Whither Thou Goest

Chapter Nineteen

It was a long time before Moreno spoke. It was evident that, in her present mood, Violet Hargrave was perfectly prepared to be made love to. It was not the first time it had occurred to him that this woman of mixed nationality like himself was more than usually attracted by him.

But although he was one of the vainest men living in certain respects, notably in the high estimate in which he always held his own capacity and mental qualities, still in other matters he was fairly modest. Every man can get some woman to fall in love with him, or, at any rate, to profess affection. Some day he would come across a woman whom he could impress sufficiently to justify him in asking her to marry him. For the time would come when, like other men, even of the most roving disposition, he would want to say good-bye to adventure and settle down quietly.

As regards his personal appearance, he was quite a just and dispassionate critic. He could look in the glass and sum up the general verdict that would be passed by the opposite sex. In appearance he was rather short and squat. His features, somewhat irregular, were redeemed from plainness by a pair of very brilliant dark eyes, and a perfect set of strong white teeth.

Still, he had not the makings of a Don Juan in him; he was not the sort of man whose path was likely to be strewn with conquests; not the type of man, like Guy Rossett, for instance, on whom most women looked with a kindly eye, even on their first acquaintance.

Under ordinary circumstances, Violet’s attitude could hardly be misinterpreted. The misty eyes raised appealingly to his, the soft inflections in her voice said as plainly as words could speak that here was a woman fully ready to respond at the first hint from him.

But he was very cautious; he felt he must proceed warily. He must never forget that this woman had been, more or less, an adventuress from her girlhood, the associate of desperate and callous men, who hesitated at nothing in the attainment of their objects. Not so very long ago, she had exulted in the prospect of obtaining a terrible revenge, through others, on the man she had once professed to love.

Why had she turned, so suddenly, as it seemed, from this vengeance, had almost said that she no longer desired revenge? In an ordinary woman, the explanation would have been simple. Rossett now no longer aroused her love or hate because she had found a new lover in Moreno himself.

Always severe to himself in these purely personal matters, he asked himself the candid question if a woman so attractive as she undoubtedly was could turn from a man of Rossett’s physical advantages to himself?

Years ago, he had loved devotedly a simple little girl with no pretensions to beauty or great charm, possessing only average intelligence. He had loved her for her sweet nature, her good qualities. And she had loved him in return.

But this was an entirely different matter. That poor little dead girl, still a very tender memory, had never had any other lover but himself. Violet Hargrave, with her powers of fascination, her blonde prettiness, her quick mentality, must have had many men at her feet.

Did the foreign element in him attract the foreign element in her? It might be so, but he could not be sure of that. In many things he was more Spanish in thought and feeling than English, but she was more English than Spanish in everything, of that he was convinced.

Had he been a few years younger, had he enjoyed less experience in life, have thought less over social problems, anarchist doctrines might have appealed to him very strongly. He was sure they would never appeal to her, the English strain in her was too strong.

When he spoke, he put a very leading question.

“I have often wondered whether you are really greatly interested in the Cause? Whether the methods we have to adopt are not somewhat repugnant to you?”

He looked at her very steadfastly. He judged her to be an admirable actress, but he noticed she did not meet his glance. Perhaps if she was really attracted by him, as she seemed to be, it was not so easy to act.

She spoke a little nervously. “What on earth has made you think that? Why should I be here if I were not sincere? I joined the organisation of my own free will. Juan Jaques, who was my sponsor, explained everything very clearly to me.”

Moreno spoke lightly. “You have been comfortably off for many years, and you are more English than foreign. Anarchist principles don’t take deep root in English soil.”

“My father was a revolutionary at heart, although not an active one,” she said hastily. “Of course, I don’t suppose my mother thought about such things.”

Moreno was too polite to say he did not believe in that little fiction about her father. This derelict parent might not have had a very great love for the social institutions from which he did not derive much benefit. But from a natural dissatisfaction with his own lot to professed anarchy was a long step.

“It runs in the blood naturally, then, that I can understand. Still, it puzzles me. Women don’t think very seriously about these matters – or, at any rate, only a very few of them. And women of means are hardly likely to be keen on upsetting a world in which they are fairly comfortable, in favour of a new dispensation, the results of which are highly problematical.”

She fenced with him a little longer. “Why are you so sure I was comfortably off?” she queried.

“I think you must have forgotten what you told me. Your husband made money through the good offices of Jaques, and that money became yours. That flat in Mount Street was not run on a small income.”

She became a little agitated under his rather ruthless cross-examination and suggestions.

“The money that was left me was not enough to support me comfortably. I had to turn to other means of support.”

“You would not care to tell me what they were?” Of course he had heard rumours about that Mount Street establishment, that the host and hostess were suspiciously lucky at cards. The man, at any rate, had always suffered from a shady reputation.

She became more agitated. “Yes, it is quite simple. I have been well-paid for my services by Jaques.”

“Then it was simply money that induced you to join the brotherhood?”

“Money, combined with my natural sympathy with their objects.”

Moreno appeared to accept the explanation. Jaques seemed, then, to have paid her handsomely for her services. But evidently he had not paid her enough, or she would not have trafficked with Guy Rossett and sold him important secrets.

It was some little time before he spoke again, and then he played his trump card.

He left the personal question altogether, and spoke of the affairs of the brotherhood.

“There must be traitors amongst us,” he said presently, “although I do not think they are to be found in Spain – so many things have leaked out.”

“Yes.” She spoke very quickly. “There was the failure of poor Valerie Delmonte. Do you think there was treachery there?”

“I rather doubt it,” answered Moreno easily. “My theory has always been that she drew suspicion on herself by her inexperience, her amateurish methods, her suspicious movements when she got inside the Palace. If the job had been entrusted to me, with my steady nerves, I think I should have been successful. I boasted as much to Contraras, and I suppose that is the reason he has given me this job.”

Violet was silent. Moreno went on smoothly.

“But with regard to that affair of Guy Rossett, the information he got which, for the moment, frustrated our plans – that was clearly the work of a traitor. That happened just before I came on the scene, but Luçue has told me all about it.”

He was looking at her very steadfastly. She was trying to avoid his gaze, but those dark, brilliant eyes of his drew her lighter ones with a certain mesmeric power.

She was not acting well to-night, he thought. There crept into her troubled glance a shadow of fear. She tried to speak lightly, indifferently, but her voice broke and faltered, in spite of her efforts at self-control.

“It seems like it. Have you any idea of who the traitor was?”

Moreno rose and walked over to the little shabby sofa, typical furniture of the mean lodgings, where she sat. He flung at her the direct challenge.

“It is not a question of having an idea. I know.” She laughed hysterically; she hardly knew what she was saying. “You think you know, perhaps. Probably you have been led to suspect the wrong person.”

“Not when I have seen the actual memoranda, not when I have a photograph of that memoranda in my possession, to show, if necessary, to Contraras.”

For a moment she seemed paralysed. All the colour left her cheeks. She could only clasp her hands together and moan piteously.

Moreno spoke quite gently. “Violet Hargrave, you haven’t an ounce of fight left in you. Give in and own you sold those secrets to Guy Rossett. I expect he paid a handsome sum for them – and probably because you sold them, you lost your lover.”

She burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and threw herself at his feet. She had not the heroic spirit of Valerie Delmonte. She was only a very commonplace adventuress, with a well-defined streak of cowardice in her. Like Madame Du Barri, she would have gone shrieking to her death.

“Are you going to denounce me?” she cried wildly.

Moreno was a kind-hearted man. To an extent he despised her, although he was half in love with her. But he could not but feel pitiful at the spectacle of her abject terror.

“That depends,” he said quietly. “It is quite possible we may drive a bargain.”

Reassured by those conciliatory words, the woman speedily recovered her self-control. She rose from her kneeling attitude, brushed the tears from her eyes, adjusted her disordered hair. As long as she escaped with life, she would consent to any bargain.

What a mercy she had not been found out by Contraras, or some equally implacable and fanatical member of the brotherhood! In that case, her shrift would have been very short. This black-browed young man, born of a Spanish father and an English mother, had this much of the English strain in him, that he leaned to the side of mercy.

“How did you find out? How did you suspect?” were her first words when she had recovered herself.

“What first led me to suspect. I cannot quite explain – it was a sort of intuition. When I once suspected, the rest was easy.”

“It was Guy Rossett who gave me away?” she cried, and an angry gleam came into her eyes.

Moreno looked at her a little contemptuously.

“And you have known this man well, and loved him! Are you not a shrewder judge of human nature than to harbour such a suspicion? Why, Rossett is just that dogged type of Englishman who would rather be put to death than betray a confidence.”

Violet looked a little ashamed. “But if not from him, how did you obtain your information?”

“That is my affair. When I have quite assured myself that I can trust you, I may tell you. It suffices that I hold in my possession the photograph of that document. By the way, you lost your head when you gave yourself away like that, because your handwriting is known to several. Why did you not dictate your notes to Rossett and let him take them down? Then you might never have been found out.”

“I know I was a fool,” answered Mrs Hargrave bitterly. “I suppose all criminals make mistakes at times. I was terribly hard up at the time; I was in desperate want of money. I pitched a plausible tale to Guy, which I believe he swallowed at the time.”

“Ah!” said Moreno. Then it was not on account of this transaction that Rossett had broken off his relations with the pretty widow. The cause was no doubt to be sought in Isobel Clandon.

“I pretended that a Spaniard whom I had known in my youth was ready to turn traitor for a handsome consideration. He had confided these notes to me, and I had taken them down from his dictation. Of course, I ought to have done as you said. I was so eager for the money that I did not stop to think.”

“And you are quite sure that Rossett did not suspect you of being a member of the brotherhood?”

“Positive. He is not naturally a suspicious man, not like yourself, for instance. I pretended that this man, the imaginary man, was an old friend of my father’s, that he hated the whole business and wanted to get out of it.”

Moreno pondered a little. In spite of her physical attraction for him, she was a pretty bad character on her own admissions. She had owned her great obligations to Jaques, who, rascal that he was, had been her benefactor. And yet she was ready to sell Jaques and the Cause he held so dear at heart for ready money. Was it possible a woman with this unscrupulous and predatory temperament could ever become a reformed character? And, if so, was he a likely man to bring about the miracle? Passionate love might work wonders, but was she not a little past the age of passionate love?

“Let us come to the point,” he said abruptly. “I take it you no longer desire what we politely term the ‘removal’ of Guy Rossett.”

“Certainly not. I don’t know that I ever really desired it.”

Moreno raised his hand. “Don’t forget that night at the flat in Mount Street.”

“I know, I remember perfectly. I gave you a very bad impression of myself. I was angry, humiliated, bitterly jealous of a younger woman who had taken him from me.”

Moreno thought he understood. “And the Spanish side came uppermost then. You could have run a dagger into the pair of them at the moment, and perhaps after you had done it, sat down and wept because you had killed the man. I don’t suppose you would have shed a tear over the woman – she would have deserved her fate.”

Violet was recovering herself fast. The colour had come back into her cheeks. She looked at him admiringly.

“You seem to know something of my delightful sex,” she said, with a faint smile. Then, after a pause, she added, “And you want to drive a bargain with me, don’t you, in return for not denouncing me?”

Moreno assented. “You are quite right. You say you now don’t desire the removal of Rossett. To be quite frank, no more do I.”

She looked at him sharply out of her tear-dimmed eyes, red and swollen with the violent weeping of a few seconds ago.

“But why do you wish to spare Guy Rossett? You say you are a true son of the Revolution.”

“I am,” replied Moreno composedly. “I am with certain reservations.” He felt he could not trust her too implicitly yet. “When they attack the Heads, the great ones of the earth, I am in the heartiest sympathy with them – that is the way to obtain our ends. But I draw the line at making martyrs of the small fry, the mere instruments, the humble tools of the despotic system. I think it brings justly deserved odium on us. To remove an inoffensive person like Rossett is worse than a crime, it is a blunder. If the great Revolution is coming, how can a feeble person like him stop its impetuous course?”

Violet Hargrave listened attentively. When was he going to suggest the terms of the bargain?

“Will you help me to save young Rossett? It is the price of my silence. You can do nothing against me. Whatever innuendos or suggestions you might make, if such occur to you, would not weigh a moment against the damning evidence in my possession. They would only regard it as the frantic action of a guilty woman, trying to save herself from their vengeance.”

He thought it wise to rub this in. He did not believe she was very clever, but she was cunning. He wanted to divert her from any idea of attempting to readjust the situation to her own advantage.

“You show me very plainly you don’t trust me, by that somewhat unnecessary warning,” she said a little bitterly. She was hardened enough, heaven knows, but the distrust of the man she had grown to care for hurt her more than she liked to admit.

“I am not quite a fool,” she added. “You have the whip-hand of me, I admit frankly. If I thought to match myself against you, and bluff it out, I recognise I have not a dog’s chance. Yes, I am willing to help you to save Guy Rossett. But I would like you to tell me why you want so particularly to save him.”

But Moreno was not going to satisfy her curiosity. He gave her one of his reasons.

“Because I hate and loathe unnecessary bloodshed,” was his answer.

There was a long pause, during which Violet’s mind worked rapidly.

“Are you very sure in your own mind how you are going to save him?” she asked presently. “I mean, so that we can go scot free.”

Self would always be the predominating note, he thought. Well, perhaps that was natural.

He tapped his forehead significantly.

“I have pretty well worked it out here; there are just a few details to be filled in. With regard to our own personal safety, I feel pretty confident I shall be unsuspected. As for you, I will guarantee it. I will see you every day, as my plans develop.”

Violet rose to say good night. There was genuine admiration in her glance, as she held out her hand.

“I believe you are a very wonderful man,” she said, in a tone of conviction.

Moreno smiled, well pleased with the delicate flattery. He always had a kindly feeling towards anybody who praised his mental qualities.

He saw her to the door. As they parted, she lifted up her face.

“You would not care to kiss a woman of my type – bad, selfish and unscrupulous as you know me to be?” she said boldly.

For a second he hesitated. Then he kissed her lightly on her pale cheek. He could not bring himself yet to touch her lips.

“Anyway, you are going to do a good thing now,” he said, as she passed out.

Chapter Twenty

During these hot summer days, poor Isobel lived in alternate fits of hope and despair.

Guy visited her every day. He always seemed very cheerful, full of optimism. The forces of law and order must prevail; these mad anarchists, well organised as they were, and led by a most subtle brain, would be defeated very shortly. Once the Heads were taken, the movement would suffer a speedy eclipse.

But at times it seemed to her quick woman’s ears that there was a false note in his cheerful tones, that he was not so certain of the ultimate result as he pretended to be.

Moreno came to see her every day too. She had conceived a strong liking for the black-browed young journalist. Moreover, she had great faith in him.

Guy, of course, was her king amongst men. But she was not so hopelessly in love that she could not distinguish between the mental qualities of the two. Guy was very intelligent; he could snatch at the hints of others, and shape his course of conduct on them.

But Moreno had a subtle and penetrating intellect, a touch of genius. And he combined inspiration with prudence.

If Guy talked cheerfully when he was with her, her fears and doubts revived on his departure. Could he look all round and accurately weigh the chances?

When Moreno told her to cheer up, and promised that all would be well, she felt fortified. There was a sureness, a quiet power about the man that raised her drooping spirits.

“You are sure that you will beat them, you are sure you will save Guy?” she had asked him one day, when he had paid her a brief visit.

He spoke very deliberately. “I have outwitted them once before.” He looked a little gloomy as he spoke. It went to his kind heart to recall that on that occasion he had been compelled to sacrifice that charming young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte. “I shall outwit them again, believe me.”

His tone was very confident, Isobel thought. “I am sure you will lay your plans very well, Mr Moreno, but there is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“The cup will be carried to the lip this time without a falter.” He spoke with his usual assurance.

“Guy always speaks cheerfully too,” said Isobel in her simple, straightforward way. “But I am always doubtful when he leaves me.”

“Mr Rossett does not know what is in my mind, Miss Clandon. And I dare not tell him, for reasons of my own. An incautious confidence might utterly frustrate my plans. I have many helping me, but I have close at hand a man who is going to be my ablest lieutenant. Strange to say, you know that man well.”

Isobel lifted up to him startled eyes. “You bewilder me. I know so few people.”

“It will surprise you to know that your cousin, Maurice Farquhar, is in Madrid at the present moment and waiting to receive my instructions.”

“Maurice Farquhar in Madrid,” she repeated. “But why, but why?”

“Because I wanted to have a clear-brained, resolute Englishman at my right hand when the supreme moment came. I can’t tell you everything. I daren’t tell you much. Would you like to see your cousin? I can manage it easily.”

“Oh, I would love to,” replied Isobel promptly, speaking according to the dictates of her open, generous nature. Then she suddenly remembered that Guy had expressed a certain jealousy of her cousin. “But perhaps at the moment it might not be prudent. I am here incognita, in a rather difficult situation. Later on, perhaps.”

From those few halting phrases Moreno guessed accurately enough what was passing in her mind. She had a sincere affection, for her cousin, who came over here to assist her at the greatest personal inconvenience, but she would not see him, in case his visit might give offence to her lover. It is ever thus that self-sacrifice in love is rewarded.

“I quite understand,” he said. “Well, Farquhar is a white man, a man in a thousand. I wrung a promise from him some time ago that he would come over here to help me to save Mr Rossett. You can guess why he gave me that promise.”

“Yes,” answered Isobel in a low voice. “I can guess why he gave that promise. He wanted to help me. You cannot tell how mean I felt. Oh, I think I will risk it. Please ask him to come and see me.”

Moreno shook his head. “No, better perhaps not to risk it. Farquhar is content to do good by stealth. We cannot be quite sure of the view the other gentleman might take of it, if it came to his ears.”

Isobel felt a frightful coward, but she was relieved by Moreno’s words. Guy was very impetuous, and terribly jealous. She could not afford to rouse his suspicions. He left her feeling a little miserable and self-reproachful. Why could not men take a broad-minded view of things? Even if a girl were engaged, it did not follow that she should not be allowed to have a faithful friend.

She had grown very weary of Madrid. She hated the place and the people, under these most unhappy circumstances.

The good-natured Mrs Godwin had done her best to amuse her. She had taken her to the Museo del Prado, and pointed out to her the masterpieces of Velazquez, Murillo, Ribera, and other great masters. She had conducted her down the animated plaza of the Puerta del Sol. She had shown her the view from the Campillo de las Vistillas. They were too late for the Carnivals, and to a bull-fight Isobel would not go.