing binds her to this country now.”
Mr Farquhar was not to be hurried. His judicial mind, if it worked a little slowly, also worked very surely.
“I should not say that, at the present moment, Spain was a very desirable country for anybody, still less so for a young and unprotected woman.” He looked rather disapprovingly at Isobel for having harboured such daring thoughts.
“I shall take a maid, one of the servants we had at Eastbourne,” said Isobel, in a rather quaking voice. She had sense enough to see that, at the best, it was a wild venture.
Lady Mary shot at him an appealing glance. “Don’t you think you had better let Isobel have her way? And I expect she will have it whether you approve or not.”
There was also a little something more in that glance than Mary was quite conscious of. And the little something was this: Why was Maurice Farquhar so foolishly in love with Isobel, while Isobel was so devoted to Guy Rossett?
Farquhar looked from the younger to the elder girl. Lady Mary was very comely, she had behind her a long line of illustrious ancestry. She had been very sweet and gracious to him.
“Do you approve this rather daring scheme, Lady Mary?”
“On the whole, I think I do. Of course, I recognise the objections to it. But Isobel cannot go back to Eastbourne. If she stays in England she will be eating her heart out.”
Farquhar was, perhaps unconsciously, swayed by Lady Mary. He made up his mind to regard the suggestion with some degree of favour.
“I will do all I can to help. Unfortunately, I know next to nothing of Spain. But I have a friend who knows it from A to Z. I will write to him and see how I can get her planted there.”
Of course, Lady Mary knew that Moreno was the friend. Isobel thanked him warmly.
“How sweet and dear of you,” she said. “Of course you understand, now my dear father is gone, there is nothing left but Guy.”
Farquhar understood. His cousin had spoken with the unconscious cruelty of the self-centred lover. She had not considered Maurice’s feelings at all.
Farquhar rose. “I will write the letter at once, if you will permit me.” He turned to Lady Mary, who led him to a small morning-room, and spread paper and envelopes before him.
“You are very fond of Isobel?” he asked, before he began his letter, a rather long one, to Moreno.
“I love her like a younger sister, Mr Farquhar,” replied Mary enthusiastically. “And, of course, she very soon will be my sister. And, moreover, being a woman, I love all true lovers. She and Guy are so absorbed in each other.”
“Ah!” said the youthful barrister shortly. “And you love your brother too?”
“Dear old Guy! I simply adore him. He is one of the most lovable of men.”
Farquhar looked at her a little quizzically. “You have, I should say, a most beautiful nature; you see good in everything and everybody, don’t you?” Lady Mary shook her head. “No. I am more discriminating than you think. I fancy I can always tell the false from the true.”
“I wonder how you would reckon me up?”
“I will tell you, if you really wish,” was Mary’s candid answer.
“Yes, I do wish, honestly.”
“You are frightfully, painfully just. You are terribly cautious. And—” She paused, and a faint blush spread over her cheek.
“Don’t spoil it, please. Finish what you were going to say. I can see you are a very discerning critic.”
Mary was a long time before she would answer. Then she turned away, and her blush deepened.
“I should say loyalty and honesty were your greatest characteristics. That you would be a sincere friend and a very generous enemy.”
She was leaving the room, but Farquhar darted up and detained her.
“I say, you know, that is the very greatest compliment I have ever had paid me,” he said, roused from his usual impassivity. “Will you think I am taking a liberty if I suggest that we shake hands on it?”
“Oh, not at all,” said Mary, in a rather fluttering way, as she put her hand in his.
She left the room, and he set about to write his letter to Moreno. But the disturbing vision of Lady Mary, with that faint flush on her cheek, appeared several times between the sentences of the rather lengthy epistle. That letter went out by the evening post.
About the same time that these events were happening at the Park, Ferdinand Contraras was taking farewell of his family. He explained to them that he was going to Spain, he could not say how long he would be away. It might be a few days, it might be weeks. He had left plenty of money in the bank for their needs.
His wife and daughter watched him out of the house without any signs of emotion. To these two, who should have been his nearest and dearest, he had long appeared as a man out of touch with realities.
When the car rolled out of sight, Madame Contraras turned to her daughter.
“I have a presentiment, Inez, he will never come back. He is going to give his life as well as his fortune to this insane cause.”
Inez, who was rather callous, shrugged her shapely shoulders. “Why did you marry him, mother? He must have been mad then.”
“The madness of strong, impetuous youth, my child. I never thought it would last through middle and old age.”
Chapter Twelve.Contraras embarked on his great mission. Elderly man as he was, the fire of his convictions kept him alert and youthful.He stayed a day in Madrid; from thence he travelled to Barcelona. And then he went on to Fonterrabia.In the same little café, the “Concha,” he met several members of the brotherhood, Zorrilta, specially summoned, Alvedero, Andres Moreno, Violet Hargrave, and Mademoiselle Delmonte.He opened the proceedings in his sharp, autocratic way. “You have already had a meeting about this particularcoupwhich I planned in London.”The young Frenchwoman spoke eagerly. If ever there was an enthusiast in the sacred cause, she was one. Ready to be burned or hanged for her principles, she had the spirit of the early Christian martyrs.“We know all about it, Contraras.” In the spirit of true democracy, they addressed each other by no formal prefix. “I have undertaken it. It probably means death to me, I can only escape by a miracle, but it also means death to our enemies.”Contraras looked at her approvingly from under his bushy eyebrows. “There spoke a true daughter of the Revolution which is to remake the world. If years had not come upon me, if my eyesight were more keen, my hand more sure, I would not delegate this task to another, less especially to a woman.”Zorrilta hastened to observe obsequiously, “We cannot afford to hazard your precious life, Contraras. You are the head and brain of this organisation. The general directs the battle from safe ground. He does not go into the firing-line like the common soldier.”Contraras smiled, well pleased. Like most great men, he was very susceptible to flattery, as easily susceptible as the most despotic monarch that ever ruled.“I appreciate your devotion to the cause, your loyalty to myself,” he said in his most gracious manner. “When this great blow is struck, when we make a most terrible example, the echoes of it will reverberate through the world. The downtrodden population will arise, the world-revolution will be in being.”There was a subdued murmur of applause at the conclusion of his speech. Moreno applauded the loudest; somehow Violet Hargrave could never force herself to be very enthusiastic. Moreno was watching her very narrowly.Mademoiselle Delmonte spoke. “I cannot say how proud I am to have had this task deputed to me.” She looked very brave and resolute.The meeting lasted for over half an hour. Details of the greatcoupwere settled. Contraras had a powerful and logical brain. He never allowed digressions or diversions, he always kept everybody to the point. When the meeting broke up two people were very radiant, Contraras, who had planned thecoup, the enthusiastic Valerie Delmonte, who had undertaken to carry it into execution, with or without assistance, as might be determined.They strolled out from the obscure little café one by one. Moreno presently overtook Mrs Hargrave, in her peasant dress. They lodged near each other; it was natural they should stroll along together in the direction of their respective homes.Behind them came Contraras, and the two other men who had joined forces after leaving the café. Contraras looked after the two young people with those keen eyes which age had not very greatly dimmed.“The Englishwoman I know well,” he whispered to Alvedero. “She is a protégée, almost an adopted daughter, of our staunch comrade Jaques. What about this Moreno? Is he to be trusted?”“You know that Luçue vouches for both.”“Ah!” sighed Contraras. “Luçue is a keen judge of men. I have never known him make a mistake. But I do not like the English mother.”“And, in the case of Violet Hargrave, you have the English father. And yet, you have no suspicion of her.”Contraras nodded his massive head, the head with the broad, deep brow of the thinker.“Your remark is just, my friend. I chose Violet Hargrave myself, on the recommendation of my friend Jaques; that, of course, prejudices me in her favour. Moreno was chosen by Luçue. Perhaps I am a little bit jealous of Luçue. And I am growing old.”“No,” cried Alvedero, with whole-hearted admiration. “Give you another ten years yet, and you will still be the brains and leading spirit of this organisation. Zorrilta is good, Luçue has a touch of genius. But there is only one Contraras. Ten years hence you will be our leader, as you are to-day.” And while Contraras and Alvedero were exchanging these confidences, Moreno was talking to Violet Hargrave.“We seem to be engaged in a pretty bloodthirsty business, don’t you think, Mrs Hargrave? Not much in common with Fleet Street, or the flat in Mount Street, eh?”Violet Hargrave smiled. “We have both come out here to find adventure. Spain is a land of surprises. We shall have plenty of adventure before we have done with it.”There was a grim note in the journalist’s tones, as he answered: “On this particularcoup, engineered by our great leader, Contraras, it seems to me as likely as not that you and I shall meet our deaths. The one person who seems perfectly happy over the business is Mademoiselle Delmonte. By the way, she went out the first. She must have flown along like the wind. The others are behind. I can see them through the back of my head. I can wager they are just discussing whether we can be trusted—you, with your English father, I, with my English mother.”He shot at her a penetrating glance, but she did not move a muscle.“The southern blood in both is stronger than the northern,” she answered calmly. “And we are each a true son and daughter of the Revolution.”He came to the conclusion that, for the moment, Violet Hargrave was impenetrable. Would he ever be able to disturb thatsang-froid?When he reached his humble lodgings, for it was a part of his rôle to live plainly, he found a long letter from his old friend, Maurice Farquhar.It was the letter that had been written from Ticehurst Park. It explained at great length that Isobel Clandon had lost her father, that there were no longer any ties to bind her to England, that she wanted to be near her lover, in view of the danger that threatened him. Above all, that she did not wish Guy to know, at any rate for the present. Could Moreno help?The young man knitted his brows. His first impulse was to write back and strongly oppose the scheme. Then his subtle mind began to work, half unconsciously. Isobel Clandon over in Madrid could do no harm. He would not prophesy that she would do any good. But there was no knowing what might happen with this bloodthirsty brotherhood. She might be useful.He knew an English couple living in Madrid, old connections of his mother; he was sure they would willingly take in Isobel as a boarder. They were not rich people, only just in comfortable circumstances, they were elderly and childless. They would welcome a young girl as a member of their household.He would go to Madrid to-morrow and interview them. And he could kill two birds with one stone while he was there.He interviewed the elderly couple; they would be delighted to receive Miss Clandon.Afterwards, in response to a letter received at the Embassy, Guy Rossett met the young journalist in the same obscure restaurant in Madrid, where he had met him previously.“Things are humming a bit, eh?” queried Moreno, as they sat at a small table, quaffing a bottle of light wine.“Looks like it,” answered Rossett, speaking with the usual English phlegm. “I’ve had some very important information over to-day.”“Most of which, I expect, has been supplied by me, not but what I admit there are two or three very good men out on the job.” Moreno was dreadfully conceited, but he could be generous when he chose. He would sometimes allow that there were other people who might be—well, nearly as clever as himself.“Well, Moreno, you wanted to see me. I take it, you have a reason?”“Of course I have. I know you ultimately hear everything from headquarters. But that takes time, and I am on the spot.”“I know all that,” said Rossett. “Besides, I have instructions from headquarters to keep in touch with you, because youareon the spot.”“That is really awfully good of them, when you come to think of it,” said Moreno in his quiet, sarcastic way. “Fancy them relaxing red tape to that extent! I fancy there is a new spirit abroad.”“Well, what is it?” asked Rossett a little impatiently.Moreno puffed at his cigar a little time before he answered.“I am going to put a very direct question to you. Some time ago you gave some very important information to the Secret Service about this anarchist movement. It is due to that that you are here.”“Yes, I did,” answered Guy shortly.“You know we are both practically in the same service,” said Moreno slowly, “and we might be frank with each other. Was that information given under the seal of secrecy?”Guy nodded. “Yes, it was, absolutely.”“As an honourable man, you could not reveal the name of your informant? I can give you my word, it is very important.”Guy thought for a few seconds. “No, I cannot give you the name of my informant. It was done absolutely under the seal of secrecy.”“I understand,” said Moreno. “And a very considerable price was paid to the man—or woman—I am convinced it was a woman, who sold you this information.”“Quite right. But why do you say it was a woman?” asked Guy Rossett quickly.“If I had not already been sure it was a woman, my friend, I should be quite sure of it by your sudden question. You English people are not quite so subtle as we who have southern blood in our veins.”Rossett bit his lip. He felt he had given himself away to this quick-witted foreigner, nine-tenths Spanish and one-tenth English.There was a long pause. Moreno shifted his point of attack.“Do you know that Mrs Hargrave is over in Spain, in Fonterrabia?”“What!” almost shouted Guy in his astonishment.Moreno looked at him steadily. “Ah, you have not heard that from headquarters. Well, you see, they don’t know the little side-currents as well as I do. They do not know, for instance, that she is a sworn and apparently zealous member of the brotherhood.”“Violet Hargrave, of all people!” cried Rossett. He was in a state of bewilderment.“You know, I daresay, that Mrs Hargrave is no friend of yours now, whatever she may have been once,” said Moreno, speaking in his quiet, level tones.“Yes, I think I can understand that.”“Come, Mr Rossett, throw off a little of that insular reserve, and let us talk together quite frankly. Believe me, I am speaking entirely in your own interests. There is no doubt that, at one time, you paid Mrs Hargrave very marked attention, that you fed her hopes very high.”“I was a bit of a fool, certainly,” admitted Guy.“And then, pardon me for speaking quite frankly, you threw her over rather abruptly, because you had fallen in love with somebody else—a woman, of course, a thousand times superior to the discarded one.”“You seem to know all about it, Mr Moreno.”“It is my business to know things,” replied the journalist quietly. “Well, it is a case of the ‘woman scorned,’ you know. I should say the fair Violet hated you now as much as she once loved you.”“It may be possible. I have a notion that you know women better than I do.”“Bad women perhaps,” said Moreno quietly. “My experience has lain rather in their direction. I think I have only known three good women in my life, two of whom were my mother and a girl I was once engaged to—she died a week before our wedding day.”Rossett regarded him with a sympathetic gaze. So this swarthy, black-browed young Spaniard had had his romance. His voice had broken as he spoke of his dead sweetheart.“I am sorry for your experience. Most of the women I have known have been very good, the fingers of one hand would count the bad. But tell me more about Violet Hargrave. She hates me, you say?”“I should say with a very bitter and malignant hatred,” was Moreno’s answer.“All arising, of course, from jealousy or disappointment. How far is this hatred going to lead her?”“I should say to the furthest point.”Rossett recoiled. “You mean to say she can have so changed that she would contemplate that?”Moreno did not mince his words. “You will take my word for it that it is revenge she seeks, and she will not hesitate. Her position in the brotherhood will give her a very plausible excuse.”For a moment, Guy Rossett lost his head. “Yes, you told me just now, I remember, she belonged to the brotherhood. But I always understood—”He paused; Moreno noted that sudden pause. Rossett had been on the point of saying something that would have revealed much.The young man leaned forward and whispered.“Mr Rossett, do you still refuse to give me the name of your informant?”“I am afraid I cannot,” was the firm reply. “My word was given, you understand.” Again he seemed on the point of saying something further, and refrained.Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “I admire your scrupulousness, but I still think you are very foolish in your own interests. Still, I know what you Englishmen are. If my suspicions had been confirmed by your positive evidence, my hands would have been very much strengthened. I could have dealt with the matter in a very positive and speedy way.”Rossett kept silence. It was the safest method with the subtle young Spaniard, who took notice of every word and every glance, and rapidly constructed a theory out of the most slender facts.“There is no more to be said, so far as that is concerned,” said Moreno quietly. “You could have made it very easy for me; as it is, I shall have to expend more time and trouble. But trust me, I shall get the information I want in good time. I shall find people in your own walk of life less scrupulous than you are yourself.”“Perhaps,” replied Rossett briefly.“I am keeping watch and ward over you, as you know,” went on Moreno in lighter tones. “And I promise you I will give you plenty of notice of danger.”“It is pretty near, eh?” queried Rossett.“Not very far off, I can assure you. I am seeing the Chief of the Spanish police to-morrow. I have some very important information to give him.”The next day Moreno had a long interview with the Chief of Police, and also with the Head of the Spanish Secret Service. Both the officials made copious notes at the respective interviews. When he left them Moreno felt he had done good work. He was sure that he could outwit Zorrilta, Alvedero, even the great Contraras himself.He took a flying visit to England after this, having two objects in view. First, he wanted to see Isobel to arrange the details of her journey to Madrid. He lunched with her and Lady Mary at a quiet little restaurant in Soho. He promised to meet her on her arrival at Madrid and conduct her to her friends. He would say nothing to Guy Rossett till he had her permission.For at the eleventh hour Isobel’s heart a little failed her. From what point of view would Guy contemplate this rather wild adventure? Would he take it as a proof of her devoted love, or would he frown at the escapade, as a little unwomanly? Men of the straightforward English type like Rossett are apt to be a little uncertain in their judgment of what is seemly in their womenkind, and what is the reverse.After luncheon, he went to keep an appointment with one of the chiefs of the English Secret Service. This gentleman received him very graciously. Moreno stood high in his estimation. He had rendered very valuable service in the past and the present.“Delighted to see you, Mr Moreno. But I should have thought at the moment you could hardly be spared from Spain, more especially the neighbourhood of Fonterrabia, and Madrid.”“I never take a holiday, sir, unless I feel I am justified. In this instance I am. It is true I had a little private business on in England at this particular time, which does not concern your department. But I have sandwiched that in.”The grey-haired gentleman listened politely. Moreno, as he knew by experience, did not make many mistakes.“Some little time ago, Mr Guy Rossett, at present attached to Madrid, gave you some very important information about the anarchist movement in Spain.”“Ah, you know, do you?” was the cautious answer.“Of course, I have known it for a long time. For very special reasons I want to know the name of the man or woman who gave that information to Rossett. I will give you my reasons presently.”The other man thought a moment. “Yes, I remember the details perfectly. Rossett handed us certain memoranda which he had obtained from somebody, whose name he would not disclose.”“That is exactly like Rossett. I have attacked him direct and he still keeps silence. As an honourable Englishman he remains staunch to his promise. One cannot blame him, although in his own interests it would be better if he were a little less scrupulous.”The grey-haired man began to get interested. “Give me a few more details, Mr Moreno, so that I can see what you are driving at.”Moreno unfolded his suspicions briefly. He finished his story with the words, “If you could not make Rossett speak, I cannot. But you have those memoranda in your archives. Will you show them to me so that I may see if I recognise the handwriting.”The other thought for a moment before he replied. Even in the Secret Service everything is conducted with the most scrupulous fairness, although their opponents are destitute of the elementary principles of honesty.Then he made up his mind. “From what you have told me, I think it is wise that I should show you these memoranda, with a view to strengthening your hand. Kindly wait a few minutes and I will fetch them.”He was only away a very short time, but Moreno’s nerves were on the rack during the brief absence. Were his suspicions going to be absolutely confirmed, or still left in the region of mere conjecture?The grey-haired man came back, and placed half a dozen closely covered sheets before him. They were in a small, clear, feminine handwriting.Triumph glared in Moreno’s dark eyes. “As I guessed. She wasn’t clever enough to disguise her hand. I can understand she could not run the risk of having them copied. Why didn’t she get Rossett to write them out at her dictation?”The other man made no reply to this ebullition on the part of the young Spaniard.“Of course you can’t part with these, or any one page of them?” asked Moreno.“Out of the question,” came the expected answer. “I quite agree. But you can get photographs taken of them, and then I shall have this woman in the hollow of my hand.”“That shall be done, Mr Moreno. You are going back to Spain to-day. They shall be sent to you to-morrow at whatever address you leave with me.” And Moreno walked out of the cosy little room well pleased with himself. Guy Rossett might have saved him all this trouble if he had chosen to open his mouth. Still, he had got the information he wanted. And, above all, what a fool Violet Hargrave had been, to let those memoranda go out in her own handwriting! Moreno, who thought of every detail, would not have done that.
Contraras embarked on his great mission. Elderly man as he was, the fire of his convictions kept him alert and youthful.
He stayed a day in Madrid; from thence he travelled to Barcelona. And then he went on to Fonterrabia.
In the same little café, the “Concha,” he met several members of the brotherhood, Zorrilta, specially summoned, Alvedero, Andres Moreno, Violet Hargrave, and Mademoiselle Delmonte.
He opened the proceedings in his sharp, autocratic way. “You have already had a meeting about this particularcoupwhich I planned in London.”
The young Frenchwoman spoke eagerly. If ever there was an enthusiast in the sacred cause, she was one. Ready to be burned or hanged for her principles, she had the spirit of the early Christian martyrs.
“We know all about it, Contraras.” In the spirit of true democracy, they addressed each other by no formal prefix. “I have undertaken it. It probably means death to me, I can only escape by a miracle, but it also means death to our enemies.”
Contraras looked at her approvingly from under his bushy eyebrows. “There spoke a true daughter of the Revolution which is to remake the world. If years had not come upon me, if my eyesight were more keen, my hand more sure, I would not delegate this task to another, less especially to a woman.”
Zorrilta hastened to observe obsequiously, “We cannot afford to hazard your precious life, Contraras. You are the head and brain of this organisation. The general directs the battle from safe ground. He does not go into the firing-line like the common soldier.”
Contraras smiled, well pleased. Like most great men, he was very susceptible to flattery, as easily susceptible as the most despotic monarch that ever ruled.
“I appreciate your devotion to the cause, your loyalty to myself,” he said in his most gracious manner. “When this great blow is struck, when we make a most terrible example, the echoes of it will reverberate through the world. The downtrodden population will arise, the world-revolution will be in being.”
There was a subdued murmur of applause at the conclusion of his speech. Moreno applauded the loudest; somehow Violet Hargrave could never force herself to be very enthusiastic. Moreno was watching her very narrowly.
Mademoiselle Delmonte spoke. “I cannot say how proud I am to have had this task deputed to me.” She looked very brave and resolute.
The meeting lasted for over half an hour. Details of the greatcoupwere settled. Contraras had a powerful and logical brain. He never allowed digressions or diversions, he always kept everybody to the point. When the meeting broke up two people were very radiant, Contraras, who had planned thecoup, the enthusiastic Valerie Delmonte, who had undertaken to carry it into execution, with or without assistance, as might be determined.
They strolled out from the obscure little café one by one. Moreno presently overtook Mrs Hargrave, in her peasant dress. They lodged near each other; it was natural they should stroll along together in the direction of their respective homes.
Behind them came Contraras, and the two other men who had joined forces after leaving the café. Contraras looked after the two young people with those keen eyes which age had not very greatly dimmed.
“The Englishwoman I know well,” he whispered to Alvedero. “She is a protégée, almost an adopted daughter, of our staunch comrade Jaques. What about this Moreno? Is he to be trusted?”
“You know that Luçue vouches for both.”
“Ah!” sighed Contraras. “Luçue is a keen judge of men. I have never known him make a mistake. But I do not like the English mother.”
“And, in the case of Violet Hargrave, you have the English father. And yet, you have no suspicion of her.”
Contraras nodded his massive head, the head with the broad, deep brow of the thinker.
“Your remark is just, my friend. I chose Violet Hargrave myself, on the recommendation of my friend Jaques; that, of course, prejudices me in her favour. Moreno was chosen by Luçue. Perhaps I am a little bit jealous of Luçue. And I am growing old.”
“No,” cried Alvedero, with whole-hearted admiration. “Give you another ten years yet, and you will still be the brains and leading spirit of this organisation. Zorrilta is good, Luçue has a touch of genius. But there is only one Contraras. Ten years hence you will be our leader, as you are to-day.” And while Contraras and Alvedero were exchanging these confidences, Moreno was talking to Violet Hargrave.
“We seem to be engaged in a pretty bloodthirsty business, don’t you think, Mrs Hargrave? Not much in common with Fleet Street, or the flat in Mount Street, eh?”
Violet Hargrave smiled. “We have both come out here to find adventure. Spain is a land of surprises. We shall have plenty of adventure before we have done with it.”
There was a grim note in the journalist’s tones, as he answered: “On this particularcoup, engineered by our great leader, Contraras, it seems to me as likely as not that you and I shall meet our deaths. The one person who seems perfectly happy over the business is Mademoiselle Delmonte. By the way, she went out the first. She must have flown along like the wind. The others are behind. I can see them through the back of my head. I can wager they are just discussing whether we can be trusted—you, with your English father, I, with my English mother.”
He shot at her a penetrating glance, but she did not move a muscle.
“The southern blood in both is stronger than the northern,” she answered calmly. “And we are each a true son and daughter of the Revolution.”
He came to the conclusion that, for the moment, Violet Hargrave was impenetrable. Would he ever be able to disturb thatsang-froid?
When he reached his humble lodgings, for it was a part of his rôle to live plainly, he found a long letter from his old friend, Maurice Farquhar.
It was the letter that had been written from Ticehurst Park. It explained at great length that Isobel Clandon had lost her father, that there were no longer any ties to bind her to England, that she wanted to be near her lover, in view of the danger that threatened him. Above all, that she did not wish Guy to know, at any rate for the present. Could Moreno help?
The young man knitted his brows. His first impulse was to write back and strongly oppose the scheme. Then his subtle mind began to work, half unconsciously. Isobel Clandon over in Madrid could do no harm. He would not prophesy that she would do any good. But there was no knowing what might happen with this bloodthirsty brotherhood. She might be useful.
He knew an English couple living in Madrid, old connections of his mother; he was sure they would willingly take in Isobel as a boarder. They were not rich people, only just in comfortable circumstances, they were elderly and childless. They would welcome a young girl as a member of their household.
He would go to Madrid to-morrow and interview them. And he could kill two birds with one stone while he was there.
He interviewed the elderly couple; they would be delighted to receive Miss Clandon.
Afterwards, in response to a letter received at the Embassy, Guy Rossett met the young journalist in the same obscure restaurant in Madrid, where he had met him previously.
“Things are humming a bit, eh?” queried Moreno, as they sat at a small table, quaffing a bottle of light wine.
“Looks like it,” answered Rossett, speaking with the usual English phlegm. “I’ve had some very important information over to-day.”
“Most of which, I expect, has been supplied by me, not but what I admit there are two or three very good men out on the job.” Moreno was dreadfully conceited, but he could be generous when he chose. He would sometimes allow that there were other people who might be—well, nearly as clever as himself.
“Well, Moreno, you wanted to see me. I take it, you have a reason?”
“Of course I have. I know you ultimately hear everything from headquarters. But that takes time, and I am on the spot.”
“I know all that,” said Rossett. “Besides, I have instructions from headquarters to keep in touch with you, because youareon the spot.”
“That is really awfully good of them, when you come to think of it,” said Moreno in his quiet, sarcastic way. “Fancy them relaxing red tape to that extent! I fancy there is a new spirit abroad.”
“Well, what is it?” asked Rossett a little impatiently.
Moreno puffed at his cigar a little time before he answered.
“I am going to put a very direct question to you. Some time ago you gave some very important information to the Secret Service about this anarchist movement. It is due to that that you are here.”
“Yes, I did,” answered Guy shortly.
“You know we are both practically in the same service,” said Moreno slowly, “and we might be frank with each other. Was that information given under the seal of secrecy?”
Guy nodded. “Yes, it was, absolutely.”
“As an honourable man, you could not reveal the name of your informant? I can give you my word, it is very important.”
Guy thought for a few seconds. “No, I cannot give you the name of my informant. It was done absolutely under the seal of secrecy.”
“I understand,” said Moreno. “And a very considerable price was paid to the man—or woman—I am convinced it was a woman, who sold you this information.”
“Quite right. But why do you say it was a woman?” asked Guy Rossett quickly.
“If I had not already been sure it was a woman, my friend, I should be quite sure of it by your sudden question. You English people are not quite so subtle as we who have southern blood in our veins.”
Rossett bit his lip. He felt he had given himself away to this quick-witted foreigner, nine-tenths Spanish and one-tenth English.
There was a long pause. Moreno shifted his point of attack.
“Do you know that Mrs Hargrave is over in Spain, in Fonterrabia?”
“What!” almost shouted Guy in his astonishment.
Moreno looked at him steadily. “Ah, you have not heard that from headquarters. Well, you see, they don’t know the little side-currents as well as I do. They do not know, for instance, that she is a sworn and apparently zealous member of the brotherhood.”
“Violet Hargrave, of all people!” cried Rossett. He was in a state of bewilderment.
“You know, I daresay, that Mrs Hargrave is no friend of yours now, whatever she may have been once,” said Moreno, speaking in his quiet, level tones.
“Yes, I think I can understand that.”
“Come, Mr Rossett, throw off a little of that insular reserve, and let us talk together quite frankly. Believe me, I am speaking entirely in your own interests. There is no doubt that, at one time, you paid Mrs Hargrave very marked attention, that you fed her hopes very high.”
“I was a bit of a fool, certainly,” admitted Guy.
“And then, pardon me for speaking quite frankly, you threw her over rather abruptly, because you had fallen in love with somebody else—a woman, of course, a thousand times superior to the discarded one.”
“You seem to know all about it, Mr Moreno.”
“It is my business to know things,” replied the journalist quietly. “Well, it is a case of the ‘woman scorned,’ you know. I should say the fair Violet hated you now as much as she once loved you.”
“It may be possible. I have a notion that you know women better than I do.”
“Bad women perhaps,” said Moreno quietly. “My experience has lain rather in their direction. I think I have only known three good women in my life, two of whom were my mother and a girl I was once engaged to—she died a week before our wedding day.”
Rossett regarded him with a sympathetic gaze. So this swarthy, black-browed young Spaniard had had his romance. His voice had broken as he spoke of his dead sweetheart.
“I am sorry for your experience. Most of the women I have known have been very good, the fingers of one hand would count the bad. But tell me more about Violet Hargrave. She hates me, you say?”
“I should say with a very bitter and malignant hatred,” was Moreno’s answer.
“All arising, of course, from jealousy or disappointment. How far is this hatred going to lead her?”
“I should say to the furthest point.”
Rossett recoiled. “You mean to say she can have so changed that she would contemplate that?”
Moreno did not mince his words. “You will take my word for it that it is revenge she seeks, and she will not hesitate. Her position in the brotherhood will give her a very plausible excuse.”
For a moment, Guy Rossett lost his head. “Yes, you told me just now, I remember, she belonged to the brotherhood. But I always understood—”
He paused; Moreno noted that sudden pause. Rossett had been on the point of saying something that would have revealed much.
The young man leaned forward and whispered.
“Mr Rossett, do you still refuse to give me the name of your informant?”
“I am afraid I cannot,” was the firm reply. “My word was given, you understand.” Again he seemed on the point of saying something further, and refrained.
Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “I admire your scrupulousness, but I still think you are very foolish in your own interests. Still, I know what you Englishmen are. If my suspicions had been confirmed by your positive evidence, my hands would have been very much strengthened. I could have dealt with the matter in a very positive and speedy way.”
Rossett kept silence. It was the safest method with the subtle young Spaniard, who took notice of every word and every glance, and rapidly constructed a theory out of the most slender facts.
“There is no more to be said, so far as that is concerned,” said Moreno quietly. “You could have made it very easy for me; as it is, I shall have to expend more time and trouble. But trust me, I shall get the information I want in good time. I shall find people in your own walk of life less scrupulous than you are yourself.”
“Perhaps,” replied Rossett briefly.
“I am keeping watch and ward over you, as you know,” went on Moreno in lighter tones. “And I promise you I will give you plenty of notice of danger.”
“It is pretty near, eh?” queried Rossett.
“Not very far off, I can assure you. I am seeing the Chief of the Spanish police to-morrow. I have some very important information to give him.”
The next day Moreno had a long interview with the Chief of Police, and also with the Head of the Spanish Secret Service. Both the officials made copious notes at the respective interviews. When he left them Moreno felt he had done good work. He was sure that he could outwit Zorrilta, Alvedero, even the great Contraras himself.
He took a flying visit to England after this, having two objects in view. First, he wanted to see Isobel to arrange the details of her journey to Madrid. He lunched with her and Lady Mary at a quiet little restaurant in Soho. He promised to meet her on her arrival at Madrid and conduct her to her friends. He would say nothing to Guy Rossett till he had her permission.
For at the eleventh hour Isobel’s heart a little failed her. From what point of view would Guy contemplate this rather wild adventure? Would he take it as a proof of her devoted love, or would he frown at the escapade, as a little unwomanly? Men of the straightforward English type like Rossett are apt to be a little uncertain in their judgment of what is seemly in their womenkind, and what is the reverse.
After luncheon, he went to keep an appointment with one of the chiefs of the English Secret Service. This gentleman received him very graciously. Moreno stood high in his estimation. He had rendered very valuable service in the past and the present.
“Delighted to see you, Mr Moreno. But I should have thought at the moment you could hardly be spared from Spain, more especially the neighbourhood of Fonterrabia, and Madrid.”
“I never take a holiday, sir, unless I feel I am justified. In this instance I am. It is true I had a little private business on in England at this particular time, which does not concern your department. But I have sandwiched that in.”
The grey-haired gentleman listened politely. Moreno, as he knew by experience, did not make many mistakes.
“Some little time ago, Mr Guy Rossett, at present attached to Madrid, gave you some very important information about the anarchist movement in Spain.”
“Ah, you know, do you?” was the cautious answer.
“Of course, I have known it for a long time. For very special reasons I want to know the name of the man or woman who gave that information to Rossett. I will give you my reasons presently.”
The other man thought a moment. “Yes, I remember the details perfectly. Rossett handed us certain memoranda which he had obtained from somebody, whose name he would not disclose.”
“That is exactly like Rossett. I have attacked him direct and he still keeps silence. As an honourable Englishman he remains staunch to his promise. One cannot blame him, although in his own interests it would be better if he were a little less scrupulous.”
The grey-haired man began to get interested. “Give me a few more details, Mr Moreno, so that I can see what you are driving at.”
Moreno unfolded his suspicions briefly. He finished his story with the words, “If you could not make Rossett speak, I cannot. But you have those memoranda in your archives. Will you show them to me so that I may see if I recognise the handwriting.”
The other thought for a moment before he replied. Even in the Secret Service everything is conducted with the most scrupulous fairness, although their opponents are destitute of the elementary principles of honesty.
Then he made up his mind. “From what you have told me, I think it is wise that I should show you these memoranda, with a view to strengthening your hand. Kindly wait a few minutes and I will fetch them.”
He was only away a very short time, but Moreno’s nerves were on the rack during the brief absence. Were his suspicions going to be absolutely confirmed, or still left in the region of mere conjecture?
The grey-haired man came back, and placed half a dozen closely covered sheets before him. They were in a small, clear, feminine handwriting.
Triumph glared in Moreno’s dark eyes. “As I guessed. She wasn’t clever enough to disguise her hand. I can understand she could not run the risk of having them copied. Why didn’t she get Rossett to write them out at her dictation?”
The other man made no reply to this ebullition on the part of the young Spaniard.
“Of course you can’t part with these, or any one page of them?” asked Moreno.
“Out of the question,” came the expected answer. “I quite agree. But you can get photographs taken of them, and then I shall have this woman in the hollow of my hand.”
“That shall be done, Mr Moreno. You are going back to Spain to-day. They shall be sent to you to-morrow at whatever address you leave with me.” And Moreno walked out of the cosy little room well pleased with himself. Guy Rossett might have saved him all this trouble if he had chosen to open his mouth. Still, he had got the information he wanted. And, above all, what a fool Violet Hargrave had been, to let those memoranda go out in her own handwriting! Moreno, who thought of every detail, would not have done that.
Chapter Thirteen.The great anarchical association of which Ferdinand Contraras was the leading spirit did not differ greatly in essential features from those tyrannical and effete institutions which it was striving to supersede.There was still the wide gulf between the classes, bridged over speciously by the fact that they addressed each other as “comrade,” waiving all distinctive titles.The chief addressed the educated young fisherman as Somoza shortly, which was natural. And, on the other hand, Somoza addressed him, though always very respectfully, as Contraras, which would not have been at all natural, under ordinary circumstances.Still, Somoza did not slap him on the back, or take liberties, as he would have done with an elderly fisherman in his own rank of life. The gulf of class could not quite be crossed by dropping titles, and calling each other comrade.And then there was the question of wealth. Contraras, in spite of his numerous donations to the cause, was still rich; so was Jaques. Zorrilta was moderately well-off. Alvedero and Luçue were poor. The sharing out had not begun yet. Luçue, as we know, lived in humble lodgings in Soho, which galled him somewhat, as he was fond of comfort and the flesh-pots.Contraras, after a brief sojourn at Fonterrabia had come back to Madrid, where he had many friends in his own sphere of life. Although not of noble birth himself, he had married a woman, a member of a family poor but boasting of the proudest blood of Spain in its veins.At Madrid he had engaged a suite of rooms at the Ritz Hotel in the Plaza de Canovas, near the Prado Museum. Democrat and anarchist as he was in theory, the man delighted in displaying a certain amount of ostentation, whether at home or abroad.A little aware of his weakness in this direction, he consoled himself by the thought that in doing this he was throwing dust in the eyes of people of his own class—that he could more successfully carry on his propaganda, because nobody would ever suspect him of seeking to overthrow the régime under which he had prospered so exceedingly.The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, was in Madrid at the same time also as Contraras. She was staying at an equally luxurious hostelry—the Grand Hotel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol. She also had a suite of rooms, imitating her illustrious chief.She chose to be known by her maiden name of Mademoiselle Valerie Delmonte. It did not suit her emancipated notions that a woman should sink her identity in that of a husband. She had borne with the infliction for three short years of married life. When her elderly husband, a rich Paris financier, died she found herself a very wealthy woman. Monsieur Varenne had no near kith or kin. With the exception of a few handsome legacies, he had left all his money to this young woman who was very handsome and still young, only in the late twenties.Contraras was an anarchist by profound and philosophical conviction. He had persuaded himself that revolution, open and brutal revolution, was the only cure for a rotten and diseased world.Valerie had arrived at the same conclusion from a merely personal standpoint—from the point of view of her own feelings. Naturally of a morbid temperament, absolutely a child of the gutter, the offspring of drunken and dissolute parents who had starved and beaten her, she had suffered no illusions as to what existence meant for the impoverished.She was a sharp-witted child, with plenty of brain-power, and a marvellous capacity for self-education. At the age of twelve her parents had sold her for a paltry sum to the proprietor of a travelling circus. This man had perceived at once that there was plenty of grit in the precocious child. He had got her very cheap. If he trained her carefully he might make a good deal of money out of her.The precocious little Valerie left her parents without the slightest regret—her life had been one long torture with them. The circus-proprietor was a big, burly man, not destitute of a rough geniality. There was a hard look in his eyes, a dogged squareness of the jaw that suggested a latent brutality.On the whole, however, he was a welcome relief from her former torturers, who had never thrown a kind word to her from the day of her birth. Sometimes he was generous, sometimes he was brutal, as the mood took him. Often he swore at her till she trembled in every limb. Occasionally, in his cups, he beat her. But he was always sorry the next day, and did his best to make amends. In short, he was a ruffian with a certain amount of decent feeling, and an uncertain temperament.She stayed with him till she was seventeen. She might have stayed with him for ever, had not a sudden severance been put to their relations, by the man’s sudden death, brought about prematurely by his constant indulgence in alcohol.Valerie could never recall the years that succeeded without a shudder. The circus was broken up, she was left helpless and friendless.It was during those terrible years that the iron entered her soul, when she experienced the keen, cruel suffering of the really poor, when she went to bed night after night, cold and hungry, after tramping the streets in vain for work.A weaker spirit would have succumbed to the temptation that was always at hand, for she was a very attractive girl. But she was resolved, with her indomitable grit, to keep herself pure. She turned away disdainfully from the leering old men, the callous young ones who accosted her as she paced the streets in her restless tramp for an honest living. Better the river than that!After many vicissitudes, she came to anchor at last. She was then about twenty-two. She was very clever at educating herself. She had taught herself to sing, she had taught herself to play the piano, she had taught herself to dance.She got an engagement at one of the minor halls in Paris to do a turn which combined singing and dancing. She was very pretty and attractive. In a small way she made a name. At the end of three months the manager trebled her salary.To this minor music hall came one night the rich financier, a somewhat shady one, if the truth must be told, Monsieur Varenne, a man of about fifty-five who had never married.He was greatly attracted by this elegant young girl. Her voice was small, her dancing was nothing great. But there was an indefinable charm about her that appealed to his somewhat jaded senses.He obtained an introduction through the manager, who was only too anxious to oblige such a well-known personage. He invited her to supper. She accepted the invitation graciously, but coldly. Her coldness inflamed him the more.When they met, he was surprised at her cleverness, the correctness with which she expressed herself. This was certainly no ordinary girl of the music halls.“Tell me something about yourself, my dear,” he said, as they sat over their coffee. “I did not expect to find you such a charming companion.”Valerie smiled a little bitterly. “I have not very much to tell. I expect my lot has been like that of many thousands in this delightful world. I am a child of the gutter. My father and mother beat and starved me, and sold me for a paltry sum to the proprietor of a travelling circus. It wasn’t exactly a rosy life then, but it was paradise to where I had been. He died; I was thrown on my beam ends. I can’t tell you what I have been through for the last few years. I couldn’t bear to talk of it—I have suffered everything that the poor have to suffer in such profusion—cold, hunger, the most absolute misery. And, at last,” she looked round at the luxurious appointments of the restaurant a little disdainfully, “I find myself in receipt of a decent salary, and the guest of a rich man who has pressed upon me every dainty. And I have so often wanted a meal!”Varenne was a very kindly man, in spite of his somewhat sharp ways in business. Those last few pathetic words had gone straight to his heart. She had often wanted a meal, and she was a most attractive girl! Many would have called her beautiful.“It is a sad history, my poor child,” he said sympathetically. He paused a moment before he put the delicate question. “And during those terrible years, when you suffered hunger and privation, you kept yourself straight? It would have been so easy to go wrong, so excusable under the circumstances.”“Of course,” she answered, and there was a note of wounded pride, of indignation, in her voice. “I am not that sort of woman—better the river than that. I might give myself to a man out of love or gratitude, but never merely for money.”It was a new experience for the wealthy financier. Here was a girl who had just stepped off the platform of a music hall, where she was, no doubt, earning a very modest salary, who had grit and backbone in her, and, moreover, a proper pride and self-respect.He had, of course, with the easy confidence of a man of the world, imagined the usual termination to such an adventure. But he recognised at once that he could not make any proposition of the kind he meditated. He pressed her hand tenderly at parting, and arranged a further meeting.They met several times, and Varenne went through agonies of indecision. But the attraction was too strong, and at last he asked her to marry him. It was that or losing her altogether.And did it matter much? His world would laugh at him as a matter of course, say he had got into his dotage. And a girl who was young enough to be his daughter! There is no fool like an old fool, he told himself rather ruefully.But she had so subjugated him that he was quite a humble wooer in spite of the enormous advantages he was offering her.“Of course I am an old man, I cannot expect you to have any real affection for me,” he said.She met his glance quite frankly. “I have never been in love with anybody; my life has been too hard to permit me to indulge in the softer emotions. But I like you very much. I have always hated rich men; they think they can buy anything with their gold. You are a rich man, I know, you have told me so yourself, but you have a kind nature and a good heart.”“And can you overlook the disparity of years?” he questioned, still very humble.“I am twenty-two, but I don’t think I am very young; I am old in experience and bitterness. Well, if you care to risk the experiment, I will be your wife. I will do my best to make you happy.”They were married. And this marriage was the turning point in Valerie’s life. If everything had gone smoothly, she might have forgotten those bitter experiences, outlived her still more bitter rancour against the prosperous and well-to-do.Unfortunately the friends of Monsieur Varenne would not forgive him for this false step, so unpardonable in a man of his intelligence and position. He was a fool, that was clear, but they were not going to abet him in his mad folly. Their doors were shut against his wife, this creature of the music halls, to whom he was going to leave his fortune.After this bitter experience, the iron entered even deeper into her soul. Her husband was kindness and tenderness itself. In his devotion to his young wife, he paid no attention to the fact that he had cut himself off from his old friends, his old social life.He was ready to comply with her slightest wish. He showered on her the most costly gifts, his purse was absolutely at her disposal. She had everything that wealth could give, except the one thing she craved, to mix on equal terms with these people who despised her.When the kindly old man died, she mourned him sincerely. If she had never loved him, in the true sense of the word, she had felt for him a very warm and grateful affection. On his death-bed, she had faltered forth a few words of self-reproach, had blamed herself for taking advantage of his generosity, for not having sufficiently counted the cost to himself.On this point he had reassured her. “I have been very happy, my dear, happier than I ever expected to be. I would not have anything changed.”She came into that considerable fortune which was of so little use to her. During her few years of married life she had educated herself into a woman of considerable accomplishments, for she had a very quick and acute intelligence.Her socialist proclivities were now fully developed, after the scurvy treatment at the hands of her husband’s friends. The circles where these doctrines were preached readily opened their doors to an attractive and enthusiastic young woman, whose wealth would be very useful for propaganda. She was more than the equal of these purse-proud parvenus, who would not accept her acquaintance, in intellect and behaviour. She felt it bitterly.Very soon she came under the influence of Contraras, who was possessed of great personal magnetism. His reasoned arguments, his fiery eloquence, quickly led her a step further—from socialism to anarchy. In a very short space she became one of the leading spirits of the brotherhood. As the old régime would not receive her, she would do her best to overthrow it, and assert the doctrine of absolute equality.Contraras came frequently to the Grand Hotel de la Paix to visit his young colleague. He had very charming manners, this elderly enthusiast, and Valerie liked him very much, apart from his principles. He was one of the few rich men she had ever known, her late husband being another, whom she did not despise. He was no mere hoarder of wealth, using it as a means to enslave his less fortunate fellow-creatures.Contraras came in one afternoon in a very cheerful mood. She looked at him eagerly. She could read his countenance pretty well by now.“You have something to tell me, Contraras?”The old man smiled. “Yes, my dear, I have got what we wanted. You can walk in boldly. There will be no smuggling through the back door, although we could have managed that, if the other had failed.”“Did you get it in the quarter you expected?”“Yes; I had a little tussle with del Pineda, but I overcame his scruples. Besides, he is considerably in my debt. I assured him that he would never be accused of complicity, that I would take all the blame on my own shoulders.”He rubbed his hands and chuckled softly.“What does Contraras, a man of means and position, with powerful connections in Spain, know of the secret sentiments of Mademoiselle Delmonte, a charming young lady of wealth, whom he has met abroad? Mademoiselle Delmonte asks for his good offices in a certain matter of a most, apparently, innocent nature. He places himself at her disposal, and secures what she wants through the agency of a certain Duke who is equally ignorant of her real purposes.”A dreamy look stole into the young woman’s eyes. She spoke in a low voice, as if she were muttering to herself.“A week to wait, only just one little week. And then, if all goes as we think and hope—the dawn of the new era! But I shall not live to see it.”
The great anarchical association of which Ferdinand Contraras was the leading spirit did not differ greatly in essential features from those tyrannical and effete institutions which it was striving to supersede.
There was still the wide gulf between the classes, bridged over speciously by the fact that they addressed each other as “comrade,” waiving all distinctive titles.
The chief addressed the educated young fisherman as Somoza shortly, which was natural. And, on the other hand, Somoza addressed him, though always very respectfully, as Contraras, which would not have been at all natural, under ordinary circumstances.
Still, Somoza did not slap him on the back, or take liberties, as he would have done with an elderly fisherman in his own rank of life. The gulf of class could not quite be crossed by dropping titles, and calling each other comrade.
And then there was the question of wealth. Contraras, in spite of his numerous donations to the cause, was still rich; so was Jaques. Zorrilta was moderately well-off. Alvedero and Luçue were poor. The sharing out had not begun yet. Luçue, as we know, lived in humble lodgings in Soho, which galled him somewhat, as he was fond of comfort and the flesh-pots.
Contraras, after a brief sojourn at Fonterrabia had come back to Madrid, where he had many friends in his own sphere of life. Although not of noble birth himself, he had married a woman, a member of a family poor but boasting of the proudest blood of Spain in its veins.
At Madrid he had engaged a suite of rooms at the Ritz Hotel in the Plaza de Canovas, near the Prado Museum. Democrat and anarchist as he was in theory, the man delighted in displaying a certain amount of ostentation, whether at home or abroad.
A little aware of his weakness in this direction, he consoled himself by the thought that in doing this he was throwing dust in the eyes of people of his own class—that he could more successfully carry on his propaganda, because nobody would ever suspect him of seeking to overthrow the régime under which he had prospered so exceedingly.
The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, was in Madrid at the same time also as Contraras. She was staying at an equally luxurious hostelry—the Grand Hotel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol. She also had a suite of rooms, imitating her illustrious chief.
She chose to be known by her maiden name of Mademoiselle Valerie Delmonte. It did not suit her emancipated notions that a woman should sink her identity in that of a husband. She had borne with the infliction for three short years of married life. When her elderly husband, a rich Paris financier, died she found herself a very wealthy woman. Monsieur Varenne had no near kith or kin. With the exception of a few handsome legacies, he had left all his money to this young woman who was very handsome and still young, only in the late twenties.
Contraras was an anarchist by profound and philosophical conviction. He had persuaded himself that revolution, open and brutal revolution, was the only cure for a rotten and diseased world.
Valerie had arrived at the same conclusion from a merely personal standpoint—from the point of view of her own feelings. Naturally of a morbid temperament, absolutely a child of the gutter, the offspring of drunken and dissolute parents who had starved and beaten her, she had suffered no illusions as to what existence meant for the impoverished.
She was a sharp-witted child, with plenty of brain-power, and a marvellous capacity for self-education. At the age of twelve her parents had sold her for a paltry sum to the proprietor of a travelling circus. This man had perceived at once that there was plenty of grit in the precocious child. He had got her very cheap. If he trained her carefully he might make a good deal of money out of her.
The precocious little Valerie left her parents without the slightest regret—her life had been one long torture with them. The circus-proprietor was a big, burly man, not destitute of a rough geniality. There was a hard look in his eyes, a dogged squareness of the jaw that suggested a latent brutality.
On the whole, however, he was a welcome relief from her former torturers, who had never thrown a kind word to her from the day of her birth. Sometimes he was generous, sometimes he was brutal, as the mood took him. Often he swore at her till she trembled in every limb. Occasionally, in his cups, he beat her. But he was always sorry the next day, and did his best to make amends. In short, he was a ruffian with a certain amount of decent feeling, and an uncertain temperament.
She stayed with him till she was seventeen. She might have stayed with him for ever, had not a sudden severance been put to their relations, by the man’s sudden death, brought about prematurely by his constant indulgence in alcohol.
Valerie could never recall the years that succeeded without a shudder. The circus was broken up, she was left helpless and friendless.
It was during those terrible years that the iron entered her soul, when she experienced the keen, cruel suffering of the really poor, when she went to bed night after night, cold and hungry, after tramping the streets in vain for work.
A weaker spirit would have succumbed to the temptation that was always at hand, for she was a very attractive girl. But she was resolved, with her indomitable grit, to keep herself pure. She turned away disdainfully from the leering old men, the callous young ones who accosted her as she paced the streets in her restless tramp for an honest living. Better the river than that!
After many vicissitudes, she came to anchor at last. She was then about twenty-two. She was very clever at educating herself. She had taught herself to sing, she had taught herself to play the piano, she had taught herself to dance.
She got an engagement at one of the minor halls in Paris to do a turn which combined singing and dancing. She was very pretty and attractive. In a small way she made a name. At the end of three months the manager trebled her salary.
To this minor music hall came one night the rich financier, a somewhat shady one, if the truth must be told, Monsieur Varenne, a man of about fifty-five who had never married.
He was greatly attracted by this elegant young girl. Her voice was small, her dancing was nothing great. But there was an indefinable charm about her that appealed to his somewhat jaded senses.
He obtained an introduction through the manager, who was only too anxious to oblige such a well-known personage. He invited her to supper. She accepted the invitation graciously, but coldly. Her coldness inflamed him the more.
When they met, he was surprised at her cleverness, the correctness with which she expressed herself. This was certainly no ordinary girl of the music halls.
“Tell me something about yourself, my dear,” he said, as they sat over their coffee. “I did not expect to find you such a charming companion.”
Valerie smiled a little bitterly. “I have not very much to tell. I expect my lot has been like that of many thousands in this delightful world. I am a child of the gutter. My father and mother beat and starved me, and sold me for a paltry sum to the proprietor of a travelling circus. It wasn’t exactly a rosy life then, but it was paradise to where I had been. He died; I was thrown on my beam ends. I can’t tell you what I have been through for the last few years. I couldn’t bear to talk of it—I have suffered everything that the poor have to suffer in such profusion—cold, hunger, the most absolute misery. And, at last,” she looked round at the luxurious appointments of the restaurant a little disdainfully, “I find myself in receipt of a decent salary, and the guest of a rich man who has pressed upon me every dainty. And I have so often wanted a meal!”
Varenne was a very kindly man, in spite of his somewhat sharp ways in business. Those last few pathetic words had gone straight to his heart. She had often wanted a meal, and she was a most attractive girl! Many would have called her beautiful.
“It is a sad history, my poor child,” he said sympathetically. He paused a moment before he put the delicate question. “And during those terrible years, when you suffered hunger and privation, you kept yourself straight? It would have been so easy to go wrong, so excusable under the circumstances.”
“Of course,” she answered, and there was a note of wounded pride, of indignation, in her voice. “I am not that sort of woman—better the river than that. I might give myself to a man out of love or gratitude, but never merely for money.”
It was a new experience for the wealthy financier. Here was a girl who had just stepped off the platform of a music hall, where she was, no doubt, earning a very modest salary, who had grit and backbone in her, and, moreover, a proper pride and self-respect.
He had, of course, with the easy confidence of a man of the world, imagined the usual termination to such an adventure. But he recognised at once that he could not make any proposition of the kind he meditated. He pressed her hand tenderly at parting, and arranged a further meeting.
They met several times, and Varenne went through agonies of indecision. But the attraction was too strong, and at last he asked her to marry him. It was that or losing her altogether.
And did it matter much? His world would laugh at him as a matter of course, say he had got into his dotage. And a girl who was young enough to be his daughter! There is no fool like an old fool, he told himself rather ruefully.
But she had so subjugated him that he was quite a humble wooer in spite of the enormous advantages he was offering her.
“Of course I am an old man, I cannot expect you to have any real affection for me,” he said.
She met his glance quite frankly. “I have never been in love with anybody; my life has been too hard to permit me to indulge in the softer emotions. But I like you very much. I have always hated rich men; they think they can buy anything with their gold. You are a rich man, I know, you have told me so yourself, but you have a kind nature and a good heart.”
“And can you overlook the disparity of years?” he questioned, still very humble.
“I am twenty-two, but I don’t think I am very young; I am old in experience and bitterness. Well, if you care to risk the experiment, I will be your wife. I will do my best to make you happy.”
They were married. And this marriage was the turning point in Valerie’s life. If everything had gone smoothly, she might have forgotten those bitter experiences, outlived her still more bitter rancour against the prosperous and well-to-do.
Unfortunately the friends of Monsieur Varenne would not forgive him for this false step, so unpardonable in a man of his intelligence and position. He was a fool, that was clear, but they were not going to abet him in his mad folly. Their doors were shut against his wife, this creature of the music halls, to whom he was going to leave his fortune.
After this bitter experience, the iron entered even deeper into her soul. Her husband was kindness and tenderness itself. In his devotion to his young wife, he paid no attention to the fact that he had cut himself off from his old friends, his old social life.
He was ready to comply with her slightest wish. He showered on her the most costly gifts, his purse was absolutely at her disposal. She had everything that wealth could give, except the one thing she craved, to mix on equal terms with these people who despised her.
When the kindly old man died, she mourned him sincerely. If she had never loved him, in the true sense of the word, she had felt for him a very warm and grateful affection. On his death-bed, she had faltered forth a few words of self-reproach, had blamed herself for taking advantage of his generosity, for not having sufficiently counted the cost to himself.
On this point he had reassured her. “I have been very happy, my dear, happier than I ever expected to be. I would not have anything changed.”
She came into that considerable fortune which was of so little use to her. During her few years of married life she had educated herself into a woman of considerable accomplishments, for she had a very quick and acute intelligence.
Her socialist proclivities were now fully developed, after the scurvy treatment at the hands of her husband’s friends. The circles where these doctrines were preached readily opened their doors to an attractive and enthusiastic young woman, whose wealth would be very useful for propaganda. She was more than the equal of these purse-proud parvenus, who would not accept her acquaintance, in intellect and behaviour. She felt it bitterly.
Very soon she came under the influence of Contraras, who was possessed of great personal magnetism. His reasoned arguments, his fiery eloquence, quickly led her a step further—from socialism to anarchy. In a very short space she became one of the leading spirits of the brotherhood. As the old régime would not receive her, she would do her best to overthrow it, and assert the doctrine of absolute equality.
Contraras came frequently to the Grand Hotel de la Paix to visit his young colleague. He had very charming manners, this elderly enthusiast, and Valerie liked him very much, apart from his principles. He was one of the few rich men she had ever known, her late husband being another, whom she did not despise. He was no mere hoarder of wealth, using it as a means to enslave his less fortunate fellow-creatures.
Contraras came in one afternoon in a very cheerful mood. She looked at him eagerly. She could read his countenance pretty well by now.
“You have something to tell me, Contraras?”
The old man smiled. “Yes, my dear, I have got what we wanted. You can walk in boldly. There will be no smuggling through the back door, although we could have managed that, if the other had failed.”
“Did you get it in the quarter you expected?”
“Yes; I had a little tussle with del Pineda, but I overcame his scruples. Besides, he is considerably in my debt. I assured him that he would never be accused of complicity, that I would take all the blame on my own shoulders.”
He rubbed his hands and chuckled softly.
“What does Contraras, a man of means and position, with powerful connections in Spain, know of the secret sentiments of Mademoiselle Delmonte, a charming young lady of wealth, whom he has met abroad? Mademoiselle Delmonte asks for his good offices in a certain matter of a most, apparently, innocent nature. He places himself at her disposal, and secures what she wants through the agency of a certain Duke who is equally ignorant of her real purposes.”
A dreamy look stole into the young woman’s eyes. She spoke in a low voice, as if she were muttering to herself.
“A week to wait, only just one little week. And then, if all goes as we think and hope—the dawn of the new era! But I shall not live to see it.”