‘une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.’
conyngham made his way without difficulty or incident from xeres to cordova, riding for the most part in front of the clumsy diligencia wherein he had bestowed his luggage. the road was wearisome enough, and the last stages, through the fertile plains bordering the guadalquivir, dusty and monotonous.
at cordova the traveller found comfortable quarters in an old inn overlooking the river. the ancient city was then, as it is now, a great military centre, and the headquarters of the picturesque corps of horse-tamers, the ‘remonta,’ who are responsible for the mounting of the cavalry and the artillery of spain. conyngham had, at the suggestion of general vincente, made such small changes in his costume as would serve to allay curiosity and prevent that gossip of the stable and kitchen which may follow a traveller to his hurt from one side of a continent to the other.
‘wherever you may go learn your way in and out of every town, and you will thus store up knowledge most useful to a soldier,’ the general had said in his easy way.
‘see you,’ concep?ion had observed, wagging his head over a cigarette; ‘to go about the world with the eyes open is to conquer the world.’
from his guide, moreover, whose methods were those that nature teaches to men who live their daily lives in her company, conyngham learnt much of that road craft which had raised concep?ion vara to such a proud eminence among the rascals of andalusia. cordova was a good object upon which to practise, for roman and goth, moor and christian, have combined to make its tortuous streets well-nigh incomprehensible to the traveller’s mind.
here conyngham wandered, or else he sat somnolently on a seat in the paseo del gran capitan in the shade of the orange trees, awaiting the arrival of concep?ion vara. he made a few acquaintances, as every traveller who is not a bear must needs do in a country where politeness and hospitality and a grave good fellowship are the natural habit of high and low alike. a bullfighter or two, who beguiled the long winter months, when the rings are closed, by a little innocent horse dealing, joined him quietly in the streets and offered him a horse—as between gentlemen of undoubted honour—at a price much below the current value. or it was perhaps a beggar who came to him on the old yellow marble seat under the orange trees, and chatted affably about his business as being bad in these times of war. once, indeed, it was a white-haired gentleman, who spoke in english, and asked some very natural questions as to the affairs that brought an englishman to the town of cordova. this sweet-spoken old man explained that strangers would do well to avoid all questions of politics and religion, which he classed together in one dangerous whole. nevertheless, conyngham thought that he perceived his ancient friend the same evening hurrying up the steps of the jesuit college of la campania.
two days elapsed and concep?ion vara made neither appearance nor sign. on the second evening conyngham decided to go on alone, prosecuting his journey through the sparsely populated valley of the alcadia to ciudad real, toledo, and madrid.
‘you will ride,’ the innkeeper told him, ‘from the guadalquivir to the guadiana, and if there is rain you may be a month upon the road.’
conyngham set out in the early morning, and as he threw his leg across the saddle the sun rose over the far misty hills of ronda, and concep?ion vara awoke from his night’s rest under the wall of an olive terrace above the bobadilla road, to begin another day of patient waiting and watching to get speech with the maid or the mistress; for he had already inaugurated what he lightly called ‘an affair’ with julia’s flighty attendant. the sun rose also over the plains of xeres, and lighted up the picturesque form of esteban larralde, in the saddle this hour and more, having learnt that colonel monreal’s death took place an hour before conyngham’s arrival in the town of xeres de la frontera. the letter, therefore, had not been delivered to colonel monreal, and was still in conyngham’s possession.
larralde bestrode a shocking steed, and had but an indifferent seat in the saddle. nevertheless, the dust rose beneath his horse’s feet, and his spurs flashed in the sunlight as this man of many parts hurried on towards utrera and cordova.
in the old moorish palace in ronda, general vincente, summoned to a great council of war at madrid, was making curt military preparations for his journey and the conveyance of his household to the capital. se?ora barenna was for the moment forgetful of her nerves in the excitement of despatching servants in advance to toledo, where she owned a summer residence. julia was nervously anxious to be on the road again, and showed by every word and action that restlessness of spirit which is the inheritance of hungry hearts. estella, quiet and self-contained, attended to the details of moving a vast and formal household with a certain eagerness which in no way resembled julia’s feverish haste. estella seemed to be one of those happy people who know what they want.
thus frederick conyngham, riding northward alone, seemed to be a pilot to all these persons into whose lives he had suddenly stepped as from a side issue, for they were one and all making ready to follow him to the colder plains of castile, where existence was full of strife and ambition, of war and those inner wheels that ever jar and grind where politicians contend together for the mastery of a moment.
as he rode on, conyngham left a message from time to time for his self-appointed servant. at the offices of the diligencias in various towns on the great road from cordova to madrid he left word for concep?ion vara to follow, should the spirit of travel be still upon him, knowing that at these places where travellers were ever passing, the tittle-tattle of the road was on the tongue of every ostler and stable help. and truly enough there followed one who made careful inquiries as to the movements of the englishman, and heard his messages with a grim smile. but this was not concep?ion vara.
it was late one evening when conyngham, who had quitted toledo in the morning, began to hunger for the sight of the towers and steeples of madrid. he had ridden all day through the bare country of cervantes, where to this day spain rears her wittiest men and plainest women. the sun had just set behind the distant hills of old castile, and from the east, over aranjuez, where the great river cuts spain in two parts from its centre to the sea, a grey cloud—a very shade of night—was slowly rising. the aspect of the brown plains was dismal enough, and on the horizon the rolling unbroken land seemed to melt away into eternity and infinite space.
conyngham reined in and looked around him. so far as eye could reach, no house arose to testify to the presence of man. no labourer toiled home to his lonely hut. for, in this country of many wars and interminable strife, it has, since the days of nebuchadnezzar, been the custom of the people to congregate in villages and small townships, where a common danger secured some protection against a lawless foe. the road rose and fell in a straight line across the table-land without tree or hedge, and madrid seemed to belong to another world, for the horizon, which was distant enough, bore no sign of cathedral spire or castle height.
conyngham turned in his saddle to look back, and there, not a mile away, the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of the dusty road. there was something weird and disturbing in this figure, a suggestion of pursuit in every line. for this was not concep?ion vara. conyngham would have known him at once. this was one wearing a better coat; indeed concep?ion preferred to face life and the chances of the world in shirt sleeves.
conyngham sat in his saddle awaiting the new-comer. to meet on such a road in spain without pausing to exchange a salutation would be a gratuitous insult, to ride in solitude within hail of another traveller were to excite or betray the deepest distrust. it was characteristic of conyngham that he already waved his hand in salutation, and was prepared to hail the new-comer as the jolliest companion in the world.
esteban larralde, seeing the salutation, gave a short laugh, and jerked the reins of his tired horse. he himself wore a weary look, as if the fight he had in hand were an uphill one. he had long recognised conyngham; indeed the chase had been one of little excitement, but rather an exercise of patience and dogged perseverance. he raised his hat to indicate that the englishman’s gay salutations were perceived, and pulled the wide brim well forward again.
‘he will change his attitude when it becomes apparent who i am,’ he muttered.
but conyngham’s first word would appear to suggest that esteban larralde was a much less impressive person than he considered himself.
‘why, it’s the devout lover!’ he cried. ‘se?or larralde, you remember me, algeciras, and your pink love letter—deuced fishy love letter, that; nearly got me into a devil of a row, i can tell you. how are you, eh?’
and the englishman rode forward with a jolly laugh and his hand held out. larralde took it without enthusiasm. it was rather difficult to pick a picturesque quarrel with such a person as this. moreover, the true conspirator never believes in another man’s honesty.
‘who would have expected to meet you here?’ went on conyngham jovially.
‘it is not so surprising as you think.’
‘oh!’
there was no mistaking larralde’s manner, and the englishman’s gay blue eyes hardened suddenly and rather surprisingly.
‘no, i have followed you. i want that letter.’
‘well, as it happens, se?or larralde, i have not got your letter, and if i had i am not quite sure that i would give it to you. your conduct in the matter has not been over-nice, and, to tell you the truth, i don’t think much of a man who gets strangers and women to do his dirty work for him.’
larralde stroked his moustache with a half-furtive air of contempt.
‘i should have given the confounded letter to the alcalde of ronda if it had not been that a lady would have suffered for it, and let you take your chance, se?or larralde.’
larralde shrugged his shoulders.
‘you would not have given it to the alcalde of ronda,’ he said in a sneering voice, ‘because you want it yourself. you require it in order to make your peace with estella vincente.’
‘we are not going to talk of se?orita vincente,’ said conyngham quietly. ‘you say you followed me because you wanted that letter. it is not in my possession. i left it in the house of colonel monreal at xeres. if you are going on to madrid, i think i will sit down here and have a cigarette. if, on the other hand, you propose resting here, i shall proceed, as it is getting late.’
conyngham looked at his companion with a nod and a smile which was not in the least friendly and at the same time quite cheerful. he seemed to recognise the necessity of quarrelling, but proposed to do so as light-heartedly as possible. they were both on horseback in the middle of the road, larralde a few paces in the direction of madrid.
conyngham indicated the road with an inviting wave of the hand.
‘will you go on?’ he asked.
larralde sat looking at him with glittering eyes, and said nothing.
‘then i will continue my journey,’ said the englishman, touching his horse lightly with the spur. the horse moved on and passed within a yard of the other. at this moment larralde rose in his stirrups and flung himself on one side.
conyngham gave a sharp cry of pain and threw back his head. larralde had stabbed him in the back. the englishman swayed in the saddle as if trying to balance himself, his legs bent back from the knee in the sharpness of a biting pain. the heavy stirrups swung free. then, slowly, conyngham toppled forward and rolled out of the saddle, falling to the road with a thud.
larralde watched him with a white face and staring eyes. then he looked quickly round over the darkening landscape. there was no one in sight. this was one of the waste places of the world. larralde seemed to remember the eye that seeth even there, and crossed himself as he slipped from the saddle to the ground. he was shaking all over. his face was ashen, for it is a terrible thing to kill a man and be left alone with him.
conyngham’s eyes were closed. there was blood on his lips. with hands that shook like leaves esteban larralde searched the englishman, found nothing, and cursed his ill fortune. then he stood upright, and in the dim light his face shone as if he had dipped it in water. he crept into the saddle and rode on towards madrid.
it was quite dark when conyngham recovered consciousness. in turning him over to search his pockets larralde had perhaps, unwittingly, saved his life by placing him in a position that checked the internal h?morrhage. what served to bring back the englishman’s wandering senses was the rumbling of heavy wheels and the crack of a great whip as a cart laden with hay and drawn by six mules approached him from the direction of toledo.
the driver of the team was an old soldier, as indeed were most of the castilians at this time, and knew how to handle wounded men. with great care and a multitude of oaths he lifted conyngham on to his cart and proceeded with him to madrid.
