‘en paroles ou en actions, être discret, c’est s’abstenir.’
‘there is,’ observed frederick conyngham to himself as he climbed into the saddle in the grey dawn of the following morning, ‘there is a certain picturesqueness about these proceedings which pleases me.’
concep?ion vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic atmosphere, for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista fashion, with a bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head underneath his black hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt, and a flower in the ribbon of his hat.
he was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing as he threw his leg across his horse. a dark-eyed maiden had come to the corner of the calle vieja, and stood there watching him with mournful eyes. he waved her a salutation as he passed.
‘it is the waiting-maid at the venta where i stay in ronda—what will you?’ he explained to conyngham with a modest air as he cocked his hat farther on one side.
the sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open country that borders the road to bobadilla. a pastoral country this, where the land needs little care to make it give more than man requires for his daily food. the evergreen oak studded over the whole plain supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the herdsmen may dream away the sunny days. the rich soil would yield two or even three crops in the year, were the necessary seed and labour forthcoming. underground, the mineral wealth outvies the richness of the surface, but national indolence leaves it unexplored.
‘before general vincente one could not explain oneself,’ said concep?ion, urging his horse to keep pace with the trot of conyngham’s huge mount.
‘ah!’
‘no,’ pursued concep?ion. ‘and yet it is simple. in algeciras i have a wife. it is well that a man should travel at times. so,’ he paused and bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension, ‘so—we take the road together.’
‘as long as you are pleased, se?or vara,’ said conyngham, ‘i am sure i can but feel honoured. you know i have no money.’
the spaniard shrugged his shoulders.
‘what matter?’ he said. ‘what matter? we can keep an account—a mere piece of paper—so: “concep?ion vara, of algeciras, in account current with f. conyngham; englishman. one month’s wages at one hundred pesetas.” it is simple.’
‘very,’ acquiesced conyngham. ‘it is only when pay-day comes that things will get complicated.’
concep?ion laughed.
‘you are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said. ‘we shall enjoy ourselves in madrid. i see that.’
conyngham did not answer. he had remembered the letter and julia barenna’s danger. he rose in his stirrups and looked behind him. ronda was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of the roadway was unbroken by the form of any other traveller.
‘we are not going to madrid yet,’ said conyngham. ‘we are going to xeres, where i have business. do you know the road to xeres?’
‘as well that as any other, excellency.’
‘what do you mean?’
‘i know no roads north of ronda. i am of andalusia, i,’ replied concep?ion easily, and he looked round about him with an air of interest which was more to the credit of his intelligence as a traveller than his reliability as a guide.
‘but you engaged to guide me to madrid.’
‘yes, excellency—by asking the way,’ replied concep?ion with a light laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his horse to light a fresh cigarette.
thus with an easy heart frederick conyngham set out on his journey, having for companion one as irresponsible as himself. he had determined to go to xeres, though that town of ill repute lay far to the westward of his road towards the capital. it would have been simple enough to destroy the letter entrusted to him by julia barenna, a stranger whom he was likely never to see again—simple enough and infinitely safer as he suspected, for the billet-doux of mr. larralde smelt of grimmer things than love. but julia barenna wittingly, or in all innocence, appealed to that sense of chivalry which is essentially the quality of lonely men who have never had sisters, and conyngham was ready to help julia where he would have refused his assistance to a man, however hard pressed.
‘cannot leave the girl in a hole,’ he said to himself, and proceeded to act upon this resolution with a steadiness of purpose for which some may blame him.
it was evening when the two travellers reached xeres after some weary hours of monotonous progress through the vine-clad plains of this country.
‘it is no wonder,’ said concep?ion, ‘that the men of xeres are malcontents, when they live in a country as flat as the palm of my hand.’
it happened to be a fête day, which in spain, as in other countries farther north, is synonymous with mischief. the men of xeres had taken advantage of this holiday to demonstrate their desire for more. they had marched through the streets with banner and song, arrayed in their best clothes, fostering their worst thoughts. they had consumed marvellous quantities of that small amontillado which is as it were a thin fire to the blood, heating and degenerating at once. they had talked much nonsense and listened to more. carlist or christino—it was all the same to them, so long as they had a change of some sort. in the meantime they had a desire to break something, if only to assert their liberty.
a few minutes before conyngham and his guide rode into the market-place, which in xeres is as long as a street, some of the free sons of spain had thought fit to shout insulting remarks to a passer-by. with a fire too bright for his years this old gentleman, with fierce white moustache and imperial, had turned on them, calling them good-for-nothings and sons of pigs.
conyngham rode up just in time to see the ruffians rise as one man and rush at the victim of their humour. the old man with his back to the wall repelled his assailants with a sort of fierce joy in his attitude which betokened the soldier.
‘come on, concep?ion!’ cried conyngham, with a dig of the spurs that made his tired horse leap into the air. he charged down upon the gathering crowd, which scattered right and left before the wild onslaught. but he saw the flash of steel, and knew that it was too late. the old man, with an oath and a gasp of pain, sank against the wall with the blood trickling through the fingers clasped against his breast. conyngham would have reined in, but concep?ion on his heels gave the charger a cut with his heavy whip that made him bound forward and would have unseated a short-stirruped rider.
‘go on,’ cried the spaniard; ‘it is no business of ours. the police are behind.’
and conyngham, remembering the letter in his pocket, rode on without looking back. in the day of which the present narrative treats, the streets of xeres were but ill paved, and the dust lay on them to the depth of many inches, serving to deaden the sound of footsteps and facilitate the commission of such deeds of violence as were at this time of daily occurrence in spain. riding on at random, conyngham and his companion soon lost their way in the narrow streets, and were able to satisfy themselves that none had followed them. here in a quiet alley conyngham read again the address of the letter of which he earnestly desired to rid himself without more ado.
it was addressed to colonel monreal at no. 84 plaza de cadiz.
‘let his excellency stay here and drink a glass of wine at this venta,’ said concep?ion. ‘alone, i shall be able to get information without attracting attention. and then, in the name of the saints, let us shake the dust of xeres off our feet. the first thing we see is steel, and i do not like it. i have a wife in algeciras to whom i am much attached, and i am afraid—yes, afraid. a gentleman need never hesitate to say so.’
he shook his head forebodingly as he loosened his girths and called for water for the horses.
‘i could eat a cocida,’ he went on, sniffing the odours of a neighbouring kitchen, ‘with plenty of onions and the mutton as becomes the springtime—young and tender. dios! this quick travelling and an empty stomach, it kills one.’
‘when i have delivered my letter,’ replied conyngham, ‘we shall eat with a lighter heart.’
concep?ion went away in a pessimistic humour. he was one of those men who are brave enough on good wine and victuals, but lack the stamina to fight when hungry. he returned presently with the required information. the plaza de cadiz was, it appeared, quite close. indeed, the town of xeres is not large, though the intricacies of its narrow streets may well puzzle a new-comer. no. 84 was the house of the barber, and on his first floor lived colonel monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the english against napoleon’s armies.
during his servant’s absence, conyngham had written a short note in french, conveying, in terms which she would understand, the news that julia barenna doubtless awaited with impatience; namely, that her letter had been delivered to him whose address it bore.
‘i have ordered your cocida and some good wine,’ he said to concep?ion. ‘your horse is feeding. make good use of your time, for when i return i shall want you to take the road again at once. you must make ten miles before you sleep to-night, and then an early start in the morning.’
‘for where, se?or?’
‘for ronda.’
concep?ion shrugged his shoulders. his life had been spent upon the road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained in a saddle-bag, and spaniards, above all people, have the curse of ishmael. they are a homeless race, and lay them down to sleep, when fatigue overtakes them, under a tree or in the shade of a stone wall. it often happens that a worker in the fields will content himself with the lee side of a haystack for his resting-place when his home is only a few hundred yards up the mountain side.
‘and his excellency?’ inquired concep?ion.
‘i shall sleep here to-night and proceed to madrid to-morrow, by way of cordova, where i will wait for you. i have a letter here which you must deliver to the se?orita barenna at ronda without the knowledge of anyone. it will be well that neither general vincente nor any other who knows you should catch sight of you in the streets of ronda.’
concep?ion nodded his head with much philosophy.
‘ah! these women,’ he said, turning to the steaming dish of mutton and vegetables which is almost universal in the south, ‘these women, what shoe leather they cost us!’
leaving his servant thus profitably employed, conyngham set out to find the barber’s shop in the plaza de cadiz. this he did without difficulty, but on presenting himself at the door of colonel monreal’s apartment learnt that that gentleman was out.
‘but,’ added the servant, ‘the colonel is a man of regular habits. he will return within the next fifteen minutes, for he dines at five.’
conyngham paused. he had no desire to make colonel monreal’s acquaintance, indeed preferred to remain without it, for he rightly judged that se?or larralde was engaged in affairs best left alone.
‘i have a letter for the colonel,’ he said to the servant, a man of stupid countenance. ‘i will place it here upon his table, and can no doubt trust you to see that he gets it.’
‘that you can, excellency,’ replied the man, with a palm already half extended to receive a gratuity.
‘if the colonel fails to receive the letter i shall certainly know of it,’ said conyngham, stumbling down the dark staircase, and well pleased to have accomplished his mission.
he returned with all speed to the inn in the quiet alley where he had elected to pass the night, and found concep?ion still at table.
‘in half an hour i take the road,’ said the spaniard. ‘the time for a cup of coffee, and i am ready to ride all night.’
having eaten, concep?ion was in a better frame of mind, and now cheerfully undertook to carry out his master’s instructions. in little more than half an hour he was in the saddle again, and waved an airy adieu to conyngham as he passed under the swinging oil lamp that hung at the corner of the street.
it was yet early in the evening, and conyngham, having dined, set out to explore the streets of xeres, which were quiet enough now, as the cafes were gayer and safer than the gloomy thoroughfares where a foe might lurk in every doorway. in the market-place, between rows of booths and tents, a dense crowd walked backwards and forwards with that steady sense of promenading which the spaniard understands above all other men. the dealers in coloured handkerchiefs from barcelona or mantillas from seville were driving a great trade, and the majority of them had long since shouted themselves hoarse. a few quack dentists were operating upon their victims under the friendly covert of a big drum and a bassoon. dealers in wonderful drugs and herbs were haranguing the crowd, easily gaining the attention of the simple peasants by handling a live snake or a crocodile which they allowed to crawl upon their shoulders.
conyngham lingered in the crowd, which was orderly enough, and amused himself by noting the credulity of the country folk, until his attention was attracted by a solemn procession passing up the market-place behind the tents. he inquired of a bystander what this might be.
‘it is the police carrying to his apartment the body of colonel monreal, who was murdered this afternoon in the plaza mayor,’ was the answer.
conyngham made his way between two tents to the deserted side of the market-place, and, running past the procession, reached the barber’s shop before it. in answer to his summons a girl came to the door of the colonel’s apartment. she was weeping and moaning in great mental distress.
without explanation conyngham pushed past her into the room where he had deposited the letter. the room was in disorder, and no letter lay upon the table.
‘it is,’ sobbed the girl, ‘my husband, who, having heard that the good colonel had been murdered, stole all his valuables and papers and has run away from me.’
