The Firebrand

CHAPTER XLVIII

A POINT OF HONOUR

There remained Concha to be dealt with. Ah, yes, and also his companions El Sarria, Mortimer, and Etienne. Only – they did not count. What man does count when the one woman is in the question? Friends of a lifetime are skipped like the historical introduction of an exciting romance, through whose pages battle, murder, and sudden death play gaily at leap-frog and devil-take-the-hindmost.

Yes, Rollo owned it, Concha mattered. There was no blinking the fact. It would be bitter almost as death for him to tell her that he must once more leave her to take his life in his hand, upon a mere point of honour. She might not understand. Like his friends she might denounce his purpose as arrant quixotry and folly. Well, that would certainly make it harder – but even then he would carry it through.

He found them seated in the lodgings which Rollo had secured for Concha and La Giralda in a house that looked upon the Puerta del Sol. Opposite, but upon the same staircase and landing, lodged El Sarria, who, if it would have given any pleasure to Rollo, would have slept all night outside his sweetheart's door.

Etienne, Mortimer, and Rollo himself had rooms on the other side of the great square. But upon Rollo's return all were now assembled in Concha's sitting-room, as had grown to be their easy custom. Concha needed no chaperon, and if the straiter convenances required one, was there not La Giralda with her myriad wrinkles busied about the pots in the little adjacent kitchen or seated with her knitting in the window-seat like a favoured guest? For it was in this simple fashion that these six people had come to dwell together. And as he entered, the heart of the young man smote him sore.

Alas! that he, Rollo Blair, whom these had followed loyally, questionless, as clansmen follow their chief through mirk midnight and the brazen glare of noon, should now come among these faithful hearts like a mute with the bowstring, to put an end to all this comradeship and true comity!

All knew in a moment that there was something in the air, for though Concha offered to prepare a cigarette with her own fingers, Rollo declined it and sat down among them heavy and sad. It was some time before he could bring himself to speak.

"You who are all my friends," he said, "my best and only friends – listen to me. I will hide nothing from you. I have come directly from the Queen. She and Mendizábal have offered me a high position, and one in which we might all have kept together in great content, if such had been your desire. Yet for the present I cannot accept it. I am not a free man. For it lies on my soul that the Abbot of Montblanch trusted us three when we had neither aim nor end in life. He gave us both of these. He fitted us out for our mission. For me he did much more. He made me an officer in the army of Don Carlos, though Heaven knows Don Carlos was no more to me than any other stupid fool – I crave your pardon, Etienne! I forgot your relationship."

"Say on," cried Etienne, gaily, flipping his cigarette ash with his little finger, "do not consider my feelings. All my cousins are stupid fools! I have always said so."

"Well, then," said Rollo, "to this man, who among other things gave us each other's friendship, and" (here he reached out his hand to take Concha's) "who gave me this – "

He was silent for some moments, still holding the girl's hand, while her eyes were doubtless lovely as moonlit waters, could any man have seen them. But no man did, for the fringed lashes remained resolutely, if somewhat tremulously, downcast.

"Well, then, I cannot leave this man to think me a mere common traitor. No, not if it loses me life and – all. I have failed in my mission. Not only so, but by the irony of fate I have fought against his friends and been saved by his enemies."

"We were saved by Concha Cabezos there, I tell you," said John Mortimer, who thought all this mere rant. "Let the old priest alone, Rollo. Marry the girl you want to marry, and take a good job when it is offered to you. You may not get a second chance of either. And that is a plain man's mind upon the matter, whether you want it or not!"

Sadly but determinedly Rollo shook his head.

"No, John," he said, "that I cannot do. I were bankrupt for life in my own esteem if I did not go straight to the Prior, frankly explain our failure, resign my commission into his hands, and offer him any other service in my power. I think I see my way to one even now!"

"My advice," said Etienne, suddenly striking in, "is to let my good uncle continue in his mistake a little longer, if indeed any mistake there be. You use a delicacy he would have been the last to use with you. I do not believe the old fox would have cared a straw if all our throats had been cut, so that we had served his turn. Depend upon it, we three were the poorest kind of pawns in his game. If I am not greatly mistaken Cabrera and Elio were only his prancing knights, and Don Carlos, my dear cousin, the stupid old king who is of no use except to get himself checkmated."

"And who," said Rollo, smiling for the first time, "may the Queen be upon this little family chessboard?"

"There is indeed rather a superabundance of Queens, as we have seen," said Etienne, "but he who pushes about all the pieces is doubtless the petticoated old rogue himself. Baltasar Varela has been at the bottom of every plot these thirty years, and if anything goes wrong, he will be the first to skip over the mountains! Take a friend's advice, Rollo" – here the honest fellow grasped his friend's hand hard – "send your explanations and unused commissions to my respected relative by post. For me, I would not go within fifty miles of him for all the revenues of Montblanch twice told!"

"Well, El Sarria, what say you? They are all against me, you see!" said Rollo, mournfully, adding after a moment, "as indeed I knew they would be!"

As usual the ex-outlaw had little to say, and was deplorably shy as to saying it.

"Señor," he said after a long pause, "you have doubtless your own point of honour. I had one once which very nearly cost myself and another a lifetime of misery. Let the señor weigh the matter well and often before he runs a like risk!"

"That also is against me!" said Rollo, smiling; "Concha, you have heard all the others – what do you say?"

Concha rose and stood beside him. She put her arm gently on his shoulder so that her hand touched his cheek.

"I understand, if they do not!" she said. "I understand all. You are right. Go!"

So Rollo set forth, and with him there also journeyed to the north Etienne – first, because he was tired of Madrid, second, because he was returning to France, thirdly (and privately), because the village of Sarria and a certain green garden lattice were to be found on the route thither; John Mortimer, because if Rollo were bound to see the Prior, perhaps after all something might be done about the Priorato; El Sarria, because night and morning, noon and midnight, he prayed with his face towards that Convent of the Holy Innocents where Dolóres and her babe waited for him; La Giralda, because she might as well go northward as in any other direction; and Concha – but it is superfluous to say why Concha was going.

Nevertheless Rollo insisted that since he was solely responsible, he alone should adventure the anger of the Prior, though indeed any or all of the others would readily have accompanied him to Montblanch.

But the young Scot felt acutely how perversely, and like a cross-grained jade, Fate had treated him. He knew also that appearances were against him and in what fashion his actions might have been misrepresented to the Prior. Being singularly little given to suspicion, Rollo was not greatly affected by Etienne's estimate of his uncle. Besides, there was the information concerning the approaching suppression of the convents to be communicated, in such a form that it might be of use to the Abbot and brethren of Montblanch, and yet do no injury to those through whom he had come into possession of the secret.

In due time, therefore, after leaving Madrid the party arrived at the village of Sarria. For, being possessed of all manner of governmental passes and recommendations, they travelled rapidly and luxuriously considering the difficult and troublous times. At Sarria, Rollo, looking out eagerly northward to where above the horizon the peaks of Montblanch pushed themselves up blue and soft like a row of ragged and battered ninepins, paused only to assure himself of the well-doing of Dolóres Garcia and her son under the roof of the good Sisters in the Convent of the Holy Innocents. There were also a few arrangements to be made – and his will. Which last did not take long time. It contained only one clause: "I leave all of which I die possessed to my betrothed wife Concha Cabezos of Seville. – Rollo Blair."

The arrangements were these – Concha remained to assist Don Ramon, who had once more assumed the position of a property-holder and man of authority among his townsfolk, to open out and prepare his house for the reception of Dolóres. That little wife and mother, in spite of her new joy, continued delicate in health, though (needless to say) the nuns had given her the very best possible nursing. But those who saw the meeting of husband and wife knew that now she would have a better chance of recovery than all the bitter tisanes and laborious simples of the Sisters' store-cupboard had afforded her.

Etienne and John Mortimer decided to await events at the hostelry of Gaspar Perico. The former took the first opportunity of converting the silent serving-maid as far as possible to his interests by a judicious gift of some half a dozen gold pieces. Immediately thereafter, having thus protected his rear, he sought the green lattice. It had been taken down and a seven-foot wall had been built. Indeed a mason, who was at that moment engaged in laying the coping, informed him that the family had left for South America. Whereupon Etienne went back in haste and found the barefooted Abigail.

"Why did you not tell me that they were gone – before – ?" he demanded angrily.

"Before what?" asked the Abigail, putting the corner of her apron to her mouth and biting it with the utmost simplicity.

"Before I gave you that money?"

"Because – why, because your Excellency never asked me!"

"And pray, Señorita," growled Etienne, waxing grimly satirical, "what did you suppose that I gave you the money for?"

The maid-servant let go the apron, put one finger to her mouth instead, and, looking down with infinite modesty, sketched with her bare toe upon the ground.

"Well?" queried Etienne, impatiently, and with a sharp rising inflection.

"Because," fluttered the little maid-of-all-work, "because I —I thought you liked me!"

Etienne turned away in a dumb rage, and the small sharp-featured Abigail got behind the back-kitchen door to dance three steps and a double shuffle all to herself.

When he had recovered his powers of speech Etienne called her the several kinds of fiend which can be defined by the French language, but this broke no bones.

"Well, dear Señorita," she remarked very sagely, when tasked by Concha with duplicity (after the manner of Satan reproving sin), "he never asked me, and besides, then he would not have given me the six Napoleons!"

Which last proposition of the Abigail of Sarria would not have gained in credibility had it been supported by a Papal Bull.

CHAPTER XLIX

LIKE FIRE THROUGH SUMMER GRASS

On the whole Rollo could not complain of his reception at the Abbey of Montblanch. His heart had indeed been at war within him as he took his way up the long zigzags of the hill road. There was the very thorn branch which had brushed off his hat as he set forth so gladsomely with his new commission in his pocket, his comrades riding staunchly by his side, and the Abbot's good horse between his knees.

Well, he had done his best. Things, after their manner, had turned out cross-grained – that was all. He had, thank Heaven, enough of Mendizábal's generous draft left in his pocket to repay the Abbot for what he had spent upon their outfit. After returning the commission, it only remained as delicately as possible to impart the disastrous news of the coming dissolution of monasteries and the date of the assumption of all conventual property by the State.

Then he would depart. Sarria and Concha were not so far off. He began to take heart even before he reached the great gate of the Abbey.

No one could have been more cordially moved to see a long-lost brother than Don Baltasar Varela, the Abbot of Montblanch, to welcome his dear, his well-beloved Don Rollo.

And his noble nephew Saint Pierre – how fared he? Then that stolid solemn Englishman – did he know that his Priorato had long been shipped from Barcelona, an arrangement having been made with the Cristino custom-house?

"But the price? He has not paid it. I warrant that Mortimer knows nothing of the matter," said Rollo, excited for his friend's credit and good name.